I realized that if I didn't make some serious changes, I wouldn't last ten more years. So, at 25, I decided to make a difference to save my own life. So, I committed to Weight Watchers, got serious, and by last May, had lost 60 pounds. 60. Over a tenth of my body weight. Just by making diet changes, not with exercise. I really didn't exercise at all.
But as always happens, life interrupts momentum. I went on vacation in June, a two-week roadtrip that involved visiting with loved ones and friends, seeing my beloved Cubs play twice (both losses, as you'd expect), and driving back the final 1500 miles or so on my own, just me and my truck on highways and towns that I'd never seen before. I decided to let myself have a vacation from the diet, too. To not worry about counting "points," to go ahead and have that slice of pie with my patty melt. It was nice. It was freeing. It was fun.
It was the worst decision I made in 2006--and I had made a few doozies.
When I got back to the "real world," I had gained13 pounds. I freaked out, worked extra hard, and lost it in two weeks.
Then, inexplicably, I stopped caring. I could probably pin the blame on a friend who was dieting with me, who had to stop when she found out she was pregnant. It's hard to diet with a friend, harder still to do it alone. But I can't blame her. I made the choices. I was lazy. I chewed the food, and swallowed it.
[If you don't get anything else from this blog, get this: I believe from the crown of my head to the bottom of my toes, that my being fat is a result of bad choices. Not genetics, not environment, not hormones, not advertisers. I will not be made a victim by my own weight. I did this, and I'm going to work hard to fix it. It's all about personal choice and responsibility, folks.]
So I gave up. I gave up on a diet that worked wonders for me. Seriously, everyone under the sun commented on how great I looked when I lost all the weight. I was still fat, mind you; but I was noticeably less fat than before. Sure, the diet was a pain in the butt at first, but I got used to it. I became disciplined for a while.
And just like that, discipline was thrown out the window.
In the last few months, I've felt more disgusting. My clothes are starting to feel tight again. I can tell I've gained weight. This frustrates me to no end.
So I'm left with two choices: I can get depressed and give up.
Or, I can work like heck to get back on track, and take back my life.
There's only one right choice: to break down and admit that I need to change, and now.
So this January, like millions of other Americans, I decided to make the change. UNlike many of my fellow Americans, I know I can accomplish this. I've done it before.
I got back on the scale this week. 449. I gained 38 pounds since July.
Okay then. Let's get to it.
Wanna see where I am, starting out? Shield your eyes, ye faint of heart:
Not flattering, I know. But it's not supposed to be.
Don't worry, I won't do that to you often on this blog. I'm pretty sure it would break some sort of international "crimes against humanity" statute or something.
So here we are. Day 3 of the new diet. I'm already starting to fold. But I'm gonna keep trying.
If you're game, you can take the journey with me.