For most of my adult life, excepting the nine months I was pregnant and the eight weeks or so that followed when I starved myself to fit into a bridesmaid dress for a friend’s wedding, I have wavered between a size 0 and a size 8.
That is a fairly wide but mostly healthy range, accounting for a roughly 30-pound variance across a relatively narrow, 5’6″ frame. There have been times when I have felt too soft, other times when I have felt too sharp, and other times when I have felt just right.
The problem is that the “just right” times are elusive. I almost don’t appreciate them until they’re gone, because when they’re here, I’m often so worried they’ll slip away that I’ll overdo an exercise routine or I’ll skip every meal but breakfast. Next thing I know, my daughter doesn’t want to cuddle with me because I’m “too pointy”. Then I’ll think, “She is right. I am too thin,” and I’ll inch back up another dress size. It’s when my size creeps up again that I start to panic – and yes, I mean panic – that I’m losing my figure.
It’s more accurate, of course, to say I am losing my perspective.