And Right Back Down to the Bottom of the Mountain

I have an amazing ability to gain and lose weight. The same 20 (give or take) pounds, year after year after year after year, for, oh, 25 years now. But this is the amazing part: I can do either in the span of usually about two months. Don’t believe me? My brother just lost 31 pounds in two weeks. TWO weeks. It is a family curse and blessing. It is obviously in my genes.

But first, my brother’s story: He is six feet tall and weighs in the 220s, which is on the higher end of the scale for him. He doesn’t look extra-large, really, because he, like most men, carries his weight very well, which is so not fair. His office did a Biggest Loser Challenge (is this all the rage in corporate America? Group weight-loss programs?) and he signed up. It was eight weeks long. For the first six weeks, he continued to eat double cheeseburgers and whatever else struck his fancy, which I guess means huge portions of whatever he wants. Week after week of weigh-ins revealed no weight loss, and his co-workers, who were all slowly and steadily going down on the scale, good-naturedly teased his lack of progress. Then my brother decided to be mindful of what is was eating for the last two weeks. Week one, he lost 11 pounds. Week two, he lost 18. He lost the Challenge (and the $700 pot) by a half pound. But 31 pounds in two weeks? I’d say he is a winner.

This proves two things about me and my brother: We are both very, very competitive and we both have freaky metabolisms.

One of the important parts of my brother’s equation is that in those last two weeks he was working hard every night after work renovating the rental apartment in his house. Exercise seems to be the common denominator — and an important one — for both of us. When we are exercising regularly, and are watching what we eat a little, weight drops off. But if we don’t exercise regularly and don’t watch what we eat, watch out: Weight gain, almost immediately.

But let’s bring it back to me. I gain and lose weight with incredible regularity, year after year. Weight gain usually occurs over the winter and weight loss occurs in the spring into summer. Fall is the balanced season, usually.

How does this happen? It is eternally frustrating. When I gain weight, my eating habits do not change drastically, but they do change. In other words, I can’t blame weight gain on eating three boxes or Oreos every day. How I wish it were that simple: Cut out the Oreos and welcome to healthy-weight world. Bizarrely, I think I eat more in the Lean Months: Three regular meals (and if I don’t eat them at the same time, my body almost shuts down), snacks, dessert, lots of water. In the Not-Lean Months, I eat irregularly: Yesterday I skipped lunch and had no snacks. My food-for-the-day boiled down to peanut butter toast for breakfast and then penne with peas and vodka sauce for dinner. Not exactly unhealthy, but not good either. My splurge for the day: I made two batches of chocolate chip cookies and coconut bars for Nicole to take to work, and from that bounty I hade a couple of scrap pieces of coconut bars, mostly for taste-testing purposes (I can’t send a new recipe off to Nicole’s office without ensuring it doesn’t taste like crap).

It is not like you will open my cabinets and find a cornucopia of crap. Pretzels and ice cream is about as dangerous as I get, with a package of salt and vinegar chips thrown in every three months or so. Exercise seems to be the deciding factor, really. If I work out for about 45 minutes a day, six days a week, my metabolism is fine and my weight remains steady. But the instant (literally) my exercise becomes erratic then so does my weight.

Last summer my weight dipped into the 120s. People were saying that I looked too thin, and there was that side of me that thought “YES! Too thin! I look emaciated and unhealthy! Go me!” Sick, isn’t it? Add that to the list of things I don’t want to pass onto my daughters. But the other side of me was a little freaked out, which I didn’t talk about much. I saw my ribs, those bones in my chest and neck, and the shape of my femur bones. My breasts withered to raisins, complete with those tell-tale deep grooves. My arms, in certain angles, looked a liiiiiittle scary. And the weight kept coming off, with no end in sight. So I cut my four-mile run by a half mile, and that was the beginning of the next round of weight gain.

So here I sit, twenty pounds heavier, heading into the summer season not able to fit comfortably in my favorite skirts. I am annoyed to be back in this spot. The thing is I am not terribly worried: I know that within two months (or so; I don’t want to jinx myself) I can get back to a better size. The thing is am really, really, really tired of the cycle. Really tired of Big Me and Smaller Me. Really tired of the wardrobe that spans multiple sizes. Really tired of needing three different bra sizes. Really frustrated that I need to execute a exact dose of exercise in order in stay in a certain range. On the one hand, it seems like a small price to pay. But what can I say? Sometimes it is hard to drag myself out of bed at 5 in the morning and head to the gym. And someone needs to send a memo to my daughters: Absolutely no sleep issues or Momma won’t be able to be a size six.

The other day I was carrying a bag of laundry to drop off, and it weighed 20 pounds. (I only know this because it is a dollar a pound to wash and I had to fork over 20 dollars). It was heavy, people, that bag. 20 pounds makes a big difference. And that is what needs to come off of me, again. I am not happy to be back at the bottom of the mountain.

So much more to say about this issue... it isn't all so neat.

Pictured above, my brother and I a few years back in the Leaner Summer months. We are painting his boat’s hull. It is one of the few pictures of us together. Also pictured, the girls holding hand and running in Aunt Jenni’s yard the other day. Are they going to inherit the C [my last name] Weight Curse?