The Big 3-0

(I'm staring at the scale I've just purchased on Amazon)

Me: Please don't let there be a two. Please don't let there be a two. Please don't let there be a two...

I look down and the three-digit number glaring back at me over my toes does not, thankfully, begin with a two; but it's close. It's multiple-clothing-layers-and-a-very-decent-bowel-movement close. I haven't seen this number in three years and when I did, I was so busy dancing, spinning, lifting, running, and pumping that I was determined it would be merely a one night stand (bad scale pun). But here were are again. I've gained 30 lbs since my last post. I mean, to be fair, that's not the only thing I've gained. In the last year alone, I've acquired a new decade, the state of California, a different older car (RIP Lazarus), a new job, health insurance, a handful of wonderful friends, and (as of May) a new apartment. Each of these things happened a lot more quickly than the weight gain, I assure you.

Weight gain is definitely not some Freaky Friday moment you wake up to one morning. Nah, the signs were there. My jeans were still too tight despite my usual justifications of "I just got over my period ten days ago...so I'm still in the process of losing my 4 lbs of cycle weight" and "It's only been a week since I took these out of the dryer; they still need to be broken in". Then there's the obvious tell: the waterbed that was now my protruding muffin top in said ill-fitting jeans. My poor Spanx tried their darndest to dispel my concern by containing the, er, ripple effect of my stomach; but then came the day when I bent slightly and the stretchy material groaned in defeat and retreated back onto itself in one large, awkwardly placed roll of surrender on my lower back. And when you bust up your Spanx, you know that there's some hard truths you have to stop sugar-coating.

I'll be the first to admit that these 30 lbs and I have had some pretty amazing times. When my Dad and I drove to California, I ate hot beignets in New Orleans, large plates of chilaquiles in Arizona, and gigantic cups of spicy boiled peanuts wherever I could find them. Somewhere in my mind, I turned off the switch to care about things like portion control, calorie intake, and exercise, and I never really turned it back on. I just kicked all balance to the curb and decided to overindulge myself as a perverse reward for all the hard work I put in the past few years.

So why am I writing this now? It's not because of the scary number on the scale, it's not because I want to look good for the Boy, and it's not because I want to avoid the knowing look on my family members' faces as they take in the noticeable changes of my body. My light bulb moment came when I looked at photos of myself on Facebook from two years ago. And I'm not talking about my thinner arms or my smaller waist; I'm talking about the expression on my face. I was so happy. In those pictures,  I could barely contain my happiness as I felt myself getting closer to the healthy person I was working so hard to become.

And as with all relationships, be it with your body or with your partner, the moment you stop working at it, the second you take it for granted, it will start to spiral out of your control bit by bit, slowly and surely. What motivates me now is knowing that I can do this because I have done it before. I remind myself that when I was 200 lbs, I ran my first 5k and took HIIT class. I can find my smile again.

So this is me trying to regain control and work my way back, bit by bit, slowly and surely.