219

219. A bar from which I was once forcibly ejected with a painter named Dwight Easter. Also? My weight as of this morning. Response to both situations: ABSOLUTE SHOCK.

I've taken the last two weeks totally off from exercising. As I mentioned in my last post, my knee has been bothering me more and more, and finally I just decided to put the brakes on and give myself a good solid rest. I've been enjoying it -- sleeping past 3 AM is nice, for sure. But in the back of my mind was a little nagging voice saying, "You're going to gain it all baaaaaaaaaack!" I wasn't going crazy with food, but I definitely didn't stick to the plan Smith gave me. (There was a little incident with cream cheese frosting, too.)

So when I hopped on the scale this morning, my jaw dropped. 219?! What the HELL?! I moved the scale three times just to make sure it was on a good, level spot. Yep, still 219. Wow.

Two things occurred to me. First, I realized that my worst food days over the last two weeks don't even come close to my "bad" days from before. I'm not eating donuts, whole pizzas, soda, or other crap like I used to. And the things I did indulge in were (mostly) homemade, meaning they weren't full of preservatives, sodium, nitrates, or any other garbage.

The second thing I realized (for the millionth time) is that I have to stop being so hard on myself. All these changes I'm making are going to take time to sink in. And really, it is always going to be a battle for me. Always. There will never be a magical day where I wake up and never want to eat anything but lean protein and vegetables, a day where I want to exercise for a million hours and have a huge grin on my face the whole time. It's always going to suck a little teeny bit. Have I learned that I feel MUCH BETTER when I eat right and exercise? Absolutely! But I'm also coming to accept that there are things I like that aren't super healthy, and that's okay. It's okay to have a slice of pizza, a cupcake, a glass of wine. I just can't do it every meal, every day.

Anyhoo...my posting has been (and may continue to be, at least for a little while) sporadic, mostly because of holiday craziness. I've also changed my weigh-in day to Friday, simply because a good loss will a) give me something to be happy about over the weekend and b) keep me from over-doing it on the two days a week that I do most of my socializing.

I've also found two fantastic weight loss blogs that you HAVE to check out. The first, Escape from Obesity, is really well-written, and full of fantastic insights. I find myself nodding and saying "YES!" almost every time I read it. Then there's Bitchcakes, which has great Weight Watchers info. Plus, the writer is gorgeous and an amazing photographer (her pictures of NYC make me want to move there. For reals.). So if you need something to read and you're not finding it here, go check those two ladies out!

Hope your holidays are rolling along smoothly...I'll post again soon!

Holding Pattern

Yes, my knee still hurts, but not badly enough to stop me from running. So what's stopping me?

Honestly, I am just really, really, REALLY goddang tired. This has hit me out of the blue. I almost feel like I'm getting a cold, but it never comes. I'm still keeping my food under control (for the most part) but I've been listening to my body and sleeping when it demands.

This isn't the kind of sleeping that shows up when I get really depressed -- you know, where I crawl into bed and don't come out for three days? I mean, I CAN'T sleep like that, I have a job and house and a kid, for Pete's sake, but even if I could, that's not what I want to do. I'm staying active almost all day, but when I crawl into bed at night, sleep comes so quickly that I don't even have time to take my glasses off.

Maybe I really am getting sick? Dunno. Maybe weeks of all kinds of activity (holiday and otherwise) have caught up with me? Dunno. What I do know is that, as per usual, I'm just going to go with the flow. 'Cause quite frankly, I'm too tired to fight it.

224.4

It's a small loss, but it's a loss! And I'll take it!

Wet-Shoe Shuffle

I did my first 5K yesterday. Holy SHIIIIIIIIIIIT!

When I woke up, it was freezing cold, wet, raining, the works. Imagine the worst possible running weather, and this was pretty much it. Part of me started screaming, "You're NOT doing this, not in this weather! No way! Stay home and warm and dry with your boys!"

So I texted my pal Peggy, the fantastic friend who encouraged me to sign up in the first place, and asked if we were really going to do this today. She of course said, "Yep!" (Peggy is a comittment-aholic, she never gives up on ANYTHING!) She told me she wouldn't be upset if I didn't want to run. But I said, "Nope, I'm going to be there. I'm doing it."

We met up at Webb Center and got our numbers and time chips, and had plenty of time left to sit and chat before the race. I had some butterflies, but I thought, "The hard part's over -- you showed up!"

