An Open Letter to the Fifteen Pounds I Gained During Covid

Dear Quarantine Fifteen,

Ok, I’m finally willing to acknowledge your existence.

My pants have known about you for a while… the jeans have been hiding for months, huddled together in the back of the drawer because they know you are too much for them to handle.

I suppose the scale knew about you too, but I banished him to the bottom of my closet in July (underneath those fancy sweaters I never bothered to get dry-cleaned since I wasn’t planning on going anywhere anyway).

I know you’ve been in cahoots with the grocery delivery service and the Girl Scouts, always showing up with ice cream and cookies.

I guess I couldn’t ignore you anymore when I started doing yoga again. I found you hanging down in that gap between my leggings and my sports bra like some over-inflated lake tube, jiggling in my face during downward dog.

I’m tired of looking at you — popping up from my midsection like Whack-A-Mole every time I sit down. It’s exasperating.

Well, I guess I can’t be that mad at you.

After all, I invited you here. I suppose I needed you on some level.

You were there, wrapping around me like a doughy hug, as the weeks of isolation and anxiety had me rooting through bags of M&Ms and grazing off my kids’ leftover plates of cold chicken nuggets and corn dogs.

Your extra inches warmed me in this cold winter as I gazed longingly out the window like a harp seal at the zoo.

But, now you’ve overstayed your welcome. It’s time to pack up and hit the road. You can no longer live here on my couch eating all my food.

What’s that? You say you have no where else to go? You’ve never been on your own before?

Fine, I don’t expect you to be gone in the morning. I’ll give you, let’s say, a month or two to find a new place.

In the meantime, you better clean up your act and stop stretching out my favorite Jeggings. At least make yourself useful and carry my new fanny pack* for me.

Sincerely,

Portrait of those pesky pounds and my new fanny pack | Image by Vixen Lea

*When I read this draft to my husband, he laughed and said “You’re such a dork. But in a good way.” That was even before I showed him my new fanny pack. This past weekend I finally gave in to my secret desire to own and wear a fanny pack, initially sparked by my dear friend Cheryl who rocks one all summer on her bike. If there was ever any doubt that I am a complete dork, let it be dissolved right now.

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