Fatty

(This post is brought to you by the big fat letter "F." Oh, and the shock and horror that plagued me after looking at pictures taken of me last week.)

Last night I couldn't sleep.

In between my wide-eyed state and falling asleep, my mind was racing with thoughts of how pitiful my current active lifestyle has become. Or lack of it, to be more accurate.

I've been lucky most of my life. Growing up, I ate whatever I wanted and never gained an ounce. I even went on a diet once to gain weight because even I knew I was too skinny (especially after my Scoliosis surgery when I weighed in at a big fat 90 lbs. I only remember this weight because my brother kept calling me the "90 pound weakling," which I was.) and my doctor concurred. At the recommendation of that doctor, the "diet" consisted of a big milkshake every night before bed. Oh to go back to those days . . .

I remained in a fairly toothpick-skinny state up until college. And then finally after three meals day in and day out at Deseret Tower's Morris Center, my metabolism finally started slowing down. That's when my round chubby cheeks (on my face! . . . okay and probably somewhere else) kicked in.

And I was fine with it, because the rest of my body was still pretty skinny. And besides, I was a Candrian and Candrians just don't get fat. I had nothing to worry about.

And then I got married. Yikes. I always made fun of girls who gained weight after getting married. "Why do they let themselves go like that?" I always thought. And although I'm pretty sure my weight gain had more to do with leaving a walking-city like D.C. to a drive-only place like Richmond, less than it did with marriage, I still shuttered that my pants were all getting tighter and tighter.

Then I got pregnant and finally, it was okay to be fat. So it wasn't such a big deal.

After I had James I was so lucky. So SO lucky. Within three weeks of having him, my body was back to even my pre-marriage weight, maybe even pre-college weight. The fat melted off like butter (and obviously went straight to Jamers, because did you see his cheeks when he was a baby!?!). It was the most amazing thing I have ever witnessed, besides a child being pulled from my cut open body, of course. It was like having a baby was a miracle diet. In fact, the other day I caught myself thinking "I need to lose weight badly. Maybe I should have another baby." (no comments on this one, please!) Those two things usually don't go together, but they did for me and it was awesome!

Now 18 months later, I am back to where I started before James, but worse. Much worse.

And I have no one to blame but my fatty self. I exercise only if you call chasing a toddler around exercising. I eat well, for the most part. But only if you call sneaking cookies into my diet eating well.

And it was all these thoughts and more that were swimming around in my brain as I tried to sleep last night. And then I had the most terrible thought of all: What if one day I am diagnosed with a terrible disease and my doctor looks at me and says "If you were in better shape this disease wouldn't be a problem, but since you're not . . . well, I'm sorry."

So, today I publicly announce that I am going to start exercising. Real exercising. Maybe I'll even use that darn Bowflex that's been sitting in our guest room untouched since we moved here.

And maybe even I'll swear off of sugar for a few weeks (realistically, I might have to start with a few days first) just to see if it helps.

And then maybe I'll be able to finally get some sleep at night.