Can I tell you a secret?
I haven’t worked out, like consistently, in about two months. And I’ve been eating pizza. And pasta. And chocolate chips. And regular chips.
I haven’t turned into an amorphous blob or anything. In fact, when I went home and told my best friend that I was pushing 160 her response was, “Yeah, but you don’t look like you are. Flex your arm for me. It’s all muscle.” Inside I said no girl. Outside I laughed and responded. “Haha. Yeah you’re probably right.” *insert awkward hair flick because I was totally lying*.
The first thing I want to say is there’s absolutely nothing wrong at all with taking time off and just enjoying yourself. I decided to stop for a few months because I had a lot coming up with moving and I just wanted to enjoy myself and take a damn nap after work instead of worrying about where I was going to workout and weighing out all of my food.
So if I’m being honest. Yes. I haven’t worked out or followed a meal plan in two months or more. Yes. I currently weigh somewhere between 157 and 160 lbs. Yes. I now have stretch marks not just on my inner thighs anymore, but now around the outsides of my hips (I blame my Dad’s side of the family for that because us Kelly women carry our weight in our hips—I’ve got small boobs but a big butt). And yes, I’ve crowned myself queen of giving up because the only time I followed through on any workout plan was a year ago with BBG.
It happens. I’m not going to stuff kale into my mouth and start eating potato wedges wrapped in iceberg lettuce while squatting. That shit is not going to happen and neither will sitting around and quietly making excuses as to why my jeans keep getting just a little bit tighter. Because I think a lot of us do that, myself included.
I’m entering fall with 17 more pounds, about 10 more stretch marks, and a little bit of lethargy because I keep staying up too late binge watching Shameless on Netflix.