Have you ever wanted to maim your exercise instructor? I suppose that's the sign of a good workout but ouch. I hurt. In places I didn't know I could really hurt.
We are in week two of Operation 30 -- or 20 -- for 36. Yesterday was not a good day. Today, is better. Yesterday I met with the face of disappointment -- disappointment that the scale hadn't budged an inch in 12 days. I don't think it's fair to hurt this bad and not lose one bloody pound. Of course, I welcome the pain as a friendly reminder of the ballet poster I think hung in every studio in America in the '80's that proclaimed,"No Pain, No Gain!" Yeah, yeah, yeah. I hear you, evil Russian pointe teacher, I hear you to this day.
I did myself no favors by indulging in a couple of rounds out this weekend. The part of regularly working out that triggers your appetite kicked in full throttle. Most of my choices were good ones but yesterday, I just didn't like myself. Why do we do this to ourselves I wondered? And then I started thinking of how I got here in the first place, how it affects my psyche and what on earth to do about it.
*insert flashback sequence music here*
If I remember correctly, the great gain started when I broke my foot. While I was pregnant. Six months to be exact. Technically, I gained 70 pounds while pregnant. Oink. Honestly, those last couple of months were pretty bad as I tried to waddle on crutches around a little one bedroom apartment and take care of myself. Sadly, I became really good friends with the following chain delivery boys: Papapjohn's and Steak Out. It was easier than trying to cook a meal while on crutches and fat as a house in a galley kitchen.
I was alone 99% of the time and I didn't really cook. My diet up to that point consisted of a lot of fruit, vegetarian cuisine and fish. Sadly, fish made me sick while pregnant as did most of the vegetables I had lived off of pre-gestation. I was at a culinary loss.
The broken foot didn't take too long to heal and by the next summer, I was back in 4" heels...much to the dismay of my doctor. What can I say, I'm hell bent when I want to do something. I am not a girl for comfortable shoes, I'm just not. Around this time, I became a single parent. A single, not very financially sound, parent. Dinner usually consisted of the child's non-eaten mac 'n cheese or Cheerios. Oh, yes, Cheerios and I had a tight relationship for many months and I dropped about 35 pounds without much effort at all.
Intermingled in this very frugal lifestyle I had to maintain was a very real and often debilitating issue that came on just after the Post Partum Depression had departed -- PTSD. In my case, the post traumatic stress would emotionally displace itself onto a food allergy (of which I have one -- shellfish) anxiety. I essentially became afraid to eat. No, it wasn't what I was really afraid of but it was tangible and I could justify to others a lot more easily. I dropped about another ten pounds.
Somewhere along the way, I got back to about what I weighed in high school (mind you, I was still a solid 10 in high school). Then I found love. And happiness. And security. And someone who understood my brain's very real need to attach itself to anxiety triggers that were deep rooted in some very real fears. So I ate. They don't call it fat and happy for nothin', folks.
More importantly than fat and happy, I'd like to point out the real health issue here. I was no longer afraid to eat (ok, well I still have moments if say there are only seafood restaurants available). I can't begin to explain to you the release of pressure knowing that I was "safe" once again. It was enormous (and in case I didn't thank you already for my husband, G-d, let me do it now. Tenfold.).
With all this happiness and frolicking in the tulips (as if), I gained about a total of 14 pounds -- 4 of which I lost, so we are looking at a total of 10 over what I was in high school with the all around goal being -20 to get me where I was post-study abroad.
Getting back to yesterday. Yes, I beat myself up. Why? I am a naturally/normally super confident person without the annoyance of having a huge ego (at least I think so; keep your comments to yourself). I was raised by two very confident people, I am educated and intelligent, I find beauty in everything not just in the standard, and I value people for who they are, not what they look like. So why the hair shirt?
Oh there are many reasons, I'm sure, but one is so very recent it shines like a recently polished silver setting. I was immersed in a very unhealthy situation with a group of people who were albeit controlled by the sick neuroses of one individual. At the onset, I thought to myself, "oh, this will never get to me. I am entirely too strong!" Given what I'd just been through as a single parent I really thought I was tough as nails.
And I am. But negativity breeds contempt breeds self-doubt breeds ill will breeds...hell for lack of better terms. Amazing that this environment I put myself in, which had a borderline illegal sizeist attitude and was every thing sick and sad as far as how women treat each other and fall prey to pathetic stereotypes, still has an impact on me. But it does. And admitting to that is a step closer to getting away from it.
I looked that disappointment in the face and I Yoga Booty Balleted myself into a frenzy (I can't bend today, so I'm just hoping I don't drop anything on the floor). I ate well, I moved around, I shook off this ugly and sometimes ferocious memory of a sad individual who had nothing better to do with their day than to chip away at the sanity of others hoping it would provide her with some in the end.
Today is another day. Yes, I hurt, but it's worth it. Eventually I will get to where I want to be and that memory, with others, will drift away and matter no more. I got up this morning, I had apples and oatmeal, took my child to school, and painted my nails bright red. Now is not the time to succumb to other people's thoughts, other people's hang ups, other people period. The reason there are so many successful and confident women in the world is because they believe in themselves, the way that they are, with the skills and gifts that G-d gave them. Not because some whooha told them they were pretty or skinny. Rally on, girls, rally on!
xoxo,
kvlm
p.s. for my GFCF readers: we finally tried Almond Breeze milk this morning and he loved it! Yea!
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