I wish I could blame my thirty-five-pound weight gain solely on my sickness. For a long time I was too fatigued to empty the dishwasher and shower within five hours of each other. So naturally anything more aerobic than light stretching went by the wayside. Unfortunately for my sense of scapegoat, I only gained like eight pounds during the first year of my relapse. Although annoying, it seemed like a reasonable consequence to no longer being able to workout.
Then I turned forty. It wasn't so much a birthday. No, the week I hit the big 4-0 was more about damage control. Coincidentally, a friend gave me a bottle of delicious spiced rum as a gift. Well in order to cope with my misery over how sick I was and how bad I was failing at life, I proceeded to turn that one-time gift into a lifestyle. I started drinking way too much and eating bad as well. They seem to go hand in hand with me.
Somewhere along the line I graduated from spiced rum to bourbon. Fast food sneaked its way back into my lexicon. As my body got bigger, my clothes got bigger, and I got madder about the whole thing. Now it's been three years, to the month, since I gave up working out. And I'm like a rapidly expanding blimp over here, as evidenced by the size-large outfit I had to go buy Sunday night for my husband's company holiday party in two weeks. And that's with a girdle.
Yet I'm feeling physically better than I have in years. So my motivation to change is stuck in low-gear. Until Sunday night, that is. I've never accepted my larger size and have totally allowed it to impact my self-esteem. Showing up to the family Thanksgiving gathering was rough because I was ashamed by my appearance. In true paranoid fashion, felt like everyone spent the night whispering about how fat I'd gotten. Like anybody really cares.
So now I'm determined to lose ten pounds before the party next Friday. That gave me twelve days as of yesterday. It's a stupid and unhealthy goal, but I'm going to see what I can do. On Monday I did yoga and went to bed hungry. This morning I lost two ounces under a pound. So today, which was a harrowing and stressful day, I went to the gym when I wanted to go have a drink. And then I didn't even pour a stiff one when I eventually got home. It wasn't as much fun, but I'm teeming for another pound lost tomorrow. With ten days to go...
Thanks for joining,
Leah
I too am a sufferer and while I can workout/walk on my treadmill I know that after a few days of that I won't be able to move without pain. Ive gained ten pounds since february when my scale broke and my husband convinced me that the scale only made me angry everyday. I don't over eat but not being able to work up a sweat and being 58, my always trim medium size has now become a large to xtra large in some stores.
ReplyDeleteI only post a comment because just this morning I told my husband that I didn't know what I was going to wear for his christmas party tomorrow as nothing fits me or looks nice anymore. He told me that I'm beautiful but I'm not convinced. Fibro kicks me in the butt most days but it's the weight gain that gets me really depressed! Especially when my 75 year old mother tells me that the latest pants she bought are a 00 size.