Let's Get Physical ... er... Healthy

I’m doing this “Let’s Get Healthy” thing. You know the drill – eat better, move more, consume considerably smaller amounts of brownie, etc.

(Side note: “Let’s Get Healthy” should be sung to the tune of “Let’s Get Physical” by Olivia Newton John. It just makes sense.)

In the spirit of “Let’s Get Healthy” I had to measure myself last night. It wasn’t pretty. Mainly because I don’t know how to work a tape measure. Do you put the metal end piece thing-y so it’s just touching the other end of the tape measure or on top of the tape measure? I took livestock in 4-H because I thought it would be a good way to meet boys so my sewing skills are lacking. (Note: if you like making out with someone that smells like manure then, yes, it is a great place to meet boys.)

That is not the point, however. The point IS: I had to measure myself last night. Measuring a few areas on your body is supposed to be a good way to tell if you’re losing inches. Pounds lost is not always the best guide. It's also a good way to become an alcoholic.




So for those of you looking to make a change and want to get started, I’ve made a quick step-by-step guide:

1. Figure out how to use the tape measure.

2. Wrap the tape measure around the body part you choose to start with. For example, I chose my thigh.

3. Stare, disbelievingly, at said number.

4. Deny that that number is correct.

5. Re-do the measurement.

6. Start whimpering.

7. DENY the measurement.

8. Storm out of bathroom.

9. Grab a glass of wine.

10. Measure, AGAIN.

11. Commence bawling.

12. Sip glass of wine. Grab the bottle of wine.

13. Lie on bathroom floor.

14. Order a pizza.

The following steps are crucial, y'all:

15. Have your significant other tell you that you are awesome and perfect and lovely no matter what that stupid tape measure says.**Crucial**

16. Wipe nose with his shirt.

17. Throw away tape measure.

Clearly there was a reason those manure boys and I didn’t work out.

Photo credit: Flickr


 

Body After Baby

I’ve always had a love-hate relationship with my body.  Mostly hate.  I’m not sure I ever remember a time where I didn’t fantasize about thinner thighs or sculpted arms (or at least the non-wing variety).  My hair was always that weird in-between – not really straight and not super curly.  Coming from a long line of pseudo-giants, my 5’11 frame will never be considered petite in any way.  I have thighs, I have a butt, I have a budda-belly.   I always thought I wanted to be skinny or be smaller – not “stick out” so much.  I have since determined that what I really want is just to be at peace in my body.  I don’t need to love it at every turn but I need to be at peace with it.  And all I had to do was have a baby.  Who knew?!

 That’s right.  I had a baby and it actually IMPROVED my body issues.  I’m as shocked as you!  In addition, to the whole "miracle of childbirth" thing,  seeing myself 9^th months pregnant made me realize that my pre-baby body wasn’t as bad as I believed it to be.    

When I found out I was pregnant, I wasn’t kind to myself.  I constantly worried about weight gain, stretch marks, and nutrition.  I counted calories, I monitored protein in-take, and I slathered on super expensive creams (even though stretch marks have nothing to do with keeping your skin moist, which I knew).  As I grew my little nugget, I would envision how the construction workers would have to dismantle the one side of my house to get my fat, 9 month pregnant body to the hospital.   (BTW, don’t worry – I gained the requisite amount of weight for my height/body mass, as determined by my doctor).   I tried to stay in my pre-maternity pants for as long as possible, somehow seeing it as a ‘win’.   My body issues were taking over this huge moment in my life.

As my waistline expanded, a weird feeling hit me.  I’m not even sure what it was that lit the flame but all of a sudden, I wanted my old body back.  Yep, the one that I had condemned and belittled, degraded and despised.  The body I had criticized to countless friends and acquaintances, hell, even total strangers might have gotten an earful of how badly my body let me down!  But now, I wanted things back to normal.  I didn’t care what the tag said in my jeans, it really is just a pair of jeans.  There was no bigger meaning in that dumb number.  I wanted to look like me again. 

That was when I realized that I was not Quasimodo afterall.   Here I was doing the most important job on earth – making a baby – and let me tell you, baby building is a freaking miracle.  She is perfect in every way.  And my body did that.  Granted, she has some pretty smart genes from her Daddy but I was the project manager, on site every minute of her little construction.   It’s a pretty big deal.

3 months and some change later I am more confident than I have ever been about my body.  Is it perfect? Far from it.  But the freedom from not counting calories, or stepping on a scale has been worth it.  I haven’t journaled my food or exercise habits in months.  My husband loves me, Quasimodo body, 9th month pregnant body, and post-baby body.  That feels fantastic.  I feel free.  I feel at peace.  I feel like me.