So, I had a fairly serious depressive episode last year (boo!) and lost twenty pounds (yay!)
Once I began feeling better I thought to myself, "Self! Let's keep this here weight off." And I did. Until March.
Here's what happens in March. Mrs. Backer's starts making hot cross buns during Lent, which means I have to go there every day and buy one. Maybe two. And then there are malted milk eggs to be had. And then a certain birthday arrives. And then also it must be said I start to crave hamburgers when the sun comes out. So . . . . I inevitably gain weight in the spring.
And those twenty pounds I lost? Well, they're rejoining the party that is my body. Party on, pounds!
I've been distressed about this because I've always been that girl that had to/wanted to lose fifteen pounds. Way, way, way lots of energy has been expended on the weight loss (real and aspirational both) front over the years. And I've started to do that obsessing thing again.
But yesterday I had this thought: why not feel pleased that I can eat again? That food tastes good again. That I don't have to dread food-related social encounters. The pounds returning like homing pigeons are a sign that I am feeling well again.