Eleven years ago, at 42, I purposefully got off the cycle of dieting, losing weight, cheating, binging, regaining, and starting all over again. Chronic dieting, I concluded after a lifetime of doing it, was pointless. I freed myself of the burden of losing those last 10 pounds and finally accepted that I’d never be as thin as I’d like to be. My resolution going forward was to eat mindfully, but not to obsess about what I put in my mouth or the number on the scale. In fact, I threw out the scale.
Every year since, my waist got a little thicker. Honestly, it didn’t bother me too much. It was gradual, just what happens as you get older. Around 50, I’d become so accepting of the “it’s only natural” idea that I gave up mindful eating, too. How old did you have to be before you could just relax and enjoy food? Didn’t I deserve dessert after all my hard work? I started to eat sweets whenever I wanted, and predictably, the weight piled on. I didn’t freak out, though. My dress sizes got bigger, but so did my rationalizations.
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