For me, this week has been all about losing it.
On one hand, my boys are home for the summer and at times I've felt that there is a serious (and very real) possibility that I could find myself sucking my thumb and sitting in a corner one day soon. But that's not the kind of losing it I'm talking about -- at least not today.
Today I'm talking about the other kind of losing it. Here's the situation:
I spent three hours going through my closet and sorting out what fit and what didn't on Monday. It's looking like a ghost town in there now.
Several of my button up shorts slide on and off without my having to touch the button or the zipper.
My sexy, stretchy fuzzy pants (also lovingly known as my "work pants") droop and sag in the booty. These days it's far more like trash in the stash than junk in the trunk.
And yes, the absolute most horrifying of all. . .
My boobs look like sad little raisins melting in the cups of my bra.
Of course there's a big part of me that is ecstatic!!! Afterall, this is what I've been working for. I wanted to get healthy, to get fit, and these are signs that I'm on the right track.
Since March, I've lost 18 lbs. My body fat is down from 31% (that's obese) to 27% (that's on the beefy side of healthy). I've lost four inches from my chest, 5 inches from my waist and hips and one from my thighs (I swear those suckers don't want to budge!). And it's all good.
The thing is, as I was tossing out my clothes and internalizing that almost everything will soon need to be replaced, I felt oddly uncertain.
Some of these clothes have been my security blankets. The faithful friends that covered my gut or camoflaged my butt. These are the bras that kept things locked and loaded. This is the me that I knew had to change, but it's also the only me I've known for a very long time.
Maybe it was PMS, maybe it was end of the school year nostalgia. I don't know. But I found myself sighing as I went through my closet and feeling a pange of sadness. It's one thing to hope for something; it's quite another to receive it.
Ah, but just as I felt like I was slipping into the folds of self-indulgence, my hubby walked by with his typically perfect timing. He tapped me on my melting boob and said, "Hey, it's time to go shopping -- your stuff doesn't fit, so go buy more already."
Ka-blam! That snapped me right out of my reverie!
What's a girl to do? He's practically demanding that I shop: Are there any words more sexy than "Go Shopping" in the English language? If so, I don't know what they are!
The man has a way with words, gotta love him.
