a hippy chick

At 217 pounds, I am classified as severely obese.  At 275 pounds, I was classified as morbidly obese.  See a problem with that line of thinking?  If I really bought into it I should just give up at this point, after having lost 58 pounds only to find myself still classified as dangerously high-risk, extremely unhealthy.  Yet in the space between “morbidly obese” and “severely obese” I have found the ability to:

Fit in a movie theater seat without spilling over the sides or pushing up the armrests.

Wear a size 18 skirt!!! and a size 14 top.

Look at my face in a mirror without reflexively checking for my double chin.

Walk into a room and not immediately be sure I’m being whispered about.

Be whistled at and feel good, not assuming it was a joke or a taunt.

Walk up 2 flights of stairs without pausing and with plenty of breath.

Have lunch with a friend and actually eat.food.in.public without giving a damn what anyone else thinks. (this is a hard one for fat people, trust me.)

Play–actually play–with my son.

I have 7 pounds to go to be classified as “obese”.  This makes me more certain than ever that I hate labels and classification systems, as they really don’t take into account any of the unique things that make us human beings.  It’s just some bean counter with an algorithm and a judgment call.  You’re on the spectrum. You’re normal.  You’re dysfunctional.  You’re not.  You’re obese and therefore not worthy of consideration as a sexual being.  You’re thin and therefore you are revered even if you are nasty, hateful, and full of diseases.

Tonight I will go home and make my famous homemade macaroni and cheese. I’ll post the recipe proudly, knowing there are a zillion grams of fat and 52 million calories, knowing that eaten in moderation…you will smack your lips and enjoy your life a little more.  I no longer feel guilty for indulging in food that I enjoy, because the band does what I cannot do–restricts my portion size to “normal” so that I can have some balance and discipline in my quest to enjoy every taste God created.  Health –physical, mental, spiritual –is important.  But in our mania to make everyone the same, look at what we’ve lost.  If I never make it all the way to my goal weight 83 pounds from now, I’m more comfortable in my 217 pound skin than I ever was in my high school 140 pound skin.

I’ve learned, again, that outward appearances have very little to do with the true heart of a person; our culture worships beauty and I’m no stranger to that kind of thinking.  But it’s empowering, really–those classifications.  I celebrate my severe obesity, knowing that I can now play with my son and walk up two flights of stairs without pausing.  Knowing that I can eat many more meals of macaroni and cheese before I make it down to “obese”.  Knowing that I’m still a fat girl and that I always will be, inside.  And that’s okay.  That’s okay.