June 1st, 2011
I’ve been very unhealthy the last two years. Not taking my vitamins, drinking all the time, eating a proliferation of cheeses. I kind of buried my head in the sand with it all because that’s easy to do when you’re busy and working all the time. I have to admit that I’ve completely ignored the widening areas of my body until a few months ago when I realized I could no longer shove my buttocks into a pair of size 6 jeans. Then, size 8 started feeling snug.
I know I’m not heavy, but I’m not healthy either, and being as intimately acquainted with my body as I am, I’m quite aware when I’m past my feel-good weight. I’m tired, out-of-breath, and draggy. I can’t fit into clothes, I feel uncomfortable in my skin.
I haven’t been this over my target weight since college, and I’m even counting my two pregnancies.
Yes. Right now, I weigh the same as I did when I was pregnant.
When I had a nine-pound baby in my stomach.
I know a small portion of my weight onslaught is my advancing age (42), and slowing metabolism, but I suspect most of it is wine every night and an utter lack of physical activity. Furthermore, I recently came away with an anemia diagnosis and a sudden weight gain of 10 pounds in the last three months, and it’s not my thyroid. It’s that I’m not taking care of myself.
Something needs to be done.
Something where I don’t just say I’m going to get back into shape, but instead post a picture of myself in a bathing suit to publicly humiliate my lame brain into adhering to some sort of fitness program.
And I know: I need to stop drinking, too.
These things are difficult for me because my stress coping mechanisms are eating and drinking. And yelling. And not moving much. I’ve been under a fair load of work pressure and feel quite swamped and overloaded, but that doesn’t mean my butt has to be too.
Also, enough excuses.
The Rock and I got in a fight Saturday night because he chastised me for complaining about my body and not doing anything about it, so I replied with what every mentally healthy female my age would say: Shut up! You’re dumb!” and “You don’t know what it’s like!” and “I’m busy!” and “I work hard!” and “I have limited time!”
I wish I’d shut up, because sometimes I can be dumb.
So here is me in a bathing suit. Seeing it up close is jarring; there’s more weight gain than I suspected once it’s in front of my eyes.
I’ll post another picture in about six weeks and hope we all see a difference.
And no. I don’t know why my crotch looks puffy.