I confess. I’m guilty. I’ve lived by the D word time and time again. Yes, I mean the dreadful DIET! Over the course of the past decade I’ve managed to (ahem) pile on the pounds that came so gradually it’s hardly noticed – without a complete obsession with my body. I admit, my head was in the sand so I wasn’t ‘watching my body’ as closely as I did when I was younger. And I refused to give overt attention to the mini shopping spree’s I’d go on to supplement my spreading waistline. (What can I say? I’m a writer. I can be aloof.)
One day I woke up and I was way overweight and not at all feeling comfortable in my skin. I felt sloppy, sad, disgusted, angry, disappointed in myself, you name it. So, the D word became a way of life for me. The result? One failure after another, and an extra ten pounds for my effort. Excellent!
Atkins, South Beach, Apple Cider, Celery Soup (yuck!), low fat, Acai Berry… I did ‘em all, to no avail. So I ditched the D and joined the gym with the enthusiastic fervor of a marathoner in training. Surely this would work if I just counted my calories and followed my husband’s strict fitness lead. I did shed a pound or three but after almost a year I was without a doubt in better shape but the pounds just weren’t falling off. “Has my metabolism changed?” I wondered (cuz surely it wasn’t my late night woman-on-the-go noshing). So my ritualistic gym-time with the honey waned and became as visible to me as my treadmill turned clothes hanger.
One monumental day came about back in April. It’s ironic that this was the one time I didn’t note the day on some healthy living site, my schedule or task list. I remember it vaguely. I was in my usual rush, grabbing my lunch on the go and I paused outside of Wendy’s. It just didn’t feel right. It's time for better choices! Five minutes later I was in my office having a breadless sandwich. A delicious chicken salad made with fresh grilled chicken, a sliver of bell pepper, onion and a zesty yogurt spread. All fresh, no additives or preservatives. Healthy eating with my usual bottled water. The satisfaction was so great, it followed me. I wanted every meal to be so guilt free and satisfying. And away we go!
Five months later and I’ve dropped 26 pounds. It slid off almost as innocuously as it appeared. I’m a girlie girl so it was the summer of the sundress for me. I noticed a couple pairs of sandals were slightly bigger and blistering my toes. But that’s it. Intentional or not, I hadn’t been paying attention. It wasn’t a mission this time. 26 pounds. Hard to wrap my arms around that. It feels good, can't deny that, but I still have a few more to go. Maybe I can’t find the celebration in me cuz it wasn’t some trailblazing D word. It wasn’t just something I was doing to look better. It was that thing I had to do to feel better, to be good to me.
This morning I dug into my early-fall wardrobe and I realized, “Oh shit, I can’t fit my clothes!” On one hand, cloud nine. No lie. The other side of the coin was my prep time to get out of the house had been used up on clothes. Where’s the celebration? Twenty-Six pounds is a huge achievement for me. I’m the chick who celebrated five pounds with every diet, no matter how bizarre. Why can’t I celebrate now? Maybe it’s because I feel a celebration in me every time I make the right choice about what I put into/on my body. I love myself a little more everyday for that. Maybe that’s the celebration. I’m happy, I’m healthy, I run every morning and I’m loving my body. Wow! That’s huge. One day in early April, I decided to change my point of view, and I changed my life. I think I feel a celebration coming on.
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