Lest you think I haven’t been training–just because I haven’t talked about it much–let me just tell you: I have been training. And lo, I have the callouses to prove it. My feet may never recover.
I’m feeling a nice surge of renewed commitment, because this week I crested the $4,500 mark. That’s pretty cool. Y’all are pretty! And generous! Except you… yes, you, in the back. You haven’t donated yet. What, you don’t love the boobies? The boobies are love. Support the boobies. (Need a reward for your donation? Go buy one of my 3-Day shirts and you’re making a donation and a fashion statement at the same time.)
In the meantime, I am struggling with my new body.
I’m no beauty queen, you know. But I’m that girl you hate. I’m thin. I’ve always been thin. I got rid of clothes that I wore in high school because they’re embarrassing, not because they no longer fit. Sometimes I forget to eat. When I’m stressed out I often sort of stop eating. More often, I eat and eat and eat and don’t gain any weight.
Take a minute to marinate in the hatred. Get it out of the way. (Also, take comfort in the knowledge that my skin is terrible, and I have more acne now than you had in high school. It all evens out.)
Because of my size, there isn’t a woman on the planet who wants to listen to me bitch about feeling fat. I understand that.
Here I am, not paying much attention to what I eat (I try to eat a balanced diet, but I’ve never really dieted or worried about portion control), having been not very active for the last however many years, and my shape has remained more or less the same. Now, along comes the 3-Day, and the training, and I’m walking an average of about 25 miles a week, plus working out here at home, and I AM SACRIFICING SOFT, PRETTY FEET for the stamina to keep on going without crying or dying, and…
… this next sentence should be “I’m in the best shape I’ve ever been in.” Right? I think it should be. But it’s not.
The next sentence is, in fact, “I am heavier than I’ve ever been other than being pre- or post-partum.”
“But Mir,” you say, once you’ve finished doubling over with mirth, “muscle weighs more than fat, silly!” Yes, I know. Muscle is heavier. Know what else is heavier? MY ASS. My ass which is now more muscular but not any firmer or trimmer than before I started this new career of walking a million miles to nowhere.
And this is not about numbers on a scale. I hardly ever weigh myself. This is about FEELING THICK. And it’s about my pants being too tight. And it’s about FEELING THINGS JIGGLE when I’m working out.
I do not like it, Sam I Am.
The result is that I’ve become the sort of body dysmorphic whom–in my previous, svelte existence–I fantasized about clubbing to death with a cheesecake. I think I’m fat. I’m unhappy with my shape. I know that it’s not logical, but I don’t know how to stop.
In reality, I AM heavier, I AM thicker, because I’m building muscle, yes, but I suspect it to be burrowed deep within a cozy layer of cellulite. I’m not 18 anymore and once we ladies reach a certain age, well, most of us become sort of lumpy.
I’ve also made a startling discovery: Exercising makes me hungry. Exercising makes me RAVENOUS. And as a person who’s never needed to worry about dieting, when I am hungry, I GO AHEAD AND EAT. The evidence is starting to suggest that I need to curb that habit. It’s possible that I’m burning off an additional 400 calories a day, but now consuming additional snacks in excess of that amount. (And by “possible” I mean “for damn sure.”)
So I have multiple issues to face, here.
One, I need to have liposuction. Kidding. I need to buy new pants, because I doubt I can get lipo on clearance at TJ Maxx.
Two, I need to start watching what I eat. And I have to tell you that I believe deep in my heart that in the absence of a sex life, a person is entitled to good snacks. So this is problematic.
Three, I need to stop looking in the mirror. Ever.
Four, I should consider selling advertising space on my ginormous ass as a fundraiser. Lots of people who do the 3-Day raise money by wearing company logos and such. I have to find the phone number for the Breakstone Cottage Cheese people… it’s perfect.
Five, I need to have a lobotomy before I attempt to teach my children anything about healthy body image. Gah.