I have a theory or two about how I gained 60 lbs. Some may view them as excuses, but I like to consider them actual possibilities that eliminate any fault on my account (I know that’s not true, but let’s go with it).
I grew up in the US, one of the few places in the world that uses pounds, ounces, and yards and now, as an adult living in Europe, where metric is king, I struggle at the very basic question of “how tall are you?” You would be surprised how often it comes up. Apparently saying 5 foot 7.5 inches is meaningless here. It’s like asking someone what’s the temperature on a Summer’s day and they say “Awful. It’s a dreaded 35 degrees.” They really mean 95 degrees Fahrenheit and sunny. So, when I do weigh myself I’m thrown off, immediately, by the metric system. Somehow, when the scale says you weigh 100 kilos it isn’t as bad as it’s 220 lb equivalent. Of course, I should have gone to the internet and checked the conversion, felt badly and done something about it before it got any worse, but I was happy in my own little bubble of denial mixed with ignorance.
But, the reading on a scale didn’t compel me to do something. This whole “let’s lose weight” journey started as a result of a clothing emergency that ended in breaking the number one rule for people hoping to lose weight, which is don’t buy clothes that are too small for you in hopes that they will fit in a few weeks after you get serious about losing weight.
“don’t buy clothes that are too small for you in hopes that they will fit”
I know this rule. I’ve broken it in the past and kicked myself for doing it. Too many clothes with tags hanging from them in the closet has taught me, finally, not to break this, the cardinal rule for the overweight.
And then I did.
My husband and I were meeting friends halfway between our two houses with an overnight bag. We planned a weekend stay to spend with our dear friends and their 2-year-old daughter, when I realized that I had a 3-inch tear caused by the friction where my inner thighs rub together. Luckily, the store where I buy my jeans was nearby and we had 30 minutes before our friends were coming. The good fortune ended there, however. The shop didn’t have my size, only the one bigger and smaller. I really didn’t want to spend the weekend with torn jeans, so i grabbed both and prayed one (the smaller one) would fit.
The bigger size was big, and to my shock I actually got the smaller size on. Sure, they cut my belly fat in two, the top of which mushroomed over the top of the jeans, but with a little cirque-du-soleil stretching in the dressing room I could zip them up. I grew confident that the jeans, after a little wear and a little more stretching would fit. It was still just Spring, I was still wearing sweaters that would cover the fat mushroom, and I rationalized that if I started running the jeans would fit in no time. I still have time before Summer when clothes that are just a little too tight become plastic wrap in the humidity and heat, sticking to your skin in the most unforgiving manner.
I used to run, 10 years and 60 lbs ago. I’ve been telling myself I should start again, especially as I have been noticing the weight gain and how the number of clothes I can wear is gradually shrinking. So, this is the beginning of the journey. I’m writing this blog to keep me motivated and accountable.