Bitter Body Image, Part I

While I try not to dwell on it – publicly, at least – I struggle with my self-image. I know the idea of a woman wishing she were thinner is nothing revolutionary, but there you have it.

I was a very active child. I started in dance classes and moved to competitive swimming when the requisite grace of the former never came. There also seemed to be no end to my growth spurts. I was tall, lean, and could eat whatever I wanted. I remember sitting down to breakfasts that consisted of four full bowls of cereal. Sometimes, after swim practice, my sister and I would eat these horribly-processed blueberry pie-type treats that came pre-packaged into slice-size portions. While I vividly remember wishing I were shorter (all my friends in grade school had pixie-like proportions and lacked my lanky legs), I remained blissfully unaware of my weight.

I even managed to skip any “Freshman Fifteen”-esque weight gain that I was assured would come with my first year away at college. Weight gain – and it’s related anxiety – didn’t come until after grad school.

I started working in downtown Chicago in August 2005. I joined a gym down the street from my office the following month and quickly became a regular. I started running more and entered races to fuel my old competitive spirit. Twice a week I attended a weight-lifting class with and instructor I adored. I was slimmer than I’d been in my adult life, fit into laughably small sizes, and was generally quite pleased with my shape and tone.

But slowly, things changed. The instructor I loved left for another gym. I had a falling out with the girl I considered my exercise buddy. I was put on different projects at work that required long business trips and unhealthy room service dinners eaten alone in random hotel rooms. Fewer work-outs, frequent treats. My doctor mentioned the increasing number on the scale, but really, she could have saved herself the trouble. I was well aware of every inch of space I consumed.

Currently, I’m thirty pounds heavier than I was when I moved here six years ago. I wear a pant size that is twice what I wore back then. While I know, at some level, that my self-worth shouldn’t be derived from numbers stitched inside my clothing, it’s been very difficult. I feel defeated. I’ve cleaned out my closet twice: first to get rid of the size sixes, next to get rid of the size eights. Some of the size tens don’t fit all that well, but I’m holding on to them for now.

My weight gain is constantly on my mind. When heading to work, I use my purse or gym bag to hide my stomach from the other commuters. I’ve become almost afraid to shop as I fret about what will fit. I’ll spare you the Dear Diary-type drama and just say that my current weight situation makes me very uncomfortable and quite sad.

But wait! Don’t cry for me just yet – there is a silver lining to this self-image storm cloud, I promise. I’ve never been one to stew in my sadness (hello, the very reason the blog was originally started). Tomorrow, I’ll share what I’ve done so far and my big, exciting plans going forward.

I Hate the Exercise Room

Feeling guilty is something of a hobby of mine. Some people knit. Some people join book clubs. I obsess about my shortcomings, real or perceived.

Perhaps I should address the largest Guilt Trigger at present – the one that lives beneath my condo and calls to me silently and ceaselessly like my very own Telltale Heart.

On the first floor of my condo building is an Exercise Room. Back when I was looking at condos and evaluating options, this seemed an undeniable perk to this particular location. I’d never miss a workout again!

Now, knowing it’s there makes me mental. I have absolutely no excuse to skip a workout.

No. Excuse.

Even though I belong to a gym and am a somewhat diligent attendee, my mind cannot let go of the idea that I should be a regular fixture of that damn Exercise Room. Every attempt at relaxation is another missed opportunity to log a few more miles on the treadmill.

It’s right downstairs. In my building. I don’t even have to go outside to get there.

Yet I rarely go, and my lack of attendance gives me something else to feel guilty about. StairMasters are notoriously evil, and I’m particularly easy prey.

I could tell you about all of the positive health things I do. Tell you about all the spinach and egg-white omelettes I eat, tally up all my trips to the “real gym” and recount what I do with my time there. To do so, however, would be to give in to the Exercise Room and its evil ability to make me feel like I have to account for my actions.

It’s not that I hate to workout. Promise. I just hate knowing I have no good reason not to be doing so every single day of the week. Why rest when I could be doing toning my abs? Why sit idle when I’m not at my goal weight? (Speaking of which, is anyone ever?).

