Well, this week was different than the previous nine.
But, really, deeply, and honestly, it was different than the last 43. For the first time in 43 weeks, I feel an overall sense of being “Jen” again.
I enjoy food again, guys. (Like, please Dylan bring me home Taco Bell) I finally don’t panic about if something is going to fit into my daily macros. I don’t worry that if I eat something, it will hinder my weight loss. The fear of food is gone, and it’s so freeing. I was at this place early last year, and it’s so good to be back. If I go over calories a little bit, I deal with it. Last night I did, because I had a Bud Light (sorry baby, Miller Lite, you weren’t a choice), and damn, I actually survived. I was living life, with people I enjoyed, and I didn’t worry about the macros of everything. Dear God, how did Dylan deal with my macro drama for two and a half months? Why did I put myself through that?
I really like my body, guys. The scale is changing, finally, and it’s just beautiful. I look in the mirror and it’s like I’m a goddess or something. I will say something like “dang, I have thick thighs”, but follow it up with “and they definitely need to hold up that booty.” Other people notice too, which is amazing. Dylan’s constantly saying something like “wow, your stomach is small today”, or “your figure is turning into a coke bottle shape”. The lady at the gym said “holy cow, you have a small waist”, and I wanted to ask her to move in and tell me that everyday. I can finally say “I only have _ pounds to go to get to my pre-Lincoln weight!” instead of “I gained 20 pounds last year, and I’m stuck”. Or put up a front and say “I must be building muscle” or “the scale doesn’t matter”. I’m playing with a triple threat now, bring it on.
I really like how I feel, guys. Dylan and I chose to sleep in this week three out of five days. Getting sleep was so awesome for my body, and I didn’t dread the alarm. Waking up to workout only a couple days, made me work out so much harder (except for apparently my push ups, but don’t worry, I fixed my form) because I wanted to be there. That’s important, and I think Farrell’s kind of got ruined with my mindset of “I have to get up again?” Dylan and I don’t fight to get out of bed, and I don’t have to tell him “If you don’t get up right now, we’re going to be fat forever!” anymore. The days don’t seem overly long, and I don’t feel trapped.
There it is. Trapped. I have spent the last 43 weeks feeling trapped. I keep blogging about this being a journey, being positive, and supporting all of you. I forgot to support and love myself. I feel so thankful to have broken through that, because now I just feel like a million bucks. Bye Felicia. I feel like I’m getting my body, my life, my love for food, and some general “Jen-ness” back. Not everyday is going to be perfect. Not every time I step on the scale will be a “desired” number. Not every workout will be my best. And not every time I look in the mirror, will be this “epiphany” feeling. But today it’s all working in my favor, and it’s awesome.
This blog took me two hours and 15 drafts to write. Holy Hannah, I need a drink, and I don’t give a damn if it fits into anyone’s macros. The journey of “the girl who can’t diet, who lives for squatting, and who really loves Mcdonalds” continues… (Dylan, please bring home Taco Bell)