Frankly, I am disappointed and tired. Disappointed in myself for not paying attention to the signs of weight gain and tired of working so hard to reach a number on the scale that does not shame.

I was in the best shape and at goal weight 3 years ago. I have gained back half of what I lost. I want to blame Dr. Agarwal, who commented about the beauty of a bit of flesh on the feminine form compared to my then thinness. Curse him.

I have clothes that fit, others that are a squeeze, some not for polite company, and others, particularly pants that I can barely get up my thighs. I was that small. My brain struggles to remember. I have very nice pieces, some with the tags on them — never worn. I want ALL of my clothes to fit.

For Lent, I decided not to weigh myself. I have an unhealthy relationship with the scale, devastated when the number does not correspond to my effort and attention. Instead, I focused on the goals and behaviors I set for the New Year including eating plant-based, moving my body for at least 10 minutes a day, and walking 365 miles. 

My mileage is low, low, low. I haven’t gotten out there daily, but on Saturdays, I usually hit the boardwalk, and Jascha, Magda, and I have been out walking the last several weekends. Moving my body has been inconsistent — two days on, five off, four days on two off. I have not found my daily commitment groove.

Success has been found eating primarily plant-based, and my joy renewed in alternative sandwich meats, tofu, and tempeh.  I am discovering vegan cheese and want to take a course in making plant and nut cheeses.

I have never been a fan of meal prep. I am not interested in eating something I cooked on Sunday the following Friday. I believe in leftovers, but everything does not grow in flavor, it spoils. I make hummus, and that works very well all week, but I am sure my portion, lathered on carrots, peppers, or bread, exceeds the quantities of a calorie-minded person. I buy carrots by the pound and have eaten a naval orange every day, cut up, not sliced. I want to eat. That crisis-like need to feed my face slams me shortly after I am in my place of comfort and renewal.

The clock ticks, the years creep, and the runway shortens, time is not my friend. Although family genetics indicate we get thinner as we age, I would like to have the body of my life before 90.

Good news, the fresh vegetable, salad, and beer season is upon us! The garden is planned, and the seeds purchased. I should have started tomatoes this year, but I am not good at supporting life past the sprouting of the seedling. I have been spoiled by Auntie Audrey, who tenderly cares for and packages my favorite yellow-pear tomatoes ready for planting each spring.

And while early mornings could be for getting up and moving, I am tired, for years a disrupted sleeper pulled awake or needing to pee. I want a manservant to bring me a hot cup of black coffee while I lounge, listen to the news, think about exercising, and about slowly joining the day. Contrary to my coffee lounging behavior which works against moving my body, I prefer early a.m. before the sun exercise.

I have considered hiring a trainer. I hate to be the fatty at this Labor Day Girls Weekend. Then I remember my pattern of hiring professionals and challenging their expertise. I struggle with believing I need accountability and feeling able and independent. Perhaps I should see a therapist who could help me uncover what is eating me, what I lament, much like Gilbert Grape.