This week, something switched on in my brain and I’ve gotten more active. I’m running more, I’m eating better, I’m actively seeking fewer numbers on the scale. If I lose another 6 kilograms by Christmas, I’ll have lost 20 kilograms this year (that’s 44 pounds for my imperial buddies north of the equator). Currently I’m 2 kilograms off a BMI of 25. I’m so close to it, I can almost touch it.
Sadly though, my brain is not seeing the changes anymore. I look at my belly and I only see the big round ball the protrudes out. I only see the thunder-thighs that slap together in horrible wobble-like fashion. The cellulite that dimples on my legs like cottage cheese congealing in the sun.
It’s not fair. I know I’m not a super-model and never will be. Frankly, I do not want to be like those waif women who need to wear a padded bra or tights under their jeans for curves. So why can’t I look at myself and not be disgusted? Why do I only see my ‘imperfections’. I saw a video of myself the other day from when Missy was about 12 months old. I was huge. Enormous. My breasts were over filling the singlet top. My clavicles were well hidden under a good layer of adipose tissue. My ankles had and extra serving of ankle and my chins were deep in conversation with each other.
When I compare myself to that version of me, I can see the changes. However when I stand in front of the mirror in the morning while getting dressed, all I see are the things that still need improving. The bits that I still don’t like (let alone love). I forget that I was a lot bigger and I’ve already done so much work to get to here. I know in my head that I’m proud of what I have achieved, but I can’t translate that pride to being happy in my own skin.