When we lined up for the start, we went to the back of the pack. We sized up our fellow runners -- pregnant chick, lots of teenagers, several people with baby joggers, and one lady who looked like she was about 100 years old. I told Peg that we had to at least finish ahead of the pregnant chick. Peg reminded me that it didn't matter, that all we had to do was finish, and that she was going to be right there with me the whole time (HELLO, THANKS FOR MAKING ME WANT TO CRY, FRIEND!).

I started out pretty strong, despite the fact that my knee was still killing me (more on that later). I'd guess we ran about a quarter mile before I really needed to slow down for a bit. And that's how we did the whole run -- jogged a bit, walked a bit. I can't believe how much fun we had. Peg sang ridiculous songs (she had her MP3 player going, I'd forgotten mine) like "I Like Big Butts" and "Lunchlady Land." She pointed out that I was laughing and talking...WHILE RUNNING. She stuck with me the whole way, even when there was a crazy guy standing in the middle of the sidewalk giving a vocal performance that sounded like a drowning Siamese cat.

We finished together in about 50 minutes. Not super speedy, but I think it's a respectable time. I wanted to finish, and to finish in under an hour, and I did both. Yay! We didn't beat the pregnant chick, or the grandma, or the folks with baby joggers, but we FINISHED.

After the race we were both cold, wet, and tired. Peg headed to Starbucks, and I headed home, where I promptly fell dead asleep while snuggled up with the Kid.

This morning, I feel really accomplished. Running in public is one of my silly phobias, and I overcame it (albeit briefly) to run in full view of an entire college campus and a major roadway, as well as about 100 "real" runners. It's given me a good kick in the pants, and a good boost to how I'm feeling about myself. I'm getting back in the swing of things, and I want to tackle another 5K in the spring.

In less super-yay news, my knee is getting really, really bad. It's a hard feeling to describe, but essentially it feels like there's a piece of something crunchy wedged between my patella (knee cap) and my tibia (leg bone). When I walk or run uphill, there's a loud popping noise. When I run at all, I feel a sharp stabby feeling at the site of the crunchy bit (wow, check out THAT medical terminology). I think I may have to head to the doc before long and get it checked out. I'm dreading the thought of possibly needing knee surgery, but if that's what I have to do, then I'll do it. Right now, though, I'm just pushing forward as best I can.

224.6

I know my goal was to maintain over the holiday weekend, but...I really expected worse than this.

Whoa.

I just realized that if you go from my highest blogged weight, 240.4 (August 24, 2009), I've lost eighteen pounds exactly. Eighteen pounds in just about three months. And I've really only been working out hard for about six weeks.

This makes me so excited to see more results as the weeks go by. I know I'm not going to backslide again -- I'm determined, at the bare minimum, to maintain my current loss. I'm NOT going to gain again over the holidays. I'm just not. I can't go backwards anymore. I can't "start over" again and again and again anymore.

I feel so determined today. I feel resolved. I feel like I could kick some serious ass. Who put Chuck Norris in my coffee?!

222.4

A small loss, but a loss nonetheless.

The Proof is in the...Pants?

At work the other day, I kept feeling something funny on my backside. I couldn't figure out what it was. It was a sort of tickle-y, swishy feeling -- really hard to describe. Then it dawned on me that what I was feeling was my back pockets rubbing against my (baggy) underpants. Do you know how long it's been since my pants were loose enough for that to happen? Oh, just about FOREVER. Usually, the pockets are squeezed so tight against my butt that I can't put anything in them. Now, I have swishy-pants.

As if that weren't enough good news, check THIS out. I was rummaging through my dresser yesterday, trying to find something to wear. At the bottom of my pants drawer were two pairs of size 16 jeans I'd ordered a few months ago. They didn't fit when I got them, but I put them aside and thought maybe I'd get into them by my birthday (January).

Since I had a little extra time, I decided to try them on. And guess what?

THEY FIT.

Now, I still have some serious muffin-top action going on, just from all the skin and pudge on my upper abdomen. But these jeans, they FIT. Like, I don't have to lay down on the floor to zip them. This means I'm down TWO SIZES since I started working out in earnest. TWO SIZES.

These two little things make me feel so motivated! I did a really long workout this morning (thank you, Hubs, for giving me the time to sleep in AND work out interrupted) and it felt awesome. I did 3.2 miles on the treadmill (mostly walking, but fast walking!) and then did weights (back & shoulders, legs) and abs (ohhhhhhhhhhhhh not fun). I wish I could do that kind of workout every day.

