mirror, mirror, on the wall...

It has been quite some time, my lovelies. I have missed you.

But I have been busy. The holidays, a trip to South Carolina at the end of January, and back to the gym after that. And I must say, I'm exhausted.

I am utterly and completely exhausted. I started back to the gym at the beginning of last week, and I went back full-force, doing what I did for as long as I did back when I was still in school, and the gym was just a walk up the hill in the snow. I'm going to be honest here - I stopped going to the gym when I graduated, and I moved to Providence, went through two more jobs, and then finally came back to Connecticut to be where I wanted to be, and to do what I wanted to do. And I am much happier. But in those 8 months, I gained 10lbs. Which, ok, I suppose isn't much considering I didn't work out for that whole time, minus the hiking I did when I came back to Connecticut, and some, er, personal time with James once a week or so. But the point is, 10lbs. So I have decided to go back to the gym - the gym being, of course, the gym at Eastern, which is about 15 miles away. This seemed like a good idea, as I would get to see more of my friends that have not yet graduated, including James, which is always a good thing in my book.

But then I started back. By the end of the first week, my muscles were absolute jello. On Thursday night, I learned that one can indeed limp on both legs. I hadn't gone out all week (which = no alcohol) and I was going to bed at a reasonable time and I was still constantly exhausted. I took the weekend off, as I had always done, and when Monday night rolled around, I was still tired. Tuesday night I had a bit of a nervous breakdown while on the phone with my mother - I was too tired, I said. I can't take a night off from the gym because it hasn't become a habit yet, and I'll keep coming up with excuses to take the night off. I really want to lose this weight. I haven't been happy, really happy, with the way I look since I was 14. Ok, maybe 15. The point is, that was 6 or 7 years ago. That can't be good for your self-esteem, right? I mean, I know in my heart that I'm not ugly and I'm not really all that fat, but I can still make progress.

And while talking to my friend Allison today, I've decided that this extra fabulousness that has taken up residence around my midsection, it's probably due to a couple of things that have nothing to do with eating badly, alcohol, or lack of exercise. Weird, eh?

We decided that it's entirely probable that it's stress and these damn birth control pills. They warn you about weight gain, and you think, that's ok, it's better than baby weight, right? And yes, when you're 17 this is certainly the case. Sadly I am coming to a point in my life where babies would be great (post-marriage, anyway, which would also be great, to be honest), and this $20 a month and however many pounds I put on since I started taking it at 16 are starting to make me nuts. Of course, I realize that the practical side of this is that I keep on them, because let's face it, I can barely afford to feed myself at this point, much less a baby - not to mention my lack of health insurance. So that's really a moot point at the current date.

The other is stress. I was watching a show on BBC America this afternoon called Turn Back Your Body Clock. The subject was a 40something woman who smoked 2 packs a day and drank like a Brit. She's a traveling counselor, which is stressful in like 40 different ways. The doctor told her that stress can actually make you fat - when you're stressed out, your body produces the fight-or-flight chemical, and when it isn't used up in fighting or fleeing, it gets stored as sugars and, eventually, fats, in your body, usually in your belly. And belly fat is the worst kind to have for some reason, they keep telling us, it's more of an indicator to the risks of heart disease than any other fat on your body.

And this concerns me. There's a history of heart disease in my family, high blood pressure and diabetes (adult onset). And the real indicators of fat - fingers, hands, wrists, calves, feet, ankles - aren't fat on me. I'm blaming my thighs on my mother, but I suppose I can blame the rest of it on me. My mother is always telling me I beat myself up constantly about everything, how I feel like a failure at life, despite the fact that I'm 21 with a college degree, living by myself, paying all my own bills, my own car, I have a healthy relationship with someone I love, I have a job I love absolutely to death, I like getting up in the morning, I like going to bed at night, I have friends that appreciate me, I don't have a lack of a social life, etc., etc., etc.... and because I have to go back to the casino, for instance, to pay for my trip to Disney World in May (etc), I feel like I've failed. What?

James is constantly telling me I need to relax. I worry about money so fervently that I cry over it. Welcome to America, no one has enough money for the style of living that they'd like. I worry that I'm fat, I worry that he's not going to love me anymore because I gained some weight. I worry that if he does still love me despite those pounds, and I get pregnant, I'm never going to lose the baby weight. I'm terrified of being a fat mom.

I worry about being fat (ok, sometimes ugly). I worry about eating too much; I worry about not eating enough. I worry about not having health insurance (which, ok, I grant is probably legitimate). I worry about taking the GREs, and I worry about getting into grad school, and I worry about the bills that haven't come. I worry about my fairly small $1200 credit card bill. I worry about not being able to afford to buy a house until I'm like 40 and my kids are in high school. I worry about the wedding that hasn't been planned - that hasn't even been proposed - the honeymoon to follow and having to come back to work afterwards. I worry about not being able to live with James. I worry that he won't find a job. I worry I'll get pregnant before I want to. I worry that I won't be able to get pregnant. I worry I won't be a good mom. I worry he won't be a good dad. I worry my kids will be ugly; I worry my kids will be stupid; I worry my kids will be violent or mean. I worry I won't be able to give them the life they deserve. I worry that I won't ever move up in the job world. I worry James won't get a job he likes. I worry about my sister and her fiance; I worry about THEIR financial situation. I worry about my rent, my electric bill, my car payment, my car insurance, my internet. I worry I'll never be able to afford to do the small things in life that I want to do - go to Alaska, take yoga classes, take my kids to baseball (or whatever) games, visit their grandparents, have a lot of property around my house, retire before I'm 80...

Wow. Enumerating them has made me feel even more ridiculous than I did before. Away from your eyes, good reader, I will lump these excessive worries into two categories: practical worries and idiocies. Note that most of them will probably fall into the latter. They are things I cannot do anything about. I cannot do anything about being ugly, which I probably am not. I cannot do about my children being ugly or stupid. I can't do anything about my sister. The list goes on.

So what I was advised to do, since I eat healthy and I am healthy and I'm not really all that fat, honestly, that I need to focus on me. I need to focus on my mental health. I need to get to a place where I am happy and comfortable with what I see in the mirror in the morning, that I do not worry about anything that isn't hugely major - everyone worries about money - I have to learn how to take a compliment and to not rely on them as a mental crutch. In short, I've got to fish my self-esteem out of the sewers, which in turn will probably help the worrying/stress situation, which, hell, might make me lose weight.

We shall see.