42 pounds and 18 ounces

Patience: The capacity, habit, or fact of being patient.

Hmmm, not exactly what I’m looking for. Let’s look up patient: patient (adjective): 1. bearing pains or trials calmly or without complaint; 2. manifesting forbearance under provocation or strain; 3. not hasty or impetuous; 4. definitely not Laura.

So I admit that I’ve always known I’m NOT the most patient person in the world, but last week when I weighed myself, I realized maybe I’m underestimating just how very impatient I really am. Okay, there’s no maybe, I know I’m underestimating, but what I really want to know is why I’m so impatient. I’m not going figure out the answer to that one right away, but it did get me thinking not only about impatience, but about unrealistic expectations, too. And isn’t it funny how when you start to think about something, things related to it seem to pop up? I had been working on this post for a few days, and a couple of people started pestering me about it, asking when it would be up. I just answered “patience, please, I’m working on it.” Good to know I’m not the only impatient person around. Then yesterday a Facebook friend’s status was also related to patience. All you have to do is start pondering something and it appears everywhere, I swear! Anyway, his status was that we should learn the art of patience, because impatience breeds anxiety, fear, discouragement, and failure. Patience, on the other hand, creates confidence, decisiveness, and a rational outlook, which eventually leads to success. I forgot to ask him where he got that, but it definitely rings true for me. It hit me pretty hard this past week how very impatient I can be and moreover, how if I’m not careful, I could end up becoming discouraged because I have such high expectations of myself.

I weigh myself once a week, on Friday mornings. Anyone who’s tried to lose weight knows the drill– once a week is the limit for weighing yourself because daily fluctuations can be too discouraging. This past Friday when I weighed myself, though, I not only didn’t lose any weight, I gained eighteen ounces (somehow eighteen ounces sounds so much less offensive than one pound, two ounces, don’t you think? I think so). I was so shocked I must’ve weighed myself  5 or 6 times before I accepted the bad news. And yes, I shoved the scale around, hoping I’d just lost the “sweet spot.” For the first time since I started this lifestyle change (it’s not a diet, it’s not a diet, it’s not a diet) in June, I didn’t lose any weight! Until now, I’d been really fortunate. There have been weeks that I didn’t lose much, maybe 2 pounds, but there hasn’t been a week I didn’t lose. Needless to say, I was devastated. Abso-freaking-lutely devastated. Undone. Destroyed. Willpower crushed. You name it the negative emotion, I felt it. What did I do wrong? What didn’t I do that I’ve done for the past couple of months? How could I have let this happen? I beat myself up for a few hours, and it took me the better part of the day, but I calmed down and after thinking about it, came to terms with it. I think. I mean, it’s still irritating, but I can live with it. (Like I have a choice.)

Just as a check (and because I couldn’t stand it anymore), I weighed myself again on Saturday morning. A no-no, I know, but I just had to check to see if Friday was a fluke.  You know what? The eighteen ounces were gone again. I was back where I started, which is better than losing even a little ground. I’m trying (trying oh, so very hard) to look at things as learning opportunities instead of screaming opportunities, so I thought about what I could possibly learn from this.

I could learn to disregard the dietician who told me that I actually needed to eat more calories every day. Sure, but that would  probably come back to bite me in a couple of months when I’d be not just exhausted but absolutely exhausted and pretty darned close to completely losing my mind (because Lord knows I’m halfway there already!). I could decide to take it as needing to work out more, but no, I work out five times a week, which is more than fine. Or… is the lesson patience, maybe? Maybe it’s going to take longer than I want to get where I want to be, and maybe I should learn to accept that some weeks I won’t lose weight, or as much as I want to. I need to remember that this is a process and to remember what I’ve accomplished so far. 

At least I can admit I have a problem, which as you know is half the battle. Do me a favor and don’t ask the question I’ve already asked myself a thousand times: why on earth would I expect to be able to do something that is so difficult for so many people so quickly and effortlessly? It makes no sense, I know, considering how long I sat around on my fat ass doing nothing to stay healthy and in shape. But now that I’ve started, I want the weight off NOW, I want to be back to a size 6 NOW, I want everything NOW! I know I have to learn to be patient, but I want to be patient NOW!

