Suburban Snapshots


Tuesday, August 03, 2010

A few friends I follow on Twitter or Facebook have some automated app that generates a status update listing how long and how far their daily run was, and how much of a fat loser you are for sitting on your ass eating Oreos doing nothing but catching up on tweets. That last feature might have been me projecting. But people, one of these friends happens to be like, seven months pregnant.

I've never been an active person. As a kid I'd spend an afternoon swimming in my grandparents' pool, emerge pruned and bloodshot, then stuff my face on cheese, crackers and ice cream and fall asleep in front of Heckle and Jeckle.

Since April I've been trying to finally lose weight for real, without going on some all-salad diet, or no carb, macrobiotic, or The Gwyneth Paltrow is Full of Crap Cleanse (and P.S. Skinny McStepford, STFU). It marks the 3rd time in my life I've joined Weight Watchers — an endeavor I first attempted at 13 — and the 60,000th attempt in general to lose significant weight. So far I'm doing the best I ever have, hovering at around 15 pounds lost without the help of a serious crush, miserable break up or carton of Camel regulars. But goddamn it ain't easy, and I've got 10 to go.

I don't enjoy exercise. I drag myself out, slog around the block, and only feel the reward when I'm in the shower soaping off my glisten. I pass runners and bikers (this one biker in particular who's still circling my neighborhood long after I've showered, dried off, gotten dressed and made coffee. Freaking overachiever.) who wave, and I wonder if I'll be seeing them in a month, or 12 weeks, or if, once again, I'll have abandoned my good intentions along with my skinny jean hopes.

Do you think it's possible to become someone who actually enjoys working out? Who naturally gravitates to the baby carrots instead of the tortilla chips? Or are you just waiting for Valerie Bertnielli to get all chubby again?

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