insight from ‘boot camp’ bears all

Twelve weeks in Oprah’s “boot camp” is over and do I have a story to tell you about just what kind of journey it’s been—and baby, I’ve never seen anything quite like it.
I’ll admit it was a difficult three months, and not because I said “no” to pasta and potatoes. But it also was educational.
The tough stuff was upholding a promise to myself to be 100 percent self-aware for 90 days. You’d think it would be easy to be accountable only to yourself.
Not by a long shot.
So was facing the reality of just how fragile the line is between a really bad day and the urge to fill my face or have a drink.
Granted, I did lose weight. I went in fighting at 177 pounds and came out dancing at 161. I had no weight-loss agenda for my 12-week “boot camp.” I had said three months ago that I took it on because it was a challenge and because I needed a kick in the. . . .
I got both—and more.
First of all, sharing my weight with the public really taught me how silly it is to be ashamed not to. It’s just a number.
I had no trouble giving up refined, processed carbohydrates. In fact, I may never eat them again—pasta and potatoes included. I don’t miss sugar, either, not one little granule.
The real eye-opener was that by keeping those foods out of my diet, my body quit aching.
I’ve had joint pain for nearly two decades—so bad sometimes that if I sat too long and got up, I felt like the “Tin Man” did in the “Wizard of Oz.” Walking up and down stairs also was often agony.
I’d tried all the drugs. Over the counter, behind the counter, you name it. And when Vioxx got pulled off the drugstore shelves, I thought my life was over.
To think all I had to do was say “no” to white flour and sugar and “hello” to lean meat and greens. Amazing. If all I ever got from “boot Camp” was a pain-free life, it was worth it.
But there’s something else.
I realized I don’t need to have a drink to deal with parental stress, a crappy financial statement, or work-related phenomena such as copy deadlines or those times when I think I’ll never write a good story again without “help.”
“Boot camp” put severe restrictions on alcohol consumption. I didn’t realize how severe it was until a few gigantic stressors parachuted into my life in those 12 weeks and did “slam dunks” all over my soul.
In “boot camp,” I was made to pay attention to how I filtered life. It wasn’t comfortable, and I messed up a couple of times, but I was “all there” most of time—even when it felt like control over my life was rushing through a sieve.
I maintain that this loser is not a quitter. I still have a weight loss goal of 145 pounds to meet for the end of June. I won’t call it “boot camp” anymore, but I’m not going to quit paying attention.
Neither will Peter quit paying attention when he sees what I have in store for him. It seems I’ve managed to “refit” some of those undergarments used exclusively with my wedding dress of seven years ago.
Look out, honey! There’s a fashion show on your horizon—and it doesn’t include jeans and T-shirts.

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