Turning the Page

Yesterday I caught sight of some old diet and fitness magazines I have and realized I have zero interest in reading them anymore.

I'd bought a bunch of them en route to Belize and noted that they stayed at the bottom of my beach bag, but I didn't think too much about it. I couldn't remember the last time I'd read one, but I have deadlines twice a day and have worked nearly every day (weekends included) of the past six months. So there are a lot of things I used to do that I don't do.

But for right now, I don't see myself going back to reading them. Not only don't I want magic diets or exercises, I don't need them. I know what works and doesn't work – for me, anyway.

I don't find the magazines inspiring. I couldn't muster any enthusiasm to read them -- and I can (and do) read everything.

Um, who am I?

I've been reading these magazines since I was about 12, when I'd sneak my mother's (she didn't like to share, and anyway, I felt slightly embarrassed to be reading 'mom' magazines) and read about how to walk off the pounds. For years these magazines have been my inspiration, my treat, my escape. I could read them and daydream about how perfect my life would be when I'd mastered whatever it was they suggested.

Because of course, I'd be thin, and thin is perfect.

Ha.

I honestly cannot tell you how much I weigh or what size I am – let alone where I am on the thin scale (or am even on it). I know I'm heavier than I was in the last years in London, because today I tried on a pair of jeans I used to wear all the time there, and couldn't get them over my thighs. (Then again, I've known all year that I'm heavier than I was in London, so I'm not sure what good or productive I thought would come from trying them on.)

But I can say honestly that for the first time in as long as I can remember, I don't think my life would be better if I were thinner – and I have little desire to try to find out.