Fast forward a couple years.
I'm still impatient and frustrated with working out. I still haven't been so good at applying what I've learned to a lifestyle that's conducive to replacing this firkin keg of a tummy with a six pack. But I'm better at life. So much better that I'm fat and happy. But not happy that I'm fat.
That's not embracing cognitive dissonance, is it?
Fat because I'm happy
I've been so happy though, that I don't always notice the outline of my navel against my shirts (all of which seem to have mysteriously shrunk in the wash).Or the way my cheeks look extra full.
When you're this content with life in general, when almost every day is celebrated with stout and weekends call for a perfectly cellared belgian or flemish sour, when you raid your own raisinet dish with no shame, when your bearded half suggests we join Ben and Jerry to relax with some Trek...
...when it's this good, you don't notice how much more you've packed on a small frame until you see the pictures from his sister's wedding.
Or from the brewing competition.
Or the beer fest... or the other beer fest.
Getting Back Up
Just because I've tubbed up an eensy bit doesn't mean I have to be miserable and because of this, I'm embracing exercise in a completely different way. I might not love it and it gets downright frustrating, but on the other hand, it's like brushing your teeth. It's necessary if you don't want to feel gross.And as much as I hate to admit it, I do feel better after I work out.
(Just like I hate to admit to my boyfriend when he's right and that I've been acting crazy and need to chill out [but thank goodness for someone who recognizes we're both human])
And I've worked though enough and learned enough that I know I won't feel any better after half a pint of half baked, or any worse without a pint of homebrew, but I will feel like a freakin superhero after I've killed some kettlebell HIIT.
Plus, my leather jacket is too snug and I want to wear my favorite shirtdress again.
