It all began when I realized my thighs were rubbing together.
Walking through the house in my undies, I felt enough friction to start a fire.
Definitely enough friction to light a fire under me to do something about it.
In a world where many are literally either dying from too little food or too much food, this tiny detail isn’t all that important in the scheme of things. In fact, if this were a tweet, it would be followed by a hashtag… #firstworldproblems.
However, for me, this event was life-changing. It was the spark I needed to move forward.
Today is “Day 1″. Again.
No doubt my thighs have met in the middle at some point in my life, but I don’t recall for sure when.
Maybe when I was pregnant the first time and gained 50 pounds on my 5’1″ frame.
Maybe when I returned to college as a full-time student in my late 30s, with a husband and two young children.
Maybe when my stressful job as the Executive Director of a nonprofit, combined with a newbie marriage to a naturally and forever very thin man, led to a 15-pound weight gain.
Still… This time feels different.
It feels different because I’ve spent the past three months deliberately gaining fifteen pounds, with hopes of adding some muscle and recalibrating my metabolism. When I’ve been this heavy before now, it was looser fat that gave way when I walked.
Swish. Swish. Swish.
This time, it feels more like two tree trunks scraping against each other.
Definitely no jiggle. However, I’m smart enough to know that fifteen extra pounds isn’t all lean tissue, either.
Enough is enough.
None of my favorite clothes fit… Except for my yoga pants and sweat pants. My favorite “baggy” (re: comfy) jeans — a pair of men’s 501 button-fly Levis — are skin-tight.
My husband is loving it, but me —- not so much.
I have a closet full of clothes and nothing to wear. With only one income, now is definitely not the time for me to shop for new clothes.
Besides, I like the clothes I already have. And I hate shopping.
I also miss my cheekbones… but that’s a subject for another day.
Before the fire gets any hotter, I’m planning for spring. My 57th birthday is in March. Sixteen weeks from now. Plenty of time to lose ten pounds of fat.
It’s time to start moving… and prove to myself that I can still do this.
And I’ll bet you can, too.