Like everyone, I dislike sitting with and in discomfort. I like to feel as though I’m actively doing something about it, or that I’m on my way to something better. But, sometimes there is nothing at all to do but to sit in it.
I am uncomfortable in my body. I probably always have been. I feel it seeping out of my jeans and curving in on itself. I see the little pockets of cellulite over the muscles of my arms, which have always been my best physical feature.
I don’t know what to say or do about it, except to say that I’m getting older. My doctor simply shrugged and commiserated that “getting old stinks” when I expressed the frustration: I workout routinely. I go HARD–I’m consistently on the leader boards and the gym and beating my own PRs. I eat well. Or, that is to say, I eat better than far many people, though I still indulge in the occasional ice cream or cookie with my kids (I’m trying to embrace the balance that is life). There really isn’t much I could change in my eating or exercise routine that would be reasonable or sustainable, and STILL I cannot get rid of the slight roundness in my hips and that new layer of fat on my arms.
I try to remind myself that age happens to everyone, that even if I really, really, really start trying hard and up my workouts and start counting macros religiously, I probably couldn’t maintain that level of intensity (41 years of life have proven otherwise). My thyroid conked out after my last pregnancy, and while my levels are stable, I still think it has been harder than “before” to maintain my weight. I also remind myself that I was actively bulimic for over 25 years; surely I did a number of my metabolism.
There is nothing to “do,” really, but face the discomfort and live with it. I’m appreciative of what my body does for me, and I know it has survived a lof of abuses at my own hand. But still, I hate feeling like this.
Day 392.
I Quit: Giving up Bulimia 