On Weight, Wine, and Womanhood

I don't weigh myself.
I don't believe in it.
I honestly haven't known my exact weight for years. 
I can think of maybe three times in my entire life where weighing myself has resulted in anything but a complete mental break down.
So I just don't do it. 

Some people might call this denial, I call it an emotional seat belt. 

I don't think I'm alone in my weight hatred. 
My Weightred.  


I have countless female friends who are uniquely, totally, absolutely gorgeous, intelligent, beautiful, amazing women humans (and to my girlfriends - if you're reading this - YES I am talking about YOU.)
But despite all of this, pretty much all of them have something they don't like about themselves physically. And a big percentage of that is weight. 
(Let me know if I've misrepresented you by saying that, I'd be happy to be proven wrong.)


All that weight is is a number.
But it's a number that has societal implications.
And it sucks. 

I don't mean to sound like a Dove campaign, but why does it matter so fucking much?


I'm never gonna be the girl who turns down a piece of cake.
Or steak.
Or glass of wine.
Or piece of Pizza. 

I like to eat.
I like to eat and I like to drink wine. (And beer. And margaritas.)
I like to eat and I like to drink, and I like to enjoy it while I do so. 
But weight-consciousness consistently sneaks up out of nowhere and takes the joy out of it. 

While I don't weigh myself, I prefer the do-my-pants-fit-or-not method.

(Which can sometimes work better than others. - From the ages of 16 to 26 I've bounced up and down the line from a 4 to a 14 and everywhere in between.)

Some days I don't care.
Some days I'm proud of how I look and I embrace my pear shape, hourglass, upside-down question mark.
I live in the moment and rock fitted dresses and rejoice in the invention of carbohydrates. 

Other days not so much.
Other days I allow myself to crumble. 
I curl up in sweatpants and cry and wish I could take back every gram of fat I've ever consumed and look at pictures of Blake Lively to try and inspire me. 
I fantasize about what it would be like to enjoy swimsuit shopping. 
To wear shorts in the summer, or a skirt without tights. Or order mayonnaise on my sandwiches. 

And you know what? I'm just effing tired.
I'm tired of pretending hummus is cheese dip. 
I'm tired of envying my friends who have faster metabolisms than I. 
Tired of Guilt Flavored Ice Cream, of adversarial conversations with Oreos, of my enjoyment of movies being stunted because of resentment towards the leading ladies.

But, lets be honest. 
No matter how tired I am, or how different I think things should be, or exhausted I am of societal implications, it won't be different. 
After I post this I'll go on with my day filled with restraint. 
I'll have a green juice for dinner, turn down cookies at work (maybe), and try and squeeze in some leg lifts, and still have conflicted feelings about my figure. 
I'll have good days and bad days, my confidence barometer will continue to exist in a state of ever-fluctuation. 

So I don't really know where I'm going with all this, except to say I think you're all beautiful, and I hope you eat a slice of pizza today and think you are too.