Somewhere around the time I was in college, Hollywood started utilizing very believable "fat suits" for famous comedians to create humor of my least favorite sort in their movies. I hate fat suit humor. I don't think it's funny, and I don't want to hear how funny you think it is. Not cool.
But the fat suit is something that has always made me think. I didn't grow up heavy (though I thought I was an appallingly enormous cow from puberty on.) I can remember hitting size 18 in college and feeling like it was the end of the world (funny how things change - I'm awfully tickled to be back *down* to an 18 now) and the prevailing thought as I dealt with my heavier body was: I still feel like little, smaller me stuck inside a fat suit. I have always been able to physically FEEL the smaller me inside the encasement of extra flesh, and wayyy too many times I have longed to just unzip that sucker and step out of it.
While there ain't no zipper on this thing, at last I find that I am coming out of the fat suit. It's a long journey out - one bite at a time, one step at a time, one moment at a time. I wasn't ever able to make any lasting progress out, as long as I was "trying to lose weight."
For ME, the way out of the fat suit is simply: let God teach me to love my body. Listen, follow, obey, thank, repeat. One bite at a time, one step at a time, one moment at a time. Actually loving my body, even while it's still at plus size...that's the best gift. The freedom ranks right up there a close second. And yeah...somewhere on the list...not at the TOP, but it's on there...is I am grateful to be stepping out of the fat suit. There's a ME in there, and she's finding her way out.
Some of that journey isn't very fun "in the moment." Yesterday was another 50 mile bike ride. I started with a tailwind (this is never good...one wants to END with a tailwind!) and the ride home was pretty slow. A large portion of the last 10 or 12 miles is out away from any trees or protective structures, fairly exposed to the wind, and I felt like I was riding into a wall. Remember how Lucy and Ethel used to break out in that big silly fake "WAHHHHHH"when they got in a jam? That was me (at least it's what the inside of my head sounded like), the last quarter of my ride. Tired...no, exhausted. My butt hurt from the seat. The heels of my hands hurt from the grips, and carpal tunnel pain was shooting up my arms. The bottoms of my feet felt bruised by the pedals. My neck and shoulders were sore and kept tensing up - it was constant work, pushing them down into better alignment. I couldn't look ahead, couldn't think ahead. All I could do was push the pedal, and push the pedal, and push the pedal again. It's really the only way to finish.
Not very fun.
But worth it?