I fucked it all up last January. That was when I had a sore throat that turned into the flu, that turned into bronchitis which knocked me on my ass for about two months and instead of pushing through as I usually would, I actually rested. Mostly on account of the fact that after walking from the bedroom to the bathroom, I needed to lie down. I rested so much in the winter that my body said "Hey, I LOVE this resting thing, let's do more of that." I rested so much that my body forgot that it craved exercise.
I compensated for this lack of movement by eating salads every day at lunch. My body rediscovered vegetables. "Green things. I like these green things. And the red things and yellow things. They are so... crisp... so... tasty..."
And then in the spring, I got to feeling better so hopped back on the ol' treadmill. By summer, I was going for lots and lots and lots of walks in the actual outdoors, forcing the spouse with me so that the pair of us could mock those poor non-exercising schmos from our moral high ground. Rissa and I started exercising in the evening - doing strength training. And you know something? Doing 60 squats a night? After two months? It actually makes one's ass look spectacular. My ass looked fucking spectacular. I used one of those exercise band thingies to strengthen my arms, I had defined triceps again. I was feeling good, I was feeling strong, I was feeling fit...
And then? Then I stood in a group of "20-something" girls in NY. NEVER do that. Stand next to one maybe, but not FIVE of them. Don't surround your middle-aged body with women who are 25 years younger than you. Their tiny bodies with their tiny waists, tiny asses and tiny thighs make you look like God-freaking-zilla amidst a terrified population. Next to these girls I looked like the big-boned middle-aged Aunt visiting from Europe with a uni-boob in a dress that, until placed next to these girls, I'd thought was flattering.
I persevered though. I continued to be mindful of my eating, my exercise. I kept doing those squats and lifting those legs. Then I went to see my endocrinologist... who put me on the scale and informed me that I'd gained 6 pounds in the last year.
"I'm sorry... I did WHAT NOW?!? But I've been exercising and eating salads!! I know that it's not about the number on the scale, but what do I have to DO here? Do I have to actually CUT OFF a limb to get to within 15 lbs of my ideal body weight??"
I'm not saying that I want to be 135 lbs which, according to most statistics, is what I should weigh. I would look like a fucking corpse if I weighed that amount. I'd be ecstatic arriving at the 150 lbs mark - which still means I'd have to lose TWENTY-FIVE POUNDS!! I'd have to lose the equivalent of two, 3-month-old babies from my body. Oh fuck - that's disgusting. I have THAT much extra weight on me?? Jesus. No wonder the vintage dress that I've been holding onto since I was 24 no longer fits me! There's no extra room for my body and two hip babies!!
I blame peri-menopause (which has so many adorable symptoms, but the one I'm focused on right now is the seemingly inevitable weight gain), hypothyroidism (again crazy-amounts of symptoms - but ... weight gain), and...night caps. That Rusty Nail that I have every now and again or mug of mulled wine while I'm cozying up with a book or binge-watching Netflix, that contributes, I'm sure, to the issue. So I ask you this: How much more exercise would I have to do, how little food would I have to ingest to still be able to enjoy those night caps. 'Cause when the depression hits about not fitting into a dress from 2 decades ago, jogging 5 times around my small town isn't my go-to.