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current mood: The current mood of lostintranslation at www.imood.com

(th)inner beauty

November 17, 2002 - 11:51 PM

    I just finished reading Wasted. Now all I have to do is write a 3-6 page report about it. I'm leaning towards three. The book got me to thinking about weight loss, sickness, and body image. I don't know where I'm at right now. I weigh more than I ever have, but 80% of the time I don't feel fat. It's much easier to gain fifteen pounds when you're 5'9" than when you're 5'3". My weight sort of stretches, although it seems to mostly settle at my waist. I've bought two new pairs of jeans in the past month because the Calvin Klein size eights are no longer practical.

    At first, this caused minor panic. I made up my mind that I needed a diet. I needed exercise. Anything, anything but the extra pounds! Of course, being me, I quickly put the feelings aside for another day. I'm not one to obsess over such things. I have spurts of panic, but they go away as quickly as they came. My sister likes to remind me that I used to weigh less because of the medicine I used to take, as if that weight didn't really count. It was essentially prescription speed. Now that I don't have the drug, I've gained weight. It should be noted that my sister is heavier than I am and pissed off about it. She would love nothing more than for me to gain forty pounds. We women are strange creatures.

    I still think it would be a good idea for me to exercise a little more, seeing as though I, uh, don't.

    "I feel like such a slug," Ophelia said last week. "I haven't done my aerobics in four days. I usually do it every day."

    "Oh my God, I know," Buffy chimed in. "I try to go to the gym every day, but, like, I haven't had time lately. I only go about four times a week now."

    I stare at them as if they're space aliens.

    "I think the last time I exercised was some time in late 1999," I announce, and I'm only slightly exaggerating. That was the year I quit the tennis team in high school, which completely ended my organized exercise. I guess it didn't matter much because I got the speed in March 2000.

    I remember a day in the fall of 2000. I was working on the play Barefoot In the Park. The assistant director and I were in her car, on a food run for the entire cast.

    "Can I ask you something?" she asked.

    "Sure," I said, somewhat apprehensive.

    "Are you anorexic?"

    "What?"

    "Well, I was watching you today. Your arms are tiny. You look really really thin."

    I looked down at my arms. They looked pretty normal to me. I told her that I was not anorexic, and I wasn't. Still, there was the nagging thought that maybe I saw myself in some distorted way. Maybe I was sickly thin, and I didn't even know it. My aunt would always make comments about how much weight I'd lost, and ask questions like, "Are you eating?" This made me feel worse.

    So, in short, I have weight issues. (Who doesn't?) I don't know if I should be trying to lose the weight I've gained post-medication, or if I should just say, "Why is it so damn important that I be thin? Who cares about being thin? It's entirely overrated anyway. I'm healthy right now. Sure, I might have a few extra pounds. So? So... nothing. It doesn't matter at all." Why do I still have that little voice in my head, begging me to do sit-ups until my old jeans fit?

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