It's Weigh-in Wednesday.
Pretty good news this week. I'm down three pounds.
I may not sound excited about that number, but that's because I'm fairly certain that the -3 is really more like -1. I've determined that last week's cookie weight was probably not actually a result of consuming heaps of sugary dough, but more likely a result of a monthly situation with my lady parts. Aaaaaaaaand now I've completely lost all my male readers. (Although, "all my male readers" = code for my husband.)
Nonetheless, that -1 gives me a net total of -13 pounds, and considering my kicking and screaming over having to face the exercise music lately, I'm feeling grateful for that.
I've actually been stewing quite a bit about this activity conundrum. And something suddenly occurred to me last night . . . this is like the stages of grief.
I don't want to belittle grief here. Not at all. But, I've always said that any change, even change for the better, can be stressful. So, in my own silly way, I've been thinking about how this experiment in healthy living has brought me to a place where I'm mourning my old, not-so-healthy life.
Are you familiar with the five stages of grief, which Elizabeth Kubler-Ross identified in her book, On Death and Dying?
The stages Kubler-Ross names are:
* Denial (this isn't happening to me!)
* Anger (why is this happening to me?)
* Bargaining (I promise I'll be a better person if...)
* Depression (I don't care anymore)
* Acceptance (I'm ready for whatever comes)
Maybe I've just been on one too many diets in my lifetime, but I think these stages sound like the kind of thinking that goes on in my head when I get really ticked off about having to watch what I eat every day for the rest of my days or when I know I need to schlep myself around in the form of some type of activity.
I've lived in anger and denial for too long.
I've bargained. But it appears I'm not a very good negotiator.
I've been depressed. Oh, that's a phase I'm familiar with. Frequently referred to as the "Eff It" stage, where entire Boston cream pies become dinner. With cookies for dessert.
Have I moved on to acceptance?
Well, I don't know that I can say I'm ready for whatever comes, but I do finally admit that a belly like this
only looks cute until you're 2. Okay, maybe 3. But, by the time you're 40, your not-so-cute tummy is just getting you lectures from your doctor about how particularly dangerous body fat around the middle is and could you please consider trying to eliminate at least one of your spare tires?
Still . . . making these kinds of changes means evolving into an entirely different person. It's a bit like breaking up with someone you suspected from the start was bad news. You know you'd be better off without the guy (it's one thing to leave toenails in the sink, but do that AND spend our grocery money in a strip club?!), but what about the times you'd sit around watching Biggest Loser while eating pizza together? How could you ever replace that?
In other words, do I love brownies, a sore hip, and my personalized sofa cushion (i.e., the permanent indentation of my ass in the couch) enough to stick with them? Or do I instead accept that I'll be better off when I make the effort to move my body on a regular basis?
I know the answer. And you know that I know the answer.
If I keep blathering about it here, will the universe eventually propel me off the couch?
How did you finally stop being a sofa cushion?