I was supposed to get up this morning and workout. The alarm didn’t go off. Here’s a newsflash. I wasn’t that upset about it. I smiled because my “not working out” was completely guilt free. It wasn’t my fault I got to see the sunshine from my bed rather than stumble around in the dark looking for running shoes. Ha!
I have noticed, in my sort-of-late-40’s, that I have developed something I haven’t had since my sophomore year in college – a gut. Yeah, I have a gut. It is no longer a muffin top. It is a loaf of bread – not even like healthy, wheat bread, but more like a big loaf of Wonderbread. Squishy, doughy Wonderbread. I had forgotten what that was like, having a gut. I forgot what it felt like to wear tight pants. It’s so not cool, especially after a large lunch full of carbs and sauces.
I don’t like having a gut. Seriously, it is starting to bum me out. Apparently, “couch sitting” doesn’t burn a whole lot of fat. Neither does trolling on Facebook. And you know what? Vodka actually has calories! More than I was hoping it would. Turns out pistachio gelato has calories too. Harrumph.
In college, I drank a lot of beer. Like, a lot of beer – hence, the gut. I didn’t like the gut, but apparently, I liked beer more. After I developed an unwanted allergy to beer (red nose, sneezing, congestion) I lost said gut. It stayed away for quite a while. However, now it’s back and I’m not even drinking any beer. So not fair…
When I was in my 20’s and 30’s, I was able to lose weight just by thinking about it. “I need to lose 5 pounds” and a week or two later, I would have lost that weight. It was as simple as that. Avoid Dairy Queen or fast food for a week or two and the weight would come off. I have been trying that method for about a year now, and it hasn’t worked. Jigs up.
A number of years ago, I worked out religiously. (I know, it was so out of character.) It was the only time in my life that I was really, truly fit. I was actually sort-of-maybe seeing a 6-pack, or at least the start of one. This is because I set a goal of doing a Triathlon Sprint. (Don’t let that impress you. It isn’t a “real” triathlon – the sprint part makes it sound peppy and über athletic, but it is kind of the opposite. It is the training wheels of triathlon. You swim a ½ a mile, bike 18 and run 2 miles.)
But for me, at the time, it was a big deal. Training for it was really, really hard, and after I met my goal of completing my sprint in less than 2 hours, I never, ever, ever wanted to do it again. (I can’t believe people do them for fun. Seriously.) The only reason I got through it was because I had set the goal. That was it. Getting fit was a great by-product, but it wasn’t my main motivator. The abs were cool, but honestly, I just had to cross the finish line.
Clearly, I’m kind of a goal gal. I need big goals in my life, otherwise nothing gets accomplished. Little goals don’t work for me. I don’t direct cute, little comedies, I tend to go for Shakespeare. I don’t write a sketch, I write a one-woman show. I don’t write a song, I write and record an album. I’m a “go big or go home” kind of gal. Unfortunately, recently, I have done more of the “go home” part than the “go big” part.
However, this loaf of Wonderbread of mine is getting out of hand. As insane as it sounds (especially when I say it in my head) I am considering doing another Triathlon sprint, because my gut seems to be suffering from unrequited love. It loves me, but I don’t love it. It isn’t taking the hint. It seems to be sticking around. It is annoying me. It vexes me. I know it’s getting bad, when my always polite and awesome daughter says, “Mom, when was the last time you worked out? You need to work out.”
It doesn’t help at all that some women in their 40’s and 50’s write it off as normal aging. That belly fat is somehow part of normal life for a woman 45 and older… I don’t want to buy into that kind of thinking at all, because I would then have to admit that I am actually aging. Also, I have a group of friends who are my age and in amazing shape, because they manage to get their asses out of bed in the morning; they do this thing called “Kick Butt Boot Camp” which doesn’t sound fun at all. It sounds really, really hard and sweaty. Regardless of how sadist it sounds, they blow that “female age” argument out of the water. They work hard, their bodies look great. They have this thing called “energy” and “a positive outlook” and “a clearly defined line where the ass ends and the leg begin.” I really want that too, I just don’t want to sweat.