So here it is, the annual ritual when everyone starts making lofty promises about the new people they plan on becoming. New year’s resolutions make me think about how I changed.
Initially my change was about losing weight. Holy fuck was that hard. It was emotionally complex. Physically challenging. Losing weight made me feel like I was giving up one of the greatest joys in my life at the time: eating a giant chocolate sundae in the bathtub while watching DVDs. Yes, I was that person. I also hated the way I looked.
I hated my body. At 33 I looked lumpy, bumpy and unwell. My ass was actually more square than round. I couldn’t fit into any of my clothes. When I dressed in the morning it was about finding things that “fit” and “hid” me. None of my jeans fit. So I started working out, because I had to: and I resented every minute of it the first few weeks. I worked out more or less as a punishment for having gotten that way.
For the first month in acts of self-punishment and deprivation I forced myself to exercise and eat well. It sucked. In the first weeks of riding my bike on a canal path to build up my cardio, 2 old fat ladies whizzed by me. I went home and sulked. I was so embarrassed, and ashamed of how I bad I looked and felt.
But I kept going. They seemed to follow me. At least once a week I would see them on the canal path. They were so friendly and nice. They waved. They said good morning. And every time I saw them I felt a little bit worse about myself, because they had at 30 years on me and looked so happy and able while they rode. I huffed and puffed. My face was red. I coughed. And they just sailed by effortlessly.
Once a week, in addition to being taunted by the physical feats of 2 old fat ladies on bicycles I put on a pair of jeans that didn’t fit anymore. I have this very clear memory of an early success where was finally able to squeeze them over my hips and zipped them. And even though I couldn’t yet button them I was momentarily happy that I had made progress.
Little victories dotted my journey. Not long after I was able to squeeze into the pants, I paced right behind the 2 old fat ladies on my bike. I was able to keep up with them for almost a mile. A month later I could keep up with effort. At a stop sign we introduced ourselves. They were talking and laughing as I stood there working hard to catch my breath. One of the old ladies, we’ll call her Claire said, “Sue, you’re doing really well.” And she put her hand on my shoulder.
Inwardly I was enraged. It felt condescending rather than encouraging. Those evil old fat ladies on bicycles were bitches. Fuck them. Something extra-crazy in my brain snapped, and I was suddenly at war with them and their blue and yellow shiny bikes. Who the fuck did they think they were being “encouraging” to me?
I started riding twice as often. Fuck them. I was going to sail by them while singing. I was going to make them eat a cloud of my dust. I started taking a new route so they wouldn’t see me ride so often.
On my new path, every day early in the morning I would see a group of very fat people suffering through some sort of torture walk. There were 6-7 of seven of them, very obese, walking down the path. One woman who had sweat through her shirt was walking hand in hand with another woman who looked near death. When I passed them I would wave. They waved back.
I saw this group 2 days a week for several weeks. We had the same routine, I would ride past giving them lots of room and say good morning. Someone would always say good morning to me. One day we were all stopped at a light, and I introduced myself to the fat ladies walking. We all said encouraging things to one another. I rode off happily.
About a month into my secret extra bike rides I was able to easily keep up with the 2 fat old ladies on bikes. I had increased my cardio. I was focused on getting in shape. I had stopped trying on the jeans once a week. I was at war. I felt better. I was focused.
Nearly three months after the “You’re doing really well” comment. I whizzed past the 2 fat old ladies on bikes. I wasn’t winded. My lungs were filled with air and I exhaled victory.
A few days later I rode passed the fat ladies walking, I waved, and said something encouraging. On my return trip I stopped with them at the light. We engaged in some small talk and I wanted to tell them they were doing well, but instead I told them they all looked great. One of the fat ladies looked at me with pure hatred, and I suddenly realized I was her nemesis. We were at war too.
So I kept riding that path for a year, at the same time every Sunday. When I would see her I always told her she looked great. And every time I’ve ever said a nice word she made this face that looked like a mixture of hated and determination. I knew it well. I make it too.
In the past 2 years in our war there have been lots of casualties. She lost more than 80 pounds. I lost nearly 30. Occasionally we run into each other at the grocery store, and I have caught her quietly judging my selections while we chat about fitness. She really does look great, and I keep telling her that.
I wonder if there’s anyone out there who sees her on the canal and secretly is working out a little harder just to pass her by. I hope so.
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