It’s 4:30 in the afternoon and I’ve joined the ranks of my dogs – we are all counting the minutes to supper time. They are ravenous, I’m just bored – I’d like to chow down on a handful of pretzels and a chunk of cheese – but not today. I’ve recently jumped on a get healthy bandwagon, not in a new-year’s-resolution sort of way but rather a can’t-get-my-pants-done-up sort of way.
I’ve been cutting myself slack for months. If I felt like a glass of wine I poured it, if I wanted to polish off the bottle, I did. Cheesecake? Yes please. Cheese, dips, crackers, have been my staples. Cereal for supper, leftover dessert for breakfast, I ate anything I wanted, anytime of the day and as much as I felt like. And now I’m out of clothes, out of puff and out of excuses. Something has to give.
Oddly I’m not beating myself up about the twenty five pounds I’ve packed on since last spring, nor am I desperately trying to peel them off – I just want to tackle them before they make new friends (twenty-five can turn into thirty-five before you know it). I want them gone before I wear out my stretched out jeans.
I’ve lived through hell this past year – I didn’t give a damn if my pants were complaining, I couldn’t have cared less about what I saw in the mirror. If I needed comfort and that comfort came by way of a plate of pasta or yam fries or a glass of wine I went for it. But now all that comfort is bulging over my jeans and I’ve started to care about that.
I’m a week into the three month Weight Watchers subscription I purchased online, a week closer to being comfortable in my skin. I’m trying not to focus on the things I’m not eating and instead trying to consider apples, eggs, carrots and chicken in a new and exciting way. So far so good. If the dogs can get excited about kibbles every day I can at least feign enthusiasm for what’s on the menu for me.