Run, Fat Ass, Run
Somewhere amidst my receding pregnancy, my ass expanded. I fell back on my mother's habits of Wheat Thins and Cream Cheese, homemade Rice Krispie Treats, and lots of dining out to appease the torture my body and my mind were enduring. And did I mention, chocolate is a great emotional band aid?
I knew I was doing it, but the fact of the matter was, I didn't care. I had a million other things in life to uphold and keep duct taped together while inside I was falling apart. If I was going to patch the leak on my soul with french toast and chocolate syrup, so be it. It worked.
Flash forward to the present. I have a "girls" weekend starting on Friday. The last time I went anywhere that cost actual money with my girls was the year after I graduated from college. My best friend and my cousin and I drove to Panama City Beach during Spring Break, though none of us were actually youngsters by spring break standards anymore. I was 22, my best friend was 21, and my cousin was 22 as well. Damn if we couldn't still pick up adorable 20 year old boys to dance and drink with. We lied and said we were seniors (actually, I believe my best friend actually was), and had a blast hanging out with some adorable boys from another Illinois school who had no interest in anything other than stalking 80's hair bands and tracking the mullet count at each bar. They were awesome, the trip was innocent, and most importantly, probably the best trip of my life (not including my wedding trip, but that's a different category). So, needless to say, I'm super excited about getting away this weekend, even if it's a budget trip. 8 years is a long time to wait for another girls trip!
Yesterday while Evan was at school, I went to go find a swim suit that I would be comfortable wearing during our girls trip. We are going local, but to a fun hotel with a spa package, a great pool, and lots of local flavor. First, I tried on some jeans, always frustrated at the fact that whatever pair of jeans I bought and liked 6 months ago, Levi has managed to obliterate from the face of the earth when I need to buy more. So, 10 pairs of jeans later, I had one pair that I even remotely liked on me, and even then, I was starting to panic. The jeans I even remotely liked were huge. HUUUUGE. Did I even want to attempt the swim suits? Fuck.
So, here's the thing. Do swim suit designers ever actually put their swim suits on anyone over a size 2? Because I highly doubt it. Because, if you are over a size 8, most likely, you have boobs. And, more than likely, they aren't tiny and perky ones that sit high up in a little string bikini. Your boobs have, um, substance, and sometimes, like in my case, their own zip code. No way in hell would I ever be caught dead with some of the tops those swim suit designers had in mind for a size 10. Good god, I might as well stand on the street corner they way they just swayed in the breeze. Now, I know that you can buy wonderful swim suits at very expensive stores that have support and are actually designed like bras. But if I wanted to spend $200 for something I'm embarrassed to be out in public in, I'd buy a beater car. So 8 swimsuits later, with the only front runner a "instant slim" deal that cost $84, I left without a swimsuit and with a terrible revelation. I am fat.
I bought my one pair of fat jeans and a nice fat-hiding hoodie sweater, and headed home. I had exactly one hour left in my short window of toddler-free zone to do something about my ass. So I ran on the treadmill for the second time this week. I wish I could write while I ran, because I swear that, even though I hate running with a passion, my clearest and deepest thoughts come while I am struggling to power through and breathe. I wish I could have a recorder in my head, because if I could, I'd run even more and be really skinny, and on top of it, I'd be a published novelist. I can write and write and write in my head, but somehow, by the time I get to the computer, daily life has already beaten away the ideas that just minutes before were just floating to the surface left and right. As much as I hate running, I feel so powerful when I'm done. If I could bottle that feeling, I'd be a millionaire. But that's one of those stupid realizations that that feeling is so easy to attain, if I'd just run my fat ass more often. I could conquer the world. Instead, I get bogged down in being super mom, a boss, a wife, and the million other things I do.
I knew I was doing it, but the fact of the matter was, I didn't care. I had a million other things in life to uphold and keep duct taped together while inside I was falling apart. If I was going to patch the leak on my soul with french toast and chocolate syrup, so be it. It worked.
Flash forward to the present. I have a "girls" weekend starting on Friday. The last time I went anywhere that cost actual money with my girls was the year after I graduated from college. My best friend and my cousin and I drove to Panama City Beach during Spring Break, though none of us were actually youngsters by spring break standards anymore. I was 22, my best friend was 21, and my cousin was 22 as well. Damn if we couldn't still pick up adorable 20 year old boys to dance and drink with. We lied and said we were seniors (actually, I believe my best friend actually was), and had a blast hanging out with some adorable boys from another Illinois school who had no interest in anything other than stalking 80's hair bands and tracking the mullet count at each bar. They were awesome, the trip was innocent, and most importantly, probably the best trip of my life (not including my wedding trip, but that's a different category). So, needless to say, I'm super excited about getting away this weekend, even if it's a budget trip. 8 years is a long time to wait for another girls trip!
