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a broken record

I know.  Broken records are annoying to listen to.  Broken records repeat the same, short, annoying little message over and over and over again, and never move on to something new or pleasant to the ears.  It takes a big bump to skip the needle forward on the record.  I guess that big bump just hasn’t hit me yet.

I go to an early morning Boot Camp.  Early, like, I have to wake up at 5am, early.  Ouch.  I’m fine with mornings in general, but not when I can’t seem to get to bed at a decent time the night before.  And my family does not like to go to bed early.  It’s hard for me.  Not a good excuse, but it IS an excuse.

Want more excuses?  I feel like since I started attending this Boot Camp, my appetite has increased.  And my mind tells me that I can eat like crap because I’m exercising.  My weight has finally plateaued, because I have taken back control, but I’m telling you, I don’t have a single fitted dress or skirt or pair of pants that fits me any more.  I desperately don’t want all of this to be about weight and size.  Truly, I don’t!  I don’t want my family to hear me using that dirty 4-letter-word (“diet” – in case you were wondering), and I don’t want my daughter, in particular, to even notice that I’m fretting about my weight, but gosh darn-it!….  I don’t fit in to my clothes!

So I went to Boot Camp this morning, after having skipped out on it 2 out of 3 days last week, and I secretly brewed inside.  “Why am I even here?” I kept asking myself.  “This isn’t making an ounce of difference!”  I may or may not have grunted a lot, and I am pretty sure I slapped the ground in frustration 1 or 2 times.  I had angry thoughts that were directed toward Laura, the Boot Camp Instructor.  (Hope those thoughts didn’t convey themselves too obviously!)

I guess I still need to keep at least somewhat active, sporadic as it may be, because I do understand that my overall health is way more important than my dress size.  I need to keep my heart, my muscles and my bones healthy.  45 years old is going to quickly turn in to 50 years old.  And then 60, 70, 80 and 90 years old.  And, while I don’t WANT to sound like a broken record, I really don’t want to be a broken old woman.

 

 

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