So the medical newsletter from the local hospital where I had my last two sons came today. I usually leaf through it to see if there’s any information that might interest me. It’s actually a very good, well written and informative publication. So I’m about to pitch it when I notice the title of the last article, “Could your thyroid be altering your metabolism?”
“OH YES! Yes, absolutely, a thousand times YES!” I scream in my head.
It’s definitely not the wine, the cookies with my kids, the Thai food or the boneless buffalo tenders (washed down with waistline friendly beer) causing the muffin top. Oh no, no, no! IT’S MY ALTERED METABOLISM, STUPID!
I must suffer from a condition called “hypothyroidism”, which is when (please, read this with a grain of salt…you don’t see endocrinologist after my name for a reason, people!) your body does not produce enough thyroid hormone, which in turn slows your metabolism and causes you to gain weight. (This is NOT to be confused with “hyperthyroidism”, which is when your metabolism works TOO fast and you burn too many calories —I think it’s safe to assume I am not afflicted with this condition but to those of you who are, you go girl! Ok, just kidding. It’s actually not good for you at all. No really, it’s not. No, I’m serious. I take that back. I do!)
If you want to remember which is which, here’s a trick:
HYPOthyroidism = hippo = big mama = yo too fat.
HYPERthyroidism = hyper girl = moving too fast = yo too skinny.
(Yeah, and you wonder how English major graduated at the top of drug rep class. OH YEAH! That’s what I’m talking about!)
Ahem, anyway, it’s not nice to brag, so in conclusion, thyroid hormones regulate metabolism and thus can affect your weight. And that concludes our medical lesson for today. Or hopefully, ever.
Now, we’re nearing January 1 and my fat pants are tight. I had a baby almost a whole year ago so blaming him is out of the question. I’d love to blame my thyroid, my metabolism, the kid who sells me my wine in a box, but let’s face it…..you know whose fault it is….the man in the mirror. I mean, the woman in the mirror (sorry Jacko!). It’s time to look at MYSELF and make that change!
Anyway, along with half of the continental U.S., I’ve been checking around to see what I can do after January 1 (When all my benders, I mean, get togethers of 2009, are over. Yeah, that’s right. You don’t think I’m going to go down quietly, do you? I have three left, they might have to take place in elastic waist pants, but I pride myself on never breaking a commitment.)
So my husband’s friend from high school…he just lost three pants sizes. Now we’re talking! His wife, Molly, told me he did it using a series of DVDS called P90X. Hmm, DVDS….. I wouldn’t even have to leave the house! I could do it at night, when the kids are sleeping.
“You should totally do it!” Molly suggested after I peppered her with questions about this miraculous sounding program.
But, upon further investigation, I began to become fearful, very fearful.
“I’m not sure if this is the right plan for me. I don’t know that going from couch surfing right to mega, intense training is such a good idea? And honestly, I don’t need six pack abs. I’m shooting for mediocrity here. I just want to not be rocking the muffin top to the extreme in 2010, you know? No need to be a show off!”
“You would get in SUCH great shape! You should do it!”
Yup, and then they could cart my cold, lifeless body out the front door on a stretcher because that shit would kill me! And, my kids? What would become of them? I’d have to leave explicit instructions for my very best friends to make sure my husband remarries a suitable woman who would love my kids like her own, but naturally be a worse cook, housekeeper and have a bigger muffin top than me.
I don’t think so.
What to do, what to do?
P90X will kill me and I’m 40 years too young for Sweatin’ to the Oldies. The last time I tried to do Wii Fit, that sarcastic &^%$ asked me if I walked often or tripped over my own feet or something like that, and I fell off the balance board and woke the kids!
I hate to say it.
I don’t want to say it.
Do I have to say it?
I think I need to join a….a….gym.
I need to just go to a building, where there is equipment I can use at my own pace, and where there are professionals on staff who could guide me (or, resuscitate my ass, you know, should I keel on the elliptical or something.)