Unfortunately, impatience is nothing new. I also tend to expect perfection from myself in every way, which logically I know is silly. I can’t help doing it, though. Nobody’s perfect, nobody loses weight every single week and never ever has a setback. It reminded me of when I broke my leg. I didn’t do it doing anything fun or exciting  (I tell people I was rescuing small children from a burning building), I was just walking across the front walk of the elementary school where I did volunteer work. I slipped on a patch of ice that was hidden underneath some snow, and the next thing I knew, I was flat on my back staring at a beautiful clear winter sky, wondering why my leg was on fire, and not realizing how my life had just changed. It was the absolute pits–it was winter in Chicago, I had to have surgery, and recuperation was a pain–basically lying around for weeks waiting for the bone to heal. I remember the day I went to get the cast taken off–I was so excited at the thought of being able to walk again. Re-read that carefully. For some reason, I had it in my head that I’d be able to walk out of the surgeon’s office on my own. Sure, I’d need the protective boot and I’d be walking with a limp, but I was so sure I’d be walking out of there. The cast was sawed off, the final x-ray was taken, the staples were pulled out, the boot put on, and the surgeon said “okay, you’re all done.” I slid off the exam table onto my feet, ready to stroll out the door … and promptly fell flat on my face. No exaggeration whatsoever, I really did end up on the floor (and in a lot of pain, by the way).

I had just seen for myself a few minutes prior how atrophied my leg muscles were, and I had just been shocked at how shrunken and meager my calf looked (yes, I wanted thinner legs, but even I thought that was a little too thin), but somehow I just thought that 10 weeks in a cast wouldn’t affect me. Not the way it would anybody else, at least. I mean, I wanted to WALK. I wanted to, so why couldn’t I? The surgeon walked over to me with a pair of crutches, looked at me on the floor, and said “um… you’re going to need these, though.” Yeah, I did need those crutches for a while, even though I was hoping I’d be that miracle patient who could walk out of there unaided. Not only did I need the crutches, I needed physical therapy, too. THAT was difficult and at times so painful I swore I’d never go back for another session. But I knew that if I wanted to re-learn to walk correctly, I had to use the crutches, had to do my therapy exercises, and had to be patient while my muscles were rebuilding.

So yeah, I know that if I want to lose weight for good, I can’t just will it, and I can’t take shortcuts. I’m going to have to go through the workout sessions, and I’m going to have to eat right from now on (it’s not a diet, it’s not a diet, it’s not a diet). I have a coworker who’s on the grapefruit diet, and I sometimes envy him, sometimes pity him. I envy him because he has one whole item to shop for at the grocery store. I, however, have opted for the slower, more difficult way — nothing is forbidden (it’s not a diet, it’s not a diet, it’s not a diet, you know) since it’s a lifestyle change. I envy him because he has one decision to make every day: eat the damed grapefruit. I have 100 every day: cook for myself or give in to fast food; choose something that will help me get where I want to go or choose poorly and suffer a setback (why do I picture Yoda sitting in the ice cream freezer [on top of the pistachio, of course] at HEB saying “there is no try, only do. No ice cream.” Fine, Yoda, no ice cream today.) His weight loss has been faster and easier than mine, but I know in the long run I’ll be better off. I also feel for him in a way, because he could lose it any time and start scarfing down everything in sight. I mean, what a crappy way to live, just eating one food over and over. I may be overweight, but the thought of eating one food all the time is kind of sad, don’t you think?

So I started thinking about what I have accomlished since June. As of last Saturday, I’ve lost just over 42 pounds. I hadn’t really thought about it in terms of what 42 pounds is really like, so Monday morning at the gym I went over to the dumbbells and picked up a 40 pound weight. You know what? I’ve lost some weight! That puppy was heavy. It gets so easy to lose track of what it adds up to when you think of it in “just” 3 or 4 or 5 pound increments. And I can run on the treadmill without gasping for air and feeling like I’m going to die, and my trainer does sometimes say “nope, that weight’s too light for you, you’re ready to increase it again.” I have bicep muscles, people! My stamina has increased quite a bit thanks to the bootcamp sessions every week.  I guess I have managed to accomplish something this summer. I know I’m only part way there, but yes, it did help with the patience thing when I really thought about it. It didn’t take 3 months to gain all the weight, and it’s not going to take 3 months to take it off, either.

Oh! And I would have the one orthopedic surgeon in Chicago who didn’t believe in removing the hardware after the broken bone had healed. I’ve had a titanium plate and pins in my left leg for years and I’ve had it with being able to forecast the weather because they’re still in there. I’m planning on getting them taken out in December, and I admit I’m a little apprehensive. What if I can’t walk or run right away? What if I can’t get back to exercising as soon as I want to afterward? What if I GAIN WEIGHT? (I know, patience, don’t worry about it right now). As difficult and inconvenient as it might be, I know in the long run it’ll be worth it because my leg won’t hurt as much when the weather changes. Getting back to being physically able to do a lot of exercising will be tough, though worth it in the end. Kind of like getting healthier and back to my ideal weight is tough, but definitely worth it, too.