As of May 7, I have run 224 miles this year. I've had this goal in the back of my mind since late 2007 to run 1000 miles in a year. I think I hit 700 that year, a year when I was "single," young (lol), pretty fit, and running a lot. And 20 lbs lighter than now.
To hit 1000, I'd need to run 3.26 miles/day for the remainder of the year. Just about 100 miles/month, or 25/week. I'd really need to pick it up. Should I try? I'm not sure.
I feel like a bit of a health and fitness failure these days. I've put on 20 lbs in 4.5 years, 10 of that in the last 9 months or so.
Chris has lost a lot of weight postpartum; I've gained it in my tired, snacky, struggling to stay awake at work (which has turned into habit I guess) state. Good runs for me now are at 9:30, not 8:30 pace. I've been talking about hitting a 2 hr half again since 2009, but haven't done it since before the Great Foot Incident of 2008.
I have a lot of issues with food. I don't have it laid out clearly enough in my head to get into, but in short, I'm such an emotional eater and a boredom eater, and I think like a fat person. "You've had some, you've failed the diet already, might as well have some more." I've been known to eat sugar out of the jar. I don't see anything weird at all about eating chips (the chocolate kind) out of the bag. Now that we're living near my parents again (and I have the perspectives of age and distance, or lack thereof perhaps), I see how many of my habits mimic my mom's. She was on a "diet" to some degree my whole life. Talks about good and bad food, of doing better tomorrow, of water weight, of starting over. She lacks the confidence to do much about it, or to push herself physically. I've been "watching" my weight since I was 12.
18 years. 18 fucking years.
I've been counting calories for nearly 2 fucking decades.
I was a chubby 10 year old. I starting lying about what I ate at 11 when my mom wouldn't let me have dessert if I had more than 3 (maybe it was 2) Chips Ahoy at my grandma's house after school. At 12 I was thin again. I ate a granola bar for lunch. At 15, I was "fat". 150 lbs. A size 10. At 17, I ate a max of 1200 calories a day. I got down to 123. I was cold. My nails peeled. At 19, I was 190+. I have no idea what I peaked at. I had a lot of stretch marks. At 21, I was a fit 150. I was kind of hot then. At 24, I was around 175, 180. At 27, 158 or so, and ran 2 marathons under 4:30. At 30, 175ish buck naked and freshly peed in the morning.
That's where 18 fucking years of calorie counting has gotten me. Up and down on the scale and with a big complex about my size, and weight, and ability to lose weight, and ability to get into shape (my issues with my athletic ability, or lack thereof, are a whole other post).
I don't want to pass these issues to my girls. Now, granted, Chris was a pin thin kid (And still more or less is as an adult) and these girls are tiny at the moment. But I still worry about giving them a complex.
I really am not sure what to do at this point. I "know" how to eat well. I know "what" to do to lose weight, to get fit, etc. But motivation? Success? Confidence? Follow through?