Shake a-what?

I have a secret.
A diet food secret.
I'm going to tell it, not because I feel comfortable or safe or because I have hit Angel status in a bathing suit.
I'm going to tell because the struggle is real and yet I feel amazing.
Strong.
Tight.
Energized.
I feel like a better human.
I signed up for Beachbody 21 days ago. Shakeology. Shakeo.
Yep. I'm one of those people.

I didn't tell anyone really. Jeff. My bestie. My kids.
Mostly out of gut-twisting fear. Fear of being judged for what I look like.
Or more accurate - what I don't.
Fear of failing. Fear of not being good enough. Fear of not having enough will-power to walk away from the chips. Fear of not being able to say, “NO”, to the sweet caffeinated heaven of Starbucks. Fear of being too tired or too lazy to do the workouts.

Every. Single. Day.

The night I sat outside with Jeff and told him I wanted to sign up; that was hard too.
Suddenly I was doing more than lamenting the fat, I was committing to doing something about it.
Out loud.

If just acknowledging we are too big with our mouths meant we are being proactive, I'd be equivalent to the Energizer Bunny.
If the spilling of our words burned calories, I would be hot.
Like, super hot.
I can burn words like nobody’s business.

Burning actual fat is a whole other piece of pie.

I can tell myself, “Hey you have THREE kids.” (And I have)
But guess what? I actually gave birth to the baby almost 16 years ago.
So ….. ???
I can tell myself, “It doesn’t really matter. Life’s too short. Eat what you want.” (And again, been there, said that)
And it’s partly true. Life is too short. But too short for what exactly??
Too short to not eat the fry?
Or too short to actually feel good about myself?
You see, I’ve used that line a zillion times. All overweight, unhealthy people have. It’s our solace (I’m actually enjoying my food while you eat rabbit grass) and our downfall (but I’d kill for your body. Kill for it. Not work for it. Duh).

If I can eat it and not rip myself to shreds afterwards, then F A B U L O U S.
But I can’t.
And it’s not because I ate.

It’s because I want something else more and I don’t think I’m worthy enough to have it.

Jeff can tell me I’m beautiful all day, every day.
He can kiss my belly and whisper it’s the sexiest thing he’s ever seen.
He can grab my butt like it’s the only thing in the world he wants to touch.
And sure, I’ll feel good.

Until the lights come back on.

Until he turns away from me and I look down to see stretch marks, and dimples, and waves where flatland should be.
Then it starts.
You know.
The whispers.
You. Are. So. Fat.
And Lumpy.
He only thinks that because he loves you. (Like this is a bad thing)
You felt him squeeze your roll, right?
Oh yeah, that’s attractive. (insert eyeroll)

Shutting these thoughts down requires a butt-ton of energy.
More energy than 30 minutes of working out. That much I know for sure.

You see, Jeff can say all those things to me. He can mean it too.
Every single time.
But it’s not his job to make me feel good about myself. It’s not for him to keep all the bad thoughts away. It’s not his place to pick me up every single day. It’s not his purpose to carry my self-worth.

That’s a burden too big for anyone.

I have to do it.
I have to look in my own eyes and say, “Ok, You were created for a purpose. Fearfully and wonderfully, you are made. Unique. Special. And altogether beautiful.”
That’s what my God says about me anyway.
My Papa. My Designer.
And if I think any different, I’m calling him a liar. Every time I criticize, every time I tear down; I am saying He did a bad job. And that’s just not true.
Everything he makes is good.

If I think it’s not good, it’s probably because I’m not treating it very well.

We all have our reasons right?
To not treat ourselves well. To make ourselves a dumping ground, or a party pad, or a junk yard.
We can take it way back to our daddy issues, the day someone walked out, the moment we were cheated on, the second someone took advantage of us and we wanted to disappear, when the popular kids called us fat, or maybe when we got passed over again and again and again by the guy we really liked because he liked our best girlfriend; the pretty one.
Maybe we feel safe here, snug in our yoga pants and over-sized sweatshirts, secure behind the filtered selfie that only gets us from the chest up, reassured in our husband’s voice that we are, that I am,
beautiful beautiful beautiful.

I have to tell you, I just got tired.
I’m tired of all this crap.
Tired of being tied to all the voices in my past.
Tired of looking in the mirror and sucking it in.
Tired of always choosing “extra large” at Target.
Tired of making another excuse.
Tired of hating summer and not because it’s hot (like I say), but because I can’t hide in my clothes. The thought of going to the beach leaves me in anxiety that ends up hiding itself in a container of Ben and Jerry’s (Chunkey Monkey please) and then a personal chew-out session in the mirror.
The self-hate. It doesn't just go away. We have to tell it to get the hell out. We have to push it to our edge and heave it over a cliff.

