Imagine Valentine’s weekend 2014. Like all Februarys in Colorado, the temperature was up and down. Rain one day, snow the next. I don’t typically mind it because it’s a short month and the onset of March means no more below freezing temperatures. I really hate winter.
Six-thirty in the morning before I teach yoga and I’m doing some tidying. Clean the kitchen, run the dishwasher, and take out the rubbish. One wrong step off the front porch and I ended up tits over ass in the driveway. The ankle was shattered.
The long and the short of it was immediate surgery and eight weeks off of my feet. Welcome to eight weeks of comfort food and zero activity. It’s a killer combo. Ten extra pounds in the snap of your fingers. BAM.
Several studies show the traumatic effects surgery and injury play on your metabolic and immunological systems. Your system loses efficiency in processing proteins and increases its ability in processing glucose. Yep, your body mainly thrives on sugar. Fucking hell. It can also take up to two years for your system to reset to a healthy metabolic rate.
Add to those fun facts I was 45 years-old, so my metabolic rate was gearing up to fucked without the trauma.
Ain’t life grand?
Fast forward through a year of recovery. I stopped running. I started spin class. I followed the physical therapist’s recommendations to the letter. The hardware started giving me fits.
Almost a year to the day of the break, I had the hardware removed. I’m not feeling too bad because my nephew has me beat. He broke both of his legs at a trampoline park. It’s all in your perspective. That said, add another six weeks off my feet and another ten pounds.
Here’s the deal, I didn’t really give a fuck. I was into another year of physical therapy and working back to a regular workout schedule. I didn’t have the interest or energy at 46 years-old to go back to the Paleoish routine. I doubled my fitness teaching schedule and added four extra yoga classes. I don’t have high blood pressure. My blood panels are insanely healthy. I still fit into most of my clothes.
What’s the big deal?
I wrote a yoga book for one. A book that required photographs of me in asanas. Okay, it’s The F*cking Yoga Book: Yoga for The 99%. No perfect yoga bodies here. Tell that to my lizard brain. I tried to embrace the belly. People kept saying I looked fabulous. I felt fabulous except when I ate bread or pasta, but I was in fuck it mode.
Nevermind the full-on menopause hot flashes and sleeplessness. Screw the mood swings and nuclear PMS.
Last week, I agreed to go out for drinks to celebrate one of my besties’ birthday. I don’t know what I was thinking. Three pairs of not-fitting jeans and a huge hissy fit later, I almost canceled. Instead, I pulled on my big girl harem pants and decided serious action needed to be taken.
Okay, let me say I’m still on the “I may never wear jeans again” train. What style guru said, “Let’s have women wear tight jeans”? They should be shot. I’m pretty sure Levi’s had practical jeans in mind.
All leggings and yoga pants ARE NOT created equal.