When I first started losing weight, I thought that getting down to 170 pounds would solve all my problems. That I'd finally start thinking that I was beautiful, that I'd be able to wear a bikini, that I'd start being able to control myself when it comes to food.
Now two years and eighty pounds later, I realize that being skinny doesn't exactly mean that you will be happy. While it's great to be falling out of a pair of size 10 pants, I'm not necessarily any happier with myself than I was when I was in a size 20. For some reason, that self-confidence is still nonexistent and I still see the fat girl in the mirror.
I still can't wear a bikini because my stomach is all stretched out from having 2 kids and weighing 80 pounds more than I should. I can't control myself when it comes to food. especially if it's Italian food or sushi.
Now that I'm at my goal weight, I will continue to work out and attempt to make the right food choices (and stay away from Olive Garden), but I'll also start working on trying to get over my self-esteem issues. I want to see the beautiful girl that my husband tells me I am.
30 November 2010
17 November 2010
In Which I (Stupidly) Listen To My Best Friend
I've been in a funk recently. Between school, work, the kids, the husband, and all the studying, I'm just worn out. I've been having some problems coping with things and today when I told my best friend Dejan that I was feeling icky, he had the brilliant idea that we should go running.
Now, while I did reach my original goal of 170 lb that I had set 2 years ago when I was 250 lbs (I'm actually 166 lbs as of today), I still need to tone the flab. And I haven't worked out in a couple of weeks because of being so busy...and let's face it...I'm lazy.
However, Dejan is not. He goes to the gym almost daily (he has a schedule set up) and is way more buff than I am. He drinks his little protein shakes and eats his tuna and lentil for dinner (it smells like vomit and looks even worse) and is all into working on his fitness.
In my lapse of insanity, I agree to go with him and actually get kind of stoked about the idea of running outside. I run on a treadmill, people. In a climate controlled gym. With filtered air.
What in the hell was I thinking??
It was a beautiful day here in G-ville, temps were in the 60s, sun shining, and there was a pretty boy running in front of me with his dog that I love almost as much as my own children. I was fine...for the first 2 minutes. Then we headed up a hill.
Running outside in the hellacious Greenville allergy-inducing air killed me. I made it for about the first mile before I made my running partners slow it down, then I let Dejan talk me back into running again. He allowed me to stop so he could talk to one of the umpteen million people here in town that he knows and I tried to calm my pounding heart and soothe my aching lungs while attempting to stay in the conversation.
Then the bastard made me run again. AND he made me do stairs, insisting that the stairs would help tone my ass, which in all honesty, could use a bit of toning. And by a bit, I mean a lot. All of me needs toning.
Anywho, so we finally made it back to his house, after 3 freaking miles of running through the park, downtown, and through the historic district...and I died.
I think I look like one of those chalk drawings left behind after a hit and run.
Now, while I did reach my original goal of 170 lb that I had set 2 years ago when I was 250 lbs (I'm actually 166 lbs as of today), I still need to tone the flab. And I haven't worked out in a couple of weeks because of being so busy...and let's face it...I'm lazy.
However, Dejan is not. He goes to the gym almost daily (he has a schedule set up) and is way more buff than I am. He drinks his little protein shakes and eats his tuna and lentil for dinner (it smells like vomit and looks even worse) and is all into working on his fitness.
In my lapse of insanity, I agree to go with him and actually get kind of stoked about the idea of running outside. I run on a treadmill, people. In a climate controlled gym. With filtered air.
What in the hell was I thinking??
It was a beautiful day here in G-ville, temps were in the 60s, sun shining, and there was a pretty boy running in front of me with his dog that I love almost as much as my own children. I was fine...for the first 2 minutes. Then we headed up a hill.
Running outside in the hellacious Greenville allergy-inducing air killed me. I made it for about the first mile before I made my running partners slow it down, then I let Dejan talk me back into running again. He allowed me to stop so he could talk to one of the umpteen million people here in town that he knows and I tried to calm my pounding heart and soothe my aching lungs while attempting to stay in the conversation.
Then the bastard made me run again. AND he made me do stairs, insisting that the stairs would help tone my ass, which in all honesty, could use a bit of toning. And by a bit, I mean a lot. All of me needs toning.
