If you had told me that this would be the year I’d start exercising again, I’d have laughed in your face. Before my first pregnancy, I had finally reached a weight (low 80s) and size I was happy with. Then my husband went and messed it all up. Yes, I know I’m just as guilty, but I like laying the blame at his feet.
After baby #1, I made several attempts to pick back up my exercise regime, with no success. Thing 1 was so demanding of my time, day and night, that I was left with no energy or desire to move unless absolutely necessary. Somehow, despite the lack of movement and all the stress eating I was doing, I still managed to lose weight. Slooooooooooowly.
Just as I thought, “O.k., I can do this. Let’s turn it up a notch, and really start burning the fat”, what does my idiot husband do? Yep, goes and sticks another baby in me. (It’s almost as if he wants to keep me fat!)
Since I was nowhere near my pre-baby weight by the time I got started on #2, I knew I was fighting an uphill battle. If I couldn’t exercise with one, how would I ever manage with two, tiny humans consuming all of my time and energy?!
Baby bulge #2
I don’t know when it happened, but somewhere along the way I made an unconscious decision to not even try to lose weight this time around. Round two’s post-pregnany weight (when I finally gathered enough courage to step on the scale) was in the high 90s. And it’s been like that ever since.
Baby #2 exited its host (me) late 2015. When I saw my weight, I put away the scale for good. The path to my exercise machines in the attic grew more and more cluttered, but I couldn’t be bothered to clear it. No time or energy to use them anyhow. About a year and a half passed, in this mind set.
And then something clicked. I don’t know what it was. I’d like to think some part of me never gave up hope. But probably it was just the superficial inner-me becoming evermore dissatisfied with my wardrobe and throwing a b-fit because I refuse to buy new clothes based on my size rather than my taste.
Whatever it was, it started compensating for all the stress eating I was still doing. As the days got hotter, I started biking more rather than taking the bus, dragging my two coaches along with me, if only to make the ride harder due to all the extra weight. And runnig after two, superfast, tiny persons – human cheetahs is what I call them – takes its toll on you, not only mentally, but physically as well. The weight started going down again. Sloooooowly. Still, I didn’t cheer, get my hopes up, or make plans to hop aboard the slim train again. Que sera, sera, I thought.
Whatever will be, will be
The future’s not ours to see
Que sera, sera
–There, now the song is properly stuck in your head. Sorry…not sorry.-
And then, a sign. A gentle nudge, if you will. It started with something I totally was not expecting. I won a Samsung Gear Fit watch at work. And that started the ball rolling again. With a lump in my throat, I dug up the scale and stepped on it to see what the damage was. 91. I couldn’t believe my eyes. The 80s were in sight again. Woohoo.
I started a food journal, no calory counting, just jotting down what I stuff into my mouth. The idea being that I shouldn’t eat it if I don’t want to have to write it down. I must admit, it’s confronting seeing what you eat in black and white. And I quickly noticed I’d think twice before reaching for a chocolate bar. Because I knew I’d re-read the words “chocolate bar” as “had yet another momentary lapse in judgement”. “Slice of cake” would translate to “seriously woman?” And “half a bag of chips” equals “child, you know better than that!” I did NOT want the numbers to go back up, not when my target was closer than it’s been in years.
The watch was showing me the data I needed to keep me motivated. So imagine my mood when, after a week, I stepped on the scale again and the difference was…ZILCH. It took a lot of self control not to spiral into a chocolate-binge fest. I managed to keep it together and the cynic in me was expecting no difference again this week. But guess what, down 1.5 kg. I think the scale might be messing with me as payback for all those months stuck in a stuffy attic.
I don’t know what I’m gonna do when the winter months roll around. The path to the exercise machines is clear again, but I probably won’t get a chance to use them until the boys go to college. I usually don’t touch my bike when the weather gets below 10°C. But never say never. Except in the sentence “I never want to pass 90kg again”. I’m pretty sure I am now willing to do just about anything to keep those numbers going down and the weight off. Even if it means getting a divorce, since I don’t think my husband would agree to a life of celibacy. Or you know, I could tie my tubes. That’s probably cheaper than a divorce. Right?😊