It’s called diet and exercise. Or fitness regime. Or whatever the fuck you call losing all the weight you gained while doing a PhD and a postdoc.
Soooooo, back in the first trimester of 2013, as I was on my way south from the shire of York, I decided that I needed to lose these pesky 50, or 60 or 80 extra lbs I have hanging around me. Around my boobs (I used to be a 36C and now I’m a 42D …. da fuck, it’s worse than if I was preggers). I have a waist circumference greater than that of Mr Dr 27 and I’ve got even more stretch marks than a teenager, all due to rapid weight gain. I’m at a loss. I feel tired all the time. I don’t sleep well. I snore. I feel like a giant blob. Ugh. Yeah, ugh.
I started going to the gym. Was doing both cardio and weights and was losing one pound or so every week. Then I fell off the wagon. And gained it all back. Granted, I’d only gone from 206lbs to 195 … but still.
I know, I know, that we shouldn’t necessarily believe the BMI numbers and percentages. But I see pictures of the time I was below 160lbs … and I look so happy. My clothes fit. My posture is much improved. My boobs don’t look like they’re overtaking my chest. I even had a waist, regardless of what my UG mentor thought.
I wasn’t a size 14 going on 16. And I was 1.5 shoe sizes less. WTF is wrong with me! And I was in a physiology and anatomy department during my PhD!!! Fuck, there were like 15 million seminars on belly fat and good body fat vs bad and cardiovascular disease and metabolic syndrome every single day of the week in my former department!
I’m killing myself and I don’t know how to stop!!! I eat all sorts of crap. Sure, I do eat meatless on most days. But I eat just as much as my husband. And he’s 6ft tall. And just because I don’t eat meat, it doesn’t mean I don’t have the need to fill my belly.
I’ve done weight watchers in the past. I did lose some weight. Almost 20lbs. But gained it all back. And 20 more pounds. I can’t afford a personal trainer. And to top it all off, I need to fit in a certain dress for my wedding next year (I’ve already bookmarked another dress that can be shipped in my size, in case I don’t drop all the pounds by the time I need). Good thing I only spent $230 on my wedding dress (though you wouldn’t believe me if I showed it to you). I can always sell it. But it would suck BIG because honey has already seen it and loves it and would love to see me wearing it.
Soooooooooooo, today, Tuesday Sept 10th, 2013 … on the 18th anniversary of my paternal grandfather’s death due to a massive heart attack (he was 64; due to complications of diabetes … even though he regularly checked his blood glucose levels, and measured and weighted everything and was slim) …
I Dr 27 and a PhD, do solemnly (but begrudgingly) swear to eat better and exercise. (fuck)
I can’t promise I’ll lose the 50lbs needed to fit in the dress (and not have the gut just take over in every single wedding picture) in time for the wedding. (double fuck)
But I do think I’ll lose some of the weight. (oh, who am I kidding … fuck).
I promise to eat fruits and veggies, lean meat and more veggies.
I promise to stay away from my regular soda.
And eat hummus and low fat cheese.
And drink water (clear coloured, not with HFCS, soda, ice and a lime wedge … aka Coca Cola or Pepsi .. regular please)
I’ll try to work out 30 mins every day of the week, so long as my legs and arms cooperate.
And I’ll try to give it my best.
But I anticipate I’ll give up more than once.
And run into the arms of my two friends Ben and Jerry.
Or anything that’s on sale at Publix. Or Kroger. Or both.
I promise to complain every day until the blessed day in 2014.
Ugh … who am I kidding … this is like climbing Mt Everest, naked, without oxygen, or boots.
And somehow I hope to make it.
Who am I kidding … I’ll fall flat on my face.
This is like imposter syndrome .. but worse.
Because I’ll have to look at my mirror.
And see the disappointment in hon’s eyes when I don’t reach my goal.
I’ll never be fit again …
I. just. want. to. be. healthy. and. look. hot. once. again. Srsly.
I hope I’m not kidding myself. Well, maybe I am. I’m lazy and I get bored and tired easily.
But fuck, I need to see this gut gone. I need to get down to a C-cup (though I’ll balloon again to a D should the husband and I have a spawn).
I’m tired of being another statistic. Another unhealthy Hispanic woman. But fuck, this is tough.
And this is how I’ll look from now until early next year: