You're not training for a marathon anymore. Please stop eating like you are.
Sincerely,There was another in my dresser drawer from my sweaters. The profanity was so outlandish, I fear being fined by the FCC if I were to publish it.
I've spent most of my life mildly annoyed by my weight. I guess it must have been the exact day that puberty hit, I left behind (or perhaps I merely ate) the skinny (I do mean skinny) girl I'd been for the previous fourteen years. The transition from a firmly padded bra to generous underwires was almost instantaneous. My "friends" jokingly called me "Skinny Jenny" because, well, compared to the other cheerleaders (sigh...alas, I am not allowed to rewrite history), I was not. (Let me assure you, I'd happily go back to that size, but never, never those days).
I'm not fat. I know that. But I'm not trim either. And I'm frustrated that despite exercising five to six days every week for the last year, my adipose stores have remained virtually stagnant.
What do I blame? Food.
I love food. I love reading about it. I love cooking it. I love eating it. Food is so cool! And mostly I love good food. Healthy food. Tasty, loaded with vegetables and exotic spices food. But that doesn't stop me from eating -- or perhaps I should call it shoveling -- gross quantities of less-than-stellar quality convenience foods into my mouth at times. November's excuse is school. The holidays will inevitably take the blame next month.
Call it stress eating. Call it lack of will power. Boredom. An oral fixation. You could even occasionally call it hunger. I cannot seem to get a hold on my eating.
So I'm becoming a dietitian? Seriously? Talk about a case of, "Physician (dietitian - hey, they rhyme!), heal thyself." As far as I can tell (and I assure you, I mostly still don't know precisely what I'll be doing when I grow up), I will be counseling patients who are verging on diabetes or coping with morbid obesity, telling them what to eat and when, convincing them that it will enhance their quality of life if they can make better food choices. Then when they leave the room, I will stuff cheddar cheese flavored rice cakes down my throat like there's no tomorrow, justifying each bite until I'm dusted with crumbs, then chastising myself as I hide the empty bag under a couple of layers of trash.
I'm not winning any metabolic beauty contests either. While it's clear that forty is the coolest age ever (though I'm guessing forty-one might outdo it), I know that each and every day my systems take one step closer to hibernation. All of my spinning, running, lifting and stretching efforts won't stop the inevitable clock from ticking away at my ability to consume large amounts of food and remain only somewhat bothered by my mass.
So what's this all leading to?
I'm going to blog a sincere attempt at weight loss. Ten, maybe fifteen pounds...we'll see. I'm going to tell you numbers on scales and tape measures, heck, maybe even calipers if I can find someone willing to pinch my backside. I'm going to use this education to which I'll be financially indebted for all eternity to assess my ideal body weight, my perfect protein portions and my just-right carb counts. I'm going to put myself to work, making fun of myself along the way.
I wish I could say I had the time to get this rolling right now, but it will be at least a week before I can get my ducks in a row and my muffin-top (and I don't mean the tasty kind) measured. Photos, ups and downs, food diaries, I'm going to try to be open here.
Ahhh, public humiliation -- it's apparently my specialty.