Waiting for weight loss: postponing life until she was the right size was all wrong. Here's how pursuing her dreams helped one writer peel away the pounds

After 20 years of almost nonstop dieting, I have discovered the common denominator to the cycle of gaining and losing: I was waiting for my weight to hit the perfect number before I started living.

To me, it makes sense that weight and wait are homonyms. I've spent long periods of my life waiting to fit into that coveted size 8 before I would allow myself to purchase a flirty black cocktail dress. For many years, I deferred going on spring break in Barbados until the day I could sit on the beach without worrying if my stomach rolled over my swimsuit or how many Points a fruity drink would cost me.

Body image, I realized, was even my excuse for not following through on my desire to write a novel. Only when I could fit into a smaller size would I be worthy of a fantastic book deal, I told myself.

Once, during a time in my 20s, I was at my ideal weight of 135 pounds. I remember I felt strong and graceful; I had a vision of where I wanted to go. Working in a hip travel job at the time, I unabashedly flirted with the most eligible bachelor in the office and shared my sophomoric poetry with friends whenever I could.

Then it all came to an abrupt halt: I stopped writing poetry and held off working on my novel to comply with my family's concerns that I find a more stable (read: higher-paying) job. I consoled myself with food for the loss of my creative life. My weight climbed rapidly.

It heaped insult on top of injury that my body was bent on disclosing to everyone around me that something was awry in my life. I kept myself so busy pursuing a career that I had no heart for that I became a walking billboard for job dissatisfaction. I stopped buying new clothes. I shied away from trying new activities, like tai chi and water-skiing. I ceased working out with my father, as I had when I was at my goal weight. After two years of this misery, I found myself tipping the scales at 200 pounds.

Then, as I turned 33, I lost my father to lung cancer. In my sorrow over his premature death, I had a revelation: If I was ever to write that novel, it had to be now. I quit the job I detested and began to write full time. And, as the pages accumulated, an odd thing happened: My waist began to shrink.

Now, two years later and 30 pounds lighter, I realize that pursuing my dream renewed my energy to take that extra walk, go skating with friends and try new things just for fun, like snow-shoeing or crafting mosaics. Instead of whiling away the evening alone with a pint of Cherry Garcia and an old movie, I spend my free time with friends from my writers' group who inspire me and push me creatively.

Although I still have 35 pounds to go, writing a novel is no longer part of my imagined future. It is part of who I am today. And even if I'm not at my goal weight just yet, I'm no longer waiting for my life to begin, either.

Georgia Pergakis is busy calculating how many pages she has to write to get back into her size-8 jeans in Bloomington, Minn.

COPYRIGHT 2005 Weider Publications
COPYRIGHT 2005 Gale Group