Fat Lady Parking

Pregnant Lady vs. Pregnant Mom

2011-09-23T09:41:00.003-05:00

Did anyone watch the season premier of The Office last night? Pam is pregnant again! (Not a spoiler--I read it weeks ago in Entertainment Weekly and it's been all over Hollywood because Jenna Fischer is pregnant in real life.) Last night's show was super emotional for her--and I could relate because I totally had a day like that yesterday. Crying at every stupid thing! Couldn't stop laughing. Pregnant ladies are hilarious to watch.

Being a pregnant lady is hard. Your stomach and ankles swell, you have to pee all the time, and your boobs inflate to proportions that don’t seem humanly possible. Losing control over your growing body is hard to accept and throwing in a plethora of hormones can make for a pretty interesting nine months.

Being a pregnant mom is even harder.

Though this is my third pregnancy, I feel like it’s my first time being a pregnant mom. When I was pregnant with Little Sister, (was it really ten years ago?) Big Sis lived with her mom, so it was only The Hubster and me…and our psychotic cat. When I was pregnant with Little Brother, the girls were 8 and 14…so while I was still a mom, they were pretty self sufficient. I could sneak off for a nap when I needed to, or go cry in my room without someone watching.

This time around is different. I’ve never had to protect my growing belly from the kicking feet of a toddler who won’t sleep. I’ve never been woken up from one of those crazy pregnancy dreams by someone pulling my hair, yelling, “Mom! Mom!” Little Brother still gets up at night two or three times a week. There are diapers to change, more laundry to do, and a baby to entertain and keep out of trouble

Although the exasperating fatigue of early pregnancy is finally slipping away, I’m tired. Some will say that it’s because I’m older now, but there are moms much older than I am who are doing this, too. More will smirk and make snide comments about birth control…yes, I know how babies are made, and though this one (or any of them, for that matter) wasn’t planned, I still feel blessed. After so many years of heartache when we were trying, it was a thrill to be surprised with one more when we weren’t.

And even though I’m exhausted, I’m not sure I could be more excited to be a Pregnant Mom. Well…maybe if I’d gotten more than four hours of sleep last night.

A Year Ago

2010-12-04T08:33:00.001-06:00

Friday, December 4, 2009

I’m pregnant.

I can’t quite get the words through my head.

I’ve been feeling nauseous and dizzy. Getting weird headaches. I’ve been really, really hungry…and really, really tired. I’ve been PMSing for the last two weeks, just waiting for my monthly visitor to appear at any moment.

But I’m late. And what’s a sure-fire way to have a period? Take a pregnancy test.

The Hubster bought me those silly, digital pregnancy tests. I guess he thinks I’m too blonde to read the lines correctly. So, this morning, I took it. (Yes, that means I peed on it.) A tiny hour glass started flashing in the results window. I rolled my eyes and set it on the bathroom counter while it “worked.” I washed my hands, weighed myself, peeking from time at the stick on the counter, which was still flashing. No pink lines to catch my eye, I stared at the test until the result popped up.

Pregnant.

I picked it up and looked closer, thinking maybe it was possible to read it incorrectly. Pregnant? Me? No. Way. I compared it to the picture on the box. (Just in case I was reading it wrong. I suppose there’s a chance that could happen.) Pregnant.

Alone in the bathroom, I started laughing. I snapped a picture of the result with my phone and sent it to the Hubster. He called me seconds later.

“Hey, did you just send me a picture message?”

“Yeah.”

“What is it?”

“You can’t tell?” Damn.

“No, it’s kind of dark.” (And his phone sucks.)

“It’s a pregnancy test.”

Silence. Then… “What does it say?”

“Do you think I’d send you a picture of it if it said no?”

“Really?”

Yes, really. I’m pregnant. And excited. And terrified.

~~
Reading these words a year later still brings tears to my eyes. I remember exactly how I felt that day…laughing all alone in my bathroom at six in the morning—completely dumbstruck and absolutely ecstatic. For years, I agonized over pregnancy test after pregnancy test, praying for two pink lines, a plus sign, a positive. Month after month, I was disappointed, devastated, and depressed. Medication didn’t work. Trying didn’t work. Time didn’t work. Nothing worked. Nothing.

I gave up.

The miracle that broke my streak of negative pregnancy tests turns four months old today. One day, I’ll write my recollection of the morning he was born. I remember laughing alone in my bathroom. Horror I felt when I started bleeding around six weeks. Relief when the ultrasound tech showed us the tiny heartbeat. Excitement when she pointed out his boy parts a few weeks later. The thrill of that first kick and of sharing his movements with my family. The exhilaration I felt when I realized I was in labor for real following several hundred contractions that meant nothing. Laughing and crying all at once when they laid him on my chest.

Today, he smiles when he sees me. He laughs when I talk to him and make silly faces. He rolls over and beams at me in pride for his accomplishments. He continues to amaze me with every breath.

A year ago today, my life changed forever. In some ways, I can’t believe it’s been a whole year. But I also can’t remember life without him.

Impossible

2010-10-31T23:06:00.000-05:00

Since he was born, I love watching Little Brother, wondering what he’s thinking. He’s such a little miracle and I often marvel at the tiny fingers, pink lips, and perfect dimples that grew inside of me for nine months or so. He is amazing and his big, blue eyes are so full of wonder that I can’t imagine what’s going on inside his sweet, bald head.

Tonight, I watched him while he nursed before bedtime, and it struck me what he might be thinking tomorrow. Because, tomorrow, I’m going back to work. And he’s still at the age where he thinks I’ve actually disappeared when I hide behind a blanket, so tomorrow, what will he think? That I’ve abandoned him completely? Where is my mommy and who is this lady holding me and why do I have to drink out of a bottle all day?

I KNOW it’s ridiculous. I know that he will be fine and we will both survive and I am being completely irrational. But I can’t help it. Familiar panic and anxiety well up inside of me and I can’t breathe and the tears burst from eyes before I can stop them. I get angry. I hate my husband and the fact that he doesn’t make enough money so that I don’t have to work. I hate my friends who are able to stay home with their children. I hate the women who work because they want something to do other than being a wife and a mother. I hate myself for starting my maternity leave two days before giving birth, stealing time away from the precious baby boy I’ve spent nearly every second with for the last 88 days. I hate my life.

I know that everything will be okay. Little Brother will be at a home daycare with a woman I know and I trust and I love. The Hubster and I will both be only a few miles away if we’re needed. I know that millions of women before me have endured and overcome this same obstacle. But tonight, I am still sad.

I am sad and angry and anxious, and I rocked Little Brother long after he had fallen asleep, dreading the moment I’d have to kiss him goodnight. I am avoiding my bedroom, avoiding sleep. Agonizing over waking up tomorrow morning and deserting my son, if only a few hours. Tonight is impossible.

(I’m sorry. I don’t really hate anyone—I am just feeling very, very sorry for myself tonight. I am SO grateful for the time I have been able to spend with him, and I know that many women aren’t able to do the same—I have been there, too. With Little Sister, I was on bed rest for 2 months, and I went back to work when she was 4 weeks and 6 days old. When that day rolled around this time, I sent up prayers and thanks that I got nearly two more months with Little Brother. I know I am lucky, but this is still so, so hard.)

Defnitions

2010-10-27T23:14:00.002-05:00

inspiration
[in-spuh-rey-shuh n]
–noun
a thing or person that inspires

motivation
[moh-tuh-vey-shuh n]
–noun
something that motivates; inducement; incentive

teacher
[tee-cher]
–noun
a person who teaches or instructs, esp. as a profession; instructor

leader
[lee-der]
–noun
a person or thing that leads

friend[frend]
–noun
a person attached to another by feelings of affection or personal regard

Turbo Jennie called me out tonight. (It was not the first time. It will not be the last. And I. Love. It.) The music was loud (it usually is) and there was something wrong with the microphone (also very normal) and I heard her say my name a couple of times…and at one point, she came over and pointed her finger in my face a la Jillian. I knew I must be doing something wrong, but couldn’t figure out what it was.

After class, I asked her what she was saying. Turns out, it was because I was going low impact. I had excuses…I usually do. My boobs are too big. My foot hurts. I’ll pee on the studio floor. But she just shook her head. “Those days are over!” she told me.

I thought about what she’d said for the rest of the evening. And damn it, if she isn’t right, AGAIN. I’ve gotten comfortable. I don’t jump too high. I don’t get too low. And why the hell not? It’s not that I CAN’T because I CAN. I’m doing what I’m used to. Doing what’s safe. But how can I grow? (Well, shrink?) How can I get better if I don’t try something new? If I don’t challenge myself?

So that’s exactly what I’m going to do—challenge myself. Jump higher. Get Lower. Work harder. Do MORE.

The "I've Only"s

2010-10-17T16:39:00.002-05:00

I’ve got them. Not the Mondays. The “I’ve Only”s. And it gets worse…it seems I have passed them along to my kids.

Little Sister’s school has a fitness challenge going on where the kids run during recess and someone tallies their laps. Once they reach five miles, they get a little keychain charm in the shape of a foot. She was talking to Leader Pam about it today, and I overheard her telling her, “I’ve only run 2 miles.”

Big Sister is getting great grades in high school, which is a relief, because she struggled in middle school. At the beginning of the year, it because she’d “only” had a few assignments, but she’s keeping up with it and we are so proud of her. She’s a great artist, too, but “only” because she had a picture to guide her.

And me. Since giving birth ten and a half weeks ago, I’ve only lost 25 pounds. Since joining Weight Watchers again 9 weeks ago, I’ve only lost 8.6 pounds. I went back to the gym recently, but I’ve only been 6 times in the last three weeks.

Why? Why do we qualify our successes with that word? Why do we make them seem less important, less impressive than they should be? Leader Pam asked the question at my Weight Watchers meeting this morning—why can’t we celebrate our own successes?

For me, it’s because I’m not done yet. I have a hard time seeing the place I came from because I’m looking at how far I have to go. It’s hard to celebrate fitting into regular, not maternity clothes because I’ve still got boxes of clothes I can’t fit into. It’s hard to celebrate losing five or ten pounds because I’m nowhere near where I want to be.

It breaks my heart that my children have picked up on this and started qualifying their own achievements.

So, this week, I’m challenging myself to celebrate the small things and stop demeaning my success. I DID go back to Weight Watchers. I DID go back to the gym. I WILL continue to lose. And I will set a better example for my children while I’m working on it.

Written in the Stars

2010-10-10T23:17:00.002-05:00

A few months ago, I signed up at some website to have my horoscope texted to me every day. (Thank goodness for unlimited texting, or Big Sister would text us out of house and home—she’d racked up over 300 texts before she’d even owned the phone for 24 hours!)

Most of the time, “my” horoscope is way off and it has absolutely nothing to do with me. (“We know you like to bottle up your feelings, Gemini…” What?!?) Every once in a while, though, it hits the nail on its head and tells me exactly what I need to hear. The week I went back to Turbo, my horoscope said that Venus was in retrograde in the fitness sector and it would turn my routine around. (Something like that.)

Yesterday, I received this message: “There’s nothing wrong with your goals of getting healthier and finally fitting into your skinny jeans. But the way you go about it can make all the difference in the world—be careful not to get too obsessed, Gemini. All good things take time, so check the scale weekly, not hourly.” Considering I read the text at 11:30 in the morning and I’d already been on the scale 4 times, I think it was definitely advice I needed. (Advice I’ve heard before. Advice I never listen to.)

This morning, I got this one: “You’ve counted calories all weekend. Tonight, ditch that Weight Watchers scale and head out for a feast with your friends. You won’t undo all the good work you’ve done if you remember that tonight is about friendship, not stuffing your face.” Turns out, I actually did have a social afternoon planned with friends. Weird, right? Since I weighed in this morning, I did ~~over-indulge~~ ~~indulge~~ OVER-indulge in some artichoke-spinach dip, but I also spent a lot of time visiting. I’m absolutely loving spending all my time with Little Brother, but it’s nice to talk to grown-ups, too.

This week’s challenge: Not checking the scale! I rely on that thing WEIGH (ha-ha!) too much and I’ll admit that I let it affect food decisions that I make. This week, I’m going to eat smart, track my points, and keep up with my activities. I am NOT going to step on the scale until my meeting next Sunday morning. (In fact, I stashed it in my bathroom cupboard, just in case I feel the need.) I hate weighing “blind,” but the scale is definitely something I need to conquer.

One Step at a Time

2010-09-21T21:20:00.003-05:00

Where to begin?

I’ve been back at Weight Watchers for about a month now. Going back was easier than I thought it would be. Maybe too easy. I made the decision early on to give myself a day “off” on Sunday, the day of my meeting. I decided I would track the food I ate that day, but not the points. It was also my “cheat” day, where I would have a little something that I wouldn’t normally have during the week…bacon, ice cream, a soft pretzel…something like that.

So guess what happened? Sunday turned into Sunday and Monday. And then Tuesday. And by Wednesday or Thursday, I’d wasted half the week and I was terrified to step on the scale. Why? I don’t know. I don’t have any answers. No excuses.

Last week was a tough one. My sweet tooth was acting up and I’ve no experience being home alone with food. When I’m at work, I bring the food I can eat. I eat the food I bring, and I’m okay. When I’m at home, though…all the food is here. I can have anything I want. And when the baby’s crying, it’s easier to grab a pop-tart than make something healthy for breakfast. It’s easier to run to a drive-thru when I’m out than to worry about getting home and being able to make something for lunch before he wakes up. It’s easier. Not better.

I haven’t been working out, yet, either. I’ve taken a few walks and attempted a post-natal yoga video I found on instant Netflix, but nothing like the workouts I did before or even during my pregnancy. At my post partum visit last week, my doctor made it a point to tell me I was healing, not healed, and I should continue to take it easy. He said I could try maybe 2 or 3 classes a week when I’m ready, but warned me not to dive back into the schedule I had before.

But I’m not ready. Some of it is physical—the aches and pains of childbirth that I’m still dealing with, but a lot of it is mental. It’s been 5 months since I did Turbo. (I hadn’t realized it had been that long until just now. 5 months?!) I’m afraid to go back. I’m the Fat Lady again, staring into a studio full of strangers. Worried I won’t be able to keep up. Worried I’ll make a fool of myself. Worried I can’t do it.

I can, though. I know I can. I know I can get back to the place where I was. I know I can succeed.

So I’m going to take it one step at a time. I bought some little jawbreakers at the store the other day. I can have 3 of them for 1 point, and they will last a long time, so I won’t be snacking all day on sweets. That’s my food step this week. I’m also going to meet my fruit and vegetable recommendation every day. As a nursing mom, I should be getting 8 servings a day. Yesterday, I had 10 and today, I had 9. It sounds like two steps, doesn’t it? They’re important ones.

For my exercise step, I’m going to shoot first for some activity 4 times a week. Yesterday, I walked with Leader Pam. (Love her!) Today was harder. I planned a walk with Little Brother, but he fell asleep while I was changing clothes. I decided to do the yoga video, but put a load of laundry in first and he woke up before I got my yoga mat rolled out. He's been into cat naps, lately, although he did finally sleep for 3 hours. He was a little fussy for a while, though…walking around, carrying 13 pounds of baby counts as some activity, right? Because I do that all the time. Next week, I will think about returning to the gym. But for now…one step at a time.

We’ve been talking weight loss mantras in our meetings the last couple of weeks. I didn’t really have one in mind…the old stand-bys: ELMO—eat less more often, or “Nothing tastes as good as being thin feels.” But they weren’t really mine. A friend of a friend posted on Facebook: “Eat clean and workout dirty.” I kind of fell in love with that one and I’m going to use it, but I kind of just realized I’ve got one of my own.

One step at a time. It’s the way to go. Changing everything all at once is a recipe for disaster and failure. But I can change one thing. Can you?

Good luck to my friend, M, who starts her Weight Watchers journey as a path to get back in shape before adding to her family again. And good luck to Leader Pam, who is walking 50 miles this weekend (starting on Friday, the day she turns 50!) to raise money in support of The National MS Society. Remember, ladies…One step at a time.You both can do it. We all can.

Us Versus Them

2010-09-01T08:30:00.003-05:00

At my Weight Watchers meeting this week, we discussed ways to incorporate activity into our daily lives. A topic that always comes up is gym alternatives.

Whether it’s an excuse people use to shy away or an honest fear, the gym can be an intimidating place. There are daunting machines, unclear etiquette, and the scariest pressure of all: Hot Bods. The Skinnies in Spandex stretching in front of the mirror and the Muscle Heads working it on the weight floor. THEY can be menacing and unapproachable to US, the average people, just looking to burn more calories than we take in.

A woman in my Sunday meeting told us how she stayed away from the gym because she was concerned about how she looked compared to THEM. The sub-Leader (Leader Pam was out pounding 5k of pavement!) asked her how she thought THEY got to look that way. The woman muttered, almost under her breath, “They were probably BORN that way.”

“But maybe they weren’t.” I hadn’t planned on saying anything. I didn’t know the woman and I was nursing Little Brother and I didn’t really want to draw attention to myself, but suddenly, everyone was looking at me. The sub-Leader asked me what I meant. I pointed out that you can’t know what someone has always looked like based on what they look like now. It’s not fair to assume that THEY don’t have to work just as hard as everyone else to look the way THEY do.

It’s an assumption many people make though. We see someone who’s slim and fit and we assume it’s always been easy for them. We figure they can eat whatever they want. We think they don’t need to exercise because…they were probably born that way.

Deep down, I know it’s not true. Last year, Turbo Jennie launched a “Before and After” campaign and challenged her followers (yes, it really is like a cult) to share pictures of the changes they’ve made with exercising and healthy living. She asked me to combine the photos for quick comparison, so I got first look at lots of them. She handed me photos at class one night and asked me to work my magic on them. I looked at them for a few minutes and then asked her who they were. When she told me, I was shocked. I had only known the girls in the picture for a few months, and to me, they were thin and strong and beautiful—and as far as I knew, they always had been. There was no way the round faces starting back from the photograph belonged to the women I knew. But they did.

Prior to my pregnancy, I was exercising 8 or more hours a week. It happened unexpectedly…I never considered myself a gym rat, but one class a week turned into three, and then six. I looked forward to each and every class, excited to see my friends, excited to sweat, excited to work out. I cried the day Turbo Jennie called me an athlete. That wasn’t me—I was the quiet one. The bookworm. The fat girl.

I am still one of US, but one day, I’ll be one of THEM. One day, someone I just met won’t believe how heavy I used to be and when I pull out a picture, they’ll be shocked and tell me they always just assumed I had it easy.

But I’ll know the truth.

Coming Home

2010-08-29T20:02:00.002-05:00

Last Sunday, I stepped back into the world of Weight Watchers. It might seem a little early to jump back on the bandwagon—I have NOT made it back to the gym yet; I’ve still got some healing to do—it was a goal I’d set during my pregnancy. I was so sure Little Brother would be joining us sooner, rather than later, and darn it if the little stinker didn’t wait right up until his due date to make his debut. (We are both doing well and my family and I are completely in love with him.)

My son was 17 days old when I attended my first meeting since quitting in December. I packed on 40 pounds during my pregnancy, and it took me almost the entire time to cope with my weight gain, but I survived. I did NOT have a 40 pound baby, and the weight I lost by the time I left the hospital was only a fraction of the total I’d gained. I am breastfeeding and I know I need to continue to nourish my baby, but I have been anxious to shed the excess weight I’ve been carrying. (Because baby car seat/carriers are HEAVY! I don’t need even more pounds to lug around!) Weight Watchers offers an option for nursing mothers that allows me to lose weight safely without affecting my baby or my supply.

I was nervous about renewing the program I know so well. The last few weeks have been filled with hurried meals, eating out, and numerous trips to our local Culver’s. My first meeting topic was about not denying yourself foods you love, but rather, finding ways to incorporate them by choosing lighter versions, decreasing the frequency of indulgences, and making up for the extra calories with activity. It was a terrific meeting to attend because it reminded me that foods aren’t taboo or off limits, which is why this works for me.

My week went well. I had difficulty following all the “Good Health Guidelines,” but I made it a point to write down and calculate points for everything I ate—including one trip to Culver’s on Thursday, treats at Movie Night on Friday, and a birthday party at Chuck E. Cheese on Saturday. I was stressed at times—especially when the baby was hungry at the same time I was—but I learned to ask for help when I needed it (which was often) and that it was okay to let him cry while I finish making my lunch so I could eat at the same time he did.

And I lost 4 pounds. It’s not a record—I think last time I joined WW, I lost 6 pounds the first week. Once, I lost 11 pounds!—but it’s okay with me. I’m not worried about losing the weight quickly…I just want to lose it. From time to time, I lament over the goal I set years ago…to be at a healthy weight by the time I turn 30. I was on track to be there ahead of schedule, but Little Brother set me back a little bit. (Worth EVERY. Single. Pound.) I’ve got 8 months to get there and about 80 pounds to lose. I could still make it, but I’m not going to let the stress get to me. I’m going to stay on plan, exercise as soon as I am up to it, and enjoy my family. I’m going to live my life.

But it feels so good to be back.

No

2010-04-26T17:44:00.002-05:00

No.

Although quite familiar with the word, it’s not one I’m particularly fond of. Especially when it’s followed by the word exercise.

I’ve been more than a bit remiss in updating here…at first it was because I hadn’t yet shared the news of my pregnancy with everyone and I had a hard time blogging without working it into my story somehow. Instead of essentially lying with every word, I chose not to write. (Okay, that’s not true. I was writing, just not anything interesting enough to share.)

I’m now 25 weeks pregnant with a very naughty little boy. I had some bleeding right around 6 weeks, which turned out to be nothing. An ultrasound at 12 weeks took almost an hour because he wouldn’t get in the right position for measurements. (It literally took jumping jacks in the hallway to get him to move.) At 19 weeks, the ultrasound tech had a hard time getting a peek between his legs. He also frequently rolls away from the Doppler during my appointments, along with giving me heartburn and drop-kicking my bladder every time I get into bed.

That said, I love the little bugger and can’t wait to meet him this summer.

This past Friday, I started having contractions just before I left work. I hadn’t really been feeling well and, having gone through preterm labor twice with Little Sister, I knew what the cramps in my lower back and pelvic area meant. I’d had a contraction or two earlier in this pregnancy, usually during or after exercising, but they weren’t really painful or consistent enough to cause my any worry. Friday was different.

I got home and sat down for a little while, then took Little Sister shopping. A friend of mine pulled into the parking lot as I was getting out of my car and we shopped together in the store. I got home around seven laid down for a little bit. I called my doctor’s office and explained what was going on. With my history of preterm labor, they wanted me at the hospital right away.

The Hubster was out on a bike ride, so I called him about fifty-bajillion times. When he got home, we left for the hospital. Once there, they hooked me up to some monitors, did a check “down under,” and ran a bunch of tests looking for infection and a protein that indicates labor. They monitored my sporadic contractions for a little while and came back to do another cervical check. There was no change and all the tests came back negative, so they sent me home with instructions to follow up with my doctor early this week. She told me to take it easy over the weekend and joked, “Don’t take a jog around the block.”

“What about kickboxing?” I asked.

She laughed before she realized I was serious. “No!” she told me. “No exercise.”

I rested for ~~the whole~~ most of the weekend, and had contractions here and there, but nothing lasting as long as I dealt with on Friday. I called this morning and got an appointment with my doctor this afternoon.

The doctor checked me out and found no changes from what the doctor I saw at the hospital had documented. He reassured me that everything is fine with both me and the baby. He asked about my work schedule and told me if my contractions get worse or more painful, I may need to cut back on my hours. Getting up, he asked me if I had any more questions.

Knowing and dreading the answer, I asked my question. “What about exercise?”

“No.”

“Swimming?”

“No.”

“Yoga?”

“No.”

“Walking?”

