Confession: I had a big ugly cry in the car an hour ago. The
type where, if I had been pulled over for speeding, a nice cop would have probably
sent me away with a pity warning.
It was over the stupidest thing, you guys. I’m almost embarrassed to write about it. But I’m going to because I think it touches on a subject a lot of us can relate to: unattainable perfection.
This is me. Both sides of the picture.
The hottie on the left was rocking her little sister’s
wedding about 18 months ago. The hottie on the right spent 2015 working her
buns off – literally. She lost 55 pounds, discovered fitness, these weird
things called “food portions” (huh?) and, most importantly, her health. Normal
blood tests. Athletic heart rate. No more heartburn or gallbladder attacks. Happy
blood sugars. Even happier joints.
I spent one year working with professionals: a bariatric
doctor, a nutritionist, two mental health professionals and a fitness trainer. I
worked hard, but realistically. It was all healthy lifestyle changes; nothing
drastic, only things I can implement and keep up in my daily life. Exercise I
enjoy. Foods I love. That kind of stuff.
Today was my last appointment with my fitness trainer, and I
was hoping to go out with a bang – to exit the program at my fittest and, yes,
trimmest.
Except it didn’t quite go that way.
In fact, I gained inches.
Not a ton. Half an inch here, three-quarters of one there. All in all, I put on
about 5 inches around my body from the last time she took those measurements.
What the fresh hell? I was gutted. And instantaneously furious with myself.
All I could think about were the chips I had eaten the night
before. That day I didn’t go to the gym when I probably could have. The time I
said “yes” to a lunch out with a friend when maybe I should have said “no.”
And never mind that, at almost 40, I’m currently in the best
shape of my adult life. Never mind that my cardio fitness is better than the
last time she checked. Never mind that I did a wall sit for eight minutes – “eight
minutes, Amanda! Who does that?!” – and then immediately pushed through a 45-minute
strength training class with my jellyfish legs.
Never mind that I journal my food, weigh almost everything I
eat out on a kitchen scale, and eat mindfully, checking for fullness levels.
Never mind that I have no “good” or “bad” foods, but instead focus on protein and
fiber, along with allowing room for indulging and celebrating with food.
No. Despite all of that, I got into my car, stopped for some
guilt salad and smoked trout at the grocery store because heaven forbid I eat
anything that couldn’t be on the front of a low-fat cookbook today – and had
myself the big ugly cry.
And now? Well, now I’m mad myself for different reasons.
I’m mad because I let
myself use a number to measure my self-worth and my dedication to my health.
There are far better ways to measure that type of success, and I know it.
I let a number negate
all the hard work I’ve done, and erase the pride I should have felt at my
impressive fitness accomplishments. Because, come on now, that wall-sit time was
TOTALLY
BOSS. But I couldn’t feel it because I was too busy feeling like a
failure.
I let a number tell
me how to feel about myself as a woman. Because that’s what society teaches
to do as women, doesn’t it? To accept nothing less than perfection on all
levels?
Aren’t we supposed to be perfect females with perfect bodies
and perfect workout routines and always be able to find time to take care of
ourselves despite also being excellent mothers and amazing lovers and thoughtful
partners and friends and daughters?
And if one thing doesn’t fit that – just one – well, we‘re basically failures who
need to read magazines and online articles and inspirational memes to get us
back on track, right? It’s a flaw in ourselves, after all. We just need to work
harder. We’re inadequate. We’re never going to be happy this way. And worse
still, we’re letting everyone down, including ourselves.
That’s where my mind was today as I drove my hybrid down
that long stretch of road, through tears.
But now that I’ve sufficiently collected my thoughts, screw that. Screw it all the way to Screwtown.
(Which actually sounds like a pretty fun place.)
It’s high time for me to have a serious talk with myself (on
my blog, apparently).
First of all, self, this is you:
Don’t spend tons of time looking for a double chin. It’s
there; you’re just great with angles and extra fat keeps you warm in Canadian
January.
Don’t look for wrinkles, either. They’re there too, but they
just mean you’ve circled the sun enough times to know a thing or two, even if
you have to teach it to yourself again today.
I’m going to say this, and you’re going to not roll your eyes and brush it off like you always do: You have had a really hard year. Who you thought was your husband became your wife. You didn’t know if your marriage was going to make it. You were falling apart on a whole new level. You got clinically depressed. Your anxiety hit an all-time high. You spent lots of time in a therapist’s office.
And through all this, you had to hold onto your children and
be a mother to them. Pack their lunches, attend their school functions, bandage
knees, attend appointments, hug them, kiss them, and tell them everything was
going to be okay. Oh, and help one of them
through her own transition. Let’s not forget that.
And you had to hold down a job. And deal with clients. And do
interviews. And write articles. And go to conferences. And for months, while putting yourself out there
in the hopes of doing some good for others, you had to hide a big part of what
was going on with your life because it wasn’t time to talk about it yet. So be
public. But not too public. Champion trans rights. But don’t let it slip that
two people are now transitioning in your household.
And you had to get to know your wife. Fall in love
all over again. Find your place in society as a woman who is now in a same-sex marriage.
Come out to the world. Advocate like hell. Deal with the press on a level you never have before.
Repair your family. Discover and embrace your new normal.
It would not be an overstatement to say this was a challenging year.
But you know what? You, Amanda, still managed to put yourself
first, didn’t you? There is nothing to be disappointed about here. Life is unpredictable, progress is
imperfect, balance is a myth, and you just need to pat yourself on the damn back.
So yeah. Screw the numbers all the way to Screwtown (which
has now officially made my bucket list for places I want to visit.) I did a
damn good thing for myself this year. I’m proud of me, no matter what the
inches or pounds say. Life is up and down, and so are numbers sometimes, ok?
So while I’ll never be the poster child for a women’s magazine
unless it’s called “Chubby and Imbalanced,” I could probably read one of their
articles while wall-sitting LIKE A BOSS LADY.
I’ll take it.
