Too many of us let it happen. I let it happen to me. By the beginning of this year, I had to face the fact: I was fat.
When I joined the Air Force in 1981, the powers-that-be in basic training warned me that, unless I gained some weight, I‘d be thrown out of training. At five feet and seven inches, I weighed a mere 103 pounds and the minimum weight limit for women my height was, yes, 103 pounds. By the end of the then six week training period, through exercise and eating like a hog—not a new behaviour for me—I had ballooned to a whopping 110 pounds; still a scrawny little creature.
Things change in twenty-two years. When I exited active duty in 1994, I had become a grown-up, pleasant 145 pounder, much of it muscle. I liked it. However, inattention took its toll. By February of this year, the round, muscular body had morphed into a flabby 180 pound one.
I never saw it coming. Soda and sweets weren’t the culprits, and, when I looked in the mirror face-on, I couldn’t see much of a difference.
Did you ever walk by a glass and look at yourself in profile? I did that and discovered that I grow fat from front to back, rather than sideways: I had a triple J-Lo booty and a Buddha stomach.
Even after a minor surgery to ease the pressure on my aching back, I still weighed 175. Well you know what? I was tired of being humongous. Three months ago, I started walking/running six days a week, got some results--down to 165--but not as fast as I would have liked.
So, three weeks ago, I started on a famous conditioning program, in which one does weight-training three days per week and cardiovascular training (the twenty minutes from Hell, I call it) on alternate days with one day of rest. I am loving it and am not too worried about weight—though I’m down to 157. The real results are the most promising: dropped two sizes, clothes bagging off, muscle definition and, best of all, people saying, “What are you doing? You look great.” I’m in it for the long haul and for the out-and-out vanity.
Mom’s Got It Goin’ On
A little competition can be helpful in such matters and publicly admitting to one of my baser instincts also allows me to tell a bit of my mom’s story.
My mother, who has always been a beautiful woman—I look like a female version of my father—had also let herself go and, at one time, had a good fifty pounds on the 180-pound version of me. Then her doctor discovered she had cancer. Thanks to God, a competent physician and early detection, the cancer hadn’t spread and the docs were able to get all of it. Mom had to go through the ordeal of radiation and chemo for six months, but she's done now and loving life all the more. As a result of this, she is now slim (5’ 8” and 155 pounds) and absolutely gorgeous. Sixty-one years old she is and has not a wrinkle anywhere; her short hair is still mostly dark.
During her recent visit, she was wearing the type of clothing I hadn’t seen her wear in twenty-five years: snug fitting Capri pants, sleeveless button-down blouses and—at the risk of giving too much information—nice underwear. (Those of us who have been overweight know that one of its indignities is having to buy underwear the size of pillow cases.) She has none of that baggy arm business than is the bane of many mature women; my mother flexes an arm and BOOM, up pops a bicep.
In a nutshell, my mother looks better than I do.
It’s great to have back the lady that my high school suitors would joke about throwing me over for. And, though I know my stepfather is glad to have the siren back as well, after the scare he’ll take her in whatever package she comes. So will I.
