Enough is enough
Every person has something they don't like about themselves, unless they're total narcissists, and they have two courses of action: they can accept these faults and just live with them, or they can try and change.
For the better part of a decade, I had more or less accepted the fact that I was overweight. At 5'8" with a potentially muscular frame, my goal weight should have been somewhere around where my dad was, 160 perhaps, but with the brief exception of the summer of 2002, I weighed 180 and up from 1998 on. As I graduated college and found myself doing even less than the nominal amount of walking required for campus living, my weight began to creep up. Slowly but surely, I approached 200 pounds.
I had long told myself that 200 pounds would be the catalyst for getting in shape, but found it difficult. My free time had been cut to a minimum by holding an effectively full-time job for the first time in my life and getting used to that schedule; with a small cash flow and my parents hardly jumping at the idea of continuing to send me sums of money following graduation, I didn't exactly have the option of joining any of the frequently expensive gyms in the area, nor was I sure I wanted to. And so I didn't do anything. I avoided stepping on the scale, simply delaying the inevitable moment when I would find out that my weight had now passed the mark.
Last night, I stepped onto the scale for what had to be the first time in months. 205. Sure, it was the end of the day, but that's enough over that I surely weigh 200 pounds. And that's just too much.
Yet oddly, it wasn't the actual number that was the true catalyst. I had been excusing or putting up with plenty of signs or problems in recent months - being out of shape to the point where I would occasionally find myself having to take deeper breaths even while in a resting state just to get enough oxygen; looking even fatter in the stomach than usual; the infamous "head like a bowling ball" 100-yard dash back to the apartment in a September rainstorm. I claimed on the main blog that that experience had convinced me; it may have, but clearly it didn't motivate me.
And then came the past couple of days, and the surprisingly sudden realization that I felt in danger of getting too fat for my pants' waistlines. I have no desire to buy several more pairs of pants, much less in a size larger than 36; more importantly, this was truly understandable evidence. 200 pounds? Sure, that seems like a lot, but what does it really mean if I don't look all that much different? But size 38... no no no.
And with that in mind, it's time to start running, and just in time for the weather to get nicer and the days to get longer, too. So why a blog? Because I need to make sure I keep at this thing, and if there's one thing that can pressure me to do it, it's an obsessively-maintained web diary. This has to happen, and it has to start happening now. Tonight it's sneakers and a wristwatch; tomorrow we start. No more "next week." It's starting now. The only thing that will keep me inside is heavy rain. We're doing this.
For the better part of a decade, I had more or less accepted the fact that I was overweight. At 5'8" with a potentially muscular frame, my goal weight should have been somewhere around where my dad was, 160 perhaps, but with the brief exception of the summer of 2002, I weighed 180 and up from 1998 on. As I graduated college and found myself doing even less than the nominal amount of walking required for campus living, my weight began to creep up. Slowly but surely, I approached 200 pounds.
I had long told myself that 200 pounds would be the catalyst for getting in shape, but found it difficult. My free time had been cut to a minimum by holding an effectively full-time job for the first time in my life and getting used to that schedule; with a small cash flow and my parents hardly jumping at the idea of continuing to send me sums of money following graduation, I didn't exactly have the option of joining any of the frequently expensive gyms in the area, nor was I sure I wanted to. And so I didn't do anything. I avoided stepping on the scale, simply delaying the inevitable moment when I would find out that my weight had now passed the mark.
Last night, I stepped onto the scale for what had to be the first time in months. 205. Sure, it was the end of the day, but that's enough over that I surely weigh 200 pounds. And that's just too much.
Yet oddly, it wasn't the actual number that was the true catalyst. I had been excusing or putting up with plenty of signs or problems in recent months - being out of shape to the point where I would occasionally find myself having to take deeper breaths even while in a resting state just to get enough oxygen; looking even fatter in the stomach than usual; the infamous "head like a bowling ball" 100-yard dash back to the apartment in a September rainstorm. I claimed on the main blog that that experience had convinced me; it may have, but clearly it didn't motivate me.
And then came the past couple of days, and the surprisingly sudden realization that I felt in danger of getting too fat for my pants' waistlines. I have no desire to buy several more pairs of pants, much less in a size larger than 36; more importantly, this was truly understandable evidence. 200 pounds? Sure, that seems like a lot, but what does it really mean if I don't look all that much different? But size 38... no no no.
And with that in mind, it's time to start running, and just in time for the weather to get nicer and the days to get longer, too. So why a blog? Because I need to make sure I keep at this thing, and if there's one thing that can pressure me to do it, it's an obsessively-maintained web diary. This has to happen, and it has to start happening now. Tonight it's sneakers and a wristwatch; tomorrow we start. No more "next week." It's starting now. The only thing that will keep me inside is heavy rain. We're doing this.
posted by Flax at
3:23 PM
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