Navel-Gazing In The Fast Lane

When I started blogging, I swore to myself that I wouldn’t allow this to turn into just another daily account of every calorie to personally cross my path, lists of excercises done or avoided, or mindless minutae about what cute thing my husband said/cat did today/shoes I saw. But above all, I vowed blogging wouldn’t be a bid for attention where I aired all the ins and outs of my (plus-size) laundry in public…

But the fact is, friends, it’s been a hell of a week.

A hell of a TWO weeks, if I’m being honest.

The particulars are not important, because the particulars are no excuse. The particulars - no matter what they are - are never the problem.

The problem is that I chose to let stress be an excuse for shelving my better judgement, and to de-prioritize what HAS to remain my FIRST priority (or what has to at least share the limelight with whatever else is going on).

The problem is that I made the choice to “get swamped,” to “not have time.”  

The problem is that although a million and one things - family emergencies, work, etc. - taxed my energy and my time,  I chose to allow that to take my focus 100% off of taking care of myself at ALL. As a result, I not only DIDN’T lose any weight in the last two weeks, I DID lose what little ground I have gained fitness-wise, and I lost the habit of making regular exercise and healthy eating part of my life.  And that’s the real key to success, isn’t it?  To not make it part of my life-only-when-everything’s-going-hunky-dory. But to make it part of my LIFE. 

I got out a calculator, and discovered that I could have at LEAST found 2, 3, maybe 4 , or even 5 hours for exercise over the past TWO WEEKS.  You know how come I know?  Because there are Three-Hundred-And-Thirty-Six hours in two weeks.  Now, I’m no math whiz - but 2, 3, maybe 4, or even 5 hours is NOT that large a percentage of time to somehow have NOT been able to find.  

Oh, I did find 4 hours to go to the salon for a haircut and bikini wax.  I found time for THAT.  I justified it by saying it was “the one thing I did for myself” last week.  But why wasn’t “the one thing I did for myself” an aerobics class?  Or 2 or 3? What good is a nice haircut if it frames a double-chin? What good is being swimsuit-smooth if I wouldn’t be caught dead poolside? 

And I also found time to go to the pub with my husband to watch Premiereship Football for THREE HOURS. I justified THAT by saying it was the only “together” time we had all week, and “isn’t that important for our relationship?”  But what good is “together” time with a woman who is withdrawn, lethargic, and self-conscious?  What am I really bringing to the relationship when I’m like that?

It also didn’t help that the Guinness Girls were there in all their longlegged, 20 something, plaid ultra-miniskirted glory, prancing around like show ponies offering up unspoken promises and little sample glasses of beer. And who knew that SO many Irishmen had never heard of “this Guinness drink you speak of” and needed to try just a wee bit to see if maybe they might like it?  Amazing.  The husband was very conscientious, and didn’t stare.  Or at least, he didn’t let me catch him staring, which is just as good. 

Does Lane Bryant carry plaid ultra-miniskirts? Unlikely. And even if they did, it’d take more of those teensy beershots than my house is worth to trick the hubby into mistaking me for a Guinness Girl.  Guinness truck, maybe…

What’s really interesting to me is that fact that I KNOW that I physically and mentally just FEEL better when I’ve been to the gym regularly, even if it doesn’t cosmetically show right away.  My body is more alert, and so is my mind. My MOOD in general is better.  And the longer I don’t excercise, the worse I feel - physically, mentally, and emotionally. 

So it’s a simple and obvious equation; I KNOW that if I work out, things will start to improve for me and I know if I don’t, they won’t. 

And yet, the more things get worse, the less likely I am to do the ONE simple thing I know for SURE will give me the boost I need to get through the tough times.

It’s ridiculous.

It’s inexplicable.

And I’m writing this blog STILL having NOT been to the gym in TWO WEEKS.  I have already taken half an hour to sit (SIT!) here tapping away at the OH-so-not-very-fat-burning heart rate of what, 75 bpm? 80? …when I could be heading off to the gym for some exercise - ANY exercise. 

Not that talking about these things isn’t of value - it is - but I see pretty clearly that in a way, I am just procrastinating. Riding the “Poor Me” pony all the way back to the ranch.

Well, hell. 

ALL I have been talking about on this blog since day one has been the fact that it all boils down to my ability to choose - or, rather, my RESPONSIBILITY to choose - how I see things, how I define things, and what I do with that information…

So -

NO.  I choose NOT to be “procrastinating,” but instead to be succeeding in talking myself into shutting the hell up, into to quitting moaning about my unfair lot in life, and into DOING something actually USEFUL about it by going to the gym -

Right.

NOW.

Later, ladies…