Waisting Away

In my world, going to the doctor is stressful. Whether it’s due to illness or just a quick check-up, I know I’m headed to the scale whether I like it or not. (For the record, I don’t like it.) Once I’ve dumped my purse and all easily removable accessories into The Chair Next To The Scale, I step on that awful thing and listen as the nurse slides the weight from the 150 mark to the 200. I’m generally able to predict my weight within two pounds. Is this a gift? A dubious one, at best, at least until I see those numbers dwindling.

As a fat girl, I’m always nervous that my perfect blood pressure will start to creep upward, the way it does for so many overweight individuals worldwide. It’s a miracle that I’ve managed to keep ideal blood pressure (and cholesterol, thank you) despite being obese. Luckily, most doctors just give a cursory glance at my vitals before declaring me “good to go.”

Naturally, the doctor to broach the subject of my weight would be thirty-one, fit, and handsome. He was honest with me. Very honest. So honest that I thought I might cry. And then he started throwing around numbers. Only one number stood out in my mind, though. I’m one hundred pounds overweight. Did it hurt to write that, to admit that to myself and to the world? Absolutely. So, you ask, what are you going to do about it? Easy. I’m going to lose weight.

It won’t be easy, and I’m not expecting the weight to melt off, but, with hard work, it will.

Something I should mention? I’m not going to deprive myself of the things I want. If I want a Coke, I’m going to have a Coke. I’m not going to sink into a swirling eddy of self-flagellation because I allowed myself a bowl of ice cream. I’m not going to eat carrot sticks and shy away from good food, real food simply because some anorexic, self-professed diet guru says that carbs (and sugar, and processed food, etc.) are BAD.

I’m going to exercise every day. I got an elliptical machine for Christmas, which is fabulous because it’s my preferred method of torture, and was instrumental in my losing twenty-five pounds (which I have since gained back, plus thirty-five) in the summer of ’08. My ultimate goal is to have the stamina to do a solid hour on the elliptical. Now? I’m at three minutes, and it’s not an easy three. There is much cussing and wheezing. But the endurance will come with time, and I’ll begin to see real progress.

I should say this: I don’t hate myself. I could remain fat and blissfully ignorant, but am I comfortable at this weight? No, honestly, because my clothes don’t fit and I’m so out of shape that I can’t chase the cats up/down the stairs without considerable huffing and/or puffing. It’s embarrassing, and I don’t want to live like this anymore, particularly when being so overweight has serious health consequences that I’m too young and stupid to grasp.

This isn’t a New Year’s resolution. This is simply a matter of habit. I must exercise every day; my health (and waistline) depend on it.