In other news...my left knee is still bothering me. It feels sort of like there's little elves jamming a big screwdriver under my patella and trying to wedge it out of place. This knee's been wobbly since my first and only skiing experience, wherein I twisted it about 90 degrees in the wrong direction. But until this past week of running, it hasn't bothered me. I think the impact of my 200+ pounds slamming down on it might be a little much for it to handle right now. I'm NOT worrying about it, though -- I can still walk, I can still lift -- and I'm NOT using it as an excuse to give up or back out of my 5K.

So HOORAY for progress and swishy-pants! Hooray for staying motivated! Hooray hooray HOORAY!

Introspection

Part of my weight loss journey has been about figuring out the "whys" of myself, like why I chose to stay overweight. I'm not usually one for navel-gazing, but lately I've been forcing myself to take the time to think and write about how I really feel about my life.

One of the things I've been focusing on is work. I can't really call it a career, because honestly, pulling espresso and pushing overpriced sugary coffee drinks isn't a career I want. I've also got massage therapy under my belt; I just need to take my national exam to be considered a certified therapist. I have to say that the more I think about things, though, the less I'm interested in any sort of "real" job. At first I thought this was just laziness -- not wanting to have to get up, get dressed, and go out every day. Then I thought I might be too attached to the Kid to put him in someone else's care while I work. But as I wrote those thoughts down in my journal, it started to hit me. It's not laziness, it's not fear, it's not lack of ambition. Having a regular job is just not what I want to do. Period. Full stop.

So what DO I want to do? What makes me happy? What makes me feel fulfilled? Those are the tougher questions to answer, but as the days go by, I'm feeling more and more like what I'm best at and what makes me happy is to be here, in my home, taking care of my family. The whole time I'm at work, I'm thinking about being at home. And while I'm at home, I'm so happy to be there -- even on the days when the Kid is a pain, or the dogs barf somewhere, or I have to clean toilets or fold everyone's underpants.

When I first started working less and staying home more (last October), I felt really overwhelmed and stressed. I still feel that way from time to time. What I've figured out, though, is that it's not the home stuff or family stuff or marriage stuff that's stressing me out. It's the fact that I have to put those things aside to go to a job I don't like. It's having to put my family life aside every evening so I can go to bed early enough to get up for work the next day.

All I want to do is take care of my family, my home, and myself. I love cooking, gardening, playing with my son, having dinner with my husband. I love the tiny daily details of keeping house. I love planning my week, and my errands, and having friends over for dinner. Can this be my job, please? Sadly, the answer to that question is NO. For now, I have to keep working, just for financial reasons. But knowing what I really and truly want to do, being honest with myself about that, is going to make it easier to bear.

What does all this have to do with my weight, you might be wondering. Well, the fact is, when I'm happy, I don't overeat. I don't punish myself with food. Happy Me likes to get up and run, eat good food, rest. Happy Me takes care of herself. So figuring out why I haven't been happy is really important.

223

Another two pounds gone! Woo wooooooo!

Good Week, Bad Week

After my big loss last week, I've taken it a little too easy this week. I haven't been pushing myself as hard on my runs. I've kept my food in check, though, and I've been really trying to pay attention instead of just cruising along in auto-pilot mode. I've done a lot of writing (just haven't published all of it), and spent a lot of time thinking about what's up with me lately.

Some things I've figured out:

Most of the "treat" food I think I want is really, really, really not worth it.

I had lunch with Smith and his wife on Thursday. We got takeout pizza from the Italian place by my house. This is pizza that I LOVE, like eat it once a week because ohhhh the greasy goodness LOVE. I was really hungry when the pizza arrived, and it smelled so good. But halfway through the second piece, I just realized that it didn't really taste that good. It was greasy, salty, everything I thought I wanted, but...bleh. It wasn't disgusting, don't get me wrong, and Fattie was certainly delighted. It just didn't taste as good as I remembered. And afterwards, I had a bellyache from the grease. Urp.

Then last night, I had to go to my store's Holiday meeting (not a party, we just sit around and talk retail). All of the holiday pastries we are selling this year were set up on the tables, cut into convenient bite-sized pieces. In years past, I have eaten at least a half to three quarters of a tray of these things. This year, I had a small piece of each just so I could taste if they were any different from last year, and then I was done. And again, it really didn't taste that good. I didn't feel tempted, I didn't feel like it was a big deal to say "No, I tried that one, I'm good."

