The most terrible thing happened. I pulled a muscle, or a ligament, or something. I don’t know which is which, but something happened, something awful, and here’s the worst part – I was putting on a pair of pants! Not dead lifting a hundred pounds, or toting a toddler, or pulling a tree trunk out of the ground. Simply putting on a pair of pants! That’s when the most terrible thing happened. I felt a tiny snap, or was it a pull? And now I’m in a race to immobility land.
It hurts. I hurt. My back hurts. I’m in pain and I’m fighting off coming down with a depression, (as opposed to the flu), because the extra ten pounds of fat I’ve been struggling to release from my dear sweet body, (unsuccessfully struggling mind you, because I’ve been dragging them around for ten years), are now ever so much more inclined to stay – since I cannot move.
Being immobilized gives you time for pause – too much time – which leads to a lot of reflection. I realized, while lying prone on my back staring at the ceiling, if I were to take a metaphysical approach, I’d have to admit I don’t feel supported. I could say I’ve never felt supported. This begged the question: Is this because I never let people support me, or I don’t know how to let people support me – or I think I’m just smarter than everyone else, and know what’s best?
Sigh. Today is a bad, introspection, I do not have support day.
Of course, there’s the food issue. This goes hand in hand with my weight issue, which in turn is in a dead heat with my lack of support issue. I’m totally confused about what to eat. And how much support do I need? Are grains a go, or a no? Meat? Or just chicken? Fish? But spare the tuna, that little culprit of mercury. Then of course, there’s the questionable cheese, eggs, soy. Dear God, there appears to be an alternate universe to every conceivable diet. So many theories, so many rights or absolute wrongs, regarding food and health. Has anyone ever advised listening to your body? There’s a concept. How do you do that?
All I know for sure is, I’m ten pounds overweight, it’s called belly fat, and I’ve been hauling it around for ten years. Right. You knew that. People tell me, (women people that is), that at my age, it’s normal, it’s what happens, there’s nothing to be done. It’s the way it is. It’s a “hormone” thing.
The idea that a constantly expanding waistline just keeps coming with the territory? No!!! This entire concept makes me miserable… and miserable my dear, is something I’ve done too well for too long, and I’m bored with it.
Of course, there’s also that health thing. You know, belly fat ain’t where it’s at. Then there’s the lack of support thing.
Right. I’m ready. For something.
So I decided. I’m going to fat camp for four weeks. (Fat camp, by the way, is not what they call it). But let’s get real. It’s the fat that’s been winning.
Four weeks. Dorm living, exercise five hours a day and I just eat what they give me. They prepare the meals. This fact alone, I find incredibly thrilling.
Life in fat camp is located near a mall. You’ve been to a mall. They are toxic sugar dumps. So easy to get anything, smelly and fragrant and fattening. It would make it so easy to cheat. (Is this bad I’m thinking about cheating)? Exhale. Right. I can’t blame sugary malls, or America. The fact is, I’m ready to move on, so move I will.
When my back heals.
Pertinent fact: Everyone knows there’s a high statistical probability if you lose weight, you gain it back, plus more. It might be a mathematical problem, which translates back to a me problem. If point A is current weight and point B is lost weight, gravity, or habit, or safety, or that statistical probability, always seem to pull us back.
What’s it going to take to swing the scale permanently in my favor? Literally and metaphorically? I promise. When I find out, I’l let you know. And I will find out.
Let's shake on it.