Saying goodbye to the X
It is a struggle, every single day. There are days when I'm just so sick of the whole thing I cave and eat what I want instead of what I need. I'd like to tell you that I feel badly afterwards, but I don't. It makes no difference at all because guilt and I, we're really not all about food. I've got plenty of guilt, but it has nothing to do with weight and exercise and cake. Never has, either.
I eat less than pretty much everyone I've ever met. I honestly am not a binge eater, nor do I cram in the calories. My metabolism has always sucked, mostly as a byproduct of a mean case of PCOS, and I'm about as sedentary as one can get before you turn into a sofa yourself. I hate to exercise. Probably because it's dangerous for me to do unsupervised, due to my wonky heart, and also because it feels like crap. It hurts me. My heart feels like it's about to leap out of my chest, my breathing is shallow and can't grab the oxygen fast enough, my muscles ache, and in general I just want to curl up on the floor and say "uncle". I never get that rush you're supposed to get with exercise, even though I do my 30 minutes of elliptical. I do it because I am supposed to, but I honestly hate it.
But through the hatred and dread of exercise, another X has fallen. I know it's unbelievable, but it's true. I've lost another X and with this loss, I have to acknowledge it because my pants are falling off. Literally falling off. Bermuda shorts I bought last summer to wear to our NE Mama's blog lunch are now so huge on me I can pee without unbuttoning them. I wore them a couple of days ago and sadly packed them up because they're so big they're uncomfortable. When I'm walking I can feel them sliding down my hips. I KNOW! It's just bizarre.
I panicked at first, wondering just what the hell I would wear since everything is just humongous on me, and then the Girl reminded me of a bag of clothing someone had given me a year or so ago, where most of the pants were capris 2 sizes too small. She even remembered where the bag was, which I felt was miraculous in and of itself. She pulled out a pair of bright red capris, never worn, straight from the Dollar Store marked $4.99, and handed them to me. They looked TINY and I said,"Oh, they'll never fit me, look how small they are!" But she made me try them on, and you guessed it. They fit just fine. I felt faint. I've gone down two sizes since last summer.
Maybe to you that doesn't seem like much, but to me? It's beyond unreal. Most of my weight loss has been below the waist and in my boobs. My waist never seems smaller to me, and my tummy remains like a tube of sponge around my middle. But the truth is, I don't see myself as I am in the mirror. I see myself as I was. Photos of me from a couple of summers ago don't even look like me, because I'm so much smaller. Seventy pounds smaller. I know how much I've lost, I see it on my scale every morning. But for some reason I couldn't let go of the sizes. The size I've worn for over 20 years will always be my size mentally, even if physically it is no longer even relevant.
I have to go shopping and buy some new clothes. That's obvious. Nothing fits me. I've been hiding in huge t-shirts for so long, but I don't have to do that anymore. I can almost see a day on the horizon where I can go into any store and just life something off the rack and it will fit. Now, you gotta understand that I'm not a small person. I have a huge frame and the smallest size I've ever worn as an adult is an 11/12. And that was without an ounce of fat on my body. I'm never going to wear anything smaller than a 12 because my frame just won't let me. But there is hope, people. Hope that at some point I'll get back down to a 12 or a 14, which would be so miraculous, so totally and completely miraculous. If it happens, you're all invited to my party, where we will eat cake and drink champagne and rejoice. Stumble It! JBlog Me