I told my husband a few days ago that fall was beginning and I was missing it. I was stuck inside, moping, feeling down on myself. Which, of course, was the main cause of me telling myself that I was fat. Telling myself that I wasn’t good enough.
Then, today, I asked myself why. Why?
And I got up, and I went for a walk. And I took in the beginnings of fall.
And it was beautiful.
I really loathe dieting. Seriously. I don’t like telling myself that I can or can’t have something. I don’t like worrying about calories or sugar or fat or carbs or anything else.
I just can’t stand it.
And I’ve tried darn near every method out there.
I’ve gone no carb, low carb, cut the sugar, count the calories, portion control containers, fancy pills, super shakes, cut the fat, load up on the protein, fruit in the morning, no fruit at all, and so on and so forth.
And I’ve done the exercise to go with it. I’ve done gyms and fancy workout routines within the gyms, I’ve done walking and shaking and jumping and jiggling. I’ve used weights and my own body weight. I’ve raised my heart rate and sweated until the carpet was soaked. I’ve done it all.
And I’m fat.
I started strong, but the second week proved to be difficult. Not because I wanted to break my diet, but because my body reminded me of why I had stopped doing these types of plans long ago.