How’s that for a grabby headline?

I really like to be good at things. Or, to be more truthful, I just really hate to be bad at things. Call it self consciousness or neurodivergent rejection sensitivity or good old fashioned ego, but I just hate to fail. I used to joke (lie) that I’d try anything once— well, last year on my birthday, I resolved to try a few new things at least twice. And I was terrible at all of them, and it was fine.

First, after half a decade of running consistently, I joined a run club. It’s called Fat Boys Run Club, and we meet every Saturday at 9am at the Kezar Stadium track. I am far and away the fattest boy at run club, and also the slowest. The workouts are usually a little over 4 miles and yet, when everyone else is ready to pose for the sweaty group photo, I am consistently only at about 3.4. I have made almost no friends, but I HAVE made it on to 3 instagram close friends lists. So the lesson here is: be a better instagram reply guy than you are runner, and it’s fine.

Second, I signed up for a rock climbing class through the San Francisco Parks Department. Because I am, as mentioned above, a fat boy, I went in with appropriately low expectations. It turns out, I also have no muscles and very soft hands. But! I did make one friend, and now we’ve been climbing together almost every week for a year. She has progressed to a 5.10D while I have seemingly plateaued (pun intended) at a 5.10A, and it’s fine. 

Finally, I signed up for tennis. First I did a beginner tennis class, and I was just about right on par with everyone. We never actually played each other and mostly just whacked the ball into the net for an hour and then went home. But I was low key the best in the class at serving, so when the session ended, I signed up for an intermediate class next. This turned out to be my downfall. 

I’m spectacularly bad at tennis. I hit the coach in the head with the ball so many times one evening, he started wondering aloud if maybe he owed me money. I laughed, but only to keep from crying. One week, I stayed late to play for an extra hour with a girl from class, and she said “It’s so interesting. The coach will tell you to hold your racket here,” then she moved her racket dramatically to the other side of her body, “but you’re actually holding it way over here.” That was tough to hear, because I didn’t think anyone else had noticed that. I did some googling after and found out my ADHD is probably causing me to have “low proprioception,” which means my body has no sense of where it exists in space. Learning that cast my childhood cheerleading career into a new light.  And when the session ended, I hung up my racket for good. And it was fine! 

I was terrible at a variety of other non-athletic endeavors too. For example, I have a two year Duolingo streak (and a decade of formal education) and still barely speak a word of French. One of these days I hope to stumble into something I’m really good at, like Lizzie McGuire and rhythmic gymnastics. But until that day, I will keep trying and failing into my 33rd year. And it will be absolutely fine. 

A couple weeks ago, I was about 20 hours in to a 26 hour drive from San Francisco to Austin. We were past El Paso, driving on a rural highway through sheer West Texas nothingness, and I saw a shooting star.

I’m a rational, grown, adult woman, so of course I made a wish. Out loud, very quietly, I said “I wish I was thin.” It was instant. Second nature. I’ve made that wish so many times, I didn’t even think about it. I’ve wished for it on birthday candles. Eyelashes. Heads-up pennies, ladybugs, every 11:11 I’ve happened to catch. The universe has asked me a thousand times for my number one desire, and every single time I’ve politely asked to shrink.

What a fucking waste. Like what the fuck, actually?

2020 was a bad year. But I had the privilege of a lot of free time, and I spent the bulk of it trying to take better care of myself. I bought some skincare. Prioritized my sleep. Re-started my running routine, and started lifting the one set of 5-lb dumbbells I managed to find. I worked with a dietitian and started eating more. A lot more! A lot more.

I changed up my social media. I filled my feeds with body-positive diversity. I read so many blog posts and listened to so many podcasts and I learned so much more about society’s fatphobia and my own internalized shame. And still! The first chance I got, I wished for a smaller body.

I’m proud of the habits I built last year, but I know it takes time. So in 2021, for the first time in my life, I’m not resolving to lose weight. I’m actively resolving to NOT resolve to lose weight.

The next time I throw a coin into a fountain, I’m going to wish for a billion dollars. Or twitter fame. Maybe I’ll wish for pain and suffering for my enemies! Or world peace or something, I don’t know. But I’m certainly not going to waste my moment on something as boring as a smaller body.