I've been visiting our Military Treatment Facility (MTF or hobby shop as Chris refers to it) weekly since my miscarriage. I absolutely hate it. Not the hospital though I have several issues that I'd love to rip someone a new one for, but rather seeing desert camoflauge. Crazy I know. It started on visit number one when we were in the ER waiting room. 2 young soldiers who couldn't have been older than 20, were evacuated from the desert and brought to our MTF for treatment. They had pills in their hand, looked healthy on the outside, but obviously damaged on the inside. They talked of going home and their eagerness to get out of this place. It breaks my heart. These boys were younger than my husband, yet it could have easily been my husband. That is what I think every time I see someone in desert uniforms walking through those halls. That could be my husband. That could be my babies' daddy. Ugh. It is so hard to wrap my head around. This visit is was the doctors, nurses and healthcare workers putting on gowns and gloves, getting ready for the ambulance to arrive. When we drove up to the gate to get ready to leave the base, I had to pull over so the big blue bus (military ambulance), which had just come from the flight line, could make its way through. Sickening. I tell Chris each time that seeing those soldiers makes me nauseous. It makes me want to cry. I do feel pride. Pride they served my country. Pride they fought for me and my children. I am proud. I am very proud, but I am also ashamed, embarrassed, sad, and sick that they will now live the rest of their very long lives remembering that sacrifice each and every day. It makes me nauseous. As wars or talk of wars continue to rear their ugly heads with talk of deployments and when our turn is likely to come, I can't help but pray that I don't see desert camoflauge anytime soon.
Yes, indeeedy do. 0.0 is exactly the amount of weight I lost this week. Irritating! Here's the breakdown: number of times I cheated on my diet--ZERO! number of times I worked out--FIVE!! (running, no less). Now that is a mean, mean slap in the face. After I picked myself off the floor and resisted the urge to throw the scale through my window, I've come to realize that it is time to call in the big guns. There will be no messing around. Through a very valuable (HA!--sense the sarcasm) inservice this year, I've learned that I am "Green," meaning logical, research based, problem solver, mathmatical thinker. I am applying the same thought and strategy to my 'get fit' adventure. There will be no relying on the treadmill to tell me how much I've burned. That thing lies, LIES, LIES!! Take for example, the fact that each time I worked out, I burned at least 300 calories--most often 350, my pulse was around 87 (which is pretty much a near death resting ...
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