I live in the thinnest state in America, or rather, the least obese state, according the CDC. Curious? Go ahead and look up your state. I’ll wait.
Don’t feel bad. Your state might be fatter because all the thin people moved here. Not the ones who look like supermodels, the ones you suspect are anorexic. They probably moved to NY or LA. The ones who moved here are muscular and fit and burn so many calories that they feel no shame in downing super sized meals that I have never once eaten. Competitive athleticism is a major draw for the area. There are triathlons for preschoolers, and 5ks are the most popular fundraisers.
I’m not thin. I’m not obese, either. I’m overweight: above my ideal, but not considered a medical problem. However, living where I do, I feel huge. Most places I go, I am the largest woman present.
In contrast, in my home state, with a 27% obesity rate, I look about like most of the other women my age: flappy arms, a bit of a belly, and a sagging neck. There, I don’t stand out. Here, I feel like an eyesore.
Ironically, I gained a good part of my chub since moving here, because, thin state or not, I hit middle age. Or it hit me. Hard. When I was young, I could skip lunch for a few days and drop five pounds. Now, my metabolism shuts down if I even think of skipping a meal. Or if I don’t. Doesn’t matter. It’s not what it used to be.
Not gaining feels like a win at this stage. Eating less, exercising more, and neither losing nor gaining is about as good as it gets these days.
I see articles and books which promise I can dress to look thin, but when you are surrounded by people whose idea of fun is eight hours biking up a mountain or training for a marathon, vertical lines and dark colours are not enough. I’ll still look (and be) bigger than the 30something who spends two hours a day in the gym and wears yoga pants everywhere to make sure everyone sees the results.
Next time, I’m moving to a fat state.