I remember, and it wasn’t long ago, when my pants were loose. Pants that had once fit quite perfectly hung off of my hips in a way that shouted, “Hey, I’ve lost weight!” just enough that they only rarely showed the top of my panties and made me proud to have to hitch them up every so often.
It was not very long at all that the pants that were once “perfect” pants became the “fat pants” and I bought some new pants one size down. It was awesome.
I’m back in the “fat pants” and they just fit again. No gaps, no sliding down, none of that satisfaction. My lower size ones make me wear large t-shirts to camouflage the cutting waistline. This make me sad, but keeps me hopeful. I’m still not back up to the size I was in high school until I went to Boston. I don’t even know if I have those pants anymore. Which is good, and keeps me in control. Because if these current “fat pants” get too tight, I’ll have to spend money to buy a bigger size and cry the whole time.
I am trying to get motivated again to lose some weight. With autumn upon us and the holidays fast approaching, I need to pick up the habit of self control and getting off my lazy ass. I should’ve gone to the gym yesterday, but I did go today. Spent 45 minutes on the elliptical, burned 427 calories, and when I weighed myself, noticed I’m not as heavy as I was on Tuesday. I must have been retaining water or something. And yes, I know I should only weigh myself once a week, at the same time of day, etc., I just can’t help but be drawn to that doctor’s office type scale they have in our workout room. I’ve got to stop the Ka-Chunk again. It’s back and it needs to go away, this time for good (or until I need to build a baby inside me or something).
I like going to the gym. Kind of. Because I only work until 2pm, I have the good fortune to be able to go before the after work crowd comes down. I hate having to wait for my machine. I don’t like a lot of dudes on the weights, just sitting there flexing and stuff with nothing better to look at than my jiggly thighs and bottom. Not that I can tell what they’re looking at, because they’re behind me, but they could be looking at that stuff that no one really needs to see. Including my own husband. A girl’s got to have a little mystery, right?
I could ramble on about food and exercise and weight loss and my own stupid insecurities forever. Most women I know have heard it all before from their own brains or the mouths of their girlfriends. So, without much of a proper closure to this entry, I’m just going to shut up about it for now.