... not about my life. About my weight.
This week I have *really* noticed the extra 40 pounds I have packed on since 2010, when I'd lost a hundred pounds. I mean, yes, of course I noticed it before. But part of my brain has been saying, "it's not *that* bad." I mean, it isn't like it was at 278. I guess believing it is not that bad is a coping mechanism of sorts... because I have never given up, I never stopped trying, I am working at it every day and I have to believe all that work is worth *something* So it becomes "not that bad" to weigh 216 pounds, and I la-de-da my way through life... feeling okay about it, not especially liking it, wanting to change it, but not hating it either.
I think I am hating it now.
A couple of times this week, I sat on the edge of my bed to talk on the phone. Across from my bed is the full length mirror that I always take my progress pictures in. I was sitting there talking on the phone and suddenly SAW myself in the mirror. Unposed, unfiltered, just... there I was. Big. Way bigger than I imagine myself to be. Rolls. Layers. I felt almost assaulted with reality. Then I turned away.
A couple of other times this week, I *felt* the thick layer of fat that encases my body. It is cumbersome; it hinders my movement when I bend. When I try to put on jeans fresh out of the dryer, it is *really* obvious that the fat is there. And even now, sitting here, I am very aware of the layer that doesn't belong. I feel like the zipper's stuck on one of those puffy Michelin Man winter coats and I can't get it off.
That layer was put there by me. That layer is made of fat, yes, bit is *composed* of things like bread, noodles, cookies, bacon, sausage, and too many nuts. It didn't seem like much at the time: a little overindulgence, a handful of crackers, a day "off" after a few weeks of eating right, a croissant at the French bakery. It wasn't *that* often and it wasn't *that* much. But it added up... slowly, imperceptibly, it layered cell by cell onto my body until here I am, feeling puffed up like a blowfish. I hardly recognize myself.
Yeah, I am hating it. Not hating *myself.* Not even hating my body. I am hating that I have this big, heavy, unhappy extra layer to carry around. It's hard on my knees, tough on my feet, killer on my self esteem.
I am trying every day. A pound off a week, well, that's not cutting it. Sorry, but being honest here, I have put on 11 pounds in a week before, and I'd think that losing 2 pounds a week on *average* would not be outside the realm of possibility. I have lost TWO pounds in January. Two. Something has to give.
Something is *going* to give.
Things I’m Digging
2 days ago