175

I've been trying to write this blog post all day.  I was elated (at first) and wanted someone to share it with me, but then I feared that you'd think I was bragging or seeking praise. 

I hit 175 today.  175.8 to be exact.

Why is this a big deal? 

175 is the number I've been striving for since I was thirteen years old.  Every new school year, every ensuing new diet, I can remember thinking that if I could just get down to 175 then, "life would be better," "he would notice me," and, "people will like (instead of berate, abuse, and harass) me."  I thought 175 would be the number that would give me a voice and a presence.  I thought it would give me a right to be here.

(Strangely enough, until now I'd never been able to get below 176.  Not in four years of maintenance and effort.  There has to be significance in that.)

Nothing could have surprised me more today.  Last weekend, I went away to a friend's cabin with Tina and Lorrie.  As wonderful as it was, I came home 5.2 pounds heavier.  Of course I knew to expect this and that it would be somewhat transient after a weekend of stuffing ourselves with hearty breakfasts and peanut butter cup s'mores, but it was truly discouraging after how well I'd done recently.

I reapplied myself.  It wasn't a fabulous week, but it was pretty typical.  (Anxiety and lonliness get the best of me when I'm standing in front of the cupboard at 3am.)  Judging by how I felt inside and by how my tracking had gone, I thought I'd maybe lost two or three of those five.  Turns out I'd lost 7.6 pounds.  (Which, for the record, is not healthy.  I don't aim for that.)

So yes - it was shocking and exciting, so much so that I jumped backwards off the scale with my hand over my mouth!  But then came the conflict.  So I sat with those feelings until I could reach the feeling of what was really going on.  Fear.

The BMI charts, the Met Life charts, and Weight Watchers, inaccurate as all of them are, tell me that the top of my weight category is 162.  Except that I have made peace with not getting there. (I really don't want the expense and effort of another new wardrobe anyway.)  175 was my life's goal to the exclusion of nearly all else.   And so, according to what I've been telling myself for 20 years, I have the right to be here now. "He" ought to be noticing me.  I should be making good money.  I should be happy and fulfilled.  Life should be for me everything I've ever desired.

In the moment, we tell ourselves whatever we need to in order to accomplish great things.  I'm sure that for most of my life, I truly did believe that what I saw on the scale today was going to make everything perfect.   I'm also sure that in those sparse, honest moments, I've known I was lying to myself.  Today, there was nothing left to deny.  A number on a scale will never make my life.

Now what?