The Three Faces of Me: Debbie

The Three Faces of Me: Debbie

So you’ve met Fat Debbie:

and Hot Debbie:

It’s time to introduce plain ol’, garden variety, what-you-see-is-what-you-get Debbie:

That photo was taken just a few days ago. I’m a little heavier than I’d like to be these days—I’ve gained twenty pounds since my wedding six months ago.

There are several reasons for that, including an all-too-brief pregnancy with two weeks of forced bedrest culminating in a miscarriage, but honestly the biggest reason is simple complacency. I feel safe with S, and secure that he loves me even with a few (twenty) extra pounds, so it’s far too easy to say “I’ll go to the gym tomorrow,” or “yes, I would like another cookie, Baby.” I seem to have forgotten why I lost all the weight—not so I could find a man, but so I can feel good about myself and revel in all the things the human body is capable of doing, things I couldn’t do when I was fat. I went skiing for the first time in my life when I was thirty. Rollerblading. Running. Tennis. Hell, I’d get a thrill from finishing a step class. But it’s been nearly two years since I’ve done any of those things.

So many of my “tricks” from when I was losing weight have fallen by the wayside, too, especially now that I’m no longer living alone. As recently as a year ago, I’d have plain steamed vegetables and a frozen veggie burger for dinner once or twice a week. Now I cook real meals, or we order in if we don’t go out, every night of the week. It’s still healthy food, but there’s much more of it. And I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t eating an awful lot of sugar—just look at how much I talk about baking in these very pages. I’ve made four batches of cookies in the last two weeks, plus a banana-chocolate-pecan bread. My sisters-in-law both tell me not to worry about the weight gain, that this is what happens when you’re happy and you get married, but frankly I’m terrified. Very, very happy with the state of things in my life in general, but terrified that six months from now I’ll have packed on another twenty.

I always thought my problems with food came from being lonely and unhappy—who knew it was possible to overeat with joy as well?

The strangest part in all this for me is how much more difficult it is to write about this period in my life. I’ve been struggling with this post for days, and I don’t seem to be getting anywhere. Perhaps it’s because it’s happening right now, and without distance I’m just not capable of insight. Or perhaps I’m afraid of coming off like a whiny woman obsessed with her weight when you only came here to read about food. Clearly I need to think about this a little more.

In the meantime, though, I need to sign off and hit the gym while I’m feeling the urge.