I got on the scale today.
Now you know why you felt the earth shake.
After much crying, wailing, and gnashing of teeth, I have pulled up my big(ger) girl panties and have made a decision.
I am tired of being fat.
Four(ish) years ago I lost (get ready for it) SEVENTY-FIVE pounds. Yes. I lost the equivalent of a small person. Since then I have gained all but about about 7 pounds of it back.
I am ashamed to admit that.
I feel disgusting.
I feel like a sausage in my clothes.
I refuse to buy a bigger size pants....again.
I am almost forty and I feel like I have the body of an eighty year old. My feet hurt, my knees are starting to hurt, and I am all out of breath walking up the FOUR stairs to my house.
I'm not going to say that I did it for all the wrong reasons last time, although I do think some of the reasons were wrong. I have to get this under control, though, or I may not make it to fifty. Which we are not going to talk about because forty is hard enough for me to deal with. Which is to say, I am not dealing with it.
Denial, table for one, please.
No more donuts. No more bagels. No more cake, brownies, or cupcakes. And...No.More.Ice.Cream.
I CAN do this, though. I know that I can. I am not setting any outrageous, "I am going to lose fifty pounds by April 1" kind of goals, though, because I know how I can be about what I consider failure. I do hope to lose at least ten pounds by my birthday and then (hopefully) another ten by the end of the school year. I remember how good I felt four summers ago when I could wear cute summer clothes and I know how awful I feel right now. I hate myself and I hate looking in the mirror. I have never liked getting my picture taken and now it is even worse. I hide from the camera as much as I can because I am ashamed that I let myself get like this again.
There is a thinner me inside of this person and she is going to escape. And this time she is going to stay.