Uh oh. It’s that time of year again. I’m just six weeks away from my birthday, and the nudging voice inside my mind has begun its annual bleating.
This is the time of year I normally commit to a rigorous exercise regime, an über strict diet, and a nearly fanatic pursuit of the “ideal body” to flaunt on my birthday.
I’ll be turning 31 this year. Yikes. The years have flown by, haven’t they?
Last year, I was at the lowest weight of my [adult] life on my birthday: 123.8.
This year, I’m sitting around 132-134 (I haven’t weight myself in over a month, so I’m not sure) and I feel good. Yes, I’d like to get rid of the pooch of my waist and the chub on my thighs, but I feel strong, well-rested, and self-secure.
Since quitting my second job in mid-April, I’ve spent the last two months focusing on repairing my health from the ill effects of sleep deprivation, and I’ve finally reached a point where I feel my body has gained balance. I feel like I’m repaired, though not fully 100% just yet. The scars are healing nicely, though.
Even though the alarms in the back of my mind are sounding, I’m choosing to ignore them this year. If I weigh 120 or 140 on my birthday will not matter: what matters is spending the day with the people I love, and celebrating a life being lived to the fullest.
On that note… bon appetit, my friends!