A lot of weight loss coaches talk about the what the fuck moment. You’re going along, doing great, and then you look up and realize it’s been 18 months since you were even in sight of the track, much less on track.
What the fuck?
This week I got on the scale for the first time since September LAST year and I’m back up to the comfortable, old familiar 270’s. This is the weight at which I get to sick of myself, that I’m finally motivated to do something.
My sister, Marie, happened to recommend Corrine Crabtree’s Phit-n-Phat podcasts, which are hilarious. She’s southern and she’s got a potty mouth and she’s all about starting where you are and making 1% changes. So my first 24 hour plan included ice cream twice in one day. Which was an improvement.
So that’s what the fuck happened. My Dad died. I had a ton of unresolved issues and feelings and adding grief on top of that, plus dealing with the family funeral was apparently too much for my snowflake self. I started what I’m going to call grief eating in the airport in Atlanta and never stopped for a year.
I’ve been trying to get back on track. I do one thing or another. Walking. Stopping the flour and sugar addiction. But it is slow going.
I finally got the nerve to FIND my scale this week and there it was. 273. I gained 84 pounds in 19 months. I am sorry to say, that’s not even a record for me. I once gained 120 pounds in 12 months.
I’ve done way too much therapy to NOT admit there’s something that gets triggered in my head. A fear, an anxiety about getting to a healthy body size.
So back on the horse. Or aboard the wagon. Or crawling along the track.
But I refuse to give up forever. I’m almost 60. I figure I have another few dozen attempts left, so why not?