Fat

I probably think about my weight at least 25 times a day. It's a girl thing, I think. I doubt men think about it like we do.

And, to be honest, I think I have a pretty healthy perspective of my body. I don't consider myself obsessed. 

But, seriously, who doesn't want to lose 10, 15, or 20 pounds? I'd say, probably every adult on the planet. Or just most women.

The problem comes when most of our clothes--especially our favorite ones--start fitting rather tight. That makes us realize the cold, hard truth that the scale has been screaming at us. I'm fat. There's proof in my waistband. Mine is tight. I've gained about 5 pounds this summer. It isn't pretty. (I'm secretly thankful it's been so rainy here in Texas and I haven't had to wear my swimsuit.)

As I've stated in my earlier blogs--I kinda lost my mojo. It began back in March. March 22nd to be exact. That was the day I ran (and mostly walked) my first half marathon. I was beyond tired and exhausted. I knew I was going to take a full week off to recuperate. Well, that one week turned into two and then into a month and then into two.

And here we are again. The 22nd. Of June. 

Unknowingly, I dropped my mojo like a hot potato that day back in March. I had made a tremendously lofty goal, and I accomplished it.  Good for me! Pat on the back. But, with anything we experience--like: getting married, having a baby, running a marathon, Christmas--when the climax ends, sometimes we can find ourselves stuck in the blue. When the presents have all been opened, then what?

Now that it's summer and I'm taking the time to examine the road I've been on and how I lost my mojo, I'm reminded of a little thing I wrote to my friends about WEIGHT. 

I know a major ingredient missing from my world right now is excersize. Somehow, for me, my weight seems to weigh less on my psyche when I'm doing something about it. Taking control of the reigns.

This week, I am going to attempt to make an attempt.

I'll let you know how it goes. . . . 

Until then, I will leave you with this that I wrote back on Good Friday:

185.

That's how much I weigh.

Really.

That's been pretty much my norm most my life. When I had Otis I was 179. Not bad since ditching breastfeeding. But not great, right?

I'm 40 years old. I have three kids. I try and workout and eat healthy and all but it's hard. Let's face it: FITNESS is hard with littles who only want to eat pizza and powdered donuts. And parents who drink lots of coffee and wine to survive.

Now.

WHY IN THE WORLD AM I TALKING ABOUT THIS ON A DAY LIKE THIS!?!?!?!?!?!

I mean, how rude. How selfish. How tacky. How self centered and self absorbed. How narcissistic!?

Dude. It's Good Friday. Today is about Jesus!

And so it is.

That voice. It followed me into the bathroom and possessed me to get on the scale. That voice is with me everyday. Pestering me. Small. Convicting. Always present. "You need to lose 20-30 pounds. Let's face it, you're fat. You need to workout more. You need to eat less. Like a bird. Just seeds. No more pizza. No more wine. No more chocolate. No more fun and no more Ranch dressing FOR CRYING OUT LOUD!"

That voice has a name. His name is satan.

So what does this have to do with Jesus? EVERYTHING. 

Jesus died today for all the "bad" people: The murderers. The thieves. The liars and cheaters. The people who kick puppies.

Jesus died today for all the "good" people: The philanthropists. The nurses and doctors. The Nobel Peace Prize winners. Those who are nice to their neighbors and save the whales.

Jesus died for people who spend way too much time focusing on the number on that scale when people in Syria, the Ukraine, Kenya and Mexico and all over the world who just try to stay alive today.

Jesus died for me. I killed him. And he still loves me.

Jesus dies so that we can be free. Free from all the stuff that doesn't matter. Especially that number on the scale.

So. Today.

It's Friday. And it's good. REAL GOOD.

Forget the number. Remember Jesus.