I’ve been meaning to head back to the gym for a long time (since I moved to Oxford 2 years ago, to be exact), and I figured that since I’ll be posing in my underwear in just over a month, now was as good a time as ever.
And although I’m more in the “look what I can do!” camp of fitness and health rather than the “look how small my jeans are!” camp, I’d be lying if I said I didn’t care how I look. I mean, who doesn’t? And this concern has definitely been exacerbated by the fact that we’re having our engagement and my boudoir photos shot in just a little over a month from now.
But I also am going to try my darnedest to avoid falling into the trap I’ve fallen into so many times–the trap of counting every single calorie that goes in and out of my body, to the point that I’m obsessive and miserable, to the point that I get so frustrated with my body that I stop realizing it’s my body and not a machine, to the point that I can’t stop thinking about the number on the scale, to the point I think I’m a failure because I can’t lose more than 5 pounds, to the point that I stop loving myself.
And so far? I’m doing okay. I’ve been to the gym 2 days now. And I haven’t counted a single calorie. I won’t know how much weight I’ve lost, because I haven’t stepped on a scale–and I don’t plan to. But my abs and thighs hurt. And I’ve got a date with some bicep curls tomorrow.