About That Waist

What do you do when you’re middle-aged, your weight has crept up and continues to do so, you’re a student or office worker who spends much of her time sitting at a computer, your husband is an enabler, and you’re basically a food slut who can’t say no?

I am fucking fat. I’m just being real, here.  I’m not fat like the 1980’s Ricki Lake of John Waters films or that woman who can’t leave her bed.  I don’t aim to fat shame anyone, but being overweight or obese is unhealthy. All of these pop songs out these days say, “Don’t want none unless you got buns, hun!” or “Don’t worry about your size!”

Great. I may be at risk for heart disease and diabetes, but it’s okay “cuz boys like a little more booty to hold at night!”

I don’t necessarily look too fat, but I squeeze as much of my gut as I can into my jeans and cover the rest with a loose shirt. Problem is, now I’m busting out of my some of my shirts, too. Not with my bust, though. I can grab a good hunk of flab in my midsection.

Here’s the thing. Whatever.  I couldn’t care less really.  My gut fat is accentuated by my lack of muscle left in that area from having had three c-sections.  It’s kind of a badge of honor of sorts, like stretch marks.  That would be fine and dandy except for three things. My BMI puts me at overweight and damn close to obese, I was prescribed blood pressure medication, and my paternal grandmother had diabetes and several strokes before she died.  Oh, four things – my father had a heart attack at a pretty young age.

I don’t want to need medication to live. All of you Meghan Trainor worshippers out there, it’s great that you feel confident at any size, but be careful. Size does matter when it comes to health.

My husband is great. He likes to cook big breakfasts, he always offers to get me chips when he goes to the store, he brings me a bowl of ice cream out of the blue and refills my coffee for me. These things don’t just happen as a treat, though. They get to be a daily habit until I finally say, “Stop! Please.  I can’t eat like this. I’m getting fat.”

And indeed, when I download the MyFitnessPal app and track my intake for a week, it does confirm that if I continue eating the amount of calories I eat, I will weigh three more pounds five weeks from now (then another three pounds, etc…)

My husband has a belly. He eats well. But he’s also on his feet all day and rides his bicycle a lot. However, he is on blood pressure medication, too.  His cholesterol hasn’t crossed the line into the high range yet, but I don’t like the fact that his doctor told him his level is fine, his diet is fine with his amount of activity, and we’ll just watch it. Watch it go up until he finally needs cholesterol meds?

Uh, no, that’s not a good plan. Do doctors just not bother to tell their patients what they need to do for good health because patients don’t listen anyway? Because they get kick backs for prescribing meds? What?  It sure would’ve helped to have the doc on my side when I say we eat in an unhealthy way and really need to change.

It would be nice if instead of enabling each other in chips and ice cream, we could enable each other in oatmeal and fruit. I know that’s shooting high. My husband does not want to learn anyway. When I’ve tried to point out why we don’t need cereal AND toast, or homefries, toast, AND pancakes with eggs and bacon, he can’t comprehend the idea of too many carbs or all of that grease and just gets annoyed that I’ve picked on him once again.

And I can’t say no. I’ve tried, I have for a few days, but then go right back to giving in.

We need to be around.  My daughter has an actual congenital heart condition and we need to keep her healthy. We don’t make her eat all of the things we eat, with the exception of breakfast sometimes. She eats quite a healthy diet.

But my husband and I need to be around for her for as long as possible. She will always need direct one on one care.  Who will take care of her when we both have heart attacks and die?  As it is, it’s stressful to think about all of the what if scenarios where she’s involved. If we can, shouldn’t we do all we can to remove the one ‘what if’ that’s fairly easy to remove?

This post has gone all over the place but I just needed to get that all out. I don’t know if I’ll write a whole resolution list or not. Some years I do, some years I don’t. To me, it’s an inventory of my life, where I am, where I want to be, what I want to do, what I need to change. Goals, wants and needs for the coming year.

If nothing else, this one thing will be on my list.  I will reduce the number of calories I take in and see the weight in that app message (“If you continue to eat this number of calories, your weight will be *blank* in five weeks.”) get smaller and smaller.

Not because I’m not confident enough in my skin and have a hang-up about my muffin top, but because I don’t want to need medication and because I want to be here a long time for my kids, and would like to have some kind of life when Sarah’s older and situated with services that allow us to get out and do the things we can’t do right now.

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