1988
My body and I are long-time nemeses. Sometime in middle school/early high school I recognized had an unideal body type. On the upside I had long legs on a slightly below average height. On the downside I was short-waisted, small-boned, and heavily-endowed. Imagine popping Barbie legs onto a troll-doll’s body. Only, at the time, I didn’t have long orange or green hair.
~1990
With abundant boobage and perception processing problems (i.e. exceptional clumsiness), I extricated myself from my physical extra-curricular activities; giving up ballet in 8th grade and marching band/flag core at 16. My solution: I wore baggy tops to cover an ever increasing belly.
~1992
By the time the age of 20, I weighed 172 pounds, sought out men’s XL shirts, and wore a 34HH bra. You could safely say that my body and I were not on the best of terms.
I would eventually gain the upper hand in this war by losing the weight on the speech team diet: drinking, smoking, cramming, practicing, and weekends living the deceptively active lifestyle of a traveling, competitive, collegiate speaker.
Go on. You can snicker. But speech geeks are a special breed of nerd: the elite freaks.
But over the years, I’d lose ground and my body would grow. I would take back my body and it would shrink. My weights ranged from 125 to 155 or sizes from M to XL. What that statement cannot convey is the subtlety of this strife. My body’s seductive wile made weight gain the simplest thing in the world. I was adept at it – I could add a kg effortlessly. Nor does the statement capture the determination and deprivation necessary to shave off each gram of weight.
Pregnancies were a special hell on many fronts, but especially with weight management. You are told you need to eat, but don’t gain too much weight. Aim for 25-35 pounds for the pregnancy. With the first pregnancy I managed that in the first trimester. By the time E was born, I had gained 65 pounds. That’s my body. Mad skills. The last pregnancy I gained a mere 55 pounds. I was so proud of myself. When you’re losing baby weight, people always reassure you: it took nine months to go on, it won’t all come off in the first three, give it nine months to come off. Nine months came and then nine months more of anti-body skirmishes before I fit into my drawer of mediums.
2014
In 2014, after a bout of acute pancreatitis, hospitalization, and NPO (that means nothing by mouth – water or food) for nine days, I dipped below 120lbs for the first time in my life. I wouldn’t wish that weight loss plan on anyone, but it worked. Somehow this illness pulled one over on my body. That said, afterwards the battle picked right up and I worked diligently the subsequent months to keep the weight off. I began a food and activity diary that I’ve kept to this day. Through this, I learned the essential rules of battle: I require only about 1600 calories a day to maintain weight when I am in good health and keeping active. Ah!
Now I had the upper hand, Robin v. body was a nearly won campaign.
2016
Then in December 2015 my pancreatitis re-appeared and became the chronic kind, meaning it does not go away. In the first eight weeks or so, I dropped weight in spite of consuming as much as 2500 calories a day. I dropped to 106 lbs before steroids, cannabis, and digestive enzymes helped me gain ten needed pounds.
Today chatting with pancreatitis buddies in similar situations, I marvel at the irony. Just as soon as I figure out the game, my body does a whole Bizarro world switcharoo. Not only am I now fighting the opposite battle, now when I could theoretically relish in the opportunity to consume a seemingly limitless supply of calories, I’m restricted to a diet of smoothies, soups, cooked vegetables, fruit and chicken.
Hats off to you, body. I concede.