Some people have flying dreams, but I used to dream that I was smaller. That I was as I had been at 18; limber and blooming and voluptuous. At 40 and peak fatness, that me always seemed lost and distant even though its fundamentals, as well as the potential for so much more, resided under my own skin. It resides in all of us.
Youth is wasted on the young. It is easy to despair for all we've relinquished if we don't remember everything we've become and accomplished in the meantime. At eighteen I was sullen and self-execrating and unappreciative of the many gifts I had been blessed with. Then I met someone who, ironically through neglect, had never been subjected to any indoctrination in respect to the physical. No one had bothered to shame him or corrupt his self-image. He had the tremendous fortune of a healthy and beautiful body, rejoiced in its abilities, enjoyed the pleasure it gave, both to himself and to others, and neither wished for more nor accorded to his lovely flesh more attributes or significance than it actually possessed. Media messages urging self-loathing and obsessive comparison were something to which he was completely indifferent; he was amused by and gently reproachful of my own negative self-image and confounded by its stubborn resistance to logic. In short, he lived happily in his own skin.
I had allowed this wonderful truth to become obscured by the psychic garbage we gather in the course of adulthood, even though it is the most valuable lesson I've observed in regard to lasting peace with our corporeal aspect. But one day I woke up in the tail end of influenza and remembered just how much his unassuming example had meant to me, even in the midst of a giant fucking avalanche of overwhelming realisations. Maybe you've had the same transcendent sort of moment. Or maybe you're smart and don't need to be pounded into emotional atoms before reconstruction can be attempted.
Youth is wasted on the young. It is easy to despair for all we've relinquished if we don't remember everything we've become and accomplished in the meantime. At eighteen I was sullen and self-execrating and unappreciative of the many gifts I had been blessed with. Then I met someone who, ironically through neglect, had never been subjected to any indoctrination in respect to the physical. No one had bothered to shame him or corrupt his self-image. He had the tremendous fortune of a healthy and beautiful body, rejoiced in its abilities, enjoyed the pleasure it gave, both to himself and to others, and neither wished for more nor accorded to his lovely flesh more attributes or significance than it actually possessed. Media messages urging self-loathing and obsessive comparison were something to which he was completely indifferent; he was amused by and gently reproachful of my own negative self-image and confounded by its stubborn resistance to logic. In short, he lived happily in his own skin.
I had allowed this wonderful truth to become obscured by the psychic garbage we gather in the course of adulthood, even though it is the most valuable lesson I've observed in regard to lasting peace with our corporeal aspect. But one day I woke up in the tail end of influenza and remembered just how much his unassuming example had meant to me, even in the midst of a giant fucking avalanche of overwhelming realisations. Maybe you've had the same transcendent sort of moment. Or maybe you're smart and don't need to be pounded into emotional atoms before reconstruction can be attempted.
What's it like to be too big? There are good things about it. It's lovely and warm, for a start, something I'm only just learning heading into my first winter without my plumpy wetsuit. A fat arse is a comfy seat; I now incur coccyx discomfort when I slouch too long on my reduced caboose. You can eat all you like. If you're also tall, you present an intimidating silhouette, ensuring things like less sexual harassment, an important consideration for those of us who have suffered assaults or abuse. There's a very good reason why so many survivors retreat into fatness. But don't let me snow you; it's no bed of roses. Nothing fits properly. Joggers seem like another species. You snore and get achy and too hot in bed. You feel heavy and slow and older than you are, ill at ease, often depressive. You wonder how your partner/s remain faithful. Looking at photographs of yourself is especially galling. You don't really enjoy going out anymore. Being too fat is like being buried alive in many respects, our topography submerged by something we hardly recognise.
But we are still there, waiting. I decided that was worth digging for.
But we are still there, waiting. I decided that was worth digging for.
