Weighed Down

The bag is still sitting in the corner. Its been there for weeks, stuffed between my dressers and the basket of unmatched socks in my bedroom. Apparently I am waiting for it to sprout legs and walk away by itself, but clearly that is not happening.

I have been working on this project for the past five months. The project of making a tinier, healthier me. I have cut calories, eaten more than my share of crisp cauliflower, and avoided the endless stream of goldfish crackers in my house. Then there are the workouts. I swear Jillian Michaels is trying to kill me. She and her 30 Day Shred have been tormenting me for well over thirty days now. I have done boot camps, pilates, and even a very difficult and suspicious routine dubbed Yoga Meltdown. Against my better judgment, I have even starting running.

But still the weight remains. Oh, I don’t mean the physical pounds on my body. Those are doing a pretty good job with their grand exit. Twenty-nine pounds and four ounces removed on this journey so far. Boy do I love the tenths place on that scale! And the clothing sizes, well, they have been dropping too. Down from size twelve to size eight, and even sometimes a six when the wind is blowing from the northwest and all the stars are aligned just so!

So what is the problem? Why is this bag of giant clothes still sitting in my bedroom? Why is it so difficult for me to give these clothes away, the old giant teacher sweaters and the pants that won’t stay up? I’ve basically halved myself, at least according to the size of my khaki pants. But the bag of clothes sits and waits for I’m not sure what.

Oh, I understand that I have some sort of block. Any grown woman who has been carrying around 30+ pounds for her entire adult life definitely has something to hide. Or to unearth. I’m just not quite understanding the why of it all. Oh, I get the mathematics. I understand how much my body needs to move and what needs to be consumed in order to lose weight.

But I can’t yet figure what my heart needs to do in order to feel like I deserve it. That I am worthy of breathing deeply and having my body respond. That I am capable of looking good in single digit clothing. That I can look forward to bathing suit season without cringing. That I can run and not collapse. That I can show off defined muscles.

It isn’t the money I spent on the clothes. Its not that I am attached to certain styles or colors. It is something to do with the nakedness, my need for covering. My fat did it for some many years. And these bulky sweaters are all I have left to hide behind.

But I think I’ve had enough. I really do. Spring is a good time for shedding: the detritus of winter, cocoons, fears. I want the fat to stay gone, and the oversized pants to find a new happy home. As for me and my new rock hard abs, you can find the likes of us racing down the beach and soaking in the sun soon enough. Without any old-fangled ideas or clothing weighing us down.