Here we go again

I have gained about 20 pounds since this spring. What can I say? I had a REALLY fun summer. And also, for most of the summer, I was running an insane (for me) number of miles and what that means (for me) is also an insane number of hours every week. I’m not very fast. And I love eating, especially when I’m nearly constantly run-gry and can indulge (I thought) without guilt. I ran a half marathon at the end of June. I have a fantastic blog post written (in my head) about the experience (more to come) but suffice it to say, after the completion of that bucket list item, I slowed down. A lot. For the last few months (the race was June 30), I have been dabbling in new work out plans, even researching fall half marathons in the area, but nothing really stuck. Prior to the marathon, Chad and I completed 2 rounds of the intense DVD series “Insanity” and I really felt like it was time to give my body a break. I have really been pounding it hard for the last 6 months or so, and, like it or not, my knees and my back are not 16 anymore. Trouble is I have clearly failed to adjust my eating habits back to my more sedentary lifestyle. When I stepped on the scale yesterday I nearly cried and all day today, even though I wore a pair of pants and a bra I have been wearing at least once a week for over a year, I felt like everything was too snug. I spent most of the day alternating between considering insanely arduous workout and diet regimens, and berating myself for “letting myself go”. If I’ve learned anything over the last month, it’s this: My appreciation for my body is almost entirely mental. What I mean is, to the casual observer, the changes in my body (good and bad) over the last year have been pretty miniscule. At 6 feet tall, 20 pounds is like 5 on a shorter girl. I notice it. My pants get tight and I feel fat and ugly. (My boobs also plump up, which is a bonus, but thanks to Victoria’s worst kept Secret and the miracle of push ups and padding, the only person who really notices that is my husband). I can’t wear some of my skinniest jeans (at least in public). But I feel wretched about my lazy self. When I was running, I started to gain weight. I told myself it was muscle (I mean, seriously. I was logging 15-20 miles during the week and another 6-12 on the weekends—literally hours at a time). My legs were pretty rockin’, but I never really lost my muffin top. Nevertheless, during that time, I felt amazing about my body. I wore shorts and tank tops every day. I even wore a 2 piece swimsuit (in public! In front of my inlaws!) But, looking back, the changes were less than dramatic. I spent some time on runners’ message boards and some people actually said they plumped up when they were training the hardest. It was their body’s way of protecting itself—sort of bulking up in order to overcome a perceived risk to survival. So naturally that would be my body’s response to intense exercise. Weight GAIN. (I imagine this is also the reason I made and birthed babies so effortlessly—I’m built for survival at all costs. Put another way, a friend of mine once said, “If Armageddon ever comes, I hope you or some of your relatives are left on earth to repopulate it. I think you are up to it.”) So I’m coming to the conclusion that I am destined to be big. There’s nothing I can do about the height part, and only some things I can do about the width. The reality is that after 5 children and nearly 40 years, I’m wearing the size I wore in high school (most of the time). If 2 hours of intense sports work outs every day coupled with the metabolism of a 15 year old and a nutrition nazi of a mother failed to give me a substantially different figure then, it’s unlikely that crazy long runs and starvation diets are going to make a difference now (assuming, of course, I were to seriously try either one). So it comes down to this—my body image issues are all in my head. I am healthy and strong. I need to work out for my health—so I can carry a load of laundry upstairs without getting winded, so I can keep playing games of pick up basketball in the driveway with my big kids now, and my 2 year old several years from now. I need to eat right for my longevity and so I feel good and so I set a good example for my family. That’s it. I’ve learned 2 things about myself and my body in this last year. One: I am what I am. It is unlikely that I will make a substantial difference in my appearance for the better (though my pregnancies demonstrated that there is absolutely a tipping point whereby I get heavy enough to begin bearing an uncanny resemblance to a water buffalo). Two: my perception and therefore my satisfaction with my body are dramatically different based on how I am eating and exercising. I hate running, hated nearly every minute of every mile this summer—but the euphoria of completing a long run and the pride I felt in accomplishing such a goal made my silly laments over the size of my hips fade into the background. For that reason alone, I’m back on the wagon. This time of year, I can’t guarantee I’ll stay on every day, but my mental health (as well, obviously, as my physical health) depends upon workouts and vegetables. So I’m vowing (again) to consistently and abundantly partake in both. Because, as arduous as they might feel, extended wrestling matches with guilt don’t burn enough calories to keep me in my skinny jeans.