Scenes from My Life: The Weighty Truth

Let’s chat about the proverbial elephant in the room. The double entendre is not lost on me as my weight is the elephant and I feel like an elephant, sans trunk of course.

Weighty

I’m sure most of you will crucify me for that comment, but it’s the cold, hard truth.

Yesterday, I went to the Urgent Care for a sinus infection and when they weighed me, which is so annoying because my weight has no bearing on the green gunk spewing from my nose.

I digress…

Anyway, the scale is always in kilograms, which sometimes makes it easier to hear. However, I know how to change it to pounds, and when the nurse looked down at her clipboard, I pushed the button only to reveal my new weight which {drum roll please} is 160 pounds.

Seriously…160 f-ing pounds.

Ok, I know some of you would die to weigh 160, but as someone who has ALWAYS {like the past 20 years} hovered around the 130-135 zone this is a blow to my ego and my jean size.

Deep down I knew it was happening. Pants that fit only 6 months ago can’t make it over my thighs, even with copious amounts of wiggling.

This past year has been a clusterfuck of unhealthy, mentally challenging and all around messed up shit that just cumulated in cellulite on my thighs.

I kept repeating over and over again that my meds were making me gain weight, but no one really believed me. In fact, I had to fight my head shrinker into switching them even though she thought I was crazy. {which I am obviously, hence the head shrinker}

A change in meds quickly switched my appetite for the better. I was no longer craving carbs with a side of carbs, and I wasn’t eating all the time.

However, the pounds I had gained haven’t magically melted away just with the change of a pill. By the way, I hate that expression, pounds don’t melt, ice cream melts. Pounds need to be demolished with a bazooka of burpees and sprint intervals.

So, I’m back at the gym, trying to motivate myself to move those extra 30 pounds. It’s freaking hard! I know why people want to give up on an hourly basis. Plus, weight loss is a marathon, not a sprint, and it takes the same amount of time {or more} to take it off as it does to put it on.

The gym, once my sanctuary, has quickly turned on me. I’m self-conscience of the mirrors. My workout clothes are tighter and hug my lumps and bumps in unflattering places. The workouts aren’t as easy as they used to be either. All of which cumulates in a recipe for excuses and denial.

Weighty

Oh, and let’s talk about lower belly fat. Like way low belly fat, the kind that makes your lady parts look larger than they need to. Yeah, I have that now, and I’d like to decimate that sucker.

I haven’t even mentioned the armpit fat, back fat and my butt crack, which is now making a daily appearance because my pants are too fucking small to cover its enormity.

“Stop your whining,” you say.

“You look fine,” you say.

However, I don’t FEEL fine.

This is the highest my weight has been without a baby to show for it, and it’s freaking depressing. At least, the baby distracted onlookers from my chubby tummy. Now I have to distract in other ways.

“Look there’s a squirrel! No really look away. Just look at my eyes, don’t look anywhere else. There that’s better. No, up here damn it! Look away from the belly, butt and thighs. Look away”

Physically, I’m tired, all the freaking time. I’m not strong enough to carry as many bags of groceries as I used to. I don’t feel, pretty, sexy or self-confident. Getting dressed totally sucks, because now I can only wear a handful of the cute clothes that line my closet. And I’m sure as hell not going to go out and buy a new wardrobe.

The woman who once inspired others to find their inner fit fanatic is now hiding on the couch in a pair of baggy sweatpants binging on Netflix and stuffing Chewy Chips Ahoy in her mouth.

On the bright side, my boobs are bigger. So that’s a positive {at least for the hubs}. However it limits my wardrobe choices just as much as the butt, so we are back to square one.

Seriously all my issues revolve around fitting in clothes. Perhaps that’s the answer. I’ll just become a nudist and not worry about squeezing into jeans anymore. Although then we’d have to move, because being a nudist during an Iowa winter really won’t work as I’d rather not frostbite my lady bits, just saying.

So what do I do?

Should I relent to my anti-depressant, overstressed 42-year-old metabolism?

Or should I fight back?

Well…you all know me.
What do you think I’m going to do?

I’m going back.

Back to basics.

Back to the starting line.

Back to fighting for it.

Now where’s that damn bazooka?

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