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I'm a pretty secretive person, mainly because I worked out a long time ago that if I decide I want to do something, all I get out of telling other people is an increased risk that someone will meddle. So I tend to restrict information to a need-to-know basis until a project is complete, failed, out of my control (as with illness), or unstoppable. This preference for secrecy runs from Halloween costumes and goodbyes at parties on one end to weddings and the starting of businesses on the other. I just like to do things in my own way, and while I am doing those things, I will lie regularly but innocuously to get what I need without revealing what it's actually for. Trying to tell the truth in these situations is just awkward - everybody defaults to stereotypes, and I have to spend a lot of time expositing badly. If I ever get pregnant, it's a coin toss whether anyone's going to know about it before the kid's fully ambulatory.
In any case, I've lost about 13 pounds over the past six and a half weeks, which is a set of numbers that should make it fairly clear I did it deliberately, losing exactly the two pounds a week that's recommended as safe. This involved a lot of math. Ciro and I have both gotten pretty expert at eyeballing a meal and guessing how many calories are in it. Other than him, nobody knew I was deliberately losing weight. I did let on that I wasn't drinking this month, and that I was playing a lot of dance dance revolution (both true), but intimated that this might be stress related and/or a sign of my dissipated lifestyle. Nope. I just didn't want to be filed under the "dieter" label, didn't want people to think it was cool to discuss how good or bad my body looked, and didn't want to get involved in tedious discussions about patriarchal construction of body shame, medical pseudoscience, fad diets, and/or the proper social role of food.
In any case, I am now at the point I decided to get to, and although I look different with my clothes off, it's not a very dramatic difference. Before, I was a healthy weight for my frame. Now, I am still a healthy weight for my frame. I just moved from one end of a range to the other. My jawline looks nice. Objectively, I know that 13 pounds of fat takes up the same space as 13 pounds of butter, and also that my trousers are riding indecently low. I can run pretty fast and can see my muscles. However, if I were to lose the same proportional amount of height, I would be half a foot shorter. This . . . is not as dramatic as that.
Predictably, everything feels colder than it should. I regularly mis-guess the thermostat temperature by 2-3 degrees Fahrenheit. However, my cardiovascular fitness is through the roof, and I find cold less uncomfortable. So the world seems unusually chill, but more pleasant. It's like inverse peppermint tea, or something.
In any case, I've lost about 13 pounds over the past six and a half weeks, which is a set of numbers that should make it fairly clear I did it deliberately, losing exactly the two pounds a week that's recommended as safe. This involved a lot of math. Ciro and I have both gotten pretty expert at eyeballing a meal and guessing how many calories are in it. Other than him, nobody knew I was deliberately losing weight. I did let on that I wasn't drinking this month, and that I was playing a lot of dance dance revolution (both true), but intimated that this might be stress related and/or a sign of my dissipated lifestyle. Nope. I just didn't want to be filed under the "dieter" label, didn't want people to think it was cool to discuss how good or bad my body looked, and didn't want to get involved in tedious discussions about patriarchal construction of body shame, medical pseudoscience, fad diets, and/or the proper social role of food.
In any case, I am now at the point I decided to get to, and although I look different with my clothes off, it's not a very dramatic difference. Before, I was a healthy weight for my frame. Now, I am still a healthy weight for my frame. I just moved from one end of a range to the other. My jawline looks nice. Objectively, I know that 13 pounds of fat takes up the same space as 13 pounds of butter, and also that my trousers are riding indecently low. I can run pretty fast and can see my muscles. However, if I were to lose the same proportional amount of height, I would be half a foot shorter. This . . . is not as dramatic as that.
Predictably, everything feels colder than it should. I regularly mis-guess the thermostat temperature by 2-3 degrees Fahrenheit. However, my cardiovascular fitness is through the roof, and I find cold less uncomfortable. So the world seems unusually chill, but more pleasant. It's like inverse peppermint tea, or something.
