In a culture with so many varying messages being bandied about over what constitutes a healthy self-image, it's difficult to know how to react to hitting a goal weight.

Or at least some arbitrary number that's been implanted into you like some microchip. Some days, I'm not totally unconvinced that the good people at Weight Watchers, back in 2002, didn't do just that.

(Kidding, Weight Watchers corporate people. I know some of you read this space. Hello!)

So yesterday I hit that number, and admittedly I was happy and excited. I've been on some Sisyphean-like journey for five years now, whether I was actively pursuing it or not. That number was always, always there. Just dangling out there. In truth, I never really thought my body would ever hit that number, and for reasons I'm still trying to parse out for myself, I gave "139" a lot more power and importance than perhaps a string of numbers deserves. So when I saw it flashing back at me, my instincts just set off fireworks inside my head.

But it didn't stop me from critically and harshly examining my "fat stomach" in the mirror as I chose an outfit to wear to work yesterday.

I spent the rest of the day wondering when in the hell this will ever stop. I think it's pretty obvious and understood that weight loss will not necessarily keep some of us from ever thinking we're "good enough." While my priorities have certainly shifted - I would keep running and eating well if I weren't losing weight because I am a more productive, adjusted person because of the practice - that desire to be something different remains.

I inherited my mother's body. She was short - 5-feet-even - and an incredibly curvaceous woman. Even at 105 pounds, she was all curve. She's been gone eighteen years, so my memory may be clouded, but I remember her hips pretty exactly - they seemed so round and expansive for such a small woman. And just like her laugh, I inherited those hips, and I see them every day.

My best friend's mom, who was in the bridal suite when we were getting ready for her daughter's wedding two weeks ago, made this comment after I tossed out a comment about being self-conscious about the size of my hips, and debated whether or not to wear one of those Spanx contraptions.

"Girls, women are supposed to have hips," she said, plain as day, and said nothing more.

I put on the Spanx - the generic, Target version - and after five minutes of pure hell and insanity, I took the fucking thing off. What was I doing? There I was, in the best shape of my life, happy and healthy, and I'm still trying to force my body into a shape that's not natural, not what it is, because ... of what?

I'm not going to apologize for having lost weight, or my desire to do so. I'm honestly not actively shooting for another five, 10 pounds, whatever. If it happens, so be it. No woman should ever have to explain herself when it comes to her body and what she chooses to do with it because, you know, her fucking body.

But I am going to apologize to myself for not doing more work to make reaching 139 less important.

Posted by Erin at 11:34 AM | filed under: Random