I’ve been thinking a lot about fat lately. My own and the way we perceive of others.
For my part, I know that the weight I’ve put on is from laziness and self-indulgence. I make no excuses for it. I know what the bad foods are and I still eat them, assuring myself that roller derby will make all the bad calories go away. Hell, I ate half a tub of Caramel Cookie Madness the other night, reasoning that we had a 2 ½ hour scrimmage a few days later.
I used to be obsessed with my weight, to the point where I weighed myself every night and morning and wrote down every little fluctuation. At the time I couldn’t recognise the obsessive behaviour-ness about it all. I just was worried about those extra grams that had been added while I was asleep. Back then I didn’t define between the fat and the muscle mass. I just thought your weight was your weight.
I kicked that habit as soon as I came to uni because there weren’t scales available to me in the bathroom. Instead I focused on healthy relationships and my studies. When I went home in the holidays I’d weigh myself and compare it with where I was at the last time I had been home. Most of the time I’d remember.
I still weigh myself when I go back for a visit. It’s probably a more realistic view on my weight gain or loss because I’m an infrequent visitor. On average, I put on 5kgs a year if I go from xmas visit to xmas visit, with gains and losses unacknowledged between. If I see a rise in my weight I question if it’s fat or muscle (because thanks to derby it’s a realistic question to ask), but I don’t obsess over those little kilograms. I’m happy that I’m still in the double digits (albeit sort of high).
I call myself fat, but I don’t like anyone else calling me that. I know I have a weight issue, but I don’t make excuses or ask for sympathy for it. Most days I exercise because it helps me be more productive when I’m sitting at the computer for long periods of time.
Fat. I own it. But don’t call me it without knowing what made me the way that I am.