I'm not going to pretend to apologize for not writing. I won't give you excuses as to why I couldn't sit down and have a few moments with you. The truth is that I quit. For weeks, I just quit. Over the summer, these letters died down and I subsequently lost all focus on just how powerful a force you are in my life. I forgot that you're like a needy German Shepherd puppy and, after weeks of neglect, you are prone to break loose and do some serious damage to my body. It was just last night that I opened the door to find that you had knocked over trash cans, shredded paper, and left smelly paw prints all over the walls. Let me explain...
You see, when my husband and I started our weight loss journey, we determined that we could be done by November and that we wanted to WOW our doctor at this year's screening. Instead, I walked in with all (yes, all) of the weight back on and a larger waist than I had started with. Luckily, my cholesterol and glucose looked great, but it didn't get me off the hook for being a huge diabetes risk by my size alone. My husband, although he hadn't gained back much, displayed a shocking blood pressure that will land him in the cardiologist's office ASAP. As we topped off our appointment by giving the laundry list of family illnesses we may have waiting for us, I grew very angry with where we have ended up as a couple. I wept on the way home, envisioning our children living without one or both parents before their tenth birthdays.
That feeling stayed with me all morning. Until I got this in a random e-mail from my hubby.
You remember Salina, don't you, F.J.? It was my middle-of-the-road goal that was supposed to let me know that I had finally conquered that blurry chunk of unhealthy years that put me where I am today. I don't know what the hubs even meant when he sent this to me, and I haven't asked yet. He might have just been fooling around with Google Maps for all I know. But to me, it means the world. It was like a cold bucket of water in the face, waking me up to how capable I am for change. It made me go back and read through where you and I had been together, Fat Jesse. Through 11 steps on this blog, and some side observations, I took off almost thirty pounds. Where did that girl go?
You know what? She didn't go anywhere. I am that girl, and I don't think I should ever let myself forget that again. Anyone who has done this-- lost tons of weight and put it back on-- will understand what I am saying. It's so easy to create caricatures of ourselves and pit them against each other: Girl who Lost Weight and Felt Awesome vs. Girl Who Failed and Can't Keep it Off. I now believe that when we compartmentalize ourselves like that...when we demonize the parts of us that slip up...it's nearly impossible to start over! When we look at our "thin pictures" as if they are someone different, who is capable of different things...where does that leave us?
So, Fat Jesse, here is the new deal. I am empowering myself to make the rules on when and how I get to start over. Do you remember when we were kids on the playground and there was that unspoken, arbitrary code on when someone got to call a "do-over"? If you missed the tether ball because your shoe was untied? Do-over. You didn't like the way that ball hit square number two? Do-over, please. As usual, kids are onto something. They possess the confidence and give themselves the grace to just say, "Hey, that wasn't the way I intended it to happen. Just gonna try again."
I'm not saying that this won't suck, F.J. There is nothing worse than watching the scale go down by way of numbers you just passed. Oh, wait. There is something worse. That would be doing nothing because you messed up.
Calling a Do-Over,
New Jesse, -0 pounds
Robotic Arm Image courtesy of Victor Habbick/ FreeDigitalPhotos.net
