by Brit Gal Sarah (Thu Jan 07, 2010)
Here
I go again, 90lbs heavier than where all the ‘experts' tell me I should be. And
so for probably the 200th time in my 43 years, I am swallowing that
bitter pill named ‘diet.'
I
swear to God I could probably write my own self-help bible on diets. I'm
kidding myself when I think I need expert help, I am a diet ‘Professor.' I've
done most of them at one time or another. Low-carb, which leaves you with
dog breath and scary poop, so even if you are losing a ton of weight, it's
unlikely anyone will find you more attractive. The all-liquid diet that makes
you so desperate, you turn into the human equivalent of a rabid hallucinating dog.
Cabbage Soup diet - not only do you stink from the combined effects of the
cooking and farting, but so does your home, your clothing and your poor pet. The
Cereal ‘lose a jeans size in two weeks' diet, but who wants to live mainly on
cereal? Various pre-packaged delivery diets, which if nothing else, are
guaranteed to make your bank account lighter. Weightwatchers which turns you
into a human calculator, but in my experience does work - well only as long as
I stick to it.
And
therein lies the big problem - commitment. Diets are a whole level of
commitment that I suck at, apparently. I should be widely known as Queen Yoyo.
I do great for a few months, dump many pounds, feel better, fit in my skinnier
jeans, generally love myself more....and then the rot sets in. I find myself inexplicably with an empty chocolate bar wrapper in
my cheating hand, the bread levels in the area undergo a sudden depletion, I
start seeing bacon everywhere and I crave curry like it's a mineral deficiency
in my body. Without warning I have relaxed back into my fat suit.
It's
not like I don't know what I'm doing. I will occasionally sneak on the scales
and sigh, but then I think, ‘well I'm still lighter than I was, so I'm good. I
can turn this around anytime and get back down there,' but the next thing I
know, it's a 45lb mountain I have to conquer yet again. And now I hate myself.
I hate the fact I'm back in my Spanx vest to hold in my traitorous ‘under
boobs' area, my wedding band cuts off my circulation, the big pants are on and
my ‘moon' face stares back at me in the mirror. Why oh why didn't I stop the
rot as soon as it set in?
Sometimes
I wonder if I have been a cave woman in a previous life, scavenging to find a
decent meal and now my body is set to crave, hunt, over-consume and store
indefinitely. Or maybe I was stuck on a desert island with only fruits and nuts
to survive on - and my vivid imagination to keep me in touch with reality of
course. Yes I can come up with many excuses for my
dieting failure, but facts are facts, and after twenty five years of obsessing
daily about the size of my belly and thighs, I am no further forward in winning
the war. It is without doubt the area of my life over which I have had the
least control and which frustrates me the most.
But
this time I have decided to approach it differently. First of all I am letting
it all out on paper, hoping this will be the therapy I need to get me past the
issues I so clearly have somewhere deep in my psyche. I am ignoring the expert opinion that I need to lose 90lbs. A
couple of years ago I lost 40lbs, the same 40 that have now become 45. I was
looking at some pictures last night and I looked so much better with just those
40lbs gone. I remember feeling great and fitting more comfortably in all my
clothes. Basically I was happy. I'm also accepting that
maybe I'm not going to fit into the range for my height, but every pound I lose
will make me healthier and happier. So I am going to take whatever I can get in
poundage lost and then work at maintaining it, until my body just settles in at
a lighter weight for a while. Last night I even broke
out my long neglected treadmill.
Ah
exercise - now that's a whole other side of the equation!