What's it like to be thin? I'll ask my partner. The Lovely R is 5'10" and about 68kg, slender with very low to non-existent body fat. While I've always had a weakness for skinny pasty guys, he laments his slightness. "People assume you're lucky. They project onto you some magical ability to do things they can't. Relative to other people, of both sexes, you feel small and that affects your confidence. If you're thin, you become acutely aware early on in life of your physical limitations and that extends into adulthood even when you gain more physical competence. The clichéd view of thinness is miserable, pinched Dickensian meanness instead of jolly fatness and you worry that people think of you that way." It's cold, isn't it? "Yes!" Do you feel particularly sexy in your enviable slenderness? "As a guy, you look at yourself and see spindly. I consider myself fit and competent, intellectually, but I don't feel that way sometimes. The perception is self-limiting." Hmm, just like fatness. R is an ex-runner, very active in his work and pretty darn fit. At 53, he does push ups and can rock skinny pants; no gut, no love handles. Even I objectify him.
Despite everything we're told, being thin won't attract universal acclaim and won't solve everything that's fucked about your life. But that's not what I'm selling you. Being a healthy weight will allow you to rediscover what matters to you and concentrate on effectuating whatever that may be. Are you happy with that as a goal? I am.
Despite everything we're told, being thin won't attract universal acclaim and won't solve everything that's fucked about your life. But that's not what I'm selling you. Being a healthy weight will allow you to rediscover what matters to you and concentrate on effectuating whatever that may be. Are you happy with that as a goal? I am.
Pointy-End Realness. Diets fail because they are impossible to maintain and are just ripples from a mainstream that is itself completely out of whack. In attempting to observe them, I knew subconsciously that I was setting myself up for failure, every freaking time; I misrepresented my habits, wormed around the limitations and basically bullshitted my way to defeat, complaining all the while about my slow metabolism and the unfairness of it all. That wasn't just down to me; dieting was crap and I resented its obvious shortcomings but couldn't be bothered to work it out holistically for myself.
Ditching the whiny teenage subterfuge is essential, but I'm not judging anyone because it took me 41 fucking years. Accept that the old-skool band-aid dieting approach is pointless and deal with the fact that you'll be shifting your behaviour on a permanent and fundamental basis. Get counseling, get philosophical, seize your intellect and your angst and start thinking of them as tools to reshape your outlook. Press your vices into service. Vain? I'm massively vain and used it to prod myself out of fatness. OCD? Use that compulsive need to direct your choices. Controlling? Ditto. Control something that's begging for regulation. Too reclusive? Use your ninja skills to avoid the pitfalls of social munchies and nosey, judgy observers.
This will take a year or more, so get comfortable with that. Long term problems tend not to have short term solutions, another of life's annoying quirks. The central concept is simple. There is no magic formula, no VIP area, no queue jumping; it's the same for everyone. You can rescue yourself or you can run off for liposuction and bariatric fuckery like every other feckless arseclown. Here we go.
Ditching the whiny teenage subterfuge is essential, but I'm not judging anyone because it took me 41 fucking years. Accept that the old-skool band-aid dieting approach is pointless and deal with the fact that you'll be shifting your behaviour on a permanent and fundamental basis. Get counseling, get philosophical, seize your intellect and your angst and start thinking of them as tools to reshape your outlook. Press your vices into service. Vain? I'm massively vain and used it to prod myself out of fatness. OCD? Use that compulsive need to direct your choices. Controlling? Ditto. Control something that's begging for regulation. Too reclusive? Use your ninja skills to avoid the pitfalls of social munchies and nosey, judgy observers.
This will take a year or more, so get comfortable with that. Long term problems tend not to have short term solutions, another of life's annoying quirks. The central concept is simple. There is no magic formula, no VIP area, no queue jumping; it's the same for everyone. You can rescue yourself or you can run off for liposuction and bariatric fuckery like every other feckless arseclown. Here we go.
