I opened my eyes today a few minutes before the 6 a.m. alarm would ring, just in time to push a button and spare myself the rude buzz. Much more pleasant this way, and less likely to wake Blake, who had 40 minutes before the buzzing would be coming from the alarm on his nightstand.
I watched him sleep while I pulled on my yoga clothes, ever so conscious that my life partner was worth waiting decades for. It was still dark as I ran through the familiar routine: Mountain pose, half sun salute, upward facing dog, downward dog, forward lunge, forward bend, another half sun salute and back to mountain pose.
In the shower I went over my day: work, lunch with my three best girlfriends, the gym and then home. And it was Blake’s turn to cook. Weekdays don’t get much better than this.
I stepped out into the steam-filled bathroom, wrapped my hair in a towel turban and pulled on a terry robe. Darn. I had forgotten to turn on the fan again and the mirrors were fogged. I decide to wait for the fan to do its work, rather than smear an opening with my hands. After all, I don’t need to see to apply body lotion.
As the mirrors slowly cleared, so too did my reflection: The wavy hair peeking out of the turban, the brown eyes, straight white teeth. But my face was rounder, fleshier. And it wasn’t just my face. I tore open the robe and in one glimpse understood: This is the real me. It’s not the person I wish I were – the person I keep trying to be, but failing. This is the real me. At this moment, this is the real me.
I can’t do yoga, haven’t been to the gym in months and Blake doesn’t exist, so he’s probably not going to be making dinner.
How do I feel about the real me? For the most part, not bad. She’s smart, funny, interesting and kind. And she’s grateful for her many blessings: a strong spiritual core, a fantastic group of family and friends, a challenging and interesting job, enriching hobbies - even a dog who she adores.
Why isn’t that enough to allow her to maintain a healthy eating and exercise regimen for more than a few months at a time? Why can’t she get a handle on this issue once and for all? Why does her addiction have to be so internally painful and externally visible? And why is she speaking of herself in the third person?
Me. Me, myself and I. That’s where the problem is. And that’s where the solution is.
My mirror and my wardrobe have been telling me there is a problem for decades now. For the last couple of years, my body has been telling me too. And like they say, when you don’t listen, the messages get louder.
I’m a few Blizzards and Chinese buffets away from 300 pounds. I can’t climb a flight of stairs (or heck, tie my shoes) without losing my breath. I’m a prime candidate for diabetes, a heart attack or stroke. A year ago, tests confirmed that my lung functioning was compromised. Further tests ruled out heart problems and pointed to a simple diagnosis: I’m fat. My doctor called it obesity hypoventilation syndrome, which my short neck makes me more susceptible to. It’s also known as Pickwickian syndrome, after the obese, red-faced character Joe from Dickens' The Posthumous Papers of the Pickwick Club. Depression is a common side effect. No wonder. The diagnosis is enough to depress anyone.
But as incomprehensible as it is for some to believe (Hi Mom!), even that wasn’t enough for me to maintain healthier habits. I was on track for a while, but only for a while. It was like every other attempt during the last 20 years. And there have been a few. Short of surgery and hypnosis, I’ve tried it all: Every diet, every program, every book, every product, every support group, every piece of equipment. I’ve joined and quit every gym in town. I’ve been through four trainers, three therapists and one psychiatric nurse practitioner.
I’m smarter, sure. I know more about nutrition and exercise than I ever thought I would. I’ve done the gritty, painful emotional work to learn how I got here. And I picked up a few other uncomfortable, but necessary, personal revelations along the way.
But like anyone else in this situation (and there are many of us), the problem is with myself, in this moment. And that’s where the solution is.
So, I’m going to take what I know and take one day at a time. I’m going to remember that there is no such thing as perfection, that this journey is just part of my overall journey and that we’re all struggling with something. I’m getting rid of gimmicks and programs and regimens and apps and charts and graphs. I will treat my body like it deserves to be treated. I will eat healthier and move more. Not very catchy, I know. But I feel like it’s one of the few things I haven’t tried.
The other thing I haven’t tried is going public. Maybe that will make a difference. Just writing this all down has helped me focus. It might help someone else. But I don’t want this blog to become “all weight loss, all the time.” So I’ll check in after each 15-pound loss, or every couple of months, if this program without programming doesn’t catch on.
I hope to be back in a few weeks. I’ll be getting there one day at a time.
