Sunday, January 9, 2011
Doing the math
So it's been a year since I buckled down and joined Weight Watchers.
The short story is that I'm 40 pounds lighter and have dropped down to a solid size 8, though my new best friend, Ashley at the Portland Maine bridal shop, claims my measurements make me a 6. (I'm pretty sure she's even more math-challenged than I am.)
I'm proud of myself for finally shedding the weight. But I'm also kind of ashamed that I let myself get so out of hand in the first place. It's so easy to ignore that extra size that sneaks up on you or to think that a little extra here and there "since the baby" isn't such a big deal.
I was kind of a Nazi about the weight loss in 2010. I really tried hard to keep to the good foods and stayed away from the booze. I think my buttprint is permanently embedded in one of the staionary bikes at the Angie's List gym. I'm sure I sweated enough to fill at least a koi pond.
This year, I'm trying not to get all crazy about a pound here or there. But I know I can't eat pizza and chocolate and real ice cream like I want. Ever. It's the "like I want part" of the equation not the pizza, chocolate and ice cream. And that's something I don't know will ever go away. I have 540 months of bad habits to overcome, and only 12 months of good habits in.
I blame Religion for most of my issues, and this one is no different.
My parents were Pentecostal, a religion that sucks the fun out of life like a family of leeches on a femoral artery. A good Pentecostal doesn't smoke, drink, swear, dance or think lustful thoughts. Otherwise, you're on the express train to Hell.
All that's left to the Pentecostals is Bible study and food. Even masterbation (not that we were taught that word) was a sin, too. Sex had to be sanctified, which is why, I'm certain, they all got married so frickin' young.
Admit it: if you were Pentecostal and lived in fear of Hell like I did, you'd turn to fried foods, too.
So it's no wonder my eating habits were a bit off. But truly, growing up, if my dad or brothers hadn't shot, caught and skinned it, and my mom hadn't fried it to within an inch of its former life, in Crisco, we probably didn't eat it.
But I'm more than 20 years away from that lifestyle, so I can't fairly blame the size of my ass (formerly) on anyone but me and my bad habits.
I've kicked most of them. I did fantasize about liposuction and plastic surgery as I trudged over to the gym, though. It just seemed like it would have been so much easier. I'm too cheap for that option, though.
There were also moments when I considered taking up smoking because I thought it might curb my hunger. Under the same premise, I also considered cocaine (I'd heard good things) and either crank or crack. I can never remember which is what, and one of them makes you really crazy and messes up your skin. But I'm too chicken to buy or do drugs. First, I'd shoot myself if I ever got arrested for anything, let alone drugs. Second, I know I'd be an instant addict. It was hard enough to give up chocolate.
Instead, I followed the plan and hit the gym a lot. I might be boring now, but I'm thinner than I've ever been, and better, I'm actually healthier than I've ever been.
The only real downside to losing weight is you don't get to choose from when is falls. For instance, my calves are smaller, but still not normal-sized and my rings fly off if I'm not careful. But I also had to restock my lingerie drawer.
I miss the cleavage. I have a new magic bra that will let me pretend if I get really lonesome for the girls, but I'd rather have kept that and lost some more of my calves.
But I'm not complaining. I worry that I can't keep it off. I'm afraid to trust that it's real.
But I have a beach trip coming up in March and a family wedding in July. Jen will kill me if I don't fit into the dress, so I should be in this general shape at least another 7 months at least. I'm supposed to lose 10 more, and I'll keep trying.
I'm officially a fan of Weight Watchers, even with its new Points Plus plan which is something of an adjustment. I'd just gotten used to living within a certain limit only to have them expand it. I'm not sure I can maintain (or lose those last 10 pounds) and actually eat more, but I'm trying to trust them.
Like most things, it's a simple solution: Eat well + exercise = the right size for life.
Even I can do that math.