I'll preface this with some background just in case, by some bizarre twist of the Google lords, you don't already know me in person. I've been following Weight Watchers since January 2012. I started out at around... 237 lbs (that's about 17 stone, if you're British); now I'm hovering around 170 lbs (12.2 stone). So, I've lost about 67 lbs altogether at this point. And as this is the thinnest I can ever remember being since the age of 12, it's pretty fucking awesome.
Since losing weight, I've experienced all kinds of lovely things that someone who has always been in relatively good shape probably wouldn't notice.... Like when I discovered that collarbones are not just a mythical body part, but that I actually have some. (I still marvel at them in the mirror sometimes, like I think they might've disappeared since the last time I looked or something.)
Most recently, I had to buy a belt, not just for the sake of fashion, but actually to hold my pants up! Thin people reading this are probably like 'Uh.... duh?' But, having always had more than enough stomach chub to hold up the pants of TWO people, I was inordinately proud of myself... Like a small child who has just gone poo-poo in the big potty for the first time. "MOMMY, I BOUGHT A BELT! :B "
But there are some down sides. Exercise still sucks. I suppose I thought at some point, after losing weight, it would become something easy and enjoyable, the way thin people make it look on TV.... And that is very much not the case. Those thin TV people are fucking liars, because it still sucks. If anyone tells you otherwise, they are either lying to fuck with you, or you're talking to a replicant.
What's worse though is this: you can't spot train. Meaning that I can lift weights until I'm blue in the face, but that under-arm flab is still going to be there. Yeah, it'll be sloshing around over a bundle of hard-ass muscle, but... The sloshing really kind of kills the effect, y'know?
So, I find myself here: flollumping along on the elliptical machine, grimacing as I wheeze for breath, the sweat drizzling down the back of my head (of all the fucking places) and from my armpits... And there sits the fat, clinging to my stomach like a koala*, refusing to budge no matter how much I flollump or how many goddamn apples I eat instead of cookies.
Sigh. I miss you, cookies.
*Note that I am not in any way glamorizing my fat by comparing it to a koala; koalas, albeit adorable, are actually vicious little bastards who would cut you as soon as look at you.
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