If my internal dialog genuinely wanted to help, this is what it would look like:
And this is what it would shout:
“Quit whining, shut your pie hole and run!”
Instead it speaks in hushed tones and whispers and says things like:
“You’re over 40. Your metabolism has slowed considerably. Of course you’re going to put on weight.”
And “You’ve worked so hard n your diet, you deserve a little chocolate now and then.”
Over the summer, while running “Camp Mom”, I choose to ignore my internal Drill Sergeant and turn up the volume on my Enabler, who is so much more pleasant and understanding.
My Enabler knows that as head counselor of Camp Mom, I feel justified in stuffing my face with S’Mores, movie popcorn and ice cream cones.
But come September, the Sergeant is back on my doorstep, his bulging biceps folded across his chest, poking a finger at my protruding gut and saying:
“What’s this? Move your butt, clam cake belly!”
His take no prisoners approach to fitness is the only way I know to release the pancakes I have been holding hostage on my hips and thighs all summer.
So I start running again and stop indulging in foods that lead to bulging. And I give up whining…well, at least out loud.