Here’s the thing—I haven’t dieted or considered dieting since I got the FA bug last year. In fact, I’ll never do that again. I’ve read enough and heard enough and I believe enough to feel good about that decision. I am fat—I’m always going to be fat!

Whew, that’s such a relief. 

And as it turns out, I’ve gained some weight in the past year. And no, the FA is not related to the extra Rachel fluff. No m’am. I didn’t think: FA? YAY! Now I can eat two whole cakes at every meal! (God bless Lesley for turning that into the best. meme. ever.) Nah, I just had a crazy nutsy stressful year, and the last thing I thought about was buying food that made me feel good. I just wanted food that was fast and easy. I don’t feel great when I eat like that. There’s a happy medium between powdered donuts and celery, and I couldn’t find it. I ate what I ate, and that’s that. 

But I was WAY down in the dumps, and I know myself well enough to know that living on pie wasn’t helping me feel better. And so I struggled a bit because I worried that if I ate too healthy, it would feel like dieting. And I hate dieting! It’s bad bad bad. But green food from the ground isn’t bad! 

Geez, what a mess. My head was a mess. 

So here’s what I did: I got myself to Trader Joe’s and waited on a really long line (I miss the suburban pleasure of NOT waiting on a line). And I bought food that I dig, that fuels me, that isn’t processed within an inch of its life. I bought hummus and nan and curry chicken and frozen mango chunks and greek yogurt and peanut butter filled pretzels. And I brought it all home and started eating dinners that I loved more than take-out. My diet is not a “diet.” My diet is the food I eat everyday and I call the shots. And right now the shots include smoothies and breakfast pizza and applewood smoked bacon and spanikopita. I’m allowed to eat what I want from kale to Krispy Kreme. 

I wish food was just food and not a huge mindfuck. 

Right, so that’s the food part. But wait—what is this Zumba I speak of?

Once my gym-membership-of-shame expired on September 15th (yay!) I decided to find a dance class or activity that I liked. Never in my adult life have I done anything athletic that wasn’t linked to a burning desire to be thin. I sign up at gyms and never go because I hate the gym. I do like dancing around like a nut and getting sweaty and talking cold showers when I get home. That’s pure good. I like feeling my muscles get sore. Maybe I’m a little masochistic. 

I started doing my research and looking for a fat-friendly dance class or yoga class or any class. I found a couple, but the scheduling didn’t work for me, and the descriptions didn’t get my heart racing. This shizzit isn’t supposed to be a chore! And a big motivation for me is stress relief. With my dad being sick, I need to do something to burn off the stress, and I’m pretty sure that jumping around like a maniac will do the trick. 

Which is where the Zumba comes in. A few friends said I’d love it. And you know what? After one class I’m not head-over-heels in love. BUT, it felt good. I feel good now. And the music is fun, and the dance steps are fun, and I think after a few classes I will not feel like my heart is going to free itself from my chest and land with an angry thud on the floor. I was lucky to have a friend come with me (yay Golda!), and the two of us were the only students in a very small, warm studio and we made it through the hour. 

I’m going to go back. No pressure. No contract. No weighing myself pre and post workout (no weighing myself at all, in fact). Just dancing like a nut, learning I have hips that do not wriggle, and rocking out my kick-ass, fierce, jiggly, amazing fat self.