Fat-ish, Fit-ish and Fifty-ish

I wanted to go with the alliteration (the 3 F’s) so I had to add the “ish” since I am not quite fat, not quite fit and not quite fifty.  I am actually rubenesque, in reasonably good shape and forty-eight years old.  When my marriage to my daughter’s father ended, I promptly lost forty pounds.  I threw up daily for several months and could not convince my stomach to see the value in holding onto its contents long enough for the digestion process to begin.  Such was my internal anguish over denying my pre-schooler the privilege of growing up in a family with a mommy and a daddy living under the same roof.  Her father and I tried and tried but we could not be happy together.  Staying together “for the sake of the child(ren)” as so many unhappy people nobly informed they’d chosen to do,  (as though I took off my wedding rings the first time my spouse mildly inconvenienced me) would have been the worst possible thing we could do.  We are great friends now.  We’ve loaned each other substantial sums of money, gone for a beer, shared a vehicle and attended every single school event for our daughter together for 14 years, always making an evening of it with dinner beforehand and cheesecake afterwards. But we couldn’t be married.  We were a disaster together.

Then I remarried and told everyone I knew that I’d gotten it right this time- that I’d voluntarily enter a convent if this one didn’t work. To this day I still think I got it right.  I still think I found my true love. When this marriage ended 10 months ago, I put on 30 pounds.  You know the theory about your body hanging onto fat when you are under stress because it senses impending doom and wants to be prepared for the famine?!  Well that’s what happened.  I was hoping for a repeat of the last time – a quick drop of 40 pounds so I’d be pencil thin for the summer (surely there has to be an up side to being dumped).  But no... this time around my body was hanging on to every calorie no doubt predicting that my 72 hour fetal position bouts buried under my bedsheets might require an injection of fuel from time to time. 

So I did it!  In January, as a new year’s gift to myself I hired a personal trainer.  She comes to my house three times per week and makes me do things I would never agree to willingly if I hadn’t already paid the money up front.  Push Ups, Dead Bugs, Belgian Squats, Side Planks, Shoulder Presses, and then some.  I am feeling lighter on my feet, if not lighter on my bathroom scales, and my pants are loosening up a bit.  Funny how feeling like you have more authority over your body can make you feel like you have more authority to take charge of your life.  I’m starting to have the tiniest glimpse at the pride that comes from pushing your body far past the point at which you once would have collapsed in agony. I hope this translates into emotional and spiritual endurance, as I have a ways to go yet before I can say I’ve survived- but there is a light at the end of the tunnel and now I can sprint towards that light without my knees and thighs aching!