Sneak Peek

*This is an excerpt from a section of my book that I've been working on the past few weeks, and I decided that instead of thinking up something new to post, I'd just give you a sneak peek. This snippet picks up in the middle of a chapter, but I didn't want to post the whole thing. Again, this is a very, very, very ROUGH draft...but any thoughts would be appreciated. :-)*

Finally, at age 15, I was frustrated enough with how I looked, that I pushed aside my pride and asked for some help. I had reached a point of desperation and I decided that I wanted to do something about my weight. My mom knew exactly what I was going through, as she has struggled with her weight in her adult years, as well. And I think that having family members who are also overweight took away some of the shame and embarrassment that I might have experienced. I’m not the only one in my family who has struggled with weight. In fact, I come from a long line of large women. My family history most definitely played a part in my weight issue, by giving me a slower metabolism and a body type that stores most of my fat in my hips and derriere. But I knew that I couldn’t simply blame my size on my genetics. I was the one who ate too much, the one who didn’t like to exercise, and the one who made unhealthy choices over and over again. My genetics had nothing to do with that.

After listening to me pour out my frustrations and honest feelings about my weight, my mom suggested that we go and visit a dietician together. She hoped that I would be able to ask questions and acquire valuable information about nutrition and healthy living in general, and that I would be able to apply that knowledge to my every day life. I wasn’t opposed to the idea (though I thought it would be rather embarrassing and prayed that none of my friends would find out!) and so she set up an appointment for me that spring.
As we walked into the office, I remember thinking that it looked rather uninviting. With white walls and few pieces of artwork, it appeared “sterile” and “professional”, not a place where I felt comfortable discussing personal matters. “This place needs some color, some life.”, I decided. “I hope the dietician is more interesting than this room!”.
When my name was called, my mom and I went into a tiny, white room with the tiny, white dietician (sorry, couldn’t resist!) and sat down. I remember that our knees were touching because the space was so small, and I thought it rather dumb that the had such small rooms when they spend most of their day counseling large, overweight people! Anyway, after exchanging pleasantries, the dietician looked at me and asked me why I had come. “Isn’t it obvious?”, I thought, and it was all I could do to restrain my tongue from speaking any of the sarcastic remarks that flooded my mind. But I simply responded that I wanted to lose weight and hoped that she could give me some information about how to do that. I explained that I knew the basics of nutrition (my parents were faithful to pass on that information to me!) but I didn’t know how to apply that knowledge and lose weight.
So, for the next 30 minutes, the dietician discussed with me how to make healthy meal choices, the appropriate amount of food to eat at each meal, and how to incorporate this information into my every day life. She was a very nice, understanding women and did give me a lot of good information. She also encouraged me to get more exercise and to find something active that I enjoyed doing. I made a goal to exercise for 30 minutes every day, and to keep track of what I was eating each meal by using a chart that helped me to choose foods that would comprise a balanced meal. I can recall looking at her “play food” that was to represent portion sizes and thinking, “I usually eat 2 to 3 times that amount! Could I really eat that little and feel satisfied?“ But she assured me that as I changed my habits, my body would also change and get used to eating that amount.
As I expected, the most uncomfortable part of the visit was when she asked me to step on the scale. I remember feeling my cheeks flush and turn bright red as the dietician told me that my weight was 218 pounds, enough to put me in the “very obese” category. “I’m 15 years old!”, I was thinking. “How can I be this fat?”. Needless to say, I was beyond embarrassed. I was horrified and overwhelmed. She encouraged me that I was doing the right thing by coming to see her, that I was taking the first step in my journey of becoming more healthy. I had a graph to chart my progress when I weighed in every week. We decided on another goal that I would lose 5 pounds by the time of our next appointment (5 weeks later) and I left the office feeling excited about beginning this program. Knowledge is power, and I felt like I had the keys to success in my hands as we walked out to the car that day.

My mom and I had a great talk as we drove home, and she committed to helping me in whatever way I needed it. Having taught classes at our church on weight loss before, she was a wealth of information for me and answered a lot of my questions. We talked about how to arrange my schedule to allow me to spend some time exercising each day, and she said that she’d do her best to serve balanced, healthy meals. I had a huge support system in my family, but my mom became my biggest cheerleader and my own personal coach. (And she still is to this day!)

For the next 2 weeks, I was motivated and enthusiastic about meeting this new goal of losing weight. I faithfully went outside and took walks, or ran short (very short) distances in the afternoons. I really had no idea how to exercise effectively, but I would often grab my mom’s pea green 3 pound weights and go up to my bedroom to work out. I performed mostly simple arm exercises and stretches, with a few jumping jacks thrown in. But for me, it wasn’t the intensity of the work that matter. Just the fact that I was faithful in doing some exercise was a great accomplishment.

And I started seeing results. My clothes began to fit a little better. I was able to squeeze back into a dress that was becoming too tight to wear. I was making progress, and I was thrilled. I could tell that my arms did have muscles in them and that my legs were stronger than I thought. Those first 2 weeks were great.