Anywho, so we finally made it back to his house, after 3 freaking miles of running through the park, downtown, and through the historic district...and I died.
I think I look like one of those chalk drawings left behind after a hit and run.
16 November 2010
In Which I Feel Better From Looking At Pictures
This is Fat Beckie, from March of 2008. Yuck.
This is skinny Beckie from October 2010.
WOW.
01 November 2010
In Which I Get New Pants
These past couple of weeks have been insane with nursing school (last week was aka Hell Week), but I've maintained weight (for the most part, save for Halloween weekend, might have binged a little with my best friend being in town from Indiana), even though I haven't lost any.
I'm okay with this.
More than that, I was told by a friend (read: several friends) that my pants were getting too baggy, especially in the butt area. Now I really don't have much ass to spare and I really haven't wanted to lose it there, but whatev. Taking their words to heart, I did a thing that most women enjoy but I do not.
I went shopping.
I hate the mall. I hate shopping, unless it's for someone else or if I'm buying groceries because we all know how much I like to eat. I hate the sounds of the mall, hate the people who come up to me, wanting me to try their hand lotions or buy a cover for my craptastic cell phone. I hate dressing rooms, I hate thumbing through the plus sizes, I hate salespeople.
So with great trepidation, I walked into a store in which I will not name. I immediately walked to the plus size, then remembered that I'm not plus sized anymore before moseying over to the women's section (I swear, I only stopped at the kid's section for a little bit. My daughter needed a new shirt). So I automatically grabbed my normal size and headed to the dressing room.
They fell off.
Cheered a wee bit, I went for the next size down.
They fell off too.
Getting really excited, I tried the next size down.
They were baggy.
At this point, I was ecstatic. Dropping off the pants and tossing the shirt I'd found for the lovely one somewhere, I headed to one of those stores that has the music pounding so loud that you can't hear anything and the bags with the half-naked men on them...the one I haven't visited since having children.
When I walked in, I was half-afraid one of the teenagers working there was going to ask me what I thought I was doing there, but they just greeted me with a wave and went back to texting on their phone that's way better than mine. <--can you tell that I'm really trying to get my husband to buy me a new phone?
After grabbing a size that I haven't seen since I was eighteen, I headed to the dressing room and pulled them up, praying that I would be able to actually button them without having to suck it in too much.
OH MY GOD, they fit. I'm in a pant size that is HALF of what I was wearing 3 years ago when I started losing weight.
Happiness ensues.
I'm okay with this.
More than that, I was told by a friend (read: several friends) that my pants were getting too baggy, especially in the butt area. Now I really don't have much ass to spare and I really haven't wanted to lose it there, but whatev. Taking their words to heart, I did a thing that most women enjoy but I do not.
I went shopping.
I hate the mall. I hate shopping, unless it's for someone else or if I'm buying groceries because we all know how much I like to eat. I hate the sounds of the mall, hate the people who come up to me, wanting me to try their hand lotions or buy a cover for my craptastic cell phone. I hate dressing rooms, I hate thumbing through the plus sizes, I hate salespeople.
So with great trepidation, I walked into a store in which I will not name. I immediately walked to the plus size, then remembered that I'm not plus sized anymore before moseying over to the women's section (I swear, I only stopped at the kid's section for a little bit. My daughter needed a new shirt). So I automatically grabbed my normal size and headed to the dressing room.
They fell off.
Cheered a wee bit, I went for the next size down.
They fell off too.
Getting really excited, I tried the next size down.
They were baggy.
At this point, I was ecstatic. Dropping off the pants and tossing the shirt I'd found for the lovely one somewhere, I headed to one of those stores that has the music pounding so loud that you can't hear anything and the bags with the half-naked men on them...the one I haven't visited since having children.
When I walked in, I was half-afraid one of the teenagers working there was going to ask me what I thought I was doing there, but they just greeted me with a wave and went back to texting on their phone that's way better than mine. <--can you tell that I'm really trying to get my husband to buy me a new phone?
After grabbing a size that I haven't seen since I was eighteen, I headed to the dressing room and pulled them up, praying that I would be able to actually button them without having to suck it in too much.
OH MY GOD, they fit. I'm in a pant size that is HALF of what I was wearing 3 years ago when I started losing weight.
Happiness ensues.
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