I don’t just want to live longer. I want to live with vitality. To die young at the age of 97 or 104, most vibrantly.
I don’t want to go to the doctor and get bad news. I don’t want to be pre-diabetic. I don’t want to be told, “you can no longer eat that.” I want to be in control and to have freedom. I don’t want to be the fattest mom in the room. I want to be the hot wife. I don’t want to spend forever to get dressed, to fuss over pulling buttons and blousing things out to conceal bulges. It takes forever to get dressed when you’re overweight. I want to get dressed easily, to jump into anything and run out the door. I want to feel light and alert and clear, to be able to race up the stairs without being winded. I want to be able to run and feel strong. I want defined, sculpted arms, not cellulite spackled arms so wide they look like legs. I want to be able to do a pull-up. I want to be lean, to like the way I look in photos. I want to RSVP yes when our family is invited to a pool party. I want to finally be able to swim with other people around, instead of hiding under clothes sweating. I want to be checked out. I want to feel desired. I don’t want to be underestimated, seen as less-than. Seen as a “but.” “Yeah, she’s great, BUT she’s fat.”