My fat pants

The struggle is real…and I’m losing. Which actually means I’m gaining. A lot. In fact, I’ve gained 45 pounds in the last 18 months. That’s half of what I lost.

Today, I had wear my fat pants because none of my other pants fit. 12809552_10208386247231986_6912563297456160159_n (1).jpg

Yes, these pants.

I’ll be honest. I’m really tired of trying to take this weight off again.  The old ways don’t work anymore.  I’m too broke for a gym. I have no energy to get up at 5:00 a.m and exercise.  Not that exercising would take off the weight. Eating right? Watching fats, proteins and carbs?  That doesn’t seem to matter.  Can’t find the right combination and I’m gaining weight trying.

So, yeah.  I’m kinda done with this struggle.  I was happy and I felt good when I was 45 pounds lighter. But, I was constantly in fear of gaining some of it back. I have a daily record of my morning weigh-in that I’ve logged for four years.  Every day I get on the scale and write down what it says. That’s supposed to help me lose weight.  Wrong. Why?  Because I can’t point to a single reason why I keep gaining weight.  That’s not motivating.  In fact, it’s pretty darn defeating.

I don’t know that I wasn’t happy at 270 pounds, though.  I certainly wasn’t so wrapped up about the scale.  I felt pretty, unlike now. And I was as healthy on the inside as I am now.

I think that it’s time to admit that I won’t be a size 14 again.  That ship, thanks to Dr. Quackovich and my stupid body, has sailed. That was my one chance to feel like everyone else and it’s gone.  It was fun for the year it lasted.

Is it menopause?  Is it that I’m 46 years old? Is it that I haven’t identified the “holy grail” of balanced nutrition? Is it because of life’s stress?  Maybe a combination of it all. And after 18 months, it’s time to be honest with myself and admit that I can’t control any of it.

I’m going to have a glass of wine and some chocolate chip cookies now. I hear they pair well together.

Live.  Laugh.  Love.

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