Crazy in the Head

Tuesday, in a fit of what can only be described as MASSIVE INSANITY, I volunteered to run in a 5K this weekend. Yes, you read that correctly. I volunteered on TUESDAY for a 5K THIS SATURDAY. Tuesday!

(And since I really enjoy torturing myself, I also signed up and paid actual money IN ADVANCE to run another one in May. (Which is for a worthy cause, by the way. The Humane Society is a fantastic organization, in which 1/4 of this family was raised in, and my twenty dollars is a pathetically small donation to such a great cause. The issue is not the money. The issue is that I thought I would want to run a freaking 5K in a month's time.)))

I go through these phases of athletic activity where I get really motivated and buy new work out clothes (mostly socks because I lose those those faster than I blink) and make lofty weekly goals. I am entering one of those phases. The problem is that these phases generally last only a week. Or two.

Back in 2006, I joined a gym for the first time and I diligently went for several months. I picked a facility close to my apartment and went everyday after work. I began watching what I ate and made conscious efforts to work off extra calories. I lost 17 pounds. And it felt amazing. My weight loss also upped my self-esteem in a tremendous way and I was so pleased with my commitment. I could do anything! I was super woman!

And then I met Alex.

And you all know where I am going with this. I fell in love and everything in the world was full of roses and sunshine and kisses and why would I go the nasty old gym and torture myself when I could snuggle? (Snuggling is pretty much ALWAYS the answer, particularly when the alternative is something related to the concept of work.) He loved me for who I was! He thought I was beautiful and perfect! Just! The! Way! I! Was!

Gah, I don't know why I ever felt like that was justification to drop the gym altogether and then eat anything and everything in sight. Because now? Now I am in a constant state of flux with my weight. I've fallen back into my old eating habits and when I look at myself in the mirror, I have a strong urge to vomit all over the place, because my god, have I gotten fat. It doesn't help that I live with a man who has zero idea of what healthy eating consists of, nor does he particularly care. Sure he tries, but why then there are nights like tonight where I'm hungry and tired and he's on his way from work and calls me to suggest that we should just have fried chicken tonight. We haven't eaten it in really loooong time and we'll go to the gym tomorrow and you're super skinny baby, I swear!

So back and forth I go. And I get so frustrated with myself that I can't just put the damn fork down and get in the gym. It's such a simple concept and one that is easily achieved. And yet, here I sit, letting the FRIED CHICKEN digest, while I write a whiny post complaining about my weight. I've got athletic shorts and a work polo on. I've got clean socks on the desk and my running shoes are...somewhere. (Alex is mowing the lawn because is the most awesomely awesome man who ever awesomed.) And instead of stretching or, I don't know, working on the seven assignments that are due next week (HOLY CRAP I'M GOING TO DIE), I continue to surf the internet, and listen to iTunes, and play Spider Solitaire. Why? Because it's easier than being active. And sometimes, I really, really, really hate that about myself.

But oh my god, those mashed potatoes tonight were AMAZING.