I’ve been realizing something, lately. Despite the fact that sometimes I feel like my stomach is trying to expand out of my skin, and every so often, I can feel the wiggle of my thighs when I take a heavy step or two, I actually really like the way I look. And I’m not entirely offended anymore when I buy a new pair of shorts at Old Navy and the size tag says 12.
Now, I have also been lamenting my recent lack of time/motivation to exercise. But I don’t really think that the reason for that is because I want to lose weight. I’ve been a little tired. I’ve been stressed and frustrated and overwhelmed. My brain is getting so much of a workout lately that why should I inflict the same abuse on the rest of my body? Even though the smart thing would probably be to do it anyway because it would release better chemicals up there to help with my stress and the rest of the brain’s current distractions, I just don’t want to. I hope that once my test is over and we finally furnish and move to our new home, that I’ll at least make myself do my 20-minute pilates videos or other at-home workouts, maybe even go for a walk every once in awhile, since we’ll actually be in a residential area that is more conducive to such activity.
I don’t mind being a size 12 if that’s the size that flatters my shape. And even though I probably will still get a thrill whenever an 8 actually fits right, I’m pretty sure that if I can stay hovering around the middle at 10, I’ll be fine. I’ve been eating better, which is a start to my eventual plan to live a healthy lifestyle forever, and I’ll get around to the exercise again, because I am well aware that metabolism changes between the ages of 20-something and 30-something. And I’m okay with all of it. I just want to be healthy, and happy with myself. I like the reflection there in the mirror, and as far as I know, I’m a normal weight for my height. Normal is good. And I plan to just maintain whatever small amount of normalcy that I actually do possess.