Today, I’m attempting to acknowledge some of my bad. I’ll work on the good part later.

You see, I’m a problem solver by nature. I’m also a control freak – as in, I feel the need to either be in control of, or take control of, a situation. I solve problems and deal with crises of all sorts every day at work and at home. I’m that annoying person who will just do everything myself, because I want it to be done right. I figure that if it’s done right the first time, then there will be fewer problems to solve later. My friends, and the family who tolerates me, know to stay out of my way when I’m in that control-mode.

Yeah, it’s that bad.

But there is one problem I’ve had for as long as I can remember that I’m unable to solve. I wonder if I’m alone, or are there a whole lot of people out there who feel the same as me?

Have you ever just stared at yourself in the mirror and asked your reflection, “What is wrong with me?”

I do.

More often than I care to admit, in fact.

I mean, I’m smart and I know exactly what I am supposed to do to be healthy. What is wrong with me that I can’t seem to actually do it? People all around me do what it takes every single day. So what is wrong with me?

It’s depressing. It’s discouraging.  It’s a problem, and it’s one I’m completely unsure how to fix. In fact, sometimes it’s even difficult for me to identify what the actual “problem” is.

Is it my attitude? Is it some sort of addiction? Is it thinking that I have a problem in the first place? Is it eating too much? Is it exercising too little? Is it placing blame – on myself or on others? Is it feeling alone? Is it poor coping mechanisms? Is it guilt? Is it low self-image? Lack of confidence? Lack of courage? Maybe it’s some sort of cocktail of any or all of the above. Maybe it’s something I have yet to consider.

I only know one thing for sure. It’s scary to be a control freak and to feel so out-of-control of any aspect of your own life.

That’s how I feel about my health. Out of control. It seems implausible to think that a control freak like me might actually have a problem with self-control, but it sure seems to be true.

The last time I wrote, I was full of encouragement and confident in my recent success with adopting a healthier lifestyle. Today, just three weeks later, I write with resignation and my tone is likely far less inspirational. Such is the life of a chronic dieter – moderate flirtations with success and change, followed by the sinking despair of failure. I know I’ll rise from this slump and once again muster the courage to reach for carrot sticks in lieu of cookies, but for the moment I am content to wallow.

And there you have it.

The bad I’m confessing today is my controlling nature, which ultimately leads to self-loathing when I fail to control something I feel I should, which finally leads to self-pity. Next week, I promise, I will work to enhance and exhibit the good. Did I mention I have a tendency to procrastinate?

First, I have the talk with my husband to let him know that changes are coming – i.e. there will no longer be a stock of ice-cream in the freezer or individually wrapped pastries in the cupboard.

I go to the supermarket and buy lite yogurts, fresh fruits and veggies, and other high-protein or fiber rich, low-calorie foods. I walk by all of my favorite salty and sweet treats with a firm resolve and can feel a sense of strength and pride growing with each good choice as I manage to leave them out of my cart and on the shelf where they belong. I research healthy recipes and fun exercises. I dig my old workout clothes out of storage and dust off my gym shoes. I affix goal pictures to my fridge and print out a chart complete with a weekly menu and workout regimen.

The first week goes by and, as the water weight goes quickly away, I bask in the glow of sudden success. By this time, and often with a quick five pounds already melted away, I’m feeling pretty darn good and even a little smug. I envision going on a shopping spree for a new wardrobe to fit my smaller body and I somehow convince myself that I don’t have long to wait – at five pounds a week (which is, of course, unrealistic and unhealthy), I could be hitting the mall with my ‘BFF’ in just a month. On a particularly good attempt, sometimes the second week goes almost as well as the first.

And then, like a hammer falling on a sheet of glass, my well-laid plans shatter.

Typically, it starts with a well-meaning friend or relative inviting us out to dinner. As soon as I’m removed from my carefully safe-guarded home or office setting and placed in the path of temptation with over-confidence skewing my sensibility, I cave. After that, it’s all over. My mother-in-law sends a batch of her delicious fudge to our house, and one piece leads to another, leads to another, leads to another, etc. After a busy week of work, I realize I haven’t done groceries, and there’s nothing in the house to eat, so we order pizza for dinner. The temperature outside falls to -50 degrees, and all of the outdoor exercise I planned is replaced with snuggling under the electric blanket on my bed. And so on.

