The Fat and I, we have been been tight, at times, over the years -- beginning with the heady early days of Mode Magazine (my God, it was revolutionary! Plus-size fashion! That was both adequately sized and fashionable! And coincided with the onset of my then-mysterious PCOS weight gain), and culminating in my most recent postpartum foray into mail-order-only territory from Old Navy (regarding which, fuck you very much, ON). Astute readers may note that I am listing separate and discrete times, which would lead one to the inescapable conclusion that each time I was fat, I went and lost the weight. On which count, busted.
Sometimes I embraced The Fat, and sometimes I hated it; the latter, mostly, having more to do with insulin-resistance-induced depression. Interestingly, when I cured the depression with the Atkins diet (and you better believe that I credit heavy cream and bacon for my continued mental health, and no, I am not kidding), the weight just sort of...fell away. Of course to the outside world, it looked the other way around: I lost the weight, and got real happy. Nobody was particularly interested in being disabused of that idea, either, no matter what I said.
If you've ever been fat, and then lost weight, you may have gotten to the point where you wished people would just go back to talking behind your back (as it became obvious that they had) instead of constantly complimenting you (each compliment carrying an unspoken "...not like before!") or asking what your secret was. I'm all for educating the public about the benefits of metformin and the prevalence of PCOS, but when slender women begin quizzing you on what they might say to their doctors to get themselves some of what is obviously this miracle drug that you've found, you sort of want to punch them in the mouth. With an eclair.
In my case, no less annoying was the idea that I had lost the weight (each time) through dint of hard work and sacrifice. Because, yes, I sacrificed a lot of simple carbs and sugar, but I got a lot in return. I don't mean smaller pants. I mean nice level blood sugar and cream cheese pie; I mean a taste for dark chocolate and a greater appreciation of the sweetness of a good strawberry than I'd ever dreamed. I hadn't counted calories or deprived myself or kicked my own ass in the gym, the culturally favored activities for weight loss. Besides, that particular compliment carried a nasty set of assumptions and implications about all those other fat people, you know, the bad ones who just aren't trying hard enough. Like you, three months ago.
Okay. Fast forward to present day, when I, at or around my senior year of high school weight, get pregnant. Last time, I carbed my way to a twenty-pound-per-trimester gain. As my dear midwife says, I "gave myself permission" to do so. Which is completely true. This was it! My one chance to be pregnant! And not to have to think about PCOS! Of course I would celebrate with Lucky Charms and Kozy Shack! (And, you know, self-medicate with same for the serotonin.) I put on about sixty pounds that pregnancy, and while some people can do that and it's what their bodies need, it was so not what my sugar fiend body needed.
This time, I actually lost a few pounds during my first trimester. Mild nausea, a heat wave, and the grueling physicality of mothering a two-year-old in a walking neighborhood, I guess. And, although I should probably have comment privileges at Shapely Prose* revoked for saying this, I have to admit I was...a little bit glad.
The pound-a-week goodness of the second trimester has kicked in just fine, though, and I seem to have found the three or four pounds I lost before; my tighter pants (that I was going to alter into maternity pants) don't really make it to the zipping stage. But you know? It's pregnancy. That stuff happens. I'd rather have that little voice inside my head saying, "Eat your protein! Make sure you put enough cheese and oil on that salad! If you eat that donut, you'll be shaky and sick in half an hour!" instead of some ugly thing about the donut making me (gasp!) fat. Or, frankly, even considering the weight aspect of anything I consume or expend. Until that little first-trimester weight dip, I'd lately been practicing the doctrine of health at every size (HAES) -- of listening, very carefully, to what my body needed to eat, or drink, or do, and acting accordingly**. And of exercising for the pleasure of it (in the case of T-Tapp) or the necessity (the preschool dropoff/pickup walk, ten loooong hilly blocks, done four times most days. Oh yeah, and the park, and the zoo, and walking the dog).
And now that the grim specter of weight control has once again left my consciousness, I'm free to do so again. Yay.
*Are you reading Shapely Prose? No? You really oughta. Smart gals.
**If you remember Shangri-La, I actually don't think the two are incompatible (provided you can divest it of the weight loss thinking). On days when I would drink a lot of oil, I would certainly be better able to discern what my body wanted and didn't want, without a lot of random noise involving simple carbohydrate. I think some of us have bodies that can get to a place where we need to hit the reset button, if you will, and olive or grapeseed oil can help do that.
