I read a fantastic post the other day that totally describes my relationship with health and fitness…
“I did a push-up today…. Well, actually I fell down, but I had to use my arms to get back up, so, you know, close enough.”
I have started a million diets in my adult life. The Soup diet, 5 and 2, the Paleo and the Caveman, the one where you can only eat protein, the one you can only eat things that have fallen from a tree. I can tell you how many calories are in a cup of coffee, what sized steak you should be eating and what the experts say is the best way to burn fat. I know all the reasons why, the hows and how nots, and I’ve heard all the advice in the world. But none of it seems to have sunk in, magically burning away my extra floppy bits and making me fit back into my pre-baby clothes.
I know I have to get over my hump (or lumps) and get moving, starting eating kale and stop drinking. But there is a part of me that wishes that every time I just thought about losing weight, it would miraculously start burning calories. There wouldn’t be anything left of me!
The worst thing is, this is a battle I’ve fought before. Losing 25kg and then 30kg after the first loss crept back on. I know I’ve just got to get my head in the game, and I know how good it will feel as I achieve my goal.
So, wish me luck as I attempt a dust the cobwebs off the treadmill, go shopping for activewear and try to find my runners in the cupboard. There’s only so long I can live on excuses… and wine.