Impatient

2.25.18

As far as I know, impatience isn’t one of the seven deadly sins – but greed is. (I base my knowledge of the seven deadlies on that movie with Brad Pitt, which I found so disturbing I watched it only once – which is to say, my knowledge is scanty at best.)

Greed or gluttony or avarice; that’s a sin, right?

And if I’m impatient, isn’t that the same thing as being greedy about time?

I’m talking about my weight, OF COURSE, because I am crazy obsessed. And you seem to be along for the journey, so what does that say about YOU, ho-ho!

We are of a tribe. Onward.

I did something particularly petty this morning. I got out of bed, peed, and combed my hair before I weighed myself. (You HAVE to comb your hair before you weigh yourself. Tangled hair traps gravity and weighs you down. Laws, yes – everyone knows that.)

Just before I stepped onto the platform, I had a blindingly fast and extensive discussion with myself. Last time I weighed myself, I was 224. Since then, I’d had my Fall Off The Cliff Ice Cream Incident, with container after container of Ben and Jerry’s lying in my garbage like fallen warriors and broken promises… but I’ve also regained my grip on who’s the master – me or sugar.

Me, damn it!

So I could have seen anything on that scale. I was hoping for 224. No, I was HOPING for 223, but I was crossing my fingers for 224. But – neither Ben nor Jerry is very susceptible to forking the evil eye at them or other occult symbols meant to ward off danger. Could be a higher number.

So I combed my hair again and took my courage in hand…

The digital scale halted on 222 for a second and flipped to 223. I gasped – which was enough to push it to 224, where it adamantly stayed. Oxygen – so dense.

So – okay. No harm done. No progress made, but also no ground lost. Everything is okay.

So then I did my stairs – nine times up and back two flights, huffing and panting and trying but failing to avoid stomping like an elephant. At the top of each flight, I tap the “LAP” button on the iPhone timer, although I don’t know why; it takes me between 36 and 43 seconds to go down and come back up again, and nine cycles makes six minutes and has for several weeks now… but I do it under the theory that perhaps one day I’ll be so blasé and easy in my cycles that I’ll FORGET to gasp at the bottom of each flight “This is number six” and might actually lose track of how many laps I’ve done. (And go endlessly fluttering up and down the stairs like a jock – a ballerina – a butterfly until many, many minutes have passed. Oh, have I done 35 minutes? My – silly me! SUCH fun.)

I am aware that it is the moisture in one’s breath that dehydrates – which is to say, there’s a loss of WATER when you exercise. And water – unlike tangled hair or oxygen – really IS dense and heavy.

So when I finished my nine cycles and walked around panting and counting my pulse for a while, I toweled off the sweat, peed again (no, no fluids had gathered in the reservoir in that brief time), and got back on the scale.

Yes, I know this is obsessive behavior – this is behavior that might lead to vomiting before I weighed myself, if I didn’t hate vomiting with every fiber of my soul.

This time the scale said 222 – which shocked me.

So now I know what I DON’T weigh. I don’t yet weigh 222 unless I deliberately dehydrate myself, which is CRAZY. I had to shake myself like a horse with a fly on its hindquarters. What was I thinking?!

It’s because I’m so impatient. I want to weigh less NOW.

But here’s the thing that’s so easy to forget: Maybe two years ago, the scale terrified me by reading an implacable 260 – the top of an upward progression I felt I had no control over. At the time, there was no hope of a lower number. NO hope. Let’s make that a two-sentence paragraph for emphasis:

No hope.

And now I’m greedy to get to 222. Or even 223.

Those numbers are STILL TOO FAT… but they are BETTER. If I am so impatient, then I have to look back at the last two years (less, really) as a huge, greedy gobbling of time that’s taken me from grossly swollen to muscularly plump. From a 55-inch waist to a 42-inch waist. From high cholesterol and concerning blood sugars to normal numbers across the board.

Yes, I’m greedy. Yes, I’m impatient. Yes, I want a quick fix.

But really – I’m GETTING a quick fix. My transformation is fast as hell, given that I didn’t think it was even possible. Once again, it’s my mind that is lagging behind my body.

I’m impatient… and determined.

“What do you think we’ll find, Morgan Freeman?” “Probably a victim of gluttony, Brad Pitt. It won’t be pretty.” “Just so long as the scale doesn’t read 225, I’ll be okay.” “Son, you don’t know what you’re about to face. Keep your pretty face behind me; I’ll screen you from the worst of it.” “Thanks, Morgan Freeman. Nice hat.” “Well, I like a styling brim.” “I can see why. Let’s go.”