Feeling: surprised
Listening to: Jewel - Little Sister
Reading/Watching: Desperate Housewives

Changing one's outside appearance cannot alter who you are, but it does alter what you are.

I'm realizing this, because I always avoided classifying myself under the "what" column before. I didn't really enjoy the "whats," because none of them were particularly praiseworthy. They're the stuff of statistics. Female. Caucasian. 5'10". Brown eyes. Curly hair.

And some "whats," I didn't like to associate with myself. Asymmetrical. Asthmatic. Impoverished. Clumsy. Obese (Goddamn that word. It is so cruelly factual, and it's like how no one wants to be considered "rich," they want to be "upper-middle class" so that it's not snobby). Well, I didn't want to be considered obese, because I didn't want to be considered so overweight that it was dangerous. I didn't want to be considered disgusting. And maybe I never was, but... I felt like it.

The "Whats" of obesity: Unable to cross legs. Holding knees together in short skirt is uncomfortable, if not impossible. Wearing pantyhose for a full work day causes severe chafing. Arms don't quite hang from the shoulders: they're pushed out a little. Skin forms permanent ripples where spare tires fold. Knees pop. Jogging hurts. Etcetera.

And of course, I hated it, insert sob story. But changing that part of my life felt impossible for so long, that once it was possible, doing it felt like selling out.

So what if everyone thinks you'd look better if you lost 10-20-30-60 pounds? That would be giving in to the societal pressures which demand perfection of all women as sex objects and your true love will love you for who you are... I was not fat; I was making a statement. Yes, that's it exactly.

And then finally, finally, I made a real statement: that it wasn't about what other people said, it was about what I said, and I said I was unhappy with popping knees and pantyhose burns (like rugburn, only on your thighs; nice, huh?). I found a cause worth dieting for, and as cheesy as it sounds, it was enough for me, without making me feel shallow. I wanted to look beautiful on my wedding day, and I did not want my weight, or my unhappiness with my appearance, to ruin any part of that day. I wanted all my friends and family to see me at my best. I wanted to be able to leaf through my pictures and not be hung up on how pudgy my arm looked in that particular shot. I didn't want to blame bad angles, bad outfits, bad lighting on why I didn't look good.

It has been about six months since I made that decision and changed my diet. Four, almost five months since I began exercising regularly, and ten years since I have weighed this little. There's a sobering thought: I haven't weighed less than 200 pounds, or fit into anything below a size 14, since I was in eighth grade.

But now I do. It all crashed in on me one day, when I stepped on the scale and it said I had lost 38 pounds since graduation in May. Now, some of that may have been water weight, or lighter clothing, or different shoes. But you can't get 38 pounds from different shoes.

I sat down on the floor, and realized that I can curl my knees up to my chest. I couldn't at one time- I got in my own way, and couldn't fold myself in that close.

Now, I can cross my legs (the real way, not ankle-to-knee the way guys do). I can feel my hipbones; when lying on my side, I can see my hipbones. My clavicle is always visible, no matter where I turn my head or duck my chin, it is always there. My watch is down to its smallest setting. My rings are loose.

Finally, I am a girl who can put her chin on her knees, wear hose, and cross her legs. I am a girl who has visible cheekbones. I am a girl that knows that no matter how much weight I lose, there is still 150 pounds of me that is muscle, bones, skin, and organs. No matter how I tried, I could never weigh 120 pounds (barring major amputations), and so there's no point in hoping for it. I am a girl that feels like she should look like this, or at least somewhere within ten pounds of it, because she is allowed to have hips, to have breasts. If I never weigh less than 185 pounds for the rest of my life, I'll be fine, because I'm not really meant to. I'm even a girl who kinda likes the way her butt looks in the mirror, and everyone knows that's verging on impossible.

I am a different sort of "what." I like that. And being different in what I am has begun to affect who I am, in small, subtle ways. I think I like that, too.

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