My Anniversary Goal

Before Labor Day, in an attempt to hold myself accountable, I shared my five-year anniversary weight loss goal right here on my little ‘ol blog.   Since I decided to announce it to the world, and now that the event has come and gone, it’s time for me to, well, fess up.

So how did I do?

Did I hit that magic number on the scale?

Not even close, friends.

I should back up a bit, for those of you out there who are new to my somewhat random musings.  At the end of the summer I had convinced myself that this blessed five-year milestone, three long months ahead, would be disastrous if I didn’t drop fifteen pounds.   I wanted to feel the way I did on my wedding day, and somehow I reached the conclusion that fifteen pounds was the answer.  But that thought was a bit dumb and misguided for two reasons really.  First, I wasn’t sick back then.  For that reason alone, really all bets were off.   Second, I have no idea what I weighed back then, either.  But somehow fifteen pounds became the goal, come hell or high water.

Why?  Because I couldn’t possibly be vivacious and sexy and worthy of my husband’s affection if I didn’t find the discipline to lose them.

When I was in my twenties, when my body image was at its lowest point, and when such obsessions were sadly a way of life,  the sense of accomplishment and control such restrictions gave me were always short-lived.  It was painful, limiting me in too many aspects of my life.   And yet here I was as this summer ended, when age and a growing wisdom is supposed to make me know better.   I fell right back into the trap as if the lessons from all those years ago taught me nothing.

But gradually, as August ended and September rolled on by, the lofty goal just didn’t feel important.  Over the past few months I chose to embrace a certain joie de vivre, especially when it came to food.  When a friend would text me, proposing a casual late breakfast, I jumped at the chance.   I would never pass up sandwiches or veggie burgers out with Mom, crispy sweet potato fries always on the side.  And my husband would come home with a chocolate cake or tiramisu, just as I was going to start my workout.

But why work out when I could spend that time with him?   Or spend it snuggling with the pups?  And speaking of workouts, why punish myself with exercise when my body is flaring up?   I have a lot of bad days.  September and October together were one long flare from hell.  When my pain is so bad, even the sensation of my husband’s loving hands on me makes me want to scream.

So anyway, I fell short of my goal.

Since the scale didn’t budge, was my anniversary weekend still wonderful?  Yes.

Does my husband find me attractive just the way I am?  Yes.

Do I think I’m sexy, plus or minus those stubborn fifteen?  I want to answer that with a resounding “yes,” but I really have to answer that with a sincere “sometimes.”   And I’ll take that.

So friends, my curves remain.  Sure, I have days when I’m just not feeling that love affair I’m supposed to have with my body.  But any anger or disappointment I do have has less to do with my lack of dietary discipline, and more to do with living with autoimmune disease.  Being realistic goes a long way in my journey to self-acceptance.  It doesn’t mean that I can’t reach that weight loss goal if I ever feel the need to again.  It just means that there are more important things to think about, like lessening my pain and improving my symptoms, so I can be fully engaged in life the way I used to be.  It isn’t about a number, be it the one on the scale or the one stitched into my clothes.

Because honestly, feeling good and having fun truly is the best aphrodisiac.

And that, my friends, is indisputable.

Make it a great week.

And never forget to love yourself for who you are, because you’re fabulous.

Inside and out.

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