This morning at the gym, I was bored on the stupid tricep machine (die, stupid tricep machine) when I began checking out a woman checking herself out. She was riding the stationary bike, which is conveniently located right next to the room’s mirrored walls. I watched as she gave herself a good long look, scoping out her own face, her arms and her little legs working in feverish circles on the bike. I wondered what she was thinking and whether, if she was in the process of losing weight, she was trying to notice a difference in her shrinking body. And I use shrinking in a purposeful, pointed way because that is how I have been feeling lately. I’ve felt myself shrinking. Oh boy, it’s weird.
On this diet and undergoing this process of weight loss, I have noticed the same sensation I get when on antibiotics or when I take Excedrin. It’s that feeling of shock, like, “My body is not immune to the seductive entreaties of medications and drugs. I thought I was better than pharmacology.” I don’t know what I was thinking when I began this process, but I don’t remember thinking how it would feel to look in the mirror and see less of myself. Just like that girl on the bike, sometimes I can’t help but stare. There is simply less Sara. Cerebrally, I knew what would happen: fewer calories ingested + more calories burned=a less fat bridesmaid. Still, I get on that scale every Monday or I fit into old clothes again or I see that little fat roll under my ass getting littler and littler–and there’s that persistent sense of disbelief. Maybe I am conflating disbelief with a sense of accomplishment, but damned if I can tell the difference.