At 70.5kg and 1.68m tall, my BMI is exactly 25 – bordering between the range of “acceptable” and “overweight”. Though I have sometimes been measured and told that I’m 1.7m but no, I don’t think so, dahling. Thanks for the extra 2cm anyway. On a good morning, I can weigh slightly under 70kg. Can’t tell for certain since my weighing machine is the cheapo IKEA sort and isn’t exactly precise, but the needle will be hovering just 1mm below the 70kg mark. [Note to self: Buy a digital weighing scale, preferably with fat/muscle measurements as well.]
While I probably should be thanking the Lord (literally) for not being in the overweight zone, I can’t help but feel a bit miffed that I am “so near yet so far”. My efforts over the last 2 weeks have proved somewhat futile. And in this warped reality that I live in, I actually get a sizable tummy bloat immediately after exercise. So much for feeling empowered.
To all you skinny chopstick-limbed girls out there, please get out of my sight if you want to complain about being “fat”. You don’t know fat until you get to where I am – a world where you get offered seats and “well-meaning” aunties in the neighborhood constantly ask if you’re expecting another one.
I am starting to get really sick of this. So much so that I actually looked into getting a tummy tuck versus abdominal liposuction, and brought it up to Hubs. And as usual, his reply was: “You know if I had the money, I won’t hesitate letting you go for it.” Yeah, but the thing is, we don’t have that kind of money. 😦
So it’s back to the drawing board, and struggling with a fat belly everyday. I think I’ll need a psychiatrist if I hear another “are you pregnant” remark.