Turn And Face The Strange, February 6th

I spent my formative teenage years in braces, glasses (and then contacts) knowing the cold hard fact that supermodels achieving a height of 5’9” or taller were a maximum of 120 pounds while I was a measly 5’6” and already over the threshold… but not by much. I remember being an even lower number than the coveted 120 after I emerged from the hospital having successfully defeated a serious case of mono in 11^th grade. The reason I know my exact weight post-release is that the first thing I did when I got home was disrobe and weigh myself. Ya, it was the 80s—a time for Weight Watchers, watching your weight, Jane Fonda, Tab, the frozen yogurt craze, and SnackWells. (I thought I had escaped fairly unscathed… but maybe not.) And yes of course, I regained my health after the mono stint so the pounds flew right back on.

I was below my high school weight at my wedding. (To this day those are the only pictures of me that I actually like!) I gained the perfunctory 32 pounds during pregnancy and promptly loss it all within three months of The Boy’s birth. I put on just a few during my rocky marriage but the divorce helped me shed those unwanted lbs. and I was able to return to my fighting weight.

I ran all through my thirties including a marathon so an unwanted five-pound gain took just a few extra miles to work off. I swore off mayo and used mustard instead. I always ditched the bread on a burger. I owned “going out clothes” and even “hook up clothes.” (Yeah, they worked!) I got eight hours of sleep a night. I was the picture of health.

My forties were a bit more difficult but I was still very active, even hiring a personal trainer. I was challenged by restaurant meals five days a week because of my job, but implored good habits of avoiding the bread basket, enjoying lots of salads with lean protein, and indulging in just a few decadent bites of dessert.

The big change occurred after I hit 50. My body was just different and that didn’t help. I was less active, decided that slathering butter on my newfound love of bread was a path to nirvana and that sharing dessert was something I never had to do again. Food became a reward for tackling life. I deserved a good meal and a delicious dessert and maybe even a late-night snack. I was determined to enjoy every bite and nobody was going to stop me, especially not me.

Over the past three years, I have gained a remarkable amount of weight, most of which I carry in my face. (Ok, not completely true but it’s unavoidably noticeable the minute you see my round punim if you haven’t seen me in a while.) I could say that the increase was a bit of a creep, but as the numbers went up, I just ignored the consequences.

Blazers that I used to button I started wearing open. When that stopped being an option I threw a scarf on top to hide the mess underneath. My rings became too tight so I swore off jewelry, which didn’t seem that odd through the pandemic to be glitterless. My winter coat became too snug so I layered a sweatshirt underneath a fall jacket that I could leave unbuttoned. I kept accommodating the increase. My stretch pants just stretched further than they ever had before. I was at the point where most of my coveted curated wardrobe did not fit. So I stopped wearing “hard pants” or “jeans” as you savages call them. I surpassed my pregnancy weight and kept right on eating. I ate for comfort. Because it made me feel good. It was a reward. Food kept me company. I was always in search of new restaurants and food to try and write about and this just fed the madness. And I stopped weighing myself because I just didn’t want to know.

So imagine my horror when I stepped on the scale and for the first time in my life, the number in the middle of the three-digit readout was gigantic! I knew the numbers had been going north for quite some time but it was a shocker. Why? Or how did I not know? Well because I sort of got used to me. And because I would intermittently fast or be decidedly gluten free for a week or two, skip carby sweets for a bit or not eat after 8pm for three days straight convinced that the temporary attention I was paying to my weight was keeping the pounds at bay. I was oh so wrong.

In my head I still consider myself a runner even though I haven’t run in quite some time. I had been avoiding the full-length mirror and doing fairly quick hair and makeup so I didn’t have to see that odd refection staring back at me. It’s as if I couldn’t turn and face the strange. Because that couldn’t possibly be me, right? And I’m not someone who would let something like this go unchecked or get out of control… especially to this degree. Jeez—most people consider me a control freak. And yet, here I am, pushing maximum density.

So finally the day came (December 14th!) where I made a conscious choice to really do something about my growing concerns until I hit my goal weight. No more gluten free for breakfast and abandoning the quest by lunchtime. No more big pieces of cake or late-night munchies. That me is over. So I want to reintroduce myself. I’m Jen. I am a committed, goal-oriented gal determined to change my life. Welcome to my journey on Noom. Before I start… one last question…