I had a doctor's appointment yesterday that has left me feeling discouraged, frustrated, and pissy.
In the past year I have worked out an average of four days a week, had six thousand dollars worth of liposuction, and not eaten a tenth of the all stuff I would have dearly loved to eat.
As a result of my strenuous efforts and not inconsiderable physical suffering, I weigh exactly what I did one year ago at my first appointment with my doctor. That number on the scale is still approximately forty pounds too high.
To quote the Bard, D'OH!
I do know that my bodacious bod has a more appealing contour than it did a year ago. Thanks to my surgery, my waist is several inches smaller, as are my stomach and chest. I no longer have love handles. Regular strength training has built up my chest muscles and shoulders. These are all good things, and I'm grateful for the positive changes I see in the mirror.
Still, it's utterly maddening to me that had I NOT spent all the hours at the gym in the last year, I would have likely gained God only knows how much weight. That's the part that really freaks me out. It's like my body has some secret, devious plan to reach 350 pounds, and if I'm not constantly starving myself or sweating on some horrid cardio machine at the gym, my cells are busily squirreling away adipose for some erroneously anticipated future famine. It's all so dreadfully unnecessary.
So, what is my response today? I'm sitting in a cafe, whining to you when I should be at the gym sweatin' to the oldies. I've had a decaf coffee. I wanted a scone. And now I'd love to go have a beer.
Instead I'll go home and sip some ice water. Mmmmm, satisfying.
Sorry to bitch so self-indulgently,