Here’s something you should try just for fun. Go online and try to figure out what your ideal healthy body weight range is. I’ll give you a minute.
OK, now that you’ve found this information, you might want to do what I did and Google around for a second opinion. And a third opinion. And a 16th opinion.
I looked long and hard for any kind of semi-reputable source to tell me that a person of my age and height should weigh in at somewhere around 220 pounds. Maybe 215. I’d have to do some work to get there but with a little more movement and less late-night chip crunching, it’s doable.
Well, my healthy weight reality is nowhere near my delusional ideal weight and I am absolutely deflated (feeling, not looking, apparently).
First, I realize it’s terribly unhealthy for me to worry about this and that my healthy weight is the weight I feel good at. Still, there is science around weight and heart disease and weight and diabetes and all that.
Plus, and this is terrible, I know, I know, but when I visited my 98-year-old grandmother recently, she could not stop marvelling at how fat I am. I know! I’m not supposed to care but here I am, and I’m sorry to drag you into this with me.
I’m not shocked that I could stand to drop a few pounds. My available clothing options keep dwindling as not all XL shirts are created equal and some fit more snugly than others. Same with size 36 pants. Some 36s fit with just a bit of a strain while others just laugh at me when I try to make the button meet the buttonhole. Not even close.
Our pandemic hasn’t helped. Working from home has meant getting way too comfortable with stretchy waistbands and roomy hoodies. Of course, I also haven’t thought too hard about cruising through the kitchen just to see what’s what. My clothes still fit, so why not grab a cookie or two or some ice cream or chocolate or a handful of Reese’s Pieces?
Another thing that’s really grating my nacho cheese right now is that I just went through two weeks of feeling horrible with COVID. In addition to the congestion and fatigue, I also lost my appetite. I really didn’t feel like eating, and in my mind I consumed the bare minimum of calories. I expected the scale and the mirror to show me I just competed in Survivor.
But oh no. Here I am, still unable to squeeze into 80 per cent of my wardrobe. Seriously, I’m down to two pairs of pants, one dress shirt and one sweater. Everything else is in limbo waiting for me to find an exercise class.
I even had to crack and upsize my pants. I went straight for the Costco stretchy jeans but didn’t trust my normal size, so I went both stretchy and one size larger.
I have a lot of work to do. I have to lose 25 pounds just to get down to the cruiserweight division. To get down to a healthy weight according to science? I need to drop 40 or 50 and that’s if I lie and say I’m six feet tall (I’m not) and big-boned (nope, I’m not that either).
Maybe I need to get out from behind the desk. I like to think I work hard but fast typing doesn’t really burn calories.
I learned a little about hard work a few weeks ago. I needed a new deck so my carpenter friend hired me as a helper.
After digging holes on Day 1 I truly could not move. My hands were spasmed into little claws and every other part of my body ached.
On Day 2, I learned my job was to mix cement. I almost cried.
It was some good, honest, hard work that has also not translated into any weight loss. I’ve tried COVID. I’ve tried digging holes. What’s left? Eating vegetables and exercising? It’s not going to be easy but I have to do it for myself, for my health, and let’s be honest, for grandma.