Postcard From Middle Age

Some habits die hard as do the expectations surrounding said habits.

Most of my life has been spent on a diet of some sort. Any of you who have been reading me for a period of time know that I am not friendly with my bathroom scale, hence the need to try each new fad diet that passes by my radar. I hate the thing. I'm also not terribly fond of the tape measure or the electronic fat loss monitor. I'm convinced that I must be living in an alternate, horrible reality where regular exercise and clean eating don't make a whisper of a difference because every morning, when I step onto that wretched scale, it reads the same number.

Day after day.

Week after week.

I am so frustrated.

My husband tells me not to give up. He encourages me by commenting that my rear end is smaller and since I generally try to avoid looking at my ass (because if we were meant to do that, I'm convinced we would have been given the ability to rotate our heads 360º), I have to take his word for it.

The thing is, I'm not going to give up. This is a lifestyle, not a diet. I've adopted the attitude that exercise and portion control are as important as any other rung on the ladder of my priority list. Not negotiable.

But the quick gratification of a diet is difficult to overcome. Back on the HCG thing, I'd get on the scale each morning to find myself down at least half a pound. I was shedding a complete size every couple of weeks. It was intoxicating and it was relatively easy to deprive myself because the results were almost instantaneous. Unfortunately, they couldn't be sustained of course, because diets don't work. And the metabolic havoc they create is profound.

So here I am, with my shiny, new lifestyle, wondering when my bathroom scale is going to accurately reflect the effort that I am expending to become a fit member of society. I watched a news segment recently that discussed the fact that one can be fat and fit at the same time.

I was horrified.

Because my resting heart rate hovers around 60 bpm now. I can run, at top speed, for over four minutes and my body responds by wanting more. I've gone from twenty to thirty three to forty minute cardio sessions. I CRAVE them.

And I lift weights. Lots of them. I am laser-focused on form. I push myself to the very limits of my nearly forty three year old body. I seek the burn that comes from fatigued muscles. I don't cheat.

But still, the scale does not move.

I've been told to be patient; to stay on the path with the promise that there will soon come a day when a threshold will be reached and the scales will start to tip in my favour.

I hope so because in spite of the fact that I feel great, sleep better and manage my stress like a champ, I am not content. There is a lean girl inside me trying to claw her way out.