I have lost 15 lbs and about 3% body fat in just a few weeks, and I'm determined to keep going.
I just have to remember, this is a dull, daily struggle. No "today is the first day of the rest of my life!" kick-off celebration. Just living the same old life, with the added chore of counting calories and cooking. Yet despite how monotonous that seems, determination--not "motivation" is what's going to get me to my goal.
Determination isn't glamorous and it's not pretty. It's difficult and annoying actually. There is no "Rocky" soundtrack music, no Eye of the Tiger, no swarm of kids running behind me, cheering me on as I blast my way over park bench hurdles and up the Philadelphia museum steps. Though I wish there was. I wish I wasn't so real. So dull. So lethargic, like a sloth, eating its cute little apple in a tree high above the ground where all the skinny gazelles and cheetahs run free. I have to be slow, careful, deliberate.
I really wanted a Whopper today. I was SO close. Dangerously close. But I had a baked potato instead. And I still want that damn Whopper. I want the soft sesame seed bun, followed by layers of creamy mayo and ketchup, slightly sweet tomato, crisp lettuce, beef and heavenly cheese. I want it. I want it so much it seems like it’s only a matter of time
The Fat Girl inside me, whom I lovingly call “Tiramisumo”, is slowly trying to talk me into it. She says:
“You can have it. Just eat rabbit food the rest of the day, and you’ll be good!”
“You could cut it into 1/4ths and just eat 1/4 every two hours. After two hours, it’ll probably be too old and gross by then anyway, and you’ll just throw the rest away!”
See how nice and sane and logical that sounds at first? Pretty soon, I’m slowly nodding inside, albeit cautiously, thinking “Yeah, it could work.”
But I know she’s waiting. She’s setting up a trap.
I’ll give in to these Whopper pep-talks, then drive up to the drive-thru, hand the nice young lady or man my cash and receive my hyped-up Whopper, gift-wrapped in a lovely brown paper bag. Unwrapping the Whopper is like unwrapping a present. My taste buds dance and sing. And even though I chew slowly to savor it, a quarter of it is gone too quickly. As I breathe, it’s as if my stomach is doing the breathing, and it’s short of breath. It slightly aches. Expands. Contracts. Expands. Contracts. Expands. Contracts. It “glows” with hunger. Sort of.
It’s not hunger in the common sense of the word. I don’t think. It’s a hunger to feel “full”. More than full. Satiated. Saturated. Warm. Heavy. The heaviness envelopes the world in peace. Peace from the nagging voice. The emptiness. Peace from all thoughts and feelings for a moment. Like a soft heavy blanket for your insides. It’s like “Restless Legs Syndrome” except for your tongue, and food is the cure, because when you eat so much, your tastebuds become immune, the way your nose becomes immune to smells it’s used to. And the aching and the salivating and the itch and the restlessness stops. For a while.
So NO. Nice try, “Tira”. But no Whopper. You think you’re smart. Fat Girls usually are. But my determination is smarter. I may not have my own soundtrack, but I kicked your *** today all the same. That word ties my stomach in knots of mixed feelings… “Today”. What about tomorrow? Or the next day. Or the next day. Maybe Tira doesn’t care. She’ll be waiting when I run myself into the ground. Please don’t. Please.
