Happy Anniversary to me

November is supposed to be a quiet month, but it’s celebration time for me. Three years ago I told all y’all I had joined a gym, The County Club. At that time, I’d reached an alltime record “high” and an all-time record “low”. Highest weight, ever, including my pregnant-with-eleven-pound-babies weight. Lowest level of fitness, ever. I had more excuses for my high and low than the number of buttons in my granny’s fruitcake tin. I was hypothyroid—that made me fat, right. I was hypothyroid—that made me sluggish. I had children who had children—that was an excuse, at the time. I was too old. I was too busy. I was too tired. I was too fat. I didn’t have gym clothes. I didn’t have gym shoes. I hated shaving my legs and I didn’t like wearing gym shorts. My boobs bounced when I worked out (but I didn’t really work out). My flabby arms jiggled. I had a spare tire or two. My heart beat too fast when I excercised (namely, climbing stairs) and that couldn’t be a good thing. I had indigestion after every meal. And you know you can’t work out if you have indigestion. I’d learned that most doctors don’t like to point out the obvious, such as a weight problem, nor do they like to dispense dietary advice. Don’t get me wrong, I understand why that is. However, my chronic indigestion made me a candidate for a number of tests and eventually elicited a suggestion to use an over the counter remedy to quell the burn. No one ever mentioned the crap I was eating, or even asked about the crap I was eating. And since I was an avid cyclist, I thought that just about covered the “get fit” issue. I thought I was fitfat.

I had one reason to stay fat and miserable for every day of the year, and then some. I ate antacids after most meals. I slept almost upright to avoid acid reflux. I grumbled about “manufacturers that didn’t know what a size 12 really looked like” when I should have been grumbling about not being a size 12. I’m tricky that way, you know. What the H E double hockey sticks had I done to myself? It occurred to me, I was the only one to blame for the shape I was in – round. I seemed to revel in my physical state of unhealthiness. I wallowed. I truly believed it was the price I would have to pay for being “older”. And then, one day I saw a photograph of myself, taken during an epic bike trip. A trip that covered the distance from Brockville to Picton. Cycling always made me feel strong and in control. In my mind’s eye, I was a svelte dynamo, yet the image I saw wasn’t anything of the sort. Holy Snickers Bars for vim and vigour. The image made me sad. I started reading about physical fitness and healthy eating, but it took me almost a year to do something about it.

So, much to my surprise (and yours too, I’ll bet), here I am. I’m three years into my quest for fitness, strength and health and I’m still learning. I no longer think if I lose 30 or 40 pounds, then I can put “paid” to that bill. I see fitness and strength as an everyday item on my to do list. I’ve learned to eat clean (most of the time) and train dirty (all of the time). My workouts have become a regular a part of my everyday life. I’m strong. I’m fit. I’m happy. I still have children. I still have grandchildren. I have more gym clothes than “street” clothes. “PlayDri” is my new friend. I still don’t like wearing shorts, but that’s just me. I’m not afraid of sports tights, tank tops and sweat bands. I’m still hypothyroid. Ain’t nothing I can do about it, but it isn’t used as an excuse for inactivity. Indigestion is a thing of the past. My spare tire isn’t Mack Truck sized and when I sit around the house, I don’t really “sit around the house”.

Three years. Happy Anniversary to me. I’m proud of myself and look forward to the next three years. If you’re thinking what I’m thinking, why are you “sitting around the house?” Be a work in progress!

theresa@wellingtontimes.ca