“You’re lucky you’ve lost weight.”
“You have it easy because you’re young.”
“Bet it feels nice to be able to put on smaller jeans. I wouldn’t know.”
These are among the many snide comments I receive almost daily from one of my obese relatives.
She hates when I weigh in lighter. She hates when I wear old pairs of jeans that previously didn’t fit over my thighs. She hates my small meal portions. And honestly, it feels like she hates me.
Almost every day she throws a fit about how “fortunate” and “blessed” I am to be losing weight. As if some magical otherworldly force is responsible for the 25 pounds I’ve dropped thus far, and not my own diligence.
I’ve lost weight because I try. I try so hard. Every. Single. Day.
I’ve given up foods I love. I’ve given up soda, juice, and iced lattes. I’ve given up sweets. I’ve given up alcohol. I’ve given up on the sensation of being full. I’ve given up on the idea of “comfort food”. I go to bed hungry most nights and combat cravings. I drink enough water to leave me pissing like a racehorse and get a workout running to the bathroom 15 times a day.
It is not luck.
You sit on your ass 24/7 munching on pretzels, chips, and candy. I watched you eat an entire Halloween-sized bag of chocolate in a week. I’ve never seen a drop of liquid pass your lips that wasn’t booze or soda.
You are many things, but you are not too old. You’re not unlucky.
You are lazy. You are entitled.
You are weak.
I am not.