Up, up, and away.

My size 10 pants are getting kind of snug.  I can still wear them (and do, out of necessity what with the recent horrors of shopping I’ve experienced), but I think I’d like them better in 12s. 

Since early April until now, I’ve gone from a 4 to a 12.   I’m still exercising every day (though for 30 – 75 minutes, not two hours), and eating in a very normal, reasonable kind of way, but it’s shocking to me.  How desperate must my body have been to get back to this weight?  No wonder I was hungry all the time and felt like my body was falling apart.

Honestly, the entire time I was losing weight I always kind of thought that if I just let myself be, my body would probably naturally settle at a size 12.  I don’t know why–it just seemed like where my body wanted to be.  And now here I am, inching back into a 12 and, to my suprise and glee, I’m not bothered by it.  Maybe because it’s what I always expected to be.  Maybe because the relief of not having to count out grapes for a snack is still so delightful.

I’m rounder now, but I also feel stronger.  I can see that it’s easier to develop muscle now that I’m getting enough fuel, and I don’t feel light-headed and dizzy during runs.  My body rarely hurts anymore; my hip has stopped aching and my ankles feel solid.  I still almost giggle when I get to go out for a meal without having to get online and research if there’s anything at that restaurant I can eat, and I love knowing that I can bake cookies just because I want to and it’s not going to turn into some kind of vicious test of my willpower. 

I am particularly enjoying just being honest–not making up reasons I can’t go out for happy hour on a Friday night or have sushi with my sister or try a homemade brownie from a coworker.  Not finding ways to cover how much I was exercising.  Not lying.

It’s been interesting to watch myself gain weight in this way and I am so grateful that it hasn’t been as painful as I expected it would.  In fact, it’s been an unexpected blessing.