I was a large little girl.
And being a large-little — in my case in the 70’s — meant no cute clothes, no awesome ride-on toys (my sister’s Krazy Kar? Forget it, I was too big to ride), and definitely no adorable two piece bathing suits.
Like many of us, I dealt with kids “being mean” (as I called it; today we call it bullying) who lobbed “fat” and “the big one” comments at me on the regular. (And those were the nice words.)
But here’s the thing
I now know – as a mom of teens — that loads of kids go through what I think of as the “puppy stage” and become a little chubby . . . right before their height kicks in. As far as I can tell puppy-hood is simply part of childhood for lots of us.
I wish my own puppy years had receded in the rear view, but on the way to sprouting to 5’7, I developed a not-so-great habit of using food to soothe emotional upsets like big moves, new schools, new kids to endure (not to mention an awful teacher) and you get the picture.
Ah, the Comfort of Food
But how “lucky” for me that my family kept the kitchen stocked. Truth is, my mom was a great cook and an even better baker who regularly whipped up homemade tacos, blue cheese hamburgers, creamy mac ‘n cheese, homemade eclairs, rich chocolate mousse, and . . . yeah, comfort food was always on the menu.
The queen of boredom eating
Fast forward to my teen years and I lived by the edict that if life was hard, food would always have me at hello. A teen friend once noticed – as I inhaled Oreos — that I was “boredom eating.” (Back then I didn’t even know there was another way of eating.)
In my 20’s and early 30’s, I ping-ponged between strict dieting (with intense aerobic classes) and binging (paired with lazing around). In my mind, restaurant meals and junk food could help anything: boredom, celebrations, sadness, fear, disappointments. . . and the like.
A red dress, me & not so much.
In the late 90s my cousin was planning her wedding and I knew what that meant: family photos. So I headed back to Weight Watchers (for the billionth time) and lost seven glorious pounds. I was stoked and thought I’d look cool in a new ruby-colored dress from Talbot’s that I’d bought for the wedding.
Then the photos arrived.
Yeah, no. Turns out I might have lost seven big ones, but – sadly — you couldn’t tell. You know how some women carry weight in their bosoms or butt?
Mine voluminously balloon from my cheeks and tummy.
After the wedding, I dedicated myself to the Weight Watchers meetings knowing that I needed to get super serious if I was going to change my habits and become healthier. I’m not pushing the Weight Watchers’ point system, but it was the structure that worked for me. We all need some kind of structure: count calories, carbs, or hours (i.e. intermittent fasting), but count something every single day forever and ever.
As my weight loss progressed, I became pregnant with twins, raised my sweethearts, then raised touchy teens, dealt with two major surgeries, survived a scary car accident, and passed through all the stages of menopause.
It took time, but I learned that “dessert” could be an awesome TV show (Killing Eve), a phenomenal book (Pachinko) or going to bed early to get extra sleep (and get myself out of the freezer).
As I write on a hot day in Atlanta (my shepherd snoozing on the couch), I still eat for fun, but my “fun foods” have changed.
Am I perfect? I’m so not perfect. But that’s the thing: today when I go off the rails, I get back in the swing of healthy eating the next day. I don’t allow one bad hour to impact my life (like I once did).
Bottom line? It might have taken decades but I finally lost my puppy fat. Today, when life goes psycho and I lose my footing, I pull out my emotional support tools and tell life, “Look, I’m not a little kid anymore. Inside — where it matters — I’m the ‘big one.'”
Let’s be big together.