The cuteness of the overweight bears belies the reality: I could lose a few. Like, a lot. It's not just because I'm modest that you don't see my photo on this blog. Now, don't go picturing some Simpson-esque character saying "I wash myself with a rag on a stick..." I'm not headed for an episode on the Discovery Health Channel just yet. But two (or three) dress sizes smaller, and I would look more like myself--or the self I think I am.
I look at photos of myself from a few years ago, and that Kirie calls to me, her head tilted in a way that shows some concern and a bit of embarrassment, "How you've changed." A combination of years, a baby, laziness, and a general attraction to good food--et voila! I am no longer la petite Americanne.
So why blog about this? It's not news, not interesting, certainly not unique (as seemingly half the population starts on diets this time of year). I'm writing about it because thinking about my weight is taking increasing time. I've noticed that it's influencing me in more ways--in how I dress, how I stand, in how I experience the world. I know that I do see a look of surprise on my face when I see myself in the mirror--is that me? "Too many cookies, Corduroy," I'll think.
I brush those thoughts off, most of the time. Being overweight isn't disgusting or sinful, and it's not from shame that I want to lose weight. And I'm also not putting off happiness, saying "I'll be really be happy when I'm a size 4." All that said, I do want to make my body match the image of myself I carry in my head. My problem: I just haven't been motivated enough.
To keep with the one little word, I want to enjoy all of it, you know. I want to be fully engaged in life, and that means enjoying limits, and more time for myself (read: exercise). As I pointed out yesterday, "enjoy" is going to be an active term for me, and the onus is on me to make the efforts of (ahem) reduction (not diet, I stress) something joyful. This active joyfulness is not as simple as it looks, I'm beginning to think. I need some help in getting there.
Hold me to it.
So I'm writing this to give myself the kind of kick only a little public humiliation can give. Make no mistake: this humiliation isn't about my weight, but about not fulfilling my promise. How humiliated I would be to go back on my word once I've stated it publicly? By saying "it's time," I'm making a public commitment. I promise myself that my lifestyle is going to accommodate more workouts, fewer calories, and less stress-eating. I promise you I won't bore the snore out of you with the details of my progress.
Hold me to it.
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