Into said suburban went a box with a scale. A scale that was in my mother's things stored in our garage. She had culled through the stuff she had left there for several years, and most of it we had hauled to the Goodwill. The scale, was a, "Hmmm, let's keep this." item. The scale was a Weight Watchers scale with a digital readout. I got it to the new house, in our lovely new bathroom, and laid it on the floor.
196.
196! What the hell!??? I had told myself that I would never, ever be above 190 again! I had been a whopping 211 when I gave birth to my son, five years ago. 196! Sixty pounds heavier than when I had met my husband.
Back last year, I had decided to Loose the Weight. I looked to be clever, and all Julie Powell like, and make it Into a Blog! Every combination of forty by forty was taken. 40x40. Fortyx40. 40by40. But here's the thing. Every single one of those blogs were abandoned. Mine would have been, too.
But now, as I enter my last two semesters in school (schlepping it through a Creative Non-Fiction degree, which does not help me in my job as a script reader in the LEAST although, strangely, responsible for me having the job in a strange way, more later) I think it's bloody time I wasn't so damn fat! Did you read the part where I said SIXTY pounds??? I so cursed (and I do curse, forgive me) Oral Roberts Uni-frickin-versity when I had to attened to my physical fitness, but I was thin. I realized much too late that that whole get-off-your-fat-butt and stay-in-shape-or-else thing was pretty darn handy. Running flat out always late to class all the time in a pair of pumps didn't hurt, either, although I wound up with some serious heel pain two years later.
I should have stayed thin. I was a size eight at 136 pounds, the lightest I had weighed since the eigth grade. But I ate my way up. I had babies. I am not happy. It needs to go. I was 38-26-38. I was so hot, you could have fried an egg on me. But now I look more like an omlet. What was I thinking??? Truth was, I wasn't. Any little upset, we'd open the gob and stuff in stuff to make us feel better.
The University of Memphis has a program called Tigers Get Fit. For two semesters, (I only had to take four for my degree) I blew it off. Now I want it. I want sixty pounds off by 41. Larry (the husband, aka The Bald Bobby DeNiro) said that it's called Tigers Get Fit because Fat Cats wouldn't have many takers. I want to walk up to the counter at the fitness center and say, "I am a fat cat and I want to join your program and be a skinny kitty." I tried walking starting two months ago (when my ridiculously fit boss came for a visit) and pretty soon, my left ankle made it clear that I was putting too much weight on it. It hurt so bad I had to give it up.
So here's the plan I came up with. Since I probably put on some of those pounds watching the BBCA between How Clean is Your House and You Are What You Eat, we decided to go with You Are What You Eat. More on that later. I also want to lift weights and switch to an eliptical, hoping that it will not hurt my ankle. Also must necessitate trip to the podiatrist for some arch supports, which are sort of like the opposites of bras. They hold up what's not there.
I wish I could wax poetic about fitness, and weight loss, and make this all noble and strong and smart and wise. But the truth of the matter is I don't like what I see, and I don't like having a gushy stomach that's starting to jiggle when I walk. Or maybe it's been jiggly this whole time and I was too stubborn to notice. I thought I was doing well. I wasn't. I'm not.
