My latest therapy session was a good one. We spent a lot of time talking about simply wanting to feel better and using that as motivation rather than relying on a number on the scale or the size of my pants to dictate my mood.
I’m feeling all of my 42 years plus about 10 more these days. I shouldn’t struggle so much to get up off my kid’s floor, be winded after climbing a few stairs, or be so stiff that I have to literally roll off the bed and hobble to the bathroom because my joints haven’t “warmed up” yet.
Realistically, the goal of having a taut, lean body are long gone. I’ve lowered my standards and they are twofold.
1. Feel better physically overall.
2. Belly less protruding than boobs.
That’s legit it, and I really don’t think this is unachievable. Until I actually try to do it. I sounds like the cliched broken record here but, do you know what I had for dinner tonight? Leftover pizza and raw cookie dough. I KNOW that is not going to make me feel better physically and yet I do it again and again and again. Which tells me that this is more of a mental struggle than anything. Conquer the mind and you conquer the body, right? So how does one do that? I have zero clue and thus the cycle continues.
Dr. B and I talked about just focusing on doing fun things that I enjoy and that are active. Indoor rock climbing and cycling came to mind. I’ve done both and enjoy them, as much as I’m going to enjoy any physical activity. A further stretch is getting back into a dance class – maybe belly dancing even. I mean, I already have the belly so I figure I have a head start on that one.
I dunno. I tend to think that I should have this figured out by now and I feel really dumb for still struggling with this stuff at my age. I’m trying to ward off an impending funk but all I can think about as I stuff junk food in my face is how I’m getting fatter and fatter. Which carries over into my confidence in other areas and down the rabbit hole we go. Maybe there will be pie at the bottom.