Not too long ago, I only wore heels. High heels. Tall stilettos, wedges, platforms. HIGH. Sometimes stupid high.
I wore them to work, wore them to the shops, wore them ... all the time except for when I was either sleeping or exercising.
And boy have I suffered for it. The balls of my feet have been so painful that I have succumbed to wearing not only flat supportive shoes but ... B....B.... B.... dare I say it... BIRKENSTOCKS and the like.
I know. Hideous. But my balls feel good, and that is essentially all that matters.
So there's THAT admission.
My birthday was Friday [the 13th, even!] and my spousal unit gifted me with a Fitbit. It's ever so fancy, much fancier than the one I had before, but I haven't really taken it out for a spin just yet. This weekend was one of those *chalk-it-up-to-experience* weekends where we attended football games and went out for a birthday dinner and slept in on Saturday then woke up at 230am to get the husband off to the airport for a super early flight ... you know, one of *those* weekends.
Sure, I'm making excuses. But I'm owning them too so don't judge me.
Forty seven years old! Yep, forty seven. I am grateful for every single day, the chronological number does not daunt me at all. Neither does the number on the scale nor the number in my clothing label.
My original goal eight years ago was to wear a size 6. I surpassed that goal and lost a great deal of body fat via strength training and wore anywhere from a 00 to a 4. My weight was 135. I weighed 135 and I wore size 00 bottoms.
Today, I weigh 170 and I wear betwixt a size 6 and a size 8, there's a couple of 4's in there too, but I'm not fixated on the numbers.
I'm mostly fixated on being better.
Better than I was yesterday.
You get that?
Just like my sore balls are better, I want to be better in every facet of my life.
I am dealing with some family shizz right now. And that's pretty stressful. But it all depends on how I handle it, how I react. I need to do better.