I am aware that my body is tall, which gives me a sort of illusory effect when it comes to mass vs appearance.
Yesterday I was testing a product for strength, and knew that my weight was greater than the user’s. When I proclaimed this number, the salesman — male, said, “No way you’re over 190.”
No weigh, man.
230, soaking wet.
Having looked at body mass index (BMI) renditions of my sex, weight, and height, I would concur that my figure appears to be merely overweight, not obese. Not anymore, that is.
See. Numbers are relative. The BMI is relative. Triggers are what we make of them. So what if my first mass number is a “2”? So fucking what? I’m not going to start starving myself to match my weight to my appearance.
I pointed to my calves and said, “It’s all muscle. Farm girl here.”
You can turn an illusion either way (avoiding the impulse for another pun). I look a more average weight than I weigh. Or — I am hopelessly obese.
I’m going with the third option — I’m just right, just here, just now. I want to be healthier, which involves continuing my healthy ways. I feel like my body needs some more weight off my spine.
Numbers are to the eating disordered as Vegas is to the alcoholic. Ok, meals are as well.
But my life is more than meals and numbers. My life is listening to what feels right.
Listening. Go ahead.
Hear your body. It knows how and what you need. You can trust it.
Sent from my iPad