At some point, we’ve all been supported. Perhaps you have a loving network of friends and family that you unconsciously know is your support group. That has always been true for me. Or, if you haven’t felt support in that way, certainly you’ve experienced support in the form of control-top pantyhose, sports bras, or—for males—jock straps (those are supportive, right?) At any rate, I have been thinking a lot lately about the importance of support.
It all started about two weeks ago when I was asked to go to a workshop, and a dear colleague promised to buy my lunch at European Street…IF I promised to blog about it. For one, this was quite encouraging (I mean, supportive) because it let me know that people other than my best friends (always supportive) are actually reading my blog. I quickly agreed, and each time I saw my colleague after this arrangement, he quipped that he would try to tempt me in every way imaginable: “Perhaps we should attend the buffet at Golden Corral?” or “MMMMM…those cookies look delicious.” Basically, he would try to bring me some good writing material. When the day finally came, though, he wasn’t the demon he promised to be. He was supportive.
Around 8:30 a.m., I noticed that there were bowls of candy on the tables. Everyone around my table had eaten the “good stuff,” so all that was left were Jolly Ranchers and peppermints. No problem. I was offered candy at least three times, and I proudly declined. When my laptop was running out of power, I had to climb under the adjacent empty table and plug it into that outlet since all the outlets at our table were being used. As I emerged from underneath the table and began to tip-toe back to my seat, out of the corner of my eye, I caught a beam of pink light glittering up from the paper bowl atop this vacant table. I could tell by the crinkled aluminum wrapping that it was a perfect little round, miniature Reese’s peanut butter cup. 44 Calories each. I rejected its glimmering flirtations and sat my fat ass back down at our table…
…for FIVE whole minutes. I sat there, feeling the aluminum glare from the chocolate and peanut butter candy behind me. I couldn’t take it anymore. Partly out of boredom and partly out of weakness, I found my chubby little hand leading my chubby little arm over to the table behind me. I snatched the aluminum-wrapped delicacy out of the bowl and hurried to my seat. I sat the Reese’s on the corner of my laptop (to think about if I really wanted it or not). At this point, Scott—my colleague—looks over to notice my new visitor, perched patiently atop my keyboard.
“WHAT IS THAT!!!!!!?????” he nearly announces to the whole room. Startled, I try to whisper that it’s only one little piece, mumbling something akin to “everything in moderation.” I can tell by his eyes that he’s begging me not to do it. Don’t eat it. I wait until he’s looking back at the PowerPoint, and POP…right in the ‘ole mouth. It was good, too. When he looked back over, he saw the remnants of the candy—torn aluminum and paper wrapper, all balled up into a tiny ball. He is far too angelic and polite to comment. At lunch, instead of being the Fiendish Temptor he had initially joked he would be, he commented that the vegetarian fare looked delicious and the grilled chicken salads too. I ordered the salad plate—with chicken, hummus, and tabbouleh. Though he bought two cookies at the end of the meal, he kept them concealed in their gilded package, adding that he always purchases cookies and saves them for later. At the time, I still wasn’t sure how I was going to follow through on my promise to blog about our adventure. I had, after all, eaten fairly well. And he, being supportive, hadn’t tempted all that much.
Later that evening, I came home and decided to go to the gym. I realized that my favorite sports bra was losing a bit of elasticity. I went ahead and pulled it on, topping it with another workout top that features a shelf-bra. As I was bouncing away on the elliptical machine, working on an interval of high speed and high resistance, I decided that I may need a bit more, um, support. After my workout, I headed to Target for that purpose. I was pleased with their selection of colorful Champion sports bras. At only $16 each, I purchased two. I returned home, grateful for my new support.
And that’s when the idea hit me: in any weight loss journey, a person needs varying degrees of support. Sometimes we need emotional support from friends and family. Sometimes we need the support of an amazing trainer to press us beyond the imaginary boundaries we’ve created for ourselves. Sometimes we need support from fitness magazines and shows that give us all sorts of ideas for fashion, time-management, and nutrition. And sometimes, we just need a good sports bra.
This evening, I packed my aqua Under-Armor bag for the gym tomorrow morning—the idea of support still lingering in my head. I looked at what I packed: A new, sturdy sports bra; Hair powder for soaking up sweat from my drenched hairline; Bumble and Bumble Prep spray for wetting my hair enough to blow dry out the kinks from my ponytail holder; and more Bumble and Bumble Does-it-all spray for subtle body and hold. This is my small arsenal of cosmetic support. But these things all bear a striking resemblance to the real support in my life. The hair powder and hair potions are like my trainer. They make me look better. Sure, I could blow-dry my hair without them, but they add a level of polish and ease that I can’t accomplish alone. My favorite metaphor, however, is the sports bra. All my friends, colleagues, and readers are the sports bra. I’m the boob…
Without my little support group to keep me reigned in and uplifted, God only knows where all I would be flailing right now…but something tells me it would be right to a Golden Corral somewhere.