“No. You’re done. No exercise.” He told me I’m doing too much…my body is stressed out and the contractions are its way of coping.

He patted my arm and laughed a little, telling me that he usually really has to sell exercise to pregnant women. It’s normal for him to have to beg them to get out and take a walk…not so normal to have one in his office, begging to be allowed to kick-box. “Take a break,” he said. “It will be okay.”

I nodded, the tears already stinging my eyes, my nose already turning red, and my face burning. I got dressed when he left the room and opened the door to leave. He stopped me in the hallway and reminded me to take it easy.

I will ~~try~~.

I’m having a hard time with it, though. I tried to go back to last summer when the orthopaedic surgeon told me I couldn’t exercise with my sprained foot. Back then, though, I had options. I could swim, ride a bike, and lift weights as long as I was sitting down. Exercising with limitations seems welcome, now that I’m facing no exercise at all.

Of course, I want a happy, healthy baby born close to term. I want to be happy and healthy, too, though. I’ll listen to my doctor because I know it’s for the best, however, my anxiety is already through the roof. On the plus side, my social calendar just opened up, so if anyone is up for coffee or dinner, most of my evenings are available. On the other hand, though, I’ve made a lot of friends at the Y and I’m going to miss the time spent sweating there together. I’m already feeling a little shunned since announcing my pregnancy and hanging out at home, alone, while the Hubster takes the girls to the Y for the next three months or so…I’m already lonely.

So tonight....when I should be in Hip Hop, perfecting my krump, I’m making enchiladas for the family. Later, when I should be in PiYo, bending and stretching myself into positions no woman who is six months pregnant should even look at, let alone attempt, I’ll be hanging with my girlfriend, The Sex Toy Lady bemoaning yet another activity I’m not allowed to enjoy for a few more months.

Angry Fat Girls

2010-02-17T22:49:00.003-06:00

I’m reviewing this book for Turbo Jennie, who was sweet enough to let me borrow it before she even got a chance to read it herself. (Shoot, I think I’m not supposed to tell people she’s sweet. I meant to say she’s one tough cookie.)

Angry Fat Girls started with a blog. (See, Charlotte? It’s just that easy. What’s the hold up? Kidding!) Frances Kuffel lost 188 pounds, gained more than half of it back, and blogged her way through the trials of trying to lose it again. Through her blog, she met other women in similar situations (including one woman who had gained over 200 pounds in just three years) and several of her readers became friends. Angry Fat Girls is about Frances and four of these women—Wendy, Mimi, Lindsey, and Katie—and follows a year of their journeys to lose weight and change their lives.

The stories of these women really hit home for me. Their relationships with their mothers made me take a look at how I grew up with my mother. I remember nights of eating baked chicken breast and getting “the look” if I reached for seconds of something…the steamed vegetables and the “do you really need that” conversations we had. When I looked for someone to blame for my weight, I blamed her because I felt deprived of things so when I actually got the chance to eat forbidden foods, I went at them with abandon, resulting in uncontrollable binges that grew more and more frequent as I gained independence. As much as my mother tried to help, she was nowhere near as controlling as the mothers of the Angry Fat Girls. One mother was so distressed at her daughter’s weight that she refused to let her go on a trip unless she lost ten pounds. The poor girl nearly starved herself trying to meet her mother’s expectations.

So many of the AFGs suffered from one eating disorder or another and their combined list of failed weight loss plans was extensive and daunting…especially since my own list is fairly comparable. Reviewing the statistics of their yo-yoing numbers on the scale was a familiar experience, as was the negative self-image each of the AFGs felt.

Angry Fat Girls revealed a formula of which I was not previously aware. For every 25 pounds a woman loses, it takes her brain a year to adjust. Twelve months for her brain to catch up and actually see the thinner woman she’s becoming. It makes sense. It’s why I still browse sale racks that contain clothing four sizes too big for me. Why it never occurs to me to try on a smaller size and I end up buying pants that hang down to my crotch because they’re too big. It’s why I just can’t fathom a man smiling at me when there are so many other women to choose from. In my head, I’m still the Fat Lady I was when my journey began. And, while I’m starting to gain confidence and actually see the changes between who I was and who I am, it’s a difficult passage.

Perhaps the most startling breakthrough I had while reading this book came late last night as I struggled to keep my eyes open, knowing I was just pages away from finishing the book. Frances and three of the AFGs were planning a get-together and trying to decide where to go and who wanted to see what. Inevitably, the answer was, “Whatever we do is fine.”

Whatever we do is fine. I hate those words. It’s a fat thing: I need people I’m traveling with or entertaining to have a good time so that they’ll a)forget what I look like, b)forget the weakness and slothfulness that I am, and c)be in debt to me, a fat person’s approximation of love. To make it all worse, I, a fat woman, was in charge of three fat women. The Fat Code would be in complete effect. No one would voice an opinion, a desire, a dislike, an objection. We’d look like a collection of bobble-head dolls, always deferring, always listening for the subtle code of disagreement: “If that’s what you want to do…” “Whatever you say…” “I’m just along for the ride…”

It’s a fat thing. I knew that there were perils of being a Fat Lady, but I didn’t realize how deeply it had affected me. The Fat Code completely applies to me. I don’t like to be the decision-maker. I don’t want to decide where to eat for dinner, what movie we should see, or what book our book club should read next. I don’t want to pick something that someone won’t like…don’t want anyone to remember that I’m the one who made a bad choice. Will knowing this change the way I feel about making decisions? Probably not, but I will certainly be more aware…and I will attempt an effort to voice my opinions more often.

Angry Fat Girls was a great read and I certainly recommend it. In being a voyeur of these five women, it really made me look at how I see myself and how others see me. Whether you’ve been an Angry Fat Girl, you are one, or you know one, it will definitely give some insight into the minds and hopes of Fat Ladies everywhere.

I Can't Fight this Feeling

2010-02-08T22:49:00.003-06:00

Traffic this morning was not fun. Lately, it’s been my “alone” time. Stolen moments to myself when I can crank up the radio and sing as loud as I want or talk to a friend on my Bluetooth without little ears to overhear and big mouths to interrupt. Today, the sign above the highway indicated my normal nine-minute-drive would take twenty-five. In reality, it took more than forty-five minutes, hindered by snow, poorly plowed roads, and busses moving on and off the shoulder.

The bridge over the river is an obstacle I endure daily. Since the 35W bridge collapse in 2007, I approach it wearily on most days, but I’m more apprehensive if traffic is backed up and I can see brake lights. My anxiety is worse yet if there is snow on the road. In my mind, the extra weight of the snow, combined with hundreds of vehicles idling while waiting to cross the bridge is the recipe for a disastrous repeat. On days I feel the trepidation rising, I try to distract myself with a phone call to my mom, a blast from the radio, a loud, off-key show tune…anything to get my mind off the stretch of bridge ahead of me. Other days, the uneasiness I feel turns into a full-blown panic attack.

Today was not a good day.

I was concentrating on the snowfall and keeping my windshield clear. The car behind me was intermittently flashing his brights at people who dared to come between us as he attempted to keep five or six car lengths between himself and the car in front of him. A bus on the shoulder was impeding traffic trying to merge onto the highway. I was listening to songs from Glee, wondering how in the world I’m going to make it until the show comes back on the air in April. My subconscious, though, knew the bridge was looming ahead.

My hands gripped the steering wheel until my knuckles turned white and I suddenly found myself unable to breathe. My chest tightened as I forced air in and out of my lungs, cursing when I discovered I had already passed the last exit before the bridge. I have a friend that lives nearby and I knew she would understand and let me hang out for a little while if I showed up on her doorstep, too afraid to cross the bridge.

The tears came then, stinging my eyes and choking me as my breath came in short bursts, accompanied by frantic sobs that sounded foreign to my ears. I wanted to turn up the radio to drown out my hysteria, but that would mean letting go of the steering wheel, which I held in a vice grip. In the center lane, I concentrated on the car in front of me. A cement truck pulled up along side my small sedan. Too heavy! That truck is too heavy! Get off the bridge! My mind screamed. I squeezed my eyes closed for a second, forcing myself to open them again and focus on the road directly ahead.

Images and thoughts filled my head and I wondered, for the millionth time, why I hadn’t invested in one of those tools that can slash though a seatbelt and break the car window in the event of an emergency. I had a plan, though. I’ve had it in the back of my mind for the last two and a half years. If the bridge started to crumble, I would throw on my emergency brake and open my power windows before the car started to fall so I could climb out before I hit the water below. I ignored the voice in my head telling me it was too cold…the river was mostly ice…there’s no way I would make it.

I stared out my windshield at the sea of brake lights creeping over the pavement, silently willing the cars blocking my escape to move out of the way. Okay, my pleas were not so silent. In reality, I screamed at them, my sobs making the appeals almost unrecognizable. GO!

After ~~several minutes~~ ~~a few hours~~ an eternity, I finally made it to the other side of the bridge. I contemplated taking the first exit to sit in the parking lot of a deserted gas station and cry for a while, but I was already flirting with being late to work. Instead, I loosened my grip on the steering wheel, and rolled my shoulders a couple of times. My entire body ached with tension. The crying continued sporadically until I reached my office building. In the parking lot, a woman I didn’t know grinned and greeted me with a comment about our everlasting winter. I offered her a weak smile, but couldn’t come up with a response. Shaking legs carried me into the building, where I stared at my reflection in the mirrored wall of the elevator. I looked tired. A little pale, but the image starting back at me certainly didn’t echo the anguish I’d endured this morning.

Crossing the bridge brings me a panic attack a couple of times a month. I never know when they’ll strike. While they’re more likely to happen when the weather (and therefore traffic) is bad, they can hit on a clear day when traffic is moving quickly, too. In May, I’m starting a new position at one of our locations less than four miles from my house. No highway. No river. No bridge.

Only seventy days left. And one hundred and forty more chances for absolute, uncontrollable panic.

The "Tomorrow" Diet

2009-12-20T12:58:00.003-06:00

Confession time. Who is familiar with the “Tomorrow” Diet? Common variations include the “On Monday” Diet, the “After this next holiday/graduation/birthday party” Diet, and the ever popular “New Year’s Resolution”Diet.

You know, the diet that will start tomorrow—or whenever? Sometimes, tomorrow even comes. More often than not, it doesn’t. Or it comes and slips away, to be rescheduled for another day.

There are some benefits to diet planning. In 2003, The Hubster and I started South Beach on a whim. I’d bought the book and started reading it and decided we absolutely had to start right that very second. I went home and made the announcement and we started the diet that evening…without the proper groceries, money to buy them, or any clue about what we were doing. We made it work, but it would have been much easier if we’d been better prepared.

Diet planning also has its downfalls. Anyone here ever had a “Last Supper?” The last meal you’ll eat before starting the diet that will change your life forever? Nothing like a big, greasy pizza with a side of bacon, a couple of tacos, some cheesecake, and an ice cream sundae to make sure you get it all in before those foods become taboo.

But food doesn’t have to become taboo. You don’t have to say “no” to pizza forever. You may have to say “no” to eight pieces of pizza in one sitting, but you can still eat pizza. (I use pizza as an example because it’s my favorite food. When we were on South Beach, it became a BAD word in my house and it was the first thing I ate when we ~~fell~~ dove off the wagon.)

Diets are bad. Diets mean deprivation. Diets consist of temporary changes made to drop a few pounds. But what happens when we slip back into our old habits? The pounds come back.

Instead of dieting, make changes you can live with permanently. A friend of mine tried a weight loss plan years ago that had her eating foods she didn’t like. I remember watching in awe as she ate a few tomato slices because “they were on [her] meal plan.” Seriously? This girl would wash the sauce off frozen ravioli meals, that’s how much she didn’t like tomatoes, but here she was eating them because some DIET told her she had to? How can that last?

Take me and South Beach as another example. It was a great plan. I lost a lot of weight on it, too. But I love fruit and didn’t like limiting it. I love bread. I love potatoes. I love PIZZA. I didn’t love a plan that told me I couldn’t eat those things. I never lasted more than six months on the plan and I always gained the weight back as soon as I started eating whatever I wanted again.

This time has been different. What started out as a diet for me, has become a way of living. And while I’ve progressed in leaps in bounds, I falter from time to time, too. Leader Pam gave me some great advice today. She told me to eat for nourishment. It sounds so simple, doesn’t it? Our bodies need food for fuel…not entertainment.

So make some changes. Drink more water. Eat fruits and veggies. Be more active. Today. Right now. Why wait until tomorrow to start a better way of life?

Having an Identity Crisis

2009-12-11T08:33:00.003-06:00

I went to the doctor yesterday. It was a specialty office that I hadn’t been to since March. The nurse took my height and weight and brought me back into the exam room. She took my blood pressure, pulled up my file on the computer, and entered in all my information. I was distracted and not really paying attention until she said, “Well, I’ve never seen this before.”

A big, red warning had popped up on the screen. “PLEASE CONFIRM IDENTITY DISCREPANCY.” She clicked on the button to view the details, and we read the pop-up together. The weight you entered indicates a 13% difference from the patient’s last recorded weight. Threshold is 10%. Verify patient identity before continuing.

She glanced at me, probably a little unsure I was supposed to see that, but I smiled. “No, that’s right,” I told her. “I’ve lost 50 pounds in the last year.”

She asked me how I did it, and I told her that I had joined Weight Watchers and the Y and I did it with diet and exercise. “That’s just great,” she told me. “You must feel like a whole new person.”

And I do.

Missing my Fat Clothes

2009-12-01T22:06:00.002-06:00

I miss my fat sweatshirt tonight.

I’m never cold, but lately, I’ve been dragging out the long sleeves, wearing pants and socks at home, slipping under an afghan while I’m watching TV. I always joked that I was always warm because I was well-insulated…but now I wonder if there wasn’t some truth to that. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve still got my fair share of padding, but…it’s like a ~~fifty~~ fifty-one-point-two (YAY!!!) blanket has been lifted off me.

During my big closet purge, I got rid of everything I owned that was too big for me. I didn’t even keep a pair of pants I could hold up in front of me and drop dramatically, Biggest Loser style. I also got rid of my fat sweatshirt.

It was a big (obviously) blue sweatshirt given to me by Mrs. C’s sister-in-law years ago. It was ratty and not really fit for public wear, but I dragged it out every once in a while. I found it folded on the shelf in my closet and considered keeping it for nights when I wanted the big, comfy shirt to relax in. In the end, I decided I couldn’t keep it. It had to go.

Tonight, though, I miss my fat sweatshirt. Tonight, I went to Target for hair dye and lip balm and walked out with dinner. I was famished after Body Pump…and the rotisserie chicken and fancy sandwich fixings I walked out with weren’t nearly as bad of a choice as I could have made. Tonight, I overate, as I have for most of the day. My boss brought in bagels and orange juice this morning, in which I indulged…the carb-laden bagel did me in, and I was starving for the rest of the day. Stupid, addictive, hunger-inducing bread.

Sunday was my weigh-in day, and I do not always make the best choices on Sunday—although I did sweat my way through two Turbo Kick classes that day. And yesterday…well, yesterday I wanted Chipotle, and ended up eating half my fridge contents instead. (After a healthy dose of Hip Hop Hustle and PiYo.) I had planned on doing better today. And now, I will do better tomorrow.

I’m cold, though. Wish I had that big, blue sweatshirt to drown in.

I'm Here

2009-11-26T21:56:00.003-06:00

Saturday morning, I got on my scale and was surprised at the number I saw there. It was exactly fifty pounds lower than my starting weight. I still had twenty-four hours to get through, so I tried not to be too excited about it. My day included two hours of exercise, some shopping with Little Sister, and a concert, after which my friends and I went out to a bar. They ordered appetizers. I had water with lemon. They were concerned I wasn’t eating, but I had eaten soup before the concert and I wasn’t really hungry. (Okay, when the spinach and artichoke dip, fried cheese, and buffalo wings came out, I got a little hungry.)

Plus, it was nearing midnight, and I kept thinking about something Leader Pam shared during my first meeting with her. “Think about how you will feel if you eat this. Think about how you will feel if you don’t eat it.” Usually, when I think about how I would feel if I ate it, the feelings are negative. It might be something that would make me sick—a number of things will do that to me…too greasy, too much sugar…it might keep me awake, it might make me smell bad…and I will always, always be upset with myself for eating it, especially when it turns out to be something I didn’t really want—something I could have lived without. I generally don’t get around to thinking how I would feel if don’t eat it, because by that time, I’ve usually decided not to eat it. With the appetizers, was no different. I knew I’d worked hard all week, and I didn’t want to blow my whole week by eating something so heavy nine hours before weigh in.

I came home and crawled into bed shortly after one in the morning. When my alarm went off a few hours later, I stumbled out of bed and packed my gym bag and some breakfast, grabbed my Weight Watchers stuff and headed off to my meeting. I was nervous about stepping on the scale, but I kept reminding myself that a loss was a loss, even if I didn’t hit that magic number.

Turns out, I didn’t need to worry.

Leader Pam was watching over Leader-in-training Lysa’s shoulder and she smiled at the number that popped up on her screen. “You had a great week.”

I was suspicious. “How great?”

Lysa gave me the good news. “Fifty pounds!”

I almost clawed my way over the counter and kissed her. I could not wipe the smile from my face. Fifty pounds. I grinned through the whole meeting and later met a couple of Turbo buddies for (what else?) some Turbo and lunch. In the car, I shared my good news.

They were both so sweet, and so excited for me. One of them asked how much more I want to lose. “I want to lose...” I hesitated, doing the math in my head. “Oh. I guess another fifty.”

“You’re halfway there!” She told me.

Halfway. Luckily, we were still in the parking lot so I wasn’t driving when I realized that she was right.

Have I ever made it this far before? I’ve weighed less than I do now, back in 2003, the first time I did South Beach, I weighed about 8 pounds less than I do now. But I didn’t feel this good. I didn’t look this good. And I never thought I could do it.

But I can. And it doesn’t matter how quickly or how slowly I got here. I’m here.

Speechless...for once.

2009-11-13T21:34:00.004-06:00

Something wonderful happened in a dressing room at the mall today. My mom and I were in the small room together. I was trying things on and she was hanging them up for me, a relief after the horrors of back-to-school shopping with my girls. One shirt had me on the fence…it was cute, flattering, and pretty colors, except for a big orange flower splashed right across my left boob.

I decided I couldn’t live with the bizarre foliage and took it off. I went to hang it up and my mom said, “Wait, I want to try that one on.”
Thinking she meant the shirt she had brought in the dressing room for herself, I continued hanging up the weird-orange-boob shirt. Then, I realized what she was saying. My mom wanted to try on the shirt I had just been wearing. It was like a dream come true. Really.

Turns out, neither one of us looked good with a weird, orange flower spattered across our bosoms, so we left the shirt in the "No" pile--in betweent the "Maybe--after I double check the price" and the "No way in hell" piles. The next shirt I tried on had big, billowy ruffles for sleeves and an unflattering elastic band that raised the Is-she-dressing-for-two? question. I was giddy as I took it off. “Here,” I told my mom. “Try this one.” We giggled over the ridiculous shirt while I held back tears and tried to contain my excitement. Trying on clothes in the dressing room with my mom without having to shop in a completely different department. Without even having to find different sizes.

I'm trying to come up with something clever that describes exactly how I felt when I realized I had obtained this goal...I almost wrote without even really trying, but the truth is I've been working my buns off. I've met other goals...Losing my first 10 pounds. 10% of my body weight. 20, 30, 40+ pounds. But this is a different kind of goal...And this is a rare occurence, so take note--I have no words.

That's Gonna Leave a Mark

2009-11-12T22:37:00.005-06:00

Monday’s child is fair of face.
Tuesday’s child is full of grace.
Wednesday’s child is full of woe.
Thursday’s child has far to go.
Friday’s child is loving and giving,
Saturday’s child works hard for a living,
But a child who is born on the Sabbath day
Is bonny and blithe and good and gay.

I was not born on a Tuesday, something that is painfully obvious.

I took dance as a child, a pretty little blond girl in a pink tutu. It was not something I excelled in. Not something I stuck with. Maybe I should have. Maybe I would have learned the fundamentals needed to be more graceful…or at least gain the ability to put one foot in front of the other without running into something or hurting myself.

At the shoe store I worked at in high school, I was often falling victim to one trap or another. Running into hooks, tripping over boxes, falling into sock bins. I was hilarious. I even won a fake award for being “Most Graceful.”

My lovely daughter seems to have inherited her mother’s poise. (And, funnily enough, she was born on a Tuesday.) At her first dance recital—actually, her second, since she refused to dance the first time and we spent twenty minutes crying in the hallway instead—we could see the difference in the kids who were naturally good at dance, and the others who had to work at it. Little Sister fell into the latter category, preferring to stand in the middle of the gym floor, mouthing the words to the song instead of performing the carefully choreographed moves.

As I aged, (Aged? Really? Yes, like fine wine or good cheese.) I hoped I would be able to execute day-to-day moves with more elegance. But that’s not the way it works. I am constantly putting myself in harm’s way, however unintentional.

A month or so ago, I was distracted at the Y, trying to get to class on time, worrying about changing my shoes, and chatting with someone at the same time and I walked into the leg press machine, which was being used by a rather large, muscular man. He felt terrible, but truthfully, it was my own fault. I was bruised for weeks. Just last night, I tripped over my own feet in the studio. There's just no hiding that kind of grace.

This morning, in the shower, I found a bruise on the back of my leg. It’s fairly new, and when I saw it, I started laughing because I know exactly where it came from. Monday night, in PiYo, I managed to kick myself in the calf. I don’t remember what we were doing (or rather, what we were supposed to be doing, because I’m fairly certain it was not kicking ourselves) but I do remember my foot making contact with my leg and thinking I was going to end up with a bruise.

That right there? That takes talent.

Scorcher

2009-11-11T22:34:00.001-06:00

"We’re not stopping until somebody pukes!”

It’s a favorite quote from Turbo Jennie.

Tonight, I was almost there.

Tonight, Turbo Kick was held in the sauna. Sixty-eight people showed up to kick it to Round 38. We were literally asses to elbows, crammed together in the studio. During the warm up, a woman near the wall had to stop herself from hitting the wall on her cross punch. Ouch! It was jammed-packed-crazy-full in there.

To make matters worse, the air wasn’t working. At least, I’m pretty sure the air wasn’t working. Maybe it just felt that way because of all the people? It was HOT! Within minutes, my skin was flushed and sweat dripped down my face. During a quick break, a turbo buddy asked, “Is it just me, or is it 800 degrees in here?”

“It’s really freaking hot,” I told her, eyeing her pregnant belly. “I don’t know HOW you’re doing this.”

There were lots of red cheeks tonight. Lots of sweat (and CALORIES!) on the floor. After the second turbo—a couple of minutes of high intensity burn, for those who aren’t schooled in the ways of Turbo Kick—I started feeling…weird.

It could have been the heat. Or the headache that’s been plaguing me all day. It could have been that I was already exhausted from Hip Hop and work and…life. I stopped a couple of times and got a drink of water, trying to breathe through it. But the people…and the music…and the moving…I had to get out. Had to.

Walking out of the studio was like that first step outside on a crisp fall morning. Getting out of a hot tub and rolling down a snow bank. A breath of fresh air after being trapped for hours. I stumbled my way across the weight floor and into the bathroom. I dry-heaved over the toilet, positive that I was about to revisit all of the healthy food choices I made today.

After a moment or two, I turned on the cold water in the sink and tried to cool myself off. From the bathroom, I could hear Jennie yelling over the music in the studio. On the fitness floor, people were peering into the crowded room, trying to see what was going on in there. I had to go back.

It was like getting into the car after it’s been parked in the hot sun all day. Reaching into the oven to read the meat thermometer. The stinging heat that burns your nostrils when you step into the sauna. It was hot.

