Am I Really Doing Well?

Dearest Rachel –

One of the side effects of this new habit of mine of daily exercise is the paradoxical fact that I wake up more sore than when I went to bed. One of the very points of sleep is to let your body rest and heal itself, so that by morning, you should be feeling that much better, and yet here I am. Between the hip and knee, my right leg in particular isn’t ready when I roll out of bed. To be sure, it’s not a serious amount of pain – maybe a one or two on the scale. But it’s slightly distressing to me that it’s there at all. I thought I was supposed to feel better as I got myself healthier.

The pre-dawn chill isn’t all that comfortable, either. Yes, it’s the middle of August, but with the sun having been down since before nine last night, the atmosphere has had nearly eight hours to cool off, which it has done quite efficiently. I’ve no thermometer on me, but I’d guess that it’s barely in the sixties at this point. This will probably feel a lot better on my way home, after I’ve worked up a thorough sweat, but for now, it has me wondering why I’m up and about in shorts and a T-shirt at this hour.

And after feeling the effects of having walked well over eleven miles yesterday (which is nothing for some people, admittedly, but rather a lot for someone like me), that’s a fair question. It isn’t as if I put myself to bed particularly early last night, so I could get up before the sun; it just so happens that I have and am.

But there’s a little bit of anticipation this morning, assuming I can power my way through what’s (grudgingly) become a daily routine. You see, after a number of mornings in which I wake up to a weigh-in tally closer than I’d like to see toward the ceiling I’ve come to live with, yesterday had me starting with a weight just over the midpoint of 220 pounds that I’ve been dancing around for the past month or so. And after all the exertion of yesterday, my starting point was actually that much further below that mark; I was seriously thinking that I might be able to cross a new milestone this morning.

I know I complain about the effort I expend on this process, and the fact that it doesn’t seem to be attracting the attention of any potential candidates for the role of ‘Megumi.’ But as a data-driven sort, I have to admit to finding a certain amount of encouragement and satisfaction in crossing each new mark that I set for myself. Sure, I still suffer from what my Dad refers to as Dunlap’s Disease (where “the belly ‘done laps’ over the belt,” as he puts it), and there’s this one particular nodule of fat that sticks out on the left side of my abdomen, but seeing the numbers decline as I check the scale – even though I know it won’t last throughout the day, as I have yet to eat (and I’ll have two meals, a night’s sleep and no further exercise before I mount the scale again) – is at least some proof that I’m making progress, and that’s gratifying.

So, after doing a hundred reps on various weight machines, and an hour or so of walking four miles uphill, I’m rather looking forward to seeing where I land. Will I reach – or even cross – the 215 mark?

Still, it’s a full pound lower than I’ve ever been since I started this journey, now some twenty-five months ago – and during that time, I’ve shed over sixty of them in total. Only fifty more, and I’ll reach my high school weight.

***

You know, I had hoped that I could make this collection of letters to you into some kind of inspirational message, honey; something along the lines of “hey, I’m doing all right (or at least, I’m recovering) despite your absence,” with only this lingering regret that you aren’t here to see, to be happy about, and appreciate the positive changes being made in the sphere I (and by extension, you would) inhabit. But there’s a nagging undertone to it all that leaves me wondering how much of this would have been possible if you were here, which leads to some unfortunate implications.

Oh, in theory, anything that I can do now I would have been just as able to do with you at my side, but would it have been likely? Would we have been able and willing to clean house and remodel, or would I have allowed it to stay cluttered for your sake, since there was so much that you weren’t ready to let go of (and quite possibly never would be)? And would you, knowing this weakness of yours, have allowed me to continue in my own indolent ways, as I slouched toward actual obesity (if I wasn’t there already; granted, Kevin’s existence was always there to suggest that “oh, I’m not doing so badly,” but that’s hardly a serviceable excuse)? Would we have been for each other a slow-motion Sid and Nancy, enabling each others’ decline even as we were dimly aware of our own?

And at the same time, we would have had each other at our side, loving us, caring for us, treasuring us, no matter what state we were in (or whether we could be better, if we put our minds to it). I know I’ve said I would happily have the clutter back if I could have you back as well. On the other hand, I can’t speak for you, and whether you’d be willing to return to Earth to live with even a slimmed-down version of myself; I doubt there’s anything I could do to make life here even remotely appealing in comparison to what you’re enjoying in heaven.

So, yeah; it’s hard to say I’m really doing well, honey. Still, if you could keep an eye on me, and wish me luck, I’d really appreciate it. After all, I’m sure you know I’ll need it.