Body hatin'

My body is an amazing thing -- and never have I been more convinced of that then now. To watch my body struggle and fight and keep on when I feel so awful is inspiring. It makes me appreciate all of the non-conscious actions it takes every day, from the thump of my heart to the breath in my lungs. At the same time, I have never been so frustrated with it -- with myself -- and I am torn between gratitude and anger on a daily basis.

Bonding time at home

I have never felt so much solidarity with my cat as I do right now. For the last few years, she's struggled with her weight. It all started when I adopted Tilde -- Astrix suddenly had access to all sorts of kitten food, and her weight ballooned. It's been a 5-year battle with weight ever since. She has a lot of fur and she's a big cat, but I'm admonished by the vet pretty regularly. Her weight is dropping (slowly, of course) and I know she hates me for feeding her the diet food. 

Even so, I catch myself calling her unkind nicknames. And, recently, when I get home I'll tell her, "Let's go get our fat pants on. Oh wait -- you're already dressed." Then I remind myself that I need to say more accepting things about my cat so she won't develop a negative self-image.

Oh wait. That's for myself.

So while I have such respect and love and admiration for my body as it fights and fights, I get spitting mad too. Between a serious lack of energy and nasty side effects, I'm in the worst shape of my life. It was only in the last few weeks that I started any aerobic exercise -- and by aerobic, I mean brisk walking, twenty minutes on the elliptical machine, or ten minutes of jogging here and there. I can hear you -- Right, that's so bad. Poor, poor you, Sarah -- I feel so sad.

But that's it -- I do feel sad. Being fit and sporty has been a huge part of my identity for as long as I can remember. So it's not only a huge lack of confidence that comes, but also a deep sadness that I can't do what I was able to do not so long ago. And when I was really unwell, it was a deep dislike of the mere thought of doing anything athletic. Maybe it sounds a bit existential, but I kept wondering to myself, "What is wrong with you? Who are you, anyway? What happened to you?"

Mudding it up last summer

It's a vicious cycle, of course. If I couldn't get off the couch, I was in no condition to go jogging. My appetite was here and there and I felt the weight accumulating around my midsection. And I loathed and loathed at a time when I deserved nothing but love.

And by "loathed" I really mean "loathe." I'm still climbing out of this hole.

It's not an odd feeling, of course. I don't live in a body-positive culture, and I think the pressures on women to look and be a certain way are staggering (then again, the Oatmeal is a man and I think he captures my feelings well in this short comic). And I could be logical about all of it. How ignorant I was to think that my body was this much in my control. It's not.

What I am in control of is the way I approach all of this. I'm proud to say that I am committed to creating a new virtuous cycle for myself -- one that brings me a lot of joy. The first thing I was able to do once I felt a little better was walking -- there is a high school across the road from my house as well as a large cemetery a short walk down the road, both great places for a walk. As I took 30 minutes to commune with the sun, I realized how much I was enjoying myself. The same joy overcame me the first time I put Dance Central back in my X-Box again.

Fitness, as it turns out, was just another way for me to grind on myself, another way to punish myself, another way to deny myself joy and pleasure in the moment for a future reward. I'm not convinced anymore that I want to spend that many hours a week like a hamster on a wheel in the gym, or that I need to squat until my legs are shaking. Quite honestly, it's not fun. And I'm tired of living a life without fun throughout. I want the joy of running with the wind in my hair or the happiness of cresting the last hill on a trail. That's what it's all about.

I visited my parents a few weeks ago, and one morning I went with my dad to his gym. As it was about eleven in the morning, the gym was filled mainly with men and women in their seventies and eighties. I walked into the locker room to be greeted by a horde of women getting ready for senior water aerobics, and on my way to the room with the cardio and weight machines, I passed a gym filled with people dancing in a Zumba class for "fit seniors." You know what? Every one of them was having a great time -- and either they were hiding it, or they weren't so wrapped up in how they looked. 

What is the age, then, when I stop caring about all of this superficial crap, crank up my virtuous cycle, and turn down the anger towards myself? 

Thank you, body. One day I'll appreciate you.

xo,
Sarah

P.S. I am doing better -- and thank you everyone for your spoken and unspoken concern. The last six months have been really tough. I have come a long way, and I have a long way yet to go.