Five Pounds of Chocolate Converts To...WHAT!?!?!
By Lisa Barker
Does it make sense to you that five little pounds of chocolate can equal twenty pounds on the scale? I'd like to know how that's possible.
But that's not the real reason I have a few pounds to lose. Medication for Bipolar Disorder and this wonderful thing called middle-age has my middle getting places a full twenty seconds before I do and it keeps on jiggling like a jogger waiting for the light to turn green at a traffic signal.
Now, I take great pride in knowing that my poor body has inherited its present shape largely due to the poundage of babies I have helped bring into this world, but there is nothing more frustrating than standing on that scale and seeing it mock me.
What do you mean I gained ANOTHER two pounds!?!?!
Does it matter?
For the longest time I have been trying to convince myself that the numbers on the scale don't matter...as long as the clothes in my closet fit. Right?
Well, after a summer of shorts and loose T-shirts, I went to put on a pair of my 'fat' jeans...and they don't fit!!
Okay, I'm hitting the panic button here. Even the skirts I recently bought don't fit. Help!
It's time I hauled this carcass off the chair and out of the house and walked my you-know-what around the block a few times.
*SIGH* Have you ever tried walking with a one year-old and a three year-old? The three year-old keeps moving closer and closer to the curb waiting for her little brother to bolt up someone's driveway so she can make a break for it across the street.
That ought to be enough exercise, right? It's enough to bust a sweat, that's for sure, but high blood-pressure doesn't equal weight loss...it just makes me want to soothe myself with a piece of chocolate once I get back home...and wonder what ever possessed me to try a stunt like that.
Oh, yeah. I need to lose weight.
How much? 55 pounds now.
Can you believe that I could run the 880 (1/2 mile) in 2 minutes and 42 seconds when I was 14 years old?
Nowadays I can sprint to the mailbox in the same amount of time. My mailbox is three houses away.
It takes me another two minutes to get my belly and butt to start jiggling in sync so I can ease them to a stand still. It's like watching one of those desk jobbies people have to amuse themselves (or annoy others) when they should be working, you know where the balls swing back and forth knocking each other? That's my front and backside.
I was always a skinny kid. This is like getting a "D" when you've been a straight-A student all your life.
Oh, well. What does that matter now? It's a new body and a new challenge.
This new week coming up, I'll be working on 'moving my body more'.
I hate the word 'exercise'. It conjures up the image of the first of many P.E. teachers I had; a five foot Nazi, who stood there in her nice warm sweats and winter coat while we sprinted around the track it this hilarious one piece blue jump suit running, not because she'd sic the Dobermans on us, but because we didn't want to lose another finger or toe to frostbite. Hey, whose idea was that to make kids on the verge of the EXTREMELY self-conscious teens dress like goons? Looked like a bunch of Smurfs running around...and there's Gargamyl over there yelling: RUN ANOTHER LAP!!! RUN ANOTHER LAP, YOU STOOPID SMURFS!!! Yeah, THAT will raise your self-esteem...NOT!
Well, September first is looming as large as my fanny. It's the day of the Great Weigh-In.
I'll be back to milk my "journey to a slimmer me" for all it's worth. Hey--ya gotta laugh sometimes or it's just not fun at all.