Crash Diet Surprise

A few weeks back, I was stuffing my face with crabs at the annual cousins weekend in Delaware.  We were all having a good time, drinking beer and wine, playing cornhole, and filling our plates with mounds of food.  After eating and drinking, and drinking and playing cornhole, I went inside to get out of the heat.

My Uncle Lenny was sitting in a chair beside my brother.  He had his 80-something old body propped in the chair, with his cane beside him.  His thinning hair was slicked back, and his eyes twinkled through a topography of wrinkles.  I smiled, kissed him, asked him how he was doing.  We talked for a bit about things.

After I walked away, I saw that he and my brother were clearly talking about me.  They had a quick conversation, and when Jim got up to grab another beer, I said, "What were you two saying about me."  Jim kind of laughed and said, "Uncle Lenny said you were starting to show your age."

My reaction was indignance. "Really?  He's accusing me of showing my age?"  Jim and I both laughed, but it still bothered me.

So, over the past couple of weeks, I spent some time looking at myself in the mirror.  Like writing, I've kind of ignored my appearance (and eating and drinking habits), except for the gray coverage. I pluck those most of the time.

I noticed more wrinkles, less-than-pure-white teeth, a few kinky grays around my face and ears, tighter jeans, tighter bras, and a chin that is prone to break-outs lately.  (Break-outs are occurring, I've discovered, because when I sit at my desk and read a contract with a red pen between my teeth, I also cup my chin to hold my head up).

In any case, not a good set of thoughts spinning through my head regarding my appearance, and my habits.

So I decided to fix things, and then in a couple months I'll go see Uncle Lenny again and say, "Ha!  Who's showing their age now?"

I colored my hair again.  I endured the two-hour whitening strips (they hurt my teeth so bad!), I stopped cupping my chin with my hands, and I bought new face wash and habitually scrub before bed.

Most importantly, I pulled out my sneakers and put them on my feet again. 

That was the first day.  "Just put them on your feet, Carrie." 

The second morning, I put them on my feet and walked around the kitchen, and onto the back deck.  "Don't sit down, Carrie." 

On the third morning, I put them on my feet, walked around, stretched and got on the elliptical.  "Good job, Carrie!"  I stood there and said, "Ah, eff it, let's go." 

And so my love of exercise was re-ignited, and each morning I awake with that on my mind.  Happy to be there.

Next up, the diet.  I'd never been one to diet.  I've never really had a problem with my weight.  I guess it's because I'm not seeking perfection, just the ability to put on a pair of pants or a nice shirt and be comfortable.

Over the past few months, and since turning 40, the problem got bigger and bigger and bigger.  Yes, the pants were snugger.  Yes, the shirts showed the muffin top.  It wasn't that I was okay with that at all, but I figured it would come off eventually with the exercising.  Then, one morning, I pulled out one of my favorite shirts which I haven't worn in some time and noticed that slipping my arm into the sleeve was like being tortured with a straight-jacket and a turniquet. 

"Are you kidding me?"  I threw the shirt back on the hanger, and went to the grocery store.  More vegetables, which I love.  More fruit, which I don't love so much.  More eggs - - - whites of a hard-boiled egg are only 17 calories!  I avoided the liquor store for the Chardonnay trip of the week.

That was step one.  Step two was re-training my mind. No alcohol.  No big, juicy cheeseburgers or burritos, less pasta, more hot peppers, less bread, more water, less nibbling on cheese when I make the kids lunches, more aware of what goes into my mouth, and less calling myself 'disgusting' or 'fat' or 'gross'.  And more church.

So, wouldn't you know it?  It has started to pay-off.  Just this morning, I put on a pair of dress pants for work, a nice shirt (long-sleeved) and my absolute favorite pair of sling-backs (silver, faux snake skin) that I wear at least once a week.

I walked out to the car, drove to work and parked a distance away so that I could walk further to get into the office.  My shoe slipped off.  I pulled the sling back up.  My shoe slipped off again.  I pulled the sling back up.  And again. And again. And again.  Throughout the morning, it slipped off whenever I walked.

So I borrowed one of those mini-screw drivers and drove another hole into the sling part where the buckle is, making it as small as I possibly could.

The damn shoes kept falling off again and again.

Then it hit me.  I have lost weight!

In my feet.

Who the hell sets out on a diet to lose weight in their feet?

"Yes, I've gone down a half-size, can you believe it?  Yes, it's in my feet but still, Uncle Lenny, it's a half-size.  My feet don't look their age anymore!  They could pull-off 35 without a problem!"

And so it goes. . .