I Ain’t Trippin’ Over Weight Loss

The first time I lost a significant amount of weight I was 13 and my Gram was dying. Going from 180 to 160 lbs was less about my parents having a “blimp for a daughter” and more about trying to avoid packing three grandparent deaths into two years.

I would take the long way home from school, opting to walk up Lockleven Lane to prolong seeing Gram lying in her living room hospice bed.

At lunch I would reach for lasagna and cookies and bread, only to trash my tray 30 minutes later, cold and untouched. My appetite dwindled faster than Gram did and I survived on a force feeding of a pudding cup with Reddi-wip and an apple, twice a day.

The second time I lost a significant amount of weight I was 21 and my Aunt Dino was dying. Her vomit made me vomit and the thought of a life without her constricted my hunger for success, for love, for food, for everything.

I constructed a world in which I was the absolute authority. I burned rubber on the treadmill, putting miles between myself and reality. I set my portions of food and dictated time for two hours a day. I saved Aunt Dino from burning buildings during my last treadmill mile and hoisted heavy houses from her back during my last lifting sets. Amidst the uncertain surgeries, the unpredictable upchucks, and uncontrollable hair loss, I made my world in the gym, where I determined my own results.

 

The third time my body significantly changed I was 22 and got a high from verbally challenging my trainer while he physically challenged me. It was a simple time: I talked a good game,

and he played one and it was all fun until it wasn’t anymore.

The threads of my story seem to say this: I tend to lose weight when I’m not looking.

I found this article on one of Sabirah’s recent Thursday Tidbits (which I absolutely love to read). Dude (author, Alasdair Wilkins) lost 100 lbs in a year without even trying. His most salient claim, for me at least, is that weight loss cannot be comprehended without context. Each of my drastic transformations have been ripe with context: diverse situations, a myriad of circumstances, various losses, and various gains.

I get the feeling that my body is preparing to significantly change again. I’m 24 and I’m training for a half marathon. Not because I want to lose weight, but because I hate running. I’m practicing breaking the chains of “can’t” and starting with something impossibly daunting. The odds are stacked against me.

• I hate running.
• I hate running on a treadmill (which I have to do because it’s cold and snowy).
• I hate running in the cold (which I’ll have to do when my runs get higher than 5 miles).
• I’ve never run for longer than five miles and that was a struggle.

I’m doing this to show myself that my body’s got this. It’s my mind that’s truly being trained. We’ll all soon see that my mind has got this too.

I will undoubtedly lose some weight. But, as that isn’t my goal, I’m not keeping any kind of score with myself besides an X’d out calendar and a few before photos.

I aimed to avoid death when I was 13, and searched for a sense of control at 21. I found a fun distraction at 22. Though I sometimes rue my rolling gut and curse the thighs I squat on, I’m still truly not training to lose weight. But, looking at the context: the healthy diet and the running schedule for the next three months (OMG), I will more than likely drop a few pounds. As long as I cross that half marathon finish line this spring, I don’t care. As usual, I ain’t trippin’ over no weight loss.