Shitty eating habits? Take 3 to 6 months to reform them before even getting into weight loss. You won't break those greasy chains in a fortnight, so forget that and all the juice fasting crap. Purge the obvious junk. Learn to identify, enjoy and require real food for yourself. Go wholemeal; accustom yourself to the benefits. Switch to rice bran and olive oils and butter (in the latest disinterested metastudies, animal fat has been exonerated.) You'll feel better and probably start losing chunk just by doing this much, getting the ball rolling in the best possible way. Taking a long term approach is comprehensively rewarding. Rebuilding your habits wholesale scorches your personal landscape of all those janky quirks you've collected- the boredom eating, overindulging, double burgering, depression binging, sweetness jonesing... there are so few places left for your sneaky crap to hide unconfronted that you'll abolish it almost incidentally. What I did- An existential crisis had already walked me naked through my own mirrored hall of internalized shame so I was there, baby. And we'd been cleaning up our diet for years. I just needed to get into portion control etc. I'll talk about the dietary nitty gritty in the final part of this rambling epic, which will be entirely devoted to food.
Get your partner/friend/whoever on board. Your squeeze, your bitch, homies, family, the dog, whatever. Talk it out with an associate no matter who they are because it will obviously impact them too and you might even find someone who wants to come along for the ride. Reassure your partner that you're not about to run off with that hot guy/girl/both in the bookshop as soon as you can fit your new shit into something sexy. Tell someone what you're intending for the accountability. Shame is a powerful motivator, and so are compliments. I needed both because I am a shallow, thirsty bitch. The fat cycle is one of transgression, guilt and self-reproach, remediated with another round of the same. The healthy cycle is one of positive choice, achievement and reinforced determination to succeed, leading to further improvements. Choose the latter and let others support you if you think that's what you need. If you don't wish to share with the peeps in your immediate live circle, go online and blag away to your heart's content on weight-loss and health forums. What I did- I regale the poor R with relentless reports from the fatty battlefront and tirelessly solicit compliments. I also acknowledged verbally, to a select few, that I had gotten too lardy and intended to do something about it.
Forget the scales. Weight and mass are not the same thing so blow that bollocks out of your mental airlock. Weighing oneself is too easy. It can become obsessive (think of the people you know who live and die by that reading) and incredibly discouraging, especially given the fact that many people don't know enough about biology to interpret the figures. So just get rid of them- it's more temptation than our onboard perversity mechanisms can resist and I've never owned a set myself. A much more informative source of data is your measurements; waist, chest, hips, arms, legs etc. What I did - I knew mine quite well because I make a lot of my own clothes, but I do suggest buying a dressmaker's tape and recording your original details for posterity and tracking your reduction. I've lost nearly 30cm off my hips, which is a whole school ruler and if I can do that, so can you. Clothing size is another reliable reporter of your progress; find something non-stretchy and use it as a reference.
Kill your Television. We haven't owned one for several years now and jesus christ, what a difference that has made. Live your life instead of watching shows about living life. Visual media is thickly suffused with ambient toxicity; you're not thin enough, rich enough, cool enough, consuming enough, going on enough holidays. Hate yourself and buy something to help you feel better. Spectate other people's traumas like bored dogs fogging up a car window. If you don't think your viewing habits are harming you by keeping you immobile and pitching evil notions at your head like spitballs, I challenge you to switch off for a week and taste the difference. When I stopped having to fend off that stream of audiovisual bilge, I was able to let go of my need to resist these messages and acknowledge my own personal desire for change. Television keeps you seated and passive and reeling from its subconscious assaults. So kill it. Give it away. Make active decisions about your viewing (i.e. movies etc) and limit it to the shit you actually want to watch, not hours of sludgy whatever. It's amazing how quickly you lose your tolerance for and begin to actively detest the sight and the sound of that nagging, flickering aperture. What I did- At one stage we owned three tvs. Now we have none and we've never been happier. I lost a bunch of weight and even started a blog.
