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It’s official: I’m obese.

It’s official: I’m obese.

Last updated on: April 21, 2010 at 9:49 am by Grace Sandra

It’s official: I’m obese. 2010-04-21T09:49:08-04:00 Grace Sandra

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So, I’ve went and done it. I went & got myself obese. It’s so unfortunate really. Especially since not that long ago I’d hit my pre-preggo weight and hoped to take off another 20 pounds as well. *Sigh*

Now, before I open up this particular can of worms let’s chat about why I’m sharing this. After all, it’s nobody’s business but my own. Secondly, weight is a tricky subject to deal with well and third I don’t want to add to the myriad of unhelpful thoughts out there all ready.

I’d hope my weighty issues, may give you a little hope on your journey. I don’t mind sharing openly about this for one fairly simply reason: I don’t really care what you think. For better or for worse, my weight problems haven’t been my defining issues in life so I’ve never been hesitant to hide them. Seriously, I really could care less if you take issue with my vulnerability in this matter.

(All that said, if your the type to judge, be mean, catty or otherwise immature I’d rather not have you around lurking on my blog anyway. I’m not in the mood. You will be deleted. We are, after all, gabbing with grace, not gabbing with judgment).

Here’s the dealio. I’m 5 feet & 6 inches tall. At 163, I’m obese, bottom line. Yesterday, I weighed in at 170. Drats to the millionth.

Here’s the thing: I don’t feel “fat”. I don’t look “fat” & I’m not -currently at least- drowning myself in weight sorrows. I haven’t given up on life, stopped taking care of myself or threw makeup & tight fitting clothes to the wind.

In many ways, I sort of don’t care. Herein lies the problem.

You understand right?

I guess I thought if I was ever going to be “overweight,” or in the “obese” category I’d feel TERRIBLE & I’d look TERRIBLE & life would just be over as I knew it.

On our vacation last month, only add 5 more pounds. This is the face of obesity? Wide as outside, some junk in my trunk, a cute red suit with a flower in my hair?! Being "obese" is manageable.

Not so. I don’t particularly enjoy not fitting my jeans, seeing a big chin hanging in all my pictures and you certainly won’t see me stomping around in a bikini anytime soon, but I feel happy and contented with life, if not a little stressed, I admit. Not much of my stress is due to my rapid weight gain as it is my busyness lately.

The “obese” category is not at all what I thought it would be. Earlier in life when I was a stuck-up high school student with a perfect body that I did absolutely nothing specific to achieve, I thought being “overweight” would be enough to make me want to take my butt to the gym and “do something about it.” I thought I’d be willing to do anything to lose weight because being overweight was like the plague! I was 16.

Also, stupid.

But now that I’m a bona fide grown up I’m finding I don’t really care. Well, I care enough to write a blog post about it, but not enough to do something about it.

There’s all the internal dialogue that let’s me know that -at the end of the day- I’m not incredibly keen to do something about this problem: “I just had a baby 6 months ago –big deal that I’m heavy,” “I’m a busy mother of two,” “I don’t really have the time to deal with all of that right now,” “I don’t really care that my jeans are tight, I can get another pair for $8 at a consignment store,” etc. etc.

I’m not overly concerned with looking cute. And given that my husband thinks I’m just the cutest, most beautiful, sexiest woman walking the planet I’m feelin’ pretty good! 🙂

So, the “problem” is not looking cute- I can figure that out. There’s nothing a little Maybelline & a cute hair style can’t fix.

The “problem” is not that I’ve become undesirable to my husband.

The “problem” isn’t tight fitting jeans —replaceable.

The “problem” isn’t being officially “obese.” It just doesn’t bug me enough.

The BIG PROBLEM is this:

I’m going to die of a heart attack, heart disease or stroke. Probably, at an early age. I’m an African-American woman.

For multiple, complicated reasons, we die of the aforementioned issue more than anyone else of any gender or race.

Boo.

We all know that working out helps you sleep better, improves mood, improves daily energy levels, improves sex drive, improves bone mass, etc. etc. Honestly, what doesn’t working out improve about being a human being?

I don’t know about you but sometimes I see working out as merely a means to an end. Working out = I get thinner. I forget the multiple benefits and I do it solely to look better and to feel better about my weight.

But what happens when you don’t care if you look better or feel good about your weight? I am practically the poster child for the woman who has other things to worry about than looking cute and “feeling good” about my weight.

Three months of not thinking about it & BAM, I’m obese.

My husband, Dave & I finally had a heart-to-heart about it the other night. Truth be told, he eats as much if not more than I do, works out as infrequently as I do, and continues to look the picture of perfect health.

(Dirty, rotten men & their super fast metabolisms).

Though he’s a “thin middle-aged man,” he is just as unhealthy as me, but being white and male with little belly fat, makes him far less at risk to die of a heart attack then me.

These risks HAVE TO BE what pushes me to force myself out of obesity.

I’ve lived long enough to learn that cause-and-effect can in fact be deadly. I watched my favorite Aunt & Uncle die in their late 50’s because my Aunt was a chain smoker for 30+ years. She smoked her & her husband to an early grave.

And how could I die early -when it’s nobody’s fault but my own- because I didn’t care that I don’t look cute anymore?!?! What the sam smack?! It would be downright triflin’! It’s not like it’s not in me. Not that long ago, (2003) I participated in a 12 week body building competition & in 2007 I ran a marathon for crying out loud. That is, ahem, 26.2 miles. (Those two things may have been the coolest competitive things I’ll ever do in my life). I digress.

I have to make some changes, yall. How could I not?

Especially when I have these?

How could I not figure this out for their sake?

How could I leave them without a Mom because I chose not to care?

If I’m going to do this…

…it’s for them.

Previous Post

April 17, 2010

Leave me Alone.

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April 22, 2010 The Dreams of a (very preggo) Racist

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