A funny thing happened the other day. I was discussing my visits to the weight loss clinic with my dad, telling him about the different things they measure: BMI, BMR, fat mass, etc. I mentioned that I thought it strange that they measure impedance. From the blank look on his face, he must have thought it strange too; especially since I’d mispronounced it “impotence”. He joked, “I didn’t think they handled that there, not that you have to worry.” Sigh. These tiny humbling moments are good for a helpless know it all like myself.
The word, he told me, is pronounced “im-PEE-dance” (seeing this reminds me of what my daughter does when she can’t hold it). According to the literature, impedance “reflects the body’s inherent resistance to an electrical current. Muscle acts as a conductor of current, while adipose (fatty) tissue acts as a resistor.” First of all, I had always thought that not being a good conductor of electricity was a good thing. And second… huh? How on earth is such a measurement useful?
So this got me thinking. I’ve completed three weeks on the program and lost 14 pounds, just one pound off my goal of an average of five per week. A loss of five pounds per week may seem a bit pie in the sky, to use an inappropriate expression, but more rapid results are the reason I’m subjecting myself to this in the first place. I mean really; 800 calories a day, plus one fruit and one vegetable. No grain based food of any kind. No sugar, not even ketchup. A dozen pills every day, plus a weekly shot. Dogged tracking of each and every calorie consumed. Never eating the same thing as everyone else at the table. And for this joyous existence I pay them $70 per week. Nothing is included in that but a weekly weigh in, the shot, and a pat on the back.
I guess I’ve hit what you call a slump. I’m tired of cooking separate meals and culinary blandness. I’m tired of limited options and never being full. I’m tired of taking pills and writing things down. I’m extraordinarily tired of peeing in a cup every day. I’m discouraged, and bored. And scared.
Discouraged because last week I lost “only” 2.5 pounds. Don’t get me wrong. A loss is still a loss, and especially for women, weight loss fluctuates. And certainly this is the longest I’ve ever stuck to anything this drastic. Cutting out nearly all carbs for me is like cutting the number of breaths I take by half. But I also feel like I could have lost that on my own, for free. I probably wouldn’t have, but I could have, at least in theory. But then again, there’s the lesson: you slip up, you stop writing down every calorie and testing your pee, and you only lose half as much weight.
But more than being discouraged and bored, I feel fear creeping in. I feel myself wanting to give up. I feel my innate laziness fighting for control. I hear a voice whispering in my ear, “Daily life is hard enough. Why are you making it harder?” I feel my weaker self trying to convince me: “You know what to do. You can do it on your own.” And maybe I can. Maybe I’m afraid to trust that this time is really different. But I’m also afraid that this time is not different, and that this time is my last chance. I’ve never been this heavy or had this much to lose. I’m an expert at self impedance.
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