“OMG! I am so fricken miserable in these pants. I feel like I am going to burst open like an overstuffed sausage in a hot grill. Weight watchers…take me away!!!”
The good thing about desperation is wanting, intensely, to get out of that situation. The problem was that it was rooted to that particular moment when I was miserable. After three days, I was no longer bloated from excessive salt intake, therefore, no longer miserable. I was also not desperate anymore. My pants felt fine which was sufficient to give into simple justification to eat anything, thus, starting the desperate cycle all over again.
What I need… is determination. I need to take my desperation and turn it into determination.
Other than being able to wear pants without the button popping off and shooting someone’s eye out, I have to admit that I’m not much concerned about my weight. However, weight isn’t the only fitness measurement in life. So, why “give up” as it were? It is now time to declare things I am determined to do or not do as the case may be.
I am determined to be able to run 6 miles anytime I want. I could run 6 miles now, probably, maybe, but it would be a desperate attempt at which I’d probably stop after 1.3 miles then collapse on the convenience store floor with one hand stretched out in a desperate search for one last Twinkie. I felt my best when I could simply say 6 seems good today then simply go run it.
I am determined to not let 40 be the slide into a stocked medicine cabinet. My husband who is the poster child for all things stress can do to you, hit 40 and found himself saddled with maintenance drugs like Nexium. He keeps taunting me that when I turn 40, I will acquire my own personal pharmacy. Maybe the need for prescription drugs will be out of my control but if I don’t start drinking enough water to fill the Shedd Aquarium and avoiding cases of timeless Twinkies, well, then I might as well carry around a white flag with a matching pill box. I am determined to fight for good health.
I am determined to be The World’s Strongest Man. Shortly, snowmobile season will be here, hopefully. I worry that I will get my snowmobile stuck in a snowbank. My clothing will get soaked with sweat as I desperately attempt and fail to free the sled. Then my clothes will freeze causing my body to go into hypothermia as my temperature drops to 97 degrees before I am located through a massive search and rescue mission. I will have to spend the remainder of the trip in the hot tub which sounds delightful until you visualize me in a swim cap with rubber flowers circa 1950 and it’s a vision you’ll never fully recover from. I can simply avoid this desperate situation in the rubber swim cap if I stay determined to become The World’s Strongest Man (on the Barefoot Rose scale, naturally).
Women on the right and men on the left.