In 2004, a year I contend might well have been the best year of my life, I embarked upon a difficult but exciting journey that began when my doctor’s trusty physician’s assistant suggested I might ought to do something about my health. After casting about for a few days, I resolved to 86 sugar and other white stuff from my diet, and saw tremendous results from my efforts. Over the course of the subsequent seven months or so, I shed so much weight I could hardly believe the person in the mirror was actually *me*. Mind you, even at my lowest size, I never felt anywhere close to skinny (or even necessarily at a good end-goal weight), but I definitely felt more energetic and focused than I ever had before in my life. Not only did I feel great physically, but I felt emboldened to try things (physical activities) for the first time that had, mere months before, scared the living daylights out of me.
Fast forward to today, some 3 1/2 years later, and I’m more or less back to where I began. It’s unfortunate, I know, but not something I dwell on much. Until, that is, I was cleaning out the closet this past weekend and was reminded of how much tinier I was after forsaking sugar for seven months.
Seven months. That’s not all *that* long, and the sheer difference in clothing size is enough to boggle my mind.
At any rate, I’m not disappointed in myself for having gotten back to this awful place, nor am I mad that life intervened and I got all, as they say, “fat and happy.” But now I’m not happy anymore, and I don’t think I can be feeling this tired and weighed-down (quite literally) by everything.
That’s why, a couple of weeks ago, I began warming myself up mentally to return to a sugar-free lifestyle, and particularly after the discouraging closet cleaning this weekend, officially gave up sugar Monday.
I generally despise making big life changes on Mondays, but it just happened to be the day after I was finally able to steal away 45 minutes of time to go to the grocery store and stock up on the necessities to make this work — stuff we could make for dinner (and breakfast supplies for myself) that Daniel is willing to eat and I can have.
Anyway, I’m now halfway through day three, and I am remembering (in full, unadulterated misery) how terrible I felt during the first week of the sugar boycott last time around. The end goal here is higher energy levels and constantly feeling full, but the first week requires enduring exactly the opposite and to excess. I am ready to crawl into bed at every waking moment, am (figuratively speaking) absolutely starving (despite the fact that I loaded up on veggies and two grilled chicken breasts at lunchtime), and have had a permanent headache the size of Montana since Monday afternoon.
Week one sucks.
But I am trying to remain focused on the payoff — that next week, I should be feeling like a million bucks.
In 2004, I eased in, making a few novice mistakes (trusting “wheat” to mean “whole wheat,” when it clearly rarely does) here and there, and only barely beginning an exercise regimen, and I managed to lose 20 lbs. in a single month. It was astonishing — breathtaking — just the kick start I needed to commit to this lifestyle change.
I know it’s unrealistic to expect that kind of overwhelming success this time around, but I am eager to see where I’m at come July 25 — the week before I leave for England, incidentally — and how much better I feel.
Wish me luck.
And pass the almonds.