I have hips.
I like them, actually. I’ve always had them – smaller waist, obvious hips. They’re good for carrying a baby on, that’s for sure.
I’ve never minded my body shape particularly. I’m tall, I have hips, I have a defined waist, I have a nice neckline and, as my grandmother used to tell me, I have great legs. I just need there to be less of me, and I need it to be easier to carry it all around.
With the campaign, and the stress, and sleeping issues and all the excuses I’ve been giving myself my weight has gone back up. I weighed myself this week – the first time in a while – and it was a number I hadn’t wanted to see again. It sort of brought me crashing down, because I’ve been doing well on the exercise front. I’m on the treadmill, I’m doing an hour instead of half an hour these days.
I’m running for two minutes at a time and I’m surprising myself because I never think I’m going to make it and I always do.
I’ve stopped carrying my debit cards so I can’t run out and buy stupid lunches or bad snacks (these were a very bad addition to my life). But I need to do more than the average person to really get my weight moving because the PCOS wants to keep me where I am.
I need to cold turkey myself off all the sugar I eat – bad white sugar that does terrible, terrible things to my body. I need to ban Coke products from my house. I need to cook instead of bake.
Today I took the first step – literally – I walked from the second floor to the 10th in my office building (you can’t get into the stairwell on the first floor without a key-code that I don’t have). I wanted to quit on the sixth floor, but I didn’t. And it felt so good to get to 10 that I went back in the afternoon and did it again. And I didn’t let that be an excuse not to get on the treadmill at home tonight.
I want my pants to fit, I want to be able to chase my daughter without needing to sit down. I can control myself, dammit. I’m tired of allowing myself to get away with things.
I will see the end of you, 210 lbs. I will reach my goal to get to 175 and I will keep going until I’m healthy and fit.
I vow that by the time I go to visit my mother in August she will see a change in me. By the time the house sits in September I will be regularly taking the stairs to my office. I will grow accustomed to not giving in when my brain tells me I want something chocolate or ice cream or sugar. I might not go out for roller derby again, but it won’t be because I don’t want to embarrass myself in the fitness tests.
This is not funny any more. How many empty promises have I made to myself? Who else would I allow to treat me this way? I’m 30 years old and I have wasted too much time thinking about food and weight.
I know that there’s a body under all of this fat that can rock some great clothes and I want to see it.