I woke up this morning with one thing on my mind, and one thing only: Egg McMuffin. I wanted an Egg McMuffin. Not the fact that I have a work project that has been looming, or the fact that I am in the outs with my mom, or that the National Debt has created new numbers to really depict just how deep in the economical shitter this country really is.
All I could think of was that I wanted a manufactured egg married to government cheese living within the heavens of an under-toasted English muffin. The worst part? Not sure which is bigger-the National Debt or the calorie count of my seducing early morning treat.
This, of course, is a desire from the invader that just won't leave; the psychological squatter that has imperialized the part of my brain that wants to be healthy, that knows processed egg is probably really Elmur's Glue mixed with seasoning and food coloring, the part of me that knows how great she feels when having a healthy salad, going for a run, and drinking lots of water. Yeah, the squatter seemingly loves to make Doritos, couch potato-ing, and saving water for the shower look like the way to go.
Said squatter is the fat girl within. For most of us that have endured drastic weight loss, we all have this intruder who just never goes away. I thought for sure I would have gotten rid of her after I lost my first ten pounds back in 2008. All of a sudden life became different. Goals became possible. Food did not have to be the solution. However, said intruder looked back at me in the mirror, the reflection of someone that had always called the shots. Reminding me of just how "little" I had accomplished.
However, thanks to my weight watcher meetings and my growing love of endorphins (who new?!?!), I schlepped forward. Another ten pounds lost. Then another. And Another. And then, all of a sudden, I had lost 7 newborn babies. I was down 60 pounds, and the reflection finally matched the scale and the single digit clothes size. I was cured! YIPPY!!
Yeah . . . no.
I had lost my weight beginning November 2008 through September 2009. I'll never forget when I purchased my first size 4 jeans. I had ordered them through oldnavy.com and they were on sale for 8 bucks. I figured it was a worthy investment to see if I can in fact fit into a size 4. I had never even seen a size 4 anything ever in my life. Not a shoe size, bra size, or ring size. 12s/14s/16s were numbers that were as familiar as my stable brown sassy hair and porcelain skin that I inherited from my mother. A 4 just seemed so far from my grasp. So you can imagine my surprise when those bastards fit!!
And how did I celebrate?
I had a box of weight watcher brownies.
Yep. The squatter made an appearance and wanted me to know that she was not going anywhere.
Part of me feels for her, because she was treated so horribly, so poorly, so unfairly. Whereas present day Claudia get's asked to sit on the train, will have someone hold a door open for her, and, the most painful observation, will be more accepted by her peers (including some friends and family).
Still though, she's really making it clear she's not going without a fight. She's no victim. Therefore I won't treat her as such.
Anywho, fast forward to December 2010. I had maintained my weight for well over a year, and was doing great! I worked out 5 times a week, ate quite sensibly, and was beginning to make some major life changes that involved my personal/professional life. Life was as dandy as can be!
Then, all of a sudden, the words that would forever change how I saw my athletic capability were uttered by my orthopedist: LEFT. HIP. LABRAL. TEAR.
I had to stop working out immediately and it took 7 months to get the clearance. Actually, to be honest, it took 5 months, but it took me an additional 2 months to sike myself BACK into it. I was scared. I was used to eating poorly and being sluggish. I was also 15 pounds heavier.
Now listen, I realize very well that 15 pounds does not 60 make. But, good ole squatter is very good at making it seem like it is. The whole "wow! You have gained 15. Just give up. You've already screwed up. And the Crumbs cupcake is calling your name. So who cares?" speech can really drown any hope you have of wearing the size 4s again.
Yes. It's a sad reality, but currently, the size 4s are sitting in my closet hiding under the COSTCO bulk size paper towels I just purchased. Which brings me to why I am starting this blog. Why I am exposing the most vulnerable, rawest and challenging component of the inner me. Because I need to have accountability. Because I need to tell you all that the squatter does not have control over me. Because I need to own my success, as we are always SOO quick to only own our setback (failure, fuckup, etc.-however you wanna say it. The destructive word that makes the crumbs cupcake a complete NECESSITY).
I have to drop these 15 pounds by the end of the year. Would I like to do it sooner, like within the next 5 minutes? Of course! Can it happen? Probably not without severing an organ and eating iceberg lettuce and air. However, I'd like to be realistic, healthy, and fair to myself. It will be a familiar journey, but still foreign, kinda like how I see Astoria. I love Astoria, Queens. It's my home town, and there are minor familiar places that remind me of being a pig-tailed 7 year old and completely care free. However, the foreign essence is very very present, thanks to hipsters, Starbucks, and the departure of certain staples (RIP Genovese, Susan Terry, and Top Tomato).
I look forward to the journey ahead, for the day when I can wake up to pleasantry of the sun in my bedroom, or one of my kitties snuggled up under my knee, or the fact that I have another day of life.
For now, I say it's gonna be an egg McMuffin kind of day.
Lord help me.