It is my birthday.
And, yes, I’ll stop the LOLcat speak.
Like every other birthday, I had grand plans and goals that by this day, I’d be X. I’d have done Y. And Z would be my next goal on the horizon. And yet here we are, and I’m not even past A. Sigh.
I did not go back to Weight Watches on June 5. Or on June 12. But I think that my butt will be in the seat on June 19. It was working for me until I stopped working it. And how and why I stopped working it befuddles me. I got into a car accident, and I didn’t blow it. And, yet, somehow, I just…stopped. Like a fire just goes out. Or, rather, my Inner Fat Girl throws herself on it and smothers it out. Bitch.
I’m tired of setting goals that are never achieved.
I’m tired of saying Now! Is! The! Time! only to mea culpa a day/week/month/year/decade later.
I’m tired of being fat and in pain, yet seemingly incapable of making the choices that could free me from that suffering.
This birthday has been eye-opening in a lot of ways. It occurs to me how much I’ve just given up. I didn’t make a big deal out of the day. I put absolutely no effort into planning or thinking or dreaming of how I might want to spend the one day out of the year that’s supposed to be all-about-me. Couldn’t even think about or suggest any wish-list items to my gift-challenged husband (bless his soul, I don’t give him much to go on and yet he tries). I completely abdicated this day like I’ve done my life.
I wanted to come here and trumpet that today is my birthday and I started! it! by! going! to! the! gym! Only to wake up at 4am this morning with the worst cramp in my hip (I can’t even explain what that means, just know that my hitch is not gettin’ along) and I could barely get out of bed, let alone go swimming or get on an elliptical. Which, to be honest, would not have been what I’d consider a fun thing to do on my birthday, but I wanted to be “that girl” – which, in this case, is the girl who goes to the gym on her birthday.
And therein is my problem, methinks. The “that girl” I want to be seems so freakin’ different from the me that I am, I don’t know how to reconcile the two. Do I *really* want to be “that girl?” Because, don’t you think if I *did*, “this girl” would try harder? Or do I really just want to be the “this girl” that I am, and just get permission (from God knows who) to just be that way?
Like, “that girl” really wants to get outside, and build raised garden beds and grow vegetables and enjoy the sunshine and outdoors. But “this girl” is paler than a vampire, can’t be on her knees, hates the heat, is not a fan of getting dirty, and is an all-you-can-eat buffet for skeeters. “This girl” hardly wants to go outside to get the mail half the time. See my dilemma? I don’t want to be “this girl.” I want to be “that girl.” But I wonder, if I ever got to be “that girl” – she would be me, and would I then want something different, too?
Getting too deep for 10:40 in the morning.
Last year, I did an every-day-in-May exercise challenge, and I was rocking it. I weighed about 15 pounds less (I’m guessing because – anyone? anyone? – yes, I’ve not been on a scale in a while).
Two years ago, my husband and I traipsed through Zion National Park. I weighed 345 pounds. t wasn’t a cake-walk, but I managed.
I go to Hawaii in just a few months. I am in serious danger of going there fatter than I was the last time. I’m not even confident I’ll be able to walk any length of time on a beach, on a trail, etc.
I’m 41 today. Why do I feel that the 4 should really be a 9?
I want a better life.
I want better health.
I deserve a better life.
I deserve better health.
I deserve to be a me that I can stand behind.