Skip to main content

Just A Little Progress

It feels good to cinch up a belt that used to be too small and to slide it over to the third notch. That happened to me this morning, and as I said, it feels good. It’s a sign of progress.

I don’t go in for quick-fix diets these days, I don’t get sucked into promises of easy weight loss—you can have your beach body in just three short weeks—you can lose ten pounds in two weeks—you’ve seen the ads. To begin with, I’ve never had a beach body, and that isn’t my goal. And I know from past experience that if you lose ten pounds in two weeks, you did it with an eating plan that isn’t sustainable, and when you get back to normal, those ten pounds will come right back and then some.

Years and years ago, I tried Slim-Fast and lost weight—like ten pounds in two weeks—but you can’t keep that up, and it turned out to be a waste of time and money. Then I met a woman who had lost a lot of weight by eating nothing but a bowl of Cheerios for breakfast and lunch; out of ignorance and desperation, I tried that, too, lost weight, and gained it right back when I quit with the cereal. I mean, how many Cheerios can you eat, anyway, and what kinds of vitamins are you forgoing with that kind of diet? Also, I saw that woman about a year or two after our conversation, and she was as fat as ever.

Adjusting my lifestyle to eating low-carb/high protein works for me, but it works slowly. I might lose two pounds a week, or one pound, or as is the case lately, half a pound. I weigh myself every day, and the act of standing on a bathroom scale and waiting for the number to appear can be discouraging when I don’t see immediate progress. Whatdaya mean I didn’t lose a single ounce when I drank eight glasses of water and ate only foods on the list for two solid days!! I can shout at no one but my own reflection in the mirror above the sink.

But when I need a belt and, just for the heck of it reach for one I believe to be too small, and then discover it not only fits, but I can slip the thingy into the third hole, I know I’m making progress. And it feels good.

Most of what I do doesn’t always provide clear signs of progress, like checking tasks off of a list. I typeset e-books for Husbands company, and the files are organized by months in which they will be released. When I finish one month’s worth, I think I’ve done something, but then I see the next month waiting, and the next and the next, and it goes on and on. I listen to audio books while I work, and I've been through Dickens' The Old Curiosity Shop and David Copperfield and have just begun Moby Dick. After that, I might listen to War and Peace, and I bet I still won't have finished this job.

When I help plan promotions for orchestra concerts, I have no way of knowing if my work has made any difference in ticket sales. More recently, I have been helping to organize a dinner/dance event that is meant to be a fundraiser for the orchestra, and we sent out our first announcement weeks ago. It’s my job to collect reservations, and watching them come in has been like watching a faucet drip, one that has a new washer and only drips occasionally when someone neglects to turn it off all the way. Whole days will go by without one person calling for a seat, and it feels as if my efforts are a waste of time. Why bother, I’ve been wondering lately, when clearly no one wants to come to this damn dinner/dance?

The event will go off without a hitch, I am convinced—because otherwise I would just give up completely. But when I can put on an old belt and discover it finally fits again, and fits wells, I can see progress.

Sometimes that one single sign in one single area is all we need to keep moving in all of the other areas, no matter our tasks.

Comments

savannah said…
a good piece for me to read this evening, sugarpie! the scale was not kind this week, so i've had to be more aware about what i'm doing than before. ;~) xoxoxoxo

congratulations on your successes!

Popular posts from this blog

Am I Stupid, or What?

In two weeks, I will climb up into a charter bus, take my assigned seat, and ride 22 hours straight to Orlando, Florida. I will be a chaperon with the high school marching band, which will perform at Disney's Magic Kingdom--me and 180 people on four big buses for seven days. We will travel together, eat together, play together, fall down exhausted together--and after 22 hours, I suspect stink to high heaven together. Because of the crazy schedule, we will leave Ohio at 6 pm, travel all night and most of the next day, and spend several hours at MGM Studios before ending up at the hotel sometime after 7 pm. After I check in with the eight girls I am to supervise, I intend to shower and shower and shower. I intend to wear clean clothes and socks and brush my teeth until my toothbrush wears out. Of all the things I could be concerned about on this trip, being dirty seems to weigh heaviest on my mind. One of my eight charges could run off and do bad things with her boyfriend, but I'...

No More Mr. Nice Guy

It's good to be a nice person--to say nice things, to do nice things, to write nice things--but I declare an end to the use of the word nice. Nice is what you say when you can't think of any other adjective. Someone shows you a picture of their back yard--that's nice. Someone tells you about their afternoon adventure--that's nice. Or someone describes their childhood in great detail and sometimes with painstaking effort--that's nice. It's a lazy word, and it's non-descriptive. Nice is like mashed potatoes with noodles and chicken gravy all in a big pile on one plate with some canned corn for garnish. Everything is the same color and texture and base substance--starch (this is a favorite Amish dish). Nice is like a partly cloudy day in April when outside feels like inside, and you can't tell a difference between the lighting and the temperature of your living room and the lighting and temperature of your front yard. Nice is a glass of lukewarm water. ...

An Offending Pile

So, I'm standing in my living room letting my mind wander for a minute or two as I stare out the window and watch the day go by, and I see my neighbors walking their dogs down the street. They are nice neighbors who are always friendly and responsible with their property. That is to say they aren't like the other neighbors who heap rubbish behind their house like Ma and Pa Kettle and let their dogs bark for thirty minutes at a time . Anyway, I see the nice people walking their dogs, a big golden retriever who is as sweet as can be and as dumb as a post—he once ate a sock and nearly died before it was surgically removed—and a new golden retriever puppy. Then I see Neighbor Wife suddenly run down the street with the big dog. Then I see Neighbor Husband stopped in front of my house with the puppy on its leash. And then I see the puppy taking a huge dump in my grass. Let me tell you, that is not done in this town unless the dog owner has a plastic bag handy and is ready to pick up ...