I kept it fairly low impact and managed to make it through the finale and the rest of class. It was a killer, though…can’t wait to do it again tomorrow.

Gym Panties

2009-11-04T21:39:00.001-06:00

This picture cracks me up every time I see it.

“Ugh, I am having some major underwear issues,” I told a pal during Turbo Kick tonight.

“I’m going to be honest with you,” she told me. “Sometimes, I just opt out.”

Good point, but my pants were thin material and I already felt like I was jumping around the studio half naked, so au natural was not an option for me tonight. (Um, or ever.)

I have certain pairs of underwear set aside for the gym. From time to time, I forget to pack “gym panties” and end up Pumping in pink lace. One night, in Hip Hop, I hitch-kicked and almost split myself in half. It was a giggle-fit that just could NOT be explained, followed by some very delicate minor surgery…and it’s hard to be discreet when one wall is completely covered in mirrors.

Recently, I’ve been on a mission for black gym underwear. Nothing fancy: just plain, black, cotton panties to wear under my gym pants, which also happen to be black. This way, when my too-big-for-me pants start to slip, I don’t have to worry about my underwear peeking out, because TA-DA! They’re the same color as my pants. Extremely clever, I know. Yes, I could buy new pants. But I didn’t think it would be too hard to find plain, black, cotton panties. But can I find them? No. No, I can’t. (Did I forget to say cheap? I meant to say cheap, too.)

During a trip to my local Walmart, I found a package of 3 pairs of black with 3 pairs of white. I considered it, until I checked the sizing measurements and realized they didn’t have my size. (Oh, and that felt good—the packages they had left of the black and whites were all too big for me!!!) I found another package with one black, one white, one gray. I figured that ONE pair of black gym panties was better than NO pairs, so I bought them. They are cute; cotton boy shorts, which I have bought before, but not to wear to the gym. I thought it would be okay. I was wrong.

This underwear is creepy. It creeps up, it creeps down…It creeps to places it just shouldn’t visit, and there is absolutely NO time during Turbo to put things back to where they should be…and really, what’s the point, because the next roundhouse, back kick, side push, or knee sends them right back into hiding. Seriously? My apologies to anyone I unintentionally mooned over the last few workouts. I’m working on it, I swear.

How about you? Do you do step class in satin? Karate commando? Turbo in a thong? (Okay, and no one will ever, EVER convince me that thongs are good, period. And hello? No one wants to see that thing poking out from under your pants. Ahem.) What’s your workout gear game plan when it comes to undergarments?

Pot Holes

2009-11-01T21:12:00.002-06:00

I’ve been writing this in my head all day. I was going to title it Inviting Failure. But I haven’t failed. This is just a stall. A bump in the road. I will get past this and I will be okay.

I made a big mistake this week. I’ve been excited and anxious for today’s weigh-in because it marks my anniversary with Weight Watchers. It was Monday, November 3, 2008 that I joined. This is the longest I have ever made it on the program. This is the most I have ever lost on the program. This is the last time I will ever have to lose this weight. I am confident in that.

This week has been a rough one for me, food-wise. We had two parties at work, food left over from a board meeting, and yesterday, we went to KB’s house, where her husband is all but a gourmet chef and makes the most delicious food EVER. And, did I mention it was Halloween?

On Tuesday, I sampled the party fare, but did not stuff myself.
Wednesday…Wednesday is where I made my mistake. I was standing in front of the fridge, searching for something, anything to munch on, and I told the Hubster, “You know, I think I will just expect to gain this week.” Little Sister had been sick, and I had been at home with her. I always struggle with food when I am at home during the day—fajitas for breakfast and popcorn for lunch, meals for champions, right there. It was as if I had given myself permission to fail…not to fail, but to…to not succeed. And it was nice to not be anxious about the scale for a few days. It was nice to allow myself a treat and not agonize over the choices I made. However, those few days of peace were not worth the anguish I felt today.
On Thursday, I managed to avoid the cookies in the break room that rivaled the size of my head. I even talked myself out of seconds of a sandwich that I really wanted.
But on Friday…what happened on Friday? Sausage and cheese dip happened. And bagels. And candy. Candy happened on Friday. Mother Nature showed up and gave me another excuse to gain weight this week. (Um, did I just tell the whole world what they think I just told them? Yes, I did. I’m a girl. It happens. It’s one of the facts of life, even—no, not the TV show, but who’s singing the song right now? “You take the good, you take the bad, you take them both, and there you have the facts of life…the facts of life.” You’re welcome.)
Saturday, I rolled out of bed in time for Turbo Kick and Body Pump, and then went shopping, and it wasn’t until I arrived home around 2:00 that I realized I hadn’t eaten anything all day. I grabbed a sandwich, and then indulged that evening at KB’s house, and only snagged a few of Little Sister’s treats.

Still. I woke up this morning feeling lousy. Before I even stepped on the scale, I knew. I tried to tell myself that it was okay. That I’ve lost for the last 6 weeks, and I was bound to gain sooner or later. I reminded myself that I expected it, given permission, even. Then, I got to my meeting. Leader Pam weighed me in. “You’re up a little bit,” she told me. “Is everything going okay?” I explained work parties and gourmet food and Halloween, and yes, even the facts of life to her, and she smiled and said that life happens, and it’s okay not to be perfect all the time. Then she handed me my book. I was horrified at the number behind the plus sign. Tears sprang to my eyes and I looked back at her. “That is NOT a little bit.” She patted my hand and told me it was okay. I was not okay, though.

I stewed in the meeting, setting ridiculous goals for myself. (Cabbage soup all week? Working out 3-4 hours a day?) Afterwards, I cried in the car as I drove to the YMCA in Prior Lake, texting Turbo Sara that I needed a good butt kicking. Since I got there early, I ran on the treadmill, pushing myself, punishing myself, sweat flying everywhere. By the end of class, I was dripping, my heart pounding. But I felt better, too. I know that this is temporary. I know that I am not going back to where I was, and that I have the tools and the knowledge (and the support) to turn myself around right now, before it gets worse. Before I give up. Before I stop believing in myself.

While I’m unhappy with the gain I had this week, and anxious about what the holidays in the next two months will bring, I’m impressed with my attitude. (Okay, not my initial attitude, my I’ve-had-a-while-to-think-it-over attitude.) This is a major breakthrough, a key change for me. I won’t pout and feel sorry for myself and drown my woes in chocolate. I won’t push myself so hard, I lose hope. I will lean on people I know will support me and I will look to myself to make the choices I know are best for me.

That said, I’ve set some more realistic goals for myself. I will track my points every day. I have discovered that this really helps me. It makes a difference in my weight loss and I will do it. I will continue my regular workouts, which hasn’t been a problem, but I will push a little harder. Jump a little higher. Do a little MORE. I am starting a new Kettle bell class on Thursday, and I am a nervous, but excited for the change, too.

In January, when everyone and their mother joins Weight Watchers to help them with their New Year’s Resolutions, and the studios at the Y hit capacity with all the “tourists” who hang out for a few classes, never to be seen again, I will be there, smiling, encouraging, and making room for them. I will get through this. I will lose the weight. And I will succeed.

I know I have been remiss in my blogging of late. The A/C adapter on my laptop died and it’s a proprietary part, which means I have to shell out $70 to Dell or risk eBay to obtain a new one. Since funds are a little light right now, I’m putting off the purchase, which chains me, once again, to my desktop. Blogging is much more fun from my recliner.

~FLP~

Temptation

2009-10-24T21:49:00.002-05:00

I'm thinking I should print this out and put it on my fridge.

I am home alone. Well, not really. The Hubster went to play hockey for the first time this season and Big Sister is hanging with her mom. Little Sister is in bed, so I have the place to myself.

This is a dangerous, dangerous time for me. I am not hungry. I had plenty to eat today…a smallish breakfast because I had Turbo and Pump this morning—I absolutely cannot kick it on a full stomach—followed by a protein-filled lunch consisting of an egg and ham sandwich with some fruit…nuts and granola later for a snack…and a good-sized fillet of grilled salmon with a double helping of broccoli for dinner. I am not hungry.

But I am starving. I want to eat. I want to make brownies or cookies and eat the whole pan before they have a chance to cool. I want to shred up some cheese and make quesadillas. I want to make dip and eat all of the little bags of chips we bought for the girls’ lunches. I want to investigate my fridge and eat everything I can find.

But I don’t. I have to weigh in tomorrow morning, and while I haven’t been tracking this week, I am feeling pretty good about where I’m at. I hate it when I have a good week and ruin it the night before my meeting by eating something too salty or too heavy. I like Weight Watchers and I can honestly say that having this accountability is really helping me, but only being able to count my weight once a week is hard…it really can be thrown off by a poorly planned meal or two.

I shouldn’t be thinking about it. I should get up and do something productive…or, better yet, go to bed and get some real sleep and then wake up tomorrow refreshed and ready ~~for breakfast~~ to go. I should NOT keep sitting here, thinking about food I want, food I shouldn’t have, feeling sorry for myself and dreaming about the cheeseburger I’m having for dinner tomorrow.

On the Horizon...

2009-10-19T23:01:00.007-05:00

I'm changing. I can feel it. Not just my body, not just my clothes. Me. The way I think, the choices I make, the way I feel about myself. Change is coming.

Writer Sarah and I were talking books one day, and she told me she was reading The Four-Day Win by Martha Beck. Always on the lookout for a life-changer, I rushed out to the bookstore that day and bought it. (Along with a couple more cookbooks to feed my addiction.) I took it to bed with me that night and started reading.

I laughed at the first chapter title: “Why are you so Damn Fat?” On page two, I had an epiphany. (On page TWO!) “Bottom line: eating is a deliberate behavior, however compelling.” My eyes got big and I dropped the book. I might have cried a little bit.

It’s true. Not matter how many times I’ve thought that I have no control over what I eat, I do. I have to make a conscious decision about putting the food in my mouth, chewing it up, and swallowing it. It isn’t like breathing or blinking. It’s something my brain has to okay before I can do it. So, why did it take a book to tell me that?

Chapter Five starts out with an explanation of “The Polar Bear Effect.” The reader is challenged to think of anything she wants to for the next ten seconds as long as it has absolutely nothing to do with polar bears. It’s impossible. The more you think about the foods you shouldn’t or can’t have, the more you will crave them.

The day after I read the chapter, we had a party at my office. I had offered to make dessert, thinking I could bring in some fruit or something else sensible that I could eat, too. I was told that cookies had already been purchased for the party, and imagine my dismay when I walked in that morning and discovered they were my absolute, all-time favorite cookies ever. I went into panic mode.

I thought about them all day. Oh. My. God. There are cookies in the break room. I LOVE those cookies. I haven’t had them in SO long…they are SO many points. If I have one or two, I’ll want more. I have to have those cookies. There are cookies in the break room. COOKIES in the break room.

Just before lunch, it hit me. Those damn cookies were my polar bear. I wouldn’t be able to stop thinking about them if I kept telling myself I couldn’t have them. I took a few deep breaths and thought about what I should do. In the end, I decided I would have two cookies for 3 points. I ate them, enjoying every bite, and tracked my points. When they were gone, I flossed my teeth and popped some gum to get the flavor out of my mouth. The next morning, there was still an entire tray of those cookies left. Instead of being upset that they were still there, I was able to ignore them because I wasn’t still thinking about them and stressing over the fact that here cookies down the hall from my desk.

I feel empowered over food like I’ve never felt before. I am in control. I make the choices. And I can do this.

Purging

2009-10-17T22:34:00.002-05:00

No, not that kind of purging. While there have been times I wished I had the nerve to stick my finger down my throat and relieve myself of a heavy meal, I know I never could. In short, I don’t do puke—at all. It’s in my wedding vows. The Hubster promised to love, honor, kill spiders, and clean up all the vomit. (It was very romantic.)

I am talking about the purging of STUFF. Tangible things that take up space and create havoc in my tiny living quarters. This afternoon, I found myself sans children and decided to tackle a project I’ve been putting off for far too long.

My closet. (Cue scary, psycho, knife music here.)

I have really big closets. (We’ve discussed this before.) Two years later, my closet is still jam packed full of crap. It is not a walk-in closet anymore…it is a climb-in-and-pray-nothing-falls-on-you closet. In fact, when I got close to the bottom, I found a garbage bag half filled with trash…probably from the last time I attempted to clean the damn thing. I hate it.

Time to do something about it, then. This afternoon, I turned on the radio and got busy. I started with the floor, so I could reach the clothes. It wasn’t as bad as I thought it was because there were a lot of empty boxes acting as “filler.” The Hubster seems to think we need to keep every box that comes through our door…shoe boxes, stereo boxes, shipping boxes…everything. Well, those babies went in a big pile right inside our front door so they would be the first thing he saw when he got home.

I moved his stuff—guitar stuff, tools, etc in a pile by his side of the bed so he could go through it ~~in his own time~~ just as soon as he walked in the door.

There was clothing on the floor…not on purpose (mostly) but errant from slipping off a hanger. I started trying on everything I could reach, and in the process, I learned a few things. Of course, I was compelled to share my new found wisdom here.

Don’t buy clothes that don’t fit. Period. Don’t think you’ll save time by not trying something on in the store because if it doesn’t fit, time is wasted going back to return it or, even worse, money is wasted when it sits in the closet for so long you pass that size. I found pants in my closet that still had tags on them because they were too small when I bought them. I thought I would keep them for when I lost a few pounds…but they’ve been buried for so long that they’re now too big for me. (I know, so sad. Go get a tissue. I’ll wait.)

Also, don’t buy clothes that don’t fit. Don’t buy that cute sweater a size smaller because they didn’t have in your size and it was such a steal, you had to have it. You don’t know how it’s going to look on you when you get there—if you remember you have it. (See above.) I had a cute, pink sweater I actually bought at a garage sale…probably two summers ago, thinking I would be able to wear it in a few more pounds. I never got there and it sat, taking up space in my closet. Now that it fits me, I don’t like it. It’s too short, the neck is cut funny, and it’s itchy. I put it in the donation bag.

Know your body. For example, I don’t buy turtlenecks. I don’t like stuff by my neck; I know I will never wear them; I do not buy them. Ever. Once in a while, I will find something cute with a cowl neck and try to talk myself into it…but I usually manage to avoid temptation by putting my hand around my throat for a second or two.

And, know your body. The ladies in my office are always freezing. They wear cute sweaters and rub their hands together and comment about how cold it is. One woman even knitted everyone shawls to ward off the chill. I am always fine. It is very rare that I am cold at work. While everyone else is sporting layers and running a space heater at their desk, I’m in short sleeves with my fan on, pulling my pant legs up under my desk. That said, why the hell do I own sweaters? Hey, Genius, don’t buy sweaters! You will never wear them because you know you’ll get hot so don’t buy them! No more sweaters.

Know when to hold ‘em. Know when to fold 'em. (Know when to walk away, know when to run...sorry. Couldn't help it.) Some things, I just have to hold on to. I told the Hubster he could ditch the suit he wore to our wedding, but I couldn’t bring myself to do the same with the maternity dress I wore. Age has stained it, though, so I decided to do something with the fabric. (I don’t know what yet, baby steps, people.) I also held on to the dress I’ve been saving for the last ten years now, hoping that one day, it will fit me again. I unzipped it today, but didn’t try it on. I was flying high off of all the clothes that were too big for me and didn’t want to bring myself down by squeezing into something I wasn’t ready for.

So, when all is said and (almost) done, I’ve got five bags full of clothes to donate-—plus two more I’ve already donated—and two bags full of garbage. I can see the floor in my closet now, and, while I’ve generated a few “side jobs”—like going through the box of old pictures I found in there, I’m feeling pretty happy with how much I accomplished today. Some of the clothes were hard to get rid of…shirts that I liked, pants that were comfortable…but it felt SO GOOD to try on so many things that just hung off of me. I focus on my trouble spots—my stomach that won’t seem to shrink, my calves, which are anything but sexy…but at the end of the day, my body is changing…so I must be doing something right.

Stalked by Jillian Michaels, Part Two

2009-10-16T09:45:00.004-05:00

Seriously? This is freaking me out.

Here is the post I started last night and saved as a draft before I scooted off to bed.

An Open Letter to Myself

Dear RC;

It’s Friday. Take the night off from exercising and do NOT feel bad about it. I know what you’re thinking. We already had a night off this week. We skipped Pump on Tuesday to babysit for the Mrs. C. We should run on the treadmill tonight. Maybe see how long we can go on the elliptical. Something? Anything.

No. No. NO. We will take the night off. Think about how great Saturday morning Turbo feels with fresh legs. We’ve worked hard this week. We’ve already got 7 hours in, looking at 2 more on Saturday. Hello?—9 hours in the gym is pretty damn good. Be proud of us and what we’ve already done this week. Don’t worry about doing MORE.

I was tired and not really doing a very good job at convincing myself--come on, just 20 minutes of Pilates? How about the PiYo video I haven't opened yet? Something? Anything. No!

Luckily, Jillian Michaels is looking out for me and I got this in my inbox this morning.

From: Losing It With Jillian Michaels
To: Me

Date: Friday, October 16, 2009 at 4:34 AM
Subject: Prop Those Feet Up--Take Time Tonight For You

Pamper Yourself

You've been working hard lately, and now it's time to take a little pampering break. That's right, guys: I want you to take a break from your life! Forget about whatever it is you think you have to do and give yourself some TLC. To hell with the laundry, the dishes, the accounting, the errands, and even the Internet! Turn your cell phone off and try these tips tonight:

Soak in a tub. Nothing feels quite as decadent as a warm bath. Add some essential oils — such as lavender and rosemary — or organic bubble bath. Place some candles around the bathroom and then soak away the stress.

Take time out to read. Whether it's a book, your favorite magazine, or the newspaper, set yourself up in a quiet place and indulge yourself without interruption.

Make a pampering appointment. Get a new haircut, go for a manicure and pedicure, or get a professional shave at the barber's.

Go to a movie. Think you don't have time to catch the latest flick? Think again. This is your downtime, kiddo. Grab some air-popped popcorn — but hold the butter — and go Hollywood!

Sleep in. Seriously, it feels so great to just turn the alarm off before you hop into bed. Give yourself permission to sleep, sleep, sleep the morning away.

Enjoy it while you can — because tomorrow it's back to work!

I am still feeling a little anxious about planning to not exercise...but I am also feeling a little better about it, too. Funny what a well-timed mass email will do for me.

Happy Friday! I am taking the night off!

Avoidance

2009-10-14T22:22:00.002-05:00

I tend to avoid things that I am uneasy about. If I think a patient will yell at me, I don’t want to call them back. If I’m worried about an email from an angry author, I won’t check my email for days. If I think I’ve gained weight, I avoid the scale at all costs.

Considering my addiction to the scale, it’s a pretty big deal for me to not weigh in every day. It’s me making a conscious decision not to step on that little machine that I usually rely on.

I have been avoiding the scale this week. My meeting on Sunday was fantastic, but I was disappointed that the 40 pound mark eluded me. (I weighed in at 39.8 pounds…it was all I could do not to shed all my clothing right there in the lobby and demand to be weighed again.)

I tracked my food on Sunday until we picked up pizza for dinner, and then I decided that I should get to have one meal a week that I don’t worry about points. (Not a whole cheat day, just one meal.) On Monday though, I helped myself to two pieces of apple cake with homemade caramel sauce. I’d left my tracker in the car and never got around to writing down what I ate that day. At home, I had a hankering for some onion dip…which I just happened to have ingredients for. Tuesday, I successfully evaded the cream cheese Danish screaming my name from the break room…however, I was starving when I got home and ate some leftover pizza while I cooked dinner…and then some chicken nuggets while I was babysitting Mrs. C’s clan…and then two pieces of garlic bread…and some hot chocolate…when I got home. Oops.

Today was tricky. I had the day off of work, which can often spell disaster for me. At work, I just bring healthy food and (generally) only eat what I bring. At home…well, I can make whatever I damn well want. (And I keep mostly healthy stuff around the house, but I like to bake… ’nuff said?) When I got up, I made a deal with myself that I would write down every bite I ate today…to keep me honest.

I did well, and only went over by 2 points. I also earned 30 activity points today, so I’m pretty sure I’m okay. Tomorrow morning, I will get on the scale. I know it will be fine. I know I am obsessing over it for no reason. I know that, overall, I make healthy choices, and that I’ve worked my ass off in the gym. (Like burning 2000 calories in the gym today? Yeah, I’m not so worried about those two points. It was a glass of milk, anyway. Not chocolate or something like that…Mmmmmm, chocolate. Oops.)

I know that the anxiety I’m feeling about weighing in after a few days is unfounded. I know…or I hope, at least, that I will be thrilled with the number I see when I step on the scale in the morning. I just have to remind myself that even if it’s not as low as the number I saw on Sunday, it’s not the same number I saw a month ago. It’s not anywhere close to the number I saw when I started this journey. Still, I know it won’t be the last time I use avoidance as a defense…it’s just something I do.

~FLP~

Boobs

2009-10-13T22:51:00.003-05:00

I am a well-endowed girl. Always have been. I never struggled with little-girly training bras or had that awkward does she/doesn’t she need one? stage. I went to bed flat-chested one night and woke up with C cups.

It was embarrassing when I was younger. I always had the biggest boobs of anyone in my class. In the middle of seventh grade, we moved from Indiana to Colorado…I’ll never forget that first gym class. My mom had oh-so-thoughtfully written my name across the front of my shirt. We were running in gym and a BOY ran up beside me and introduced himself. When I told him my name, he said, “I see that,” his head bobbing up and down with the writing on my shirt. I was mortified.

Once I started high school, things improved because most of the other girls finally had them, too. There were still problems…In choir my sophomore year, we had to wear tuxedo shirts. Um, hello? Girls are not made to wear tuxedo shirts. Shopping for prom dresses was a chore, too.

Ugh. Boobs. Women who don’t have them want them, but girls who have them know they’re more trouble than their worth.

Finding bras that fit has been next to impossible. I never wore the right size. I was spilling out all over the place…it was not pretty. Finally, I went to get measured and discovered what I hoped I wouldn’t. I was a 46G. Woah.

My chest accessories have long been a hazard in the gym. They often served as my excuse not to exercise, until I learned that double bagging it is the only way to go. Still, even under wraps, they regularly pose problems.

I was having trouble with triceps exercises during Body Pump one night and Turbo Jennie came over to assist me. She told me to keep my elbows closer to my ribs. “I can’t,” I whispered. “My boobs are too big.” Ha! Not a defense she would accept. During my birthday turbo round we were shaking it, and she yelled over the music, “Birthday Girl, put those things away!!!” During a Hip Hop class, we were dipping and shimmying and she looked over her shoulder and asked me, “You don’t even have to try, do you?” Ah, yes, my breasts are a frequent topic of conversation and cause for consternation.

Most recently—yesterday, to be more specific—I had a little trouble in PiYo. The class is an athletic offering of pilates and yoga and is guaranteed to get me sweaty and swearing. I love it and I hate it…it is HARD, but awesome and I am loving the changes I’ve seen in myself since I started taking it. Last week, we started a new round and Jennie demonstrated the shoulder stand.

I watched her with wide eyes, shaking my head, thinking to myself, I can’t do that. There’s no way. But I tried it (because she made me)…and I did it! I was amazed with myself and very excited. This week, I knew it was coming and I was ready for it. The first time, I executed it with no problems. The second time, however, was a little more difficult.

I was a little overzealous in getting my legs in the air and almost fell over. I managed to stabilize myself, but my knockers—defying two sports bras and two tank tops, but not, it seems, gravity—slid forward, into my face, smothering me. There were several seconds where I struggled to catch my breath as I actually choked on my own boobs. After I shoved everything back into place, I tried a repeat performance, but by then, I was giggling too much to hold the pose. (It did not help that a girl next to me fell over right after that. Jennie scolded us for having fun.) Of course, I had to share with her the reason for my laughter after class. Nothing like ending the night with a mouthful of mammary.

