This is interesting advice from my internist. It was not what I expected. According to the doctor, it is something she rarely says to patients.
During my appointment, I was, as usual, lamenting my belly fat and torso shape. The quest to whittle my middle began in high school and has continued into middle age. I carry, and always have carried, my fat in the waist and stomach. Even at 16, I bemoaned my perceived thick ribcage. By my mid-20s, I realized that the only way for me to lose weight was surgery for medical (not weight) issues. I later learned that, surprisingly, pregnancy also worked – I was unable to eat throughout gestation.
Things are not improving with age. Increasing exercise and decreasing food intake just doesn’t do it. Tony Horton’s P90x routine kicks my butt six days a week. Food logs with calorie counts detail a nearly starvation diet. Not to make excuses, but I can’t exercise more or eat less.
My doctor was not telling me to work harder to lose weight. Rather, her recommendation was to ease up on myself about my body. As she pointed out, poking the mildly bulging muscles in my arms and legs, I am in great shape. I do all the right healthy things. I am not actually overweight. My issues stem from genetics and innate structure. In other words, the medical counsel was body-acceptance, which sadly still eludes me.
It surprises me that, at this age, I still battle my own figure. On the surface, I accept that I am short waisted with thin limbs and a larger bust: an apple, an inverted triangle, an egg with toothpicks, whatever. Per my Pilates teacher, I have tried to focus on my strength (and amazing legs). But all I see in the mirror is belly fat. I stare, I pinch, I poke, I suck in . . . and imagine ways to get rid of it. I mentally calculate my thickness and how many inches away I am from a concave body (for the record, . . . many).
It is ridiculous. But I don’t know how to change. These doctor’s orders may prove to be the most difficult to follow.
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