Here I am. 26 years old, married for 52 whole days, 260.6 pounds (really?! When did that happen?!), newly-diagnosed Type 2 diabetic, gallbladderless, and scared shitless that I'm not going to get to spend the 60 years that was mutually agreed on with my husband.
I have been told that if I want to start a family, I have no choice but to lose weight, get my diabetes under control, and (oh, that dreaded word...) change. Not an easy change, you know, like changing the sheets on the bed, although I could stand to be better at that, too. No. Life-altering, get-off-your-lazy-ass-'cuz-that's-how-you-got-this-way, hardest-work-you'll-ever-do kind of change.
I suck at that.
(Obviously, since I'm 26 and have never stepped on a scale to see a smaller weight than the year before. NEVER.)
There are about a gazillion different reasons and/or excuses I could tell you as to why I find myself in this place. My parents had a nasty divorce when I was younger, and food was comfort. I didn't have money or parental support to get into sports as a kid. There is a history of obesity in my family. My gallbladder was removed and I don't process fat as well. Whatever you want to hear, I've got it for you. What it boils down to, though, is this:
1. I am in a love affair with bad food. Greasy, cheesy, fried, barbecue-sauced goodness. Uugh, I'm drooling like Pavlov's dog just thinking about it. It is my companion when everything else sucks. How do you let go of something that makes you happy because you know it's bad for you?
2. I am lazy. Jack (my "almost too handsome in a 'What in the hell are you doing with me?' sort of way" husband) and I come home from work - where I sit on my ass, mind you, and he stands on his feet all day - eat, and crash. I love my Dancing With the Stars, Private Practice, Boston Legal, Amazing Race, Two and a Half Men, etc. Reality junkie? Right here. I guess I'd rather be a voyeur into someone else's reality than deal with my own. Okay, you psychiatrists out there: have your field day. We have lot's to talk about.
3. I am scared. All I've ever done with weight loss is fail. Hell, let's broaden our view, shall we? All I've ever done with life is fail. I graduated from high school, went to work, made a decent attempt at a communication degree, and then f*ed that up. I'm horrible with money. I slack at my job. I feel entitled to the 'creature comforts' of life that we really can't afford. In general: I don't have it all together. I don't have anything together, and I'm absolutely petrified that I will never be able to change my ways. That's a lot of stuff to do, man, and I already told you: I'm lazy! I'm scared to tell people that I have goals because I don't want to deal with the consequences of not meeting them. It's so much easier to beat myself up for not doing something, than to see the dissaproval of my friends and family when they realize that I've not accomplished yet another goal. I'm the fucking Chicken Little of weight loss.
I love my husband, my friends, and my family. I want a dog, a house, and a nicer car. But I also want to be able to enjoy those things. I want to sit on my husband's lap. I want to do more than just go out to eat with my amazing friends. I want to impress my family. I want to give a dog the home and exercise he deserves. I want the energy to do things around the house. And I want to be able to bend over while sitting in that nicer car, and be able to grab something off the floor.
While we're on the subject, let's talk about some other random things that I want to be able to do: Sit comfortably in an airplane. Buy cute clothes. Wear a swimsuit. Use regularly sized towels in the shower. See my belly button (it's been hidden for years!). Feel sexy, even though my husband swears I am. Have something better to go on than just my 'big boobs'. Sleep better at night. And the list goes on and on.
So here's the thing: I have to do it. It took 26 years, but my body is finally giving me the choice: (wo)man up, or die miserably. If morbid obesity, gallstones, and diabetes don't tell me something, then I don't know what will. So here, in this crazy big world, I'm sending it out there. Hold me accountable. I dare you.
My goal is to weigh under 200 pounds by my first anniversary: October 18th, 2009.
61 pounds. 213,500 calories burned, that's all. Piece of cake...
Shit. Okay, so I've got a long way to go.
But my new life starts now.
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