I need to focus on my victories, no matter how small, instead of beating myself up.

Anyone who knows me will tell you that I'm the queen of self-depracating humor. I learned a long time ago that if I beat everyone to the punch, and come up with the meanest or funniest joke, then nobody else will take a stab at teasing me. The problem is, nobody wants to tease me anymore (well, except maybe Smith and Hubs when they get together), so I don't need the defense mechanism. What I need to do is remind myself that for the most part, I am a pretty kickass person, and I deserve to feel good about myself. For example, I've lost a total of fourteen pounds. FOURTEEN POUNDS IS A BIG DEAL, even when I know I have many, many more pounds to lose. Another example? What used to be my ZOMG DEATH ON TEH TREADMILL running pace is now my "warmup" pace. Oh yeah, and how about the fact that I've shrunk out of my jeans AND two sizes of underwear?

Routine is very, very good for me.

To some it may seem boring, or even robotic. But for me, doing the same thing, in the same order, every day is extremely comforting and sustaining. Get up at the same time, eat my same breakfast, same bedtime, same same same same same. Routine is what makes it easier to get up at 3 AM and run, to turn down junk food, to keep the house under control.

My uterus is not the boss of me.

I used to blame everything on Aunt Flo. Gained weight? Her fault. Feeling tired? Her fault. Being an insanely cranky bitch and biting the heads off everyone around you? So totally her fault. But guess what? Her = me. And I'm not going to lay around on the couch for a week eating crap and allowing myself to get away with it because my uterus is in purge mode. It's become clear through this and a couple of other minor physical challenges that my brain can convince my body to do (or not do) whatever it wants. I'm just going to keep doing what I'm doing, and my body can cooperate or get left behind.

So I'd say it's been a good week overall, and I'm going to finish strong with my run and workout tomorrow. RAH!

D-Day

I started noticing lately that my bras were getting very uncomfortable -- pinchy, straps falling down, and some double-boobing. (You know, when a bra doesn't fit right, the cup pinches across your boob and sort of cleaves it into two mini-boobs?) I attributed this to a few factors:

1. I buy cheap bras. I usually don't spend more than ten bucks on one.

2. I've lost a few pounds.

3. The bras I have are old, and (I know, horror of horrors) I PUT THEM IN THE WASHING MACHINE.

I mentioned this to my mom when we went shopping together on Saturday, so as we were walking through Dillard's, she suggested that I get a fitting done. Man, did I ever get a shock in that dressing room. No, the very nice salesgirl (and I do mean girl, I think she was about 17) did not grab my tatas, or shriek in horror when she saw what havoc babies wreak on formerly NICE tatas. No, my friends. The shock? My size. These things here? *points to chest* These "yard dogs"? THEY'VE GOTTEN BIGGER.

I sent a frantic text to my husband telling him my new size. His reply (and I'm not even making this up): "Yay! Boobies!" I laughed right as the salesgirl came back in the dressing room. She looked at me like I was nuts. I said, "I'm sorry. My inner 13 year old is just really excited about having officially big boobs."

So now here I sit, tatas comfortably cradled in the largest brassiere I've ever worn. It's extremely comfortable, but I'm a little scared that it might be mistaken for some sort of padding used to protect canteloupes during shipping.

225

Holy shiitake, that's 6.2 pounds this week! I haven't had a loss like that since my WW days.

Fighting the Urge to Snuggle

The weather's turned cold, and this is my body's cue to curl up and nap, apparently. Somebody done flipped the "HIBERNATE" switch. It's a tough urge to fight -- I've got a super comfy couch, a toddler who likes to cuddle, and streaming movies on Netflix.

I've been doing pretty well at keeping the naps under control, though. I've taken a couple of power-snoozes (less than an hour) on days that I work AND run, but that's it. I made up a few rules for myself to help:

1. Ask yourself, "Are you REALLY tired, or are you just bored?" I find that a lot of times I'll just go to sleep if I don't have anything interesting to do. I've been combatting this by getting back into photography, and I'm about to jump into scrapbooking again (that's my wintertime hobby).

2. No run? No nap. If I don't work out, I don't really have any excuse to be tired. If I do run, I let myself have a 45 minute nap, max.

3. No work? No nap. If I don't work in the morning (my usual 4:45 - 8:45AM shift), again, I don't have any excuse to be tired. And I really only need a post-work nap on days that are super busy, like today (lots of customers, supply order to put away, etc.).

