I threw an infamous Claudia tantrum today in a meeting room near the editorial department at the office. I pulled poor unsuspecting Yoda into said room and went on a rant about how this weight loss shenanigan is NOT happening fast enough. I mean, sure. I've lost over 8 pounds in 7 weeks, but I expected a lot more. Kind of like when I lost the 60 pounds in 9 months back in 2009. I essentially lost about 2 pounds a week then. This time around, the average I am losing is 1.25 a week (but whose counting).
"You know, it's not like when you lost the weight some years ago because now you have a lot less to lose AND now you have a life. You aren't living like a monk this time around."
That hit me like a ton of bricks. Not because Yoda was wrong (because seldom is she wrong). But because she was right. Without getting into too much deets, I was not my happiest in 2009. I was recovering from some massive life changes, including a breakup, a move, and the cancellation of ER. Additionally, I was enduring terrible "Virgin Mary" hair and was attached to wife beaters and baggie jeans.
Not my finest hour.
Therefore I threw myself into working out, eating at home and having lots and lots of salads, yogurts, boca burgers, and WW brownies. It was my life goal, not because I wanted to be healthy, but because it was what got me out of bed. Seeing the numbers decrease every Wednesday gave me oxygen and purpose. Not to mention all the lovely compliments I received.
Fast forward to 4 years later, and I am WAY happier. Plumpier, but happier. I have a great gig at work, a business that is thriving, an amazing apartment in Sunnyside, wonderful friends throughout the world, and gravity hasn't quite hit the twins, despite going through a weight gain-loss. My mom is still feisty and full of life, I really have the best felines in the universe, and I have been jumping out of planes, traveling the world, and not being sucked into terrible reality TV.
All in all, a huge success.
That said, it seems that :
Having a happy life + being over 30 (because all I keep hearing is everything gets harder when you leave your 20s) = slow weight loss.
Must I sacrifice this happiness for a higher butt, tighter arms, and sleeker quads? Does having a life really mean having to be overweight? Case in point: I went to the Poconos this weekend and redefined the word "Lazy." In fact, I was in this position for 80% of the weekend:
Sans the suitcase, sans the suit. I was in my jammies and it was glorious!
And I ate Pirate Bootys and Cheese sandwiches and used fruit as garnish and to enhance my red wine. I'd say it was essential nutrition! Because, you know, I needed constant nutrition for being horizontal the entire time.
And then, there was this:
The most amazing place on Earth. The place where my love of Cheese fries is perpetuated. And where I lose all sense of caloric control and just about propose marriage to my dinner. Like I did. En route. To the Poconos. My inner fat girl sort of sounded like this:
Not my finest hour.
That said, I honestly had a great time this weekend with my friends. It was relieving and foreign and wonderful to turn "off" Claudia, who always has a deadline, client, errand, or phone call to make. This weekend, I literally only worried about brushing my teeth, showering, and . . . that's about it!
But when I got home, back to reality, I realized that I may not be happy at weighin tomorrow. In fact, I was thinking of not going (which is an essential NO-NO when traveling this weight loss journey). But my choices will be mocking me at the scale tomorrow, and it's got me thinking of reverting back to "monk" life.
Or maybe. Just maybe, I can balance both. Embrace this weight loss journey in a slower pace, yet still have some great experiences with some wonderful people, because, well, it makes this girl happy. I just have to remember to satisfy this 31 year old girl, and not the former fat girl within.
To be continued, really. I have no method to decipher which is the right way. But I intend to try the balance. The worst that can happen is that I fall, get up and keep going. Not a bad outcome, if you ask me.
I will get weighed tomorrow. Pinky swear. And I will report back.
Fair warning: it may come with a tantrum. The only way a 31 year old girl can throw one.