The Brain Cells I Waste On My Neuroses

I read this article today. For those who choose avoid it (and who trust me for providing a coherent synopsis in less than 100 words) the author's thesis is "women who fixate on their weight, unless we're dealing with eating disorders, are not intelligent" because "counting calories and wondering what size a Gap 2 really is in English" takes up space and prevents the user from using their brain for more edifying, intelligence enhancing pursuits. I think she is being terribly simplistic when she reduces a person's concerns about weight to mere vanity. Many of the people who commented said as much, pointing out that weight affects one's self-esteem, one's professional life, one's romantic prospects, one's place in the social pecking order, and, ultimately, one's health. The sad reality is that thin or fat, the number a woman sees on the scale defines her as much, if not more than her IQ.

But as useless as I found the article in question, I must admit, it touched upon thoughts I have entertained in the past.

I fixate on my weight. My self-esteem is so wrapped up in whether or not I fit into certain clothes that I sometimes forget that not everyone judges my worthiness this way. It goes without saying that I think I am fat, that even when I fit into a ridiculously small size, I think it is a function of vanity sizing and being super short. I long ago came to realize that the image I saw in the mirror was, perhaps, not the image that others saw. I have slowly come to accept that the areas that I see as gigantic flaws do not necessarily even register with someone who isn't looking for these flaws. I know, intellectually, that the circumference of my thighs has no correlation with my moral rectitude or worthiness as a human being.

As you may have gathered, I have invested a great deal of time in trying to lose weight and a great deal of emotional and mental energy in thinking about weight. There are benefits to this. I know a great deal about nutrition, exercise, the psychology of eating disorders, and the current scientific research on obesity. However, I am not sure that the positives outweigh the negatives in this respect. How much does my perception of weight affect my mood? How many great things would I have achieved if I had been slightly less concerned with a number? Why is it so damned important to me?

So while I think the author got it wrong when she accused women in general of being vain and stupid when they worry about weight, I suspect she may have gotten it exactly right in my case. I can analyze it and talk about it and perhaps even create some interesting art about it, but from the perspective of the everyday, this desire of mine to be as thin as Audrey Hepburn, perhaps even thinner than Audrey Hepburn, makes me boring.

But knowing that isn't going to make me put away my scale or stop doing Pilates. Boring I may be, but hopeful, always hopeful. Someday the number on the scale, the tape measure, the jeans will be a number which makes me happy. And, really, I would pick happy and boring over sad and interesting every day of the week. Wouldn't you?