LIFE IS TOO SHORT
I'm due for my yearly physical, and I just so want to say to the doctor, "Yes, I'm fat. Yes, I need to lose weight. No, you don't need to scold me like I'm a child."
To be fair, my doctor has never yelled or called me fat. Her remarks and her concern are professional and appropriate. It's all me. I'm the one berating myself. I'm the one beating myself up. I'm the one angrily gnawing on celery sticks smeared with hummus with the same glowering intensity I save for despised aerobic activities. (Treadmill, I'm looking at you.)
And for what? So I can sit, cold and lumpy and miserable, on that exam room table, the one covered in what might as well be butcher's paper so I feel even more like a piece of meat?
Oh, I still need to lose weight - that's a fact. But I can certainly be nicer to myself as I go about it. When I go for a walk after dinner instead of watching some re-run on TV, I can pat myself on the back. When I ask the waiter not to bring the bread, I can treat myself to piece of chocolate later. When I push myself to ride my bike farther, faster, I can revel in the strength and health of my body, then take it for a massage.
Whatever it is we're trying to accomplish, putting ourselves down isn't going to help us achieve our goals. Will being kinder to ourselves get us there faster? Maybe. Maybe not. But I'd rather enjoy the journey, enjoy the scenery, as I try, instead of being stuck on some endless loop of self-hatred, going nowhere. (Again, Treadmill, I'm looking at you....)