State Fair Cow

I hate going to my physical. HATE IT. I had one yesterday, and while I walked away with a flu shot (huzzah, need all the protection I can get, but ooof it was vicious and my arm is STILL sore), I also walked away with a little less of my dignity.

One of lasting gifts of infertility is a constant battle with my BMI. I hate the concept of BMI on a good day, I don't think it takes into account different body shapes and types and muscle vs fat and the fact that some people carry quite a bit of poundage in their bras, but mine has been at an embarrassingly high number for a couple of years. It's crazy to me that my BMI calls me obese. My doctor says that it would be less concerning if I carried my weight in my hips, thighs, or butt. That would be okay. But, true to my PCOS diagnosis, I carry it mostly in my torso. In my belly, in my waistline, in my bra. It's heart attack weight. And, thanks to PCOS, I am more likely to have one of those. 

The last time I had a follow-up in the early spring, I was sure that the scale would tell me a pleasant story. It didn't. The scale was cruel and I burst into tears before I even stepped off and back into my shoes. It put me in a funk for days. See, when we moved the scale stayed in the garage, battery dead, and I was like "I don't need that devil contraption!" 

But after yesterday, I'm thinking maybe I do, because I was once again unpleasantly surprised. 

I didn't cry this time, though. Because I'm pissed more than anything. 

I did tell my primary care physician that I feel like a state fair cow when I come to these appointments, that I have a weigh in and I am just getting beefier, which wins a ribbon for a cow but not so much as a consolation prize for a 44 year old woman. 

It infuriates me, because I am doing my Pilates and barre classes, up to 3 times per week, and walking at a good clip for at least 3 miles, nearly daily: thwarted only by rain or insanely hot temperatures, and even then we usually put our reflective Moon Sashes on that I got Bryce for Christmas, because I am obsessed with safety and don't want to get run over walking in a country road area with no sidewalks and limited shoulders in the dark. It's not like I'm languishing on the couch, wolfing down ice cream from the tub and eating crap. 

The last time I was in my doctor's office he suggested I try aggressive portion control, and recommended a book: Finally Full, Finally Slim. I decided that I could work on portion control without buying a book that sounded so insanely insulting. 

But, I refuse to eat like a baby rabbit. I enjoy food, I enjoy cooking and reaping the benefits of Bryce's insanely good cooking. He tends to specialize in the amazingly delicious and yet amazingly caloric foods: duck! pasta carbonara! dry aged steak and potato gratin! completely delicious Indian dishes drenched in butter and cream! I do eat smaller portions of it, but I am not giving up that simple pleasure.

I am also really proud of my progress in Pilates and the strength and flexibility of my body -- I may be heavier by the minute, but my instructor said it's entirely possible that it is partially muscle, because I am so much stronger than I was to start. I have the back thigh muscles now (otherwise known as hamstrings). I can do deep squats, like the malasana pose in yoga that eluded me for years. I can do push-ups. I have really good flexibility and balance. My stamina and endurance has grown, and when we go for walks I can go up hills without stopping to catch my breath or even slowing down. 

The idea of "slim" being the benchmark, instead of "strong" or "healthy," drives me nuts. I get that I could probably stand to lose anywhere from 10-20 pounds. But I hate feeling like I'm going to weigh-ins, and like the number on that sliding horror just keeps pushing to the right, to the right, to the right. 

My doctor didn't give me a hard time yesterday. He said it sounded like I was doing all the right things, and just to be mindful about my habits. I did go home and eat the world's saddest grilled cheese sandwich for lunch... one piece of Canyon Bakehouse heritage bread cut in half, like a little tea sandwich dipped in applesauce, so I guess it did bother me a little. 

But then today I went to my outdoor mobile Pilates class on the reformer, and I felt strong. And (more) flexible. I saw my quad muscles flexing as I did the One Hundred, and admired the curve of my bicep. I laughed and collapsed into the well of the reformer while doing side sit-ups, because apparently my obliques need some attention, but overall I left the class feeling great about my body. About what it can do. About what it is, not what I keep halfheartedly trying to corral it into being. 

This torturous looking device is a reformer...it is a wonder filled with springs and a gliding carriage

I am curvy. I am strong. I am healthy. I have some killer muscles under a layer of duck and potatoes gratin. That should be enough. It is so much easier to see and bemoan the flaws than to celebrate the strengths. I do not deserve to be judged like a state fair cow, especially since the number one judge is myself. I deserve to be seen as my own kind of healthy body, my own kind of beautiful. We all deserve that from ourselves, if not others. 

Me at an outdoor Wunda Chair class (cropping the other two people out for privacy).
Strong legs! Great posture! Squishy belly! :)