365 True Things: 262/Weight

I grew into my adult body as a young adolescent. When I was ten or eleven, I was already my full height, and breasts—well, yeah, I got teased about them. "Mt. Everest" has a special, not very pleasant meaning for me. (And no, they're not that big. It was just . . . you know, sixth-graders.)

I don't remember actually weighing myself until I was fifteen, just home from Germany. While there, I became positively plump, thanks to my more or less daily "treat" of a chocolate bar (one of those big Swiss ones) and a bready pretzel. I got up to 135, maybe even 140. But I quickly lost that extra weight, and for the decades since I've weighed about 125. Occasionally, during my rock climbing years, I'd get down to 120, but 125 seemed to be my natural healthy weight.

A few years ago, upon reaching menopause, my weight shot up: to 130, then 135. And there it's stayed. Which is okay: I don't feel uncomfortable or unhealthy; my clothes continue to fit, basically. (Okay: I should go through my closet and get rid of a few pairs of pants and skirts that I have been keeping around, somewhat hopefully.)

The diet that we wrapped up yesterday was, yes, a real diet, with weight loss as one of the goals. We "weren't allowed" to weigh ourselves during the thirty days, so I didn't. I am obedient to a fault. (Unless I'm not.)

So this morning was my first opportunity to find out if I'd shed any pounds. And it turned out, I had: about five. Which is encouraging. If I keep at it—not the diet per se, but focusing on healthy eating and continuing to get exercise (or even better: getting more exercise, ahem)—maybe I can get back to 125. I'd like that.

But if not, that's fine. I feel good, and that's what counts.