Once I see the first pounds start to creep back on the scale, discouragement moves into the space in my brain that smugness previously occupied. I reflexively turn to food, which I know from experience will stimulate the happy hormones in my head so that I won’t feel so bad about failing – again. I eat away my sorrow and end up right back where I started. The goal pictures on the fridge and the wellness chart I printed go in the trashcan. The gym clothes go back in the bin. My cupboards welcome the familiar sweet and salty snacks, and my freezer once again holds a variety of ice-cream flavors.

It’s been my experience that every person has a threshold that they reach when attempting to implement a healthier lifestyle. Mine is right around the end of week two. A friend does quite well for about six months before she begins to falter. Reaching that point is a daunting challenge, but it is possible to cross that threshold, and there are less trying days lay ahead on the other side.

I still haven’t come to the point where I am convinced that this will be a forever change. I still anticipate failure, and I pray that I’m not sabotaging my chances with those discouraging thoughts. It’s hard to stay positive when I have a historical record of literally dozens of failed attempts intruding on my attempt to change my way of thinking, but I know I have to try.

So, when I hit week two this time, my in-laws invited us out to eat at one of our local restaurants. Here we go again, I thought. I wanted to be strong. I wanted to go there, look at the menu and ignore all of my favorites to choose something healthy – like a salad. But when you walk into a restaurant and you’re hit with all of the glorious scents and are confronted with all of the displayed dishes people around you have ordered, then I believe it takes a steel resolve and an inhuman ability to resist.

But then something happened. As I was sitting there staring at the menu and having the same internal debate I’d experienced so many times before, I made a decision to compromise and to be okay with that compromise. I ordered a BLT and a bowl of my favorite chowder. Sure, it wasn’t country fried steak and gravy, but it was delicious and I enjoyed every last bite. And then I ordered a dessert and, instead of eating the whole thing, I shared it with my husband. But here’s the important part – I left the guilt on the table with the napkins and empty dishes when I left the restaurant that night.

The next morning, I ate a healthy breakfast, went for a walk and resumed my journey. I’ve often preached moderation, but I, like many folks, have trouble practicing that religion. The all or nothing mentality, however, leads me to failure and I know I must learn to let it go. I plan to remember this as I begin week five today – three weeks over my threshold.

I believe there’s no such thing as a goal that’s too small. Accomplishing a goal – any goal – can feel really rewarding. It gives you a sense of, “I can do this.”

Of course, the opposite is true as well. Failing to accomplish a goal can be really discouraging. That’s why I think that smaller goals that are easily accomplished have a definite purpose in everyday life.

Have you ever spent five minutes driving around a store parking lot waiting for someone to pull out of a space close to the door? Honestly, sometimes my goals are as small as, “Today I will park in the farthest parking spot from the door at the grocery store,” or, “Today I will avoid the Tim Horton’s drive-thru by taking the back way to work.” I failed at that last one just this morning, by the way.

Of course, I do have larger goals too – and they are big ones. I want to climb Mount Katahdin one day. I want to vacation someplace with sand and beaches, or maybe take a cruise, without feeling the need to cover myself up with multiple layers of clothing to hide my fatness. I want to wear a real, form-fitting wedding dress when my husband and I renew our vows someday and I want to enjoy looking at the pictures after. I want to go to the doctor’s office and feel good about stepping on the scale. I want to buy something at Victoria’s Secret that actually fits me.

Every morning I wake up telling myself that this is the day when I will make positive, healthy changes in my life. This is the start of the new me. Today is the day when I will break old habits and change my ways.

If only it were that easy.

The sad fact of the matter is that most nights I go to bed reassuring myself, “Tomorrow is another day.” You can start over; put today’s mistakes behind you.

Failure is a part of life, and how we learn to deal with it determines how successful we will be in our future endeavors, whether it be to lose 50 pounds, or to find a job that makes us happier. We can apply the principle almost anywhere.

If I’m being honest, and when I started writing this column I promised I would be – even if it hurts, sometimes I feel like the fat I carry on me is public evidence of my failures. My very own version of a scarlet letter. I feel like it tells the people around me that I ate a donut for breakfast and I spend more time on my couch than on my feet. Of course, it’s not as simple as that. I seldom eat donuts for breakfast, and I’m definitely not a couch potato. I also have, like many other fat people, a medical condition that contributes to my weight. But though it might contribute, it is not the sole cause. I do make unhealthy choices on a regular basis. And thus, I wear my fat embroidered on my body like Hester’s A to the breast of her gown as evidence to the world of my failure.

