Anniversary time

It’s anniversary time. My second anniversary is coming up and I’m not talking about the “walking down the aisle” anniversary. I know at least one of our readers would have something to say about my “wedding.” Two years have passed since I walked into the County Club and asked if I could “please, please,” literally, strap myself to a treadmill and run until I lost 40 pounds. I had pretty much given up on dieting. Anytime I dieted all I ever thought about was the food I wasn’t supposed to eat. Whenever I dieted everything was about food. Colours were about food— candy apple red and chocolate brown and caramel. Like a lot of you, I tried just about every fad diet ever written on a scrap of note paper and passed around the office. I tried the cabbage soup, low carb, high protein, grapefruit, apple cider, big breakfast, Mayo Clinic, peanut butter diets, you name it, I tried it.

Funny thing was, I hated dieting but I was never afraid of exercise. I was a runner and am a cyclist. In fact it was a photo of me, taken just over two years ago, wearing my cycling gear whilst taking a break on a 175 km cycling trip, that pushed me over the handlebars. I was shocked. Who the H E double-wide stretchy pants—completely unflattering stretchy pants— was that? Cycling pants aren’t flattering at the best of times and they didn’t do me any favours in that photo. I was horrified. I couldn’t believe that was what I really looked like. YIKES

But, two years ago, what I wanted to achieve and what I needed to work on were worlds apart, it seems. After “the tour” of the gym and “the talk” with the trainer, I agreed to try a lifestyle change—but only for three months. Three months being what I considered ample time to dump 40 pounds and get back to maxing out my maximus. Besides, who would know better what I could accomplish in three months: me, who had more than 60 years of experience with my bad habits (three months at a time), or the trainer, who had a mere 20 years experience helping people like me? Yup, three months waas all I would need. Besides, I didn’t want to wake up with ripped muscles where my arms used to be now, did I? Well, the three-month commitment became six months and six months turned into a year and here I am two years down a path that never featured in my mind. Never. The day I realized fat jiggles and muscles don’t, well, that was the day I think I might have committed to a fit lifestyle. Besides, my house wouldn’t reek of cabbage soup and I wouldn’t recoil at the thought of another grapefruit appetizer.

So, it’s my anniversary. Whoo Hoo. Let the bells ring out. Let the banners fly. The interesting thing is, I’m not thinking about this celebration in terms of what I’ll have to eat and drink. I’m not treating myself to a chocolate bar or a beer or a bacon sandwich or all of the above. Now, I eat to fuel the day. Oh, don’t get me wrong, I’m no saint. Never was. But given the choice, my biggest treat these days has been to squeeze an extra workout into my week. Go figure, eh? I sleep better. I don’t huff and puff when I climb stairs. I don’t have to “suck it in” when I put my jeans on. I wear bulky sweaters to keep me warm not to hide my hips and my grandchildren don’t run me ragged. Butter and bacon give me indigestion and I’m no longer too big for my cycling britches.

It seems I am committed to “getting my fit on”— for another three months, or so.

theresa@wellingtontimes.ca