When I realized two days ago that my birthday was coming up, my first thoughts were, 1) I want to have a party and make a truly spectacular torte, 2) I hope someone buys me a bag of matcha powder and a gift certificate to Sephora, and 3) I want to weigh 144 pounds by March 9.
On my twentieth birthday, I want to claim an even twenty-pound weight loss to-date.
It seems odd, perhaps, that the loss of three pounds is so significant to me? But I can explain myself. Since August I have lost 17 pounds and lowered my weight through a slow, healthy, and sustainable process. I eat lunch every day. I eat chocolate every day. Sometimes I can hardly believe it. I know that this time, everything is different.
I've been at this weight before, as a scared, miserable fifteen year-old caught in a starve-binge cycle. Historically, it's been the place to stop, the lowest I could go, before I had to start eating again. (I remember thinking that "losing weight" meant eating 750 calories a day.) In August, though, I set out to lose 30-35 pounds. And this time, I know how to do it. I can do it. I want to do it.
I am sick of being a "big girl" - awkward, unattractive, unstylish and uncomfortable. I am ready to move more easily, to hold my head up, to wear clothes that fit, to relish getting dressed in the morning, to eat in public, to wear shorts in the summer, to pull my hair off my face, to strut a little.
All this I want in my twenty-first year. I've wasted enough time as a teenager. I am ready to grow up.
And so, over the past 48 hours I've made two 5km slogs through the slush and weak sunshine. I've blended spinach in my smoothies, eaten cake for breakfast, bread and hummus for lunch and vegetables for supper, drank litres of water, applied vitamin e oil to my broken-out face, and paid attention to my posture. The goals for the rest of the working week?
- 5km walked or ran every day
- 50 flights of stairs at least once
- 10 push-ups in a row (I need to get back up to this)