It’s hard to remain positive when I fail to reach my goals so often. It’s much easier to cave to the ensuing depression and just give up. But tomorrow is another day, and that’s why my goal today is to get over it.

There’s nothing quite like the feeling of wiping the slate clean and starting over with new, achievable goals.

Something else that’s important is rewarding yourself for achieving goals with something more tangible than a feeling of accomplishment. Just make sure the reward is something healthier than chocolate. My personal favorite reward is shopping, but that’s a whole other issue for a whole other column.

I love cameras – as long as I am the one taking the pictures.

Seriously, I don’t know many fat people who actually enjoy having their picture taken. Most of the time I hate looking in mirrors, so why would I want a photo of myself to memorialize my fatness into perpetuity?

Sometimes I wonder if I subconsciously took up photography as a hobby to ensure that I’d always be on the safe side of the camera lens.

The consequence of avoiding cameras is that when I am looking through family galleries of vacations or special events, I’m missing from the photos. This hasn’t bothered me much yet, but I do have to wonder how my family feels when the visual records of our life together make it seem as though I never existed.

Lately, I’ve been forcing myself, double chin and all, to step in front of the camera for the sake of inclusion in future scrapbooks. It’s still a painful experience. I think I’d rather endure a root canal every day for a year than to have my picture taken even once.

I heard that Seventeen magazine is caving to the pressure to stop using manipulated photos of models in their magazine, thanks in part to a young activist from Maine. I don’t know if this will be the start of some wider-spread change in the media world, but what I do know is that if a 14-year-old girl from Waterville, Maine can figure out how to make a popular teen magazine that has been around for almost 70 years change its ways, then millions of fat people should be able to make a difference if they really want to.

The collective power of fat people everywhere is astounding. Our wallets represent millions and billions of dollars worldwide. If we all decided to stop purchasing a product, or to stop reading a magazine that portrays unrealistic images of people, then you can bet your wallet that there would be change. There is power in numbers, and the collective consciousness of society does change with time and awareness.

Consider this. In the 1950s, there was a series of advertisements that ran regularly offering products to help women to gain weight for “sex appeal.” The ads made “skinny” seem as taboo as today’s “fat.”

I always knew I was born in the wrong generation.

Seriously, though, why has the focus for so many decades been on fat versus skinny? Regardless of which side of the spectrum a person falls on, shouldn’t it really be about healthy versus unhealthy?

I’m in the process of doing a series of exercises designed to teach me how to do real exercises. Yep, that’s what I said. I’m exercising to learn how to exercise. A friend of mine, and a fellow journalist, is teaching me. I’m really trying to shift my focus to my health and my quality of life – and I know that it’s unnecessary to be “skinny” for me to have those things, but there are still changes I need to make in my life if I want them.

Exercise is a special kind of torture. I hate almost everything about it. I hate pain. I hate sweat. I hate having to spend the few spare minutes I have each day working out– even if it is in the comfort of my own home where nobody can see me. It actually ranks right up there with having my picture taken. Bring on that root canal!

There is, however, one thing I’m finding I actually like about exercising – and that one thing might make all of the things I hate about it eventually disappear, or so I hope.

I like the way I feel after I’ve exercised. When I’ve completed my last wall push-up for the day, or finished my last set of reps on my ab lounger machine, or when I’ve just finished dancing like a mad woman in my living room and finally reopen the shades and unlock the doors (I do that to ensure my privacy – trust me, nobody wants to see me dancing), I find that I really feel good. It’s more than a sense of accomplishment, which is also nice. I think that my body is finally responding to the challenge I’ve been presenting it. My muscles are waking up from their 30-year slumber and their cells are bouncing around with more energy.

I like that feeling so much that I think I’ll keep exercising. Now if I could just find that one thing I like enough to have my picture taken, then maybe photos wouldn’t be so bad after all. Fat chance!

Who inspires me is the 600 plus pound man or woman who can no longer walk because his or her weight has made such a simple exercise impossible, but who refuses to give up and starts the quest towards health and fitness with the smallest of baby steps.

