So with Zermati, where do I stand?
Let’s say I can’t pretend I’ve grown away from all weight consideration. Proof is the excitation I felt while reading the happiness house in Corsica’s content list when I saw, between “24 plates” and “5 pots”, “1 scale”.
I wish I could tell you that somehow, in the middle of our stay, I came by chance across the scale relegated to the bottom of a cupboard. But I fear “came by chance across” doesn’t really match my mortar attack on the door of an a priori condemned closet to discover the famous scale.
When I finally saw it, I was as happy as if, on a Sunday evening, stuck with no fags, I had, in the end, found a full packet in the pocket of my coat.
And of course, the comparison is not fortuitous.
You get it. If, I think, I’ve integrated most precepts instilled by this good doctor Z, there is one that is still going far over my head. Namely the one consisting in not neurotically controlling my weight.
On the other hand, I feel I have moved forward: weighting myself on that day, I indeed saw a confirmation of the tendency noted when I came back from l’île de Ré: 2 extra kilos, thanks step-mum.
Well I wasn’t too scared.
I mean, I was scared.
But not too much.
Not too too much.
For example, I haven’t said ONCE during the day these words I’m capable of repeating until other side (= the one who then regrets he said ‘Yes’) is exhausted:
« I’ve put on weight… »
Followed by the unavoidable: « Do you think it shows? »
Then « Are you sure? »
And finally « You’re lying »
No, then, I breathed deeply, and I treated myself to a good moment of mindfulness (or something close). I was that close to levitation.
And during the two following days, I simply followed my desire, trying to listen to my hunger. That was not big, because of the heat and beach. I avoided the TRAP when you put on weight: trying to lose it. Starving yourself for the first twelve hours, seeing cheeseburgers everywhere for the next twelve hours and ending up head first in the canistrelli at dusk while mentally calling yourself a fat pig with no willpower.
And believe me, believe me not, but 48h later, after a mojito per day and eating stuff as healthy as fig tart or lonzu which smells fat pork from 20km away, I had lost the two kilos.
Mainly, except this obligation on the scale – after peeing, with an empty stomach, holding my breath and proceeding delicately when stepping on the machine – I haven’t thought much about “this”.
I believe it was the first summer I’ve been that detached. Within my means, we all agree, thanks Einstein and relativity.
That is to say that I came back with a weight similar to the one I had in July. With, most of all, the proof that yes I can gain. And not die from it.
Now, I’d be lying if I’d say I couldn’t care less about these lost kilos, one year after starting my therapy. Last year, I told you it was when looking at my holiday pictures and asking myself who this big woman on them was that I decided to call doctor Z. I even showed you the said pictures. Except that I didn’t feature THE picture that hurt so bad. No one wants to show his or her worst side, right.
And then yesterday, while sorting out the 2010 crop, I found a picture taken by the Churros, exactly at the same place. Except the fact that my love has no link whatsoever with Helmut Newton and will never do, I have to admit: seeing the transformation of my body in twelve months gave me a certainly exaggerated satisfaction.
I know I will have ‘moved forward’ when I’ll be at peace with this woman whom I refuse to appreciate still today on those steps. Thus for this reason, this time I feature it. Because her worth is not less than mine today. I just need to convince myself.
