One nugget I took from Carb Queen last night: when faced with an urge to eat, remember that it's not worth it. Sounds easy, doesn't it?
I was leaving my house after supper, running an errand. It is a given for me that once I leave, I stop by the nearest QuikStore and gather up a few candy bars. It's automatic.
So I picked up my license, debit card, and thought of taking a few bucks with me. Stopped. Remembered it's not worth it, repeated it a few times and went on.
At my sister's house, another habit of mine is to go straight to her kitchen, eat a few spoonsful of peanut butter. I don't keep peanut butter in the house. Can't. Eat it all. So I eat hers. Tonight . . . not worth it.
It's just one day, but it's a day I didn't have and one day post cookie binge without succumbing again.
Wednesday, April 8, 2009
giving up
I don't know why I can be on a roll with eating healthy, exercising, doing everything I know I need to do and then I just give in.
Last night, I was very hungry getting home from work. Had a salad and a protein shake because I was too tired to cook.
I took a nap, fell asleep reading, then got up and went straight to the husband's treat drawer and ate two giant frosted cookies. Then I went back for an oatmeal raisin.
Why? Why do I do this? I truly don't understand it. Oh, and the book I was reading? Confessions of a Carb Queen about a woman who weighed 468 pounds, went to the rice clinic in Durham, and lost 250 pounds.
Why would that drive me to eat? Sometimes I don't think it's a drive. I think it's just an addiction. Or a habit. Or some wretched, seemingly insurmountable combination of the two.
No cookies this morning and ~ surprise, surprise ~ I still feel motivated and hopeful. I've got a phone book propped under my feet at the office, takes a little pressure off my fat legs. Fat legs. Ugh.
Last night, I was very hungry getting home from work. Had a salad and a protein shake because I was too tired to cook.
I took a nap, fell asleep reading, then got up and went straight to the husband's treat drawer and ate two giant frosted cookies. Then I went back for an oatmeal raisin.
Why? Why do I do this? I truly don't understand it. Oh, and the book I was reading? Confessions of a Carb Queen about a woman who weighed 468 pounds, went to the rice clinic in Durham, and lost 250 pounds.
Why would that drive me to eat? Sometimes I don't think it's a drive. I think it's just an addiction. Or a habit. Or some wretched, seemingly insurmountable combination of the two.
No cookies this morning and ~ surprise, surprise ~ I still feel motivated and hopeful. I've got a phone book propped under my feet at the office, takes a little pressure off my fat legs. Fat legs. Ugh.
beginning
Losing weight is the hardest thing I've ever done. Keeping it off impossible. I am weary of hearing skinny people say that losing weight is easy. Maybe for them. It's never been easy for me.
Here I am, 360 pounds, plus or minus a dozen or so. Gotta have a special scale when you get that big, eh? This is the rebound from a weight loss of half a dozen years ago. Always, it returns. Always.
Is there a solution? I don't know. But I do know that in order to live, I have to get some weight off. If I want to have any kind of a decent life, it's got to go.
And then there are my legs. Led Zeppelin insists that a Big Legged Woman ain't got no soul. Maybe. But she does have big legs and mine, honey, they are whoppers.
I look at women who've struggled with weight and it seems we fall into two varieties: those who have dealt with weight all of our lives tend to have heavier arms and legs, narrower waists and less tummy than our sisters who have only acquired the curse later in life.
In my younger days, I really liked the look of my body. Big ass, round thighs, flat tummy, tiny waist. As I've lost and regained weight repeatedly, more of the fat has settled in the area between ass and knees and it is uncomfortable. It's so uncomfortable that I've begun to think there's something else amiss, lymphedema or lipidema, both of which cause swelling and pain in the limbs. I expect it's the latter. Either way, I have to work up my courage to get some help with that.
My legs hurt. I am fat. I am less fat than I once was but I hurt more. Such is getting older as a fat woman.
Here's the deal: I don't want to end up in a motorized cart because of my obesity. Whatever it takes. Amen.
Here I am, 360 pounds, plus or minus a dozen or so. Gotta have a special scale when you get that big, eh? This is the rebound from a weight loss of half a dozen years ago. Always, it returns. Always.
Is there a solution? I don't know. But I do know that in order to live, I have to get some weight off. If I want to have any kind of a decent life, it's got to go.
And then there are my legs. Led Zeppelin insists that a Big Legged Woman ain't got no soul. Maybe. But she does have big legs and mine, honey, they are whoppers.
I look at women who've struggled with weight and it seems we fall into two varieties: those who have dealt with weight all of our lives tend to have heavier arms and legs, narrower waists and less tummy than our sisters who have only acquired the curse later in life.
In my younger days, I really liked the look of my body. Big ass, round thighs, flat tummy, tiny waist. As I've lost and regained weight repeatedly, more of the fat has settled in the area between ass and knees and it is uncomfortable. It's so uncomfortable that I've begun to think there's something else amiss, lymphedema or lipidema, both of which cause swelling and pain in the limbs. I expect it's the latter. Either way, I have to work up my courage to get some help with that.
My legs hurt. I am fat. I am less fat than I once was but I hurt more. Such is getting older as a fat woman.
Here's the deal: I don't want to end up in a motorized cart because of my obesity. Whatever it takes. Amen.
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