I've given considerable thought, especially recently, to why my previous triple-digit weight loss didn't become, as I'd intended, a permanent life change.
It happened starting in 2000, after I experienced what turned out to be a minor brain attack. By the way, the brain attack had nothing to do with my excess weight. A blood clot traveled from my lung to my brain through a congenital hole in my heart. My left arm went numb, but my motor skills returned the next day.
But I dropped the weight -- about 150 pounds by February 2002 -- to prepare myself for open-heart surgery to correct the defect in my heart. I was, at that time, roughly 10 pounds lighter than I am now.
I loved being thinner and more athletic. I loved buying pretty clothes, some of them from thrift store racks. I loved being able to sit in a movie theater without chafing my hips. And I especially loved how the woman who guided my post-surgery exercise regimen -- a nice young woman named Vonda, at UW Health at Research Park -- observed, "Most of my patients, I have to push. You, I'll have to hold back."
So what happened?
Was it entirely because Jay and I started a new life in the Twin Cities in 2003? Was it because the 30-mile commute and crazy hours with my new job (editor of a suburban weekly newspaper, a job I loved) led me to eat more Starbucks scones in the morning, and more Filet-O-Fish sandwiches (with fries) at noon? Was it because the cost of access to LifeTime Fitness facilities was prohibitively high for someone earning slave wages, and the less expensive Eden Prairie Recreation Center was hard to access conveniently during my working hours? Was it because I first started experiencing knee pain when I attempted to make time for trail walks along Lake Smetana during my work day?
It was all those things.
But the biggest failure factor was something more spiritual and intangible.
I never really made friends with the thinner, healthier version of myself.
I always tended to think of Lyn the Thin, Lyn the Gym Rat and Lyn the Swimmer as "her" and not as "me." In the depths of my mind, the real me was the bigger me.
As much as I'm able, I don't intend to make that mistake twice.
This body -- this closer-to-the-ideal-BMI body, this body that craves vegetables and lap-lane time -- isn't a stranger. This is my body, my identity.
That woman in the mirror? The one with the visible ribs and collar bone? The one without the double chin? That's not a "her." That's "me." Or, to be grammatically correct (predicate nominative), that is I.
And that's my best chance for staying this fit, this time.
It happened starting in 2000, after I experienced what turned out to be a minor brain attack. By the way, the brain attack had nothing to do with my excess weight. A blood clot traveled from my lung to my brain through a congenital hole in my heart. My left arm went numb, but my motor skills returned the next day.
But I dropped the weight -- about 150 pounds by February 2002 -- to prepare myself for open-heart surgery to correct the defect in my heart. I was, at that time, roughly 10 pounds lighter than I am now.
I loved being thinner and more athletic. I loved buying pretty clothes, some of them from thrift store racks. I loved being able to sit in a movie theater without chafing my hips. And I especially loved how the woman who guided my post-surgery exercise regimen -- a nice young woman named Vonda, at UW Health at Research Park -- observed, "Most of my patients, I have to push. You, I'll have to hold back."
So what happened?
Was it entirely because Jay and I started a new life in the Twin Cities in 2003? Was it because the 30-mile commute and crazy hours with my new job (editor of a suburban weekly newspaper, a job I loved) led me to eat more Starbucks scones in the morning, and more Filet-O-Fish sandwiches (with fries) at noon? Was it because the cost of access to LifeTime Fitness facilities was prohibitively high for someone earning slave wages, and the less expensive Eden Prairie Recreation Center was hard to access conveniently during my working hours? Was it because I first started experiencing knee pain when I attempted to make time for trail walks along Lake Smetana during my work day?
It was all those things.
But the biggest failure factor was something more spiritual and intangible.
I never really made friends with the thinner, healthier version of myself.
I always tended to think of Lyn the Thin, Lyn the Gym Rat and Lyn the Swimmer as "her" and not as "me." In the depths of my mind, the real me was the bigger me.
As much as I'm able, I don't intend to make that mistake twice.
This body -- this closer-to-the-ideal-BMI body, this body that craves vegetables and lap-lane time -- isn't a stranger. This is my body, my identity.
That woman in the mirror? The one with the visible ribs and collar bone? The one without the double chin? That's not a "her." That's "me." Or, to be grammatically correct (predicate nominative), that is I.
And that's my best chance for staying this fit, this time.
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