It's officially May. Two and a half months left until the big move. One week left of work. One month of summer classes starting up soon. And the first two weeks of my diet are almost over.
It's strange. I started this on April 19th. Such an arbitrary date. It did happen to be almost exactly 12 weeks before the date of the move, not that I knew that then. I ordinarily wait for some meaningful time before I start working towards a goal.
I want to start the new year off right! I'll start jogging everyday!
Too hungover and forget to start. Meh, already failed that resolution...
I want to look good in a bikini by summer!
Start after Spring Break and end the same day.
I'll spend the entire summer dieting, working out, and by the time school starts up again, I'll be in the best shape of my life.
Two weeks before classes start, freak out over the 10 lb weight gain from doing nothing but watching tv and eating my gramma's cooking.
I'm not sure what it is about me. I have goals, I have drive, I have passion. Dreams, desires, and everything else that's cheesy and idealistic. But when it comes to actually doing something - I just don't.
Something always gets in the way. Or I stop myself before I even get started.
I'm a planner. I am constantly making timelines and lists, dreaming about futures that highly depend on my success, or lack thereof, now - which I avoid thinking about at all costs.
When I was in high school, I had all of these grandiose expectations for myself. I had dreams of going to college out of state, having some ridiculously pretentious major like Philosophy-Neuroscience-Psychology (PNP), applying to my dream schools and then having to labor over the decision of which one I should go to - obviously being accepted to all.
I blame circumstances that were largely out of my control for my going to the supremely sub-par state school in my hometown. But, in all actuality, I could have transferred after my first semester. I could be living those dreams I had all those years ago. But I'm not.
It's the same with everything. I want so much for myself, but when it comes to actually achieving it, my overwhelming fear of failure kicks in and forces me to avoid even trying - because somehow, in my twisted little head, not trying at all is infinitely superior to trying and, not even just failing, but not being the absolute best.
The boyfriend, who frequently uses me to test his magic psychoanalytical powers on, says I'm a narcissist. As per usual, he's not wrong. There's something terribly ironic, or just completely unsurprising, about being labeled a narcissist and enjoying adding it to your ever-expanding list of dysfunctions and official DSM disorders.
Because, like, I'm all angsty and look at all of my problems and can't you see how much I have to deal with and how awesome I am in light of that? And different. I'm a fucking unique snowflake.
I hate how true that depiction of myself really is.
Regardless of the why, the fact is that I always stop myself before I even get the chance to succeed. Until now.
Perhaps it's because I've defaulted to just restricting my calories, instead of pushing myself to exercise regularly. But even that's not entirely true. I got off work yesterday morning after working a 16-hour shift, and was just like fuck it.
The boyfriend, we are going on a walk. We shall not sleep! I don't care that I've consumed barely 100 calories in the past day - we will not fall into the evil comforts of slothdom!
An hour and a half and nearly 6 miles later, we arrived back at the apartment. I was a calf-burning, taut-thighed, stomach-churning, light-headed mess of a miracle. We ran almost a mile of our entire course.
Yeah, yeah, some people run 6 miles every day, blahblahblah. I am not one of those people. I do not work out. I do not play sports. I barely even see sunlight, unless I get scheduled to work an extra shift during the daytime. I am the pinnacle of all that is lazy and lethargy and gloriousness.
Except, maybe, now I'm not?
The boyfriend, though he threatens to have me hospitalized if I let my little excursion into ED land get me below 110, is just as surprised as I am that I've made it this far.
I've lost 10 lbs. And not because I got alcohol poisoning and threw up, involuntarily, for days. Or because my seasonal depression and social anxiety got so bad that I nearly became agoraphobic and wouldn't leave the house, even to get groceries, for almost two months.
I've lost weight because I've actually been sticking with this. I've actually been staying within my alloted calorie range. I haven't given up, even when I was forced to gorge at a family get-together. It's incredibly encouraging to be doing well so far - to see that maybe, this time, I will actually achieve my weight loss goal that has alluded me for so long.
It's the beginning of May. And I'm beginning to see a change in myself that extends beyond the change I see on the scale.
The boyfriend has agreed to start SparkPeople's Spring Into Shape Bootcamp Challenge with me today. A four-week plan with a 10-minute strength-training workout video each day and five 30-minute cardio sessions each week, hopefully culminating in 28 days straight of working out and a body that's ready for summer. If I can overcome my intense disdain for physical activity and complete this, I will... I don't know. I'll do something. Awesome, of course.