taking it off.
Yesterday I went balls to the wall and admitted that I've gained 16 pounds in the past 6 months. This is part two in my War on the Wiggle.
I've never been a physical girl. When I was in elementary school, I prayed for snow, rain or whatever the heavens could send that would keep me classroom-bound during recess, chatting with friends or getting lost in a book. And, while I played a few sports in my teen years, I loved sitting the bench. It meant I could daydream, rather than attempt to show physical agility and aptitude to a crowd full of mothers and peers. I'll admit it: I don't much like to move. I love me a book, a laptop, good conversation, some TV or a nap. And if there's food involved: I'm so there. That's right. I said it.
When I began my weight loss journey, I compromised on my love of not moving and did what all good chubby people do: Signed up for a gym membership. I've had that gym membership for two years, a membership utilized only around the 27th of each month, as I convince myself that the twenty-two dollars I've just paid in gym fees was a worthwhile expenditure. Or when I eat too many slices of chocolate cake.
You see, the gym is a culmination of everything I fear: Tight-fitted clothing, moving infront of others, scales and physical aptitude. Oh, and those token bronzed hot chics working out in their sports bras. Machines I don't understand. Charts telling me I'm overweight. Did I mention the hot chics in their bras? Everything about the gym leaves me feeling inferior. One hours of streaming messages that I'm just not thin enough, fit enough, attractive enough...I'm just not good enough. It makes me want to run far away to a land filled with books and doughnuts.
But, the past six months of slow and steady weight gain have proven to me that a formerly chubby girl cannot stay healthy on diet alone. Last week I did what I've been thinking about for years: I finally hired a personal trainer. No more inferiority. I need the gym. Of course my trainer looks like a supermodel. Of course. But, together we set up a plan for me to tackle alone this week, and next week I'll begin my hour-long training sessions twice a week. I need help. To be held accountable, to be guided, and pushed when I say I can't.
I already hurt in places that are awkward to talk about. I cannot imagine what next week will bring.
But truly, it hurts so good.