OK, so I have a love-hate relationship with food and
exercise. I am an emotional eater. I always have been, and probably always will
be. It’s like that, and that’s the way it is. Sorry, just channeling my inner
Run D.M.C. In the months leading up to both divorces, I gained weight. After
the separations, I lost it. In the year leading up to my son’s 6 week vacation
at Hampton (aka the Pink Bubble House), I hit maximum density. He moved out, I bought a treadmill, and within
6 months I was back into a size 8. There I stayed for 3 years.
Cut to March of 2009, when “the problem” started. One day I realized my jeans were TIGHT. I jacked up my routine and a month later my
jeans were still too tight. While this was going on, there were other random
symptoms going on that had taken me to several doctors only to get absolutely
no answer. Cut to October of 2010 when I finally ended up at the office of a
Reproductive Endocrinologist because nobody else could figure it out. After ultrasounds
and several hours of blood work that ruined my Saturday, I finally got an
answer: I have an adrenal enzyme imbalance. Some meds fixed MOST of the symptoms.
I have a hyperactive immune system. In a “normal” person,
the body gets an infection and the immune system attacks the invader and then…khallas.
Simply put, my immune system is like a kid with ADHD, it doesn’t know when to
stop. If scientists could figure out how to transplant T-cells, I could cure
AIDS. While that sounds like a good thing, it is NOT. Once the invader is gone,
my immune system continues to attack. When I was in High School, Strep Throat
caused my immune system to attack my lymphatic system. When I was pregnant with
my son, a trip to Cancun and a case of Shigella caused my immune
system to attack my digestive system. Exposure to Fifth’s Disease when I was teaching
elementary school caused it to attack my joints. There are several theories as
to why it went after my adrenal gland but….simply put, I have no metabolism. 30
minutes every day on the treadmill got me nowhere this time.
Not liking the way my jeans looked, giving up was simply not
an option. I hired a personal trainer last month. Let’s call him “The Demon”. Tuesday
he declared war on my hamstrings and I called him much worse. I also voluntarily turn myself into a pretzel
once a week at Yoga. The good news: several people commented last week that my jeans were
looking better. Maybe I won't smack The Demon upside the head with the 5 pound weights after all.
