You know what I’m talking about. That photo: the one where you realize you’re officially obese.
For me, that photo was taken a few years ago at a friend’s wedding. I knew I had gained weight, of course, but for some reason was still in denial as to how much blubber I was carrying around, despite my doctor’s repeated lectures. When a friend tagged me in that photo on Facebook (ah, Facebook tagging — the bane of an insecure fat girl’s existence), I wanted to both cry and vomit up my Cheetos at the same time.
I had two chins. I was bursting out of my dress. I looked like a linebacker compared to my friends.
That was my fat-girl photo.
For a long time, I didn’t see a photo that had the same effect on me. Until my birthday in October.
Someone snapped a pic of me after I had downed a shot (hey, I am 26 going on 19, after all). In the photo, I had two chins yet again. The table at the restaurant dug into my stomach. Despite the fact that I had a great time with my friends that night, my eyes looked…sad. (OK, I’ll stop with the depressing stuff.)
My point is, those photos weren’t necessarily a bad thing. They got me out of denial and off the couch, and have caused me to work even harder to reach my goals.
But I don’t want to lose weight solely for aesthetic reasons. I want to be able to make it up a flight of stairs without losing my breath. I want to make it through a Zumba class without feeling like I’m going to yak. I want to do everything in my power to lower my risk of heart disease and cancer, both of which run in my family.
When I see my sad, fat self staring back at me in those photos, it just makes me all the more motivated to kick some major ass in the gym and with my diet. That fat-girl photo from my birthday will be my last: mark my words.