Two Years On...
Two years ago today I decided to stop being quite so fat and unhappy, and began actively trying to lose weight by keeping track of my foods and exercising. Over the course of the first six or eight or twelve months, I had some success. I lost 50 pounds, I lowered my blood pressure, and I was putting healthier food in my body more often. I was able to maintain that for a while after the first year, too. So why, then, two years on, do I feel like the only thing I've gained is an eating disorder?
I don't say that lightly, either, I promise. Who the hell automatically knows how many calories are in a banana? An apple? A cupcake? A cheesesteak? Spoiler alert: I do. A person who has counted calories for the past two years knows that, and a lot of other things, and that cannot possibly be healthy. I also know roughly how many calories I can burn doing 30-45 minutes on the treadmill or with Olivia in the jogging stroller. I know how many calories I can burn doing an hour or two of cleaning. I can count lat pull downs and biceps curls all damn day long in the gym. But you know what? None of that means anything. It just means I can do math, and it means that I can and do aggravate my already obsessive/compulsive behaviors by keeping track of what I put into my body and what I do to burn what I put in it. And frankly? I'm so goddamn bone-weary tired of this shit. Trying to be healthy has become unhealthy for me, it has begun to make me unhappy, and honestly, I feel it's made me terribly boring to boot.
For the last few weeks, it's been ridiculously rainy here, and we haven't been able to get outside to swim or walk, I haven't been to the gym, and being stuck at home inside has made me eat kind of a lot more than I normally would. I've been telling myself that the first of October was the day - the day I was going to re-commit myself to getting back to exercising, the day I was going to start eating better again. My body has just had a good four or five weeks to "reset" itself, and maybe now if I get back into the swing of things, I can lose some of the ten or so pounds that have snuck back this summer, plus a little more besides. This morning I weighed myself, I adjusted my settings on MyFitnessPal, I ate a healthy breakfast, and I went out and did a cautious mile with Olivia in the jogging stroller. I feel good. I feel optimistic. I still really want a cheesesteak for dinner, but I'm trying to ignore that for now!
I guess my point here is that I am undecided. I'm on the right track, in the right frame of mind, to get back on that damn horse, but the big question here is, do I want to? Do I want to spend another year obsessing about every little thing that I eat? Do I want to spend another year mentally beating myself up if I don't get in some form of exercise three or four or five days a week? Do I want to spend the rest of my life being a slave to the number on the scale, knowing full well that that number doesn't mean a damn thing? Because I do know that. I know that eating well and moving my body make me healthy, despite the number. But why is it so hard to separate that knowledge from that number? I can blame my obsessive/compulsive nature, I can blame my anxiety, I can even blame society for impossible beauty standards and a distorted view of what is healthy. But who do I blame when my daughter starts picking up on Mama's behavior? Who do I blame when she grows up and starts doing the same things? That one is pretty squarely on me.
I feel like I am in a completely different place with my health and weight loss today than I was a year ago. (Last year's musings are here if you are so inclined.) I feel unhappy and cynical with the state of things today. I am frustrated with the constant back and forth - the litany of excuses I use not to do what I know is healthy for me or the smug superiority of being "good." I like the way I feel when I exercise and eat well, but I hate the way I feel when I beat myself up during periods of not exercising and eating well. I am my own worst enemy and my own harshest critic, but I can also be my own biggest cheerleader. I know how to achieve a sense of balance with all this, but that voice in the back of my head when I'm having an off week or month is loud and obnoxious, and I let it take over.
So for now, I choose not to make promises or commitments, I choose not to berate myself. For now, I take a deep breath and take some advice from my dad. He's a pretty damn wise dude, and the two most important pieces of advice he has given me are these: 1. Always try your best, and 2. One day at a time.
I don't say that lightly, either, I promise. Who the hell automatically knows how many calories are in a banana? An apple? A cupcake? A cheesesteak? Spoiler alert: I do. A person who has counted calories for the past two years knows that, and a lot of other things, and that cannot possibly be healthy. I also know roughly how many calories I can burn doing 30-45 minutes on the treadmill or with Olivia in the jogging stroller. I know how many calories I can burn doing an hour or two of cleaning. I can count lat pull downs and biceps curls all damn day long in the gym. But you know what? None of that means anything. It just means I can do math, and it means that I can and do aggravate my already obsessive/compulsive behaviors by keeping track of what I put into my body and what I do to burn what I put in it. And frankly? I'm so goddamn bone-weary tired of this shit. Trying to be healthy has become unhealthy for me, it has begun to make me unhappy, and honestly, I feel it's made me terribly boring to boot.
For the last few weeks, it's been ridiculously rainy here, and we haven't been able to get outside to swim or walk, I haven't been to the gym, and being stuck at home inside has made me eat kind of a lot more than I normally would. I've been telling myself that the first of October was the day - the day I was going to re-commit myself to getting back to exercising, the day I was going to start eating better again. My body has just had a good four or five weeks to "reset" itself, and maybe now if I get back into the swing of things, I can lose some of the ten or so pounds that have snuck back this summer, plus a little more besides. This morning I weighed myself, I adjusted my settings on MyFitnessPal, I ate a healthy breakfast, and I went out and did a cautious mile with Olivia in the jogging stroller. I feel good. I feel optimistic. I still really want a cheesesteak for dinner, but I'm trying to ignore that for now!
I guess my point here is that I am undecided. I'm on the right track, in the right frame of mind, to get back on that damn horse, but the big question here is, do I want to? Do I want to spend another year obsessing about every little thing that I eat? Do I want to spend another year mentally beating myself up if I don't get in some form of exercise three or four or five days a week? Do I want to spend the rest of my life being a slave to the number on the scale, knowing full well that that number doesn't mean a damn thing? Because I do know that. I know that eating well and moving my body make me healthy, despite the number. But why is it so hard to separate that knowledge from that number? I can blame my obsessive/compulsive nature, I can blame my anxiety, I can even blame society for impossible beauty standards and a distorted view of what is healthy. But who do I blame when my daughter starts picking up on Mama's behavior? Who do I blame when she grows up and starts doing the same things? That one is pretty squarely on me.
I feel like I am in a completely different place with my health and weight loss today than I was a year ago. (Last year's musings are here if you are so inclined.) I feel unhappy and cynical with the state of things today. I am frustrated with the constant back and forth - the litany of excuses I use not to do what I know is healthy for me or the smug superiority of being "good." I like the way I feel when I exercise and eat well, but I hate the way I feel when I beat myself up during periods of not exercising and eating well. I am my own worst enemy and my own harshest critic, but I can also be my own biggest cheerleader. I know how to achieve a sense of balance with all this, but that voice in the back of my head when I'm having an off week or month is loud and obnoxious, and I let it take over.
So for now, I choose not to make promises or commitments, I choose not to berate myself. For now, I take a deep breath and take some advice from my dad. He's a pretty damn wise dude, and the two most important pieces of advice he has given me are these: 1. Always try your best, and 2. One day at a time.