Accountability partners

I’m reminded of the movie Toy Story when thinking of accountability partners. Remember when they were moving and Woody was making sure everyone had a moving buddy? He said, “If you don’t have one, get one!”

The same goes for accountability partners. If you don’t have one, get one…or two, or three or a group. They can make or break your journey to reach your goals.

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I’ve had my share during my continued journey to get fit and healthy. My one constant is my Kadoo. She’s been with me from the beginning and she tries hard. I make it incredibly difficult for her by repeatedly falling off the wagon. Each time I pick myself up, she’s there ready to cheer me on. I thank God every day for her.

Go read my last post and you’ll see who my mini partners are. 🙂

In that same post,  I wrote about losing my motivation. This morning I was finally dragging myself out of bed and was making my way to my drawer of workout clothes when my phone buzzed. It was my friend who is also working towards a fitness show. She said she hadn’t seen me post about working out lately. I told her I’d lost my motivation and she told me to get it back!!

I think it fizzled away when I realized I wasn’t going to make the WBFF goal I’d set. But, like she said, that’s no reason to give up.

I’ll be 42 in about three weeks. I can make a difference in three weeks. I’m going to see Garth Brooks thanks to my amazing 21 year old then headed to my parents for lunch and swimming the day after. I want to earn a new pair of jeans. I want my kids to not be embarrassed by mom wearing a bikini- because I refuse to wear a tankini or one piece. I want to feel good about myself and show people that just because you grow older, doesn’t mean you let yourself go. I want to show myself I can do this.

I want to love myself.

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GET ANGRY!!!!!!

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.

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 angry.

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.