Despite the fact that I’m training for a marathon I’ve somehow managed to gain 5 lbs in the past 5 months. This really shouldn’t bother me that much- after all it is just 5 pounds. And, at forty I have never felt stronger, or more in shape. In fact, my younger self never would have believed I’d be able to run as many miles as I’ve logged lately. And, everybody keeps telling me it’s just muscle. And yes, I do mean everybody because I have probably complained to every person I know at least twice. That’s got to be getting old for them. Hmmm… anyway: I’ve had a lifelong love/hate relationship with the scale and old habits die hard. And it does bother me- whether it truly is “muscle” or not. It’s still a number that doesn’t make me proud. And, my jeans don’t fit- which really pisses me off. I mean I ran 18 miles yesterday- 18!!! Shouldn’t I be rewarded just a teeny, tiny bit by the simple pleasure of having my jeans slide over my hips without a tug of war? Why can’t I have the satisfaction of quickly snapping them closed without sucking in that little pocket of flesh left from babies number 1 and number 2?
I’ve decided that this distressing gain can’t possibly be due to the fact that I am constantly hungry (and therefore always eating), or that my son has developed an obsession with baking cookies which means I’ve consumed about 20 lbs of raw dough this month alone, or that I feel compelled to finish my kids dinners when they don’t. And it certainly isnt the WINE that is such a lovely compliment to so many rich and tasty meals. No! It’s got to be something more logical. Like maybe the barista at my local Starbucks is really using full fat milk, even though I unfailingly ask for skim. I mean, really how are we to know? We who count calories are at the mercy of those who provide the very things we need the least. If we are to indulge, we have to blindly trust and believe that they have our best interest..and waistlines…in mind. But why would they? They aren’t around when I stomp madly on the scale when I see a number that horrifies me or throw those shorts that are just a weeee bit too snug across the room. They are not the recipients of my self loathing fueled grump attack. So they don’t care. But my kids (who have unfortunately witnessed these small moments of insanity) and my husband (who by now should be numb to them) do. Because they are the ones that suffer when I dispair. For their sake let’s just hope that my skim latte really is fat free. Then really the only person I can blame is me. And I either have to accept my shortcomings or do something about them! And maybe instead of complaining about the stuff I dont like, I can start to celebrate the really awesome things that make me pretty ok. I guess I have 26.2 miles to think pretty hard about that….