I wrote recently about my renewed vigor in the fight against fat. Since then, I have demonstrated my dedication to this fight by baking excessively (must get rid of all the flour, sugar and chocolate chips that we can’t move, right??) and by trying to prove to Ben and Jerry’s that I am, indeed, their most loyal customer. The Major has not helped in my efforts (at least not the efforts to LOSE weight, but he’s a big help in my efforts to weigh more than I have since I was pregnant. Thanks, man.) Twice a day, like clockwork, he works his way around the kitchen, opening every drawer and cabinet, and then comes to me and asks, “Where are the treats?” He does it as soon as he gets home from work, and again after the kids go to bed. And when I’m fighting a fight — a friggin’ WAR — over here, I do NOT need to be reminded about TREATS all the time! Nor do I need to feel like it is my job to be in charge of these treats or to create them for YOU, thankyouverymuch.
Like lots of moms in their thirties (I thought about adding a modifier there, but “late” just makes me sound almost dead, so we’ll leave it alone), I am fighting the battle of the ever-expanding waistline. I shouldn’t make it sound like this is something I’m focused on only as a result of being a mom (though 2 pregnancies definitely added to the struggles). I’ve been focused on the physical — probably far more than is healthy — since I was a kid. I was a ballet dancer all through school, missing lots of school stuff for rehearsals and performances, and taking classes every day after school into the late evenings. Which meant that I spent a lot of time in a leotard and tights, comparing my body to the bodies of others. And if the scrutiny had been only my own, I might be somewhat healthier, but I had a ballet teacher who taught with a long black cane, and asked questions like, “been in the cookie jar again, have we?” I’d get home and my dad would refer to me as “chubs” whenever he found me eating (I actually think he may have some fairly unhealthy attitudes about food, but that’s another story). Anyway, add it all together and I had no clear picture of what I looked like. Now that I look back at photos from those years, I can see that I was perfectly healthy and pretty thin. College brought ups and downs with weight — I quit dancing and struggled with having no physical outlet and gained and lost 10 or 15 pounds. By my senior year, I’d found the gym and replaced ballet with step aerobics and treadmills. The photos from college vary, in some I’m thin, in some I’m chubby.
As an adult, I knew that I needed to work out as a sanity insurance policy, and that has helped keep things steady for the most part. I actually became a personal trainer for a while and keep my certification current though I don’t train clients at this point (because of my “real” job, which annoyingly seems to take up quite a lot of time.) So I know how I should be eating and how to get myself in shape when things have slipped. And sometimes now I think that maybe my distorted vision has gone the other way. I’ve looked in the mirror recently and thought, “not bad,” when the swimsuit shopping experience, complete with double “check-out-your-own-ass” mirror says otherwise.
As a result of the swimsuit shopping experience, I’ve had a bit of a talk with myself, and seeing as how I’m still here after the rapture occurred and all, I think I’ve got till around October to get myself into a bit firmer shape. (Isn’t October when the rest of us, those who didn’t get “saved” yesterday are supposed to be taken to hell? Well, it’s hot in hell and I’m sure I’ll want to wear shorts, so I’d like to look good in them…)
And this long drawn out stream of consciousness boredom you are experiencing is nothing more than my way of mentioning that I’m trying to work out more often and eat better. So you may be hearing about that at times. Apologies in advance. And the eating part will have to start tomorrow, since we just arrived home from a sushi and Baskin Robbins feast. Tomorrow, look out!