I AM WOMAN, AM I FAT? . . .

After a toned-down winter season, during which my weight stayed the same as it was since July 2003, I have ramped up my weekly work-out routine and started to get back on the intensity track. The weather is getting warmer, the days are getting longer, tank-tops and shorts season is nigh, and the Revlon 5k and Balance Bar Adventure Sprints are fast approaching. No more three-toed tree sloth action for me!

But the most bizarre thing is happening: though I have re-upped up my running and strength-training, I have GAINED weight. Three pounds, to be precise, in the last three weeks. (This, of course, is an average, taking into account my perfectly regular and active days, two days of constipation, a few days of being sidelined due to severe knee pain, and the grand opening of Minado Restaurant, a Japanese seafood/sushi buffet.) Now, I know that muscle is three times heavier than fat. I know that I'm at the lower end of the weight range for my height. I know that my larger pants are still too big for me and my smaller pants still fit me perfectly. I know that my dresses and skirts hang on me the way they are supposed to. I know that my shoes still fit, my gloves still fit, the armpits of my coat do not pinch, and my rings do not clamp into my fingers. I know that I can do more repetitions of weight-lifting exercises and last longer on the treadmill at greater inclines. I know that I can stretch longer and more and still be comfortable. I know that I eat the same amount as I ever did, but more healthfully. I know that I go to the bathroom regularly and get mostly good sleep.

But still the stupid, stupid question pops into my mind: am I fat?

First of all, the fact that I'm asking myself this question offends even ME. All around me, I see people who actually are struggling with their weight (and thus their health), and I offend myself as well as insult them by pretending I have a weight problem. Aren't I rational? Don't I have eyes? Can't I look in the mirror? What the heck kind of question am I asking myself, "am I fat"? Sheesh!

Secondly, why is being fat or not fat even an issue? (Who am I supposed to compare myself to anyway?) I mean, of course one should always aim for optimal health. Lower your cholesterol, maintain low blood pressure, strengthen your heart, nourish your bones and muscles, develop good posture, learn to breathe correctly, get enough sleep and exercise, eat healthily, visit your healthcare providers. But "fat" in this society is a visual thing. And THAT is not an issue, or at least should not be. My intellect knows this. My vanity doesn't.

I was raised in an upper-middle class home. I have everything I need. I went to a great college and a good law school. I passed the Bar on the first try. I have an amazing job. I have the best family and friends. I have a supportive and nourishing church. I have my faith. I have a good paycheck, a roof over my head, the resources with which to buy clothes, shoes, makeup, books, computers, whatever I want. I have my brain and my heart, which usually try to be productive and do some good in this world. So why does my heart sink just because I see some more pounds on the scale? Do they really mean that much to me? And where do I get that weird arbitrary number that I'm supposed to live up (or down) to?

Every woman I know -- every woman I know -- is plagued by this question -- am I fat -- whether or not they are, medically. Every woman I know -- every woman I know -- is successful in her own right, ambitious, smart, creative, intelligent, caring and loving, and so chock-ful of good and wisdom. But she struggles anyway; I struggle anyway.

On the one hand, a little vanity could go a long way: I wake up feeling a little bloated and bleh, so I make myself hop on the treadmill to defuse the bloating and to jumpstart those crazy endorphins. But on the other hand, why the obsession? Why do we intelligent and capable women ignore the bare fact that exercise and good nutrition makes us HEALTHIER, mentally, physically and emotionally, and pore over the virtually meaningless numbers spewed forth by the scales instead?

Silly, silly us. Silly, silly me.