Progress this week was slower than I would have liked. I lost a half a pound, which brought me down to 226.0. At least I'm moving in the right direction.
At first, I blamed my cousins wedding on Saturday for the slow down. But honestly, just how evil is one slice of wedding cake. I didn't have any alcohol and I ate sensibly at dinner. I went back and reviewed my food journal and found that I had eaten much more than I should have almost every day last week. I didn't binge like I used to in days of old. Just knowing I have to write my food down prevents that, but I wasn't as controlled as I would have liked.
So I'm shaking things up a little. I'm making it my policy to only eat something after I've written it down. This will force me to see the numbers and make a more informed choice.
Life is good. The weight is coming off. I just need to tweak my approach.
Thursday, August 13, 2009
Tuesday, August 4, 2009
Don't Wait to Feel Beautiful
Monday was the first weigh in for August and I'm happy to report that I'm down another 1.5 pounds to 226.5. I can hardly believe that I might actually see the 210s by the end of summer. I don't know when I saw them last. Senior year of high school? Maybe.
I'm running out of clothes that fit. I bought four new pairs of pants for work, which was a painfully expensive and impossibly irritating (thanks to vanity sizing) proposition, but I have precious else that doesn't hang off. This is a nice problem to have, but it's a problem nonetheless. I complained about it to my mother. I told her that I was an 18 on the bottom and an 14/16-18 on the top (I'm a pear). She told me to come over and she could hook me up.
Let's rewind about four years. Back then, my mother was a little thinner than she is today (like so many of us). I used to make any excuse to buy her clothes, lovely clothes that I didn't think I had a right to wear. Pretty feminine things that I thought should never come in my size. I bought her matching shoes and purses, skirts and floaty shirts. I bought her things I always dreamed of wearing. She always looked beautiful in them. I called her my life-size Barbie, and while I loved that she had nice things to wear, I always felt sad that I could never look the way she did.
When I went to my mother's house this weekend, she brought me upstairs to her closet and started to pull out the lovely skirts and blouses. I said, "Whoa, these are too small." She said, "I bet they fit." I selected an outfit that used to be my favorite. I slid up the skirt and was surprised that it zipped. I pulled on the blouse and looked in the mirror. I thought I'd be squeezing out all over the place. I thought I would wish I was wearing Spanx. I thought I would be too embarrassed to let my mother see me, but, for the first time in my entire life, I felt pretty in an outfit. A feminine outfit. When my mother saw me, she cried.
The crazy thing is that in when I was a sophomore in high school, I only weighed 165 pounds. I was at least 60 pounds lighter than I am today. I don't have any pictures from that time. I avoided cameras at all costs, but I had mirrors. I never saw anything I liked looking back at me. I don't remember looking anything but obese. I never felt pretty and now, I can't even picture what I looked like at that weight.
Because of the way I felt about my body even when I was much thinner, I didn't have any hope that I would ever lose enough weight to feel pretty. That wasn't the goal; my health was the goal. Here I am, far short of my goal and miles away from the size 12 jeans I wore as a sophomore and I like what I see. I feel lovely. Maybe no one else (besides my mom) thinks I am. Maybe no one else ever will, but that doesn't matter. Only the way I feel counts.
There is no right size. There is no perfect weight. Don't wait to feel beautiful.
I'm running out of clothes that fit. I bought four new pairs of pants for work, which was a painfully expensive and impossibly irritating (thanks to vanity sizing) proposition, but I have precious else that doesn't hang off. This is a nice problem to have, but it's a problem nonetheless. I complained about it to my mother. I told her that I was an 18 on the bottom and an 14/16-18 on the top (I'm a pear). She told me to come over and she could hook me up.
Let's rewind about four years. Back then, my mother was a little thinner than she is today (like so many of us). I used to make any excuse to buy her clothes, lovely clothes that I didn't think I had a right to wear. Pretty feminine things that I thought should never come in my size. I bought her matching shoes and purses, skirts and floaty shirts. I bought her things I always dreamed of wearing. She always looked beautiful in them. I called her my life-size Barbie, and while I loved that she had nice things to wear, I always felt sad that I could never look the way she did.
When I went to my mother's house this weekend, she brought me upstairs to her closet and started to pull out the lovely skirts and blouses. I said, "Whoa, these are too small." She said, "I bet they fit." I selected an outfit that used to be my favorite. I slid up the skirt and was surprised that it zipped. I pulled on the blouse and looked in the mirror. I thought I'd be squeezing out all over the place. I thought I would wish I was wearing Spanx. I thought I would be too embarrassed to let my mother see me, but, for the first time in my entire life, I felt pretty in an outfit. A feminine outfit. When my mother saw me, she cried.
The crazy thing is that in when I was a sophomore in high school, I only weighed 165 pounds. I was at least 60 pounds lighter than I am today. I don't have any pictures from that time. I avoided cameras at all costs, but I had mirrors. I never saw anything I liked looking back at me. I don't remember looking anything but obese. I never felt pretty and now, I can't even picture what I looked like at that weight.
Because of the way I felt about my body even when I was much thinner, I didn't have any hope that I would ever lose enough weight to feel pretty. That wasn't the goal; my health was the goal. Here I am, far short of my goal and miles away from the size 12 jeans I wore as a sophomore and I like what I see. I feel lovely. Maybe no one else (besides my mom) thinks I am. Maybe no one else ever will, but that doesn't matter. Only the way I feel counts.
There is no right size. There is no perfect weight. Don't wait to feel beautiful.
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