4. Turn on the lights, or better yet, go outside. When I want to nap, I'll get up and turn the lights on (I usually keep them off during the day) or zip outside for a few minutes. It really helps.

Another thing I've been doing for a while now is to regulate my bedtime. This is one of those things that your mom or dad's been telling you your whole life -- go to bed at a reasonable hour. Again, so simple, but it really, really works. I've learned that I really need a solid eight hours in order to feel really good the next day. I just make my bedtime non-negotiable, like an appointment or any other time commitment.

I know I'm not the only one who must be feeling the urge to snuggle. How do YOU handle it?

The Fear

I tried changing up my run this morning (yes, I'm already done at 3:50AM). Instead of running a whole 1.25/1.5 miles, I started with five minutes of walking. Then I ran half a mile, then walked a quarter mile, then ran another half mile. I was going to walk another quarter and finish with a half, but I had to stop. Why? Because I started hyperventilating. Argh!

This hasn't happened since my panic attack on the track (hey, that rhymes!). This time, I totally felt it coming, but I couldn't stop it. I started to feel a little weirdness in my ribs on the right side, and before I knew it, I couldn't breathe (or at least that's what it felt like). It's hard to explain the feeling...it's almost like that feeling you get right before you cough, where you can't quite get the air all the way down into the bottom of your lung.

So the next question is, why did this happen? What was I thinking about when it happened? Oh yeah...the 5k. And how I'm nervous about running in public, running outside, running so slowly that the guy in the golf cart will have to haul me to the finish. Stupid, irrational, ridiculous, overblown fears. Excuses waiting to happen.

Today I'm going to be thinking about what I'm really afraid of, and when I run tomorrow, I'm NOT going to hyperventilate again. DO YOU HEAR ME, LUNGS? DO YOU HEAR ME, BRAIN? Y'all are going to cut the shit, and we're going to do this.

Handy Dandy Tip

Sleep in your workout clothes.

I thought this was the dumbest thing EVER the first time I heard it, but it actually helps. I don't sleep in my running pants, but I keep them right next to the bed. So, as soon as I wake up, it's like they're saying, "Good morning! Get your ass on the treadmill!"

It's A Choice

I've been posting cellphone shots of my treadmill display to my Facebook page on the mornings that I run. Partially because I want to keep track of my times, and partially as sort of an exercise in accountability - more than a day without a picture is my signal to send the workout police. A couple of surprising side-effects have sprung up, the first being an amazing show of support from my friends, both near and far. It makes me wish I'd gone "public" with my fitness endeavors in the past, simply because their enthusiasm and encouragement help keep me going.

The second? Well, I'm getting a lot of "Oh my GAWD, how do you get up so EARLY?" (My runs are usually done around 3AM, since I have to be at work most mornings by 4:45AM.) Someone even commented on it at a party I went to this past weekend. "I don't know how you do it."

The answer is surprisingly simple, and it's taken me a really long time to get to this lightbulb moment:

It's a choice.

I can choose to get up and run at the only time of day when I won't be rushed, or interrupted, or feel guilty for not doing something else. Or, I can lay in bed another hour, then spend the rest of the day alternately finding excuses NOT to run and beating myself up for not running. Is it an easy choice? Not really. I won't even lie and say I leap out of bed filled with an overwhelming desire to get on the treadmill and sweat and gasp for air and (occasionally) cry my eyes out. For lack of a better phrase, it fucking SUCKS.

But you know what sucks worse? Weighing over 200 pounds and not being able to keep up with my kid. Never being able to find clothes that fit. Being self-conscious, oh, EVERY SECOND OF THE DAY. Seeing myself in the mirror and thinking, "Dang, did that recessive Michelin Man gene decide to pop up or what?"

So I choose. I choose to drag myself out of bed, put workout clothes on, get on the treadmill, and (beware, Smithism) run it out. Every step, every tenth of a mile is a choice. Keep going? Push harder? Or give up and get off?

Now, I don't always make the right choice, or the best choice. Feel free to go back an entry or two and read about my Halloween weekend debacle. And there have certainly been mornings when I should have, could have run longer or harder or faster, but I didn't. But after every bad choice is an opportunity to make a better one. Ate cake for breakfast? Well, you can give up and eat crap for the rest of the day, or you can choose to eat something better at the next meal.

