Fat and happy
When I first moved to NYC I immediately started working three jobs and yet I could barely pay my rent. Since I was running around the city 80 hours a week I barely had time to eat and when I did, it was usually a protein bar. Combine that with a 15-minute walk to the subway station from my apartment and it's no wonder I lost so much weight.
After only four months of living here I lost about 20 pounds. I was so busy I didn't even realize how skinny I was until I flew home Christmas morning to surprise my mom and she hugged me tight, saying "where did you go?!" I was swimming in my clothes.
I didn't need to lose that weight, I've always been pretty healthy. But I felt great. I had more energy than ever — probably because I was also meal prepping healthy foods and was required to be upbeat at all my jobs. I was able to wear snug dresses without feeling self-conscious about my body. I was wearing size XS in almost everything at Pink (granted, most of their stuff runs big). I felt my best when I was eating lean meat and veggies; carbs caused me to crash mid-day.
I remember whenever my mom or aunt Cheryl visited NYC and took me out to dinner, they would watch in awe as I scarfed down giant plates of food and asked for more bread. Eating out was a luxury.
Now? I've put those 20 pounds back on and I've never been happier.
I'm in a relationship with an Italian who loves pizza and pasta and can eat like a growing boy and yet still lose weight. He also loves me for who I am and loves to feed me. Never in my life have I had someone tell me to have whatever I like almost daily. Now, am I going to order steamed broccoli when mac n cheese is on the menu? Hell no.
While I complain to him that my pants don't fit, I'm fat and happy. I mean, not really, I still look great, despite my pants digging into me. I'm in love with him, with life, and with food. And there's nothing wrong with that.
I just gotta hit the gym more. And maybe learn to say no to mac n cheese once in awhile.
After only four months of living here I lost about 20 pounds. I was so busy I didn't even realize how skinny I was until I flew home Christmas morning to surprise my mom and she hugged me tight, saying "where did you go?!" I was swimming in my clothes.
I didn't need to lose that weight, I've always been pretty healthy. But I felt great. I had more energy than ever — probably because I was also meal prepping healthy foods and was required to be upbeat at all my jobs. I was able to wear snug dresses without feeling self-conscious about my body. I was wearing size XS in almost everything at Pink (granted, most of their stuff runs big). I felt my best when I was eating lean meat and veggies; carbs caused me to crash mid-day.
I remember whenever my mom or aunt Cheryl visited NYC and took me out to dinner, they would watch in awe as I scarfed down giant plates of food and asked for more bread. Eating out was a luxury.
Now? I've put those 20 pounds back on and I've never been happier.
I'm in a relationship with an Italian who loves pizza and pasta and can eat like a growing boy and yet still lose weight. He also loves me for who I am and loves to feed me. Never in my life have I had someone tell me to have whatever I like almost daily. Now, am I going to order steamed broccoli when mac n cheese is on the menu? Hell no.
While I complain to him that my pants don't fit, I'm fat and happy. I mean, not really, I still look great, despite my pants digging into me. I'm in love with him, with life, and with food. And there's nothing wrong with that.
I just gotta hit the gym more. And maybe learn to say no to mac n cheese once in awhile.
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