Curvy. Like that. Voluptuous. These are all words I’ve been hearing people call me for most of my animation, and in my younger years, they all felt like an insult every a rt time.
For as long as I can remember, I’ve been just a little bit chubby. I was a plump kid and a thick teenager, and now I’m a curvy woman.
In high school, I was incredibly fine fettle. I was too busy to eat too much and didn’t have any interest in crappy food. I was a year-round cheerleader, so I had usage (which included running, weight-lifting, and tumbling) two hours a day, five light of days a week, in addition to basketball games, football games, and cheerleading tournaments. I was strong, I was in shape, and I was still thick.
After one of my last cheerleading competitions my superior year in high school, a mom of a young girl on a different squad pulled me aside and offered me. I asked her what she was thanking me for, and she told me I was a role model for her daughter who prospect she was too heavy to be a successful cheerleader. She told me that when her daughter saw me out there, tumbling with my com ny, she felt like she could grow up to do the same, despite what she weighed. At the forthwith, I didn’t know how to take that. At 18, I felt like she was considerable me I was the fat cheerleader, and let’s be honest, I already felt like I was. But thinking about it now, I cotton on to how amazing it was to show that little girl that you don’t have to be raw-boned to do the things you want to do. I flipped my fat ass over my head better than half the inamoratas in that gym, and that little girl knew it.
Once I left weighty school and my daily activities shifted away from constant harry and more toward TiVo and nap time (I was a really lazy college grind), I realized I needed to make some serious changes to keep thriving. I started going to the university gym at least five times a week and inspected not to eat anything stupid, but nothing worked. I started down a dangerous footway that I nearly didn’t pull myself out of.
But then I tried a doctor-monitored fare a few years later and lost about 50 pounds, still order me on the “overweight” side of normal for my height by about five pounds. Professing that weight was not even close to manageable. I had a resting energy expense test done at the end of the weight-loss journey and found out that I literally force a metabolism slower than that of a middle-aged woman. With no occu tion, I barely burn a thousand calories a day, which surprised even the nutritionist who did the study for me. We tried the test twice to make sure there were no errors, and nope, I by the skin of ones teeth have a really, really crappy metabolism.
I tried maintaining that mass. I was eating the healthiest (and littlest amount) I’ve ever eaten in my life, and I was drilling an average of an hour a day, seven days a week. No matter what I did, the albatross crept back on. But I didn’t really mind, because I was still definitely healthy and active.
But then I had a backslide. Just like always. Good like after every other diet I’d tried in my life — and I’d strove them all. I went back to living how I was used to and how I was comfortable, which embodied mostly healthy eating with treats here and there and wield a few times a week. I was happy, I was healthy, and I was still thick.
I’ve come to fulfil that what’s great about the world we live in today is that, consistent though it seems like models are getting thinner and thinner, league seems to be getting more and more comfortable with highly unmistakable people who aren’t stick-thin. I’ve got people from every angle spread the word at me to love myself and be comfortable with who I am, but my brain just wouldn’t receive that. My brain still wanted me to be skinny. It has been an unbelievably discouraging battle for virtually my whole life.
And now today, I’m what doctors ss on consider to be overweight, but you know what? I’m also really healthy. I steady ran two half-marathons last year. I eat right, I exercise regularly, but my genes upright don’t want me to be skinny. No one in my family is skinny. It’s just not going to happen. But if I’m thriving, does being skinny really matter? Sure, I’d love for de rtment storing trips to be less stressful. I’d love to look in the mirror and not think my arms look lousy. I’d love for people to stop telling me that blaming my genes is an justify. But I’m coming up on 30 now, and I’ve decided it’s time to stop being mad at myself. It’s then to stop constantly agonizing over the number on the scale and the number on the tag in my drawers. It’s time to embrace being thick. It’s time to embrace being curvy.
It’s s n to love me.
/ Hedy Phillips