Wednesday, August 31, 2011
Well, here I am. The day I said Iíd be 50 pounds lighter than I was at the beginning of this journey. And guess what. Iím not. In fact, Iím a whole one tenth of a pound lighter. So instead of counting down the days until my husband comes home by going out and buying a new outfit without all the usual restrictions, Iím staring at my closet trying to figure out what I can wear that he a) hasnít seen a dozen times already, b) covers my upper arms and belly roll, c) is conducive to chasing an active 2-year-old around the airport when we have to wait for his flight, and d) isnít hotter than the hinges on the gates of hell all while trying not to cry about the fact that my husband -- already a good 8-9 inches taller and 10 pounds lighter than me -- always comes back from deployment about 30 pounds lighter than he was when he left (despite all the boxes of junk food I send him).
This time, I didnít want to walk through the airport with part of my mind wondering if people are looking at him thinking ďWhatís he doing with that fatty?Ē or looking at me thinking ďTypical military wife. Fat and lazy.Ē (I wonít even get into my personal rant on that.) I didnít want that special moment when the little dude is finally tucked into his bed to be overshadowed by the body image issues that have plagued me for the past decade. When Iím more worried about the lighting and the dimples on my butt than the fact that my husband has been away too long to care about them. But I guess we donít always get what we want.
What I hate most is the complete sense of failure I feel. I remember the first time I lost a significant amount of weight. It started on my birthday in 2003. Yes, I said my birthday. I was born in early summer, and my birthday happened to be the first day of the year that the temperature caused shorts to veer from acceptable to mandatory. I pulled on my favorite shorts from the year before. They didnít fit. I pulled on another pair. They didnít fit either. And so on until I got up to my designated ďfat shorts.Ē Those didnít fit either. I was officially bigger than Iíd ever been, and I called my mom in tears. I started the Weight Watchers program that day -- yes, birthday cake, homemade ice cream, and all -- and ended up losing about 45 pounds over the course of about 6 months. I wish I could figure out why I canít seem to do that again. Iíve been trying to lose these 50 pounds for over 2 years. TWO YEARS.
What is so different? Ten years ago, I started a weight loss plan on my birthday and managed to stick to it until the job was done. (I didnít derail myself again until I got a little too comfortable after marrying my husband. Losing our first baby and dealing with our first deployment as a married couple soon after probably didnít help either.) Now, Iím lucky if I can stick with it for a week. I can think of plenty of ďreasonsĒ I get derailed. Some are legit, and some probably land more in the territory of ďexcuses.Ē Iím sure there are people who would disagree with me about which are which. Some people seem to think anything is just an excuse. I tend to disagree. I think the difference, like beauty, lies in the beholder. What is a minor setback to someone might be a major struggle for someone else.
So here I am. Square one. Again. Body image issues, self-esteem issues, belly rolls and all. Will it be the last time? I donít know. Guess I need to figure that out.