A Weighty Issue

I am pleased to report that I'm still running every morning. Okay, maybe "running" is a strong word. More like jogging separated by periods of walking uphill. I am also pleased to report that my thighs rubbing together have not yet caused a fire. I had a fire extinguisher on standby those first few days! I have finally started to lose some weight now that my body is over the shock of being asked to move so early in the morning.
I tell myself every morning that I can see some changes in the mirror, but as I refuse to take a "before" picture, you will have to take my word for it. Sorry, ladies, I'll just have to help you out with some mental imagery. I am pretty happy from my head to my ribcage and my knees to my toes. The area in between is a vast wasteland of lumps and stretch marks. My two-sizes-too-small blue running shorts make my butt look like a big round blueberry. Yes, yes, I know. I could invest in a larger pair of shorts. I'm using them for motivation, because you're going to hear all about my happy dance the day I put them on and they actually fit.
Which brings to mind a question: why is it that I don't feel "fat" until I start trying on clothes? I was reasonably happy with how I looked until I went into a store I'd always wanted to shop in and realized that their clothes don't come in my size. Talk about a big old shot of self-esteem! I can vividly remember the first time I was made aware of the fact that other people were talking about my weight. Someone close to me confided that she had run into an old friend who reported that she had seen me somewhere, and "boy, she's gained a lot of weight since the last time I saw her!" My "friend" went on: "And I told her, well haven't we all?"
It's worth pointing out that the "last time she saw me" I was a senior in high school. Since then, I had lived through being away from home for the first time, my mother's lengthy battle with cancer, and her eventual death. I have mentioned before that I know about depression. My mother's death was the worst thing that had ever happened to me. If there has a been a rock bottom in my life, that was it. My high school boyfriend jumped ship on me a month after she died, because I was "sad all the time." So yeah, I put on a few pounds. Personally, I consider the fact that I didn't end up as an alcoholic or an addict to be a miracle in itself. Three different doctors tried to prescribe antidepressants, which I was afraid would turn me into a walking zombie. I flatly refused. And somehow, my one trip to an on-campus counselor didn't snap me out of my depression and make everything right in my world again. So after going through hell with no chemical assistance and living to tell the tale, I wasn't all that concerned with the fact that I wasn't a size 3 anymore.
To give you a little insight on how my mind works, I was also left to ponder my "friend's" motivation for telling me such a thing. Did she want me to know so that I would be pleased that she defended me, or did she just want me to know that someone called me fat? I have my theory on this one, but I'm going to keep it to myself. During a conversation with the same person, I once mentioned that I had never really had a problem with my weight. She looked at me and sniffed, "Well, we'll just see what you look like when you're forty!" Don't worry, honey, I'm using you for motivation too. Because I've got a great doctor who'll get my hormone mixture right, and if she doesn't I'll find another one. When I'm forty, I'm going to look fanfreakingtastic! I've got five years to work on it. It's gonna take me at least that long...