I watched a show once where a super obese man was embarking on a journey of weight loss. His disabling weight of more than 700 pounds confined him to his bed all day. In addition to his diet, doctors told him that he needed to move. So he did.

He started with arm exercises. Eventually he could sit, and then stand, and finally he could walk – just a few steps. It took him months to reach that point, but he never gave up. His major accomplishments once he began walking were when he made it to the door of his home and stepped outside for the first time in years, when he walked to the end of his driveway and checked his mail, when he walked a hundred or so feet down his street, and then when he made it around the block for the first time.

When I was a baby, nobody expected me to walk before I could crawl, or run before I could stand. But as an adult, I somehow expect myself to start somewhere in the middle of the progress I think I should make instead of at the beginning. I think it all boils down to impatience. I want the end result now, not later. Face it. We live in a society where instant gratification is the norm. Why else would there be the need for “fast” food, or “on demand” television?

We’re in a hurry to get things done, people. It’s the world we live in.

I truly believe that when it comes to pursuing weight loss as part of a healthier lifestyle, we are all just infants learning to walk. We’ll fall a few times along the way, but we’ll fall less often, and less hard, the slower we take it.

Baby steps.

On Saturday, I took a baby step.

I turned off the television.

Then I took another.

I closed my laptop and put it away.

Then another.

I willingly went outside, despite the fact that the wind chill in northern Maine that day was about -20 degrees Fahrenheit.

My friend Angie and I donned our warmest winter gear, and once we looked like a couple of overzealous Sasquatch in our layers of clothes and outerwear, we headed out to one of our favorite local outdoor destinations – Four Seasons Trails Lodge.

On a side note, having a friend with you when you’re trying to make healthy changes is encouraging and can even be entertaining, as I found out on our little adventure that day. Since it seems to be a day for offering unsolicited advice, I suggest you invite someone with you on your next adventure.

At the lodge, we strapped cross country skis onto our feet and ventured out onto some of the facility’s amazing trails. Now, if you’re fat like me, then you probably already know this, but balance is occasionally an issue when you’re overweight, encumbered by enough clothing to remain toasty warm while climbing Mount Everest, and standing on anything thinner than your own foot.

While Angie and I made our way around the shortest trail at the lodge doing something sort of like skiing, but not quite, we fell – aka “took a break” – several times. Each time, we questioned our decision to attempt the feat on one of the coldest, windiest days of the year thus far. At one point, we could see the lodge across a beautiful field of crystal white, unbroken snow. Knowing we still had about a quarter mile to go around the groomed loop, we had the brilliant idea to take a shortcut across the field. It seemed like a foolproof plan to a couple of exhausted fools.

Here’s what actually happened. We both started into the field and down an incline where our skis sunk into the deceptively deep snow, throwing us off balance and onto our butts where we sat laughing and stuck for about 20 minutes. Eventually, we rethought our situation and with some massive effort, climbed our way out of the waist-deep snow and back to the trail where we completed the loop back to the lodge in three minutes.

The thing about babies learning to walk is that often they are eager to just take off running before they’re quite ready. It seldom bodes well. If only we had known that the so-called shortcut was actually going to be more work in the long run.

The moral of the story?

When you start on your own journey to a healthier lifestyle, take it slow, be prepared to fall, and don’t look for shortcuts.

Yes, I’m talking about none other than jolly old St. Nicholas, aka, Santa.

You see, when my belly shakes when I laugh like a bowlful of jelly, nobody writes long classic holiday poems about it. Instead, they hand me paperwork about diabetes and high blood pressure, and encourage me to diet and exercise.

Mrs. Claus is no help, I’m sure. She probably makes sweet treats all year long like peanut butter fudge and soft peppermint sticks or sugar cookies and warm gingerbread.

Of course, maybe if I visited every home in the world over the course of one exhausting night to fill stockings hung by the chimney with care while children lay nestled all snug in their beds, then people would view me differently too. Maybe then my fat would not only be celebrated in classic literature, but also encouraged by the same masses leaving cookies and eggnog by the Christmas tree for dear Santa Claus. After all, he must burn a whole lot of calories delivering all of those holiday goodies worldwide.

I wonder, when was the last time he visited the doctor for an echocardiogram?

