One thing that has always bothered me is the idea of being a tattletale or blamer.
I'm not saying I NEVER blame or tattle, because let's be honest, I do, without even realizing it sometimes.
And I'm not saying I don't have the URGE to tattle or blame, because oh Bessie, you got no idea. The force is strong in this one.
So that takes us to the number one thing I want to blame on anybody or anything but me: my eating habits.
They are, in a word, terrible. They're terrible because that serves me in some way, according to my wise workout instructor. I think that way is summed up in one word: deliciousness.
Food is delicious. I love it a lot. However, food is not a good influence on my life. It's like that one friend you have that you get together with periodically and you always MEAN to make good choices as a unit, but the next thing you know you're both covered in donut glaze and at least one of you is missing a shoe, and neither one of you can remember how to get to that one chick's apartment who lives within walking distance.
I think compulsive overeating is the term, but that makes me sound like I have a condishun, and that's not the case. I just love food. I love it. I love to think about it, look at pictures of it, and eat it. I love to plan recipes and add secret ingredients, and I firmly believe a little extra vanilla is vital in a dessert, just as a little extra garlic in an entree isn't gonna hurt anyone.
So then I have that first bite, and oh my God I nailed it, so I have to keep eating, or oh my God did I not nail it? I better have another bite to see for sure, or oh my God this is terrible, but I hate to waste food, so I have to keep eating.
See the pattern?
All of this has resulted in hundreds of pounds gained and lost over the years: 20 pounds here and there, but usually more in the five to 10 pound range, over and over and over again.
But mostly, I have gotten away with it, by working out or moving enough to keep it from getting really bad.
However, I'm noticing something: either I'm eating a lot more or it's getting noticeably harder to beat the system. And my weight gain is a little different than it used to be. It's like I'm accumulating more...sag.
I said it. There's more droop. It's an almost imperceptible melting effect. I mean, dear God, is my belly button actually disappearing behind a curtain of falling skin? And what is my chest DOING? Is it actually dipping down to help me look for my belly button? Why do my upper arms morph into flying squirrels when I wave furiously at someone? And is my leg skin...starting to fall?? Where will it land? Around my ankles? Will it just drape in folds eventually, all the way down? Is my skin actually getting bigger? What is even happening?
So every Sunday I have a stern talking-to with myself. I'm all, self, listen. We're older than we've ever been and now we're even older.
And now we're even older.
And now we're even older.
You know what I'm saying. So then comes the hey, health, longevity, mood stabilization are actually GOOD things, so maybe just stop, please just at least consider stopping eating like you used to when you thought you were comfortably married and would never have to be in the dating pool again. If you could just try that, just give it a little try, a little try never hurt anybody, and then maybe the flying squirrels won't actually look like they're going to sail right off your arms, and maybe your legs won't slowly morph into skin drapes.
And then I'm like, hey, self, great idea, I could NOT agree more!
And I mean it. Until, say, Monday at 3 p.m. when I'm in the end stages of starvation even though I've consumed a very reasonable breakfast and lunch. Then I attack a jar of peanut butter with a spoon that barely fits in the mouth of the jar, and boom, another day is lost.
So then I go to Fit Club (which I won't be attending for six weeks now due to a longish-term commitment) and my sister, who is amazing, but only 30 years old, mocks me openly. She means well. She tells me that the flying squirrels will be larger and more aggressive if I don't punch harder, that my leg folds will be worse if I don't do higher knees...and she snickers a lot. Far more snickering than I like to have directed at my body skin.
The point is that I think of all this, I get down on myself, I start to openly question at what point I filled up with so much self-loathing, and then I remember the 1997 Baz Luhrmann song, based on the Mary Schmich article of the same year that was a list of bits of advice to graduates in speech format: Wear Sunscreen.
Schmich started by extolling the virtues of sunscreen, and imploring young graduates to start wearing it immediately, in order to save years of regret later. She followed a specific-to-broad-to-specific format from that point, and hit on this line early in the list:
But trust me, in 20 years, you'll look back at photos of yourself and recall in a way you can't grasp now how much possibility lay before you and how fabulous you really looked.
Sigh. Okay. I get it. So I started paying closer attention to these thoughts I had about my body's tendency to embrace gravity a little too zealously, and realized that, when traced back to my lazy, lazy roots, I AM a blamer. And the person I make these excuses to every single day...is myself. My internal dialogue goes much like this:
Well, I CAN'T do high knees, because sometimes that one knee hurts.
I mean, if they want me to throw up on this floor, sure I'll go as hard as they do.
They're lucky I'm even here today. I'm super hormonal. So much bloat.
The last time I did this workout was in Bangor, Maine. It was a simpler time.
And on, and on, and ON. So I'm going to try a thing where instead of constantly blaming something else for my lack of drive, I'll just put some of that energy into jumping-jack pushups or whatever the hell is happening,
I'll let you know how it goes. But until then...
trust me on the sunscreen.
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