Yesterday while Evan was at school, I went to go find a swim suit that I would be comfortable wearing during our girls trip. We are going local, but to a fun hotel with a spa package, a great pool, and lots of local flavor. First, I tried on some jeans, always frustrated at the fact that whatever pair of jeans I bought and liked 6 months ago, Levi has managed to obliterate from the face of the earth when I need to buy more. So, 10 pairs of jeans later, I had one pair that I even remotely liked on me, and even then, I was starting to panic. The jeans I even remotely liked were huge. HUUUUGE. Did I even want to attempt the swim suits? Fuck.
So, here's the thing. Do swim suit designers ever actually put their swim suits on anyone over a size 2? Because I highly doubt it. Because, if you are over a size 8, most likely, you have boobs. And, more than likely, they aren't tiny and perky ones that sit high up in a little string bikini. Your boobs have, um, substance, and sometimes, like in my case, their own zip code. No way in hell would I ever be caught dead with some of the tops those swim suit designers had in mind for a size 10. Good god, I might as well stand on the street corner they way they just swayed in the breeze. Now, I know that you can buy wonderful swim suits at very expensive stores that have support and are actually designed like bras. But if I wanted to spend $200 for something I'm embarrassed to be out in public in, I'd buy a beater car. So 8 swimsuits later, with the only front runner a "instant slim" deal that cost $84, I left without a swimsuit and with a terrible revelation. I am fat.
I bought my one pair of fat jeans and a nice fat-hiding hoodie sweater, and headed home. I had exactly one hour left in my short window of toddler-free zone to do something about my ass. So I ran on the treadmill for the second time this week. I wish I could write while I ran, because I swear that, even though I hate running with a passion, my clearest and deepest thoughts come while I am struggling to power through and breathe. I wish I could have a recorder in my head, because if I could, I'd run even more and be really skinny, and on top of it, I'd be a published novelist. I can write and write and write in my head, but somehow, by the time I get to the computer, daily life has already beaten away the ideas that just minutes before were just floating to the surface left and right. As much as I hate running, I feel so powerful when I'm done. If I could bottle that feeling, I'd be a millionaire. But that's one of those stupid realizations that that feeling is so easy to attain, if I'd just run my fat ass more often. I could conquer the world. Instead, I get bogged down in being super mom, a boss, a wife, and the million other things I do.
Flash back to spring break, 8 years ago. I remember bringing my bikini and, even though I think I was probably as sexually confident as I may have ever been, like most young women, my body was still an embarrassment to me. I remember standing next to my best friend on the beach, who at the time was built like a 12 year old boy, and thinking how fat I looked next to her. She was brave enough to get a henna tattoo on her belly, I was brave enough to get one on my ankle. God forbid I call attention to my flat stomach. I look back at the pictures and can only shake my head at how dumb I was. Oh, man, if I could have that body back now. I can still get it back, but the main problem is that every single month when I think there is a slim chance I could be pregnant, I back off. I do really well for two weeks, and then during the "two week wait", I don't run, I don't walk, I just obsess. Well, you're hearing it here first- I'm done with that. From now through whenever, if ever, I get pregnant again, I will continue to exercise. I was actually hoping that this month would end in a big fat negative while I was on the treadmill today, but only if I keep true to myself and keep running. Because I know I should be healthier to have a healthy pregnancy. And I can only be healthier if I stop obsessing and keep exercising. If it will happen, it'll happen, right?
By nature and thanks to my mother, I am a binge exerciser. I exercise in spurts, see a difference, and quit. I need to change that. I will never have the metabolism that I had when I was 22 ever again. Sob. But, I could make simple changes, one being drink more water. I think if I substituted my other drinks with water, I could save anywhere from 150-500 calories PER DAY. That requires no exercise, and no real diet changes. So yesterday, I filled up a 2 quart pitcher of water, put it on the counter, and poured my drinks from that all day long. And guess what? I ate less. I did it again today, and guess what? I ate less. I also got my fat ass on the treadmill again.
I'm not making any promises. I don't know if I can keep this up. But I do know that I cannot keep going in the direction I am going. So I just need to keep chanting to myself, Run, Fat Ass, Run, and I might actually go somewhere this time.
Maybe.
posted by YAHPR @ 8:01 PM
2 comments
2 Comments:
I hear you. I hear every stinking word. I relate to everything you have written here and I know how much it hurts to look at another pair of jeans...another size bigger...a size that makes you SICK TO YOUR STOMACH. Life takes so much out of you..it makes it hard to have self control or the energy to get up and workout. But then there is that amazing feeling you get from working out regularly, you have more energy for life. You FEEL better, and no because you are getting smaller, becasue your body feels happy.
I wish it were easy. I wish there was a way to make it all so much easier.
Oh my gosh, I can relate to this ENTIRE post. Unfortunately I'm too tired tonight to write any coherent thoughts, but I just wanted to say I hope you had a great time on your girls weekend!
Post a Comment
<< Home