A few months ago, I had one of those “reality check”
kind of moments. The ones where I’ve been avoiding looking at something without those rose colored glasses on or the list of excuses out and readily available. But when I had to face reality for what it was. And in this case – it was the truth that the small amount weight I had previously worked so hard to lose, was all back. Any good habits I had gotten somewhat ingrained in my daily routines were just a fading memory.
When I looked at that reality for what it was, I was upset and furious with myself. Once again, I had completely failed and dropped the ball. After a short time of self loathing, I looked again at what reality was and where I need to improve to get back on track. I wasn’t ready to give up on my goals, or myself.
When I examined where I had gone off the rails, it started small. I got “busy” and didn’t log on to track what I ate. And then I knew I had eaten too much, or not the right foods, and I didn’t make it to the gym or do anything at home, so I simply didn’t want to know. It was easier to avoid that reality, and so I stopped tracking all together. I guessed at how many calories something was (and absolutely underestimated) or I would reason it away with some very faulty logic.
Not anymore. I’ve been back on and logging everything I do. I realized that I had to get a real picture of what was happening and where I was going wrong before I could make a plan to change that.
It’s still a roller coaster ride though. . . .
After being more consistently active, I ignored a huge warning sign one night when I was playing racquetball with my oldest son. My one calf muscle was cramping up horribly but I wanted so badly to be the person I used to be, the one who could actually hold her own with those kinds of activities, that I ran after the ball a minute later and heard a pop and my muscle no longer felt tight and I could hardly step on it. I had torn my muscle. Badly enough that it took several weeks before I could even walk normally on it, let alone do anything else. I had begun to really experience positive effects that regular, consistent physical activity was having on my depression, and when that dropped out of my life for a few weeks and then added in the hockey trips and driving across the state and a hectic work schedule, I was once again frustrated and furious with myself.
When I knew my leg was better and was ready for some more intense exercise again, I called a friend. The last thing I really felt like doing that day was getting my butt back in the gym. But her enthusiastic response about getting back to our schedule was enough to make me at least commit. Then last week I needed to step it up a notch and mustered up the
to walk back into
After last attending both classes last week and sticking to my schedule on days in between the classes, I was feeling pretty good about what I had accomplished. That is, until I made the dreaded mistake of hoping on the scale mid-week. I’m not really sure if I was really expecting some dramatic drop, but it definantly wasn’t the 2 pounds I went up. No amount of rationalizing was able to combat the frustration that I felt at that moment. All the positive steps that had taken, everything I felt like I had accomplished, just didn’t matter in that moment.
But once again it turned around. I forced myself to focus on what I had done that was healthy, and sought out and read every article on sparkpeople I could find about NOT relying solely on the scale. I worked hard over the weekend to fit in physical activity, get good rest, eat right, spend quality time with my kids. And when I weighed in on Monday night (like I NORMALLY do with a friend), not only was I not up the two pounds anymore, I had lost weight.
I was feeling great headed back into Zumba Tuesday night. I was feeling more confident about the routines, good about my energy level and ability, showed up early to walk about the track and stretch before heading into class. I thought I had done everything right to ensure a fun, energetic, positive class.
My legs felt like lead.
Cramping, hurting, heavy . . . .
I was again felt deflated . . . .
and the fun, wonderful class from last week, took forever.
I’m sure I will continue to be frustrated with myself. I WANT to be the fun mom, the friend that can spend all day hiking or paddleboarding in the summer. The mom that can go bike riding and fishing without being out of breath, exhausted, and cranky. As much as I know I want that, I have to learn to keep my expectations realistic and know that it I’m consistent, all that will come.
And in the meantime,