So I walk (reluctantly) into the gym this morning, about five minutes before my weekly "boot-camp" session is about to begin. I meet up with the trainer who has been leading these hourly sessions now for about 8 months.
"Jill!" He is genuinely psyched to see me. He's really into the good of collective fitness and the bigger the group, the better.
"You look good," he says. "Did you lose a few pounds?"
Normally, I'd be totally thrilled if someone noticed a few pound weight loss. But today, I felt weird about it.
"It's stress," I say. "All stress."
Truth is, I've sort of been eating my feelings lately and somehow none of it is sticking. This should tickle me, but somehow without actually feeling the pain of it, I don't feel like I'm deserving of any accolades. Because if my hard-core fitness instructor actually knew what I'd been ingesting of late, he'd probably quit me for good.
I'm chalking the non-weight-gain to one of two things:
1) Either someone up there is looking out for me, feeling sorry for me and ensuring that I don't become obese while I deal with a touch of chaos,
OR
2) Some anxiety-induced hormone or chemical in my body is burning off the crap I'm putting into it as quickly as I'm ingesting it.
And normally, a compliment as small as "you look like you've lost a few" would be enough to keep me going for at least the rest of the day, combined with a salad or a small chicken breast. But instead I added more greasy fuel to my boot-camped bod in the form of McD's and Chef Boyardee. (and no, I'm not five).
C'mon, let's say it together - EW.
I'll just chalk it up to a comfort food binge and hope that tomorrow, maybe a salad will give me love in the way that french fries do.
Good luck. I know.
Comments