In the 20 years or so that my weight has been yo-yoing, I have very rarely lost in my chest…yet, it was always one of the first place I gained. So it seemed I just kept getting bigger. This time around was different. The weight loss was noticeable in my face, first…but then my boobs started shrinking.

In the last year, I’ve dropped about a million bra sizes. Okay, not a million, but it sure feels that way. (As Jennie pointed out, it just goes to show that they’re only fat. Sorry, boys.) Don’t get me wrong, I still have plenty of boobs to go around. (I often offer them to other, “less fortunate” women. I only wish it was that easy.) I’m hoping that this is a good sign…another thing on my list that tells me that this time the last time I have to struggle with my weight.

October is Breast Cancer Awareness month. (No way, right?) Ladies, whatever size your jugs are, remember to do a self exam once a month, see a doctor for a breast screening once a year, and get a mammogram yearly after age 35 or 40, depending on risk factors. Also, visit this website daily and click to give free mammograms to women in need.

~FLP~

Just a Quick Note...

2009-10-07T22:33:00.000-05:00

I just wanted to say thank you SO much to everyone for their support, kind words, and sweaty hugs over the last few days. I cannot even begin to explain how much it helps me to write out my thoughts and have a good cry over them...and of course, I'm always so compelled to share. I'm glad, though...it seems that most of us have been there before, and I thank you for sharing your stories and understanding. I have the greatest friends EVER.

I've Been Here Before

2009-10-05T01:32:00.002-05:00

I will always think of myself as a Fat Lady. In my head, I will always be the girl to whom boys didn’t pay any attention. The girl who cried in the dressing room every time she tried on clothes. The woman who couldn’t fit on the amusement park ride with her daughter. When I look at myself, I see me at 274 pounds. Granted, that was almost four years ago, but it’s the heaviest I’ve ever weighed in at. The heaviest I’ve ever been. The heaviest I’ll ever be.

I’ve gone up and down, and up and down…and up and down for years. For most of my life, really. Where I am now…I’ve weighed less. I’ve weighed more. I’ve been here before. My friend, KB, is worried about me. She thinks I’m becoming obsessed. Worried that I am giving myself an eating disorder. I fret over food, panic about portions, and struggle with the scale. To be honest, I’m a little anxious about it, myself.

I know that she’s right. I need to take a deep breath, take a step back, and stop agonizing over this weight loss thing. But I’m terrified of going back. I had to look back through the years and find out when I weighed in at 274. Was it two years ago? Was it four? Or was it yesterday? Will it be tomorrow because I ate too much tonight? She points out that I won’t be going back because of the lifestyle changes I’ve made with both food and exercise. But I’ve been here before. Over and over again. Up and down. And up and down. And every time…EVERY single time, I swear that this it. That I’m making changes for good. Over and over again, I made myself that promise.

I want to believe that this—right now, right this second—that this is the time. That this is really, really it. No going back.

But what if it’s not?

I lost 3 pounds last week. Despite missing a few workouts. Despite overeating on a couple of occasions. Despite candy corn, Jimmy Johns, and chicken tacos, I lost 3 pounds, bringing my total to 37.4.

37.4 pounds! It's amazing and I am thrilled and proud of myself...

But I’ve been here before.

~FLP~

Stalked by Jillian Michaels

2009-09-28T11:14:00.000-05:00

I found this message in my email this morning.

From: Losing It With Jillian Michaels
To: Me

Date: Mon, Sep 28, 2009 at 5:36 AM
Subject: Don't Get Frustrated With Your Scale

Monday: SUCCESS STORIES
What the Scale Is Not Telling You
It happens all the time. You've stayed on top of your workouts AND watched your diet every day, but then — Bam! — you hit that dreaded weight-loss plateau and can't get the scale to budge. Instead of getting angry at what the scale is saying, take a minute to think about what the scale is NOT telling you — like what a strong and healthy individual you're becoming. Do you have more endurance? Have you lost inches from your waist? Do you look better in your clothes? Don't be a slave to the scale. Weigh in only once a week, and the rest of the time just take note of the difference in how you're feeling.

Woah. Yes, ma'am.
Although I think forcing myself to stay off the scale for a whole week is a little too hard, I am going to make a conscious effort to weigh just once a day. I'm writing the number in my food journal so I can see it all day to remind myself that I've already stepped on the scale and don't need to do it again.
Thanks for all the encouragement and kind words. My support system is the greatest!

~FLP~

Alweighs on my Mind

2009-09-27T23:19:00.001-05:00

I have a problem.

There, I said it. It’s the first step to dealing with it, right?

I am addicted to my scale.

I know that I shouldn’t really weigh myself more than once a week. I know that weighing myself every day is not a good idea. I know that body weight can fluctuate as much as 10 pounds in a single day…I’ve seen it happen.

It’s not just every day, though. It’s every morning. Every night. Before meals. After meals. Before and after working out. Before and after showers. Every time it’s in my sight, I have to step on it. Just to “see.”

I thought it wasn’t a big deal. It couldn’t be a problem because wasn’t making different choices based on the number on the scale. I was just curious.

But it’s become a big deal. It’s become a problem. Do I want seconds? Let me check the scale, first. The number haunts me during my workout, pushing me, taunting me. It can build me up and tear me down several times in a matter of hours. It’s exhausting.

It hit me last week that something has to change. I talked to the Hubster about it and asked if I could hide the bathroom scale and he could use one at the Y for a while. (I could use one at the Y, too, but I don’t like to get on the scale in front of other people—it’s the same reason I won’t use the one at my office, with or without someone standing guard for me.) He agreed, but I still couldn’t bring myself to put it away.

After my Weight Watchers meeting last Sunday morning, I decided I was ready. I’ve been doing very well with my weight loss lately—I’ve lost 9 pounds in the past 3 weeks, bringing my total to 33.8 pounds and I am feeling great. I am SO over the plateau.

So I stashed away my scale and I haven’t weighed myself in a week.

It’s a tough habit to kick. I can’t say how many times I’ve walked into the bathroom, looking for a scale that’s not there anymore. I’ve even eyed the scale at the office and the one on the fitness floor at the Y. It’s killing me. This week, I did a little rearranging in my bathroom, and the scale “just happened” to find its way out of hiding. I did not step on, although I tried really hard to convince myself that no one would ever know since I was home alone. I’ve stood in front of the scale several times, actually, trying to cut deals with myself. Last night, I was in the locker room by myself, eyeing the scale there. I didn’t do it, though.

I decided to wait until my meeting and learn my fate. I figure, if I gain, then I need to step it up and get a better handle on my eating, etcetera. If I lose, then I need to chill out and quit freaking out about weighing myself every two seconds.

Of course, my plan has flaws. Since I haven’t been weighing, I’ve been killing myself with exercise, spending a grand total of eleven hours working out, including Turbo Kicking four times, a three mile Memory Walk for the Alzheimer’s association, and two and a half solid hours of exercise at the Group X Fitness Jam last night. For the most part, I made pretty smart food choices. I did have more than my fair share of tacos….and a woman at my office broke out the candy corn last week. I’ve learned that it’s easier for me to just say NO and not allow myself any than to try to have a little bit. If I have none, I’m okay. But if I have some…I want more. Because I don’t want a little bit. I want the whole damn bag.

When I got up this morning, I eyed the scale, dying to know the number that awaited me. I knew, though, that there was nothing I could do to change it, so I may as well suck it up, head to my meeting, and find out the official number there. I lost…6/10ths of a pound. I won’t lie. I was disappointed. I’m really close to 35 pounds and I was hoping I would see it this week. It took me forever—yes, literally forever—to reach 30 pounds, I know I shouldn’t be chomping at the bit to see 35, but I am. I’m also ready to see 40, 50, 60+ pounds lost.

There have been plenty of non-scale victories. Smaller clothes, compliments, more energy, higher self esteem…the list goes on. It’s harder to appreciate those things, though, when the number is still so high. If I was struggling to lose my last five, ten, or even twenty pounds, I would feel better about the sluggish pace at which I’ve been losing. But, people, I still have at least another 65 pounds to lose. I’m not even halfway there. It’s frustrating.

During the Memory Walk yesterday, I was discussing weight loss with one of my teammates and I told her I wanted to lose about 100 pounds.
She laughed, “You don’t need to lose a hundred pounds!”
I smiled and told her, “Not anymore.”

I know that I’m on my way. I know that I can do it. (Do I sound convincing enough?) I’m suddenly feeling awful about myself. I was making dinner tonight and the Fat Lady inside of me was screaming at me to use more cheese. (I didn’t, although I did indulge in 6 ounces of delicious ice cream later.)

So, what have I decided about my little scale experiment? Like everything else, the scale is okay for me in moderation. I will allow myself to weigh in just once a day, not every time I think about it. I put a new shelf in my bathroom this week, so I think I will put a notebook there so I can keep track of how I’m doing.

34.4 pounds gone. While I’m secretly hoping for a 5.6 pound weight loss next Sunday so I can jump right to 40 pounds lost, I would be happy losing another .6 to get me to 35. At least it’s something.

Success Stories

2009-09-20T01:41:00.003-05:00

Our YMCA has a bulletin board by the front desk, highlighting members. Recently, they've changed it to showcase members who have found success with the Group Fitness classes offered. This month, the Hubster and I were asked to write something for the board, along with another woman from our Turbo Kick class. It's exciting for me to be considered a success story and I wanted to share what we wrote.

~Me~
My husband and I joined the YMCA in March of 2008. Both of us were overweight and out of shape; something needed to change. We picked the Y because there are so many different things to do and it is so family friendly. We were excited about all the different machines, a welcome sight after using our apartment building’s pitiful excuse for a workout room for almost two years. (An elliptical, a treadmill, and a big, scary weight setup.)

For three months, we barely made our minimum visit requirement to continue getting the discount through our insurance company. We came, walked the track a couple of times, looked around, maybe swam a bit with the kids…but we weren’t doing anything…and nothing was changing.

Last July, while leaving the Y after our daughter’s swim lesson, we ran into friends of ours who invited us to come to Turbo Kick. I laughed, thinking she was kidding. “We’re not exactly in the same shape,” I told her. She said it would be fun.

Fun? I had my doubts. I looked for excuses. But I went anyway, scared out of my mind.

Within minutes (or was it seconds?) I was huffing and puffing and bright red, too embarrassed to leave my position and grab a much needed gulp of water. I still don’t know how I ever made it through that first class. J was just as beat as I was afterwards. He said he would like to do it again, though.

And so we went back. Again, and again.

I never thought I would be one of those gym people who schedules her life around exercise classes. I’ll never forget that first class. The first time we Turbo Kicked twice in one week. Three times in one week. My first Body Pump. The first Turbo/Pump “Double Header.” I couldn’t get enough. No more excuses. That first night opened the door to Group Fitness classes for me. I scoured the schedule with a highlighter, marking classes I wanted to try. Body Step, Body Flow, Fitness Yoga, Mat Pilates…later, Body Pump, Zumba, Hip Hop Hustle, PiYo. I’ve tried (almost) all of them. I love (almost) all of them! I have hundreds of dollars in workout videos at home on a shelf, but I’ve discovered I need someone I can’t fast forward through standing in front of me for an hour, telling me what to do, encouraging, pushing. Telling me I can do it. (Because now I know I CAN!)

I think it’s great the instructors offer options for different skill levels. I admit, though, that I found myself staying on the easier side of things for a long time. One night in Turbo Kick, Jennie told the class, “If you’re new, do this,” demonstrating the lower impact move I was working. “Hey,” I thought, “I’m not new anymore.” It was an epiphany and all that I needed to step things up.

This is not the first time I’ve tried to lose weight. In 2003, I tried a new diet plan and did walking videos in my living room. I lost 50 pounds in six months…I actually weighed 30 pounds less than I weigh now. I went off the diet, gained all of my weight back, plus an extra 25 pounds or so. I was miserable.

I didn’t take a serious “before” picture because I didn’t think there would really be an “after.” This time, I’m doing it for good, though. I’m eating right and moving more than I’ve ever moved in my life. I don’t get winded walking up stairs anymore. I’m wearing clothes that I couldn’t wear even when I weighed less. The scale isn’t moving so quickly these days, but I am okay with that for the most part—a pound of muscle weighs the same as a pound of fat, but it sure looks different! In the year since we’ve started Group Fitness classes at the Y, I’ve lost 30 pounds and more than 14 inches. I feel incredible. And while this is more of an “In progress” picture than an “After” one, I definitely consider myself a success story!

~The Hubster~
The Group Fitness classes at the Y have helped me on many levels. First, they have given my fitness plan a sense of direction. Before doing classes like Turbo Kick and Body Pump, my fitness plan was nonexistent. I would come and ride the bike or lift weights or run on the treadmill. But I had no real sense of direction, no end purpose or goals.

After doing my first Turbo Kick class, I was definitely hooked. Even though I was making a lot of mistakes, I was having a good time. Then I ventured into Body Pump. I had done some power lifting in high school, so I had the basic idea of what I was doing there. It was just a matter of regaining proper form and getting my strength back.

Which leads me into another thing that the Group Fitness classes have done for me; they taught me that I have the capacity to learn new things. They may not sink in right away, but I’ll get it over time. What I really appreciate is that the instructors take time to make sure that you are doing things the right way. They do it even if it means taking time after class to answer your questions and walk you through things so you understand them.

The one side benefit of the group classes is the camaraderie. Even though you are all in class working and sweating your way to a new you, there are really cool people there to encourage you. Both my wife and I have made many new friends since joining the classes.

If you would’ve told me a year ago that I’d be leaner, stronger, more confident and in the best shape I’ve been in since college, I probably would’ve laughed. But here I am now, stronger both physically and emotionally. My clothes also fit me a lot better. And yes, I am in the best shape I’ve been in since college, which was about 20 years ago.

In fact, if you would’ve told me a year ago that I would’ve completed a sprint triathlon, chances are that I would’ve questioned your sanity. But guess what? Not only did I complete my first triathlon, I’m looking forward to doing more of them in the future! In fact, I’m actually looking forward to training for the next triathlon season.

The Group Fitness classes have also shown me that a new body doesn’t just happen by snapping my fingers and hoping a genie will come out and grant me a wish for a leaner, stronger body. I actually had to work for it. And so far, the work is paying off. In the last year I have lost close to 20 pounds. I’m not quite where I want to be, but I’m well on my way. And thanks to the guidance of instructors like Jennie, Beth, Julie, and Sarah, I know the direction that will get me there.

~FLP~

Ch-Ch-Ch-Changes...

2009-09-13T22:53:00.000-05:00

I went to a park this weekend with a girlfriend of mine from high school. We've been chatting on Facebook and we have a standing Biggest Loser Date every Tuesday during the season--FYI, it starts again this Tuesday! We've been meaning to get together, but kids and life often get in the way and we usually end up just talking about how we should get together. (I'm not the only one who does this, am I?) She sent me a message on Friday, wanting to know what we were doing this weekend. I had a million plans and wasn't thrilled at the idea of trying to cram in even one extra thing.

Saturday morning, we hit the Y for Turbo Kick and Body Pump--it's my favorite way to start the weekend! Came home and made my Gramma's dip for a party that night and started reviewing exactly what I needed to do that day. I didn't feel like doing any of it, though, so I picked up the phone and called my Biggest Loser Date, asking if she was still in town, and if she still wanted to get together.

An hour later, we met up at a park. (It was just that easy! Why on earth didn't we do it sooner???) We had a great time chatting and catching up on the last ten years while the kids played. Before we left, I handed Big Sister my camera to take a picture of the two of us. She got a pretty good one, along with a few not-so-good ones...and she somehow snapped this completely random picture of, what else? The back of my arm.

I was surprised to see it, but even more shocked when I compared it to another picture of the back of my arm. So, it's not perfect. I'm not winning any contests. But it's something. And it thrills me.

Back to Life...

2009-07-14T22:40:00.002-05:00

Back to reality. Why did I miss this again? Remind me again why I couldn’t wait to get back to class.

So, Body Pump isn’t exactly my favorite. When I started going, Turbo Jennie told me this was the class that would change my body. And damn if she isn’t right. THIS is the class that has me losing inches. It’s hard. It’s not fun. (Okay, it’s kind of fun, but not nearly as fun as any of my other classes.) And did I mention, it’s hard? Yeah. It is.

Since I started, I’ve really been afraid to take a break from Pump. Even when I miss a day during the week and end up doing it once instead of twice, I dread going back. I always secretly thought that I would just quit if I ever missed a bunch of classes. (Which is one of the reasons I love the Y and the friends I’ve made there. I can’t just quit. There would be questions. And serious trouble.) Weight lifting was one of things I asked about at one of my very first appointments for my foot injury. “Oh, you can lift weights,” I was told. “You can’t stand and lift or carry them, but you can lift them.” Okay.

I made it work, too, with Jennie’s help. (You know, her gentle guidance? I believe it went something like, “Get your butt in here and do arms, girl!” *Sniff* So supportive. I love her, really!) Every Pump for the last five weeks—okay, four weeks, because I’m pretty sure I skipped the first week completely…and maybe the next week too, for some reason...okay, the last few classes, anyway—I’ve gone and set up all my stuff, with the Hubster dutifully carrying my weights and my friend, The Sex Toy Lady helping out. For the first ten minutes of class, during the warm up and squats, I would head out to the fitness area and ride the stationary bike. Back to class for the chest track. Walk the track a time or two during the back exercises. Back into class for triceps and biceps. Out again for lunges. Back for shoulders, abs, and cool down. During one class, Jennie pointed to me and told the other instructor, “Now that’s dedication.” Dedication? Maybe. More like I was scared out of my mind about taking time off and coming back.

Tonight, I went back for my first full class. Yes, my smile was about five miles wide when Doc said I could get back to exercising, but beneath the excitement was the fear that I just wouldn’t be strong enough. That I just couldn’t do it.

But I did it. I dropped my weight a little bit, but probably not as much as I should have. My legs are reminiscent of those Wacky-Waving-Inflatable-Arm-Flailing-Tube-Men. (Except I would be Wacky-Waving-Inflatable-Leg-Flailing-Tube-Lady.) I couldn’t help but giggle through class as my legs shook uncontrollably. It reminded me of my first Pump when Jennie told me to bend my knees and I told her not to look at me because they were shaking so badly. Arms were tough, but not because I haven’t been doing them, just because it’s a hard round. (For the record, my shoulders, triceps, and I are done with Body Pump 70.) My back feels awesome. I missed the clean and press. (I am totally serious, too. It’s a great move once you get it down. Of course, would have been easier tonight if my legs had been a little more stable than…oh, let’s say…Jell-O?)

I’ll have to see what tomorrow brings me. I am taking it easy still, but anxious to get moving more. I will never complain about going to class again. Ever.

I went to Weight Watchers last night. I went last week and threw a temper tantrum, threatening to quit if they made me get on the scale--they didn't. I skipped altogether the week before. I gained two pounds the week before that. This past week, I kicked it into gear, tracked my points the way I was supposed to, and stuck with the plan. I was rewarded at the scale, where I discovered I lost FOUR pounds! My weight loss total is 29.2 pounds--Very exciting stuff. I can only hope to get my metabolism back on track and really start knocking out the pounds. Let's GO!

I’m back. And better than ever.

A Life Without...

2009-07-12T23:33:00.001-05:00

I discovered tonight, that I might have to live the rest of my life without guacamole. I’m not sure I can do it. Avocados might be the one food I’ll risk an allergic reaction for.

It started out innocently enough. A couple of years ago, I noticed my tongue getting itchy when I would eat baby carrots. (You know, trying to be healthy.) I started washing the carrots really well, thinking it was something that was on them. My tongue was still itchy. I started buying *gasp* regular carrots and peeling, washing, and cutting them myself. It still did not help. Then I noticed the same thing happening when I ate cantaloupe.

I did some Googling and discovered I was not losing my mind. What I was actually experiencing was a reaction to my regular allergies. A cross-reaction. The next time I went to my doctor, I mentioned it to her, the Wikipedia information printed out in my purse. She knew before I even pulled it out, though. “Oh yes, Oral Allergy Syndrome. Your allergies are maturing.” Maturing? What the heck? I don’t want mature allergies. I want to eat carrots and cantaloupe.

I the past couple of years, I haven’t had as many “regular” allergy symptoms…just these new food problems that have suddenly popped up. I’ve tried everything to control my allergies. At one point in my life, I was on two daily medications, an inhaler, nose spray, and eye drops. With no relief. So I stopped everything cold turkey and just dealt with the symptoms as they popped up. My doctor told me that medication wouldn’t stop the reactions I was having, but it might make them less severe. I didn’t think an itchy tongue was that severe, but she warned me of hives, swelling, and anaphylaxis, which I’ve experienced before and would really like to avoid. She told me that raw foods would cause the worst reactions, but cooked foods may cause gastrointestinal problems…which I am also not fond of. We decided it would probably be best for me to just avoid the foods altogether. On my way out the door, she stopped me. “Be careful with strawberries.” Check.

Since there was nothing I could really do with this new diagnosis of “maturing allergies,” I avoided carrots and cantaloupe. When I had similar reactions to kiwi, bananas, blueberries, and melon, I avoided them, too. I forget every once in a while. I order a salad and don’t notice that they used a bag salad mix with shredded carrots in it. Once, I ordered a strawberry margarita and had sucked more than half of it down before I started feeling funny and swelling up. A couple of Benedryl helped, but I was pretty embarrassed.

The reactions got worse. A sliver of a carrot might have me breaking out in hives. I kissed Little Sister once after she ate strawberries and my lips swelled up like someone had punched me in the face. I ate a banana that almost choked me because my throat started closing.

I keep finding more and more things that I can’t eat. The list scares the heck out of me…I don’t know what I’ll do if I wake up one day and find I can’t eat apples. Or oranges, peppers, or peaches.

I went to an allergist this year who tested me for 64 environmental and food allergies. I am allergic to…pretty much everything. Trees, grass, pollen, cats, dogs, horses, dust, mold…everything. As far as food goes…I am only officially allergic to bananas and hazelnut. (I can’t remember if they tested me for avocados, but I will ask at my next appointment.) The doctor confirmed that my reactions are due to Oral Allergy Syndrome. He wants me to do allergy shots, which I declined, due to a near-death experience 8 years ago. (That’s a story for another night, though.) He put me on 3 allergy medications, hoping they will make my reactions less severe.

I am still waiting, but not have had much exposure to anything I’m allergic to since I saw the allergist. I recently thought I had a small reaction to watermelon, which was new, but I haven’t had more to confirm it was a problem. Tonight, I specifically requested an avocado for my salad, which also included tomato, orange pepper, green pepper, cucumbers, and black olives—all things I’ve eaten recently with no reaction. I’ve had slight reactions to guacamole in the past, but ignored it…Tonight, though, I wasted 4 points on half an avocado that made me itch.

And so the list grows…

Carrots
Cantaloupe
Bananas
Blueberries
Honeydew melon
Strawberries
Kiwi
Hazelnut
Avocado
…Watermelon?

The internet is full of people who are familiar with OAS. My life, however is not. To everyone I know, I’m just weird, allergic to bizarre things, and a pain in the ass to cook for or eat out with because I have to ask a million questions and often pick through my food to make sure there’s nothing hiding in there. I scour ingredients lists, looking for hidden things that might cause a reaction. Carrots hiding away in Italian salad dressing or pureed into tomato soup. Blueberries masquerading in my cherry yogurt. (This happened more than once. I’ll never buy that store’s brand again.)

I hate being so high maintenance.

