Okay, two in one day. So be it.
So I spent my spring break going to doctors’ appointments. I had not been in awhile, and much of my life as of late is about minimizing regret. Therefore, if I have a horrible, non-communicable disease that I die of anytime soon, it won’t be for lack of trying to be healthy. All of my reports from my doctors tell me, “You are a ‘well adult’.” It’s so strange to use “well” as an adjective.
Lack of trying though. Lack of trying.
My mother, who for all intents and purposes is awesome, has finally decided that she really wants to lose weight. She is turning an undisclosed decade older (as in age ending with zero) in June of 2013, and she wants to be down about 100 pounds by then. She’s already down 14, with only about six weeks work, and just changing habits.
Granted, whatever health issues have accumulated over the years for her may be not fixable by losing weight now, she is making a genuine effort to prolong herself and her health. I think that, despite even what fabulous writers such as Kate Harding say, there are health benefits that one reaps upon losing some amount of weight.
I won’t ever have to worry about having an eating disorder, especially when I’m married to someone who says on a Saturday morning, “We need to go to Publix, because I want to make tater tot casserole in the crock pot tomorrow.” I have married friends who are similarly higher-BMI-than-they-used-to-have-and-happy, but there definitely are benefits.
So yeah. In six months I’ll be 30 (or as my SVE kids say, “When the lonliness comes!”), and aside from my mother’s inspiration, my very close friend K told me that we were going to Vegas for our Joint 30th Birthday Celebration, and my husband was only invited if he was to be a chaperone. (Note: T-storm is a terrible, terrible drunk girl chaperone. My good buddy Ryan is much more adept at that job but I don’t know that he gets to come, either.)
K had two long term relationships, right out of high school, one much longer than the other but regardless, very very little self time after age 18. About two years ago, after traveling like a maniac for her new job, she appeared at our housewarming party when we first moved in here, skinnier than she’d ever been, newly highlighted, having made delicious food, single, with a mongo bank account, and oh shit. She had made the decision that she was doing to do her very best for herself, and damned if every single person around her didn’t take notice.
We have partied a good deal down here in SoFla, and at the very local gay clubs, although admittedly the partying has quieted down in the post-wedding phase, she informed me a few weeks ago that seeing that we turn 30 two weeks apart, she has frequent flier miles and her sister has the hotel/spa hook-up in Vegas.
She bought the Brazilian butt-challenge (wow, that sounds just…oh man) DVD, and wants to be as sexy as humanly possible by then.
I’m definitely hesitant when it comes to Vegas. It makes me think less about Katy Perry and The Hangover and more of (mythical) goddesses being killed off in Neil Gaiman’s American Gods. Or a barely surviveable weekend, as depicted in the movie Go.
However. Her news, her goals, the trip, my mother, and my doctors’ appointments all made me realize.
a) It won’t kill me to and
b) it would make me physically feel better and
c) it would be a good goal to have to
lose 30 pounds by my 30th birthday. Of course, this began as 25, but now I’ve got six months, so 30 is a good round number before that effervescent 30th birthday. FUN RIGHT!?
I don’t want to make this into a “my weight loss journey” blog. Because I’m probably too irreverent for that. I don’t intend on inspiring anyone, at least not in this manner, and yeah. I might not even succeed, seeing that the first mention of this tater tot casserole was yesterday, and I ate two full bowls of it today and oh dear lord in heaven. My cholesterol is super duper low but I can feel my arteries clog as we speak. (A few years ago, it was lower than my doctor’s. My response? “Eight years of veggie burgers For The Win!”)
Point being, if you write it down, it will keep you honest. At least, that’s how it’s worked with me in the past. Thus, I am writing it down. And listening to I’m From Barcelona. And maybe my hilarious stories of trying not to eat Reese’s Chocolate Peanut Butter Ice Cream cups and running and being sweaty will and meeting strange grunting men on the fitness trail might help someone. Or at least entertain them.