Introduction

I am constantly thinking about weight. It plagues me throughout the day. Okay, "plague" may be too strong, but it is never far from the forefront of my mind. I think about my consumption, I think about my food choices, I observe what others do and say, how they posture, justify, rationalize and flat-out lie about their food and exercise habits. I judge myself, I judge others. I am much harder on myself than I am on everyone else.

I am here now to explore the influences of this obsession, which I don't claim to have invented, to own, to even be original around the subject. And that's precisely why I'm writing now. Because I think I am an average part of America's food culture. Food and image and weight obsessed, lacking the ability to foster healthy choices consistently.

Not that I am unhealthy. I generally make healthy choices. I occasionally splurge. I am comfortable in my skin, although I have a rather low tolerance for fluctuations that lead me to the higher end of my weight comfort zone. And I think I have a stricter weight comfort zone than most. Or at least it appears that way to me. Again, the judgment.

Yet how can we not judge? We see any number of strikingly skinny celebrities in these magazines, candid shots surrounded by bubbles that read something like, "Baby Bump?" Give me a break! So that's pregnant to you? I must look like I'm about to pop. God forbid the media acknowledge the exquisite variety and shapes and tone and tenor of women's bodies.

And yet, I am not forgiving of myself. Three pounds, a bad eating day, I punish myself. We punish ourselves. We punish each other.

So in this blog, I plan to write from my singular perspective (although I have a feeling my voice will resonate with many) how weight sticks not only to by belly and my butt, but also to my brain.