A few weeks ago, my doc confirmed my growing suspicion from the last several menarche-free months: I have crossed the hormonal Rubicon. The good news is that this milestone was reached without much gnashing of teeth or hot flashes. However, in what seems to be an attempt to assert who's really still running the show here, my body has suddenly decided to take on a few pounds of extra ballast, rendering about half of my closet's contents just a bit too tight, and turning up the flame a bit under my low-simmering weight preoccupation.
There's no going back to those days of diets and counting points and agonizing over every five ounces up or down. I know better than to get caught up in that downward spiral of body-hatred and yo-yo-ing weight. Been there, done that, had the t-shirt in three sizes. I don't know whether this gain is a temporary aberration, or whether my metabolism has permanently ratcheted down another notch, in which case I need to cull the now too-small items from my wardrobe.
There's no going back to those days of diets and counting points and agonizing over every five ounces up or down. I know better than to get caught up in that downward spiral of body-hatred and yo-yo-ing weight. Been there, done that, had the t-shirt in three sizes. I don't know whether this gain is a temporary aberration, or whether my metabolism has permanently ratcheted down another notch, in which case I need to cull the now too-small items from my wardrobe.
I'm far more sanguine about the deepening lines on my face and the softening jawline than I am about my thickening waistline. It's not like I still held out hope that someday I'd be reed-slender and able to wear all those styles that make me sigh, but my weight and shape had been stable the past few years and I'd worked so hard to make peace with my body. And now, it's changing again. This "aging gracefully" thing isn't so easy, is it?
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