Ol January 1 may be the commonly accepted jump start to most resolutions, but as with most things in life, theres a lot to be said for procrastination. For the last seven years, my New Years resolution had been the same: to lose weight. No, not to just lose weight but to shed nearly a third of the mass I had accumulated after taking a grown-up job with this very paper. Apparently, spending the balance of ones day in a chair, typing, rather than running around a bar fetching drinks can wreak havoc on a metabolism. Add in a little post-partum from a failed relationship, more downtime (thanks to a recently abandoned volunteer position as a director of the 麻豆传媒映画Pride Society) and you have a recipe for disaster.
My initial expansion into the plus-sized world happened within three months of my first byline. By that first New Years, some nine months later, I was tipping the scales at 220 lbs.
And so, each New Years Day since 2005, Id awake at the crack of noon with a wicked hangover and a faint recollection of a promise made to a roomful of drunken friends and colleagues: This was going to be the year I reclaimed my life. And I would start... tomorrow. Right now I needed a pizza if I was ever going to feel human again.
The following day, Id go through the motions of a workout, already exhausted by the two blocks I walked to the gym. There I would be surrounded by a roomful of soggy eager beavers, most of whom wouldnt last the week on their new health kicks. Not that I ever saw any evidence of their capitulation. I never made it past Day 2.
So what changed? Well, as with most seismic shifts (in this case, literally), it was a confluence of things. First, the resolution that stuck wasnt a resolution per se, so much as a promise made to myself that I wasnt going to be fat anymore.
Secondly, it was undertaken not at the stroke of midnight on December 31 in the flushed excitement of the third bottle of bubbles, but on Sunday, March 20 in the late afternoon after the night before a particularly virulent St. Patricks Day house party. The spins, nausea and a general malaise Id not experienced since college were enough to convince me that something had to give. And if I wasnt careful, that something would be one of my more important internal organs.
As I surfed the web in bed that night (Id never left it except for a few bathroom breaks and two very painful dog walks), I chanced upon something called the Dukan Diet. To this day I cant remember where I saw it or why I clicked on the link. Id never seen it before and I usually avoid online diet ads like the bullshit they invariably are. And yet, somehow, I found French diet guru Dr. Pierre Dukan and his controversial weight-loss program on its U.K. site. It would be a week before Kate Middleton announced that she and her mum were on the diet before her wedding to Prince William. It would be another two weeks before Dukans book, The Dukan Diet: 2 Steps to Lose the Weight, 2 Steps to Keep It Off Forever, was released in Canada. Of course, by that time, Id already lost close to 20 lbs.
The ins and outs of the process are neither here nor there for the purposes of this piece. In fact, Im sick and tired of telling people how much weight I lost (85 lbs), how I did it (high protein, no carbs), and how long it took (five-and-a-half months, give or take). I cant actually endorse the diet because my French relatives take every opportunity to point out that its been linked to serious health risks in its home country.
But I dont really care. Im way healthier now at 165 lbs after a nine-month, protein-based diet than Id be if I was still 250 lbs. Plus, it had gotten to the point for me where quality of life trumped quantity. Theres only so much TV you can watch in a day and I got up to about 16 hours. How is that living?
Oh, and the clothes! Ladies and gentlemen, your style editor can once again buy off the rack. And has been doing so with great abandon, the fine folks over at Visa might remark if asked.
So, do resolutions work? Maybe, maybe not. But looking back on what has been an incredible year, who cares? It worked for me. This time. Now, talk to me this New Years Day when I attempt to quit smoking. Actually, best to leave me alone for a good, long while.
