I have a confession: I don’t like the way I look.
In a few short months, I will bid my twenties a… fond?
farewell, squeeze my eyes shut, and swan dive into the yawning abyss of my
third full decade on this soggy blue capsule that we call our home planet. My
life thus far has had its blessings, and its curses. There have been scary
times, and moments of joy. There have been nights of crippling loneliness, and
afternoons of rib-bruising snickers with loved ones. There have been moments
when I’ve contemplating harvesting my internal organs for money, and weeks
spent in luxurious splendor in some exotic, unpronounceable location. There’s
been humiliation, exhilaration, exasperation, perspiration, mitigation,
capitulation, and… well, utter confusion. There are times when I’ve looked
forward to the next moment, and moments when I’ve wanted to take a long drive
off a very short bridge. One thing always remained the same, however, whether
the ships had come in or had gone belly up and floundered like my dead goldfish
as it swirled down the toilet to an inauspicious burial at sea….
People, there was always a whole lot of food.
My parents always made sure we had plenty of nutritious food
to eat. One time, at a restaurant, when a young mother handed me a baby bottle
and asked me to put more coke in it (when I got back from getting her kid more
ranch for the chicken tenders and fries, thanks), I was suddenly filled with
warm, fuzzy gratitude to my parents for always making sure we had enough to
eat, and ensuring that what we were eating was nutritious. In fact, the times
we protested the food (because what 8 year old enjoys eating broccoli
casserole?) and refused to eat it… well, that’s when Mom got the steel in her
chin and the glinty hellcat look in her eye, and no matter how long the hunger
strike lasted, she never backed down. And we sat there at the table, until we
finally broke out of boredom or shame, and we ate our vegetables, and we went
on with our evening. And MAN, do I appreciate that now. I also appreciate that when
my parents pulled us out of public school, we were, from that moment forward,
compelled to make our own lunches. It wasn’t laziness on my parents’ part, oh
no… it was home economics class, and no one who has ever tasted anything my
brother has baked, sautéed or deconstructed could ever second guess that
decision.
As I got older, we travelled more and more, and our tastes
broadened. I was taught to appreciate steak, and pasta, and Cornish game hens,
and to at least try the foods I wouldn’t have ordered, given the choice
(although I never even tried with the haggis, I won’t lie to you). I was taught
to experiment, and to take risks, and to never order chicken nuggets when there
was something new to try. And, I was training horses at the time, so I could eat
every exciting bite and not reeeeally worry about the ramifications.
And then, there was college, and the dream was over.
Suddenly, there was no sleep, and there was MacDonalds, and
every morning meant a new opportunity to stuff myself with biscuits and gravy.
First there was one, then two, then three, and there was sweet tea at every
meal, and there was no time for exercise. Freshman 15? PLEASE. Try the freshman
45. And it didn’t end there.
By the time I was 24, I looked like the Stay Puft
Marshmallow Man, and eventually, I had enough and lost 60ish pounds. And then I
gained some of it back. Then I lost some… and gained it back. In the game of
fat, I was a loser and a winner.
And then, suddenly, I was 29. I was living a cycle of
glutiny and famine, of praise for inches lost and shame over back bulge. And
one day, it hit me...
I don’t like the way I look.
Why do I live with it? Why do I allow myself to fail,
knowing that I’ll subject myself to the same snide, self-degrading comments I
always snark when I feel fat? Why do I look at every window I pass, hoping I’ll
see a pudgy profile so I can make a horrible face, which I will also see? Why
do I ask loved ones if I look fat, hoping they’ll say yes so I can punish
myself even more?
Welp, the cycle ends here. I have 19 weeks until I turn 30,
and I want to make every last minute count, which is why today? I kick off
20x30… in which I attempt in my last, grasping moments of twentydom to shed 20
pounds of fat ass and stride triumphantly (and with thighs that don’t rub
together) into the next era of my life.
My rules for engagement:
1. No crash diets.
2. No substance assistance (pills, etc)
3. Exercise daily. BUT NO GYMS! (Sore subject.)
4. No pizza or cupcakes. Fight the true enemy.
5. No buying of clothes until the weight is lost.
6. Daily weigh-ins and blog updates.
7. Lose the traditional evening cocktail.
8. No whining about being hungry,
9. AND NO GIVING UP!
I’m sticking with the simplest diet on earth. One pound of
fat= 3600 calories. To lose one pound of fat, you have to burn 3,600 calories
that you don’t put back in. Easy, right? I’ll have to expend about 570ish extra
calories a day.
I believe in a woman’s right to choose… not to look like
Flossie the Heifer. And this is where you come in- because the only thing more
miserable than being on a diet is having to read about someone else’s
experiences while on one! Thanks for sharing this journey with me. I only hope
that one day, you can look at me and say, “Wow, Liz… you look like you lost a
toddler.” The journey is long… and I’m dragging you along with me. Because that
burns extra calories too.
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