Sunday, September 25, 2016
Packing to go back home to see my daughter and granddaughter last night was the wake up call to reality I needed. Trying on outfits, nothing fit well. Tried some quick shopping for pants to no avail. Damn you, skinny jeans! Where are the 1970's elephant bells with the high waist that were so accommodating to my thighs? The most flattering tops are maternity ones. Never mind that I'm 61. I am expecting. Expecting my pants to split, expecting my thighs to chafe, expecting to feel uncomfortable and embarrassed when people see I regained all the weight I lost for my daughter's wedding.
What to do, what to do? Get on the scale and log the reality. Check. Get on the food tracker and track my breakfast. Check. Grab my exercise clothes and toss them in the suitcase. Check. Make a U-Turn and start heading in the direction I want again. Check.
Yes, I am expecting. Expecting to retrain my stomach and mind to be satisfied with healthy amounts of food. Expecting to regain energy. Expecting my knees to stop hurting. Expecting to feel proud of myself instead of ashamed. Expecting to leave the maternity clothes to my daughter and her peers and to feel good in clothes I like.
No more recreational eating. No more denial that what I put in my mouth ALWAYS has consequences, whether I track it or not.
So, I am off to Illinois for a week with my 6 month old granddaughter. She can sit up now. Ian am expecting that she will be crawling the next time I see her, then walking, then climbing and running. I am going to be the kind of Grannie that plays and crawls around and runs after her!