After I turned 38 in July, I decided I wanted to lose 50 pounds by my 39th birthday. My husband, already firmly established in his own weight loss journey, had fifty of his own pounds to lose.
So, our journey, The Tale of Two 50’s was born.
My stomach is in knots. Posting this is scary. It makes it real. It’s not your judgment that worries me. It’s that I might fail myself in front of an audience. I don’t want to be a fraud.
But I’m scared. It’s silly, isn’t it? To be equally as terrified of change as I am of staying this way forever?
I’ve never done this before and I feel like a giant brick wall has slammed down in front of me. I’ve done scarier things. Why does this feel insurmountable? I’m spinning, my arms are vibrating, fingers flying across the keys. I feel nuts, like I’m spiraling out of control. I can’t control this. I’ll never be perfect. And I’m terrified that I’ll never feel any better than I do right now, which is miserable.
I’m 38. I weigh 213lbs on a 5’ 5” frame. I’m considered morbidly obese (morbid is the nastiest word on the planet) and I feel every single excess pound weighing on my feet, ankles, and knees, and every clump of fat crushing my lungs, making it hard to breathe.
This cannot go on.
What makes today different than any other day, or any other promise I made myself in the past? Nothing. It’s a random Wednesday, cloudy outside, dreary inside, and my son has busied himself unpacking a box I planned to donate to Goodwill. I’m tired and already splurged on an iced coffee and shitty breakfast sandwich that I shared with my dog. My hubs is in the other room doing his daily exercise regime while I debate and rewrite this post. He’s all action and I’m all talk. There is no perfect DAY ONE. One day I just have to put one foot in the direction of a new experience.
And it may as well be today.
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