Sooooooo it's Monday. That means that my first 5k, Running With a Mission, is only, like, five days away.
I'm having a hard time processing this. Not the actual race, I'm fine with that. Truthfully I'm super excited, though I suspect that will turn into super nervous as the week marches on. The weather looks like it will be okay and I'm comfortable with the distance, often running further than on my Friday runs. Only difference is that there will be more people and I'm a wee bit concerned about time. I don't want to psych myself out and have a terrible mile time and am hoping the adrenaline will help. My goal is to finish in under 40 minutes.
No, instead, I'm having a hard time processing the fact that it's me who is going to be running in this 5K. Me. The girl who five months not only didn't run but couldn't run. And now, hi. I'm going to be in a 5K.
I'm actually having difficulty internalizing a lot of things. My total weight loss thus far for one. I lost another 1.6 lbs this week, bringing my total to 90.4.
Like.....where did it all go? Seriously. It's just gone. Poof. Well, y'know, not poof. This took a lot of destination, determination, deliberation, but, see, I used to find the phrase "I lost weight" humorous. I mean, you don't really "lose" the weight, y'know? Except, uh, I kinda did. It's lost. Missing. Gone. A year and a half ago I had an extra 90 lbs and now I don't. But it didn't really go anywhere. It's not like a set of keys I left in the next room.
It's a strange concept to try and process. Especially when it's your own body.
My attitude is another thing. Before I was all cynical and pessimistic and sarcastic. Now I exercise and practice yoga and I'm all peace and love and happiness. Stupid endorphins. I'm supposed to be snarky, damnit! But noooooooooope. I'm all Mary Freaking Sunshine and it's freaking me out. Somewhere in time, my fifteen year old self is sadly shaking her head wondering just what in the hell happened to me.
You know what happened to me? I learned to love myself.
Last week, Skinny Emmie wrote an amazing post about being a weight loss blogger who supports the Fat Acceptance movement. In the comments, Fit and Free Emily said You can't take care of something you hate.
I used to be of the Fake It Till Ya Make It variety. The kind of girl who gave an appearance of confidence while inside she wanted to crawl into a hole and cry. I would spend hours styling my hair and putting on makeup because I thought I needed that outward mask to look pretty. I chased boys. A lot. I would pretend that I was perfectly okay with weighing over 300 lbs because I hadn't yet found the self-worth to believe I had any other option.
Now, though, I'm the girl who doesn't need to fake confidence. I know what I have to offer on the inside and the outside. This means that while, yes, I still wear make-up and do my hair and all that jazz, it's because, uh, hi. I'm kinda girly. But I'm also just as likely to forgo all of that and go out au natural and be completely comfortable in my own naked, unadorned skin. And, y'know what, if a guy isn't able to see how totally fabulous and awesome I am and come up to me on his own, well, then, it's his own damn fault. I gots way more important things to do than go chase some stupid boy.
I think this is one reason why The Number has lost some of its significance and why it's difficult to process it. Because it's no longer just about losing weight. It's about conquering those yoga poses that still prove challenging and working on running farther and faster. It's about being okay with losing my sweet tooth and discovering that, huh, I actually enjoy drinking water. It's about crossing that threshold from "diet" to "lifestyle change" and embracing it all the way.
That being said, the whole losing 90 lbs thing? Pretty damn fucking awesome.
Love from the ashes,