Well, it's the first of the month. Time to weigh and measure myself. This part still makes me want to huddle in the corner, hugging my knees and rocking, softly telling myself "it's not about the pounds; it's not about the inches; it's about how you feel. It's not about the pounds; it's not about the inches; it's about how you feel..."
I'm sorry, but it is about the pound. It is about the inches.
You know those people who say they changed something in their lifestyle, be it drinking water or exercising, and the weight just started to "melt off"? I want to punch those people. This is the slowest, most difficult, least rewarding thing I've ever done.
I know that technically I should be doing this for my health. So that at age 50 I'm not diabetic, asthmatic or arthritic. But is it so terrible to want to look good? To want to look like I've been working my butt off four to five days a week at the gym?
This is just hard. And a part of me (the part I do my best to keep suppressed deep inside of me) wants to throw the mother of all tantrums, screaming "IT'S NOT FAIR!"
But then there are the good days. I have noticed that I don't have nearly as many fat days as I used to. You know, the days where all you want to do is sit in your dark living room, in your baggiest sweats, the only sign of life the flickering light from the television on your face? Ya, those days don't come up quite as often anymore.
I also have to say that going to the gym is feeling less and less like a fight and more like a normal part of my day. I'm almost starting to enjoy it.
So that is the roller coaster that has been my life this past month. And for the part you've all been waiting for, I'm sure. In May, my weight was 174, my chest was 40.5", my stomach (the largest part, not my actual waist) was 40", and my hips were 45".
Today, June 1st, my weight is 170, my chest is 39.5", my stomach is 39.5", and my hips are 44". Progress? Yes? Only meager, at best. But it's still enough to keep me going, so I guess that's enough.