Lard, the rendered fat of a pig, and that stuff that recently has begun to accumulate around my mid section and on the inside of my thighs, and on my back, and on the under part of my arms.
I HATE LARD!
Where the heck does it come from? When does it start to accumulate?
I remember being lean. I remember when every thing I put on looked great and looking in the mirror and being fairly pleased with the reflection.
But the other day I walked passed a mirror and happened to glance at my reflection and was mortified by what I saw; bulges, every where.
Who the heck is that woman?
I remember once standing on a street corner in Atlanta — wasn’t that just a few years ago — and being told by a passing stranger that I looked like Angela Bassett, muscular, hot. What happened? And when?
Yikes, I’m middle aged, whatever that means.
It seems that what it means is now I have to really work at the battle of the bulge. It just sneaks up on you. It plays dirty. While you are working at being a good mom, a good wife, working hard at taking care of home, it creeps up, clings to your butt, and festers there.
While the whole country is worried about kids getting obese, I’m thinking we mamas better be watching what we eat too. And, we better be getting out there with the kids kicking around a soccer ball or something least we end up looking like… that’s right a tub of LARD.
I’ve been meaning to blog about this for a few weeks now. But I knew that once I did it, it would require real commitment and honesty on my part, I put it off. But now it’s time. It can’t wait any longer.
It’s growing, exponentially, my tuche (Yiddish expression for buttock) that is. I have to do something to stop it before it grows completely out of control. Already it kind of reminds me of the blob, plopping along gobbling up everything in its path and growing larger and larger each day, each hour. HELP!!
Really!People are always telling me, Oh you look fine. Don’t worry about it. But here’s how I see it. You are only as fat as your jeans are small. In other words, if you can’t get your pork butt to fit in any thing hanging in your closet, then it’s either time to buy a new wardrobe or cut the pounds. My jeans don’t fit, at least not the way the used to.
Since I can’t afford new clothes, and even if I could I don’t think I want to go that route, I’m opting for cutting the poundage in a big way.
About a year ago my sister went through a transformation. I think she must have passed a mirror and had the same revelation I recently had. She must have thought, who the heck is that woman? She joined a workout club and made a commitment to go every other day. I mean this girl really applied herself. She lost something like 30 or more pounds. Then started running half marathons working up to run the New York (full) marathon. She looks fabulous. I HATE HER TOO.
I’ve been hating her now for about six months. I’m tired of that, so I figure I need to do something about the wagon I’m dragging. I’m where a lot of us “middle aged” women get to right before we decide, it is time for a change. FED UP!
So, yeah, I’m using you all as my monitors.
You know how you are always saying to yourself after gobbling down a particularly large meal — something along the line of steak and mash potatoes smothered in gravy or a big bowl of pasta lavishly covered with a cheesy meat sauce and garlic bread on the side. Oh my!
… I’m starting a diet tomorrow.
Well, tomorrow is today.
From here on out it’s less intake and more working out for me. I’m laying it on the line, right out here for all of you to see. It’s the only way; total exposure.
I’ve already joined the gym, the Y. Now all I have to do is drag my tuche (Yiddish for buttocks) out of bed about 4:30 a.m. and make it to the gym for the 5:30 a.m. classes — cycling on Monday and Wednesdays, strength training on Tuesdays and Thursdays and kick boxing on Saturdays at 8 a.m. Then run at least 2 or 3 miles every Sunday morning. This won’t be easy.
I used to do all of this with ease. And, I loved it. It hurt so good.
I figure I have to lose about 10 pounds to fit in the clothes in my closet. And 15 pounds to be comfortable in my own skin.
Being a woman is so damn hard.
But I can do this, Can’t I?
Right about now I’m thinking it might actually be easier to move to some country where big butts and hefty thighs are in vogue.
You’re thinking, how shallow can I be.
I don’t care. I say just because I’m over 40, and a mom to teens doesn’t mean I have to be a middle-aged looking dork. Yeah, I’m growing older, but to hell with the idea of getting there gracefully. I’m going kicking and screaming .
My sons think I’m nuts and that a mother should look like a mother, whatever that means. They hug me and tell me, “Mom you are ?? years old and you look great.” I figure they would say that no matter what I look like. They love me. And don’t judge.
I have to feel good about me if I’m going to be the best I can be, right?
And really this should actually be more about getting out there and exercising, eating right and taking care of myself so that I can be around for them.
I think that sometimes we spend so much time as mothers taking care of our families that we forget that one of the most important things we can do for them is to take care of ourselves.
Heck, I don’t know about you, but I smile more when I look good. And I look good when my clothes fit. And my clothes fit best when I’m a lean, mean machine.
So this is it. I’m heading to the gym. And I plan to report periodically to all of you how things are going. It would be great if some of you joined me in my quest to find the best physical me that I can.
I’m laying down the gauntlet. Any takers?