Oh motivation for healthy living, where for art thou?
It’s almost June and the needle on my scale and the button on my pants are both telling me the same thing: for the love of chub and all things holy, HELP US!
About two weeks ago, I had one of those "I am hitting bottom moments"; you know the ones I’m talking about. Nothing fits. You can’t look in the mirror without thinking, Dear God, is my butt really that big now? You realize that you’re hanging on to your current pant size by the skin of your teeth and one more peanut butter cup will be the ultimate tipping point. So, I re-committed to exercise and healthy living.
That lasted all of a week.
I wish I were okay on the puffier side. I really, really do. I wish I looked in the mirror at any size and thought: Well hello there… how much for de lady? But maybe those searing brands of 7th grade insecurity never really go away. That feeling that somehow, you know you could and should look better. Don’t get me wrong. I really like who I am. I just take issue with the packaging.
Two years and two months after leaving my 20-little-sticks-of-love-(and death) a day habit behind, I still think sometimes: I really miss being a skinny smoker. No, I have no plans of doing anything rash. I’m just sayin’. Nicotine and photos of myself from 2006 still haunt me.
I’m sure some would say, "For the love of Neil, get OVER it. Go for a flippin’ walk and shut up!" And sometimes, that’s exactly what you need to hear. And other times, well… your hormones might just have to go all medieval on their asses.
Still. I’m looking for love in all the wrong places.
Stalemated, i mean "scale" mated in St. Paul