Failure is My Middle Name or "Chubby Girl Gonna Chub"

I'm sure I've mentioned this before, but I used to be kinda fat. Like can't shop in a regular store fat. Order from the extended catalog sizes fat. Size-18-but-your-friends-pretend-you're-big-boned fat.

Not like, Learning Channel fat, but I was a chubster. Chubby is my natural inclination. I gain weight insanely easily, and I was never one of those "Oh, my 20 year old metabolism will save me" types. Nope. I went super chub the moment I entered college and stayed that way until I forced my body to comply with my wishes when I was 23. I went from hovering around 200# to 142# over the course of 6 months in my last year of graduate school.

That was the first full scale battle I waged against my weight. I've waged two others in the last 20 or so years, but pretty much every day is a minor skirmish. Sometimes I gain ground, often I lose it. I've been fighting the same 15 goddamn pounds for the last 10 years.

Are you enjoying this military metaphor? 

Last year before the state powerlifting meet, I was 77.1kg. That's 169.6 pounds in Real American. I then proceeded to cut to 71kg (156.2RA) over the course of 3 months. It sucked. It was brutal. I was reed thin at the end of it (also a fucking goddess but whatevs) and determined to stay there.

Sadly, I'm also super old in addition to being unbelievably lazy. So my weight slid up and down for the next little while as I tried to determine WTF my actual maintenance calories are. I make this difficult for myself by not tracking as consistently as I should or thinking that a splash of half and half or a pat of butter or like a dozen Girl Scout cookies won't make much difference. You know. Small stuff.

Here's the thing. For me, in this stupid fucking body, it does. My body loooooooves to be squishy. It's my default setting. I can put on 5# in a weekend. Don't believe me? I have data. It's not as though I was mainlining Crisco, either. I'm talking I had a couple of beers and a burger. With a side salad. I can choose salad and still gain 5# in 2 days. It's like a superpower. The shittiest superpower ever. 

Sadly my clothes don't expand.

After my vein procedure in February (it worked! Huzzah!) I sat around for 2 weeks. In compression-wear and sweat pants. Hard to tell how much weight you're gaining when you're crammed into Spanx covered with giant pants. Could I have tracked, cut down my eating, worn my FitBit? Well sure, I could have done that. But I didn't. Because chubby girl gonna chub.

Actual picture of me eating frosting from a can. I'm kidding. 

I ate an entire container of sea salt caramels from Costco.

Bulk chub, bitches.

Once I was allowed to lift again, I did. Here's the thing...it felt like shit. It still kinda feels like shit. I'm still doing it, but I'm having to force myself into the gym. I'm still reestablishing the habit. I'm a huge lump of sloth, remember?

I feel you, sloth. I feel you.

Today I weighed in at 77.3kg (that's 170RA). This number makes me NOT HAPPY. I have put on TWELVE POUNDS over the last 2 months. Now some of this is water after ending a water cut, and some is hormonal bloat (your welcome for the TMI) but it fucks up the way my pants fit, you dig?  I know why this happened. I got lazy with tracking, I ate too many cookies, I didn't drink enough water. It's my fault. All my fault. 

I've always held out hope that there is a promised land where my weight will stabilize and I'll be able to eat without having to weigh and track every goddamn thing. That after years...no...decades of work and dedication that I'll reach a point where I can just...live. When every goddamn day doesn't have to be a battle. I've tried a lot of different methods over the years, and they all worked for a while, but my baser nature ends up fucking everything up eventually. Chubsters gonna chub. 

At the moment I'm coming to terms with the fact that I'm going to have to track what I eat forever. There's really no way around it. There is no end point. No destination. Just more goddamn road, and that road is paved with Samoas. And I can't eat them. Ever. Blah blah moderation. I've proven that I can't be trusted with cookies. Or large containers of caramels from Costco. Or bags of chocolate chips. I'll overeat anything. You got a loaf of bread you want cleaned up? Bring it here. 

77 goddamn fucking kilos. Son of a bitch. 

I'm migrating over to Cronometer from MFP (fuck MFP). It is clear I have to track, but I hate MFP with the burning fire of 1000 suns. Cronometer seems fine, and a new app makes it feel more like a game again instead of a punishment I've brought down on myself for 20 years of inconsistency and failure. I'm back in the gym and I'm going to work on my weaknesses-imalances and mobility problems I've neglected in the past. I'll be doing yoga more frequently as that helps me mind and body. And I'll be...le sigh...running again. 

Last year I decided I wasn't going to buy gym clothes or gym equipment this year. Basically I have no choice but to figure this shit out because I cleared out all my big clothes. I thought I wasn't going to get chubby again. Haaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa LOLZ FOREVER. 

I got these pants when I was 12# lighter. 

I think I heard them crying.

Progress isn't linear. Backsliding is inevitable, at least for someone like me. I try not to be all-or-nothing, but "all" needs to be my default setting. This 41 year old body doesn't leave me a lot of room for mistakes, and this has to stop now. I intended to gain weight after the state meet...but not this way. Not the way I always fuck everything up. I know I must weigh and track all the things. I have to watch my weight and measurements like a hawk, and I need to get on top of things before they reach critical mass.

Critical mass being splitting my goddamn pants. Ain't NOBODY wants to see my cottage cheese ass. No time like the present to pick up where I left off. Tracked, ate, drank all the water, lifted all the weights. Yoga in the morning, rinse repeat.

Exactly 4oz beef, 125g asparagus, and 148g of potato.

Son of a bitch.