TG had a swim meet yesterday. On the way out, I stopped and jumped on a scale near the exit doors.
A brief breakdown on me and scales: I don’t own one. And I don’t believe in them. If I go to the doctor, I’ll jump on and see what it says. If I’m at my mom’s house and I wash my hands, I’ll get on the scale in her bathroom and check.
My weight doesn’t fluctuate too wildly. And I’m not a slave to the number. I pay closer attention to how my clothes fit. When the jeans get a bit tight or hard to button, I know it’s time to tighten things up.
So. I get on the scale yesterday. And I am very unhappy with the number staring back at me.
This morning, I plugged my stats into a website that computes your Body Mass Index.
I am five feet and five inches tall. At this weight, my Body Mass Index is 24.8. Which is considered “normal weight.”
But just one-tenth of a pound more and I am officially in the “overweight” category, according to the Body Mass Index.
Let me stop right here before folks start getting pissed off at me.
I know I’m not fat. I know I’m not overweight. Even if I do gain a tenth of a pound by lunchtime, which I’m sure I will, I know that I’m not doing so bad. I would never say, oh woe is me, I’m so huge. I know people would smack me.
However, this is about how I feel. And my own comfort zone for where I’d like to be. Here’s me three years ago, at my ideal weight, which is somewhere between 130 and 135.
Stomach: flat. Thighs: juicy but not too much. Butt: perky. Boobs: not too flat. The jeans I’m wearing here were a size 29. I wouldn’t be able to get those up to my knees right now.
I’ve been much thinner. I once dipped down to about 125. Which is way too thin for me.
So yesterday, when I kept pushing that metal bar over…and over…and over, I felt a little lump forming in my throat.
And this is all YOUR fault. Yes, YOU dear reader. You, right there, reading my words right now. Sending my traffic through the roof. Commenting on my posts and helping to build a community. Yes, it’s all your fault.
My attention to a healthy diet and moderate exercise went out the window about two months ago. I started blogging and it quickly became an obsession. I’m hoping that I make this look easy. But it’s not. And it’s become a job. So in addition to my regular responsibilities as a writer, coupled with my home life, I haven’t done things that I need to do in order to eat healthfully. You know. Like food shopping. Here’s my refrigerator right now.
Top shelf? Nothing edible. Some pasta sauce for Tog’s ravioli. And her milk. Some ancient takeout.
Second shelf? A bunch of who-knows-what. All of which needs to be tossed.
Third shelf? Tog’s peas and yogurt. (She’s the only semi-healthy eater in the house).
At the bottom? Those brown paper bags? They are from a nearby spot called Panera. It’s good food. A step up from fast food. I am too embarrassed to say how often my family’s dinner comes from this place. (Cough cough–every day–cough cough). But when I should be shopping or cooking, I’m writing a blog post, or responding to my commenters. Or doing some homework for a future blog.
Damn you. Damn you all.
In the morning, I leave the house without taking a moment to prepare lunch or breakfast. Bad move. After I drop the kids off at school and head to the office, I hear my stomach grumbling. So I stop for coffee. And a bagel. Or a donut.
And once I start the day eating poorly, the rest of the day is shot to hell. I’m in my little office all day with nothing to snack on. By two pm, I’m so hungry I can’t see straight and I’m heading for a drive through. (blech!).
Dinner time rolls around. And I like to eat with my family. Not spend an hour cooking. So we have soup and sandwiches from Panera.
And then, nighttime rolls around. And you know what that means? I’ll tell you what it means. Let’s take a look in my freezer.
The last month or so, my ice-cream consumption has increased triple fold. I’m ashamed to admit it. But in the interest of full disclosure and perhaps shaming myself into making a change, I must confess.
I’m eating a bowl of ice cream every night. A big one. In bed. Watching Will and Grace.
This is SO wrong on so many levels! And this is SO not me!! I swear!!
I’ve never been seduced by snacks. Never had much of a sweet tooth. I love vegetables and fruit smoothies and quinoa and kale and lots of good-for-you stuff. TH has always been a snackaholic. And I’ve often watched him devour an entire bag of cookies or a pint of ice cream. And it just didn’t make sense to me. I’ve never understood why you would eat a bag of chips when you could have a granola bar instead.
I’ve always been that chick who reads food labels, compares fat content and chooses accordingly. I’m the chick who was still running a mile a day at five months pregnant. I’m the chick who went to the gym three times a week with a personal trainer until two days before my daughter was born. (And I am dead serious. My last session with my trainer was on a Sunday. Tog was born on Tuesday.) I was back in the gym when she was six weeks old!
So what the hell happened to me?
I’d like to blame it all on my dear readers. But I know the slip ups started even before the blog. The blog just intensified what was already happening.
It stops today.
Well, I did have a glazed donut this morning. So maybe it all stops this afternoon.
Except, I didn’t bring any lunch and I have zero willpower when I don’t come prepared. And in my ‘hood, there is nothing healthy to eat.
Okay. It all starts tonight. For real. I will go to the supermarket. (The very idea gives me hives because I’m ashamed that I haven’t done a proper food shop in so long). I will buy yogurt. I will buy cashews. I will buy bottled water. I will buy sensible snacks for my office.
And I’d like to feel stronger too. I was able to lift more weight, run longer and faster when I was nine months pregnant. How sad is that? I haven’t done ANY form of exercise in at least six months.
I know I can get my body back. I gained SIXTY pounds while knocked up. That’s right, I said it. SIXTY. I lost it all. Then dropped another five just to show off.
But that was when Tog was a tiny little thing who couldn’t walk. Or talk. Or demand to dance around the living room to Estelle’s “American Boy” seven times in a row.
And that was before you, my dear readers, wrecked havoc on my free time.
I’m putting myself out there right now. I want to do better. I want to eat better. And I want to exercise. Diabetes and heart disease runs in my family. And we all know that eating right and exercising is the cornerstone of good health.
Can I tell you about my grandmother? Her name was Eudora Hayes.
My maternal grandmother was a hell of a woman. She owned property throughout the city of Newark. She was vibrant. She took long cross country trips with her dog. Got married for the second time in her sixties. Took me camping in her RV. Doted on all her grandchildren. Kept up with everything in popular culture. Watched every single day of the OJ trial and called her daughters nightly to give them updates.
My grandmother was big on self-improvement. In the early 1970s, she abruptly gave up alcohol. And never touched the stuff again. Ten years later, she quit smoking cold turkey.
But she never stopped eating poorly. There were weekly trips to the Entenmann’s outlet in Wayne, New Jersey. (She taught me that drizzling melted butter on a prepared dessert actually made sense). There was a deep freezer of fat-laden desserts and pork products. And there was always, always a softened stick of butter on her kitchen table, ready to slide over anything from a piece of toast to a slice of pound cake.
In 1996, she had a heart attack in her living room. She pushed her medic alert button which contacted both the local hospital and my parents. My dad got there first. And she was already gone.
My grandmother has never met my husband. Never seen my little girls. And I know she would have been crazy about them. It hurts me so much that she’s not here.
I use to drink and smoke (Newports!!) regularly as well. I gave ’em both up years ago cold turkey and never looked back. Now, my vice is Breyers.
The mirror (and my friends and family) may tell me I look just fine. But I know it’s more than skin deep. It’s not just about getting into a bikini this summer. (Though that IS the plan). It’s about making a lifestyle change so that I can live my best life. And meet my great-grandchildren.
Dear readers, can you tell me how you’re feeling right now about your weight? (Fellas, I want to hear from you too). Are you at your target weight? How far away? Are you working out regularly? What is your regimen?
I’d love to hear from you…