We have to choose US. I have to choose ME.
My Best Me (as my Coach would say).
Notice I am not saying, my skinniest me,or my hottest me, or my most-ripped me. I am saying my Best Me.
And I'm more than positive my Best Me doesn't include a lot of negative self-talk and more than a little body-hating.

I was ready.

And 21 days ago I decided to put my money in my health, my mouth to food that's fuel, and heaved my butt off the couch and started moving.

We all know when that moment comes. When what we have always been and always done no longer works for us.
No one can convince us.
No one can talk us into it.
We have to finally convince ourselves.
WHY NOT?
Why
not
me?
And so I read the instructional book, and I took pictures, and I prepped and prepped and prepped (there’s a lot of prepping) my food for the week.

Jeff helped me take my beginning measurements; one of the hardest things I have ever done. He’s seen me naked more times than I can count but this was the first time it was with a measuring tape. It looked like a death sentence.
I’ve never felt more exposed.
And so when he got to my stomach,
I began to cry.
My hands shook and I oscillated between wanting to vomit all over his head as knelt down to read the number, and yanking him up by his hair, screaming,“I’m sorry for being a number that’s going to make you want to turn around and leave!”
Me.
Turn around and leave
me.
Irrational.
Crazy. (issues ya’ll. For real)
Oh oh so real.
But he didn’t leave. And he didn’t pass out in horror. And he didn’t say, “Well it’s about time you did something.”
And he also didn’t say, “How ’bout a cheeseburger?”
He hugged me. Kissed my forehead.
And told me I was going to kick ass.

The first week of exercises I literally thought I was going to D I E.
I couldn’t do them all. My thighs burned. The side plank had me cursing as I tried over and over to heave my butt up off the floor and it refused me every
single
time.
It was like a bad date I couldn't leave. I was stuck there, counting the minutes until it was over.
My weights were only three pounds.
And let’s be real – I was worn out after the warm up.

But I grunted and sweated and heaved and lifted and I kept going.
60 seconds.
You can do anything for sixty seconds.
That’s what she kept saying. The lady in the video. The one you want to punch in the face every time you see her because she looks amazing and you look like death on a hot day.
But then I started to say it too.
And every day I felt stronger, tighter, smaller!

Until the night I bought the scale. And got on because I was feeling so good. And thought for some strange reason it was going to be my new bestest friend?
.
Thank God Jeff wasn't home.
Small mercies. For both of us.
I won’t tell you what my number was. Is. Still. After another week.
I will say it is higher than I thought.
I cried when I saw it.
And then I ate some chips.
And then I got out some dip and ate the chips and dip together.
And then I said (out loud for crazies sake), “Screw that effing work out.” (But I said it the real way, not the way we say it when we are trying to watch our mouths and make Jesus proud. I said it the way we do, the way I do, when I feel defeated and super pissed)
And I went to bed feeling like a giant, bloated whale who must have inhaled my very own Jonah and possibly the town of Nineveh too.

Thank God for new mornings and fresh starts. Thank God for a clear head and grace.
You have to look at the scale differently. This is what God told me.
(How do I know it was God? Because it was for my good, not harm.
And because it was sane.)
The scale measures our weight but it does not measure ourselves. We have to start seeing the difference. I have to see the difference.
I am not a number. I am me and all that encompasses. The scale is a line in the sand; sand that shifts and moves and erases.
It’s not permanent.

I did my workout that night and guess what?
I held that effing side plank for 30 seconds on each side. (a first ya’ll)
I squatted, low, weights at my shoulders, and held it without collapsing.
I use eight pound weights now, not three.
And instead of doing one 30 minute workout, I do doubles. One hour. (fist pump. YES.)
I grunt. I sweat. I shake until I think my limbs are going to fall off.
But
I
finish.
You ever see Legally Blonde? And in the movie everyone thinks she’s going to fail. She pushes ahead anyway and works hard, focusing on the goal; the summer internship. In the defining scene, everyone crowds in the school hallway, trying to see the list of names of who made it. She squeezes her way to the front, sees her name, turns and shouts triumphantly, “ME!” (and basically gives everyone the finger with her smile)

That’s how I feel every time I finish.
Every time I shakily get to my feet on my mat.
Every time I roll out of bed a little bit sore in the morning.
Every time I button my pants and they are a little less snug.
Every time I say “No thanks” to something unhealthy.
Every time I wrap the tape around my body and see the new number.
If I could, I’d high-five myself all over the place.
ME.
I am triumphant. (and giving dimply fat the finger).
I did more than I could 21 days ago, more than I could last week, and more than I could yesterday.

ME.

I am worth it.

You are too.

Ready?