Take it from someone who has yo-yo’ed more than Ms. Oprah, dieting sucks. Throughout my brief history on Earth, I have been subjected to such a wide battery of eating regimens that I could probably make millions counseling others in the ways of weight loss, if they wouldn’t look at my bootylicious curves and laugh, that is. No folks, they’re not ready for this jelly.

Alas, the quest toward satisfaction with the svelte self is a bumpy one. There are set backs, weight gains, let downs and a host of other crucibles that make you question whether looking like you just shot up heroin within the hour is even worth it. I have often found that the easy assumption of the metabolically-unchallenged is that being heavy somehow equals unhappiness. Who, with some extra poundage, has not been the eight-year-old child eavesdropping in the department store dressing room while the salesman tells your mother that you’ve “graduated” from regular attire for tots to the “husky boys” clothing. The go-to response in that situation is to inquire of the unassuming overeater what in his life has made him so unhappy so as to look the way he does. Huh?

It is this fuzzy equation, that outward appearance automatically implies self-loathing, that has always thrown me (though not too far, mind you). I could never buy into the fact that the Slim-Fast shake that is supposed to taste like strawberries ‘n cream, but really tastes like freshly-brewed cement, would be my key to eternal joy and contentment. And so, a life of tipping scales can teach one innumerable lessons, the least of which is never to wear spandex (though the not-so form fitting Juicy Couture sweats aren’t working miracles, either, I’ll profess).

Let’s be honest: Weight loss just is never going to happen until you’re ready to make it happen. How many days have I woken up convinced I would make it to the gym just a couple floors below me, but instead gone to Bear’s Den for the pasta (“with cut-up chicken tenders and cheese, please!”). How many times have I been going strong on a diet for weeks, months even, and then one day lost sight of the goal and focused my sights, instead, on cheesecake (yes, I am a Golden Girl). I have been pumped full of speed by a supposedly licensed professional-two, actually, only I can’t pronounce the name of the first one, whose name would place him as an escaped experimenter from a Nazi death camp. I have been to a nutritionist, who gave me a certain amount of food groups to engage each day, but convinced I had to fill all my grains (and disregarding my mother’s advice), I ate my gnocchi with gusto. I have been to countless Weight Watchers meetings, where the disgustingly supportive atmosphere made me want to reach out and touch someone-strangle them that is, then eat a couple of their snack bars in remorse.

So, perhaps, I have to face a life where I may never look like the person I want to be, or even feel like inside. Maybe I will. The point is, I am not going to hate myself in the process. Make no mistake, I will be hateful, yes, but not angry with myself every time I choose soda over Evian, or to walk the racks of Saks instead of on a treadmill for an hour. For, while to some I might be more attractive if I had the figure of a runway model on a 358-calorie-a-day diet, I can stand being a happy “husky boy” if the alternative were not being confident with who I am.

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