Nine is a Lot of Inches

I started dabbling in this self-improvement thing a few months ago.

The Campaign for Visible Vegetables has integrated itself quite nicely into our lives, the amount of miles the hubby and I have been hiking continues to grow, and fast food darkens our doorstep with far less frequency. 

Here's the problem, though: I see no change in my body.

Okay, there are SOME changes, like I can hike farther now than I could a few months back - and even jogged a few steps the other day. But I mean the measurable changes just aren't happening. My weight has fluctuated up and down in the same three-pound range since late-March. My clothes still fit about the same. My dreams of putting in the effort and seeing dramatic and rewarding results have been dashed. 

Fed up with the scale, I recently saw a couple mentions of waist size as an indication of fatitude vs. slimliness and realized that I had NO idea what my waist measurement is. Eager for a new means of telling myself that I'm totally not fat, I grabbed the tape measure. 

Bad choice. 

According to Real Age, my waist is about three and a half inches bigger than the big end of "ideal". 

That's not THAT much, right?

But is that the waist measurement statistic I grab on to? 

Of course not.

I decide instead to fixate on the fact that my waist is NINE INCHES bigger than the girl's on Make Me a Supermodel. Now, I appreciate that I am twenty years older than this girl and that I am never going to be a supermodel, but, still, the horror of NINE INCHES burrows into my brain and stays there. 

Nine inches is a lot of inches, yes? 

Now I'm like a dog with a bone with this whole waist measurement thing ...

On Real Age they have a waist loss tracker, so I get in there and enter my data. 

It asks for my goal. 

Um, my goal's not to feel like I tub-o-lard. 

How does that translate into numbers? 

I thought about it for a couple seconds and decided to shoot for the big end of "ideal" since I do have what is politely called a large frame (meaning I have shoulders like a linebacker).

Then it asks for the date by which I will reach this ideal (though still on the big side) state.

Great. 

Again, I'm in unfamiliar territory. 

The site tells me that half an inch every two weeks is reasonable. (Can't they just say an inch per month? Or 1.3 cm per fortnight?) I decide that three inches by summer's end should be do-able, so that's what I type in. 

So, now I have a new number to strive for. 

Another benchmark to reach. 

Great.

My real goal for myself, though, is to self-improve in the way that makes me no longer feel compelled to compare myself to supermodel wannabes. 

To reach that elusive goal of not caring about what the scale and the tape measure say.

To just appreciate the strength of my legs. 

My lungs. 

My heart. 

Now THAT would be some improvement. 

But, until then ...