Blast from the Past Saturday

I'm horrible at keeping a journal. I like to write for an audience. That's one of the reasons I love writing a blog: it's a record of my life and feelings, but I totally get comments! How cool is that.

Anyway, it's so fun to look back a year ago and see how much my attitude has changed (see, there's hope for the rest of my bad-attitude sore points that still linger, despite regular exercise). I now love to exercise. I haven't gone much since we moved, since we are upgrading my membership to include daycare and something must be lost in the mail. Still, sanding cupboards and painting is pretty good exercise. I miss the gym though. I had a dream the other night, about going to the gym. And not in the context of a nightmare. This dream was complete with soft focus and love music directed toward the elliptical machine. Ahh, low impact cardio, how I love thee!

PS Since last September, when I started going regularly, I've lost 17 pounds, and kept it off. I'm still about five pounds from my goal weight, but I'm ok with that. For now.

Here's the post, from June 12, 2009:

Exercise: Why I Hate It
I’m trying to lose weight. I like being skinny. I like my clothes to fit. I’ve been slowly losing both of those over the last year. I’m not sure what to blame. I’m betting that being depressed and on medications on and off has something to do with it. I like food and hate exercise. Another problem is that I’ve always been able to eat whatever I want, not exercise and still be disgustingly perfect. I still think I should be able to do that and “eat whatever I want” has come to mean Costco sized portions of cheese and chocolate. I have never weighed this much while not being pregnant/losing weight after being pregnant.

So, this came to a crisis came to a head when I went to the doctor and they weighed me and the number was 168. I just about flipped. In high school, I was 150 and the perfect weight (I’m tall and have heavy bones, so 150 was just right skinny for me). I’d been avoiding the scales, because I knew I was not going to be happy with what I saw. Luckily, ours is broken, so it's been easy to do.

After Xander, I got down to 135 and that was way too skinny. My head looks huge in pictures. See:
I mean, I wouldn’t mind being that skinny all the time, but it’s really too skinny to be realistic. I look a bit sick. Or like I’m a female doctor on a medical drama. Ever notice how those girls always have tiny bodies and huge-o heads and their teeth look like they could at any moment elongate and eat a patient?

Right now, I’m about here:
I’d like to be right in between those two. Around 156 or so. Like the picture below. That is me in Vegas 14 months ago. Perfection! (Except for that double chin. Only because I was looking down! I swear!).
Two weeks ago, I started getting up the willpower. I’m done being like this. I hate how my pants don’t fit. My clothes have clearly had it too. My “fat” pair of jeans has given up the fight and will no longer stay zipped. Poor zipper looks like it’s trying to escape to Mexico. Then another beloved pair of pants split in the booty. This made me muy muy sad and I’m only holding it together by telling myself that they were beloved and very, very worn. My clothes are screaming for help.

Over the past two weeks, I haven’t been eating candy. I’ve been cutting down on cheese, snacks and fast food. I even exercised. Twice. This is a huge deal.

I hate to exercise. Here are the steps I take when I’m going to exercise. I make sure to follow them to the letter every time:

1. Dread working out. Make David make me agree to exercise. Make David hand me my shoes. Make David agree to be tortured with me. Make David make me leave the house. Poor David.
2. Change into exercise clothes. I hate changing my clothes. Really. I try to only do it once a day. You have to decide what to wear, which is always difficult. You are creating laundry, which I despise. Laundry and I have a feud going that stretches long back into my childhood. You have do decide if things go together. I’m over it, and have been since I started dressing myself all those long years ago. When I was in high school, I slept in my clothes to avoid having to take them off at night and put on a pair of pajamas. If you exercise, you have to put on special clothes, then they make you change back into regular clothes after you are done and usually after a shower, which is a whole ‘nother ball of venting wax. Having to get ready after taking a shower is about the only time I wish I were a man.
3. Figure out what to do with four small children. Make David ask my mom to watch them for us. Poor David.
4. Spend the whole time wanting to stop, wanting to puke, or wanting to stop to puke, or wanting to puke so you can stop. Exercising makes me physically ill. This is why I never exercise enough to stop feeling like that. I try to take it easy. Really, I do. I just don’t realize that my definition of “easy” really means “slow walk.”
5. Come home after 15 eternal minutes and die on the bed. Refuse to get dressed. Refuse to move. Drink water so I’ll stop feeling like I’m going to puke. Almost puke after drinking too much water.
6. WAIT! I feel good! I feel endorphins! WOW. I love exercise. I’m going to do this every day!
7. Lie awake in bed until 1:00 am. Kids get up at 6:30.
8. Wake up the next morning and everything hurts. I’m never exercising again.

You can see why this is an effort. I really need to just suck it up, feel like puking for a few weeks, and get into a routine.

By the way, I weighed myself yesterday. I gained three pounds.