At my annual preventive physical, I weighed in at a shade over 200 pounds.  This is about twenty-five more than I was expecting.  I immediately slid into that familiar panic. 

As soon as I got home I checked to see what my BMI: I am only ten pounds short of obese.  (Do you know how much weight I’d have to lose to be underweight according to the BMI?  More than seventy pounds, or twenty more pounds than I have ever shaved off.) 

I could feel it rolling around in the pit of my stomach: 200! 

But then I thought to myself, I’m devastated.  I might not get any work done all day.

In the past, that would have been true: I would have spent the day upset about my weight.  I might have resolved to starve myself.  I wouldn’t have accomplished anything but an extra portion of self-loathing and maybe the first installment of a harmful, ultimately self-defeating starvation regime. 
I might have derailed every other project and stable routine for weeks.  Nothing but bell peppers and coffee til New Year’s! 

And now I’m not going to do that.  I used to think of my earlier self as thinner.  Now I think of her as screwed up.  I like having an anchored brain.  I like being able to think. 


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