Let's not beat around the bush, this is a big long post about my weight

Attention: Sensitive Topic Alert. Alert meaning, yes this is my opinion and my experience and no way am I, girl who tripped over her own foot this morning, dumb enough to think that this topic is the same for everyone. Ye rest assured, I be not stupid.

I'll start a while back, because I can. I was a really active kid. I grew up outside, running and barefoot and on my bike. In the winter, we made snow angels and snowmen and snow forts and only came inside when we were soaked from the inside out and the outside in. I begged and begged my mother to stay outside even after the sun went down. I went outside first thing in the morning to swing, where I'd stay for hours. This carried into young adulthood. I was never graceful and never the super star of the team, but I was always doing something, always going. In high school, I'd put on maybe six or seven pounds over the winter and then the first nice day of Spring would come and, almost like magic, those extra few pounds were gone.

This was a similar pattern in college, too. In my later years of college I did forge quite the bond with Coors Light (mmmm, yeah, still takes me back today) and therefore, I just spent more time in the gym. It was all so easy then. And my body, so cooperative. I was never a size 2, oh no, my friend. But I was in good shape, entirely manageable and only the occasional fat day, really. I know, shut up, right. I say that now, too.

Then, college ended and real life began. With bills and schedules and someone to answer to. And a desk job. Though I've worked since I was a teenager, I have never had to just show up all day and SIT DOWN for most of eight hours (or ten, or twelve). I never realized what that, combined with age, changing metabolism and blah blah blah, could do to a person. Really, I did it but still, it was sneaky fat. In six months I'd gained about 15 pounds.

That's about when I started running. For a while, it got me back on track. I wasn't my college weight but I was close and by the time I was twenty-four, I'd sort of stabilized. I never really weighed myself after that. I couldn't be bothered. My pants fit, I was alright. Then, over the winter of 2005, I was handed some challenges by life. Looking back, I thought I dealt really well. I WORE OUT A BELT ON A TREADMILL, for crying out loud! And then, winter ended and in March 2006, I began to pack for an island vacation and found that I had only two pairs of shorts that fit. Out of about twenty. It freaked me out and body-wise, weight-wise, 2006 only went down from there.

I struggled all year, during running, during injury, everything. I made excuses, "it's hard to lose weight while marathon training" and "you can't run as much as you need to in order to maintain your weight, you're injured." They were true, but they were excuses. I know it's not rocket science, you have to burn what you're consuming. Even someone that hates math can add that up. Nonetheless, I didn't. I went up and down 5-10 pounds all year, but never really losing what I should have to be healthy and never really focusing long enough to figure out why. I ignored it. And in December of 2006, I ran my first marathon at a weight heavier than I've ever been. In my life. It's a myth, folks, that you have to be a waif to be a runner.

Then, the calendar turned to 2007. I avoided the lose weight resolution and was focused on repairing all my injuries. Knees, ITBs, hips. I went back to lifting twice per week. I was starting to feel good again. I could run a little, and when I wasn't running, I was on the elliptical machine (we became best friends). So I started weighing myself again. I'd get on the scale and see little to no change. I'd write on my blog about how I'd weigh myself after having toast for dinner. It was silly. (The weighing, not the toast. Toast is never silly.) Then, sometime, and I'd be lying if I said I knew the moment, I just asked myself "when did this become acceptable for you?"

And that was it. That was when I realized that yes, things with cheese on them and cake and ice cream were good, but that wasn't my problem. My problem was me. I'd somehow, over the course of four years and "adult" life and marathon training, I'd allowed my weight to become acceptable. I'm a realist, I will not ever weigh 115 pounds and wear a size two. What I do know is that I don't have to be where I am if I don't like it. It's strange, really, because my weight has never made me unhappy. Occasional fat days have always been my thing- I still made friends, got new jobs, ran races, had adventures of a lifetime, worked hard and fell in and out of love with everyone from a friend to the guy that does the weather on Channel 11. What it came down to was that it just wasn't right. It wasn't what I wanted for my life any longer.

I don't have control over so many things but this, this was all me. And I could do something about it, so I did. I am. It's every day.