The Long and the Shorts of It

2009-07-11T21:31:00.001-05:00

Even though my weight loss has been yo-yoing the past month or so, people keep telling me how great I look. I have been so focused on the scale that I haven’t been very gracious. I suppose I should say “Thank you,” rather than rolling my eyes and saying, “My pants feel really tight today.” So, if I’ve blown off a compliment recently, I’m sorry and thank you. I do appreciate them, really.

I went into work today because I’m taking Friday off to head down to Omaha to visit my mom, some cousins, and the Henry Doorly zoo, of course. (Even if I may have to see it in a wheelchair or a scooter that beeps when I back up.) I actually like working Saturdays because it’s quiet and I can get a lot done. Plus, I can wear whatever I want.

Though I have shown up on a Saturday in my pjs, today I wore shorts and a T-shirt. I don’t wear shorts very often, because I’m not a real fan of my legs. I only have one pair of denim capris that fit me well right now, though, and they were in a wrinkly pile on my bathroom floor. I wanted to be comfortable, but not pajama comfortable—never know who might show up on a Saturday when I’m in pjs and no make up, hair a mess and singing at the top of my lungs to whatever’s on the radio. I’ve been caught more than once by our sneaky IT people. They’re like stealth bombers.

I was walking down the hall and caught my reflection in the window. I swear my right leg is looking slimmer than my left, which has been my biggest fear with this damn cast on. I can’t even say how many miles I’ve pedaled away on the stationary bike, pushing with my right foot while my left went along for the ride. With the cast on, I couldn’t tell if it was an illusion, or if my legs were actually different sizes.

I kind of forgot about it until it crossed my mind randomly this evening. (I am supposed to be editing, so I am, of course, finding other things to keep me occupied.) I started digging for a tape measure. I just had it last night, measuring the wall by our door for a new shelf to control the outrageous amount of shoes we seem to have accumulated. Naturally, tonight, it was nowhere to be found. I discovered one in my sewing kit and snuck into my bedroom for a little investigation.

My legs measure the same, so I’m thinking it was a weird illusion created by my cast or the window or the time-space-continuum. It’s got to be something like that, right? While measuring my legs, I remembered that there is a place in my 3 month points journal—which I have been using religiously for the last 4.9 days—to record measurements.

I flipped to that page and started comparing.

Since April 27th, I have lost one inch off my upper arms, two inches off my waist, two inches off my hips, and THREE inches off my thighs!!!

I am super impressed with myself and can’t believe I didn’t think to measure myself sooner. (Actually, I think I did, but couldn’t find my tape.)
Does it mean I’ll wear shorts more often? Probably not. I still don’t love my legs, though I’m thrilled to know that something I’m doing is working. I will promise to stop feeling sorry for people who have to see me in shorts. (Only if they’re wearing sunglasses, though, those babies are white, white, WHITE!!!)

PC Awareness

2009-07-07T22:31:00.001-05:00

A few words on portion control...

I like to eat.

No effin’ way, right?

I don’t remember having a problem with portion control when I was living at home. I remember the “Mom-Look.” The do-you-really-need-more-of-that look I’d get when reaching for seconds. She tried, but I was stubborn.

After I met the Hubster, who loves to cook, the pounds piled on. I was completely oblivious…until I saw a picture of a Fat Lady that I didn’t even recognize as myself.

I’m embarrassed to admit just how much food I can pack away. I tend to think of food as something I deserve. I had a rough day at work. I deserve that pizza. I exercised really hard. I’m having those chips. Or worse…this food is really good and I might not get more, so I better eat it now, while I can. (Yes, it has crossed my mind, as terrible as it may be.)

Weight Watchers is good for me when I follow the plan. It’s too easy, though, to not track food. To not count points. To fall off the WW wagon. I’ve done it a million times. Back in March, when I dragged my mom to her first Turbo Kick class, she told me afterwards that I should be able to eat whatever I wanted after burning that many calories. I’m sure she didn’t mean it, but it stuck with me anyway. (Why did I pick that moment to start listening to her???) I started being a little more lenient with myself on the points. (Hmmm, Hip Hop and Turbo tonight? I’ll have cheese AND mayo on my Subway tonight…and maybe some chips. I burned a LOT of calories. Let’s get dessert. Calories are so much easier to get IN than they are get OUT.) I kept losing weight, but it was very slow.

In April, at my WW meeting, we talked about tracking. I knew it was something I needed to be better at. Every Monday, at the meeting, I would tell myself I was going to write down everything I put in my mouth, but by dinnertime Tuesday, I’d have quit already. I decided to buy a 3 month point tracker notebook because I always feel like the more money I invest in something, the more likely I am to stick to it. (No, it doesn’t really work, but I’m sticking with that theory for now.) I used my tracker religiously for…17 days. Damn. Two weeks later, I picked it up again. I wrote down breakfast. That was May 19th.

Today, I crossed out May 19th and started new. (I ate the same breakfast today that I did almost two months ago. I am very boring.) I wrote down everything I ate. EVERYTHING. The seven M&M’s I picked out of the Hubster’s trail mix. The mini milky way I swiped from the candy dish at work. The full fat alfredo sauce I poured onto my pasta. Every bite. I’ll do it again tomorrow. And the next day. And the next.

I have to.
I need to.

Since my foot injury, I haven’t been able to exercise like I want. Unfortunately, I haven’t changed my eating habits much and in the four weeks I’ve been practically immobile, I’ve gained (at least) four pounds. (I can HEAR my metabolism screaming at me. “What the hell are you doing? Get MOVING, girl!!!” It’s like having Jennie in my head.)

At my meeting last night, I refused to get on the scale, threatening to leave—or even quit—if they tried to make me. (Which they didn’t, of course.) I am out of control. I need to step back and remember why I’m doing this in the first place and remind myself that I can do it.

I can do this.

Tracking my points makes me realize that I actually don’t eat too badly. I generally eat pretty healthy for breakfast and lunch, and then screw it all up at dinner. The dinner I had tonight was only 9 points, though….the trick for me is eat only 9 points worth. Tonight, it meant measuring or weighing everything and boiling my noodles separately so I could make sure I had the proper portion. So I dirtied a few extra dishes…I ate my serving and when it was gone, it was gone. What I need is a big “OFF” switch. A big button that says, “Okay, stop eating NOW!” Since, apparently, I didn’t come with that button—did anyone?—I’m going to watch my portions, stick it out with Weight Watchers, track my points…

And lose this weight for good.

I am done being a Fat Lady.

I'm So Lame

2009-06-30T21:28:00.001-05:00

Really, I am.

I’ve been writing and working…and feeling sorry for myself in general.

I was injured recently…the orthopaedic surgeon I saw declared it a foot sprain, but I’m not so sure it’s not something more serious. (Following up one week from today.) I’ve been in an air cast for the last three weeks. Missing my classes and my regular workouts. Missing running. Missing life.

So, I’m here. Wallowing in self pity and trying not to think of how much easier it would be to just give up and be a Fat Lady for the rest of my life.

I Think I Love You (So What am I so Afraid Of?)

2009-05-14T11:14:00.003-05:00

No one ever told me it could be this good.

I love the way it makes me feel. The thrill of my heart pounding against my chest. The burst of energy I get when my lungs crave oxygen. The sweat dripping off my body.

I love it. I can’t believe I never did it before now. It’s always been something I said I hated, but secretly always wanted to try...something I’ve always been afraid of.

I’ve only just started. I might end up hating it...but I don’t think I will. I think I love it.

There are a lot of things I’ve done recently that I never thought I would do. I never thought I would come to enjoy exercise as much as I do. I never thought I would see the changes that I’ve been seeing in myself. I never thought that this could really be it. (Because I've said it too many times before.)

But I never dreamed in a million years that I would love this.

I love to run. Love it.

Where I Belong

2009-05-12T22:31:00.001-05:00

I’m hovering.

I’m between milestones. Between sizes. Not quite a plateau yet, but I need an extra push to get me to the next ten pounds. To get me to the next size down.

I need to get there.

And I will. It’s just taking some time.

It’s always been a goal of mine to get out of the Plus-Sized department. My mom and Gramma are pros at scouring the clearance racks, and it’s always been frustrating for me to have to walk away from them to look in a different department. And really? 12 racks of 90% in the “regular sizes” and 1 in the bigger sizes. Plus, most stores tend to mix maternity in with plus sizes. Like Fat Ladies aren’t self conscious enough. Nothing like pulling out an adorable top, only to discover it was made for a pregnant woman. (“Wow, this shirt is so roomy! It really hides my tummy, almost like it was made for…Oh.”) I’ve never been able to grab a medium off the rack and try it on. Or take a shirt my mom has just tried on and say, “Hey, let’s see how it looks on me.” I would love to be a medium. I would settle for a large. Hell, at this point, (and with my rack) even an extra-large will do. I just want OUT of the Plus Sizes.

And I’m getting there.

I went shopping last week…there was a skirt that I had seen at Kohl’s that I really wanted. It was pretty, and I was very excited to buy it with my Kohl’s cash. It was not in the Plus-Size department, which was thrilling. I grabbed it, and a couple of others, with some shirts and headed into the dressing room. I zipped it up without even sucking in…and was disappointed to discover that it had pleats in all the wrong places and made my ass look like an elephant. A pink elephant, at that. Damn. The next skirt was the same style, so I didn’t even bother. The next one was cute, but tighter around the legs than I was comfortable with. Then came shirts. The first two had buttons, which create a big, gaping problem for me. The third had snaps, which I thought might work…until I couldn’t even pull the shirt down over my gigantic…problem area.

I almost cried. Standing there in the dressing room in a skirt that made my hips look like a bread truck, with my head and one arm sticking out of a shirt I couldn’t squeeze into…I almost broke down.

That’s it, I thought.
I’m done, I though.
Back to the Fat Lady department…It’s where I belong.

I struggled out of the shirt and blinked my tears away. As I hung it back on the hanger, I noticed a zipper down the side of the shirt. Oh. Yeah. I unzipped it and slipped it on with no problem…and turned to see two huge cantaloupes fighting to escape from the snaps down the front of the shirt. No, wait. Those were my breasts. Yowza. Definitely not work attire. Satisfied that at least the damn thing fit, I put it, and everything else, back on the rack and meandered my way back to the Plus Sizes.

Kohl’s has a pitiful selection of clothes for Fat Ladies. Every once in a while, I will get lucky with a cute shirt or two, but unless I need elastic-waist pants or a bedazzled sweater, there isn’t much to chose from. For example, my Kohl’s had 3 styles of plus sized dresses, each in two different colors. Two of them looked like shapeless sacks, one of them made me look pregnant—it wasn’t maternity, I checked! Come on, Kohl’s. Fat Ladies want to look pretty, too!

I could not find a single skirt, but grabbed a few more shirts and made my way to yet another dressing room.

No.
No.
No.

Damn, why are these shirts so tight? Checking tags, I realized I had somehow found my way back to “regular” sizes and grabbed some XL’s as opposed to the plus-sized 1X. I wanted to leave everything in the dressing room and spend my $20 in Kohl’s cash on socks, but I only had one more shirt to try on. An XL. Why bother?

And what do you know? It fit.

Guess I may not belong in the Plus Sized department after all. (Not for much longer, anyway!)

If the Shoe Fits...

2009-04-16T19:45:00.002-05:00

But what about when it doesn't?

We've discovered that I have a hard time finding shoes that fit. I love shoes. I hate shoes. I mentioned a couple of times this week that I'd like to put tape on the soles of my feet and walk around barefoot all the time.

On Tuesday, I got all dolled up in my favorite dress and unearthed my brown dress sandals. It was 30 degrees, but I am more than ready for spring. I'd been at work for about five minutes when I remembered why I thought I had thrown them away. They are SO loud. They squeak with every step. I HATE them. I ended up taking them off and carrying them around for most of the day.

Tuesday night, I hit Body Pump and then the shoe store. I tried on every pair of clearance shoes they had in my size, and a few that weren't. I broke my left foot while walking my dog nine and a half years ago...the grass was wet and I slipped, twisting my ankle hard enough for the ligament to pull the bone away. (Yes, OW!) My doctor had me wrap it up, but decided it wasn't worth casting. I struggled for weeks on crutches--hobbling around my college campus with a heavy back pack, no less. (I remember walking into the the science building for my physics class that first day, stumbling along behind a guy who was also on crutches. I asked him what happened. "Broke my foot playing football. You?" I laughed. "Broke mine walking my dog." I am SO graceful.) Due my ~~grossly~~ ~~slightly~~ only-noticeable-to-me deformed foot, I need a wide shoe. It's an absolute necessity.

I tossed aside shoe after shoe, grumbling to myself about my stupid, ugly, fat feet. (Okay, not really. I used to work there, for crying out loud. I clean up after myself.) I couldn't find anything that fit. Not one pair. Nothing on clearance. Not the $65.00 pair of dress sandals. NOTHING fit. Not even a little bit. I stomped out of the store and down the strip center to the Fat Lady store.

At the Fat Lady store, I found exactly 6 pairs of the ugliest shoes I've ever seen in my entire life. (I'm not talking my gramma's Naturalizers, either.) They came in sizes 10, 11, and 12 wides. Not my size. (About an eight and a half. Sometimes an 8. Sometimes a 9. 8 and 3/4 Wide would be my perfect size.) I was crabby and sweaty and tired from Pump, so I left without even scouring the clearance racks.

I headed off to the discount shoe store, where I had purchased the hated squeaky sandals. I searched high and low for the elusive (W) sticker and tried on every pair I could find. Too flat. Too high. Too closed. Too open. Too fancy. Too ugly. Tell me again why I can't go barefoot all the time? Tell me!

I finally settled on two pairs that I don't absolutely hate. They were buy one, get one half off, and I paid $32 for both of them. Not terrible, but I'm not in love with them.

What's a girl with irregular feet to do?

Reasons

2009-04-12T20:31:00.006-05:00

Shortly before joining Weight Watchers last year, I read an article about writing to help weight loss. The woman who wrote the article took some time every morning to write--not type--about how she was feeling, her plans for the day, etcetera. Writing helped her be more in control of her choices, hence the weight loss.

Since I like to write...and I like to lose weight...I decided it would be worth a shot. I'm kind of pressed for time in the mornings, so I decided to write at night, before turning out the light and going to bed.

While flipping through notebooks earlier today, I found the one I had used. I enjoyed the time I spent writing, though I don't know if it would have helped me lose weight. (Maybe if I had given it more than three days...) Reading my words reminded me of why I'm doing this.

Sunday, November 2, 2008

I went to a Halloween party last night. It was supposed to be fun--an evening full of friends and laughter. I had a good time, but there were tears behind every smile.

My husband dressed as Richard Simmons and it was our plan that I would be one of his groupies--a fat lady in a sweatsuit, huge stretch, right? In the thrift store, we laughed at the gigantic pants, pulling them at the waist, wondering if both of us could fit inside.

When it was time to get ready for the party, I pulled on the comically large pants. The elastic barely stretched over my hips and the front seam divided my huge stomach into two sections...like I had another ass in front of me. When I sat down, it became evident that I wouldn't be wearing those pants all night. I set off to Walmart in search of something more comfortable. I cried in the car, wondering how things have gotten so out of hand.

At the party, we were surrounded by cleavage, legs, and tramp stamps. When they voted for best female costume, I stood in my fat lady sweatsuit next to sexy police women, nearly naked angels, and a daring Mrs. Dracula. After the vote, we left. We were tired, my allergies were bothering me, and the depression was pressing on my chest with such force, I could scarcely breathe.

When I woke up this morning, I had one thought on my mind: BACON. A last meal of sorts. I've been thinking about joining Weight Watchers for a while now, and I've made the decision to do it. I've always thought that it was too slow or that it just didn't work for me, but the truth is that I've lost weight each and every time I've done it. (This will make my fourth...maybe fifth time joining.) I just have to make it work for me. It's got to be better than what I've been doing...which is nothing.

Tonight, I went upstairs to the workout room and walked on the treadmill. I fell off, of course, but I lasted about 25 minutes--I even jogged for 3 or 4 of them. I was aiming for 30 minutes, but my shoe was rubbing against my heel. I wore those things across 2 zoos and 4 amusement parks and didn't have a single problem, but put me on a treadmill and I end up with blisters. Exercise has always been hard for me, but this time, I'll do it, because I know it works.

I looked at pictures of myself from last night and from trick-or-treating the night before. I hardly recognized myself in the fat lady that stared back at me. It's time.

I'm proud of myself for sticking with the exercise...I was right--it does work. I remember that night so clearly, and the feelings that led up to the decision to change my life for good. It is time.

If I had a Million Dollars

2009-04-10T18:29:00.003-05:00

In high school, KB and I sang the Bare Naked Ladies song, accompanied by our friend, Beth. We wore shirts with "I'm with stupid" written on them--with both arrows pointing to KB. Beth's shirt said, "I don't know them." We had fun with props we dug out of a laundry basket...including a fur coat, a box of mac & cheese, and, of course, a real green dress. We had so much fun...it's one of my favorite HS memories. KB has a picture of the three of us on a desk in her house...It made me smile to see it sitting there. I know I have copies somewhere.

A million dollars. $1,000,000. That's a lot of zeros. Not as much as it used to be, but still pretty life changing.

I like to think about what I would do with a million dollars. With a hundred million dollars. With a hundred thousand dollars.

First on my list is a house. With a backyard, extra bedrooms, and a decent kitchen. (A poem I once wrote keeps popping into my head as I write this, I had to go find the notebook it was written in...I've got a bookshelf full of pages of random poetry.)

After a house...I guess I don't know. A second car. A life without the paper route. Time.

I live for the day when my fun job can be my only job. I used to dream about being able to stay home all day and everything I'd get done. I'd become super mom, housewife of the year, and a gourmet chef, of course. I'd volunteer at my kids' schools and my house would always be "company ready."

I've changed, though. I still want all those things. But I've added exercise to the list. Now, if I didn't have to work full time, I'd hang out at the Y with Charlotte and her Gym Buddies. I devour the fitness schedule, highlighting all the classes I wish I could take. When I have a day off from work, I try to fit in a class I can't usually take. I never thought I would feel this way about exercising...but I'm loving it.

I'm in a weight rut. I've been playing with the same few pounds for a while now, but I'm trying. I'm down 22.8 pounds and working hard. I'm hanging in there...hang with me.

And now for random poetry...

She dreams of a house with four bedrooms, at least.
With a big, roomy kitchen and windows facing east,
So the plants she'll have can greet the day
and the sunshine can chase the morning blues away.
A bathroom with a shower that's big enough for two--
and plenty of space to move around in when she just wants to say "I love you."
A washer and a dryer in their own separate place,
with lots of room to hang things that won't be hanging in her face.
A big family room, where they all can read
or have movies and popcorn or just watch TV.
A spot for the office for the business she'll run
for the job she won't need, but will just do for fun.
A room for each of her kids and one more, just in case,
So they can all have their own personal space.
She dreams of them playing in their big, new backyard,
And maybe they won't have to work quite so hard.
She'll have time to garden, to cook, and to read...
And finally have all that she ever could need.

Look into my Crystal Ball...

2009-03-09T23:05:00.004-05:00

I've got a lot to write about. In fact, I've been writing blogs in my head for weeks now.

About life.
About dieting and weight loss.
About exercise.
About being a pack rat.

It's a shame you all aren't mind readers.

I'm trying.

Doctor, Doctor...

2009-02-19T22:29:00.002-06:00

I went to the doctor this afternoon. I ended up bringing Little Sister with me because she wasn’t feeling well. On our way in, she said, “We always come to this doctor.” I told her it’s because I like this doctor!

I never really cared about what doctor I saw. I used to see the same Birkenstock-wearing doctor my mom saw until I ended up getting an appointment with the only other female doctor in the practice. I couldn’t believe how different they were and immediately switched. When I was pregnant with Little Sister, I had to go to a different group because none of the doctors at my clinic did OB care. (I begged, too, but they wouldn’t start for me, how dare they?!) I ended up seeing a male doctor…and as it usually goes, by the end of my pregnancy, I didn’t care who was looking down there anymore.

When my insurance changed shortly after Little Sister was born, I had to change clinics again. I found a very nice doctor that I really liked before she moved to New Mexico. I chose my current doctor because I knew she would be a hard-ass about my weight. I need that. I don’t need a doctor who will smile and pat my arm and tell me she knows I’m trying. I need a doctor who will tell me to stop making excuses and get up off my ass and exercise.

Amazingly, I’ve been seeing her for almost five years now. I really like her and don’t mind driving more than a few miles out of my way to see her. She’s been with me through crazy diets, scared me about surgery, and written me prescriptions to make me exercise. This was the first time in a long time that I was excited to go to the doctor so I could show off my weight loss.

She’s so proud of me! (As I’m proud of myself!) It was so great to hear that I’m doing something right.

Onto the reason for my visit. I’ve been keeping a journal of my ~~not~~ sleeping patterns for the last two weeks. When I showed it to her, she asked me how I’ve been functioning. (And honestly, I’m not sure.) She asked about my history and family history. When I was in high school, I used to have nights where I wouldn’t sleep…and my dad has no trouble falling asleep, but can’t stay asleep. I’ve cut back on caffeine, increased my exercising, and tried everything I can think of to get to sleep.

My doctor said that if I could manage to get two weeks of good sleep—-with the help of medication-—that I may be able to get myself back on track and sleep without medication every night. She gave me Lunesta…I’ve tried Ambien CR and it hasn’t been working. She listed 4 or 5 other meds, but gave me Lunesta because she had samples—-which is okay by me. She also wrote me a prescription and a coupon for $25 off. (Also, fine by me.)

At this point, I’m desperate for sleep and willing to try anything. I’m off to bed…

Finding Time

2009-02-17T21:28:00.003-06:00

Damn. A whole week. (And a day.) I've been trying. Really, I have.

My editing job has kept me busy. Especially since I'm not so good at scheduling. It's another thing I'm working on.

I've been sick. Little Sister has been sick.

I'm trying to cram too much into my life...it's getting to be a lot.
Employee. Editor. Mom. Wife. Friend. Dieter. Writer. Exerciser.
I'm not willing to give anything up. So I'm just going to have to try harder.

I'm down 20.2 pounds. My dad is coming from Texas to visit on March 24th...I'd like to have lost 30 by then. Totally doable.

I slept through the night last night for the first time in a LONG time. And I have an appointment with my doctor on Thursday.

And I have NOT been wearing my pedometer. D'oh!

Do Ya Miss Me?

2009-02-09T20:48:00.002-06:00

I was doing so well, too.

Wednesday night--Turbo Kick. I took some Excedrin PM. Helps me sleep, but I still wake up in the night and I get a massive hangover the next day. Ick.

Thursday night--Skipped Turbo, not feeling well. Took a sleeping pill, but not until about 10. Yes, I thought it was a magical pill that would put me out right away. It didn't. I was up for a while and woke up half a dozen times.

Friday night--stayed home. I was tired, but knew I wanted to take a pill Saturday night, and didn't want to take one 3 nights in a row--because I knew I was definitely taking one Saturday night. Slept horribly.

Saturday night--Turbo Kick in the am. Got sick in the afternoon. Like awful, in the bathroom every five minutes kind of sick. Decided NOT to take a sleeping pill in case...you know. Slept horribly.

Sunday night--Turbo Kick in the pm. Took a sleeping pill around 8:30. In bed at 9, asleep very shortly after. Awake at 2. Awake at 4. Awake at 5:30. Alarm at 6. (What is my problem?) But, sleeping from 9 until 2 is the longest sleep I've had in a while. Hooray for me.

Tonight, I am going to try to sleep without a pill. I went to Body Flow class, which is like Tai Chi. There's a relaxation time at the end, and I'm feeling very...relaxed. Except I turned my head funny and my neck hurts. I'm tired and I think I can fall asleep without help tonight. (Although staying asleep is another story.) If my Nuvaring was the problem, the hormones should be out of my system within the next couple of days. I'm going to lay off the sleeping pills and see how I do.

