There I am.
A little skip in my step (it may actually be a limp from plantar fasciitis.)
Marcia & her siblings singing “Sunshine Day” in my medulla oblongota.
Feeling pretty gosh darn good.
I see a picture of myself on the social media & my mood crumbles like blue cheese. I rub my eyes, shake my head & blink three times, hoping the figment will disappear.
Sadly, it does not. Who IS that person?? Where is the Me I know, or think I know?? Ugh. Double, triple Ugh.
I’ve never really cared for pictures of myself (aside from my three year post divorce binger where I lost nearly 80 lbs & had a constant buzz-induced grin on my usually overly tanned face—– but that’s a whole other story.) I’ve always preferred to be behind the camera, I look better that way. Overweight has been my way of life more so than not. You’d think I’d be used to the look. Unfortunately, I am not & it stops me dead on my contentment train tracks. Those nasty buggers, anxiety & depression, make an unwelcome appearance. The Jerk Twins take turns beating my ego, heart & soul to bloody pulps (ewwww, pulp.) I accuse myself of so many nasty things with the overall theme being You Feel Like A Dog Turd Dipped In Mud, Coated With Sticks And Pebbles, Yet You Do Nothing To Change It.
The worst part? I’ve done it before. I did it without shakes, powders or booty-buster pills. I did it without expensive home gym equipment. I did it without someone telling me how to do it. I did get my butt out of bed at 5 am & drag it to the gym for 2 hour workouts, but only for about 6-8 months. After that I walked, biked & workout DVD’d. I gobbled up info from magazines, books & online. I kept a food diary & weighed myself each & every day, sometimes twice a day. In short, I was obsessed. It was my entire life. At the time, that was perfectly acceptable. I was all I had & this gave me a focus. A positive to outweigh the negative subconscious nagging pestering me as to why I didn’t have anything else. I gave it my all & I looked Tony the Tiger Grrrrrrrrreat! I think I also felt good, but that could’ve easily been the Blue Light/Crown supplements.
Enter “The Boy”. We both tripped & fell deep, almost overnight. With the snap of a finger, I now had more to my every day. Those early morning alarms were quickly silenced & the diet put on it’s stretchy pants.
In the Pro column, my bar days came to a halt. The storm clouds parted, revealing a choir of Hallelujah crooning angels. (I don’t know how people continue to live like 22 at 45… another future story.) Predictably, the pounds found their way back. A couple years in, we both decided we needed to find some health & our long lost waistlines. We donned our Fitbits & supported each other in our separate but parallel fitness journeys. We managed to shed some of our Relationship 15 (ok, 40). He more than I, of course, stupid male vs. female metabolism. Woo hoo! Go us! Then, guess what? Yep. We patted ourselves on the back that we COULD do it, we just chose not to any longer. We settled back into our uninterrupted sleep, tv watching, yummy grease consuming lifestyle we treasured over our new found physiques.
Here we are. Six years later. I’m back up to my heaviest. I’m tired. I have unprovoked mood swings.
I feel old.
I know I need to make changes, more for my inside than my out. I want to be around for a little while. I have a ton of things I want to do, learn, see. I’m already well equipped with the shoulds & need to’s. Fingers crossed this is the good swift kick in my portly backside to jumpstart my baby steps strategy to a better Me. I’m making a new plan, Stan, hopping on the bus, Gus.