I was getting all set and ready to go full on self-deprecation mode with this. I mean, it has been nearly two years since I last checked in. And probably about thirty pounds in the wrong direction. How would I know for sure? I’ve contracted scale-itis. It stares at me with that knowing, blank, LED screen when I enter the bathroom and have to turn sideways to maneuver between toilet and tub. . . but I’m certain not to make eye contact for fear of feeling shamed by an inanimate object.
We might lie to ourselves and think “it’s not so bad” as we burgeon out of stretch pants and refuse invitations to go places, afraid of not being able to fit into our jeans, but deep down we know the truth. At least I know my truth. I feel it in my skin, in my knees, in my inability to sleep well. I see it in the mirror, in disgusted looks from strangers, in the eyes of concerned loved ones too worried about hurting my feelings to say anything about the weight gain.
But the longer we hide, the worse it gets.
It’s easy to douse ourselves with loathing. What am I doing? Why can’t I get it right? I know better, what’s my problem? I HATE MYSELF!!! But that only gets us to the bottom of an ice cream carton.
It’s love we need. It’s love I need . . . from myself.
The pounds have reappeared. Either that or they can’t find time to blog in between workouts.
Nah. It’s the former.
In the beginning you might be all RAH RAH about losing weight and shout it to the world, pretending that it gives you some form of accountability. But how accountable do you have to be to a cyberrific audience? It’s too easy to hide. You just stop posting, networking, connecting with fellow bloggers.
Until you start RAH RAH-ing again.
This is where the battle of the bulge is won. When you fall off, how quickly do you get back on track? How much do you beat yourself up? What type of vitriolic nastiness do you shower upon yourself? Or is this the time you cut yourself some slack and say, you know what? I screwed up and that’s okay. Now I must confess and start with a clean slate:
- Juicer? What juicer? Oh, that contraption sitting on my counter collecting dust over the past three weeks? The machine I nicknamed Biff (for BFF) while juicing my way to vibrancy has been neglected. Surprised it didn’t unfriend me on Facebook.
- Client sends nearly five pounds of gourmet chocolates as a thank you. Yes, I gave some away, but at the same time, gorged on the rest. I was reminded why moms say “too much candy will make your belly ache.” Ouch.
- Why drink water when there’s alcohol? My hydration has been lacking to non-existent. Oh swollen ankles, how I have not missed you.
- Eating at home has not been an option the past couple of weeks – unless leftover casseroles, ham and brownies would suffice.
- Ah, vegetables . . . almost forgot how to spell it.
There you have it. I have repented my gluttonous sins and am cleansed anew . . .
At least I will be after that New Year’s Eve party tonight!