I am tired of all this bullshit. I’m tired of worrying about protein. I’m tired of worrying about vomiting or pooping in public. I’m tired of running/walking. I’m tired of hiking my pants up all the time because they are too big. I’m tired, because sleeping is weird and I’m not eating enough and I’m working the same amount as pre-surgery.
This is not to be confused with the fact that I am also happy.
I’m so happy to hike those pants up all the time, because it means my knees aren’t aching as much. I’m happy to be using the third set of hooks on my bra. I’m happy to be able to drink coffee again. I’m happy to be able eat almost anything, and not have a terrible reaction. I’m happy for the energy I have and the things I can do.
But still, I really REALLY want a frozen custard caramel sundae from The Dairy Godmother in Del Ray. I know how good it tastes. I know how awesome I feel when I eat it. I also know it’ll probably make me sick afterwards. And that makes me sad. Like super sad, because that sundae, and ice cream, are my best friends for my whole life. And on Tuesday, as I was watching the returns for the governor’s race here in Virginia, I was so depressed (it turned around, no worries, I’m no longer depressed about that) and I really wanted some ice cream. Because ice cream makes the world a better place. Instead I had tea. But I was really unsatisfied.
Which brings me to another issue. I have no sex drive. ZERO. Whether that’s because I’m tired, or because my hormones are all weird, or just because I feel very alone much of the time and the last thing I want is to be intimate with someone who has been ignoring me until the moment he decided he wanted to have sex, I don’t know. But I’ve never had such a dry spell.
I didn’t exercise for two days, speaking of dry spells. I was working the election for one, and couldn’t squeeze in a workout before 4:30am or after 9:30pm. The next day I was exhausted and decided to stay in bed. I felt off, without the running, but also it was nice to have a break. And then I skipped a day this weekend. Feeling alone and being depressed can really ruin your mood for everything. ((Just so you don’t worry, I did visit my psychiatrist this morning. He didn’t even recognize me! The depression is under control. I think getting back on a regular exercise regimen will help too. More about that later. Cliff notes: I’m not going to hurt myself. Promise.))
I had two bites of a pastry last Thursday at a meeting. Almond. It was delicious and I didn’t throw up. Or poop my pants. Which makes me sad. Because that means that I can eat that crap. And I was hoping my body would reject it. I have to forget that I can eat it. I have to.
I’ve only lost 5 pounds over the last three weeks. And I feel ashamed of myself. Because I feel like I should be being amazing, because so many of you tell me how much I inspire you. So I feel like I have to be awesomely amazing.
Then while on a run this afternoon I had a huge blinding flash of the obvious (BFO).
I’ve slacked. Slacked slacked slacked.
Remember how I lost 30 pounds in the first month without even thinking too hard?
I remember that the pounds literally melted off. I remember that I was tired and sore.
What I don’t remember, even though it was just 2 months ago, is that I walked 3 times a day. That I ate the smallest amount of food possible. And it was all good for me food. No crap, AT ALL. I got a lot of sleep.
I made exercise a priority. I made eating the right food a priority. I made sleep a priority.
Fast forward to yesterday. I didn’t walk. I ate poorly. I lounged in bed a lot.
I had forgotten how hard I worked, not only in the 8 months leading up to surgery, but in the month or two post-surgery.
I had remembered it was easy, when it was anything but. I figured I could be lazy and the pounds would just disappear.
I was so so so very wrong. Delusional? Deluded?
And I’m just realizing it now.
I’m realizing that I need to run every day, and walk every evening. I need to watch what I eat. Just because I can eat a pastry without getting sick doesn’t mean that I should.
I have a request of you, my world.
If you see me, e-mail me, call me, text me…. ask me if I’ve walked/run today. Just add it to the bottom of the e-mail, or the text. Ask me it as a parting question. That’s it. And remind me to answer honestly. When the rest of these pounds melt off (because I fucking burned them off!) I’ll be able to thank all of you for holding me to my word. It’ll be like we ALL lost these 150 pounds. Wouldn’t that be awesome?