Are You Lookin' At Me?

I know the walls of mirrors have a purpose. I can assume it’s so you can keep an eye on your form.

But it disturbs me to see me in action. I am at the gym because I don’t like that me, and it doesn’t help the real me to constantly look up and see someone who does not resemble the me I imagine myself to be.

It could be the early hour I get there -- I stand there, and think, is that REALLY me, now? What the hell happened? What’s with the pear in sweatpants? How could I not see those hips and thighs coming at me before now?

The mirrors are good for kickboxing. I enjoy kicking Other Me’s butt. That part of the mirrors I get. When you are working off the bag, it helps me land my jabs, hooks and upper cuts where they should be. I enjoy boxing myself. All the fun of a real throw down, but I always win and there are no bruises (although if you’ve seen any of my punches, you’d wonder if I could bruise a grape).

But I really can do without the mirror any other day of the week. During instructor’s choice and muscle condition, I know I should be focusing on my form, but I look at myself and I feel like an inversed hunchback. I feel like my spine has buckled, and I lean a bit to the left. I knew I should have listened to my mother and started sitting up straight when I was 5 to avoid this thrust-out lean-to thing I’ve got going on.

Thank God spinning and yoga are done in the dark. Slouchy, spreading me can stay hidden from the goddess in training I am trying to convince myself that I am.

I probably spend more time mentally beating myself up, wondering how I got here, than is healthy.

When I left college, I weighed a healthy 180-pounds. Healthy, if I were a Sumo wrestler in training.

I went to college a healthy 125-pounds, with all the warnings that are typically given to college freshmen -- keep your nose clean, don’t drink, beware of horny frat boys; plan to stay in jail if you wind up in jail, because if you get arrested chances are you were somewhere and doing something you shouldn‘t have been; and expect the Freshman 15.

I heard all clearly, but my body understood the Freshman 15 to be the Freshman 50. That’s right -- the first time I am on my own I discovered the responsibility of foraging for food. And I found the mother load at the residence campus café. In the form of nachos and cheese (protein, dairy and fiber, add salsa and you’ve got veggies, too) and the world’s greatest chocolate milkshake (again, dairy) available at all hours of the night. Combine that with lots of sleep and an English major with a concetration in writing -- which meant 99.9% of my time was spent on my back (minds out of the gutter, PLUH-EASE, people!) or on my ass in front of a computer, I clearly wasn’t studying fitness.

I carried that weight around with me for pretty much the entirety of my college career, until the impact of The Great Weight started to show -- not in the form of just saddlebags and cellulite, but in unwanted and unsightly facial hair. My innards were going flukey! The good news was that if my career as a writer/journalist never got off the ground, I was headed for promising career in a circus sideshow as a bearded lady.

I went to a doctor, a kindly 80-something man who looked totally harmless, until he gave me my diagnosis. “You only problem is, you’re too fat.” No lie, those were his words. He made no apology for his lack of sugar, and I wanted him to choke on his dentures. But that sack of wrinkles -- May he now rest in peace -- outlived my referral and so I enrolled in my first diet program at some weight loss center. It worked -- I lost 20-lbs, but I could have done without the weekly pep rally and round of applause for every pound lost.

I was on my own after graduation, and then I kicked it into high gear, when my sophomore year roommate called to tell me she was getting married. It was Go Time. I hadn’t seen her in two years. We were both very similar, and sloth like, and damn her for getting married first. How could that happen?

I had a friend who majored in exercise science, but wound up being a great journalist instead, who put me on a paced program -- 30-minutes on the treadmill, three times a week; weights three times a week. It was tough in the beginning, but before I knew it, I was upping the time, increasing the speed, the repetitions on the weights, and missing it when I skipped a day.

And, in its own time, it all came off. I dropped 50-lbs in the course of a year, and maintained that for about six years -- through my first broken heart (shed one tear here, but no more. He wasn’t worth it), through a crazy work schedule, planning my wedding, the first year of marriage.

But building a house was my undoing. Before I knew it, I was celebrating every milestone with a cookie. We made the decision to build-- that called for a chocolate chip cookie! We closed on property within The Compound -- that calls for an oatmeal raisin cookie! The first view of the house floor plans -- that calls for a chocolate chocolate chip cookie! The old house was knocked down to make way for the new one -- This calls for two chocolate chip cookies! We broke ground -- cookies all around! The foundation was in -- Hey, it’s cheaper to buy three cookies at Subway than one. Fill me up! Hey every day is a day to celebrate. 3 p.m. became my daily date with a bag of cookies -- cheaper when in threes!

Happiness was measured in chocolate chips and raisins. Meanwhile, my body as adjusting to my daily workouts, and more was going in my mouth than was being walked off.

My unhappiness at being too close than I’d like to be to my college weight, and frustration at the my inability to maintain, is now measured on a scale, how my clothes fit, and slouchy, spreading me in the gym mirror.

And yes, this long journey down Explanation Avenue is necessary because I am hankering for a cookie now and as long as I keep my fingers going, I will outlast the craving. My lack of coordination will prevent me from being able type and eat at the same time.