I'm riding atop a thousand pound wrecking ball wearing nothing but a pair of ginormous granny panties, Doc Martens and the smile I was born with.
Oh, and I'm jamming a Mars bar into my mouth as I swing precariously to and fro. Did I mention I'm just a tad over weight perched on this implement of destruction? To further underscore my girth, the chain begins to slowly break, one link at a time. This does nothing however, to deter the progress of the Mars bar consumption as this task is seen to completion commencing in finger licking and then...
I'm jolted to consciousness in the wee hours of the morning, the only thought crossing my mind is the question of how I can possibly get my hands on a Mars bar this early in the morning.
Yeah, I'll admit - maybe I'm a little stressed about the extra pounds I've put on. And yeah, perhaps I'm ūber sensitive to my over forty body image status, what with the constant parade of taught twenty somethings gracing the media lately. How dare they remind me I'm aging and can't drop the last of the stubborn baby weight...7 years later.
My dream is my subconscious begging me to put down the chips and reach for a bar bell. As I type this I should be at the gym on the treadmill watching Food Network.
Why can I not commit to a diet/exercise regimen and stick to it? For the love of all that is holy...like swiss cheese and that fresh baked bread that you find big holes in, but it's okay because if the butter falls through, you can still catch it with your tongue?
The truth is, I know exactly why I can't commit. I'm stressed. I'm bored. The last three years were really rough. I'm on anti-depressants, I'm going through menopause and I like food. Okay? There, I said it. Oh, and I'm lazy. I also spend countless hours parked on my tush typing away. And as much as I want to fit into those new jeans that I bought in a size too small because "Hey, I'm going to lose weight...soon...", as good as it felt four whole years ago to be only a pound above my target weight, able to wear anything in my closet with confidence and to hear compliments from my husband and children on the way I looked instead of little jabs like "Better get that Twinkie before Mom does!", I still rationalize it all away. I'll tell myself that it could be worse.
But the truth of the matter is that I'm on the last belt loop. I tore my favorite jeans a few months ago. I'm choking myself trying to do the last button on my pants. I'm tired and grumpy and lacking in confidence. I have the potential to look better at my age and I'm squandering it. For what? Some jalepeño potato chips and a french dip? Oh...that sounds so good.
This ends today! Starting now I will recognize that the salty/sugary contraband in the cupboard is for the kids and is nothing but poison to me. I will cut the bread, cut the sugar, cut the crap. Literally. And I will exercise. That's right. Ho ho, ho ho, it's to the gym I go. Salad will be my closest ally.
And because I'm really serious...no more Food Network on the treadmill.
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