Who Is That Blob in the Mirror? Oh No! It's Me!

A while ago I noticed that my clothes were getting smaller.  Things that had fit me only months before, were tight. While the magical thinker in me wanted to blame my new washing machine, (it must be shrinking all my clothing as part of its water saving feature!), my right brain couldn’t fight the reality: I was getting fat.

Now I’ve never exactly been a twig, but I never had a roll of flab around my middle. Until now.

It isn’t all my fault. I’ve reached that wonderful age where even though I’m neither eating more or exercising less, pounds glob on to my once -fit frame.

Also, and this is a biggie, I went back to school last fall, so instead of walking the dogs three miles a day every day, it has been more like three days a week.  You’d think when I noticed the dogs were getting a bit tubby and put them on a diet, I might have done the same for myself. But if you believe that you don’t understand denial. I, on the other hand,  am the Queen of Denial.

Breaking  through denial isn’t easy. It takes something big. We believers need a shove, not a nudge.

Mine came from in the form of an invitation. My perfectly nice nephew and his lovely girlfriend selfishly decided to get married.  In August.  In New England.

Perhaps they foolishly thought this was about them, but all I could think of was me. Not only would there be herds of people attending who I hadn’t laid eyes on in years, but there would be photographic evidence.  And sleeveless dresses. The horror!

After I stopped screaming, I started planning. I got a Fitbit – I have a few friends who had become quite svelte after adhering to the 10,000 step a day plan.  It fit easily into my schedule and like a Pavlovian dog, I enjoyed the little buzz it made when I hit the goal. 

Naturally there was a problem. Most days I was already walking more than 10,000 steps and I kept breaking the darn things. After three replacements failed, the company and I agreed to part.

By this time it was June.  School was ending and I had a little more spare time.  Unfortunately for the dogs, summer in the San Fernando Valley is hot. Steaming hot. By the time I get home from riding in the mornings, it’s too hellish to walk on the streets. Unless I want to burn their paws. Which I don’t.

I already started going back to flow yoga a couple of times a week, and that was making me feel better, but I wasn’t losing any noticeable weight.  The clock was ticking and I needed to get serious. So I reached out to a young, fit, friend who had recently finished the certification and classes to become a fitness trainer.

She invited me over to her place for the first session. Like heroin, the first time was free.  Also like drugs, it also made me feel pretty good.

During that assessment she kept telling me I was in better shape than I look.  Apparently under my rolls of fat lurk abs of steel. Or at least aluminum.

I figured I’d give it a chance for a few months. I had nothing to lose but fat.

Today was my fourth session. The exercises aren’t so easy anymore.  Apparently, the whole point of training is to keep pushing yourself, not to get good at it. If it gets comfortable, you add weight and start all over.

This completely goes against my need for near-instant gratification. My ideal plan is to get better at things and eventually win. It’s the destination, not the journey. Naturally, I’m a pretty bad yogi.

Anyway, today I managed to get through all of the exercises, even with some weights.  ‘Course by the time we were done, my arms were so tired I wasn’t sure I’d be able to shift my car out of park and drive home. Note to self:  next time don’t take the vehicle with manual transmission.

By the time I did get home it became obvious that if I wanted to get anything done I had to rest my arms on the table or they shook too much to type. Aspirin is my new best friend.

After only two weeks, I haven’t seen a change yet, but everyone assures me I will. Eventually.

I don’t expect to have a bangin’ bikini bod, but I would like to be able to wear a sleeveless dress to the wedding and not gross myself out. Or at least fit into my old clothes again.