That’s what I thought to myself after seeing this shot on my iPhone. I decided to try my friend Elise’s way of putting a phone on the ground and taking a selfie using TimerCam. I leaned it against my sport band case, set the timer for 15 seconds and ran over to pose.
The funny thing is? I’m not quite this shapely. It looks like I’m all legs and boobs with a waist line. I’m not. I mean, yes to the all boobs thing (God, my Google searches are about to get really interesting with all of this boob talk), but the enlarged dirty pillows are mostly due to weight gain. (You’re welcome, Carrie fans.)
This is a slightly more accurate but less cool photo.
I have this really great, motivating little workshop called Move More, Eat Well, and right now, I’m in true need of taking my own advice.
Here’s something I know to be true, experientially: when I exercise, I feel good about it. Now that doesn’t necessarily mean I feel better physically. But it nearly always means that mentally, I do. I’m 48 years old and I would like to think I can do things like run, swim, play croquet, go hiking—the list goes on. But for the past six months, my exercise habits have basically sucked ass and it’s time to change that.
I am the heaviest I’ve been since having babies. I’m trying to look at that sentence without judgment or emotion, but it’s hard to do. I won’t lie. The judgments I level against myself are among the harshest of all.
I also know that work is required. Sometimes, I let that overwhelm me. I let that dictate the choice to eat like shit. Oh, what the hell? What’s one more day gonna do? I’m so familiar with that little voice. So familiar.
So here I am this week, determined to be an adult and give my body what it needs. Yes, that does mean a little red wine after five o’clock. No, it doesn’t mean 17 Oreos.
That’s where I stand today.