Ate (or, the fate of 8)

I had a cruel nickname growing up: Olive Oyl. The monikor was the result of me being the emcee of my elementary school's May Day festivities, and while all the participants wore costume garb of the regional dances each grade performed on the school's playing field, I wore a long, straight dark skirt, a white blouse, and had my shoulder-length hair pulled back into a chignon, out of the wind. What started it was the notion that if everyone was in costume, what costume was I in? Hmmmmmmm. You can see where that went.

Granted, I WAS Olive Oyl. I was tall, gangly, and gawky (geeky didn't kick in until high school). Bone thin. My parents couldn't buy me a single pair of pants that didn't need to be severely altered to stay perched on my gaunt, boyish hips. Even throughout high school, I couldn't ever just buy pants off the rack - only in my senior year could I FINALLY fit into the smallest standard size - a 2. And by then, I was over 5'-7".

I was under the minimum accepted weight to join the military. My recruiter presented me with a 42 ounce fruit punch to drink the morning of my physical, in the hopes that it would make me legal. It did, but just barely. (No wonder my parents were freaked at the thought of me in the Army - the bayonet blade was thicker than I was.)

Four years of intense physical stress added both height and weight - by the time I was discharged, I was 5'-10" and 124 lbs. All muscle. I could do 57 military standard push-ups in 2 minutes, and ran a sub-7 minute mile. And I married my physical trainer.

Flash foward 17 years.

I'm still 5'-10", but I now weigh considerably more - still at the slim end of my physicians BMI chart for my height, but this body now has curves. Significant curves.

On one hand, I'm thrilled. Having spent my entire adolescent life being ridiculed for being rail-thin, it is entirely refreshing to realize that men find my current body attractive - sexy, even. On the other hand, being a human stick was so EASY - carrying my current weight makes me literally envision my former self hoisting a sack of spuds with me wherever I go.

Now, I'm don't wish to trigger a diatribe on healthy body imagery. I AM at a healthy weight for my frame, and I accept that. What I'm having difficulty with, is that I'm on the verge of changing jean size, and I'm having to accept the fate of an 8. I have 5 pairs of jeans, all purchased within the past couple of years. 4 are size 6, one is size 8. And I now find myself digging through the laundry basket, searching for the 8. And I'm not really okay with that.

Now, I know I'm being taken. I've read all of the media reports about how clothing makers are surrepticiously 'downing' their clothing sizes, based on the psychology that a woman will prefer to buy clothing that is sized at what she WANTS to be, rather than what she really IS. And I believe it's being done. And there is my dilemma. I'm OKAY with being an 8, but by outgrowing my 6s and accepting my 8s, I'm really having to acknowledge my transition into the double-digits - the 10s. And I made a pact with myself, when I realized I could no longer do 5 of the 57 pushups, that I'd not ever let myself hit the double-digits.

And yet, here I am.

In the past year, I've given up running (thus sealing the fate of 8) and my degenerative knees have made serious noise that I'll likely never take it up again. Without that primary caloric-burning activity to engage in, I'm forced to face the grim reality: strong measures must be taken. Strong dietary measures.

And thus, I'm starting a food diary. A hard copy record of my consumption. To rate what I ate.

Visions of Bridget Jones' diary footnotes (4 fags, 5 alcohol units, 6,257 calories), and I'm cringing already.

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