Show me a woman who doesn't worry about her weight and I'll unmask her as a man in drag. Well, maybe not, but I guarantee I won't like her much. I have struggled with my weight for a long time. When I was swimming competitively I still struggled with my weight, despite how active I was. So you can only imagine how dire the situation got after I graduated from college and stopped darkening pool decks at ridiculous hours of the morning. Mostly I let things go for a long time, expanding at a slow enough rate that I wasn't terribly alarmed. Until one day I was. Alarmed that is. And I have been battling on and off ever since. I lost 60 pounds a couple of years ago. I ran a marathon. I still had weight to lose but I was happier with how I looked for the first time in a long time. Then we moved. And apparently that last weight loss was just the latest nadir (or pinnacle depending on your point of view but I am a bit of a pessimist with regards to weight loss) on this yo-yo's journey. Because I promptly gained weight with the move. And two years on, the unwanted heft is still hanging around.
So I e-mailed my friend J. who has been through this with me before and we decided to get serious again. We weigh-in once a week and report losses (and gains) to each other and are supposed to generally act as cheerleaders and support staff for each other. In theory this should work, right? Well, this morning was my morning to weigh-in. Two words: Bake Sale. Okay, more than two words. This weekend we had a bake sale to raise money for dance. I baked a lot. I sampled more. I have zero willpower. Then I had to work the Panthers game (assessment of the game from D. who was there with a client: it was cold and we suck, but I digress) and that means I am there from 9am until 5pm or thereabouts. And the only food available to we fund-raising peons is not so very healthy stuff like nachos or hot pretzels or hotdogs. If you don't want to skip a meal, you eat this stuff. (My tally you ask? Yes, nachos; yes, pretzel; no, hotdog.) I totally get that eating this stuff and the lack of willpower at the bake sale sabotages me every day of the week. But knowing it and being able to do something about it are horses of two very different colors.
And now I have to report to J. that this past week was a bloody disaster for me and I gained rather a lot. ::sigh:: Do you think there's any chance she'll buy the fact that Gatsby stepped on the scale with me? I mean, she did but I weighed myself twice after that and the number didn't seem to change. I know she's a small puppy and all but surely her front paws and inquistively sniffy black nose weigh something, right?
But eating isn't the whole of it and I know that. I have been working hard to be fairly active. My running is very sporadic. My spin classes have been even more sporadic. But I have played tennis at least two days a week for quite a few weeks now. And I signed up and paid for an adult dance class that makes me sweat like a pig and my daughter's dance teachers feel greater sympathy for R. given how hard she has to work to overcome the enormous lack of genetic ability she's clearly up against. So really, what gives? Is that looming 4-0 really mucking with my metabolism that badly? Or should I be one of the 12 trillion women who marches into her primary care doctor and says, "I think my thyroid isn't working." Don't think I don't know they groan heavily when the real problem is overeating. I get it. I just don't seem to be able to change it. But maybe my thyroid is screwy. I mean, my mom and my sister have screwy thyroids and all. Then again, she said with weary resignation, it could be that darned bake sale and all the good eating opportunities like it every week.
Something must be done about my obesity epidemic. I'm starting to think that duct tape (the solution of choice for all rednecks and those otherwise desperate) over my mouth might be my only option. After all, if nothing else, I need to lose this weight because the fat pants take up far too much space in my drawers. My skinny pants miss me; I just know it.