Let's see. The last time I blogged about my weight loss journey was ... wait. Really? November 5th of last year? Seriously almost a year ago? Wow. No wonder I've allowed myself to gain so much of it back. And no wonder I have avoided blogging, too. It's all coming back to me now.
I say I've gained most of it back, but the truth is, I don't know. I haven't stepped on the scale. I'm scared to death to. The funny thing is, when I started this journey, when I was at the heaviest I'd ever been in my life, I wasn't scared of it. I came online and announced it to the whole world wide interwebs. But now, NOW. Now I'm scared. How much did I allow myself to give up? How much of that hard work did I just throw away?
I have all sorts of reasons and excuses, starting with an emotional upheaval that lasted for a few months last year, followed by me breaking my foot and being forced out of regular exercise for 14 weeks, compounded by starting a new job that involves me sitting on my butt all day at a desk next door to a woman who cooks the best soul food in the county and loves to share it.
Somewhere along the way, I started to slip. It was winter, though, and my sweatshirts and sweaters didn't seem that much tighter. My jeans were a little snug, but it was easy to forget how baggy they'd actually become. Snug was a feeling I'd been used to for years, and it felt normal. Then warm weather came and I had nothing to wear, 'cause I'd given away and thrown out all of the previous year's too-large clothing, knowing I'd never need it again.
I cut off a pair of jeans into capris and wore them daily, washing them constantly, 'cause they were my only pair. I would not allow myself to buy jeans in the next size up, so I just refused to buy any period. Then about a month ago, I was pulling those threadbare jeans on when one of the beltloops gave way and created a humongous hole in the backside. I wore them that day anyway, but it became clear almost immediately that this was a very temporary situation at best. I was forced into new jeans. Size 22. I'd gotten down to an 18, almost a 16. And now I was back in a 22, just two jeans sizes away from the old ones that still hang in my closet, awaiting the day when Kristi and I will both stand in the same pair that used to clothe just me. I was disgusted.
And so I did what all emotional overeaters do when they're stressed, or worried, or pissed as all hades: I ate. For the last month, I completely sabotaged myself. I ate bad intentionally. I ate when no one knew I was eating. And in the process, I made myself a miserable, angry blob of a person.
Meanwhile, one of my sweetest friends was hitching up her own bandwagon and goin' to town. She started with a simple gym membership, then ramped it up with a personal trainer. Consistently, she invites me along. A free month here, a two-month trial there. I always decline the offers, but I've been watching her progress, and she amazes me.
Then I see women in my neighborhood jogging along every morning, some pushing strollers while barely breaking a delicate glow, others huffing along, slimy hair slammed against their foreheads and donning the tell-tale face of "what the hell was I thinking?". But they're out there.
And I notice them.
On Saturday night, we ate badly at CiCi's. On Sunday night, we grilled hot dogs. Both nights, I tossed and turned in bed, unable to sleep, feeling nauseated, racked with heartburn, bloated and miserable. Sunday afternoon while at the grocery store, I was in the check-out lane when I spotted the sale: 3 for $1. We all know this means I could've purchased one for $.34, but why waste a good opportunity? I chose a Reese's, a York peppermint pattie, and an Almond Joy. I took them straight from the cashier's hand and plunked them in purse for later. I'd already eaten a Hershey's with Almonds that day.
Monday morning, after a fitful night, I woke up exhausted and cranky. As I showered, I made a snap decision: today it begins. I hadn't planned it, I hadn't worked myself up for it, I hadn't laid plans to make it easier, nothing. I just knew it was time. It clicked. Thank God. I'd been praying for the click!
And so, at the end of Monday, I went to bed early to avoid the night time snackies that plague me. I slept well, having made good, healthy choices all day long, with three candy bars still in my purse. I considered giving them to Darren and the boys, but decided that leaving them would force me to surrender once and for all.
Today, I forgot to take lunch to work. At noon, I had an online training class to attend and locked myself in my office. The class lasted two hours, and about 1/3 of the way through it, my stomach was rumbling and I was feeling nauseous. I knew those candy bars were within reach. I knew I had another hour plus to sit there. I knew I could end the hunger pangs. I knew no one would ever know. I eyed the candy.
Tonight, at the end of Tuesday, I'm going to bed having made good, healthy choices all day long, with three candy bars in my purse. I'm leaving them there. Today was too hard. I'm leaving them in my purse until I don't CARE that they're there anymore.
Stacy, 2. Candy bars, 0.