I’m not going to splenda-coat this: My self esteem is as low as it has ever been. This measurement also takes in consideration the month long, no-sleep marathon my freshman year of college that made me break down over jean purchasing. I was about 10lbs thinner then. Yikes.
Things I have previously found beautiful about me have been slowly slipping away over the last year. I used to love how long my hair has grown. Now it’s a rat’s nest that I dont even bother to straighten or curl. My once lovely chin is covered in blackheads. My fearsome calves? Tree trunks.
I’ve gone from examining myself in the mirror to avoiding it at all costs just so I can save myself some time in self-humiliation:
Last night, my bad side was apparently out in full force and SOB had had enough of it. Later in the evening, I mentioned wanting to give in and buy P90X, he laid it on me:
My low self-esteem has made me become obsessed with working out.
Obsessed? I wouldn’t necessarily say that. Let’s analyze:
Do I spend the majority of my time reading about working out?: No. I spend more time researching my nutrition and obsessing over Etsy creations. Oh, and cute animal pictures.
How many hours a day do I spend working out?: About 40 minutes-two hours 5 days a week.
How much money have I spent on working out?: My monthly investments are a $20/ month membership to the Y and $5-10 a month on dance classes. On time purchases are at $20 on a running and lifting book, $120 on a Garmin watch, $80 on shoes, $200 on race sign ups. I haven’t bought any new weights, videos, memberships, special foods or cooking supplies, etc.
Would I physically or mentally fall apart if I missed a schedule day of workouts?: No. This holiday weekend was evidence of that. I missed 3 in a row days of exercise. I ran only once. My only dedicated exercise from Thursday-Monday was one spin class. Did I feel guilty? Yes. I did. Only because I know how easy it is to take one or two days off and it turn in to a month or a year. But I dont fret or moan. I dont even complain much. I just resign to the fact that whatever I missed will get done at some other time.
The results: Yes. I am obsessed.
Dude, I’m writing a blog totally dedicated to my workouts and depression. Of course I am obsessed.
The first thing I do when I wake up is plan my fitness routine. Am I running? I’ll sleep in my sports bra and wave shorts. Am I swimming later? I’ll make sure to rest my arms during the day. Is it a rest day? I make sure my calories are lower. I go over little plans of attack from 5am-10pm every day.
I have calenders for my workouts, spreadsheets for my weight lifting, printed out ideas for swim workouts, posted goals for running and spinning. My entire life is a reminder that there is a run coming, spin class on Saturday, and that I want to fit in this dress by this date. Oh, and I force my boyfriend to leave the living room so I can put on a 20 minute strength video OnDemand that’s hosted by some woman with a smoker’s voice and a Richard Simmons attitude.
I am obsessed and it is no one’s fault but mine. I made myself in to this subhuman, weight lifting, cardio bunny.
But here’s the deal. I dont think I want to fix it. My weight and body composition are no where near what it should be for a girl my height and shape. I may have a good 22lbs start on fixing it, but I’m still about 30lbs behind. I have to be obsessed. This is my health I’m putting on the line. This is my ability to have children, sleep properly, walk up stairs without developing smoker’s lung, shop anywhere I want, wear strapless dresses, eat a burrito in public, or shake what my mama gave me without having to worry about things shaking that my mother clearly did not give me.
I give in. I’m obsessed.
Wednesday weigh-in: Even after a week off, I lost this week. -0.7lbs