When I got back from my two-week trip to California, I knew stepping on the scale would be a little scary. I had pledged to eat my way through the state, and I certainly made good on my promise to myself. Nonetheless, I was unprepared for the number that I saw upon my return. My weight had been creeping up steadily ever since the previous fall, when my bouts of severe dizziness put exercise on hold for several months (the fact that I like to console myself in times of stress with ice cream probably did not help matters). Like most people, my weight has always gone up and down a bit, but I had a certain threshold in mind that I felt I could comfortably live with. I managed to stay below it for many months. And then, before I knew it, I had jumped right over the line.
Granted, I wasn't terribly overweight or anything, but I was definitely creeping into unhealthy territory. The problem with me--and with all the women in my family--is that we carry all the weight we gain around our tummies, which is the worst possible place to have it from a health perspective. My mom, a petite woman but still twenty pounds overweight, has recently been diagnosed with a fatty liver. I realized that, with a pound or two tacked on each year for the next twenty years, I was likely to end up in the same place.
Fortunately, around the same time, I also discovered that my insurance plan at work covers six nutritionist visits per year at 100% (I didn't even know that some insurance plans were capable of being this progressive!). I had my first visit with a nutritionist in May. Since then, I've been tracking everything I eat in an online system, meeting with my nutritionist every few weeks, and ramping up my exercise. I've had a ridiculous number of slip ups, including work potlucks and parties and stressful days culminating in the consumption of half a pizza. I had a couple of weeks when I plateaud so miserably that I thought I should just throw in the towel. Still, slowly but surely, I've managed to stay the course. Even though my weight loss per week has only been about half of that which is usually recommended, I've decided to just embrace my slower pace and stick with what's realistic for me.
This morning, I stood on the scale and saw a number that I never thought I would see in my adult life again. I'm pretty sure that I haven't weighed this little in at least five years. Last week I bought a pair of pants in a size I thought I'd left behind forever. The week before that, I put on a pair of jeans that I had relegated to the top shelf of my closet for fear I would never fit into them again. And my cholesterol--which reached a whopping 258 despite my vegetarian diet (thanks, genes!)--has dropped down to 171 with the help of my weight loss and flax oil supplements.
I've lost a little over 12 pounds. I have about five more to go to get to the high end of my goal, though I'm hoping to surpass that a bit. What's amazing to me is that, despite my usual impatience, I've managed to stick with this for almost six months, with weight loss that was so barely perceptible I wasn't even sure it was happening. I truly can't believe I've made it this far, and I've been able to do it without depriving myself of the things I really love (Chocolate? Yes, please).
I saw the nutritionist on Saturday, and we scheduled our next visit for December 4. It's the week after Thanksgiving--which is a little bit cruel--but when she said, "You might reach your goal by the next time I see you," I realized that she was right. And, as far as I'm concerned, any goal attainment is reason for celebration. And in this case, it's also a reason to justify buying new pants, which is just fine by me.
