Before I go into great detail and length about the “”D-Word”, I must first make one small, yet vital, request. By sharing the fact that I’m about to embarq on the “D-Word”, I am in no way inviting anyone to voice any sort of opinion on how I should go about successfully completing this journey. So, for those of you who feel that your faithful friendship to me makes you obligated to police me in my efforts, please refrain. Or else. And I mean that with every ounce of my being. My big, fat being.
June 1st marks the beginning. Of my new life. My new lifeSTYLE. My new attitide. My new appreciation for this monstrosity of a temple that God graced me with, otherwise known as my body. When I woke up this morning, I climbed out of bed with a determination. And no, “determination” is not the “D-Word”. I think we all know what word I’m talking about. We’re intelligent people here. I don’t need to type it out loud.
And if you have yet to figure out what the “D-Word” is, then pick a word that begins with “D” and plug it in.
Sort of like Mad-libs. It’ll just make this a little more interesting for you.
Part of me is dreading this. Part of me wants to be forever mad at God for not blessing me with a super-sonic-speed metabolism. Part of me wants to sit on the couch and eat my bag of Cool Ranch Doritos and be happy being fat. But that’s the obese part of me. At least, the BMI chart says obese. Such an ugly word. Obese. I picture the 600-lb. woman on The Discovery Health Channel. To me, that’s obese. The kind of fat that I am – the “I just popped out two children in two years” kind of fat – is not supposed to be considered obese. But, whatever.
Then there’s the skinny part of me. The part of me that knows it’s my own damn fault. Kids or no kids, I let myself get this way. I opened mouth and inserted much more than foot. It was grand and lovely and I had the time of my life, but I must pay for it now. I want those gams back. I had great legs. I mean great. I wore shorts like it was my job. It’s now been 3 years since I’ve mustered up the courage to wear shorts in public. And my arms. It’d be incredibly nice to wave goodbye to someone with JUST my hand without the backlash from my biceps. It’s like my echo. GOODBYE! goodbye! GOODBYE! goodbye!
There’s also my face. Even my make-up goes on better without all the extra pores to cover. Some people do look better with a fuller face, but I do not belong to that particular group of luckies.
And last, but far from least, is the belly. Oh, Jesus. The belly. *cringe* *shudder* *cry* Ugh.
When I get my gams back, can wave with both hands without creating a wind tunnel and have the profile of a goddess, I will still be lying on the floor, crunching and toning like Susan Powter on crack, trying to get rid of this belly. I do partly attribute this ball of flubbub to my two darling children. But only about 1/4 of it. The other 3/4 was from that bag of Doritos I mentioned. Along with LOTS of other stuff. And little to none of the strenuous “E-Word” that I convinced myself I was getting enough of by chasing my toddler around.
Oh, no. The good things in life rarely come easy. These pounds don’t drop off as quickly as they pile on. That would be too charming. That would mean I could open the Doritos bag and then ball it up and throw it away and *BOOM* there goes 10 pounds. I’d follow that by jumping up and down from pure elation and *BOOM* there goes another 15.
Shoot. And then I wake up.
No, the “D-Word” must bring along it’s ugly cousin – exercise. That’s right – the “E-Word”.
Now, I’ve actually been a fan of exercise in the past. Not at first. I was the one all shaky and jittery, sweating like a fat kid in the principal’s office and puking after a workout. Or three. Luckily, I was with my skinny friend (a.k.a. President of the Skinny Bitch Club) who looks great in a bikini and served as my motivation through it all. Can’t let S.B. see me puke and give up. Oh, no! I’m made of steel and can endure anything! Bru-ha-ha! Bring on the burn! I literally pushed myself through it. Eventually, I came to enjoy it. S.B. said I was releasing endorphins, which gave me a natural high and, thus, the craving to exercise. And that’s what I’m shooting for, once again. The craving to exercise. I wonder how many times I’ll puke after a workout before I get that craving back. And I wonder who will silently push me through it since S.B. is now 7 months pregnant and won’t be sprinting on that eliptical machine next to me for at least 6 months. That means I’m going to have to be *gasp!* SELF-MOTIVATED!!!!! Oh, geez.
And one more thing: all these years I hear about Mr. Atkins and his phenomenal new approach towards weight loss by eliminating carbs from your “D-Word”. NOW, my new sponsor (who shall remain nameless, as she’s the ONLY person allowed to police my efforts) tells me that this new “D-Word” will be spearheaded by a love for all things fiber. WTF?! And all those times I gave a good two-week effort to a no-carb lifestyle just to find out that it didn’t matter if I ate that mac-n-cheese or not! I’m appalled! Mr. Atkins can kiss my Metamucil!
So here’s to my new lifestyle. To the change. Goodbye Doritos, Hello carrot sticks. And Willpower. ‘Cause I’m gonna need it! Wish me luck!
If you’d like to join me, I’ll be on the third eliptical from the right. You know, the one who hits the emergency stop every three minutes to puke. That’s me. But I’ll keep on going. Trust me. You’ll get to see those gorgeous gams I keep talking about. In a pair of yellow hotpants. Promise.