A few years ago, I lost eighty pounds. That’s a lot of weight, folks. To put that in perspective, that’s the equivalent of something else that weighs eighty pounds.
Suddenly, I could eat in a restaurant without being assaulted by glares from people who felt I had ordered too much, even if all I had in front of me was a bowl of soup. I was setting a fantastic example for my kids. And yeah, between losing weight and working out, I felt a lot healthier.
I plateaued at eighty pounds and couldn’t break that plateau. When I stopped losing weight, I had time to get used to the new body which, while much thinner, still wasn’t thin. Worse, I had time to notice that the body may have changed but the lady inside it hadn’t – losing weight didn’t make my problems go away, wasn’t a panacea for my self-esteem, didn’t make my kids healthier.
I looked better, I could curl into a ball if I wanted to, but I still felt worthless. Once I noticed that, I started gaining weight, again, and haven’t been able yet to stop.
I read the other day that 95% of Americans who lose a lot of weight gain it back within five years. I wish they’d put Ephedra back on the market. Oh well. It makes me feel less of a failure, though.
Did you see the commercial for that pill that blocks carbs before they hit your fat – whatevers? One of the listed side effects is an oily anal discharge. I’d rather gain weight than live with oily anal leaks. Blech.
