Cardiogirl 19 percent body fat 100 percent fun


thanks, Dad


Grrr. Today I am annoyed because I stepped on the scale after waiting a good week to weigh myself and I have gained three pounds! It is possible that I have gained muscle, in the way that it is possible that Britney Spears will be photographed wearing underwear.

In other words, it is possible but not probable.

And this makes me mad. I have been religious about my workouts. I have increased my stamina on the elliptical trainer, tallying more strides and calories burned in the same 33-minute timeframe than in the last couple of weeks.

The last time I was successful at weight loss I actually followed The Zone diet quite strictly. I realize, as I am reviewing what is not working here, that the food intake is where the problem has to be.

I suppose I will have to create a food diary (don't worry I won't bore you with my caloric hijinks here) to see where the problem is. But I am getting desperate.
I specifically avoid buying cookies, candy, chocolate, ice cream -- you know, the good stuff -- because I know I cannot be trusted. Hence, my frustration.

Alright, so I realize my obsession with my body image is not solely my own creation. I have, in large part, my father to thank for that. I am so tired of the trail leading back to childhood. It's like a maze that ends in cheese, but every once in a while I'd like to find some Monterey Jack around the corner instead of boring Cheddar. Every. Single. Time.

Anyway, as a youngster I didn't have to really watch my weight. It started around the end of high school. In college I definitely gained the "Freshman Fifteen." And thank you Dad for noticing and commenting on it.

It's not like I was special in that regard. All of my sisters were card carrying members of the "Your Ass Is Getting Big Club" by the time they hit high school. But Paula pointed out something that has become a bit of a train wreck in my mind. Why would your father comment on your ass? She said that's a not-so-subtle sexual innuendo. Gross.

Yes, there was physical and mental abuse growing up in our household. Hey, that's what made me what I am today. (Insert embarrassed chuckle and self deprecating grin here.) But I have really searched my brain for evidence of sexual abuse and there is none that I can find. Paula did say that when you have abuse growing up it's usually confined to one or the other (physical or sexual) with some mental abuse thrown in for good measure.

Plus, she told me she doesn't "read" sexual abuse off me. I guess that's good, right? Um, thanks Dad for not completely fucking me up, no pun intended.

Anyway, he would frequently tell me that I was getting heavy and that I should watch what I ate. Also, he was always "starting a new diet" on Monday morning. It's weird, as I think about it, that my mother wasn't the one obsessing about dieting. Both my mom and dad have always been a good 30 to 40 pounds overweight all of my life. But you would expect dieting issues to emanate from your mother.

Also, my dad had a habit of going off his diet by making a grand announcement and then promptly gorging himself. He would have done well back in the time of the Romans -- with the vomitoriums and such. Then, he would announce anew that he was going to get serious on the following Monday.

So here I am, at 38 trying to shake off the image of a fat teenager. I am trying to keep these neurotic tendencies to myself, as I am the role model for three young girls. But it's not easy.

I find myself debating the following course of action: I could buy Dexatrim to jump start things, I could drink water when I get the munchies or I could get strict with The Zone again. I know what I should do, but I am struggling with not going to extremes.

I'll end with one last dysfunctional thought. Many times I berate myself for not having the stamina and wherewithal to become a successful anorexic.

I'm told acknowledging that the thought process is fucked up is the first step to recovery.


2006-12-06 at 8:42 a.m.

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