The Angry Typist

Children’s squeals & laughter filled the background. Mothers sat by their strollers busied themselves on their phones. Many sat with their bellies lazily lounging on their laps, only to be bested by muffin tops hanging over the sides of mom jeans. These were the days before the popularity of leggings, it was either jeans or sweatpants. It was our badge of courage of being a mother, I thought to myself. This is what mothers are supposed to look like. I made peace with it.

A few years later, I had reset my career path and worked for a company who incentivized its employees to complete their annual physical with full bloodwork. My results came back that I was pre-diabetic. All the years of longing to be thin again, to be a size 0 again, to feel attractive again, were not enough to motivate action. However, the complications of diabetes did. I downloaded a food tracking app and forced myself to the gym the very next day. I started with 15 minutes on the treadmill once a week. When it became second nature, I walked for 30 minutes twice a week. I started balancing my nutrition as if it were a checkbook, and the weight began to melt off. Gym and eating at a deficit were how I was going to get my bloodwork back in check. I made peace with it.  

It took 18 months to surpass my goal weight, and it dawned on me that there was no going back to cheesecakes, milkshakes, and ice creams. There was no going back to dialing back the gym. Gym & eating responsibly were my life choices going forward. It was a startling fact that I had not considered. With much reluctance, I made peace with it.

I had beaten the odds – I lost 36lbs and kept it off. I remained vigilant in staying physically active. But age was catching up to me. Perimenopause was rearing its ugly tentacles. Panic filled me, a sense of defeat started to set in, what once worked was no longer working. Despite dutifully going to 6-7 HIIT classes every week and barely eating anything, the scale continued to creep up. It was time to uproot all that was comfortable and familiar and embrace what I had so successfully avoided for years – strength training. Serious strength training. Not just resistant band training once or twice a week, not simply lifting dumb bells here & there, but actual strength training with barbell and plates. The thought of It made me nauseous as I never participated in any school sports or by any means naturally athletic. But it was the only way to mitigate the natural muscle attrition of 3%-8%. I made peace with it.

Crossfit. I knew I was going to put on muscles. I knew muscles weights more than fat. I knew increased muscles under fat would mean that a lot of my clothes would no longer fit as they  once did. I knew that dreadful number on the scale would continue to climb. I knew my only way to emotionally survive this process is to completely ignore the scale for the next 12-18 months. I made peace with it.

All the newbie lifting PRs have come to a grinding halt. I have become Norm of Cheers and everybody at the ‘Box’ knows my name. I no longer feel like a fish out of water around barbells and plates, or the rig, or jump rope. My old eating strategy to shed weight has no impact and that SOB Peri M. is in full force sabotaging every effort. I’m losing focus. Goals are out of my grasp. I am at a lost. And the constant physical uncomfortableness is now my life. I made peace with it.

I shivered slightly in the early Midwest winter morning. The sun had yet to rise, and it was difficult to determine whether it was 6 a.m. or 5 p.m. just by looking out the window. In an instant, as if someone flipped a switch, sweat starts to cumulate under both of my breasts. Beads of sweat emerge from every follicle and race each other down to drench my underwear. I cannot remove my layers quickly enough to cool off, short of running outside topless. Sometimes I sweat through the sheets. Sometimes through both sheets and covers. I can no longer sleep through the night. I fired my unsympathetic and poorly trained Family Practitioner and sought a specialist. An OB/GYN, which I naively thought was strictly for childbearing women. I was gravely mistaken. Within days, I get relief and a glimmer of normalcy. My only reprieve is that my weight has remained the same for the last year. I made peace with it.

I grew up under the mindset that as we get older, we should slow down and move as little as possible, to do as little for oneself as necessary. It is considered great fortune to be waited on hand and foot. However, this fantasy of Chinese great fortune is contrary to reality. Studies after study show that the true fountain-of-youth is to keep moving, be more physically active, and mentally engaged. This was an exceedingly difficult truth to accept although I intellectually understood the science. I made peace with it.

My first annual physical and bloodwork after COVID did not go well. My bloodwork results have never been this severely out of the normal ranges. I was devastated. I was disappointed. I felt defeated. But I had also suspected my complete abandonment of any cardio would result in higher glucose and I knew an easy remedy. I had to be more physically active but not necessarily spend more time in the gym. I made peace with it.

In addition to WOD 4-5 times a week, I added running 1-mile 4 times a week. I walk 1-mile with a weighted vest once a week. I even started playing pickleball at least once a week. I also finally admitted the missing component to drive progress was nutrition, so I enrolled in the Nutrition program. I focus on protein intake and fueling my body with more nutritious-rich foods to support my current goals. I check in with my nutrition coach once a week complete with progress photos. I started a monthly 3D Fit scan to track progress. And for the first time in over 2.5 years, the scale moved. The 3D Fit scan shows progress of fat loss and increase lean muscle mass. This is what it will take to be healthy as a menopausal woman and finally look like I put in the work. I made peace with it.