Weight, Weight, Don't Tell Me!

Remember that post in December where I mentioned how many people had recently asked if I was pregnant? Yeah, the day after I posted that, a coworker came up and put her hand on my belly and inquired if I was pregnant. That was it--the final straw in the haystack that was my laziness and indifference.

My original excuse for not knocking out the baby weight was, "If we're going to eventually have more children, why bother?" But, that became null and void when I got mad about people being rude. Also, Eli pointed out that if I'm in shape to begin with, then it won't be that hard to lose the weight later. Good point. I hate that.

I went into the school library to rant about the injustice to my casual friend the librarian (English teachers and librarians have special sort of relationship), and I came out with a workout partner and a plan for January.

Ten weeks later, I'm here to tell you that I'm embarrassed.

I'm embarrassed because it really took relatively little effort to lose almost ten pounds. I mean, seriously, the only change in my diet I've consciously made has been to scale back on soda intake. For the most part I'm eating what I want, when I want. It's sick, I know.

I'm embarrassed because the inches have melted away from exercising for 20-30 minutes three times a week. The underlying truth here is that I have just been lazy and making excuses. That's pretty mortifying to face. I'm lazy. And making excuses.

Early this week, I was in my closet looking for something to wear to work because I hadn't done laundry recently, and on a whim I picked up some pre-Elsie khaki pants--pants I haven't worn in over three years--and I put them on.

They fit.

No muffin top. No thigh strain.

Miracle.

The next day I decided to go for a pair of jeans that I've hung on to for this long because I had a dream I would be pre-baby size again.

They fit.

No muffin top. No thigh strain.

Miracle of miracles.

Embarrassing.


We don't have a scale at home, and I don't much care about weight, but every time I go into the teacher's lounge (a couple of times a week) I step on the electronic scale we have in there. Tuesday, the reading was under 140 by a couple of ounces. I don't think I've been under 140 since my first year of marriage.

I mean, I know it fluctuates throughout the day. No big deal. That's why I don't obsess about my weight. But when I started this journey in January, I was pushing 150.

There is visible progress. The scale is evidence. The pants are evidence. The comments people have made about me losing weight in my face makes me think it's visible (thanks, btw--because everyone wants to hear they had a fat face). One of my team teachers (a female, in a joking/encouraging/non-offensive way) telling me that I'm looking sexy with my lean self seems to be evidence to me. The fact that I feel comfortable tucking shirts in again since there's not much muffin to top makes me think it's visible. A student asking me if I've been working out, makes me think he knows a couple of terrible pick-up lines, but that it's visible, too.

The plan for now is to keep up the workout schedule and keep the sodas at bay. I definitely feel better and have a smidge more energy. This summer I would love to get back into running. I remember loving it at the end, before I hurt myself playing softball and then finding out I was pregnant with Elsie. I want to love it again. (Hopefully this isn't remembered with the same pair of rose-colored glasses I wear to the beginning of each new school year..)

I know that my body will never be the same. I know. But I still think there's room for improvement. Maybe another five pounds and I will have worked my way down to my maintenance weight--that is, the weight that I want to maintain. We'll just see how it feels.

Cheers.