Okay, so I’m not really fat. Well, according to my BMI I am, but for an American I’m really not. I’ve struggled with my weight for years (haven’t we all?). My body seems perfectly settled being about 10 pounds fluffy. It doesn’t take much effort to maintain 10 pounds of marshmallow fluff. Now that 10 pounds is the exact difference between being within the high range of that elusive healthy BMI. Lower than that and fuggetaboutit. Really though, no matter how I may compare to you or someone else in appearance, that 10 pounds is the difference between me feeling good about myself, being motivated to be the best me and feeling like nothing more than pile of defeated marshmallow fluff.
While I was used to being porky for a lot of my early twenties, by my mid-twenties, I experienced a radical lifestyle change and became a dedicated gym rat. I walked anywhere I could walk and got in a lot of exercise. I was really lean and felt like a rock star. I vowed to never go back. Then out of nowhere I experienced a wild shift in my hormones shortly before my wedding. For almost a year I was emotionally out of control. I started out extremely angry then my doctor changed my birth control and I immediately became depressed and started binge eating. My husband actually told me he preferred me depressed over angry. Thanks, Babe. That went on for about 3 months, during the holidays no less. I packed on 25 pounds in that short amount of time.
In the New Year, I gave up birth control completely. I experienced horrible cycles, but the anger and depression were gone, and the fat remained. I was dedicated to getting back into fitness and feeling like myself again. Then I was suckered punched again when I suffered an extremely painful injury that resulted in a surgery two years later. At the time of the injury I was mentally prepared to be myself again but physically incapable. It was huge struggle but I did get 15 of those pounds off. I felt better, but not great. I wanted to feel great again.
By this point it was all on me. Yes, I was injured, but through calorie control I could lose weight. Via a classic New Years resolution in 2015, I did just that. I started to feel really good when I shaved off 5 pounds. I promised myself I would lose the last 5, but I didn’t. I could give all sorts of excuses why I didn’t, but really it was all on me. Calorie control could have gotten me there despite my injury. It was mostly okay though because I was still a lot leaner and felt good. Then it seemed things would be on an upward swing. I had my surgery and couldn’t get to the fridge on my own. My husband fed me virtually all health food and I could feel the fluff disappearing each day. I got nearly zero exercise during this time so a lot of extra muscle was disappearing too, but I felt good. I couldn’t wait to get to exercise.
Unfortunately there was a painful stop between being immobile and being able to exercise. Mobility brought me face to face with the refrigerator and nothing but time on my hands. I started training for a new job that included extensive classroom time with a daily bowl of Halloween candy. I ate and ate knowing exactly what I was doing to myself, but I did it anyways.
By the end of November, I was cleared to resume my daily life without restriction. It was just enough to prevent more weight gain. My body had to ease into life it turned out. Since the New Year I’m fresh out of excuses. I have chosen to sleep in over going to the gym. I have chosen to sundown over going to the gym. I’ve chosen to waste time on the weekends instead of going to the gym. Pre-injury and hormonal roller-coaster me was at the gym every single day first thing. Some weeks I struggled to pick a day to not hit the gym because it meant giving up an activity I was passionate about. Would I skip spin? Weight-lifting? Running? Hiking? All fitness activities were social activities. It was how I met my friends and I loved it.
I loved that life. But it’s not me now. That life was established through routine. It was established through having my husband finishing grad school 2000 miles away, and my being unemployed. I loved knowing what my body could accomplish. I miss that life, but apparently not enough. Not enough to eat less. Not enough to wake up in the morning and hit the gym. Not enough to make the changes I need to make to feel great again. Plain and simply, I do not feel good about myself with this extra 10 pounds of fluff, but I don’t want to either. I don’t want to accept a new me. I refuse to give up. I refuse to buy new clothes. I refuse to feel good about myself today. I recognize that right now it’s on me. My excuses are all used up. I don’t feel great because of the choices I have made. I know that now. Soon I hope I will feel great again, and I do actively prevent weight gain, but right now I’m not actively promoting weight loss either.
I know it doesn’t make a lick of sense, but we aren’t talking about a robot here. I am a person with very tangled thoughts and feelings. It takes commitment. I have not chosen that commitment just yet. But it is always on my mind.
Right now, some donut holes are calling my name.
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