I’m very interested in the thoughts around being a “big” girl.

I’m 5’9″

 

At my most thin, I weighed 159.4 pounds and that number is etched deeply in my brain as my ideal.

But 159.4 seemed like an unlovely number.

227, my current weight, is presumably cringeworthy.

I’m a tall girl.

My mother called me big boned.

She delighted when a bout of chicken pox left me ten pounds lighter in kindergarten.

In elementary school I was lined up in the back, behind even the tallest boys.

I aspired to be pretty and petite.

Instead, I was cast as Injun Joe in a summer camp production of Tom Sawyer . . . alongside my eighth-grade boyfriend, cast as the eponymous lead.

Ah, the agony.

Unlovely.

 

I am a mother, wife, lawyer, coach, friend, confidante.

I have an art collection.

And three dogs.

Each person in my house is invisibly tethered to me. I am the source of soccer cleats and sticks of cheese, a general contractor, my husband’s personal Genius Bar.

No matter what I accomplished in life, I could never forget that the numbers on the scale were always big.

And big equals fat and ugly.

But now I’m 41.

I aim for “goodness of fit” between body and mind.

Of course I’m working to achieve a right-sized body.

But I’m interested now in right thinking.

I look at myself through the same loving eyes I see my children.

I see beauty in myself, finally.

In my strength, courage, sense of humor, excellent taste, thick brown hair, beautiful body that has given life to two children and climbed mountains.

No matter what the number.

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