If you haven't found what you were looking for in the biscuit tin yet, chances are it's not there. The extent to which modern humans have come to rely on 'convenience' food-like substances as a substitute for basically everything that should be good and rewarding in their lives is frankly terrifying and explains a lot about our present somatic situation. See overeating for exactly what it is; boredom, frustration, auto-sabotage, mental laziness. Exercise will help turn this pointless snuffling in another, more constructive direction and that is delineated below. What I did - Food had become so central to my reward and pleasure expectations that I'd forgotten how great everything else could be. About looking hot and enjoying clothes and adornment again. About exerting my perfectly functional body in pursuit of recreation and relaxation, and how important that was in alleviating the worst aspects of depression. About experiencing the full gamut of physical and emotional wonders that is gorgeous raunchy sex unimpaired by notions of self-doubt and despair.
Which leads me to my next point...
Which leads me to my next point...
 | Have Sex & Masturbate. It's scientifically mandated. The lighter you get, the easier it becomes and the more you'll possibly want it. Getting off improves self-image, endorphin response, energy, helps you sleep, reorientates your mood, your connection with your partner and your physical self. As you start to look and feel better, you think hot nasty thoughts and act on them like an adult instead of munching chips and commiserating with your lame self on the sofa watching Titanic for the 50th fucking time. Spanking your monkey is also awesome for the same reasons. Get back into it. Once a day, at least. What I did - I'll spare you the details. |
Have Breakfast, dammit, & shift your main meal to Lunchtime. I'm not a natural breakfast or morning person, but induce myself to eat a nice one because it makes everything easier. Energy levels, thought processes and the motivation to exercise. R and I eat our main meal at lunch because he works a split shift, comes home and I can cook for him. It allows our bodies to wind down at night and prepare for quality sleep instead of trying to deal with a huge load of unlooked-for calories. Is it really any wonder that we can't sleep and suffer nocturnal discomfort when we pig out at 7pm? Everything's been better since we moved to this regime. You can do it; commit to it and prepare in advance and it's not as difficult as it sounds, especially once the benefits start kicking in. Like almost everything else I'm recommending here, it becomes its own reward in very short order.
Stop getting drunk and stoned and falling face first into 3am double cheese deep pan evil. Grow up. You're not 18 (unless you are, then ignore me and go hard) and no one loves a fat old stoner with dead pepperoni stuck to their nasolabial fold. Bad habits stop being cute when we do. I am as regretful about that as you are. What I did- We don't drink and only do *_* occasionally, so it wasn't a big problem.
Stop going out for meals and buying lunch for a while. Restaurants, cafés and bought lunches are crucibles of bad habits, refined crap, huge portions and multiple-choice temptation. You'll get judgement for attempting to moderate your intake while everyone else is stuffing their face so just give them a miss for six months while you're building a better routine; it's easier. If you have to attend for work, etc, eat something healthy before you leave and have entrées as a main, that sort of thing. Use the mind-boggling amounts of money you save to invest in better home-cook ingredients. If you can't cook, spend it on classes. Make your own lunch if you work somewhere else. What I did- Took my own advice. To this day I can't figure out how to keep a lid on shit when we go out. Luckily we can't afford to do it often; problem solved.
Stop going out for meals and buying lunch for a while. Restaurants, cafés and bought lunches are crucibles of bad habits, refined crap, huge portions and multiple-choice temptation. You'll get judgement for attempting to moderate your intake while everyone else is stuffing their face so just give them a miss for six months while you're building a better routine; it's easier. If you have to attend for work, etc, eat something healthy before you leave and have entrées as a main, that sort of thing. Use the mind-boggling amounts of money you save to invest in better home-cook ingredients. If you can't cook, spend it on classes. Make your own lunch if you work somewhere else. What I did- Took my own advice. To this day I can't figure out how to keep a lid on shit when we go out. Luckily we can't afford to do it often; problem solved.
