I am chubby. Most of the time I’m pretty comfortable with how I look because hey, I am not grossly unhealthy and I do have other nice features, dammit! On a good day, I’d say I’m a solid 7!*
*Back home in the Midwest.
However, every few months I decide that it’s time I finally make a change and get in shape. I’m a very determined person in most aspects of my life, why should weight loss be any different?
I begin by setting goals. Reluctantly I step on the scale, treating the number it shows like a Stephen King monster. At last I look and confirm, yes, this diet is long overdue. So I make a plan! Sometimes this involves a program (like a calorie counting app), other times big sweeping decisions (“no more dairy!”), and sometimes I just go with something trendy (Beyonce’s Master Cleanse Juice Fast). If it sounds too good to be true, sign me up!
The food part of the diet starts off well—I am a lazy creature at heart and so if I only leave myself celery in the fridge, that’s what will be my dinner. Occasionally I’ll even cook; a process that takes anywhere from 2 to 18 hours, because I’m making sure to build sustainable habits.
However, apparently just eating celery isn’t enough. People say you have to like, move your body, or whatever too. Ewww.
While most people’s spirit animals would be lions and wolves and eagles (pretty much any sigil in Game of Thrones), mine would be a slug. Eh, maybe that’s not totally fair. A DEAD slug. Mmmm, better.
However, during these brief bursts of diet inspiration I decide that maybe secretly I AM an athletic person! Yes! It’s just been very deep down… buried under the fat I’ve so carefully cultivated. With enough delusional self-encouragement, I actually go to a gym or even step outside.
This is always a terrible idea. After treating my body like a living bean bag chair for years, the only thing my muscles know how to do is lump. In fact, the only way I know I have muscles lurking somewhere under my doughy exterior is because I am so sore. I’ve never been hit by a truck, but I’m pretty sure that’s what pushups feel like.
Depending on how motivated I am (the equation for which is sadness multiplied by free time), I keep up my exercise program from anywhere between one and ten days. At the end of this period, when my resolve is starting to waver, I’ll examine my results. But instead of a Bikini Bod, the girl I see in the mirror looks more like a melting snowman.
After the first week food starts getting stressful too. I get obsessive about being “healthy” and following the plan and suddenly small inconveniences become life-wrecking obstacles. A coworker’s birthday with free ice cream cake is a common nightmare scenario. At various points on diets, I have actually begun to dream about desserts. Just wanted to slip that in before someone accidentally developed a crush on me!
And the more pressure I put on myself combined with my lack of immediately visible results, pushes me to a breaking point.
Bang! Gulp! Mmmm! The diet is over. I tell myself “hey, maybe people just can’t change!” along with a mix of other B.S. excuses. Luckily I am extremely gullible about lies I tell myself to feel better, so it totally works. And I go back to being chubby and just not worrying about it. At least until next month.