I love every other Wednesday. That's when a wonderful woman comes to clean our house. She's young, kind, pretty and learning to speak English. She's a professional woman (a teacher) who came here from Mexico to be with her husband. She isn't certified to teach in the U.S. yet, so while she works toward that goal, she cleans homes. We're very lucky that she agreed to clean ours. A homemaker I may be. A housekeeper, I am definitely not.
Delaney and I get out of her way by going to the gym. Delaney plays in the kids' club while I work out and then shower. We head over to Starbuck's before going home and hiding out in our bedrooms (Delaney naps, I work or blog) until our lovely cleaning lady is done. It's our fun, little routine. There's something about sitting on the bed working on my laptop that reminds me of college days gone by (not that they had laptops back then...more like hand-held chalkboards, but still).
Today when we were at Starbuck's, I noticed this man starting at us. And, it wasn't just an in-passing, I'm-smiling-at-you, how's-your-day kind of friendly look. It was a stare and he kept it up the entire time we were there, even pausing outside to stare at us as I strapped Delaney into her carseat. The guy wasn't unattractive, but not hot either. Just a 40-something yuppie guy with a closely-cropped haircut. He didn't freak me out or anything. But, he did make me wonder why he was staring so much, so openly and so blatantly.
Could it be that he thought he knew me from somewhere? I certainly didn't recognize him. He probably just thought that Delaney was the most beautiful baby he'd ever seen so he couldn't take his eyes off of her. Or he might have wondered why I wore sunglasses indoors (I'm lazy...they're prescription and I hate taking them off, putting on my regular glasses, going inside, going back out, taking them off and putting on my sunglasses again. Ugh.) and thought I was a dork. Maybe he was trying to figure out my jerky, manic attempt to sway to the jazz blaring out of the speaker above us. Or, maybe in the end, it's because he thought I took his latte by mistake. He sure didn't look like the venti, non-fat latte type to me.
Whatever his reason for starting, it wasn't because he was checking me out. I know this because I'd weighed myself at the gym earlier and, embarrassingly, I'm nearly back to the weight I was when I joined the gym almost a year ago. That's after getting a second mortgage to pay the trainer who tortured me for eight months. That's after visiting the ever-so-helpful nutritionist ("Eat less! Eat often! Eat less often!") three times and after going to the gym five-six times a week. Over the last year I've lost 14 pounds. But, over the course of the last three months, I've gained close to 10 of it back. How, you ask? How could someone who goes to the gym that much gain ten pounds in such a short period of time? Stupidity, of course.
When I stopped seeing the trainer back in May, I stopped going to the gym as much too. I no longer had his goals to meet (cardio 4-5 times per week in addition to my 2x per week meetings with him). And back in June after I stopped seeing the nutritionist, Roger and I went out to dinner for his birthday. In that one meal (or over the course of that weekend) I gained four pounds. It was devastating to see all of my hard work disappear over some mashed potatoes, filet mignon and creamed spinach. Instead of getting right back up on that weight-loss horse, I sat on my ass and did nothing. Well, that's not true. I ate. Whatever I wanted, whenever I wanted. With no one peering over my shoulder telling me how much weight to lift or how to eat small meals five times a day, I was lost. I'm still lost. It's ridiculous.
I joined the gym a year ago because I was tired of carrying around extra weight--and we're not talking baby weight here. Somehow I got lucky and lost that within weeks of having Delaney. The extra weight I carry now is weight I put on when Roger and I got together. There's a reason for the phrase, "fat and happy." I really wanted to take the weight off, learn to eat more healthfully and exercise on a regular basis to be a good example for Delaney. I still want that. But somehow, I got derailed from that plan. OK. Honestly? I derailed myself.
How do I get back on that weight-loss horse? What has to happen for me to see that I must stick to a good, healthy plan not only for me, but for Delaney and Roger too? Every day I derive small pleasures from eating unhealthy food, but for my whole life I've also craved the bigger pleasure of being healthy, of fitting into cute clothes, of being a role model for my daughter. Why do I have to report to someone else who scrutinizes my every move, my every bite to be successful? Although truthfully, successful is not what I've been.
Why can't I be accountable to myself?