I might just go crazy this week, if I’m not careful. School is out for spring break and I am homebound by injury. Three weeks into this cavalcade of crutches and I’m pretty close to despair. I can’t remember the last time that I went this long without stepping foot into a gym, and I’m slipping slowly into madness as I daily watch all my hard won successes go to seed.
As the days wear on, my ass sinks lower, and the definition in my arms is fading. I’ve tried very hard to curb my eating, but going from 3200 calories a day to 1200 is no easy feat, and I just don’t have the motivation to keep my hands out of that pretzel sack. I’m back to averting my eyes from the mirror when I stand before it naked after a shower, and my “thin girl jeans” have been placed back to the bottom of the drawer in exile.
This does not a happy yawp make.
Yesterday, I gimped down to the fitness facility in my complex. My orthopedist had okayed work on the stationary bike, (with no resistance), so I thought to get some cardio. No such luck as 10 minutes in, my leg started aching. I cannot fathom how I’m going to make it another FIVE weeks.
Being fit was inextricably linked to my feelings of self-worth and sex appeal. Working out was the thing I was good at. It kept me going. I ran on running, thrived on plyos, gave thanks for planks. This girl who had spent the first quarter of her life in abhorrence of herself, who had finally found a measure of pride in the fruits of her efforts, has been forced back into that world of disgust and self-loathing. Back to square one.
*The title of this post comes from THIS song.