A few days ago, I woke up and glanced at myself in the mirror. Put my palm against my paunch and realized, “I’m getting fat.”
I sighed. When my stomach sticks out like this, it typically means it’s time to stop eating quite so much. To start working out regularly. To discipline myself and try to reduce the net calories per day. I’ve done it all before, I’m doing now, and I will do it again. Like the moon, waxing and waning.
But everytime it happens, I scold myself. “How could I do this to myself?”
And it’s no one thing. It is one helping too many, too often. It was getting up in the morning after going to bed too late. I check my emails, edit, play a fast video game, or write a new story. Then on my way to work, I grab a pastry or breakfast sandwich. Anything but going for a jog, hitting the weights, push ups and sit ups. It’s not having something simple like fruit and toast for breakfast.
Work doesn’t help. Aside from sitting there all day, I’m free to help myself to sodas and snacks they put in the break room. Sometimes they do healthier options, like juices, fiber bars or trail mix. But calories are calories, and they add up regardless of the source. My clothes get too tight
And what really sucks about working out and eating right is that it has to get worse before it looks better. Say I go for a jog and my stomach perks out instead of in. I feel awful because my body reaches for the easiest energy source and finds the crap I had for breakfast.
And all the while, I think about all the events that led me to this. A dash of depression, so I throw myself into work, both the development and the writing. I let myself get out of balance. Keeping things consistant just doesn’t work for me. No matter how hard I try, someone keeps throwing a wrench my way.
C’est la vie.