*This is the personal narrative written last year as a journalism assignment
The moment someone remained in polite silence after I uttered the self deprecating, yet not entirely sincere words “I should really lose some weight,” I knew that I could no longer ignore those two BMI points which re-categorise me from “normal” to “overweight. A procrastinator by nature and an emotional eater by disposition, here I sit four Easter eggs and one sentence later. These traits make for a formidable combination in my body’s personal vendetta against weight loss.
The cycle goes something like this; I get upset about my weight, eat something to make me feel better, while telling myself, “I’ll start exercising and stop eating chocolate tomorrow.” I eat more the next day, upset for not having kept the empty promises to myself, again. And that is the only thing that is empty about me. I have full hips, a full bust, full stomach and right now, a full mouth.
Funny how we tell ourselves little lies in as simple a thing as a turn of phrase. “These jeans are too small for me,” rather than the unpopular reality that you are too big for the jeans. Calories are the vindictive little bastards that sneak into your closet in the middle of the night and sew your clothes a size smaller. This is easier to believe than facing the truth that you are capable of changing your body for the better. You just choose not to.
Whether consciously or unconsciously, I choose food over self confidence every time. Rationalisations for my chocolate addiction include; “Since I am going on diet tomorrow, I wouldn’t want to tempt the diet-conscious me of tomorrow with this leftover slab of chocolate.” and, “It’s only a little, what can it hurt?” But hurt it does. It hurts when my favourite shorts no longer fit me. It hurts when people look at me and I place my own insecurity in their judgmental eyes. It hurts when I compare myself to other girls, fairing dismally in stakes of fashion sense and physical attractiveness. The phrase, “You are what you eat,” though overused, perfectly explains the difference between me and the girls I envy. I am the overly sweet, sticky, doughy bun that people are embarrassed to eat in public for fear of jam dripping down their chin. They are dainty cucumber sandwiches, healthy and delicate in the latest exclusively-flattering fashion trends. They don’t keep their arms firmly tucked in when they wave for fear of a subsequent wave from their sagging arm. They don’t look down at themselves, monitoring every wobble and stretch mark, noting changes that need to, but never will, be made. All of this negative energy could be put to far better use at the gym.
We can either accept ourselves as we are, or change it. Since change involves a treadmill, 5:30am wake ups and lycra, I am not in favour. Acceptance, however, is the harder choice. It involves realising that every tomorrow is not day one of dieting. That no man can offer the validation that is only found within. That you are beautiful the way you are.
It starts with little steps. You should find something beautiful about yourself every day and keep your head up while walking. You should compare your personality to the cucumber-sandwich girls, instead of your looks. You should find self confidence in your achievements. You have to make the choice not to put yourself down, and the choice to put down the chocolate will follow closely to self acceptance.
