I'm sitting here eating a lowfat breakfast sandwich with some hashbrowns (basically shredded 'taters cooked in nonstick spray), thinking about the past few weeks.
For starters, I'm down 17 pounds: the baby weight plus 10. I'm wearing clothing I haven't worn in almost 2 years. It feels so good to get close to my normal size again - and, even better, that I've done it gradually and healthfully. Appearances are often deceiving, too - it might shock you to know that, during my most disordered periods of eating, I was NOT the thinnest I've ever been. I think everyone conjures up images of a sickeningly frail anorexic waif when you mention the term eating disorder. Even bulimics are expected to look emaciated. The truth is - and you might wanna back off now if you're even slightly grossed out by the topic of bulimia, but you know I can't be anything but unflinchingly honest - you can't always purge as much as you binge. And I can eat insane amounts of food with the best of 'em. So I am actually thinner when I'm just following my normal healthy habits. I'm still going to WW, mostly to support my friend now because I just needed the kickstart back to logging my food and eyeballing portion sizes.
Second, can you believe that my dumb ass actually thought this weekend was my marathon? HAHAHAHA! It's next weekend. I looked at the calendar wrong. Good thing, too, because I'm sooo not ready.
And that brings me to one of my chief concerns: I wonder when I'll ever be able to train properly for a marathon? Hell, for any race. This time I didn't even get in a 20-miler. My schedule had TWO. Some times this thought keeps me up at night. (I'd better figure it out, considering I want to do 26.2 in every state before I die, right?) It seems like everything holds me back - work, my health, my own fuck-ups. IronDawn once told me that I should do a better job of controlling the things that are in my power (sleeping enough, drinking too much, etc.), since there are so many factors outside my control that affect my training. I hate to say she's right YET AGAIN, but . . . . she's right, yet again. And it makes me feel like a fraud. Remember Philly? I feel that way again. Like I'm not a real athlete. I'm just a wannabe. I'm a fake. Skydiver, your pants are on fire/And the rest of your clothes is glowin'/And for some strange reason, your nose is growin' . . .
And yet, for whatever reason, the desire persists. Some people would say you obviously don't want to do it that badly if you're not making a better effort. Well, that's not true - I can't always control the effort I make. Some people would say just the fact that you try makes you more fit and healthy than the average person. But that's not true - there are many people a lot fitter than I am because they work out harder, more consistently, or both. What I want, what I need, is somewhere in between those two. It's that ever-fleeting BALANCE.
Not a shock that someone recovering from 2 separate disorders is searching for balance, right?
This is my 3rd consecutive week of getting up at 4am "like in the old days." And yes, 4am comes really early, but it hasn't been anywhere near as rough as I'd expected. Except for days like today. Today I just wanted to pack it in. I knew I couldn't keep up for the 3000+ yard swim with the club so I opted for a run. 5mi, I told myself, and then I'd head to the Y for a couple easy thousand yards.
I walked the dog 1 mile.
I ran barely 2.
I hopped on the trainer and spun aimlessly for a few minutes.
I walked the dog again.
I went to Wal-Mart for an iron and some ingredients for the birthday potluck at work.
And that's where I am now.
New Guy is even more incredible than when last reported, but I'm trying not to get too excited about it.