Body after baby- two kids later, my new tummy. My second baby, Kellen, toddles over to me, lifts my shirt and says “jiggle, jiggle” until I do the Truffle Shuffle.
I was around thirteen years old when I proclaimed to my mother “if I ever weigh more than 140 lbs, just shoot me.” 140 lbs seemed like an astronomical figure to me- I might as well change my name to “Roseanne” and slather myself in butter. My mother humored me with an “oh, of course,” knowing I would one day be singing a different tune.
I have not weighed 140 lbs for at least fifteen years, and unless scales somehow begin to work backwards, will never weigh that again.
High school seems to be the bench mark for most women when it comes to weight- we are always trying to get back to what we weighed in high school (why anyone would want to go back to high school for anything is beyond me). Let’s get down to brass tacks. Here are the figures:
Height- 5 feet, 5 inches
Weight upon graduating high school- 138, size 9
Weight at 25 years old- 176, size 16 (party years)
Weight prior to first child, 34 years old- 146, size 12 (exited bad relationship, gained motivation)
Weight prior to second child, 36 years old- 156, size 14
Weight 16 months after second child, almost 38 years old- 152, size 10 (I hoort strength training)
We are obsessed with the numbers we see on the scale, but belittle what we see in the mirror. At least I did, until I began to focus on a new set of numbers.
After the birth of my first child, I was talking to my brother on the phone. He is active duty Air Force and was telling me about his yearly fitness requirements. He guessed that a women my age would have to be able to run a mile in under ten minutes. I have no idea why this number stuck in my head, but I was curious to see if I could do it.
My first run was utter and complete failure. Beyond failure- miserable. I don’t think I even made it a third of a mile before I gave up, and began staggering along my street, coughing like an eighty year old woman with emphysema. I thought it was pathetic that a supposedly healthy woman in her mid-thirties could not jog a mere mile. I used to play this game while hiking with friends. One of us would scream “run for your life!” The rest of us would sprint to the top of the mountain as if followed by a psycho killer. Well, if Michael Myers ever got lose on the streets of Tempe, Arizona, I might as well save him the time and gut my own intestines.
Perhaps it was just an excuse to leave Daddy with the baby for a half hour, but I kept running. Within a couple of weeks, I could jog the mile, but it would be a few months before I got under the ten minute mark.
It is strange how meeting one goal is the spark that ignites the desire to reach ten more. Every goal seemed impossible at the inception, but upon achievement, merely a step to the next goal. I hiked a fourteener. I ran a half marathon relay. I blew away my ten minute mile by running a mile in 8 minutes 37 seconds.
Am I a size 6? No, not even close. It would take a minor miracle for me to get back to high school weight, and I prefer to save my stash of miracles for when I need toddlers to nap. But I am stronger, faster, and happier with my body than I ever have been. 140 lbs may be in the past, but my best numbers are still in the future.