I LOATH turning January 1st into some sort of magical diet-starting day, as if the flipping of a calendar page can somehow change all of my poor eating habits, rip out my crazy sweet tooth and give me the motivation to work out during every nap time instead of sitting on the couch watching Judge Judy. And with so many people kicking off their diets or fitness plans it feels like I can’t escape the constant deluge of advice and tips and tweeted pictures of sad little yogurt cups. Your yogurt makes me SAD, friends. Please throw some granola and a few berries on top. Personally, I think January is the WORST time to start a diet plan. Do you have seasonal amnesia? Do you REMEMBER what January is like in 75% of the country? Cold. Dark. Dreary. Miserable. Mind-numbingly boring. An endless stretch of nothingness punctuated by housebound snow days and pajama pants. If you love the symbolism of a brand new year as a fresh start towards your goals then go ahead, fight the crowds and sign up for that gym membership – but don’t be surprised when the siren song of pizza delivery and unplowed roads drives you totally insane. I vote we all start making Memorial Day Resolutions or Arbor Day Resolutions or National Day After National Chocolate Chip Cookie Day Resolutions instead.
That being said, as of Monday I’m back to strict point tracking with Weight Watchers and recommitted to attending Stroller Strides at least 4 days a week. Pot, kettle, etc etc. But the truth is with Caroline’s first birthday in my rear-view mirror, I have passed the “just had a baby” excuse for anything and I’m really sick of feeling like such a MOM in my body. I’m not even talking just about my weight. I actually don’t feel so bad about that. The 20-something pounds slash jean size I’ve already lost have done WONDERS for how I feel, especially when it comes to photos of myself. Go ahead! Snap a candid shot! From a low angle! I fully accept that those arms are attached to my torso!
What I really mean is I wear far too many stretchy pants and sweatshirts. I own jeans my own mother is too cool to be seen wearing in public. I haven’t had my hair cut and colored professionally since before I was pregnant. The first time. I am a grown-up with a mortgage and two kids and yet I still don’t wash my face before I go to bed. I cannot stop myself from eating an entire bag of candy if it’s anywhere in my house. I haven’t gotten more than 4 hours of sleep in more than a year.
Whoa, that turned really whiny really fast. This is the least original post ever in the history of mom blogging – committing to taking better care of myself so I can feel better is like the super graphic but somehow still boring birth story of 2011. Sorry for the self-pity parade, but it has been a Tough Week with a non-sleeping baby and no pints of ice cream to self-medicate and we did a goal setting exercise at Stroller Strides that made me thinking writing this stuff down somewhere where I could be held accountable might not be a bad idea.
So, here’s the facts:
I would like to lose 15 pounds before we take our super special bathing-suit based vacation in March
I would like to lose 30 more pounds total
When I get to 150 pounds, I get a new tattoo as a reward
When I get to my goal weight I get to buy a pair of REALLY EXPENSIVE jeans that REALLY FIT as a reward
I will get my hair cut/colored at a real salon where I have to make an appointment
I will get at least one pedicure this year (yikes)
I will wash my face at night – or at least MOST nights, or at least wipe it off with those cloth things
I’m not going to make some sort of promise to record my journey and document all my triumphs and set backs (pause for the collective sigh of relief) but I might mention it. And if you happen to see me hanging around Twitter making EAT ALL THE CANDY comments, maybe remind me I really really want that new tattoo.
tl;dr version – I’m turning 30 in April, so it’s time to stop feeling like shit about myself.