by Jenny Critchlow (Thu Aug 27, 2009)
In our teens and early twenties we were already programmed.
Fat was bad, thin was in, and at that age most of us didn't have to worry. Oh,
we could pretend - buy into the kudos of celery for lunch, but we still went
home for meat and two veg and apple crumble, and stayed pretty much the same
shape. We could scurry around the outskirts of a diet, vaguely wondering if our
thighs were the right size, but just as vaguely doing nothing about it.
But, later on in life, and cue children, relationships,
aging parents, work commitments, stress and other limitations that left pretty
much zero time for ourselves, nearly all of us began to see the weight creep
on. Our waist lines thickened and the attempts to do something about it failed
miserably. There's the odd friend that insists she can eat anything she wants and stay stick thin, although anyone
saying this should be frisked for Slimfasts.
It's a fact of life:
Too much food + Not enough moving around = Bigger stomach
(ha! And they said I was rubbish at maths!).
That was me, struggling and crying, trying, succeeding and
then failing. Falling for every diet in the book (crikey the Cabbage Soup Diet
really ruins your sex life doesn't it? And don't tell me you haven't tried it).
But one day I read two things that were to change
everything, and to change me.
Firstly, that women think about their weight as often as men
think about sex, and if surveys are to be believed, that's about once every six
seconds. How unfair! The men get one sixth of a day thinking impure carnal
thoughts full of intrigue and conquests, while we women get to self-flagellate
upon the altar of bodily imperfection. It struck me as sad, and a terrible
waste of time. In fact I was sad, and
deflated (although not in the buttock department or I would have taken that as
a Good Thing). I didn't want this to be my life, and yet it was.
Secondly, it was New Year at the time, and a lot of people
were bleating on about New Year New You (tried that in '92 along with the
Tomato Salad Diet). However one piece of information that did stand out was
that it takes nine months to make
something a habit, and that gym goers who stick to it for nine months tend
to stick to it for life.
Cue two light bulb moments of gargantuan proportions.
I didn't want to be the overweight woman that tried
everything but always failed. To look back over my thirties and forties and
realise I lost the best of myself. To waste time thinking about my body in a
negative and self-hating way. And yet, I knew I could never accept being
overweight, from a health point of view if nothing else.
I was old enough now to stop the fad diet rubbish, to refuse
to buy into the weight loss industry that relies on our failures for the little
red line on the chart to point upwards in board meetings. I wanted out. And
here was my chance.
Nine months? I could do nine months! Not a diet, not a plan,
just simply doing what we all know we should be: living our lives healthily and
with a little bit of discipline. No starvation, a little bit of denial and
results that arrived slowly but surely. This was it. For nine months, until the
last day of September I had to go to the gym three times a week. Eat little and
often, sparingly, healthily with due respect for my body, and allow myself
Sundays off. What happened after nine months I would take in my stride, but the
only way to free myself from this perpetual self-hatred and comfort-with-food
system was to take responsibility for creating it, and un-create it.
So that was it, every time I sat outside that gym hating the
fact that I had to go in, I reminded myself that it was only until September,
and then I never had to go near a treadmill again. Every time I wanted to
gorge, or eat biscuits in front of the TV I knew I could on Sunday, then every
day come September. It would just take a little time.
But by September I didn't want to stop. Exercise had evolved
from trudging through a much hated programme to enjoying classes, finding workout
buddies and making friends. Eating fuelled my body, made it stronger. I didn't use
food to try to feel better; my body did that all on its own.
It's been three and a half years now. I ran my first 10k
race in March. I don't have any weight left to go. And I have one sixth of a
day to think about whatever I please.
Read Jenny's Triathlon Diary for PRG here and here.
