Our big life change started at the beginning of February. The Husband and I decided to lose weight. It has been a long time coming, and there never was a perfect time. Turns out we started a week before my mother died, which was perhaps the worst time anyone could choose.
It has been almost six months now, long enough that we’ve developed healthy habits. I just made sugar-free orange Jell-O with mandarin oranges, and tomorrow I’ll make parfaits with the Jell-O and some fat-free Kool-Whip.
I told my husband I was going to do this, and he said, “Yummy!” Six months ago, we both would have turned up our noses and headed straight to Dairy Queen for candy bar Blizzards.
Husband appears to be more diligent than I am. I suppose he is. I suspect that he does not stray, and I suspect he has a great deal more personal discipline that I do. Not that he wouldn’t eat five Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups in a row if a gun was put to his head right now. That’s not what I’m saying. He lives by the 95% rule, meaning you eat healthy and well and appropriate portions all but five percent of the time.
He was wearing waist size 44 jeans, now he’s at 38. I can’t tell you how much weight he’s lost because he won’t weigh himself. I'm guessing maybe fifty.
I’ve lost about 35 lbs. and I don’t look much different than I did in February.
Except from behind. There once was a behind and now there’s just a flat place with clothing hanging over it.
Do you think people would be offended if our Christmas card picture showed me from the rear, featuring my tiny fanny?
The obnoxious belly fat that I blame on my child (what mother doesn’t?) is still there.
I can now buy normal sized clothing, but I’m still at the large end of the rack.
And I’m stuck at my “set point,” a weight I haven’t been able to get under in a very long time. Not that I don’t want to. You see, I want to weigh what it says on my driver’s license. (And I also want to be a brunette again, and let’s throw in I want amore with George Clooney.)'
Why does it seem easier for men?
I am exercising; the husband is not. I am in the world’s oldest synchronized swimming class at a local rehabilitation center. I’m just kidding about the synchronized swimming, just wanted to put in an Olympics reference. (If you are watching the class from the side or say, the roof, you would find elements similar to synchronized swimming.)
Swimming helps and I believe if I continue to do what I’m doing--increase my walking, really watch my carbs--that I will get over the hump. I guess I mean, get rid of the hump of obnoxious belly fat that circles my middle.
I want to lose another 35 lbs. and I would be perfectly happy. Still would be 25 lbs. over what Weight Watchers want me to weigh, but they can go, well, you know, themselves.)
I miss cheese, especially fancy, expensive cheese. I miss bread, especially fancy, expensive bread. I miss ice cream, especially fancy, expensive ice cream. I miss cucumber, cream cheese, and white bread sandwiches with the crusts cut off that I used to eat all summer. I miss pork chops. I miss pasta and most white foods that are bad for me.
But let me tell you what I’ve gained. Poor word choice. Let me tell you what I now appreciate. My favorite black raincoat fits me again. I feel good all the time. I never have heartburn. I never feel sluggish in the morning. I sleep better. My knee rarely hurts anymore. My shoes fit better.
While people don’t notice I’ve lost weight, they will say, “You look different. Did you change your hair?” I haven’t changed my hair style since Dorothy Hamill went through puberty.
All of this is good, and I’m sure I’ll get past this plateau.
There are rewards. Somewhere, out there, in a refrigerator not far from here is a bowl of orange Jell-O setting up for tomorrow.