Irony (and loss)

“Look, Ma — no glutes!”

When you’ve grown up in a society where “one can never be too thin,* and when you were overweight as a kid, and when you were actively bulimic in your teens and 20s, and when your whole life you’ve dreaded getting on scales to be weighed, whether at home, in elementary school, or at the doctor’s office — always feeling ashamed and grossly, inappropriately, large...**

 . . . then it’s kind of hilarious when, these days, because you’re losing muscle mass, every time you go to the doctor’s office, your weight is lower. You’ve stopped taking your shoes off before getting on the doctor's scale because who cares. Clothes don’t fit anymore. The number on the scale at home is now lower than it was when you were in fifth grade. 

But none of this is anything to feel good about. You didn't work for this. This isn’t a feat. This is damage. This is loss. 

I can speak about this somewhat lightly because I trust that this muscle-damage train will get turned around; I will rebuild muscle; my body will return to what I've grown to know and appreciate as my own strong and worthy self. And hopefully soon.

But meanwhile the irony is not lost on me. Years and years of wishing I could just drop a few pounds.  Reminds me of Lily Tomlin's “I've always wanted to be somebody, but I see now I should have been more specific.” Be careful what you wish for. . .

* . . . or too rich.” —attributed to Wallace Simpson, the American heiress for whom Britain's King Edward abdicated the throne in 1936 

**To be clear, I’ve spent lots of time working on this over the last three decades and have managed to get to a place of peace and self-respect where I (most of the time) don’t buy into all the body-shaming crap that’s out there.