I walked out of the house broken, hurt, tears streaming down my face. I plugged headphones into my phone, found the Fitness playlist I’d finally set up, put the headphones on, turned the volume up and walked briskly down the driveway.
The truth hit me like a slap across the face- someone had the balls to come out and say it. “You’re fat.”
At first I felt pity for myself. The longer I walked the more I forced myself to look harder. This is the moment it hit me. All of my other goals and challenges were for someone else. This is the moment I realized that my goal of becoming (or at least looking like) an over forty fitness model was the one goal that was for me. This was the moment, with my legs burning, my heart racing, my ears pounding from Eminem spouting his anger, my hair damp from rain- the moment where I was proud of myself for wanting to get fit for me. Me.
It was my fault. Even though I was on crutches for two months and forced to rest the last four months because a distracted driver ran into me, no one forced the food into my mouth. I couldn’t cook so Hubby got a lot of takeout for lunch and dinner. Each time he asked what I wanted. I could have asked for a salad or eaten plain tuna. I didn’t have to order carb-filled subs, fish full of sodium, fried foods, greasy hamburgers, French fries and chips. It was my choice.
I’m angry at myself for not being more careful back in April while using weight equipment at the gym. But at least during that time I was still able to go to dance class. I was burning calories using crutches. But the accident? That was totally out of my control. It hurt to sit up. It hurt to stand. Hell, it hurt most times even laying down. I got depressed, so I ate. I was bored, so I ate. I ate and ate and ate and ate. Cookies, fried calamari, bacon cheeseburgers, cream horns, sugar cereal, fast food, pizza, cake- whatever I could find I ate.
Now, few of my clothes fit. My cute ‘night-out’ dresses are too tight which means Hubby doesn’t take me out. I can’t stand to look at myself in the mirror. I can’t even shave my legs without a belly pudge getting in the way. I get dressed in the closet so my husband doesn’t have to see me naked. I wear a towel when I get in the bath tub so he doesn’t have to see me.
I’m using that anger to make a difference. I’m using the anger to change my life. When I don’t want to do another rep or another set, I dig that anger out and make myself finish. I’m using that anger to reach my goals. I’m using that anger to eat better, to fit back into my clothes and to find the real me under this fat.
So get angry. Get mad. Get furious. Use those emotions to get through that one last mile or one last set. Use them to walk by the cookies and hamburgers. Use them to find the real you.
Use them to become happy.