The big three... oh.
Just recently I've been writing on my hand a lot. 30. In big, black biro. Etched into my skin. Why? I'm not 30 yet, and although it's looming large, I'm not particularly panicky about turning 30. I'm fairly happy with my career – I love what I do, I just want to do more of it. I'm ecstatic about my friends and family, and I'm married to a wonderful man and in no rush to have children just yet. So far, so perfect. Life is good. Well, almost.
Because as I stare down the barrel of my 4th decade, my mind starts to dwell on all the things I'm not, that I want to be. Or I am, that I don't. There are some things which are obvious and good – earlier this year, after a particularly stressful time, I fell back into the smoking habit for a couple of months. I've since knocked that on the head again, thank goodness. I didn't want to be a smoker and seeing the 30 on my hand reminded me that I didn't want to get to 30 and not have 'got round' to quitting yet. The 30 reminded me that time marches on and I needed to act now, or face the consequences.
And then it occurred to me that perhaps I could use the threat of turning 30 to spur me into action on other fronts. And like a stuck record, there it was again. Perhaps, I can look at my hand every time I want some chocolate. Or something else fattening or sugary. Perhaps I can use the great big impending 30 to finally, finally get round to losing weight. To be the person that I've always wanted to be. Because there can be nothing I can imagine that'd be worse than turning 30 and not being thin. Right?
Then this week it dawned on me. What am I doing to myself? Why am I giving myself a 2 month deadline to lose weight? What will happen if I get to 30 years old and I'm still averaging a size 17? Will the world end? No. Will my husband leave me? No. Will my friends stop talking to me? I doubt it. What exactly will happen? I won't be thin, no, but I'll still be 30. And I'll still have the amazing job, wonderful friends and family and gorgeous husband.
And then I realised – I've spent 20 years (20 YEARS!!) assuming that everything I do is somehow less valuable because of my size. That every act, every relationship, every achievement is somehow tainted, lessened, overshadowed by a dress size. People don't love me as much as they would do if I were thinner. I'm not as good at my job as I would be if I were thinner. I'm not as attractive a person as I would be if I were thinner. You get the picture.
But actually, why? Why have I spent an entire 2 decades (!) telling myself that I'm not good enough because I weigh more? I don't know why. And that's a subject for another blog. But what I do know is that suddenly it seems ridiculous. Not laughable, cryable. So sad. Wasted time. And I realised that if I really want to change something, before I hit 30, the best thing I can do - the thing which will have the biggest, most positive impact on my life - is to accept who I am and give myself a break. Because, if I can do that, then someone will love me more.
Me.
X
Because as I stare down the barrel of my 4th decade, my mind starts to dwell on all the things I'm not, that I want to be. Or I am, that I don't. There are some things which are obvious and good – earlier this year, after a particularly stressful time, I fell back into the smoking habit for a couple of months. I've since knocked that on the head again, thank goodness. I didn't want to be a smoker and seeing the 30 on my hand reminded me that I didn't want to get to 30 and not have 'got round' to quitting yet. The 30 reminded me that time marches on and I needed to act now, or face the consequences.
And then it occurred to me that perhaps I could use the threat of turning 30 to spur me into action on other fronts. And like a stuck record, there it was again. Perhaps, I can look at my hand every time I want some chocolate. Or something else fattening or sugary. Perhaps I can use the great big impending 30 to finally, finally get round to losing weight. To be the person that I've always wanted to be. Because there can be nothing I can imagine that'd be worse than turning 30 and not being thin. Right?
Then this week it dawned on me. What am I doing to myself? Why am I giving myself a 2 month deadline to lose weight? What will happen if I get to 30 years old and I'm still averaging a size 17? Will the world end? No. Will my husband leave me? No. Will my friends stop talking to me? I doubt it. What exactly will happen? I won't be thin, no, but I'll still be 30. And I'll still have the amazing job, wonderful friends and family and gorgeous husband.
And then I realised – I've spent 20 years (20 YEARS!!) assuming that everything I do is somehow less valuable because of my size. That every act, every relationship, every achievement is somehow tainted, lessened, overshadowed by a dress size. People don't love me as much as they would do if I were thinner. I'm not as good at my job as I would be if I were thinner. I'm not as attractive a person as I would be if I were thinner. You get the picture.
But actually, why? Why have I spent an entire 2 decades (!) telling myself that I'm not good enough because I weigh more? I don't know why. And that's a subject for another blog. But what I do know is that suddenly it seems ridiculous. Not laughable, cryable. So sad. Wasted time. And I realised that if I really want to change something, before I hit 30, the best thing I can do - the thing which will have the biggest, most positive impact on my life - is to accept who I am and give myself a break. Because, if I can do that, then someone will love me more.
Me.
X
posted by Tegwen at 11:45
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