Par for the course, I don’t know what to write about. That doesn’t stop me—nay, I must slay this beast.
But the mental and physical toll of dismantling the regrettably free piece-of-shit treadmill reminded me of that wired metal wand you use to pick up micro–machine-sized human bones in the game Operation. One wrong move and zzzzzt. To loosen a screw on a machine could mean certain death. At least that’s how it felt. My more realistic fear was an unpaired part slamming to the ground on my or Evelyn’s exposed toes.
Ah—those toes remind me of something from earlier.
With three errands on the list, Dave, Evelyn, and I made a 30-minute drive.
“Uh, Mom,” I heard, Evelyn’s tone slightly escalated, after I exited and closed the passenger-side door. When I opened her door directly behind me, I caught her gaze—down at her barren tootsies—and immediately knew our full-time barefoot girl had forgotten shoes.
In a hushed voice, shamefully on display, I asked one of the three librarians at the counter, “My daughter left her shoes at home… would she be okay to come in?”
There was a long, silent sigh. I braced myself.
“Technically, no,” she said. “But this counter is high. I can’t see anything below it.”
Jackpot.
I fasted for 26 hours—starting yesterday at 10:30 a.m. and ending today at 12:30 p.m. I’ve been kicking butt, losing eight pounds in nine days. This time around, my body is a willing participant. Sure, there are unbearable moments where I want to swish seasoned foods over every taste bud and feel that satisfying swallow, knowing my belly’s demands are met. But those pass.
Also, my app—Fasty, my not-eating-to-eating time tracker—is oddly comforting. I like knowing when I’m supposedly in fat-burning mode or ketosis, even though I’ve read the research, and it’s basically a wash when those actually start. Still. Data soothes me.
My biggest motivator is feeling good in my body. The heavier I get, the more aches, bad feelings, and lingering injuries pile up. Staying at a weight that’s too heavy for my frame is a non-negotiable no. I have a long life ahead—one where I want to be active, travel, and be around for Evelyn.
In the treadmill’s former spot now sits a large mat, my yoga mat, a six-foot mirror, and various exercise equipment. Just before sitting down to write, I knocked out 20 sit-ups, six knee push-ups, and ten lunges per leg on a balance ball. The fact that this setup is feet from where I’m sitting makes me think it’ll get far more use than my purse-hanger treadmill ever did.
Dang. I’m done typing early for a change. I’m feeling a movie—something old and funny that I haven’t seen in a while. I’m thinking Austin Powers, or Ace Ventura, or something equally silly. Let’s see what Dave thinks.
Lastly, I made two medium loaves of French bread that I can’t touch until tomorrow. And yet their smell drifting through the house has my stomach making demands. But that just comes with fasting territory.
Mental toughness.
Love, Jaclynn
Going On 40 