Who wants a skinny Santa, anyway? There’s something about the man, every chubby and plump pound of him, which endears him to young children all over the planet as a pleasant, generous, trustworthy and comforting soul. Why else would everyone write to him with their hopes and deepest desires at Christmas?

It’s been a while since I last wrote to Santa. Back in the day, my letters were homages to youthful whims. I wanted the Barbie Dream Castle, or the latest New Kids on the Block album. As an adult, I want different things – like a calorie-free Christmas dinner that still tastes every bit as good as the real one, or an exercise that I can do by pushing a button while sitting on the couch.

I refuse to feel jealous of Santa and the fact that he can indulge without guilt, or the fact that he can somehow still fit down the tiny chimney flues even after eating a million cookies in one night.

Instead, I’m going to believe in the magic of Christmas and write a letter to Santa just like I used to when I was a kid – almost.

Dear Santa,

I’ve tried to be a good girl this year.

I’ve counted most of my calories (and it’s really hard to count that high). I’ve weighed and portioned some of my foods. I’ve chosen a few healthier snacks and I’ve taken care not to eat late too many nights in a row.

I’ve exercised. Well, once in a while at least.

Anyway, the point is, I’ve tried. Could I have tried harder? Well, sure, but do we really need to talk about that right now?

What I want for Christmas is peace and comfort and joy for everyone, which I’m fairly certain can be achieved with the help of a really good Belgian waffle maker.

By the way, you really rock the red suit.

Yours truly,

Monica

Suffice it to say, when I should have been sleeping, I found myself craving candy, pastries, and chips. It wasn’t long before I was out of bed searching through my cupboards for some kind of snack. Whether it was good fortune or good planning on my part, turns out it had been a while since the last time I did groceries. Also, the last time I did the shopping, I purposefully left the snack food out of my cart. After about 15 minutes of searching unsuccessfully, I gave up and crawled back in bed. I turned the television off and picked up a book. Probably what I should’ve done in the first place.

Those marketing people are genius. They know which buttons to push to make us want any product they place in front of us, whether it’s a chocolate bar or a Cadillac. Which makes me wonder, is it possible to rewire my brain to keep it from reacting to their evil, consumerist ploys?

I think inventors should design something like the electric collar my dogs wear to keep them from barking – only this device would send a jolt of electricity through my body every time I put something bad for me even near my mouth.

I’ve heard of people taking really extreme measures to stop eating – I’ve even come close to using some of those same tactics myself. From pills, to surgery, to wiring a jaw shut, it seems that people would try just about anything (just a side note, sometimes surgery is absolutely necessary and can mean the difference between life and death, but for the purposes of this conversation, let’s consider it an extreme measure).

We know that weight loss is a simple formula, calories in vs. calories out, but the allure of a magic solution is almost too enticing. It’s hard to manage weight, let alone lose it. I can eat whatever I want and gain five pounds in one week, and then I can watch what I eat really closely and it’ll take me three to four weeks to take that five pounds back off again. It hardly seems fair. So when an apparent solution comes along that is easier than counting calories, choosing foods that seem less than savory, and finding time to beat myself up at the gym several hours a week, it’s really hard to just say ‘no.’

The diet companies know this as well, which is how they are able to convince so many people to try their products. They promise simple solutions that will allow a person to continue their eating habits and forego exercise.

There’s an old adage, “if it sounds too good to be true, then it probably is.” Believe it.

If you really want to lose weight, then be prepared to do the work. Be prepared for it to take an incredibly long time. Be prepared to make sacrifices. Be prepared to answer hundreds of questions from well-meaning friends and relatives over the course. But mostly, be prepared to experience many frustrating days and nights when you are tempted with snack food commercials and marketing schemes and even give in occasionally.

If there had been a hidden bag of chips, or a candy bar, or even a bag of baker’s chocolate in my cupboards that night I woke up from a bad dream, I would have eaten it. Does this make me fit into the stereotype of typical fat person behavior? Probably. I can blame the marketing companies, who, incidentally, aren’t evil, they are just really, really good at their jobs, or I can assume responsibility for my own actions.

But as holiday season after holiday season left me a legacy of additional pounds to complement my memories, my favorite time of the year has morphed into something I face with the grim resignation that I will likely succumb to temptation.

