I’ve lost thirty pounds over the last seven months. I didn’t even think it was a lot — I mean, I knew the number, in my head, but hadn’t thought of it much — until I put on a pair of pants that used to be tight around the waist, pulled them out as far as they’d go, and saw how much space there was and how much had disappeared from my frame.
I was looking at pictures of me from a year ago, where my face is round and I look dreadfully unhappy. (I mean, a year ago I was just starting to have daily panic attacks, so I wasn’t in a good place then, but that’s besides the point.) A year ago I was aware I had gained weight since college, a lot of weight — I was 170 at the start of my senior year, and I was 210 when I started running and working out — but I didn’t do anything about it. I mean, besides sit and be miserable.
I’m not working out because I want to get some Adonis-esque (Adonesque?) body with eight-pack abs and biceps the size of small watermelons. I’m doing it because everyone on one side of my family keeps dying of heart disease, and it seems like a good idea to try and put a stop to that now rather than waiting until my forties. But the other side effects of working out — getting slimmer, slowly but surely developing muscles in places they never were before — are a nice bonus prize.
I bought a new pair of jeans today. I’ve dropped two inches off my waistline since September. Working out sucks — it sucks so much, it is awful and I can think of roughly three million things I would rather do than spend time at the gym — but it’s probably one of the best decisions I’ve made in the last few years.