When I was in junior high, and may have weighed 100 pounds, I began to think I was fat because a boy coined my nickname: “Heifer Hafner.”
Twelve-year-old boys are real assholes.
Five years of bulimia followed, the latter years spent in a full-blown spiral of absolute fuckery. But with the help of family and counseling, I overcame my issues and became comfortable in my own skin. Surprisingly, once I actually stopped binging and purging, I lost 15 pounds.
My senior year of high school was spent in size 4 “skank-wear” I was proud to finally feel comfortable in.
But gradually, slowly, over the years my weight started to creep back on. The college uniform of jeans and a hoodie doesn’t really draw attention to that flab roll slowly forming under one’s bra strap in the back. But even at that point, I wasn’t obese. As accomplished rapper and female body expert Nelly most flatteringly puts it, I was “thicky thick.”
I started my professional career in a very high-stress position which kept me too busy to even think about losing weight. With each subsequent career change I’ve gained about 10 more pounds. I’ve had three career changes.
Two years ago, having discovered we had both packed on a few, my husband and I went on a diet. He lost 50 pounds through sheer willpower and personal motivation. I only lost eight pounds. The guy was a machine. He was my idol. I was amazed by what he accomplished and I wanted it for myself. I vowed to do better. 2010 was to be my year – the year I finally lost the weight.
And yet, two months ago I was absolutely horrified to discover I had reached my highest weight ever. I was now officially 30 pounds heavier than I was ten years ago.
I was fat.
A lard ass.
My married name still conveniently alliterative, I was now officially “Heifer Haarmann.”
And that’s when I started working harder than ever. I’ve always known what I was supposed to do. For me it’s about mental willpower. I’m training for a 5K, eating less and working harder at the gym. And it’s only because my mind is right this time.
Last week was my first milestone. I have a dress I used to wear all the time, but haven’t in the past year because I couldn’t button it anymore. Last Friday I wore it. No, I wore the hell out of it. I even had to cinch the belt three notches smaller. I made that dress my bitch.
And I’m not giving up this time. It’s on.
My husband better prepare, ‘cause I’m about to break out the circa 2001 skank-wear again.