Supersize Me

I've been listening to Joan Didion's The Year of Magical Thinking and my current key takeaway is that Ms. Didion got very lucky in that she lost her appetite when her husband passed away(I'm not very far into the book, and promise to have more profound insights into this National Book Award winner when I'm feeling less superficial, not to mention less constrained by my too-tight pants). I am officially very, very jealous.

I lost my appetite immediately after I found out that Eric had died, and actually had enough time to be generally optimistic about the prospect of using Eric's death as a springboard to getting to my goal weight. That early optimism lasted until my brother, Aaron, arrived and announced that I had to eat something. He then proceeded to make me "Anderson Family Mac & Cheese," which is so delicious in part because it is simply chock full of calories. Then the neighbors started arriving with equally delicious food...and from there it was a downhill spiral of comfort eating for the newly minted Widow Snyder. Roughly 3 and a half months after Eric's death I fit comfortably into size 12 pants. Unfortunately my wardrobe consists primarily of size 6 and 8 pants. With the hideous life insurance legal battle (HLILB) in full swing, this is not an opportune time to purchase an entirely new wardrobe, and while friends have generously donated me-sized pants to the cause, my slowly-but-surely increasing bulk is beginning to pose a bit of a problem. In short, I've got to get some of this weight off of me.

Here's the problem: while Eric was informed (almost daily) that he was "not the boss of me," he did have a certain power to keep me honest. Certainly, "are you sure you want to eat that" is not a popular husbandly comment by any stretch of the imagination (even when said nicely and with the intent to avoid future wifely weight-related complaints), but it has a certain power nevertheless. In addition, people tend to be really nice to widows. Everyone tells me not to worry about the weight, which is very kind, but ultimately unhelpful. It's really not an issue of me being shallow and girly, I genuinely feel uncomfortable at this weight, and not just because my pants are too tight. Plus, now GT is getting pissed as she wants to look cute in a bikini (a BLACK one). GT can be as shallow as she wants, but I want to approach this from the more feminist angle that I simply feel better at a lighter weight. What I've slowly come to realize is that no one really cares what I weigh except me. When I was single before there was always some real or hypothetical guy who might care...but I'm not exactly trolling for Eric's replacement right now, so there really and truly is no one to care but me (and GT). It strikes me as both odd and SAD that my own caring doesn't appear to be enough to motivate me, and this fact alone probably totally diminishes my efforts to be un-shallow about this whole sad mess.

So, perhaps I need to listen to GT some more, as even though she is shallow she may actually be motivated to get the weight off already. And perhaps, just perhaps, publishing this post will force me to be accountable to myself. The hall-pass of widowhood is hereby revoked. Let the excercise and sensible eating commence.