Delicious treats and holiday favorite foods are everywhere we turn this time of year. Everyone wants to gather around big tables filled with families, friends, and food. Throughout civilization, food and festivity have melded together during times of celebration. Food is almost synonymous with holidays. The atmosphere is ripe for overindulgence.

I actually think it starts with Halloween. Those of us with kids send them out in cute costumes to bring home hoards of pilferage. Secretly, I always sneak a few as I’m sorting them out later. I’ll tell my children, “Yeah, this one looks like it might be damaged. Guess I’ll take this one – for your safety, of course.” It’s shameful, I know. I’m embarrassed writing about it, but it’s true.

A few weeks later, as I’m staring down the barrel of the impending Thanksgiving meal, the only holiday literally centered on food, my resolve is always already dissolved.

My family gathers, usually in New York at my brother’s place, and indulges in all of my favorite treats from my childhood. Each scent, each sound, each flavor harbors a memory of a youthful, carefree time in my life. We laugh, we love, we pray, and we eat – and oh, do we eat. Mashed potatoes, gravy, stuffing, turkey, that yummy green bean casserole my mom makes, cranberry sauce, corn, peas, candied yams, breads, pies, fudge, cheese, olives, fruit, salads, more pies – and then, when all of that is done, we come to my favorite part of the meal.

Leftovers.

December is party season in my group of friends. Everyone wants to host a small get-together complete with festive beverages like calorie-laden eggnog, or syrupy peppermint schnapps, and lots of tasty party foods like Swedish meatballs, sweet and sour wieners, shrimp cocktail, bacon-wrapped scallops (sidebar – have you ever found a food that you can’t improve by wrapping in bacon?) and mini-pastries. There’s something that happens in my brain when I’m faced with a table of mini foods. First, my brain consents to trying one of everything because, after all, everything is so small, it must be alright. But then, my brain consents trying one of everything again, because, after all, everything is so small, it must be alright. It’s a flawed sort of logic, but I’ve known for some time now that my brain works in mysterious and illogical ways.

In January, when I look back on two months of big meals, dinner parties, cocktail socials, and work or church potlucks, I can suddenly see with amazing clarity the error of my ways. When the holidays no longer hold me captive, life makes perfect sense again. I can return to viewing food as a fuel for my body rather than associating it with pleasant memories and times long since passed.

And so, in January, I join with the millions of other people in the world who take advantage of the post-holiday do-over. I reaffirm my resolve, and I commit to shedding the holiday weight, and hopefully a few more pounds with it, and I start fresh. It always works for a while too. So far, in 2012, I lost 35 pounds, but the holiday season is just beginning.

Food does that to us. It makes us feel good – something about the reactions the sugar infusions to the bloodstream create in our brain. I’m not a scientist, I only know what I’ve heard or read other places. I do know how I feel when I eat, however. I react to food like an addict reacts to a drug. The biggest difference is that we need food to survive. We can’t avoid it.

Still, maybe I would’ve been able to hold my seat on the weight-loss train if I had stopped at that one bad choice. But, as bad choices often do, one tends to lead to another, and another, and another…

With the kids back in school and things at work busier than ever, I started cutting corners everywhere. I’d grab a quick lunch at a diner and follow it up with take-out for supper to feed the family because I was too exhausted to cook. I’d tell my friend Angie that I was too busy to walk that day – and I was busy, but I still should have forced myself to take the time. I’d grab a snack late at night to “treat” myself for my hard day. And if I messed up one day, it was like a free ride ticket to Sweetsville. It gave me the opportunity to justify to myself that since the day was already shot, why not enjoy another treat and pick the dreaded diet back up the following day? After a few days in a row of using that justification, it was an easy jump to telling myself that since the week was already shot, why not enjoy keep enjoying sweets for the rest of the week?

I was caught in a cycle of bad choices.  Wait a minute, who am I kidding? I’m still caught in that cycle.

Perhaps one of the surreal things about writing this column is that I’m forced to be honest with myself. It’s easy to justify things, to stretch truths, and even to tell outright lies to yourself when you are the only person listening. This morning I’m telling myself that I should enjoy the holidays before resuming my diet. My lie to me this morning is that it’s too hard to resist all of the holiday treats, so why bother trying?

