Several weeks ago I attempted to embark on a new healthy living lifestyle.
I thought I was doing pretty well, too, until the weigh-in.
That morning I confidently hopped on the scale slightly dehydrated from my two mile run earlier that morning. (I purposely limited my water consumption hoping dehydration would tip the scales in my favor.)
I planted my feet and looked down to discover a five pound weight GAIN.
Before I panicked I hopped off the scale, readjusted the dial and gingerly stepped back on. If I moved my toes way up to the top of the scale, almost flipping the scale forward, the numbers showed only a three pound gain.
You’ve GOT to be kidding me!
For the past seven weeks I’ve gotten up before the butt-crack of dawn to run under the cloak of pre-dawn darkness and three pounds of weight gain is what I have to show for it?
To say that I felt frustrated is an understatement.
I’ve been dressing in clothes this summer that bear resemblance to a bag to hide my insecurities. Bigger clothes hide the lumps and bulges I don’t want people to see, making me feel like I’m fooling people with an optical illusion. I know I’m not–but that’s another column for another time.
I’m tired of dressing in the morning with what closely resembles the mating dance of a whooping crane. I slither one leg into the sausage casing of denim then the other. Next a series of squats to work the pants up my legs. When my jeans are above my knees, I begin side leg lifts and butt wriggles to work them over my thighs. Finally, with the aid of a shoehorn and butter, I manage to get them on.
Buttoning the pants requires focused breathing techniques employed by the most advanced yoga.
I called my super skinny sister to whine.
She empathized, giving me excuses. When I felt like I’d had enough of my ego stroked I asked her what I should do.
She sang the praises of a new “no-sugar” diet she’s been on for several months. She cooed over how it regulated her hormones and emotions and she feels great.
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“Just remember, protein over carbs,” she said, “and a little patience with yourself.”
I felt better.
But I gave up watching what I was eating and dropped my exercise program for several days. I needed a mental reprieve.
“Want a beer?” Hubby asked me this past weekend on his way to the fridge.
“No thanks,” I replied, “I stopped drinking.”
“Oh, when did you do that?” he asked.
“When my pants stopped fitting.”
Apparently, the past seven weeks of huffing it along the pavement in the pre-dawn hours have only succeeded in causing hunger pangs that allow me to work out my jaw muscles.
After a week-long feeling of defeat I’ve decided to try my sisters protein diet. So far, after a day, I haven’t seen the benefits, but drastic times require drastic measures.
My new mantra shall be: I shall not want sugar. It maketh me stretch out my pants. It leadeth me to aisles of cookies for empty calories’ sake. Yea, though I walk through the aisle of sugar, I will fear no cookie. Thy bacon and thy egg shall comfort me. They preparest a table before me in the absence of carbohydrates; They anoint my stomach with protein; My protein shake runneth over. Surely diet and exercise shall follow me all the days of my life, and I will wear small sized clothing forever.
Is that an Oreo cookie I smell?