The Path To Hotness

     When we are young, our parents often tell us things that we don't understand or that make no sense to us until much later in life, things like anything worth doing is worth doing well, or nothing tastes as good as skinny feels. I confess that my parents didn't tell me that one, but I have learned it to be true over my 11 week long journey to fit.
    I embarked on my new health challenge at the beginning of the year, and except for one lone glass of wine with friends, a planned one, I have stuck to it. I have not missed one of the 66 exercise sessions, or 11 dietitian appointments. I walked and run countless miles (unless you follow me on fitbit; the actual number is there for you to see and me to gloat over). I'm sure I have east coast friends who are staying up late because they are afraid that I have a three hour jump on them and might out step them when they sleep. (Girl, stop jogging in your 600 square foot apartment! You are disturbing the neighbors below you). I've endured weekly weigh-ins whose anticipation leave me so anxious and afraid that I might not have not lost anything and have taught me a new meaning of "dressing light". I have even sunken to the level of weighing my clothes on weigh day to see which outfit is lighter and hoped that no one noticed that yes, I do, in fact, wear the same outfit every Tuesday.
    I have seen my body change in good ways, easing back into muscular, my run time improve from "barely scraping through the 5K" to "Hot damn, I'm actually running and I can't hear what you're saying because you are now behind me and I will see you at the finish line." What has not happened is that I have not awakened so sore that I wan't to call my trainer something that his mother did not name him. 

Until now. 

(I have, however, told him I hate him on many an occasion. He just smiles. He's young and I'm not paying his mortgage. He might not even be listening. I will check for earplugs next time).
     I've experienced some soreness, and I'm sure the trainer was trying, but nothing like this morning. My hips felt as if they were going to fuse in place and my upper abs were so sore I didn't want my husband to even lay his arm across me. I opened my eyes and I was so stiff that  for a minute, I was sure that I had been tied to the bed over night by miniature torture people, a la Gulliver's Travels.
     On such a spring like day, I'd been contemplating wearing a cute outift that I couldn't have gotten into two months ago without looking like one of those people in those People of Walmart pictures. Once I finally got out of bed, I tired to burn the pain away in my shower, (It only has two settings. OFF, and 2nd degree burn), then slipped into my outfit. I really did. I slipped into it. I even tucked my blouse into my skirt instead of wearing it on the outside. And didn't look like a sausage, either. A victory, yes, but I still couldn't move. 
       I pushed through my morning routine, as just as I went down the steps to leave, my husband leans on the banister and says THE WORDS that make it all worthwhile. "You're looking hot today."
Let me write it again. "You're looking hot today." No modifier. Not kinda hot. Not sort of hot. Just "Hot". 

Alright now! 

To some, a husband telling their wife that she looks hot is no big deal. It's a big deal to me. Mine tells the truth. Kindly, but he still tells it. And its far better than the compliment (sort of) my teen daughter gave me. She said "Mom, you hips are bigger than your middle now." That's just crazy. I still haven't' figured out what she was trying to say, because if you have seen me, you know that if my waist was EVER bigger than my hips, I wouldn't have been able to fit the the door in my house, even if I turned sideways. I would have known, because, as I mentioned, my husband tells the truth.

His simple statement changed my outlook and made me think differently. His words triggered an aha moment for a tidbit of wisdom that if I hadn't heard before, I should have.

The Path to Hotness May be fraught with Pain. 
I will admit that the statement is kind of Siddartha-esque, but one man's nirvana is another person's hotness.

I'm not going to cuss my trainer tonight. I'm sure there are other things he would rather be doing.  I'm not even going to cuss at him at the unholy hour of 7AM on Saturday. (I still have no idea what makes me think that time made sense, besides, I am paying him.).
I am, however, going to keep going for one more month. Twelve more pounds. I have lost twenty six so far, and it looks good OFF of me. It feels good too.

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