Most of us, of course, want to lose weight; I don’t personally know anyone who’s actually trying to gain weight, although I imagine there are some people out there who are in that boat.
In this boat, the BIG boat, the boat where most of us are pretty sure that our asses make our pants look big, and not the other way around, we are cutting down our eating, and increasing our exercise. Well, for those who haven’t made it all the way to ‘exercise’, at least they are ramping up the activity level, or so they say.
Some of us just have five, or maybe ten pounds to lose, some of us have a whole lot more. Whatever the goal, it’s important to remember that we are all capable of getting there. Of course, I may be 90 by the time I lose the next nine pounds, given how long it’s taken me to lose the first six, but I intend to get there. It seems that my metabolism has deserted me. Since I’m using this boat metaphor, I guess I should say it bailed on me. Gone. Nothing. Nada, niente, zipperooni. But I’m still determined to get there. It’s a process, right? --like so many things.
Anyway, here’s what I have observed about weight:
[And I’m going to use bogus numbers, because like
So, with the foregoing in mind, say my ideal weight is 150. Then over the years, aging, imprudent food choices, aging, the lack of exercise and aging brought me to 160. Which I hated, because being 10 pounds over your ideal weight (especially if I really WERE 5’2”) makes your clothes not fit, makes you feel like a bit of a blimp (especially if I WERE 5’2”) and generally saps your energy and confidence. So, I hated seeing 160 on the scale every morning, and couldn’t wait to getting back to exercise and smarter eating and getting back to my best weight.
Then. The holidays. Most years I don’t really put on weight over the holidays, but this year I did. I let the hubster cajole me into joining him in sharing some foods and drinks that were virtually guaranteed to slap some extra avoirdupois on the places I least needed it. I’m not blaming him, mind you—I’m a free-thinking, independent woman who just weakened and indulged when she should not have. Shame on me.
So one day, instead of 160, I see 162. YIKES! I gotta get serious. Then 164. Oh no you dih-uhnt! And at last, 165. [Yeah, you know, not really 165, but 15 pounds above where I should ideally be.] So I’m totally shamed, wanna die, blah, blah, blah… Every new number is another knife blow to my heart.
But here’s the funny thing: Once I started losing weight, the numbers held different meaning. On the way up, 163 was like SHAME and humiliation, and omigod how did I ever let myself gain this weight? But on the way down, I see 163, and say, wow—163! All right! Good for me—I’m looking better already! You know, it’s only three pounds, and now I’ve lost six altogether, which is practically an Olsen twin, so give me some love, people! I’m going to make it happen. And guess what? I’m taking the hubby with me!