Weighing on my mind

RunningIt’s an obvious theme at this time of year, but I’ve been thinking about how I think about my weight every day. Every single day. Not a day passes, hell, maybe not even an hour passes each day when I am not conscious of what I am eating and drinking and thinking about my size.

Oh and it’s so boring, isn’t it? So tedious to be aware of it, to worry about it considering the million and one things that are actually worth worrying about. Where does this worry come from? I was wondering about this whilst running on Saturday, which I hadn’t done in ages. Well, that’s a lie because I went running on Christmas Eve, but prior to that, my trusty Nike running app informed me I hadn’t been running for six weeks. Why? Why was this?

Because frankly my dear reader, I COULD NOT BE BOTHERED. That is the honest truth of it. I am a reluctant runner. It’s been so cold, or work’s been busy, or it’s been raining, or there’s been a sofa and a blanket with my name on it, or yet another interrupted night with Zee has scuppered the following morning’s run or . . .

It’s so much easier to not go than go, isn’t it? But I enjoyed these last two runs in beautiful countryside in the cold winter sunshine. I pushed myself further each time, up and down steep hills whilst cringing at the parts of me that wobble when they should be firm, berating myself for Not Being Slim. I used to be slim, thin even.

I used to go to gym classes at lunchtime, three or four times a week. Sometimes a gym class and a run after work, when I was feeling especially keen. For ‘keen’ read focused mainly on my wedding dress. And it felt so good, you know? That is the reason I am preoccupied with it now. Because it felt good. Feeling uncomfortable with one’s size does not.

I can lose this weight, it’s nothing some running and 5:2’ing can’t shift. I just wish it wasn’t always on my mind. I wish I felt prouder of myself for that four mile then five mile run last week, instead of focusing on ‘should’ve done more’. I know so many women whose weight is a preoccupation. Women who have had children and in between the exclamations of joy and pondering will we ever not be tired again, come the throwaway comments of ‘But nothing fits me any more’ or ‘God I just need to lose this weight’ or ‘Delete that photo, I hate the way I look’. And it makes me want to scream ‘But you are amazing. Look at what you’ve done. Look at what you are learning to do. Look at that lovely baby you made who made you change your shape.’

But then again, of course, it all comes down to what makes you feel good. So it’s kind of a vicious circle. I try and tell myself all of the above, but I know I won’t stop thinking about it until this weight has gone. My choice to lose it, my choice. Then maybe I can stop dreading those scales. And treat myself to some new jeans.

Because the only thing worse than shopping for jeans is shopping for jeans when you’re planning on not being this size for much longer. Best to make those awful, bright, glaring fitting-room lights worth the trip. *Holds that thought whilst gazing longingly at the mince pies and custard . . .*

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