Whenever I avoid a visit to the Exercise Room, I spend a lot of time exercising my guilt.

I’m Bad at Weekends

All last week (whilst I was diligently at work INSIDE), the weather was like this:

(Yes, the weather was like my kitty sniffing some tulips.)

Spring had sprung. The temperature was in the high seventies, the sun was shining, and people were everywhere. After Winters like ours, people scramble towards the sunlight as soon as possible.

Last week was fantastic. Last weekend was tragic.

By Friday afternoon, the temperature plummeted and the rains rolled in. I finally had time to be outside, but now had no desire to do so. On Saturday, my plans to go to local garage sales were washed away. By Sunday, the rain was beating at the windows as though trying to force its way indoors. I pulled my hoodie back out of (perhaps optimistically early) storage and snuggled up on the couch with a book.

Sounds like the perfect recipe for Lazy Sunday, no?

Well, no. Not for me. I’m bad at Lazy Sunday. Perhaps I’m bad at weekends in general. I just can’t seem to let myself to relax without feeling guilty. Didn’t the movie Se7en teach us that Sloth is a Deadly Sin? Catholic guilt doesn’t mix well with a tireless Protestant work ethic.

On Saturday, I was able to find enough projects around the house to keep me feeling purposeful. I did laundry. I hung up a hook in our closet. I fixed the shelving in the linen closet (shelving that was initially installed by someone lacking a level, a tape measure, and common sense).

Sunday, however, went by more slowly, and my lack of “productivity” began to drive me insane.

Why can’t I just relax? I love curling up on the couch with a good book and a warm blanket, steaming mug of tea nearby. Yet, when I get the chance to do so, I have trouble allowing myself the treat. It seems there’s always something I should be doing instead – cleaning the condo, running errands, going to the gym. The list seems endless and I’m unable to unwind. I know that even if I was returning from the gym to a spotless home, I’d still find things that needed to be done. The guilt comes from somewhere within.

My guilt complex is something on which I’ll always be working. Meanwhile, does anyone else have trouble letting themselves relax? What do you do to combat your need for constant productivity?

Stress Fest

In addition to cleaning, my boyfriend likes to say that stressing about things is my favorite hobby. I’m getting better (really!) but I spend a great deal of time worrying, fretting, and feeling bad.

I’ve been doing a lot of reading lately about stress – from a medical standpoint, why women report more stress, stress and modern life – and one theme jumped out on me. Stress is, for some of us, myself included, almost a positive feeling. Being stressed means we are being productive, and productivity is the gold-letter standard by which we judge ourselves. Stress becomes a sign of importance –  a sign of success. The opposite of “stressed” has shifted from “relaxed” to “lazy” – and we all know to feel guilty about being lazy.

Keeping Busy

“But you love doing chores,” My boyfriend assures me as I flit between the washing machine and the dishwasher.

Hold up. What?

Where, pray tell, did Beloved Boyfriend get this idea? How had I veered so far off course as to give him this impression? Hadn’t we just recently discussed hiring a cleaning lady?

Indulging Without Guilt

From time to time, I want to share articles I come across pertaining to happiness and/or the obstacles one encounters in its pursuit. I’ve been doing a lot of “happy research” lately, so hopefully “Happiness in the News” will become a regular feature.

As I’ve mentioned, I have issues with guilt. Thus, this article on Mindful Indulging by Dr. Sharada Hall (via Tiny Buddha), really spoke to me.

Happiness Roadblocks: Guilt

On my journey to be a happier person, I need to examine the things that stand in my way – the “happiness roadblocks” as I’m calling them. First up: Guilt.

I have a gold medal-winning guilt complex. I feel bad about everything.

Get a new coat on sale? Spendthrift!
Spend a Sunday curled up on the couch with the cats? Lazy!
Make cookies just to eat the dough? Glutton!

Basically, my guilt complex could crush your guilt complex.
… and then feel really bad about it …