We have to exercise, that's not negotiable. But I don't want to exercise : ( Go to a hardware store and buy a fucking can of harden-up, as we say down here. We can trade exercise away for convenience and another hour on the delicious couch, but like all satanic contracts, the expiry date on that shit equals premature death. Literally. So choose life. Choose not needing a fucking mobility scooter at 35. Choose outrunning the tsunami. Choose blowing off those doughy teenagers up four flights of stairs when the lift's broken at the mall. Choose bodily awesomeness.
If you can't deal with taking on physical activity, I don't know if this will work for you so think that over carefully.
Lose some weight before you start crashing around in earnest, allowing yourself to avoid injury and to develop the desire to climb out of fat-derived inertia. That will come. You will start feeling restless in a nonsexy way. What I did - Once I'd lost about half of the bulk I'd earmarked for destruction, I started building up to 30-45 mins of hard walking every day, on the flat and now with hills thrown in. I chose that because it's free, doesn't require equipment, can be done at almost any time and it accommodates my antisociability, thus blasting all the traditional excuses out of the water. I don't run anywhere unless there's something visibly radioactive bearing down on me or they're giving away free Aaron Taylor-Johnsons on the other side of town, so there will be no jogging. Swimming's also great, especially for those dealing with weight-bearing injuries. Awesome things about the obesity epidemic; you can get great togs in larger sizes now and hey, it's not like you're going to be the only chunky monkey at the pool.
If you're going to walk, choose a 5 kilometre circuit (Google maps or similar can help you plot one nearby). Just walk around it at your normal sedentary pace at first for a couple of weeks. While you're doing this, learn good form (there's plenty on the internet about it) and start to apply it as you gradually increase the intensity of your walking. Remember to respond to tightness and pain by easing up and staying mindful, and find the shoes you need. Starting-out niggles are not the same as injuries nor reason to quit; walk them out and they'll go away. Do listen to serious, persisting or worsening discomfort, however; ignoring that shit will invite worse. I got blisters, small sciatic-type bitching and tired arches for the first two weeks, but that's gone now. In fact, so is my incipient sciatica. As far as footwear goes, I just wear chucks because I'm a barefoot/nonorthopedic type who spends most days unshod and superstitiously thinks sports shoes are coffins for feet, but go with whatever works for you.
Once you've got yourself sorted, start ramping up your speed into walking too quickly to talk comfortably and keep it up the whole way. That's not crazy power walking, if you know what I mean; I'm talking about striding along as fast as you can, maintaining good upright posture and avoiding over-extension. Think Born Slippy beats per minute. The. Whole. Way. It might not seem as hardcore as running, but you're doing it for a longer period and if there are climbs involved it soon becomes clear why it burns as many calories as jogging at the same speed. It strips fat and remodels your legs with gratifying rapidity. I will say that walking in form @ 10 kph and the focus required to maintain it can look pretty fucking psychotic, so if you're conscious of your dignity, do it early or late so no one sees your freaky marching except the other freaky marchers, lol.
When you're feeling like a plonker and just want to give up and go home, remember this: every step you take is putting another metre between you and all the bad shit waiting to get you when you were fat and lazy. You're walking away from diabetes, disability and cancer at ten kilometres an hour. Keep going. I tell myself that every day and it hasn't let me down.
If any of this sounds daunting, please don't be discouraged; I am the last person on earth who thought they would be getting restless and wanting to go for a hard walk. I am fucking lazy and always writing and sitting. The payoff for exercising regularly is real, even for sedentary inverts; you feel great, can do so much more and even your grey matter benefits. I mentally compose and revise while I'm trudging along and am amazed by the ideas and resolutions that volunteer themselves in the process. Give it a chance. Four consistent weeks is all it takes.
I plan to throw in some other form of exercise soon, maybe Pilates or some other eye-roll-inducing shit like that. How much activity is required? If you're not physically tired in a good way at the end of the day (and I don't mean aching and exhausted, because that's fucked up, obviously), you're probably not doing enough exercise.
