I had a moment tonight.
My best friend GayBoy (@mr_tits_pervert on Twitter) was over tonight and we were drinking, doing the Silly Thing, and I was off in the bathroom.
I looked in the mirror and I just remembered my mother and how I always thought she was so beautiful. You know, when she wasn’t wearing her black-&-hot pink industrially-thick socks with too-short pants on “lazy days”, that is.
But she was a model when she was younger. Green eyes like mine, but red hair. Same pale Irish complexion but while I might get spottings of freckles in the summer, she was freckled all the year long. Blanketed. Five-seven. Great cheekbones. Thick shiny but short red hair. Nice lips. [Ed. note: Mine are fuller. Win!]
Still, I thought she was so attractive. She was size fourteen. It hit me tonight. I am now one size larger than my mother was for most of her life with me. I always defined her as “skinny enough”. And now I’m almost an average woman, truly my mother’s daughter.
And this week I’ve been celebrating my collarbone. When you’re fat enough, it disappears. Now, when I take a deep breath, it’s pronounced. I’ve stood there staring, admiring. A collarbone. Mine! And I think it’s beautiful, and it makes me smile. And right now it made me well up a little.
I dug out a box of photos tonight. GayBoy thinks I look thinner now than I did in grade 12. Well, for years I have no idea what I weighed, so. I just know there are things happening I’ve never experienced before. Like I can grab my shoulder and it’s all muscle and bone. No fat. Just muscle. I never, ever thought that could happen. To me? Wow. Now the arms are melting away too.
I can’t tell you how exciting this year ahead of me is. I just can’t. I’m here, already. I’m at a really great starting place. I’ve never begun spring feeling good, looking good. I’ve always shopped in plus size stores. Come March? Nuh-uh. Off the rack. I always thought being size fourteen would be great. I’m practically there! Now I want a size ten. Maybe an eight. Nothing less than that. But this is the year that happens. You understand? THIS is the year.
How do I know? Well. If I could lose my Christmas weight with my father in the hospital, if I could lose 7 pounds when laid up for a month with a back injury, if I could lose 20 pounds in five months spent enduring insomnia, bronchitis, eye infection, yeast infections, a cockroach infestation by my fridge, some serious money troubles, a blown back that I’m still 2 months from being done rehabbing (a six-month injury with four crippling weeks), and a schwack of other shit… well, you know what? I’m doing all right.
It’ll be a struggle the rest of my life, but I’m doing all right. I’ve taken the 60lbs off over the course of a year. That’s reasonable. Weight loss folk will tell you 35 pounds in 12 months is considered excellent in the industry. 60 is almost overachieving. But television would have you think doing it over 4 months is a great goal.
Me, I’m happy with my pace. But now I ramp it up a bit. I’m aiming at 1700 calories a day, maybe 1600, but about five hours working out a week. It’s doable. Maybe more. I’m at 3.5 – 4.5 hours now. But like I say. Ramping up. Intensity, not really quantity. My physiotherapist says he’d rather see me do 5 exercises I can barely complete than 20 that are simpler. And even though it’s harder, I’m mentally lazy and think the 5 sounds better to me too. Less is more, right? More ways than one?
I’m stoked! Two weeks into exercising again and the toning’s already giving me a lot to smile about. I’m not even killing myself. And you SO know I will! But it’s looking great– SCRATCH that: I’m looking great! And I’m thrilled.
No, baby, I can’t hardly wait. Let’s get this on.
I had a moment tonight.