Since I’m being truthful, let me lay it all out there. I’m working from home today. I have healthy choices available to me. What have I had to eat? A leftover fried pork chop, a piece of chocolate frosted cake, glass of root beer, some rice pilaf, a bowl of ice-cream, and about three handfuls of salted almonds – so far. I’ve also been eyeballing the big box of chocolates my husband received for his birthday a few days ago. I’ll be lucky to hold out until he is home from work. I’ve adopted the “I’m no longer on a diet” mindset to the point where I’m barely paying attention to what I’m eating, I just know I’m eating again. Like I used to before I started writing this column. Like I used to before I decided I needed to change my habits and pursue a better quality of life.

What I’m feeling now – depression, disappointment, discouragement – are the feelings my failure has spawned in me. Honestly, they all make me want to eat, and none of them make me want to exercise. I know what I have to do, and I know it won’t be easy.

I have to muster up the energy and the will to make the hard choices again. I have to do it now. I have to acknowledge that failure may find me again, and promise myself that when it does, I will not let it defeat me. My health is too important to give up now.

I’ve always thought that the best exercises are the ones that you enjoy doing so much that they don’t seem like you’re actually working out. That’s part of why I enjoy swimming, and hiking, and biking. I actually like doing all sorts of exercises – even though I pretty much despise going to the gym (I blame my high school gym teacher who made even the fat kids wear those awful short shorts).

I still have difficulty finding time to work physical activity into my day, but I also believe that excuse is a product of me not setting exercising as a high enough priority in my life. But if I’m going to claim that becoming healthy is a priority and a goal, then I have to try to move exercise up to the top of my To Do list.

So, I’ve been walking lately.

I’ve been walking at the Four Seasons Trail Lodge in Madawaska with a friend. I’ve been walking to various business destinations while at work on Main Street in Fort Kent instead of taking the car. I’ve even walked in two parades in the past couple of months.

The progress is painfully slow – and I do mean painfully. When I started, I could barely make it around my block without hurting. But, little by little, I’ve managed to increase the distance. In fact, during the last parade I walked in with the Fiddlehead Focus crew – Fort Kent’s Scarecrow Festival and University of Maine at Fort Kent’s Homecoming parade – I walked the entire parade route (almost 3 miles) with little consequence. I was pretty proud of myself. I realize that I’m hardly ready to run a marathon, but I’m confident that with baby steps I can continue to achieve my fitness goals. Who knows? Maybe by next summer, if I keep up the good work, I’ll be ready to climb Mount Katahdin.

It’s nice to feel encouraged – and I think people should always feel good about their physical accomplishments. But I want to touch for a moment on discouraging moments, because life is full of them, and unless we know how to deal with them, they can sabotage us at every turn.

One major discouragement that I’ve had recently is that, despite my increase in physical activity, the scale has not budged. I know why. It’s because my increase in physical activity has been accompanied by an increase in my food intake. I figured out that when I work out, I become hungry. Go figure. What I need to do is make sure that my food choices are healthier than they have been. It’s about taking responsibility for my choices, rather than making excuses.

Sometimes, though, the discouraging moments are out of our control. My husband and a group of our friends decided to go for a hike after a dinner party. This was earlier on in my hiking excursions and so my husband, who is quite protective of me, was concerned for my ability to handle the trails. Because he is the person who has to listen to me whine when my legs hurt at night, he is probably the most in-tune with my capabilities. However, occasionally, he lacks tact. Our group was at a turning point on the trails where we could continue forward, or turn back towards base camp. He announced to the whole group that since I was the least “in-shape” of all of us, that the decision should rest with me. I was humiliated that he chose that moment to make such an obvious declaration of my level of “un”fitness to all of our friends who were eager to continue.

A similar situation occurred at the beginning of the last parade I walked. At the beginning of the parade, several of my co-workers and other walkers in our group all decided that they needed to ask me – repeatedly – if I was sure I’d be able to walk the whole route. It might not be so bad if they were asking everybody that question, but, no, it was only directed to me – the fat one in the group.

Here’s the thing I came to realize only later. Not one person who was asking me this question intended to make me feel bad. They were all simply concerned for my well-being, and being familiar with the medical issues I have with my legs, they wanted to ensure my safety.

Despite that realization, though, I have to admit to feeling intense pleasure in finishing the parade route and proving to them all that I could do it.