If you can't deal with taking on physical activity, I don't know if this will work for you so think that over carefully.
Lose some weight before you start crashing around in earnest, allowing yourself to avoid injury and to develop the desire to climb out of fat-derived inertia. That will come. You will start feeling restless in a nonsexy way. What I did - Once I'd lost about half of the bulk I'd earmarked for destruction, I started building up to 30-45 mins of hard walking every day, on the flat and now with hills thrown in. I chose that because it's free, doesn't require equipment, can be done at almost any time and it accommodates my antisociability, thus blasting all the traditional excuses out of the water. I don't run anywhere unless there's something visibly radioactive bearing down on me or they're giving away free Aaron Taylor-Johnsons on the other side of town, so there will be no jogging. Swimming's also great, especially for those dealing with weight-bearing injuries. Awesome things about the obesity epidemic; you can get great togs in larger sizes now and hey, it's not like you're going to be the only chunky monkey at the pool.
If you're going to walk, choose a 5 kilometre circuit (Google maps or similar can help you plot one nearby). Just walk around it at your normal sedentary pace at first for a couple of weeks. While you're doing this, learn good form (there's plenty on the internet about it) and start to apply it as you gradually increase the intensity of your walking. Remember to respond to tightness and pain by easing up and staying mindful, and find the shoes you need. Starting-out niggles are not the same as injuries nor reason to quit; walk them out and they'll go away. Do listen to serious, persisting or worsening discomfort, however; ignoring that shit will invite worse. I got blisters, small sciatic-type bitching and tired arches for the first two weeks, but that's gone now. In fact, so is my incipient sciatica. As far as footwear goes, I just wear chucks because I'm a barefoot/nonorthopedic type who spends most days unshod and superstitiously thinks sports shoes are coffins for feet, but go with whatever works for you.
Once you've got yourself sorted, start ramping up your speed into walking too quickly to talk comfortably and keep it up the whole way. That's not crazy power walking, if you know what I mean; I'm talking about striding along as fast as you can, maintaining good upright posture and avoiding over-extension. Think Born Slippy beats per minute. The. Whole. Way. It might not seem as hardcore as running, but you're doing it for a longer period and if there are climbs involved it soon becomes clear why it burns as many calories as jogging at the same speed. It strips fat and remodels your legs with gratifying rapidity. I will say that walking in form @ 10 kph and the focus required to maintain it can look pretty fucking psychotic, so if you're conscious of your dignity, do it early or late so no one sees your freaky marching except the other freaky marchers, lol.
When you're feeling like a plonker and just want to give up and go home, remember this: every step you take is putting another metre between you and all the bad shit waiting to get you when you were fat and lazy. You're walking away from diabetes, disability and cancer at ten kilometres an hour. Keep going. I tell myself that every day and it hasn't let me down.
If any of this sounds daunting, please don't be discouraged; I am the last person on earth who thought they would be getting restless and wanting to go for a hard walk. I am fucking lazy and always writing and sitting. The payoff for exercising regularly is real, even for sedentary inverts; you feel great, can do so much more and even your grey matter benefits. I mentally compose and revise while I'm trudging along and am amazed by the ideas and resolutions that volunteer themselves in the process. Give it a chance. Four consistent weeks is all it takes.
I plan to throw in some other form of exercise soon, maybe Pilates or some other eye-roll-inducing shit like that. How much activity is required? If you're not physically tired in a good way at the end of the day (and I don't mean aching and exhausted, because that's fucked up, obviously), you're probably not doing enough exercise.
