human, being

34 inches

On Saturday, I was looking for feminine hygiene products in my bathroom cabinets and stumbled upon my measuring tape. It was tucked in next to my flab pincher–aka body fat measuring/torture device–in the corner of a cabinet.

I hadn’t taken my measurements since last June, when Steve and I went to see the trainer I’d been working with to get in shape for my 21st high school reunion trip to Vegas. When I started working with him in March 2008, my body fat was about 30 percent and my waist was 31.5 inches. At the June check-in, my body fat was down to 29 percent and my waist was 31 inches. Victory, albeit small. Blame the fucking Mirena.

He gave me the calipers and measuring tape when I told him I had to quit him because money got tight. I only used them once, last fall, and I was so disgusted I threw the instruments into the back of the cabinet. I was in the middle of my Mirena meltdown, when I was so bloated that my waist measured 36.5 inches. That’s a pregnant measurement, I tell you!

I’m still dealing with some bloating issues even with the Mirena gone, but if last fall was a 10/10 on the bloat scale, this spring has been about a 5. However, I haven’t had much luck shrinking my waist. I know–no such thing as targeted weight loss. The size of my ass proves that.

On Saturday, I didn’t use the calipers. I was too scared. However, I did do measurements. I feel disgusted:


Seriously. Ugh.

It was enough to get me back on the “I’m working out 5 days a week” kick I’m now on. Saturday, I took a rather lame Pilates ball class then did interval training on the eliptical. Sunday, I did a 1-hour Nia class, despite having a major breakdown on Saturday night and drugging myself to sleep with clonapin (weaning myself off of Wellbutrin has not been fun. At all.). Last night, I went to my salsa rehearsal class. We danced for about 40 minutes of the hour, and I broke a sweat, so I think it counts. And despite feeling like shit–I feel like I have the flu, all achy, nauseous, tired and with horrible ringing in my ears as I step down from 150 mg to 75mg to nothing–I am poised to go lift upper body and do 30 minutes of cardio tonight.

The Wellbutrin withdrawal has killed my appetite somewhat. I doubt I’m eating 1500 calories. Food just doesn’t sound good. In the back of my mind I’m hoping that the “anorexia effect” I’ve heard about will help me drop five pounds.

I can’t get over the fact that my waist is 34 inches. I mean, in the back of my mind, each day when I button up my size 12s and a bit of my belly flops over the waistband, I could tell I don’t have a 24-inch waist. But 34 inches? Seriously?

When I think about it, I feel hopeless. How in the hell am I going to get rid of this belly? Maybe this is the middle-age spread. Most of the women on my father’s side (whose body type I inherited) are bigger women. I SO wish I’d have inherited more than my mother’s smile and her family history of mental illness. She’s preternaturally skinny, and my half-brother and her mom are slim too. Damn you genetics!

Maybe I’ll never be skinny again. I’d be so happy if I can get my waist down to 30 inches. My ass usually shrinks in proportion, so I’d be more like 40/30/40, which is a nice curvy proportion for a 40-year-old mother of one, right?

And then I’d get lipo.


Or maybe not joking.


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