I've been feeling a bit low and sorry for myself the last few days. Realising there I still a fair way to go (probably about 30 lbs) and at the same time realising that maintenance is certainly now on the horizon, and that's scaring the bloody shit out of me. Sticking to rigid bootcamp rules for 6 months feels much easier than the thought of negotiating food choices.
Anyway, I've been looking at late winter/early spring holidays and idly noticed the luggage allowance is 22kgs (about 48.5 pounds). And I can't lift my own suitcase onto the conveyor belt normally. Then realising that packed suitcase represents exactly the amount I've lost this year - I was carrying that bloody suitcase everywhere. Every step I took. Every time I climbed the stairs, sat on a chair, got out of the bath, went for a walk, cooked dinner, made a phone call. Literally everywhere, that suitcase was clutched to my body. I can't believe it really. How could I have done that for decades? I'm not even sure how I'm still standing to be honest. That suitcase has been heaved off and on operating tables. It's been pushed into MRI machines. It's been anaesthetised and drugged and operated on 5 times in the last few years. I'm now not sure if I want to lying sobbing on the floor in pity for it, or celebrate how strong it must have been to never, not for a moment, been able to put that suitcase down.
You know when you get on a tube or train with a big piece of (real) luggage? How people tut and sigh when it gets in their way, or encroaches on their space, and how flustered you feel because there isn't anywhere to put it? And that was my LIFE. Constantly being embarrassed by the amount of space I occupied. All because I was carrying that damn suitcase. And all the low fat eating in the world just didn't make a difference. And all through it all, you function, hold down a job, raise kids, live a life, still carrying the suitcase. Yet all the fat shaming messages would have us as lazy or stupid. Yet actually, maybe we are incredibly strong.