In other news, tonight was my weigh-in. I'm down... .8. Seriously. 19.8 pounds total. Bah. (I know. A loss is a loss. It's still frustrating.) I wanted to be down my 10%, which is 25.8 pounds by the time I hit 16 weeks...which is next week. Can I lose 6 pounds in a week? Probably. Will I keep it off the following week? Probably not. (Although I told my mom that I could hit the Y Biggest Loser style this week and maybe do it.)

I have stuff to write about. I just haven't been feeling well. But I'm here.

Insomnia

2009-02-04T21:28:00.002-06:00

I had another topic to write about tonight, but I've had this on my mind. I haven't been sleeping well.

Sunday night, I was up until one in the morning. When I finally forced myself to go to bed, I lay restless until at least two. Then I was up at 2:40. Up at four. Up at 4:40. I can't fall asleep. I can't stay asleep. I've been this way for months.

I've been exercising more than I ever have before. I'm eating right. I've cut back on caffeine and limited myself in the afternoon. Still, I can't sleep. I'm emotional. Irritable. The circles beneath my eyes are growing.

On Tuesday, I decided that enough time had passed that it was time to call my doctor. Of course, she was off yesterday, so I called her today. She called me back this evening, and I wondered if it might be my birth control. I have a long, complicated history with birth control, but the short story is that I was on Yasmin for years and everything was perfect until it wasn't perfect and last August, my doctor put me on the Nuvaring, which I love. However, right now, it's the only medication I take regularly, and I started having trouble sleeping at some point last fall...I thought it was the stress of the kids starting school...and then our upcoming trip to Nebraska...and then the holidays. I thought it was normal...but month after month of 3-5 hours of sleep per night has led me to think that maybe it's not so normal.

She told me she hadn't really heard of there being a link between the Nuvaring and insomnia, but since it's hormone related--and hormones do pretty much whatever the heck they want to--it could be the problem. She asked if I had trouble sleeping during my week off the ring...but I haven't been taking that week off, because she told me not to. I'd been having some major problems when having my period--most importantly debilitating headaches--and she told me to use the ring for three weeks and then put a new one in instead of taking week off. I still get my period every other month or so while on the ring, but it's not nearly as bad as it was.

My doctor suggested I "go off" the ring and see what happens. She told me to take it out and the hormones should be out of my system in 3-4 days. She said to give it a week or so and see how I'm sleeping--she's sending me samples of a sleep aid in the meantime, thank God, sleep! If I'm still not sleeping well, then I have to go see her to figure out what's wrong. (And I can go back on the ring.)

I'm torn. I'm worried I'm going to gain weight when I stop using the ring. I'm pissed that I just got a three month supply and now I'm wasting the one I just put in last week. (On the other hand, some decent sleep sounds so good to me, I don't care about the money.) Without the birth control, I didn't have my period for over a year--frustrating considering we wanted to get pregnant during that time. We're not trying to get pregnant right now, which is one reason I haven't minded staying on the birth control. I'm not worried about getting pregnant...I'm worried that my body is too screwed up to have a normal cycle without help. It took a lot for me to get back to normal...and I know I'm worrying for nothing, because if I'm still having trouble sleeping after a week, then it will be a moot point, and I'll go back on the Ring, and not have to worry about periods or pregnancy...and then I'll worry about why I can't sleep.

Kettle Hell

2009-02-03T19:38:00.002-06:00

Oh. My. God.

Kettlebell class...so hard.

They had 10, 15, and 20 pound Kettlebells. I picked up a 15-pounder...then put it down and picked up the 10-pound. Didn't even glance at the 20 pound weight. (Although I'm pretty sure the Hubster picked one up, then put it back and took at 15-pounder.)

Trainer Dan demonstrated some of the moves while I watched with wide eyes, shaking my head. Trainer Dan is obviously insane.

Seriously? He squatted with the weight hanging between his legs, then swung it forward, up over his head. He did WHAT? You heard me.

He sat on the ground, holding the kettlebell at his chest with his elbows out, rolled down onto his back, then shot up, raising the the weight above his head. The girl across the room from me burst out laughing at the dirty look I gave Trainer Dan.

Then the fun started. A quick warm-up with some marching, some squats, some dead-lifts. And then we picked up the weights.

Oh. My. God.

I was sweating almost immediately. And not pretty droplets on my forehead or gee, my shirt's a little wet sweating...bright red, hey look at me, I'm sweating! kind of sweating.

But I squatted. And I tilted. And I swung that damn weight. I even did the sadistic sit-ups.

Trainer Dan said that one 30 minute class can burn as many calories as an hour of Turbo Kick. Hmmm. Makes me think.

Would I do it again? Yes. Would I pay $70 for 7 weeks of once-a-week classes? Probably not?

The best part about my YMCA is that all the stuff--the track, the studios, the weights, everything--is upstairs. So at the end of my workout, when I think I'm about to die, I still have to walk down those stairs and pick up Little Sister. Tonight, I made it down two steps. Maybe. And then I grasped the railing and said, "Oh. My. God. I'm not going to make it down these stairs."

A lady coming up the steps laughed and said, "Did you just do Turbo Kick? I went to my first class last week and felt just like that!"

I laughed and told her that I do that, too. But not tonight. Oh no, that's tomorrow. If I live that long.

Date Night...

2009-02-02T22:01:00.003-06:00

Not flowers and candy, followed by candle light, oysters, and hours of sex.

GIRL date night.

Catching up with my girlfriend--M, who LOVES her snazzy new nickname, by the way. Sitting and eating...God, delicious french fries, which turned out to be ENDLESS, but I only had one serving. We talked about several million topics and discovered that besides sharing a name, we have the same wedding band, the same fears, and that we are essentially the same person. We even dreamed about each other the other night--no funny business, we were competing in Iron Chef in mine and shopping at Walmart in hers...bizarre.

I had a fantastic time and hope we get to see each other more often!

I got home and discovered I'd have to walk a good two and a half miles to hit my step goal, so I hung up my pedometer at just over 5000 steps for today. (And Lindsay was out of the office today, so my beating stress phone consult got rescheduled.)

The greatest news of all is that I'm down FOUR more pounds for a total of 19!!!

The Hubster is rubbing my feet right now because they're freezing. What a guy...he must be confused as to what kind of date I had tonight.

Choices

2009-01-30T22:04:00.005-06:00

I ended up babysitting tonight for Mrs. C's three kids. Little Sister came with me and between the four of them, they were sweet and cute and funny and wild and naughty...all of those things as usual.

At bedtime, Little J tried to stall. Wanted a story...wanted a drink...wanted to play. I reminded him that he needs to get to bed because he as a big day tomorrow. He asked me why the day was so big. "Because it's your birthday party, silly!" I told him.

With that, he scampered into bed with a gigantic grin spreading across his face, telling me, "It's a HUGE day!"

A friend of mine from high school (Sorry, M, I'm tired. No cute name for you tonight) joined the YMCA recently--today, I think--and is coming to Turbo Kick with me tomorrow morning. I haven't seen her in a good 6 years or so and I'm very excited to see (and sweat with) her tomorrow morning. We're also planning dinner out next Monday after my WW meeting for a less strenuous reunion.

That said, tonight I'm left with a choice. Do I go upstairs and walk two miles on the treadmill and hit my step goal? Or do I go to bed so I'm not rushing everyone out of the house tomorrow morning? Perhaps if I had come home and changed and gone to the workout room right away, I would have been more motivated. As it stands, I think I'll take the early bedtime.

6,081 steps today. Not so fantastic. But not terrible, either.

Confession Time.

2009-01-29T22:01:00.004-06:00

I have a confession to make.

I haven't been wearing my pedometer. I know. You're shocked. I can tell.

Over the weekend, I decided I would be really good and wear it every day this week. Monday morning, when I was getting dressed, I grabbed it off the bathroom counter and clipped it to my pants...then I changed my pants.

Tuesday, I brought back into the bathroom to put it on as I was getting dressed. I didn't put it on, but carried it with me into the bedroom, where I stopped to put on some lip balm. Then I left the room without it.

Wednesday, I wore the damn thing. Today, I wore it again. WOW! Two days in a row...it's a miracle!

Wednesday, I walked 7679 steps and did Turbo Kick, which converts to 14,500. A total of: 22, 179 steps!

Today, I walked 5703 steps and did Turbo Kick for a total of 20,203 steps.

20K+ steps two days in a row? I could lay in bed and do absolutely nothing for the next two days and still get in my 10K steps a day average!

My next phone course is about beating stress. It's one I definitely need!

Numbers

2009-01-28T21:09:00.003-06:00

I've always been ashamed of my weight. I lie about it on my driver's license. I refuse to be weighed at the doctor's office. I didn't own a scale for years.

The day I went to the doctor's office and found out I was pregnant--seven years ago, I weighed 247 pounds. A couple months later when I went in for my first OB appointment, I weighed 232 pounds. They yelled at me for losing so much. (Like I knew or could help it that I was throwing up every three seconds. Anyone else throw up in the doctor's office parking lot? That always seemed to be a good target for some reason.)

Over the next few months, I slowly gained back that 15 pounds. I never wanted the Hubster to look at the scale, but I know he did. (Sneaky bastard.) As I passed 247 and edged closer to 250, I got more and more nervous. I did not want to hit that number.

On what turned out to be my last OB appointment--the do-you-want-to-be-induced-in-3-days-or-in-7? appointment--I hit it. 250. I cried.

Six days after Little Sister was born, I had a wicked case of mastitis. I was throwing up in the shower sick. It was also her first doctor's appointment and I got on the scale, too. After having my seven pound, four ounce little bundle of joy, I weighed 230 pounds again. Very exciting. The doctor gave me some antibiotics and told me to keep breast feeding and said the weight would fly off.

It didn't.

230 became 250 again. 260. 274. That's the highest I ever weighed myself at, when I started Weight Watchers 3 years ago.

Those are numbers I will never see again.

~~274~~
~~260~~
~~250~~

A couple of people have asked me where I'm at now...and I know that I haven't been sharing the numbers this time around, for some reason.

It wasn't intentional. Just something I didn't think of. I'm not shy about my weight any more. I'm proud of where I've come from and what I've conquered.

When I started WW on November 3, 2008, I weighed 258.8 pounds.
At my last weigh-in, on Monday, I weighed 243.8.

More numbers I will never see again.

~~274~~
~~260~~
~~258.8~~
~~250~~

I'll never forget where I came from.
And I'll never go back.

Not this time.

Positive Thinking

2009-01-27T17:42:00.004-06:00

I know I come across as kind of negative.

There are lots of things about myself that I absolutely hate.

My stupid, crooked nose.
My freckles.
My stomach.

I'm trying to be more positive about...things. About myself. About everything.

On that note, here are somethings that I like about myself. Things, I've decided, that I will think about more often.

I have the bluest eyes ever.
I have a nice complexion.
I have really, super thick hair.

That's enough for now...I'm having a hard time of thinking of things that don't have qualifiers. (I like my nails but they grow crooked because of damage to my nail beds when I was young.)

I'm trying to be positive. I know I can do this.
This time.

Guilt

2009-01-26T20:36:00.003-06:00

I had my Weight Watchers meeting tonight.

I gained, which irritates the heck out of me since I worked so darn hard this past week. I know I'll do better, though...it's a process. (And it SUCKS!)

After the meeting, I went to the grocery store to buy a few taco necessities. As I bagged my tortilla shells, cheese, and sour cream, I realized that the woman standing in line behind me had just sat behind me at the Weight Watcher's meeting. Oh God, I thought. Please don't let her recognize me.

When she came down to bag her groceries (This is the only state I've ever lived in where I had to bag my own groceries!) she smiled at me. "Hello again." Damn.

"Hi..." I took in her case of water, bags of frozen veggies, and other WW paraphernalia. "Don't look at my taco stuff."

She laughed. "Don't worry. I won't tell."

It's Monday night and I've starved all day, hoping for a good number on the scale. If I want tacos, I'll have tacos, consequences be damned. (Until next Monday, that is, when I'm pissed about my weigh-in again.)

My Cup No Longer Runeth Over

2009-01-25T21:02:00.004-06:00

I went shopping today.

It was awesome. I love spending time with old friends and catching up.

We went to LB and I got measured for a new bra--I went down TWO cup sizes! That's CRAZY! I never lose weight in that area. It was so exciting to be able to buy a bra at the store and bring it home instead of special ordering and having it sent to me. I also got some cute panties (I love that word!) and a nice shirt--because some of mine are starting to look a little...sack-like. Between the two of us, we spent $105, but we SAVED $217--which is a way more important number!

We went into a couple of other stores...I'm looking forward to being a weight where we can try on the same clothes. There were a couple of things she picked out that were really cute, but I knew I could never squeeze into them. Some day...sooner, rather than later, I hope.

I made it to the shoe store, too. I grabbed a handful of shoes in different styles to try on and sat down. KB scouted the store and then came to check on me. She told me she saw a bunch of tennis shoes on clearance and asked if she should bring some over. She returned with a huge stack of boxes, which I sorted through and sent some of them back with her. I ended up with two pairs--some New Balance runners, which are suspiciously like my old ones, but pink, and a pair of VERY comfortable Dr. Scholl's walking shoes.

The best part is, when I got home, I slipped on my new running shoes and headed upstairs to the workout room. I walked a faster pace for 10 minutes, then did some weights, then walked a slower pace at a level 6 incline--my booty is killing me! I did some more weights and then came home.

I'm nervous about tomorrow's weigh-in. I try not to obsess about the scale during the week, but it's hard not to step up there a few times ~~a day.~~ This morning, I weighed a full NINE pounds more than I did last Monday night. We ate Chinese food last night, but I certainly didn't eat NINE pounds of it. What's the deal?

Unable to Wait

2009-01-24T22:36:00.003-06:00

One of my early weight-loss goals was to buy myself a pair of new running shoes once I lost 25 pounds.

See, I worked at a shoe store in high school and I have kind of a...problem. I love shoes. I'm obsessed with them, really. I can't say no. Really, buy-one-get-one half off? The Hubster, Big Sister, and Little Sister all get a new pair...and I get three. I'm not kidding, either. Not that any one else in my family is hurting for shoes...Big Sister could wear a different pair every day for at least two weeks and Little Sis has a whole new wardrobe once she hits the next size up--I heart garage sales! The Hubster kind of gets the shaft, though...he's rough on his shoes so he gets limited to thrift stores and a new pair just every once in a while.

Running shoes are different. I tend to use the heck out of them and wear them until they're just about falling apart before I force myself into a new pair. And I'm picky about them. They must be light-weight. Must be cushioned. Must fit both of my feet--a difficult task with one foot longer and the other one fatter...I feel like both of the ugly step-sisters when I'm trying on shoes.

I know way too much about them, too. I'm ashamed to admit that I was a big dork--oh, wait, you knew that already? Damn. I thought I hid it so well--and I spent every break for five years in the back room reading information sent to us by manufacturers. (Minus the breaks where I was off flirting with the man who became the Hubster.) Cross trainers for aerobics? Look for grooves on the sole which allow for better stability and wear for quick, side-to-side movements. Walking? Look for a shoe that provides lots of cushioning. Runners? Look for a light-weight shoe with shock absorbing foam. Kids shoes? Don't buy them too big, hoping to outsmart a growth spurt--shoes that don't fit right will wear faster, and you'll end up buying a new pair before Junior outgrows them, anyway!

Anyway. On to my shoes. My beautiful shoes. I can't wait another 7.2 pounds. I need them NOW. We were stomping in Turbo Kick this morning, and I felt a sharp pain shoot up my shin. I started thinking about my shoes. I hadn't exactly been active until the latter part of 2008, so I haven't really been wearing out the running shoes left and right. I bought these last March, before our trip to Texas. These shoes carried me through Sea World, saw me cry in the Alamo, and shopped with me on the Riverwalk. They came with me to Florida and took me through Disney's Animal Kingdom, Magic Kingdom, and Hollywood Studios. They carried me in the rain to the Renaissance Festival last summer. They helped me through my first Turbo Kick class, stumbled through my first (and only!) Body Step class, and watched me from afar as I did Yoga, PiYo, and Body Flow--barefoot! They carried me many miles on the bike and the treadmill...through the grocery store, to orthodontist appointments, and to work on Fridays. These shoes have seen a lot.

But it's time.

I have a shopping date tomorrow with one of my best girlfriends. I'm planning on getting measured for a fancy new bra to celebrate losing 15 pounds...and I will also *sigh* be shopping for new running shoes.

Sweet Dreams...

2009-01-23T21:46:00.004-06:00

Last night...I was tired. Dragging myself out of my recliner and into bed was a huge accomplishment. (One which involved knocking over a glass of water onto Little Sister's homework, of course.) When I got to bed, I turned on the TV to watch my super-secret-favorite show and climbed under the covers.
Since my eyes were already drooping, I took off my glasses and just listened for a few minutes. I was so close, I decided I would just miss my show and get some sleep.

Ten seconds later, I was out like a light. But I could hear music. Where was that music coming from? And I was moving. Lunge. Knee. Lunge. Kick. Lunge. Knee--Oops! I lost my shoe!

I sat up in bed.

Oh. My. God.

Turbo Kicking in my SLEEP.
What's wrong with me?

Ow. Ow...Ow.

2009-01-22T19:39:00.003-06:00

I was sitting at my desk earlier today, innocently minding my own business when I had a thought.

I think I'll go to Turbo Kick tonight.

WHAT?!?! But it's Thursday! I just went YESTERDAY! I don't have to go again until Saturday!

But I want to.

Seriously? What is my problem?

So I called up the Hubster. "Hey. I want to go to Turbo Kick tonight."

"Again?"

"Yeah."

"Okay." (He's so easy, I love him.)

And so we went. We got there early and made it seven laps around the track...A few minutes before class started, we congregated at the door with a bunch of fellow Turbo Kickers. Turbo Jennie was there, too, and gave us a confused look. "Didn't you say, 'see you Saturday?'"

"Yeah. I did...but I'm a psycho." I figured that about summed it up.

About 20 minutes in, she asked me if I regretted my decision. I shook my head, unable to speak, my face already flaming red. "Oh, yes, you do," she said, "I can tell."

I laughed, as much as I could, anyway. She was right. I was tired and puffing and ready to fall over. But I stayed. And I made it. Until the ab track--excuse me, the EXTENDED ab track. My gut was already killing me from yesterday's extended track, so every crunch was like a knife in my midsection. It hurts when I sneeze. When I laugh. When I move. Ugh. (I just sneezed. Ow.)

And after Turbo, I finished my three laps around the track for a mile. Pretty darn good workout.

Turbo three times in one week. (Yes, I'm already counting Saturday. I get to.) I want to be down 30 pounds by the end of March. It's less than 2 pounds a week away...I know I can do it. I also know I need to step up the exercise.

I'm ready.
To be healthy.
To be stronger.
To be happy.
Let's move it!

The Trouble with Metformin

2009-01-21T21:23:00.004-06:00

Years ago, I was diagnosed with poly-cystic ovarian syndrome and my doctor put me on Metformin. It's a medication that diabetics take to help control hyperglycemia. When I list it in the medications I'm currently taking doctors, nurses, and dental hygienists alike immediately assume I have diabetes. (Right, like I forgot to mention that.) One actually had the nerve to ask me, "Have you been diagnosed with diabetes yet?" Excuse me, "yet?" Rude.

I have an on again/off again relationship with the drug. The first doctor who prescribed it moved me up the dosage ladder too quickly. All of a sudden, I was taking 1500mg a day and getting dizzy spells. When I knocked it back to 1000mg, I felt much better. I was supposed to move back up to 1500mg, but never made it because I stopped taking it. When I finally admitted to my doctor that I'd stopped taking it, she asked me why.

It has the unpleasant side effect of...let me go look up the medical term...Ah, once again, Wikipedia says it so much better than I could: The most common adverse effect of metformin is gastrointestinal upset, including diarrhea, cramps, nausea, vomiting and increased flatulence. I didn't realize that's what was causing my...problems until I noticed that those problems were gone. Then I was reluctant (obviously) to start taking it again. When I mentioned it to my doctor, I asked her if I really need to take it. Is it doing anything? Is it going to help me lose weight? She laughed and said most people lose weight while taking it because they get diarrhea. So I sighed and rolled my eyes and said I would take it. (That was in August. I took it, too...for about three weeks.)

I know I should follow my doctor's advice and take the medication. But when the side effects are so distressing, it's a hard to do the right thing.

The Devil Sells Thin Mints

2009-01-20T21:45:00.004-06:00

Every year brings the same old-same old New Year's Resolution.

Eat Better.
Exercise more.
Lose Weight.

The Hubster's birthday comes early and I get by, eating baked fish and broccoli. Valentine's Day comes and I open the cards and throw the candy away.
Easter comes and I look away from the candy and cry myself to sleep at night.

And then come the Girl Scouts.
I do pretty well. I think I got by with two or three during last year's diet. Not-a-one the three years before that.

This year, though, is different.

This year, both of my girl are selling Girl Scout cookies.
Samoas.
Tag-a-longs.
Thin mints.

Heaven help me.
(And please email me if you'd like to order!)

Slowly but Surely

2009-01-19T20:20:00.004-06:00

At my Weight Watcher's meeting tonight, we had a substitue leader. She was actually subbing the first two weeks I started WW, way back in November. At the end of the meeting, she came up to me and asked me how I was doing since I started. She remembered me and said I looked great and asked how much I've lost.

Down 16.8 pounds tonight!

(Of course, I'm fairly certain at least half a pound of it was hair..)

It was nice to hear a compliment from someone I don't see every day. If there's anothing I've learned from this run of WW, it's that it works. I know it does. It's ME. I have to stick to it...even if it's slow, it's better than nothing. Slowly but surely.

I wore my pedometer today! Of course, I took it off when I changed after my meeting so I can't give a step count. It's around 6,000, though. Not fabulous, but I was really busy today, too. Spent a lot of time at my desk finding ways to tell patients to provide their own medical care if they don't want to pay us. Ha! I only wish I could say that. At least once I day I think of this joke:

A well known rich businessman's wife broke her hip. The businessman got the best bone surgeon in town to do the operation. The operation consisted of lining up the broken hip and putting in a screw to secure it. The operation went fine, and the doctor sent the business man a fee for his services of $5000. The businessman was outraged at the cost, and sent the doctor a letter demanding an itemized list of the costs. The doctor sent back a list with two things: 1 screw: $1. Knowing how to put it in: $4999.

Angry Eyes

2009-01-18T17:50:00.002-06:00

I hate it when my weekend turns out to be more hectic than I planned.

Saturday morning, we went to the Y where I turbo-kicked the Hubster. He is rarely doing what we're supposed to be doing and when I went to back kick--yes, I LOOKED--he was right there. It wasn't so much me kicking him as him running into me while I was kicking. (I just typed cooking. I'm starving but have to weigh in tomorrow so I'm going with a light dinner. Ick.)

Saturday night brought my office holiday party at a dinner theatre. The drive was long, the food was horrid, and we didn't stay for the show. I hesitated about going this year, but now I know for sure we won't attend the next one if they don't change the venue.

I woke up this morning to a crying baby. I thought at first that it was Little Sister, so I hauled myself out of bed and listened at her door. I could hear her snoring softly (she gets that from her dad!) so I went back to bed. There was a definite "maaaaaamaaaaaa..." embedded in the cries, so I know it wasn't the new baby down the hall. I heard it again later, but still couldn't identify where it was coming from.

Little Sister had a play date with a BOY from her class today. We met at an indoor play place and they had tons of fun. They were arm-in-arm adorable. (Although I kept recalling the picture Mrs. C showed me of friends of hers who met in Kindergarten and are now MARRIED. Yikes!)

