Several years ago: New Year’s Eve at Aaron’s apartment on Enterprise in BG. After a long evening of adult beverages, food, and video games, I find myself lying on Aaron’s bed, with the room spinning around me. “I don’t want to be drunk anymore,” I say, as rationally as possible. Aaron patiently puts me to bed to sleep it off.
Last week: Bronchitis. The first case I can remember having — or at least, having officially diagnosed (I couldn’t remember back when I had it at age one). One week after being diagnosed and getting prescription meds, I find myself still hacking and coughing and not yet at 100%. “I don’t want to be sick anymore,” I say, between coughs, knowing full well that only time and meds will cure what ails me.
Now. Overweight. Still, after years of struggling (sometimes all-out, sometimes admittedly half-assed). I see myself in a video, full-length, doing aikido, looking frumpy and out of shape and unattractive. And it hits me: “I don’t want to be fat anymore,” I say to myself.
I’m steadily losing a pound and a half per week, and have been doing so since January. I’ve lost nine pounds, give or take. If I keep going at this rate, I could potentially be at my “ideal” weight by the end of August. I’m just so sick of looking and feeling the way I do, and so frustrated with the amount of time (and willpower and planning) it’s going to take to do it right.
I guess all I can do is keep doing what I’m doing. Keep moving in the right direction, one step at a time, and eventually I’ll get there. I’m still curious to see what I’ll look like in thirty pounds. It’s just… damn. I’m sick of being fat.