After apologizing to Alexander Woollcott, I am going to send you here so you can get depressed thinking about how much you want just about every one of those lusciously fattening desserts and how much you really shouldn't eat them. Who decided okra was going to be healthy and double-fudge brownies would kill you, hmmm? Who, I ask??
Even though I just bitched about NOT having enough fattening food around in my previous post, I now have to confess that I *should* be working just a smidge harder at watching my diet. I started working out at a private gym with a trainer earlier this year when I realized I was rapidly attaining the approximate dimensions of a Weebil, and if someone bumped into me I would, in fact, wobble and not fall down. Lest you envision an altar to the human form replete with sauna and massage tables when I say 'private gym,' let me disabuse you of that notion toot de sweet - this place basically looks like your friend's basement after her teenaged son took up weightlifting and bought a bunch of old freeweights at yard sales, except it's in a converted garage at an industrial park and not in a private house. I did belong to a chichi women-only gym for awhile, but the problem was, every time I went, there'd be a new gossip rag to read. Instead of really working out, I'd sit on the recumbent bike for an hour and pedal til a fine dew misted my brow, at which point I'd figure I must have burnt at least a few calories, so why not sit in the sauna for awhile and call it a day? There's none of THAT nonsense at my new gym; in fact, the only thing around to read is the nutritional insert for whey protein that someone tacked to the bulletin board. However, much to my own surprise, I really like it. I go in, my trainer tells me, "do this"; I do it; I sweat; I leave. I don't have to make any decisions, I don't have to figure out what exercises to do, for someone who is constantly in question-and-answer mode, it's heaven.
Having gone there thrice-weekly now for several months, I do feel much fitter, stronger, and more flexible. I can't do a full split anymore, which I used to be able to do without warming up, but I can move around more quickly and easily. That is a HUGE bonus for someone on her feet all the time. Unfortunately, though, the extra junk in the trunk that spurred me to go to the gym in the first place is still firmly ensconced around my midsection, butt and thighs. Baby got back fat, and it ain't pretty. I have adjusted my eating habits, sorta-kinda, but I still have a cookie or two with a glass of milk at night and I still eat pasta and bread (not by the truckload, but enough). As much as I would like to be in Desperate Housewife form, the fact is, I do not have a personal chef, dietitian, and life coach on call, and I'm just not willing to turn my whole life upside-down just to lose a few pounds. I like bread and pasta, and the occasional glass of wine, and fruit pies with homemade crusts, and dammit, I'm going to eat them. As much as it pains me to do so, maybe it's time to clean the skinny clothes out of the closet and admit I'm never going to be a size 4 again [and before the haters start hating, I'm only FIVE FEET TALL. I *should* be a size zero, if girth corresponded to height, so size six and up is plenty large on my frame].
A word to the wise for my under-forty female readers: I never believed this before, but there is a HUGE difference between trying to lose weight at 30-some and trying again at 40-some. It's a whooooole different ball game, sistahs, so if you have not yet crossed that Rubicon, do yourself a favor: Get yourself in whatever shape you aspire to be in BEFORE you pass the Big Four-Oh, so that you're maintaining, not trying to undo whatever you've done. Trust me, you'll thank me for it later.
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