As a kid, I ate whatever in the world I wanted. Pizza, chips, coke–I never had to think about it, and never experienced weight problems because of it. I loved to dance, but other than that, exercise was not a part of my life. Oh, I walked to and from school and did whatever worked into my day, but it wasn’t a focus. I didn’t understand what calories were and I didn’t care.
I married young and had four kids in my twenties. The weight fell off after each child, though it took some time, which gave me some anxiety, considering my unfamiliarity with being overweight. Further, my eating habits were so haphazard and uneducated, a fact I credit to my natural metabolism.
Then came my thirties. Three more kids came along (thank God!), and for the first time in my life I was overweight. It ate me up more than I cared to admit. In fact, I didn’t admit it at all. I “embraced my body,” wanted to “set a good example for my daughters,” exercised “because it felt good,” and otherwise was in denial about the fact that I really needed to change my eating habits. The problem? I didn’t have the foggiest notion how.
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