First impressions are funny. It's quite comical to hear the misconceptions people gather of me on a first meeting. When I first started at my current job, I heard myself referred to as "the skinny one."
For the record, I have never been "the skinny one." (If you want to make me mad, suggest that I'm at a healthy weight because I'm "naturally skinny," "still young," or "have good genes." I've eaten too many carrots and too few donuts to stomach that nonsense.) Growing up, Tara was the skinny one. In high school, we'd come home after school and watch Days while having our after-school snack. For Tara this would often consist of an entire loaf of bread, toasted and slathered with butter. Yet her gazelle-like legs would stay taut and firm. Innocently following my older sister's lead, my legs became...sturdy. Like a rugby player.
The rest of my adult life has been a see-saw up and down, up and down. I've had to move up a size. And up. And up. And down. And up. It's like an aerobic routine. Fun trivia: I was in Self magazine, featured as someone who lost weight following their fantabulous advice. (I decided to lose weight when my favoritest of friends, upon hearing me whine about my bulging belly, had the audacity to say, completely innocently and sweetly, "Just eat less and work out more." The nerve!)
Then other times in life, I've been the paragon of fitness. Her freshman year of college, Tara would parade me around the UNC campus, her own personal freak show, to show off her sister's legendary calf muscles. (I bulk up easy. I think God designed my body to pull carts or something.)
Other times, I've recorded every last bite down in a little black notebook I still carry in my purse. Counting each calorie and each carrot. Carrots, people, carrots! How sad is it when a girl's gotta count carrots? (Quite symbolically, I burned every last page of recorded food torture last week while camping, as we could find no good kindling at the campsite.)
Other times, I've relaxed happily back into the lap of Kraft Mac and Cheese, and Frosties, and, yes, even the lap of a Dutch Boy.
Other times, I've been lauded for my "self discipline," working out two hours a day. I could almost actually see my abs. Really! Tiny little lines of valleys on my white belly. (Though here's a little secret. "Self discipline" is a sweet label for "neurotic perfectionist control freak.")
So where am I right now? Indifference. Ah, sweet, delicious indifference. I'm licking it off my fingers as I type.
Despite all my talk that my past working out was "to be healthy," now that I'm at a "healthy weight," I really feel no great motivation to work out. Apparently being skinny was my real motivation.
I mean, what's the use of all those big muscles? Just what exactly do I need to bench in life? I can already pick Mike up. Sure, my legs are a bit floppily woppily, but who really cares? So I've spent an indifferent season. Ahem. Seasons. Three to be exact. (Mind you, I'm still an active, healthy person, I hike and walk. I just ate a dinner of zucchini and carrots. I'm just not purposely lifting heavy objects and having wheat germ for breakfast, which healthy-schmeltzy Tara apparently now does.)
I read a blog post today that made me almost want to feel the thrill of hard thighs again. It reminded me of the beauty of cold showers after a hot run. The pride of achievement. The absence of ripples in a smacked thigh.
(Side note: I have not, up to this point, revealed this blog to you. Because she's like the smarter, funnier me. If I get you to start reading her blog, you'll have no use for me anymore. Years from now, you'll be at the annual "Brandy's Bodacious Fan Club Dinner" (to which I was not invited). Over the aperitiff, Jon Hart will say to my mother, "My, my, do you remember how this all got started? We used to read that one girl's blog. What was her name?" My mother replies, "Oh yes, Amber. She was nice. I wonder what she's up to these days. Have you talked to her lately?" "Oh no," replies Jon with a barely noticable look of distaste. "I haven't talked to her in years.")
So is my season of indifference coming to a close? Do I care about jiggly thights? Will Brandy's bodacious post be enough to motivate my indifferent and tired soul? Will I, in fact, get off my tuckus, stop writing blogs all night and firm up that flab?
I guess you'll just have to wait and see.