It's just a number

I'm blogging before I go to the gym. I'll find any excuse really. That's how much I hate excercise. I hate it so much I can't even spell the word. (Can't find my dictionary at the moment.) But here are all the reasons why I soooo have to get over my aversion:

One hundred sixty eight and a half pounds.

I weighed myself twice, once on Monday and once on Tuesday, when I joined the challenge just to be sure. And I feel disclosure is important since I'm in the pool. Owning up to it in public isn't painful to me. I don't think people will look at me differently because they know the number. And publishing it feels right somehow. Like a declaration of war. I have seen the enemy. And it is me. All 168.5 pounds of me.

My steady, and shockingly huge, weight gain over the past couple years was painful. It's documented in my medical records. You should have seen the look on my gynecologist's face. There was also an awkward moment on the scale when the nurse had to slide the fifty weight over when I was in the middle of this upward slide. I had to climb my household latter with the tool box one day, and realized, for the first time in my life, that I now have to pay attention to the weight limits. I was three pounds shy of weighing more than my dog. (He's a really, really big dog.)

Don't get me wrong. I'm not having a pity party here. Just acknowledging some truths. I've started a food diary to acknowledge some more truths. They aren't pretty. Even trying, I'm eating more fat than I should.

Today though, I've got more motivation than usual to get my butt to the Y: A new number.

One hundred sixty six pounds.

Small steps on the way to a smaller me.