I know what I am supposed to do. I don’t always do it, not because I want to be stubborn or perverse, but because there are times when I’m so chagrined, horrified, and hopelessly saddened that I just can’t make myself do the one thing I know would be best for me.

I choose, far too often, to critique myself harshly. I see the flaws, the mistakes, the imperfections. I’ve been like this my whole life and perfectionism has never worked for me. However, I stick with the familiar even when it is detrimental. I understand I’m not the only person to do this.

Where it shows up the most nowadays, is in my gym life. To be fair, I will rip out rows of crochet to fix a mistake back there even though no one else would see it or notice. So even now, it’s not just the gym. For Thanksgiving, my squash didn’t cook up perfectly and I don’t really know why except perhaps it was because it was refrigerated before baking instead of more room temperature. But I worried about that for days afterwards, too.

This is just what I do to make myself miserable I guess. Lately, I’ve been having a run of good days at the gym. This is amazing, but I’ve done it before. I’m coming home happy with what I’ve managed to do. I know what I do is pretty damn awesome and I have given myself the proverbial pat on the back. It has made going to the gym quite a bit less stressful and quite a bit more enjoyable.

My list of things I can’t do hasn’t really shortened to nothing (but I have been stringing more and more double unders together of late). Somehow, and I have no idea how or why, I’ve been able to focus more on what I’m getting done instead of what I can’t do.

I have managed to do this for a while in the past, and then something happens and I never know what that will be, and it all turns to dust. I stop seeing what I can do and only see how much I have to scale and how weak I am even after all this time.

Intellectually, I know that most people can’t do what I do. I know that even fewer people my age can manage all the things I manage. Even fewer of them are women. I also know I’m limited in many respects by my age and gender and it irritates me. That’s rather stupid, but there you have it. I’m not getting any younger and this is the gene set I was given long, long ago.

One would think that if I could figure out how to be happy at the gym for a couple weeks, I would know how to be happy at the gym for all the weeks. I’m enjoying this respite from self loathing and high critique, but I know it won’t last. At least, it never has before. If there was some magic thing I could do or say to myself, I would gladly do or say it in order to keep this bubble of contentment going.

Maybe if I write it down here and when things go to hell in the always present handbasket, I can see that I’m not forced to live in the dark and brooding discontent of imperfection, but can enjoy the process of improvement and sustaining the good health I have.

And on a health note: I’ve been doing pretty good with all the carb counting and haven’t gone over my limit since I was given this stupid diet. I did not count anything at all for Thanksgiving, but I was careful in my food choices.

I’ve found some keto recipes and some diabetic recipes and I’ve been experimenting with other food options. I’ve bought some Miracle Noodles that are carb free from Amazon. They are coming tomorrow. I have no idea what they will taste like, but if they are like the two desserts I’ve managed to bake and eat, then I should be all right. I’m getting more used to this restriction and it is getting less daunting.

Today, I’m reveling in the joy of my life. I hope I can keep this up for a while.

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