Jess because I can
These stories are based on personal events, experiences, or any outside influence and an alias is used for anyone involved in the story.
Around two months ago, my boyfriend (we’ll call him K) said the worst four words a girl could ever hear: “Are you gaining weight?”
Now, mind you, we have a funny relationship. We antagonize each other, make fun, insult, etc. and our feelings are never hurt. But this time, it hit me right in the gut.
“What do you mean?” I had asked him, because I was pretty sure I hadn’t gained any weight recently, but then again, what did I know?
Instead of replying, he advised we go downstairs and weigh each other. I decided to comply, only to satisfy his curiosity (but I guess at this point I too was intrigued but nervous).
Taking my shoes off, K rolled his eyes and I rolled mine right back at him. “These things add pounds you know!”
“I’m sure they do,” he laughed.
I stepped on the scale, and right before my eyes, I came to the realization that perhaps he was right. With a scowl, I stepped off. I had gained nine pounds since last spring.
He grinned at me and stepped on the scale. Immediately, his stupid grin was washed away and he gulped like a fish out of water at the number on the scale, jumping off like it was going to bite him.
“Looks like we need to work out,” he declared, choking on laughter as I mumbled something about it not being fair.
I pouted, “I guess I should start dieting. Eat more salad. Less pasta.” But that didn’t sound good at all. And K had told me explicitly after this event that I definitely did not look my weight: I looked skinny and healthy.
But after two weeks, we really did see results. I had lost five pounds.
But I was miserable. Well, maybe not miserable: but I wasn’t explicitly enjoying life at the moment. I had refrained myself from eating my favorite foods or I had simply just started to eat less of it, which meant I wasn’t full and I was constantly hungry. Salads were good, but not in excess.
Working out itself felt good. I would feel the burn in my legs and feel invigorated that I was finally exercising those muscles again, gaining strength and losing fat all in one go.
So what did I decide to do? I decided to be better to myself. I began to eat the portions I wanted, but I didn’t overfill myself because, well, why?
I continue to work out every Tuesday evening after class with K, and he deals with my moaning and moping. Really, I only do it because I’m exhausted after class, and it’s funny to see his reactions. Since I made this decision, my weight has gone up and down: so no, I’m not losing weight anymore. I am average in my ideal weight spectrum, and, in my opinion and K’s opinion, I look fine. I’m happy.
Be happy with who you are if you’re comfortable with yourself. If you’re not, then don’t be lazy and let the struggles of life be an excuse for your lack of motivation: you really do only live once, and you should make the best of it.
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