Okay, I have been on Weight Watchers for 3 weeks now. That means 3 weeks of no ice cream, no fried food, very little rice, no soda, no juice, no pizza, and tiny, tiny -- did I say "tiny"? -- portions. And I lost a measly 8.9 pounds.
I've been working out 3 or 4 times a week. AND I LOST A MEASLY 8.9 POUNDS!
With each passing week, it feels harder, not easier to stick with the plan. I know that I am doing it the proper way -- the internet is replete with reports that optimal weight loss for long term maintenance is 1 to 2 pounds a week. Lose any more than that, and your body thinks you're starving and slows your metabolism down to a crawl. Weight Watchers does it the right way. So why am I so miserable?
Progress is glacial, that's why. I am the kind of person who needs immediate gratification (hence, my current predicament). Which is why this past weekend, I forgot about Weight Watchers for a minute and ate an entire fried fish. And fried plantains. And drank soda. And ate a whole hero sandwich -- with mayo! Then I had some ice cream. And movie theatre popcorn WITH butter.
Hey, I figured that if it took me 3 weeks to lose a piddly 8.9 pounds, it would take a while for the scale to creep up. WRONG! The next day, I hopped on the scale and was shocked to see that I had gained 2 pounds overnight. So now, I've lost only 6.9 friggin' pounds. Where is the justice in that???
Oh well, now that I've had my relapse, it's time to go back to the deprivation (sigh).
Musings about mommy-hood, work, love and life.
Showing posts with label Personal Accountability. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Personal Accountability. Show all posts
Monday, May 3, 2010
Sunday, April 18, 2010
Personal Accountability
I went shopping for jeans the other day. The only size that fit was a 10. I stopped for a moment; I did not want to buy jeans in that size.
Now, a size 10 is nothing to run away from. No one could say that a woman who wears a size 10 is morbidly obese or even seriously overweight. But there I was, terrified of buying those size 10 jeans. In a frightening flash-forward, I could see myself buying size 12 next, size 14 and so on. I could see myself becoming the Honduran Kirstie Alley.
My struggle with my weight began only 3 years ago. I was not a chubby child -- to the contrary, I was often underweight. I had to eat constantly to maintain a decent weight. This went on into my teenage years and then into my twenties. Everyone said that my metabolism would come to a crawl when I hit thirty, but it didn't. In fact, when I was 30, I went on a vacation with Big Bren and I was so annoyed because the smallest shorts I could find at the Gap for the trip were a size 4 and they were too big.
The prognostications continued -- I wouldn't be able to lose the weight when I had Brendan. I hated to disappoint the Negative Nellies, but two weeks after I gave birth, I pulled on my size 4 jeans and zipped it up -- with a few inches to spare.
Then about 3 years ago, the prophesies proved true; I began to pack on the pounds. So what happened?
For the past three years, I've made every excuse: everyone my age is this size; everyone in my family is fat, it was a miracle I managed to stay so thin for so long; I have no time to exercise; the foods I eat are not that fattening; etc, etc.
The fact is that I stopped doing all the things that were keeping me thin. I stopped walking. I stopped dancing. I stopped going to the gym. I stopped noticing when I was full and ate until my plate was empty. And I eat when I am tired. I eat when I am depressed. I eat when I am bored. I eat when I need to fill in the time. I eat when I am stressed. I eat when I am relaxed. I eat, I eat, I eat.
After deciding that I had to do something about my weight, I hopped on the scale and gasped at the number: 158 lbs.
And that is when it hit me. That is why I was so reluctant to buy those size 10 jeans. At my last weigh in before I gave birth to Brendan, I weighed 159 pounds. And at my baby shower -- when I was 8 months pregnant -- I wore a pair of size 10 jeans from the Gap. Not maternity jeans; regular size 10 jeans. I was now wearing the same size jeans that I wore when I was practically in labor.
Talk about a wake-up call.
Last Tuesday, I went to Weight Watchers for the first time. I have often called out others for their delusions. Well, today is my day for personal accountability.
Now, a size 10 is nothing to run away from. No one could say that a woman who wears a size 10 is morbidly obese or even seriously overweight. But there I was, terrified of buying those size 10 jeans. In a frightening flash-forward, I could see myself buying size 12 next, size 14 and so on. I could see myself becoming the Honduran Kirstie Alley.
My struggle with my weight began only 3 years ago. I was not a chubby child -- to the contrary, I was often underweight. I had to eat constantly to maintain a decent weight. This went on into my teenage years and then into my twenties. Everyone said that my metabolism would come to a crawl when I hit thirty, but it didn't. In fact, when I was 30, I went on a vacation with Big Bren and I was so annoyed because the smallest shorts I could find at the Gap for the trip were a size 4 and they were too big.
The prognostications continued -- I wouldn't be able to lose the weight when I had Brendan. I hated to disappoint the Negative Nellies, but two weeks after I gave birth, I pulled on my size 4 jeans and zipped it up -- with a few inches to spare.
Then about 3 years ago, the prophesies proved true; I began to pack on the pounds. So what happened?
For the past three years, I've made every excuse: everyone my age is this size; everyone in my family is fat, it was a miracle I managed to stay so thin for so long; I have no time to exercise; the foods I eat are not that fattening; etc, etc.
The fact is that I stopped doing all the things that were keeping me thin. I stopped walking. I stopped dancing. I stopped going to the gym. I stopped noticing when I was full and ate until my plate was empty. And I eat when I am tired. I eat when I am depressed. I eat when I am bored. I eat when I need to fill in the time. I eat when I am stressed. I eat when I am relaxed. I eat, I eat, I eat.
After deciding that I had to do something about my weight, I hopped on the scale and gasped at the number: 158 lbs.
And that is when it hit me. That is why I was so reluctant to buy those size 10 jeans. At my last weigh in before I gave birth to Brendan, I weighed 159 pounds. And at my baby shower -- when I was 8 months pregnant -- I wore a pair of size 10 jeans from the Gap. Not maternity jeans; regular size 10 jeans. I was now wearing the same size jeans that I wore when I was practically in labor.
Talk about a wake-up call.
Last Tuesday, I went to Weight Watchers for the first time. I have often called out others for their delusions. Well, today is my day for personal accountability.
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