#hate gain

Today I put on my spring jeans for the first time this year. They felt a little snug. You know, the way they do after they’ve just been washed? Like, they just need to break in, you know, just a little, and in no time they’ll be hanging off your hips? Yeah, that way. But all day they never “broke in”. They stayed snug. And seemed to get snugger, if that’s even a word, as the day went on. Big blow to my barely budding self esteem.

I come from a long line of weight worried women. For over a century now, probably longer, the good natured Swedish women of my direct bloodline have unknowingly passed on a subtle self loathing that touched every part of our lives. I don’t think we’re different from that many women and their families. It’s pervasive in Western culture. Others too. But I can only speak for my family.

I’m one of those yo-yo dieters. JoJo dieter, if you will...

We are all from lower middle class families with the usual random ailments and successes. My mother and I have consistently been happily bonded. Her relationship with her mother was more complicated than ours but that’s her story to tell. What I can tell yo is that we’re white in Canada We pass through society with general ease. I think that justifies saying that we’re pretty normal.

JoJo average, if you will...

So, why does my jeans not fitting cause me to shame spiral? How do I shut my brain up about being “less than” just because I’ve packed on some pounds? This is some serious reprogramming we’re talking about. Like, decades! I’m up for the challenge. I have no lineage to pass my self loathing on to so, yay for small mercies.

As a well seasoned woman, I’ve come to learn the value of self acceptance and I’m hoping to perfect before my time is up on this swirling blue orb. I know all the ingredients, but I’m still refining the amounts to find my oh so self-content flavour.