After our play date, Little Sis and I went for haircuts. The first place had an hour and a half wait, so we drove to another place, which turned out to be closed. I called the Hubster for directions to another place, but the website listed conflicting information, so I ended up driving all over town. When I finally found a place that was open and could see both of us, there was a 40 minute wait. Since I'd been waiting all afternoon--plus the months and months I've been meaning to get a haircut--I decided 40 minutes wasn't so bad. Of course, when I finally got home three and a half hours after our play date ended, I realized I should have just gone to the first place and waited an hour and a half.

I like my new cut, but I hated the way she styled it so I came home and took a shower right away...not only to get out all the gunk she put in it, but also to get all the little hairs off of me. (I don't like stuff by my neck, so I made her close the drape loosely and ended up with hair everywhere...my own fault, I know.) Now I'm waiting for it to dry so I can see what it will really look like.

Six o'clock on Sunday evening and I have to work tomorrow. I didn't get half of anything I wanted to do this weekend done, and now I'm sitting here blogging about how I haven't worn my damn pedometer...oh, did I forget to mention that part? Yeah. The goodness the Hubster did laundry while I was gone so I won't have to call in naked to work tomorrow.

Also, I got my eyebrows waxed, so I've got lovely pink angry eyes. It's a good look. Really.

Having a Day.

2009-01-15T22:33:00.002-06:00

Not doing so hot today. I'm stressed beyond belief.

I forgot to wear my pedometer AGAIN today--because, yes, I'm a complete moron. I was irritated with myself all day, but even more so at the end of the day when I got my cell phone from my purse and found my pedometer sitting in there. (Oh yes, in my purse, where I put it last night so I would be sure to remember it this morning.)

I could have used some exercise tonight, but there was too much to do...a trip to the post office, pick up my new glasses, out to dinner for the Hubster's birthday--I did excellent, by the way. Kudos to me for drinking water, putting half of my baked entree in a to-go box right away, and limiting everything else.

I slept peacefully last night for the first time ages. I'm hoping for a repeat performance tonight.

Guess What?

2009-01-14T20:57:00.002-06:00

I forgot to wear my pedometer today.
I. Am. Awesome.

I was driving into work today when I realized it wasn't clipped to the waistband of my pants. I hit the steering wheel and threw a little swearing hissy fit. Darn it.

The good news is that I came home, put it on, and headed to the Y. Instead of sitting on the bench, watching Little Sister's swim class for 40 minutes, I went upstairs and walked a mile on the track. (I wanted to run on the treadmill, but they were all full!)

After swim class, I headed up to Turbo Kick with my friend, The Sex Toy Lady. TSTL hadn't been to Turbo in three months or so and was a little nervous. Of course, she rocked the house while I stumbled through my 4th...5th? session of round 35. During class, she turned to me and asked, "You seriously do this twice a week? Are you crazy?" Yes, yes I am. (But I've lost 15 pounds, too! Cross, cross, zig, zag, knee!) I literally had sweat dripping off me tonight, which I usually don't have. (I tend to just get really, really red.) I was breathing hard and pumping furiously...and I didn't cry!

The Steps

So, I'm totally short changing myself since I didn't even put my pedometer on until 5 tonight, but I think it will be okay in the long run since I get an insane amount of points for Turbo. I just have to pull out my handy, dandy conversion chart...

Turbo: 14,500 steps (I count it as a mixture of low impact and high impact aerobics)
Actual steps: 4360
Day One: 18860

Not too shabby, right?

Ten Thousand Steps

2009-01-13T21:17:00.004-06:00

My new insurance company offers different over-the-phone courses free of charge. In order to obtain a $300 wellness credit--which pays part of my insurance premium each month--I was required to take an online health assessment. Shortly after taking it, I received a call from a nurse at my insurance company suggesting I take their weight management phone course. (Hm? It's free? Count me in!)

I had my first call about a month ago. I spoke with a nice woman, a nutritionist named Lindsay. We spoke during my two hour commute home. (What's turning out to be one of many, unfortunately.) She assured me that I was eating the proper amount of fat and calories and praised me for my weight loss. We scheduled my next appointment with a fitness specialist.

Tonight, I received a call from Kathryn. While Lindsay was easy to talk to, talking to Kathryn is like listening to a recording. "When you think about types of physical activities you enjoy, what comes to mind?" She answered my questions, though, and didn't scold too much when I confessed I hadn't been wearing my pedometer. (Part of the program...and it was free.)
"Okay," she said robotically. "Let's set a goal that relates to your pedometer."
"How about...I agree to wear it every day first? Can that be my goal?" (Did I mention she called right as I walked in the door and I had to pee so bad I was dancing in my bedroom? Yeah. I was.)
Apparently, that goal wasn't good enough for Kathryn. She didn't even laugh. "Your goals should be specific and attainable."
"Okay...how many steps am I supposed to have? Ten thousand? That's my goal. Ten thousand steps a day."
She did have a good suggestion, though.
Ten thousand steps a day on average for the week. I can handle that...because even if I don't get out of bed for two days, the forty million steps that Turbo Kick converts to will even me out for the week.

We came up with some ways I can do it, too...I refuse to park further away from my building, though...it was 20 below zero today.

Future blogs should include a step count. (Maybe. If I feel like you.) Feel free to yell at me if it's not there...I need that sometimes.

Rewarding Myself?

2009-01-12T20:06:00.003-06:00

15.2 pounds!!!

I'm very excited. Weeks ago, I told a friend that when I hit 15 pounds, I was going to eat whatever I wanted.

Now that I'm there, I don't want to--which is a good thing.

But now I'm stumped as to how I should reward myself. I've gotten some good suggestions on Facebook, but my favorite came from a friend who said I should buy some sexy underwear. I love that idea. I think I might go spend a small fortune at Lane Bryant on some underwear and a matching bra...mine are starting to gap. Maybe I won't be Gigantic for too much longer.

25 pounds is new running shoes. I love shoes...I can't wait!

Tears in my Turbo

2009-01-11T10:54:00.002-06:00

I have had a busy weekend.

Friday night, I went scrapbooking with some girlfriends. While there, we met the craziest ladies ever and had a great time. Didn't get home until around two in the morning, crawled into bed and passed out.

Saturday, I got up around nine (Seven hours of sleep...not too bad) and got ready for Turbo Kick. Seriously, there were at least 80 people in the studio. I kicked the woman in front of me--not on purpose, of course. She was back kicking and I was front kicking (which we were supposed to be doing, thank God) and our feet collided. Sorry I kicked you! We had to do push-ups--AGAIN. My poor arms were shaking, my abs were killing me, and I was almost crying the last ten minutes of class. I say almost because I was taking huge, deep breaths and reminding myself that if I cried, everyone would know because I am NOT a pretty crier. My nose and eyes get all red, my face gets blotchy, and I'm basically a HUGE mess. I checked out the mirror and my nose WAS red, but so was the rest of my face, so I figured I was safe. I'm blaming the endorphins released during exercise for my rush of emotions during class yesterday. I felt sad for no reason the whole way home, cried in the shower, and emerged with a raging migraine.

Awesome.

Today, I've got what I like to call a migraine hangover...it's just like a regular headache without the fun of the night before. I'm physically and emotionally exhausted from dealing with pain all day yesterday and I'd like nothing more than to crawl into bed and sleep for the rest of the day. (Okay, I'd also like a hot tub or a massage...but would settle for the nap.) Of course, I'm a mom so that sleeping-all-day thing doesn't exactly work for me. Too much to do. Too little time to do it in.

Not Sure How to Handle This...

2009-01-08T20:01:00.002-06:00

I never watched 90210. Not religiously, anyway. Yes, I knew of Dylan and Brenda and Kelly and Donna. I saw the prom dress episode. And I caught 30 seconds of a very early episode where one of the girls told Brenda she had to lose weight because she couldn't hide under baggy winter clothes anymore. She was wearing a sweatshirt at the time--not a hoodie, an honest-to-God sweatshirt. I know. Those were some crazy times.

I guess I pictured myself hiding under bulky clothes and whipping out my whole new body come this spring. (Because I am beyond serious this time.) But people are noticing already.

"Are you losing weight?" One woman in my office asked me today.

Shushing her, I looked around to see if anyone had heard. I nodded. "I'm doing Weight Watchers," I admitted. "I've lost 13 pounds."

I'm kind of embarrassed to tell her this because--like the rest of the world--she knows I've done this before. Over and over again, in fact.

She used her hands to outline my ~~rather large~~ ~~oversized~~ hourglass shape. "You look great!" She told me. This woman had gastric bypass about 4...3? years ago. (I'm terrible at timelines. I can remember stuff...just can't remember when it happened. Could have been 3 years ago...could have been yesterday. How the hell should I know?) She said she's lost 160 pounds since her surgery and she just can't imagine hauling that kind of weight around every day. I came home and picked up a 12 pound weight...It puts it in perspective, that I used to carry that much weight with me all the time.

A few hours later, another woman followed me down the hallway. "Hey," she whispered as I peeled my orange. "I just wanted to come down here and tell you that you're looking really good...I can tell your boobs are getting smaller." (It's a compliment in my book. Have you seen my boobs? Gigantic.)

The Over-Complimenter caught me today, too. "Hey, Skinny Minny. Your shirt's too big."

It's too much. All at once. I'm embarrassed to talk about it...all of these people have seen me lose weight before. They've all seen me pile it back on...lose a few pounds, gain a few more...lose more, gain it back. It's been an endless cycle. I want to look them in the eye and say, "This is IT. I'm really doing it this time, I PROMISE." They've all heard it before. But then again, so have all of you.

MizFit, I am proud of myself, thank you. Scared to death and unable to take compliments, but proud. (And I like Pink, too. I heard that song twice at work today and wanted to get up and jam...but NOT do push-ups.)

New Year, New Body

2009-01-07T21:35:00.002-06:00

"New year, new body! Come on, people, let's MOVE!!!"

I have a love/hate relationship with Turbo Kick. MOST of the time, I love it. (I also love this new Subway commercial where people are eating fattening things and their clothes are popping open...back to Turbo Kick, though.) I hate the thought of going. I hate how out of shape I feel when I'm gasping for breath three minutes in. I hate being sore two days later. But I love the rush. The moving. The jumping. (Thanks to my new sports bra.) I HATE the push-ups.

The first time we did them, she called them something different. "Tricep push backs" or something crazy like that. When I realized what they were, I was pissed. "These are PUSH-UPS!!!" Tonight, we did push-ups. I struggled, of course, on my knees, face inches from the floor, arms trembling from trying to push up my Fat Lady body.

"New year, new body!"

Ironically, we were rocking out to Pink's So What...which was exactly what was going through my head.

So what? I'm not a rock star.
I don't have rock moves.
And I don't need to be thin.
And guess what? I'm not havin' fun.
Are we almost done?
I'm gonna fall on my face...
I'm not alright.
And I'm not fine.
And I'm a tool.
So what? I'm not a rock star...

And as I'm collapsing to the floor and shoving myself up, praying no one can hear me sobbing, I start thinking, is it worth it? I know it is. I know it is. I know it is. But it's SO HARD.
Sometimes, I think it would just be so much easier to be...a Fat Lady.

New year. New body. New me.
Keep moving.

The Over-Complimenter

2009-01-06T20:41:00.003-06:00

Is there such a thing? In all my years of weight-gain and weight-loss, I've never really learned how to take a compliment.

In 2003, when we did South Beach for the first time, I remember my boss telling me to buy some new jeans because she was tired of watching me hitch them up all the time.

When I fell off the WW wagon a three years ago, a friend told me how disappointed she was because she'd been so proud of my weight loss.

My dad is famous for making comments...some positive, mostly negative. I didn't even tell him I'd joined WW this time...until last week when he called in the middle of my meeting and I sent him a text message that said I would call him after my meeting. Of course, the first words out of his mouth were, "What meeting?" Damn. My cover was blown. (And I GAINED last week, too, of course.)

This time, I was so nervous about it not working...so embarrassed about all my ups and downs--The world is a witness to my yo-yo--I didn't want to tell many people. I told a small handful...and the Internet. At work, I told K, of course, and confided in one other woman, in the break room while we heated up our lunches.

I love her, but she's kind of an Over-Complimenter, if there can be such a thing. I never know what to say to her. She always wants to know how I'm doing--which is great, having one more person to answer to. But she's too much. She tells me I must be "redistributing," because she thinks I look like I've lost way more than 4, 10, or13 pounds.

What do you say to the Over-Complimenter? "Thank you" seems painfully inadequate when her comments often make my day. "Oh, no I don't," seems rude since she's trying to be nice. But when it's every day...and on the days when I'm feeling my fattest...I run out of appreciation for her well-meant words.

I've never liked the way I look. I've always been too fat. Too tall. Too...something. At the eye doctor today, the assistant told me my glasses needed adjusting, and I told her, "No, my nose is just crooked."

I'm trying. I am. It's hard for me to accept that people could see me as anything other than...a Fat Lady.

Fat Lady Arms

2009-01-05T20:50:00.004-06:00

I felt great all day today. It was my weigh-in day, and I've been very, VERY good. I drank lots of water and prayed for a good day on the scale. Suddenly, this afternoon, I started to feel bloated. By the time I drove to my meeting, I felt so fat I could barely breathe.

At some point today, I was distracted by my arm laying on the desk. (I often get distracted by various parts of my body, if you hadn't noticed.) I pinched some flab, poking at the softnes, pulling the skin around my bones, trying to imagine what they would look like skinny.

I can't see it. I have huge arms. I hate them...and while I can feel the muscle I've been building, it's buried under layers of flab. And my hands are ridiculous. So small, I can't play piano because I can't reach the whole octave. My aunt has small hands, but she has slim wrists, also. I have small hands attached to thick wrists which morph into heavier arms.

I feel like a skinny girl trapped in a Fat Lady's body and I'll always be saddled with these Fat Lady arms. (Not that I'll be a skinny girl any time soon.)

I don't know why I'm feeling so down on myself today. I did GREAT this week. I'm down a total of 13.2 pounds. Good for me...and my Fat Lady arms.

Love what you Do. Do what you Love.

2009-01-04T15:19:00.004-06:00

Last year, I spent some time searching for a publishing house where I could submit the romance novel I slaved over for two years.

(To answer the questions I know will come, my book was rejected for reasons of content. The story is good, and I will resubmit and resubmit and resubmit until I'm published.)

While paging through page after page of submission guidelines, a link on one page caught my eye. Employment.

I clicked on it.

There were job listings for readers...they paid in trinkets and gratitude but I thought it would be perfect for me. I love to read...and would love the opportunity to read never-before-seen material. As I scrolled down the page, I discovered another job listing for editors. Are you called the “comma queen” by your critique partners? Do people line up to have you do a critique because they know they will get something solid in return? It was as if the ad was written just for me. I followed the link and emailed the editor-in-chief to introduce and brag about myself.

We emailed back and forth and a few days later, she called me for a phone interview. I was up to my wrists in cheeseball when the phone rang and I quickly washed my hands and locked myself in my room to escape the calls of "Mommy, I'm hungry," and "She's touching my stuff!" for a while. The phone call went well and by the end of our conversation, she told me she would mail me a contract.

And I became an editor.

It's been the experience of a lifetime and I feel blessed every day to have been given this opportunity. The pay is minimal. At times, it's thankless. But I love it.

I make my editorial debut in July with the release of Lara Stephens' Hit Reply, to be published by The Wild Rose Press.

I am loving what I do. And doing what I love.

You Raise Me Up...

2009-01-03T14:56:00.002-06:00

I got my new sports bra in the mail yesterday, just in time for this morning's Turbo Kick.

I have some serious issues with sports bras. They're uncomfortable. They're expensive. They're hard to find.

Hard to find in my size, anyway. I've got a Gigantic chest. No, not Enormous or Full-sized. Gigantic. At least it's not Huge. (Get it now? Yeah. Ha ha, I'm hilarious.)

I pulled it out of the box and held it up for inspection. "Oh, my God. This thing is gigantic."
"Well, honey," said the Hubster, somewhat proudly, "so are your boobs."
And what can I say to that? When he's right, he's right.

When I rolled out of bed this morning, I was very excited to have some extra support. I usually wear a regular bra and a tank top with a built in bra. (Those things are jokes, by the way, NOT built for someone who's built like me.) It's hard not to notice the bounce when I'm facing a mirrored wall, and all I can hope is that no one else is noticing as well.

So I struggled into my gargantuan new undergarment, pausing to adjust the straps twice. I still ripped the damn thing when I finally got into it. Nothing a quick run through my Janome won't fix. Standing in front of the bathroom mirror, I realized it gave me an odd Madonna-esque shape. I hopped up and down a couple of time, scrunching up my nose at the result. I dug out my tank top with the built in bra and decided, just to be safe, I would double bag it.

I was amazed at the end product and distracted through class because my stuff was actually where it was supposed to be. That tiny pee problem that I blame on childbirth almost 7 years ago still kept me from air-jacking, but hey, I jumped. I ran. There was minimal bouncing. (And Charlotte, who has had four children, air-jacks like a pro. I am ashamed.)

It's nice to have a good support system and feel more confident during my workout. There were half a million people there this morning and I talked to a couple of newbies after class. They said they really enjoyed it and they're planning on coming back for Wednesday class. I welcomed them and told them they should keep it up because it's a great workout and lots of fun. One asked me how many classes it takes to get the moves down. I said, "Are you kidding me? I'm STILL trying to get them all down." It's a fun time, though!

Food is going well today, though it will go better once all the Holiday junk is out of my house. I sent the Hubster to the store with a list divided into two parts: BUY and DON'T BUY. The former included bottled water, fruits and veggies, and double-fiber-whole-grain bread. The latter included peanut butter, tortillas, and cheese. There is half a log of summer sausage, a huge block of cheese, and a box of crackers calling my name, but I'm trying to shut them up with clementines and apples.

I'm done being a yo-yo.

Head Start...

2009-01-02T22:32:00.003-06:00

Things have been going...well. I've lost a total of 12.8 pounds doing Weight Watchers--I've gained a couple pounds back over the holidays, but I really feel like I have a head start on the New Year's Resolution crowd. There were a number of new members at my last meeting, and I'm curious to see how many there will be this week.

I'll be hitting Turbo Kick tomorrow morning with what Jennie calls "the tourists." The people who make a resolution to workout more and invade the YMCA in January, only to disappear ~~months~~ ~~weeks~~ days later.

I'm feeling better about myself. My pants are looser, my face is thinner, and I feel like I'm making better choices. (No, not 100% of the time. I can't be expected to forsake every Christmas cookie I meet.) Even a bought with bronchitis hasn't kept me down, although it did keep me out of Turbo for a couple weeks.

I only made one resolution this year...I'm going to win the lottery. It's a start, anyway.

Compliments

2008-11-16T22:14:00.002-06:00

I got my first weight loss compliment the other day. A friend that I work with patted herself under the chin and said, "You look thinner here." (Thanks, K, I love ya!)

I rolled my eyes and said, "Yeah, 4 pounds." But at least it's something, right?

During Turbo Kick on Wednesday, the instructor called me out in front of everyone.
"Hey," she said, "You kicking it twice this week?"
"Yeah," I said, breathlessly, as we were already well into the warm-up.
"You are?" she asked.
"Yeah, twice."
"This week?"
"Yeah, this week."
"Okay...you know that means you have to come again, right, because Saturday was LAST week!"

Ha, ha. Very funny, right? She got me. And I DID go twice. Two weeks in a row. Good for me.
(Probably won't go twice this week, though, I have to work on Saturday.)

No Hope for Fat Ladies...

2008-11-12T11:14:00.002-06:00

I was sitting at my desk yesterday morning when I suddenly became very dizzy. It was a strange feeling, and one I couldn't quite shake. Later, my ear began hurting, and it crossed my mind that I probably had an ear infection. (Because I went swimming...I've developed them the last couple of times I've gone...I think I'll start wearing ear plugs.)

I went to urgent care on my way home, and when the nurse asked me to step on the scale, I asked if I could just tell her my weight. She wrote it down, and I told her that I had just weighed in at Weight Watchers (WW or "Quad V" as my friend calls it) the night before. She asked me which one I was going to, and told me that she had done WW herself years before. She said that she lost almost 40 pounds and had tears in her eyes as she told me that none of her numbers went down...her cholesterol, her blood pressure...everything stayed the same. The nurse looked at me and said, "You think you're going to lose the weight and it's going to fix everything and it just doesn't."

I was shocked that she had shared such personal information with me and a little intimidated, too. If there's no hope, then why bother, right?

But I will bother. My glucose was down at my appointment this year, and I want to keep it that way. I don't want the label of Type 2 diabetes, and I know that's what's in store for me if I don't lose some weight.

I'm working on it. I have hope. (I also have an ear infection.)

Not New Anymore...

2008-11-09T21:29:00.002-06:00

So, it's been a week. (Kind of...almost.) I got my monthly friend (even though I'm not supposed to have it right now) this week, and I'm feeling fatter than ever. I hate this.

It hasn't stopped me from eating right and exercising every day. Go me.

I even went to Turbo Kick twice this week. (Am I awesome or what?) During the class, the instructor yelled at me for not keeping my fists closed. "Who are you going to hurt with that punch? You're not new anymore, sister." No. No, I am not new to Turbo Kick anymore. I am, however, still fat. And while I wasn't about to blurt that out in a room full of people, it didn't stop me from thinking it and repeating it over and over again for the rest of class.

It never hit me...really, until just now...that being fat shouldn't keep me from keeping a tight fist. I might not move as fast as everyone else in the class, and I sure as hell don't look as good, but I can do the moves correctly. I know it's working...just moving that hard for that long each week is helping me. My arms aren't bulging with muscles and my six-pack is still hiding under layer upon layer of flab, but I know it's helping.

I've got to quit using being fat as an excuse.

Watching my Weight

2008-11-03T21:29:00.003-06:00

Here I go again...

Joined Weight Watchers tonight. For good this time.

I know.

2008-07-29T09:48:00.002-05:00

I know it's been a while.
Forever, in fact.

I'm BUSY. I'm editing my heart heart out now, and loving every minute of it.

The Hubster and I started South Beach (Again) Super charged on the 6th of July. I'm down about 15 pounds--which is a start at least.

Ran into a friend after swim class at the Y last week, and she invited us to do the Turbo kick class with her and her husband. I wrote it on my calendar for tomorrow night. (Gulp.)

Got the Hubster's credit report emptied...working on mine.

Got a raise. (Hooray!)

Got a new wedding ring.

Got school shopping for two kids to get started on. (Yikes!)

I'm living. Be proud. (And wait for me. I'm around.)

We are Not Alone

2008-04-13T21:24:00.004-05:00

Here's a Y update.

I've been three times. The Hubster and Big Sis have been a little bit more...Little Sis was asleep last week, I was editing a book, and another night, I was off scrapbooking...We've just been BUSY!

Today, I biked 11 or so miles...last time, I did 12.5, but I had a NOISY bike today! I walked a little more than half a mile. I did that blasted triceps machine for 10 reps today! (Last time, I did 5.) I swam 8 laps. (2 last time...oops!)

During my laps around the track, I passed one of the exercise studios a few times. I think it was the Turbo Kick class...it looked fun and interesting, and a little exhausting. I tried not to stare through the windows as I walked by, because I know that I wouldn't have liked it if I was in the class...but it was hard not to glance in every round.

There were men and woman of varying ages and sizes participating in the class, and I thought I might give it a try some time. The first time I passed it, I noticed a heavy woman in the back row. She was heavier than I am, and I was impressed with her actions in keeping up with the rest of the class. Each time I passed, I saw her there, silently cheering her on. Go, Fat Lady, Go! On my fourth pass, though, I noticed she was missing from the back row. As I rounded the corner, she stepped onto the track, red faced and puffing, an apologetic look on her face. Great job! I wanted to tell her. You were working hard in there...I've been thinking of trying it myself. Of course, I said nothing. I wasn't sure of proper etiquette, so I kept my mouth shut.

