The Ge Spot is an adulting column written by “Cousin GeGe,” a 37-year-old, DC-bred skincare enthusiast and art aficionado, dedicated to honoring herself, feeding her love language, and striving to be less “uncouth” for her grandmother.
I hate when people say “just start” or “no more excuses” as it pertains to people losing weight. Y’all can go straight to hell! We all know (or should know) that losing weight is as mental as it is physical. If it were as easy as Nike suggests, muthaf*ckas wouldn’t have such a hard time with it. For clarity, I’ve been big the majority of my life. I struggled with baby fat, then I was chubby, then I moved to being thick, then heavy, and now I’m just fat. The fat isn’t so much my problem. It’s the discomfort in my own skin. It’s the radiating pain in my back when I stand too long. My switch has turned into a waddle and I’m not happy about it.
Growing up, I played tennis, swam, and took dance lessons. As an adult, I’ve always had a gym membership that I sometimes used. I know what to do for my body! At my last doctor’s visit, I weighed the most I’ve ever weighed in my life. I left the appointment and immediately went to McDonald’s. It was the most rational thing I could do at that moment. That one fish filet meal wasn’t going to do any more damage to my body than what was already done. I enjoyed my meal, went home, and took a nap.
I had a plan. I’ve done the weight loss back and forth before, so I know what to do and how to do it. I bought gym equipment with my hard-earned money and turned a storage area in my home into a baby gym. I have an Apple watch with Apple fitness plus and people to hold me accountable. I have a juicer and a blender. I have healthy snacks I don’t want to eat and bottles of alcohol I shouldn’t drink. I have 16 steps in my townhouse that I dread walking up and down. I have an active 4-year-old niece that I can’t keep up with and she starts kindergarten in the Fall. I promise I’m not trying to be nobody fat a*s Titi.
So many Mondays have come and gone, and I have put forth no real effort. I’m bordering illness and an unhealthy lifestyle that I don’t want. Yet, that hasn’t been motivation enough to move my a*s into this makeshift gym in my home. I can’t believe I’m here! I can’t believe I’m not willing to save myself. I can’t believe I’ve typed all this eating a Reese’s cup.
I honestly don’t know what it’s going to take for me to get my sh*t together. I don’t want to diet, and I don’t want to die. I’m not fond of needles unless I’m getting a tattoo or my birth control injection, so I don’t see insulin in my future. This start and stop bullsh*t is honestly the worst. I’m over myself. Sometimes I think had I never stopped in March how far along would I be. If an if was a fifth, we’d be drunk! I need to stop drinking for a month too. That sugar has my skin looking like a nut sack and I spend way too much money on skincare for that, but I digress. So… another Monday, I suppose!