F*** You Metabolism

It’s Sunday morning and I just pulled the trigger on our week two weigh in.

And now I’m pissed. I know I shouldn’t be… But, I am.

Yesterday, I broke my own “once-a-week-rule” and weighed in. I couldn’t help it. I was curious if my few moments of falling off the wagon would come back to bite me in the ass. To my surprise, it wasn’t that bad. I weighed in last week at 217.2 and yesterday I was at 217.8. I was at once relived and disappointed. Relieved that I hadn’t gained EVERYTHING back. Disappointed, knowing I would not be seeing any weight loss this week and knowing I had myself to blame for it.

But then, I weighed in this morning and that devilish blue digital display spit the number 219.4 at me. What the fuck! Almost immediately I starting thinking about all the possible explanations.

  1. Maybe it’s because I had coffee first before weighing in?
  2. Maybe I’m building muscle because softball has started?
  3. Maybe it was the walk we took with the dogs last night?
  4. Maybe it just took a while for my indulgences of this past week to catch up to me?
  5. Maybe… I need to just chill the fuck out and let it go?

I know, I should go with, “maybe #5” and just calm down. I know it’s normal to go up when you start being more physically active. I also know that I caved to my emotional eating this past week and should not have expected anything other than an increase. Still… it sucks.

Hindsight is always 20/20 and it’s not always healthy to dwell on the past. But, if I could go back in time and have a come-to-Jesus talk with my twenty-something self, I would have some sobering advice. I would tell my young self that all the hubbub you hear about it being harder to lose weight once you pass thirty IS TRUE!

My twenty-something self would no doubt fire back with, “It’s always been hard for me to lose weight regardless of age. How much harder could thirty possibly make it.” To which I would most likely respond back in the form of a bitch slap, followed by desperation laced pleading for my younger self to just get it together so that my future self might have an easier go of it.

It is of course, not yet possible to time travel though. Now well past thirty and rounding the corner to thirty-seven, entering middle age free of weight problems is a ship that sailed a long time ago. I know that it is unhelpful and unproductive to pine over the size I used to be or envy the metabolism of others. I also know that I shouldn’t have had those beers, or that bagel, or that mini cinnamon roll.

But sometimes when you’re in the shit… a salad just doesn’t cut it. Some mornings you just want to say, “Fuck it. Let’s make bacon.”


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