Soon, I caught up to the woman, and I debated whether or not I should pass her and the woman ahead her--who was also heavy...or if I should just slow my pace. I don't like passing people. I have to speed up to pass them, and if I end up slowing my pace, then they'll end up passing ME. I hate passing people. In the end, I decided to pass them, and I did so, wondering how we looked, three Fat Ladies trying to desperately to save ourselves.

"Y" Not?

2008-03-31T21:34:00.002-05:00

Yesterday, the Hubster and I took the girls to our local YMCA and became members. We dropped Little Sister off at the daycare, and the rest of us headed upstairs to check it out. (Big Sister went there a few times over the summer before the membership her mom carried on her was cancelled, so she graciously showed us around.) She and I tried out some recumbent bikes while the Hubster tried to prove just how macho he is with the dudes working the weight machines.

After that, we all walked a lap, then ran a lap...okay, Big Sis and Hubster ran a lap while I ran about 3/4 of one. (My chest was killing me...maybe after I find a better sports bra.) Then I decided to test some of the weight machines...I've been looking for some major arm work. I last three reps on the triceps machine with the minimum weight--five pounds. My triceps were burning, they hurt so bad. (My mom told me to look on the bright side, and try and do it four times next time. We'll see.)

Later, we picked up Little Sis and all of us went to the pool. We took turns watching her--that girl seriously needs some swimming lessons, it's next on my list, I swear!--while the rest of us played, Big Sis did the rope swing, and the Hubster and I swam laps. He made it 3, and I forced myself to do 10. I almost died after the first one--it's a LONG pool!--but I made it. My arms are feeling it today. 33 laps makes a mile, so maybe next time, I'll do 15...then 20...then 30...THEN 33. (I don't think I need to do more than that, really. Yikes!)

Tonight, instead of sitting down to write, I made myself get some exercise first. The great Tanya Little (Oops! I meant Tony, of course! The hair always throws me...) recommends just 5 minutes every other day on his new toy for beginners. I've had it since we got back into town on Thursday, and I've faithfully done my 5 minutes every other day since. So it's only been 3 times that I've used it, but I swear I feel my legs getting stronger already.

I'm such a sucker for infomercials, though I can usually will myself away from the phone or the computer. I happened upon Ms. Little on HSN one night, and couldn't seem to stop watching. My first thought was "that looks like something I would fall off." But as I watched more and more, I just became more interested. I mean, FREE shipping, for goodness' sake. And FLEX pay options! I was hooked. When they set up with the "first time users," I told the Hubster, "If they show a fat lady doing it, I'm buying it." Well, the third lady in was fat enough, so I hopped out of bed and bought it in a flash. The next day, I read the not-so-stellar reviews and started having second thoughts, but I figured I would give it a flash. People complained about the smell--which was awful at first, but went away very quickly. They also complained about it moving across the carpet--which I haven't had a problem with, and also about it squeaking--which again, I haven't experienced. Whatever, right? It's a fun little thing that we all can and will use. Totally worth it, in my opinion. (I plan on adding my review, soon...just wanted a few more sessions to get acquainted with it!)

Maybe There is Something to It...

2007-12-23T18:04:00.000-06:00

I'm staring to think there is something to this destiny thing.

Tonight, I finished wrapping Christmas presents and was putting everything away when the shelf in my bedroom suddenly gave way. I was kind of stunned at first, thanking God nothing had landed on my head and knocked me out. Then I realized that was completely pinned down. (The shelves aren't heavy, but we keep cookbooks, magazines, etc, there, and that stuff IS heavy.) My leg was twisted funny because I was reaching to put stuff away, and my left thigh was stuck under the rubble.

Of course it was.

Because I was going to put my wrapping stuff away, get up off my fat butt and go exercise. I SWEAR I was. TODAY was the day. (Don't look at your computer screen like that! I meant it this time! I'm going to fucking Disney World and I don't want to be too damn fat for everything!)

I could barely stand and my thigh is bruising nicely already. I guess...at least I'm alive, right?

Family Pride

2007-12-11T21:21:00.001-06:00

My brother has had his low points. He's had trouble with drugs...with the law. He stole our mother's jewelry to pawn for meth money. He's stolen checks. He's lied. He's hurt a lot of people. He has not been a very good person.

Today he graduated into the National Guard. There have been times I wanted to wash my hands of him; I was so angry with him and the choices he made.

Today, I am so proud of him, I am almost bursting. I contemplated driving 6 hours to see him and then 6 hours home to make it in time to go to work tomorrow. (Obviously, I didn't do that.)

I am so proud of him and this choice that he made. Lots of the kids that signed up with him went home. They gave up and never made it. He stuck it out...and his goals are so different now. He wants to go to college. He wants to get a good job. He wants to make something of himself.

We've been texting back and forth tonight as he's trying to get home. He told me some guy told him "Thanks for serving," and gave him airline money to buy drinks on the plane. He also said "Too bad I'm not 21 yet." In the weeks before basic training, he was pulled over (underage) for a DUI...now I trust him to make the right decision. He sent me another message telling me he'd been upgraded to first class.

Politically, no matter what personal views on the war are, our service men and women deserve our support and respect. I'm so proud of my brother for making the choice to stand up for our country.

God Bless.

The Great Closet Clean-Out

2007-12-09T22:41:00.001-06:00

I have big closets.

They're huge. This picture of the one in the girls' room was taken shortly after we moved in and got all unpacked. (Hence the reason everything looks so clean and organized!) My closet is exactly the same...except it's jam packed full of crap.

Dresses: I have a brand new $400 wedding dress hanging up in the garmet bag with the tags still attached. I have the maternity dress that I actually wore for my wedding hanging next to it. I also have all my old prom dresses.

Jeans: HOLY shit, do I have a lot of jeans. Fat jeans, skinny jeans, and every size in between jeans. Lots and lots of jeans.

Hangers: The next time we're at the thrift store, and I say, "Hey, we should get some hangers while we're here," tell me NO! NO, NO, NO! We have enough fucking hangers!

Pictures: The Hubster is a photographer. An honest to God-used-to-get-paid-to-take-pictures photographer. I have so many damn pictures, it's insane. At our old place, we had wall space for them. We had a whole wall dedicated to his hockey pictures, etc. Not here, though. Here, they live in a box. (Some of them were still wrapped in newspaper from our move over a year ago.)

"Time Capsule" Objects: Again, that would be the Hubster. That man...he's a pack rat. I cannot get him to throw shit away. We have the paper from our kids' birthdays every fucking year. The whole damn paper. And maybe, MAYBE, one day, it will be fun to look back on them...but right now, when we're living in an apartment the size of a bathroom, it's not OKAY with me to keep them. Perhaps if he took care of them...preserved them so that they're actually readable in a few years, it would be okay with me...Right now? NOT OKAY.

Fabric: This one is all me. Like I have time to make that quilt, right? Out, out, OUT!

STUFF: Where the hell did all this stuff come from? I don't care what it is. I don't care how it got here. I just want it out of my closet! If it's been on the floor, in a box, or shoved into a corner for the past year, I probably don't need it anymore. (Okay, the handheld Uno game I forgot I had was a pretty cool find...along with the other half of my jewelry box.)

It's getting there...I had to wrap Christmas presents tonight, too. One of these days, my kids are going to wonder why they're banned from my room this time of year. One of these days, I'm going to be able to find all the presents I bought for them. One of these days, I'm going to fit into all those clothes hanging on "The Back Rack."

But not today. I swear, just thinking about getting up to exercise made me start coughing. Must be my body telling me I'm still too sick...right?

One Last Kiss

2007-12-01T13:44:00.000-06:00

When I was growing up, my mother wanted me to date more.

Not that she wanted me to be a floozy...she just didn't want me to fall for one guy and get "stuck" at a young age.

She was married to my stepfather, and I knew how their relationship was, so I adamantly refused to take love life advice from her. Sometimes, though, I wish that I had listened.

I did tend to fall for just one guy...I never dated around. I thought I was fat. (And I was, but it wasn't fatal.) I was terrible at choosing, too. I picked the one that hit me. The one that never respected me. The one who hurt me time and time again.

Since I didn't date a lot of boys, I didn't kiss a lot of boys, either. Unfortunately, I can count on one hand the number I've kissed. (God, is that pathetic? I guess I'd never thought of it like that before.)

Don't get me wrong. The Hubster is a great kisser. But we're married. We have jobs, and kids, and a home to take care of. We don't waste much time just kissing. (Because when we do, it tends to lead to other things!)

I don't know why I'm so hung up on kissing...probably because I'm sick and haven't been doing much kissing of anyone lately.

I do wish I had kissed more boys. It's weird, I know, but I do.

This is SO Not Helpful

2007-11-27T09:49:00.000-06:00

You Are Destined to Struggle With Your Weight

Like most people, you find it a little difficult to stay at at weight you're comfortable with.If you change a few habits and make food less important, you may find the struggle hardly exists anymore.

Are You Destined To Be Overweight?

The Best Laid Plans

2007-11-25T17:56:00.000-06:00

"The best-laid plans of mice and men often go awry." (Robert Burns)

I had plans today. Plans that included getting up, choosing from one of my many, many (many!) exercise DVDs, working out, and then taking a refreshing shower.

My plans did not include the migraine that woke me up, the vomiting that arrived with the migraine, the wicked case of vertigo that took me off my feet, or the several hour long nap I took a few minutes after getting out of bed.

It's hours and hours later, and I'm just now starting to feel like myself again.

"Plans are only good intentions unless they immediately degenerate into hard work."
(Peter Drucker)

Getting Published

2007-11-24T20:41:00.000-06:00

I have a dream.

I have lots of dreams, actually.

I'd like to be happy with the way I look.
I'd like to own a house someday.
I'd like to have more children.
I'd like to be published.

I love to write. I love putting myself out here in print. It's just something I do. I never realized I was good at it.

I was actually surprised when people commented on my writing...like I said, it's just something I do.

I have stories, words, paragraphs, sentences in my head. All the time.
I have notebooks and journals that I've filled with short stories. Poetry. Comments to myself.

There was a story that kept beating at me until I started to write it down. 52,811 words later, it was a book. An honest to goodness-sending it to a publisher-ready to get rejected book. My book has not been published yet. I don't have high hopes that it will make it, because I know the number of undiscovered masterpieces is unmentionable, and what I wrote--while fantastic--is no masterpiece.

I write other things, too. Earlier this year, I started writing articles for Helium.com. I've written several, but I enjoy reading the articles of others even more. There's a section there called the Marketplace, where publisher post titles of articles they're looking for. Helium writers right the articles, and the publisher picks which one they want.

They picked me.
I got the e-mail earlier this week, and words just could not describe the euphoria I felt.
I'm getting published.
The pay is...well, the pay is $16, and I just can't find a good word to describe that amount...but it's more than I've ever been paid for anything else I've ever written.

Published. FINALLY.

The Key Ingredients for Grasping a Second Chance at Life

Up and at 'em

2007-11-05T07:57:00.000-06:00

Even if I miss my alarm(s) in the morning, the sound of the front door opening is sure to get me out of bed in a heartbeat.

Not because I think there's an intruder, and I'm worried for the safety of my family--no, I know that it's the Hubster returning from delivering the paper.

No, I haul ass out of bed because if I don't, and the Hubster comes in to wake me up, he'll get fresh with me. That's right. FRESH. And I love him, I do. But when I just woke up and I'm not quite coherent yet, I don't need or want him climbing into bed with up to feel me up or kiss me awake. Sometimes he's sweaty. Sometimes he had morning breath. Sometimes I have morning breath--and he may not care about it, but I do.

So this morning, when I heard the front door open, I jumped out of bed, not realizing that my alarm hadn't even gone off yet. (Okay, my early early one did, but I slept right through it.) After going to the bathroom and donning a bra, I exited the bedroom, surprising the Hubster, who had gotten up early because of "the time change," and then finished early as well. "Good," I told him. "Now we can exercise."

We did, too. 15 minutes of Pilates is better than 0 minutes, right? This was my third consecutive day of at least a little bit of exercise, and I'm feeling pretty proud of myself.

Rock on.

Do you know what this is?

2007-11-04T22:45:00.000-06:00

I don't think I ever would have guessed it.
It's my arm.

I was standing in the hallway, watching my kids trick or treat when the Hubster snapped this picture. Disgusting. Is the back of my arm really so...fat?

Then I remember. I'm fat. I'm a fat lady, remember? (I'm the one who sings. This is where I park.)

But my God...how often do I see the back of my arms? I had no idea they looked like THAT!

Fat arms.
Fat legs.
Fat hands.
Fat feet.
Fat face.
Fat butt.
Fat stomach.
Fat back.

Fat Lady.

This Girl

2007-11-03T23:27:00.000-05:00

I love this girl.

This girl laughs so hard, she cries.
She talks so much, her mouth gets dry.
She doesn't care that she's fat.
She doesn't hide behind her weight.
She doesn't hate everything about herself.

She doesn't come around very often, but I saw her today.
And I captured her in this photograph.
And I wish...that I could be this girl more often.

I love this girl.

I'm on a Roll...

2007-10-15T23:01:00.000-05:00

Or rather, the rolls are on me. And I'm SICK of them.

Could tomorrow be the day?

My doctor suggested I might have an eating disorder, which I kind of blew off...but I think she might be right. She said she would give me an appetite suppressant, but really, I don't eat because I'm hungry...I eat because I want to eat. Not a good sign, is it? She recommended a few, more costly programs, but then suggested Over eater's Anonymous. That's free, right? I pulled up their website tonight...they had a meeting 4 hours ago, which I missed, of course...but I'm kind of freaking out right about now. (Honesty is the best policy, right?)

Are You a Compulsive Over eater?
Welcome to Over eaters Anonymous. This series of questions may help you determine if you are a compulsive over eater.
Do you eat when you're not hungry?
Yes. Every day. All the time.

Do you go on eating binges for no apparent reason?
Yes. Sometimes I have a reason...not a good one, probably, but a reason, nonetheless. Most of the time, though, it's just eating.

Do you have feelings of guilt and remorse after overeating?
Yes. God, all the time.

Do you give too much time and thought to food?
Yes. I call it menu planning...but I think about food constantly.

Do you look forward with pleasure and anticipation to the time when you can eat alone?
Yes. Because I don't want people to judge me on what I'm eating, so I hide it.

Do you plan these secret binges ahead of time?
Yes...

Do you eat sensibly before others and make up for it alone?
Sometimes.

Is your weight affecting the way you live your life?
Yes.

Have you tried to diet for a week (or longer), only to fall short of your goal?
All the time. Every day. Every moment for the last 20 years.

Do you resent others telling you to "use a little willpower" to stop overeating?
No, but I've never had anyone tell me that...except for my doctor. (And I resented it.)

Despite evidence to the contrary, have you continued to assert that you can diet "on your own" whenever you wish?
Yes.

Do you crave to eat at a definite time, day or night, other than mealtime?
Not necessarily.

Do you eat to escape from worries or trouble?
Yes. (Does it help? No--but that doesn't mean I stop trying.)

Have you ever been treated for obesity or a food-related condition?
See my post on fat lady problems. I'm currently considered pre-diabetic and suffer from PCOS.

Does your eating behavior make you or others unhappy?
Me. Me. Me. It's makes me unhappy.

Have you answered yes to three or more of these questions? If so, it is probable that you have or are well on your way to having a compulsive overeating problem.

I'm freaking out. I'm scared to go alone...but I need help. (You hear that? I need HELP!)

Eyes Wide Open (Or "I Can See Clearly Now")

2007-10-12T22:53:00.001-05:00

I bought my first pair of glasses in 2001. It was exciting because with them, I could see things that had been blurry for quite some time, they made me look different, and my insurance covered them.

Fast forward almost 7 years, 2 pairs, and 2 (3?) insurance companies later. My prescription has changed every year, which means every year I'm forking over more and more money for a decent pair of eyes. While the price of living (and everything else in the world) keeps going up, my insurance coverage has gone down the drain. Imagine my distress to learn that my most recent prescription was going to cost me $250+ for lenses alone!

I'm done buying new glasses and lenses every year. I've watched my husband pop contacts in and out for 8 years...it's no big deal, right?

WRONG...but I'm learning, and it's gotten easier every day.

It's been fun. It's amazing walking around the grocery store or driving or...just doing anything without these damn glasses on my face! (Yes, I still have the invisible pair that I reach to adjust or move occasionally.)

I haven't worn glasses forever. It's only been 7 years. But a lot happens in 7 years, and apparently, people forget what you really look like.

I definitely have to take better care of my eyebrows, and be more careful with my eye makeup since I don't have glasses to hide behind anymore. It's so...liberating to be free from frames.

Someone told me today that they never realized I had such pretty eyes. I guess they've been hiding, too.

RUN

2007-10-08T20:31:00.000-05:00

I love magnet poetry.

I love those little letters and words that seem so random, yet tie together so perfectly. I got a page free somewhere, and found an entire box for a quarter at a garage sale, so the front of my fridge is covered in words. I play with them, the kids play with them, and apparently, Little Sister's Polly pockets use them as skates. They tend to wander when no one is looking, and little words end up all over the house.

Tonight, I've just had it. Another argument with Big Sister, and the way she treats me and Little Sister, and how the Hubster does nothing about it. I lost it, big time. Went on a screaming rampage. Told both of them that I was going to take Little Sister and leave because she doesn't deserve to be treated the way Big Sister treats her...how she's going to wind up hating her because all she ever does is yell at her. I've just had it. I'm done with half assed "I'm sorry's" that don't mean anything. I'm done with the Hubster standing by and watching it happen. I'm just done.

I've started picking things up when I'm mad...It's a habit I picked up from the Hubster, I think. Something psychological about controlling the physical chaos when I'm on an emotional roller coaster. I folded a basket of laundry. I cleaned one of the bathrooms. I organized the shoes in the rack by the front door.

RUN.

I saw it through my tears as I picked up, strangely enough, one of my running shoes. The little rectangular word, free from it's magnetic prison of the fridge, lost in the carpet, staring up at me.

RUN.

Is it a sign? That I'm really done? That it's time to just give up trying to fix things, cut my losses and go?

RUN.

How odd that I found that particular word at that moment in time. Does it mean something? Do I listen?

My Life is SAD

2007-09-30T18:14:00.000-05:00

My life has been so stressful in the last month.

I just...can't even find the words to describe it.

I haven't eaten right. I haven't exercised. I haven't wanted to do any of the things I normally do. I'm tired all the time.

It's SAD. I know it is.

I am so far from fine this year. Fall is hitting us kind of early...the leaves changed from green to yellow to red to brown, fell off, and blew away all in one day while I was at work. One day it was 80, and the next morning, it was 34. I hate the cold. I hate Fall. I hate living here.

It's so easy to blame it all on the weather.

It can't be the turmoil of the challenges of everyday life, having two children in school, being employed full time, so far away from my family, or the distance of the friends I used to be so close to, right?

It has to be the weather.

The "D" Word, the Other "D" Word, and the "S" Word.

2007-08-26T22:50:00.000-05:00

I had my yearly physical last week. I'd been looking forward to it and dreading it at the same time... you know how it is.

I really, really like my doctor. While I can't say exactly WHY I chose her, I can say that I knew she would help me do something about my weight. She's always been honest with me and I don't have to worry about her sugar coating it for me. I also don't have to worry about her telling me all my problems are weight related. (I HATE that!)

Two years ago, we were discussing my weight (I was crying, of course,) and she asked me, "Have you ever considered weight loss surgery?"

I looked at her, shocked and said, "I guess I didn't think I was that...far gone."

In her brutally honest way, she told me the truth. "You are. At your weight, you'd certainly qualify."

I was stunned. I thought that surgery was only an option for people who had far more to lose than I did. Was I really that overweight?

Yes. I was. I weighed 274 pounds. 274! Every time I think about that number, I just shudder. I can't believe it had grown so high. And SURGERY? I couldn't handle the thought. I told her I wanted to do it on my own. I thought I could.

I still think I can. But now I'm not so sure.

As for the words...

Diabetes. My blood sugar was high again this year. Not REALLY high--in fact, only 3 points above normal, but it's the third year in a row I've been high. I was dreading that call telling me I'd developed diabetes. Luckily, I didn't get it. She did bring up the term "borderline," though. I laughed and said, "I thought diabetes was like pregnancy; you either have it, or you don't." She laughed right back and said that it is, but just like you can have pregnancy scares, you can have diabetes scares, too. Next year, my glucose might be high enough to make an official diagnosis. Time to do something about it.

Diet Pills. This was the first year she offered me diet pills, which surprised me. I'm worried she thinks I can't do this on my own, and it's making me start to doubt myself. I turned down two pills that would "help block fat absorption," (read: give me diarrhea) and one appetite suppressant. I don't eat because I'm hungry...I eat because I want to eat. So now she thinks I might be a compulsive over eater...and I think she's right about that. I'm looking into it. I'm giving myself 6 months. If I can't get myself under control, I'll rethink the diet pills.

Surgery. The thought scares me to tears, really. I know several people who have gone through with it and several more who are considering it. Some really needed it for health reasons. Some, I think, saw it as an easy, lazy way out. I know there are different options, and it's not nearly as dangerous as it used to be, but still... If I haven't made significant improvement and I'm not well on my way to a healthier life in two years...then I'll consider it.

I think I can do it. I hope so, anyway.

The Water Thing...

2007-08-25T23:47:00.001-05:00

Life has been hectic...but moving on.

A friend of mine passed on some good advice from her doctor. What you do is take your body weight in pounds, and half that. That number is how many ounces of water you should drink every day. Believe it or not, I've heard that advice before, I just can't remember where.

So, I weigh roughly 240 pounds right now, which means I should be drinking 120 ounces of water a day. That's A LOT of water. But it's not as hard as I thought it would be.

I've actually been drinking a whole gallon of water a day, which is about 128 ounces, for the past week. I'm feeling pretty good about myself, too. There was one day that I just couldn't stomach it all, but I made up for it the next day.

On Monday, I took a gallon jug of water to work and filled up a glass all day. The next day, I brought another jug of water, and the empty jug from the day before. (I now carry a jug with me everywhere. It's borderline weird to open it in the car and take a swig.) I filled the empty and popped it in the fridge for the next day, and used the water I'd brought with me. Now I have two jugs at work, and I just carry the one I'm using that day and bring it back empty in the morning. What if I get thirsty before I get to work? Easy. I drink a 16.9 oz bottle of water, and fill it with water from the jug when I get there. Strange, I know, but it works for me. It's my system.

I've got half the people in my office doing the water thing. We're all having a great time in the bathroom.

I was worried about doing it at home today because I tend not too drink much at home--I'm not really sure why. So, this morning, I got out my sharpie and numbered water bottles 1-8. I actually drank8 bottles of water, a glass of milk, and half a glass of soda today. Wowie.

I weighed in at exactly 240 on Monday morning, and I've been going up and down all week--238 on Thursday, 243 on Friday. We'll see what the scale says come Monday morning.

Counting Down...

2007-08-10T14:34:00.000-05:00

In just 2 short hours, I will officially be on vacation.
An entire week off...I haven't had that since my maternity leave ended almost five and a half years ago.

I. Can't. Wait.

That's IT.

2007-08-08T11:12:00.000-05:00

I am just going to absolutely lose my f-ing mind. Whatever this is my page. I want to say fuck, I'm saying fuck. I'm going to lose my fucking mind.

Miss Late Every Day to Work, Lies on her Time Card, Always Takes Too Long for Break, Shuts her Phone Off for No Reason, and Would Not Shut-up Yesterday when I had the Headache of the Century just went to OUR boss and complained that *I* was talking too much today.

That's it. The gloves are off.

I WAS feeling better today until that. Time for some serious ass kicking.