I stepped on the scale, and registered the number there: 215.
For a couple of days now, I’ve sat with that, putting it on the back burner, and going about my life. Things are rolling on here at the house. I’m caught up in the settling, the anxiety of a new place, still getting my bearings, and so I really didn’t let the number on the scale really take on any meaning. That is, until today.
I just got back from a walk/run of about 10k. While out there, feeling the endorphins and all that comes with elevated heart rate and such, it hit me. By reaching that number, 215, which is thirty pounds less than the last time I stepped on the scale, I’ve, in fact, reached about half-way to where I want to be in my skin. I feel my best at around 185 or so, which if you do the math, is about 60 pounds less than where I was at my heaviest this year. The fact I’m drawing in close to that mark, that midpoint along this journey, means that, actually, I’m doing something right. I can, for just a moment, be proud of myself, and this morning, while I was putting one foot confidently in front of the other, I felt that emotion: pride.
No, I’m never going to be a skinny little otter thing. I see plenty of that walking around town here – tall, lanky, barely 150 pounds, able to whip off their shirts at any opportunity, confident in how their flesh sits on their frames. Typically, this only works to make me grind my teeth and self-loathe even more because, let’s face it, we’re all a little jealous of the pretty people we see. Today, though, for just a few minutes, I allowed myself the feeling of being among those confident, head-held-high men. I inhabited my own body, my own flesh, and while there was still plenty of jiggling and such going on under my tee shirt and around my thighs, in a white heat of euphoric endorphins, none of that really mattered. What mattered, and what continues to matter, is that I’m effecting positive changes in my physicality.
Giving up sugar in my coffee, cutting back on the alcohol, swapping cereal for a green smoothie or scrambled eggs, drinking more water, paying attention to my sleep, getting out for walks when feasible – these are the steps I’ve taken. Small, incremental, and at the micro-level, barely registering as change-making. Taking a step back, though, and reflecting on where I was when I began to regain control of my body about five months ago, I’ve come a long way, and today I am proud of that fact. The journey continues, though. It is my life on the line here, after all.