When Your Body Betrays You

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.