Acceptance

"Quitters never win, winners never quit, but those who never win AND never quit are idiots." -- Despair.com

I know a lot of women my age who talk about how they can no longer eat whatever they want without gaining weight, as they did when they were younger. I can't remember ever being able to do that. I have struggled with my weight since I was eight or nine years old. My mom comes from a long line of teeny tiny Eastern European Jewish women. I do not take after her. I have the misfortune to physically resemble the women on my dad's side: Midwestern farm women, built along far more utilitarian lines.

I have been through all the stages of grief regarding my weight, although not necessarily in order. Denial: well, that can't really be sustained very long in this society. It always amazes me when people think that if people only KNEW they were overweight they would do something about it. I've got news for those people: we know we're fat. We're reminded of it every day, kids especially. If being told you're fat made people lose weight, there would be no overweight kids.

Then there's Anger. I've had plenty of that. At my lousy genes. At my lack of willpower. At size-zero actresses who create expectations most normal women can never reach. Bargaining: mostly with myself. (You can have that frappacino, but only if you walk to the Starbucks instead of driving.) And, of course, Depression.

But what about Acceptance? Am I permitted to get to a point in my life where I can say, "This is as good as it's gonna get"? To accept that my body and metabolism and willpower vis-a-vis food are what they are?

I used to think that everyone could lose weight if they just tried. I thought this because I had done it. After spending most of my teens extremely overweight, I lost fifty pounds during my last year of high school and first year of college. It was the only time I was anywhere near my "ideal weight" and, looking back now (although I never would have admitted it at the time) I realize that I accomplished that feat through behavior that could only be described as borderline eating-disorder.

The two times I ever easily lost weight in a healthy way were after my two pregnancies. I'll tell you right now, the best weight-loss program in the world is breastfeeding. Twins work best, but a large (over nine pounds) singleton baby will get the job done also. Each time I stopped breastfeeding, though, my weight rose back to about ten pounds heavier than before I was pregnant.

Then I hit 35 and my whole body just went to hell. It no longer mattered whether or not I exercised or what I ate, my body wanted to be a certain size and it turns out that size is about the same as I was at sixteen (go figure). Only now I no longer have the time or energy to fight nature. Now I have three kids and three cats and a house and a job and the metabolism of a woman approaching 40.

What's more, I don't WANT to spend the rest of my life fighting with my body. I do not want to be like my maternal grandmother and still be fretting about my figure when I'm in my nineties. I don't want to be like my mom, who raised three children, has two graduate degrees and a high-level government job, but seems most proud of the fact that (excepting pregnancies) she has maintained the same weight her whole adult life.

One of my teenage daughters has been playing a song over and over recently (I can't really complain, I did the same thing when I was her age). The refrain is: "I want to be perfect, but I'm me." That line has been echoing in my head even on those rare occasions when the song isn't actually playing: my new mantra as I try to get to acceptance.