The Plateau is made of Lies. Everyone talks about getting to this terrible stage in your reduction where you just can't lose any more, no matter how hard you try. But that's bullshit. What's really happening is that your bathroom scale-haunting habits are coming back to bite you, even after all that hard work. Muscle weighs so much more than fat that most people can't get their heads around it and start wailing and gnashing when the needle won't keep dropping at the same rate. You also retain a lot of water when you're too fat and that easy initial loss of weight as it departs is impossible to replicate later on. Which is why it's important to emphasise mass and composition, not kilos. Another shitty thing that happens is the easing up of heroic dietary measures once you get to a size that alleviates most of the negatives you were living with before. Come on now, we all do that. I've been doing it. Balance that with calling yourself out and getting back to the grindstone. But the infamous plateau is also an artefact of perception. Just because you're no longer burning through dress sizes like a bat out of hell doesn't mean you're not achieving meaningful change. I'm getting down to my true shape now, a size, while by no means thin, that is nevertheless truly dictated by my frame and not the excess it's been carrying. My body is deciding what to hang onto, sometimes still giving up surprising amounts in places I'd not previously considered. My musculature is shapeshifting and has a way to go yet to reach a balanced expression.
The plateau is where loss begins to taper off as the most meaningful measure of your effectuation and gain starts to kick in. The gaining of control; of muscle, fitness, grace, shapeliness, wellbeing, ability. All those things are coming toward you and as the terrain levels out, you can see them clearly.
It is difficult to adequately describe the joy of discovering you're still there underneath everything that had obscured you. That all those little remembered things have survived. Where once I lamented the sight of my featureless legs, I now grin like an idiot at calves that are strong and tapered and written with increasing definition. My hands have rediscovered their tendons and veins, the latter meandering over their framework like inky deltas instead of lying buried and mysterious. I have clavicles. And breasts like no one's business, so emphasised by the retreat of my former bulk that my partner forgets what he's doing and gazes with a foolish SpongeBob smile. Perhaps the most surprising revelation was my face, its true shape returned one morning as I slapped on moisturiser and saw a long-lost oval looking back at me instead of round + party-crashing chins. This is the me I had almost given up for dead.
The plateau is the place where all that was lost is returned to you, and that is a beautiful thing.
Picture credits (from top to bottom) Mermaid Waterhouse, 1900. Monna Vanna. Rosetti, 1866. Isis & Osiris, tomb frieze detail. A temple relief at Khajuraho in Madhya Pradesh. Towely, Southpark. Artemis. La Dame à la licorne (sight). circa 1500.
Next week- Part 3: Cake or Death- Paelo for skeptics, elimination, moderation & glorious, actual food.
The plateau is where loss begins to taper off as the most meaningful measure of your effectuation and gain starts to kick in. The gaining of control; of muscle, fitness, grace, shapeliness, wellbeing, ability. All those things are coming toward you and as the terrain levels out, you can see them clearly.
It is difficult to adequately describe the joy of discovering you're still there underneath everything that had obscured you. That all those little remembered things have survived. Where once I lamented the sight of my featureless legs, I now grin like an idiot at calves that are strong and tapered and written with increasing definition. My hands have rediscovered their tendons and veins, the latter meandering over their framework like inky deltas instead of lying buried and mysterious. I have clavicles. And breasts like no one's business, so emphasised by the retreat of my former bulk that my partner forgets what he's doing and gazes with a foolish SpongeBob smile. Perhaps the most surprising revelation was my face, its true shape returned one morning as I slapped on moisturiser and saw a long-lost oval looking back at me instead of round + party-crashing chins. This is the me I had almost given up for dead.
The plateau is the place where all that was lost is returned to you, and that is a beautiful thing.
Picture credits (from top to bottom) Mermaid Waterhouse, 1900. Monna Vanna. Rosetti, 1866. Isis & Osiris, tomb frieze detail. A temple relief at Khajuraho in Madhya Pradesh. Towely, Southpark. Artemis. La Dame à la licorne (sight). circa 1500.
Next week- Part 3: Cake or Death- Paelo for skeptics, elimination, moderation & glorious, actual food.
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