When I was in high school, I used to starve myself. It wasn’t to the point that I had an eating disorder, but there were times I would go days where the only thing I would eat was a piece of cheese. That was only if I was feeling light-headed.
Somewhere along the line, I started eating cheese because it tasted good and not because it kept me from passing out. Then I had sick babies and started eating cheese because the very act of chewing took my mind off of the thought that my children might not survive.
Then I realized that there were all kinds of foods I liked that I had never let myself eat before. Stuff like mayonnaise, peanut butter and beer. Those foods + A decade of anxiety eating = My thighs.
During this period, I’ve lost and gained the same weight over and over. Every spring, some comes off and every fall more comes back.
Not this year. It’s not budging.
I started bootcamp at the end of January and have lost a whopping two pounds. Though, admittedly, I haven’t stopped that beer thing. However, if my jeans would fit based on increased flexibility and range of motion I would look fantastic. Why doesn’t the scale notice that? Huh?
I think part of it is because some of my meds have changed, but more of it is because I’m turning 40 in June. My body is saying it has had enough of this torture. I deserve every bit of pain the instructor is inflicting on me as punishment for treating my body like a trash can. George Costanza’s trash can.
So I will continue to plug along, squeezing in three, one-hour workouts per week in the grand hopes that someday I will no longer have to squeeze into my pants.