Again, this is such a simple concept, and I can't for the life of me think of why it's taken thirty-one years for me to get it. But I do. I get it now. For the majority of my adult life, I've chosen to not take care of myself, to let myself get out of shape, and I've chosen to make excuses and hide from the truth. That's no one's fault, there's no one to blame. It was my choice.

231.2

Damn you, Halloween!

Also -- a weekend of junking does not make for a good Monday morning run. I still did it, though.

Halloween, I Kind of Hate Your Face

My eating spiraled out of control this weekend, and I'm still trying to get a handle on it. Even after I got rid of all the candy in the house after my friend's baby shower last weekend, even after running all week, I still let myself eat (and drink) way too much.

On Friday morning, I let myself have Chik Fil A Chicken Minis for breakfast. Hubs had taken the day off for a school thing, and when he got back, we went to Ruby Tuesday's for lunch. I had a salad, but that salad had bacon, avocado, and cheese on it (not tons, but probably more than I should've had).

Then that night, my friend Peggy threw an awesome party, and although I started out strong -- eating celery from the veggie tray, drinking a light beer -- I ended up drinking too much and chowing down on everything from chips and dip to pumpkin-faced Krispy Kreme donuts.

Saturday, I felt like complete and total poop. Not hungover, but dehydrated and well, sugary. It's weird, sugar now has a very strange and unpleasant effect on me. It makes me so tired, and for lack of a better word, I just feel STICKY inside.

We went to a birthday party; my friend's son turned one and they threw a pirate-themed birthday party for him. I didn't eat much of anything -- I think I had a bite of cake and maybe one or two chips. Nothing seemed appealing. I can't really remember what we ate the rest of the day. After running a couple of errands, we took the Kid trick-or-treating and then had dinner with my mom. Mexican food! I had chicken fajitas, which aren't too bad I guess. But then when we got home, I ate some of Kid's candy, and then Hubs and I ate pita chips and spinach dip while we watched a scary movie. I was so exhausted, and still dehydrated, and still feeling like poop.

So here we are on Sunday. I tried to get back on track this morning: oatmeal with fruit, some coffee. But then I ate leftover dip while Kid napped, and then I ate candy. I still haven't had enough water. And I hopped on the scale -- up three pounds from Monday. FUCK. I haven't run today, I didn't run yesterday. I FEEL LIKE CRAP.

Can I get a do-over? Can I go back to Friday night and not pig out? No.

What can I do?

I can start over again, again, again. I can (will!) throw out the damned Halloween candy and leftover dip. I can keep drinking water for the rest of the day, have a decent dinner, and start fresh tomorrow. I can get a good night's sleep and hopefully keep myself from getting the cold I feel coming on. I can learn a lesson from this past weekend and stop making this mistake over and over again.

Suck It, Sparkpeople.com.

Alright, I've given up on Sparkpeople.com. The food tracker sucks, the exercise tracker sucks, it all pretty much just...sucks. I hate it when I think I've found something useful and it turns out to be a big waste of time.

I'm just going back to my low-tech, Smith-approved food journal. Yep, my little red notebook. That is, until Lose It is available for the Blackberry...bwahahahahaha!

Night & Day

I didn't get much rest last night, so I decided to sleep in rather than bust out a run before work. ("Sleeping in" means getting up at four instead of three, so don't get too jealous.) What a farking mistake THAT was. I have felt like 100% ass all morning. No energy, no focus, no oomph! at all. It sucks. So, lesson learned there. Even if I think I'll be tired, I'm going to run anyway. If this is how it feels not to run, by God, BRING ON THE RUNNING.

I talked to Smith about it when he called to check in today. During the course of our conversation, he told me he wasn't happy about me signing up for that 5K. He had planned to sneak me into a longer run without me knowing it, like "Hey, let's go for a jog!" and then telling me "You know you just ran three miles?" when we were done. I feel kind of bad. I see what the point is to doing it his way -- no pressure, and a big confidence boost. I'm still doing the 5K, though. It's a good goal for me, I think, and it has lit a bit of a fire under my heiny. Oh well. I'm sure he still has lots of other wonderful surprises in store for me. And by wonderful, I mean painful and possibly barf-inducing.

Spark!

I was looking for a good calorie counter/exercise tracking app for my Blackberry yesterday. When I discovered that Lose It (the one I really wanted) is only available for the iPhone, I was a little disappointed. But then I stumbled onto SparkPeople.com. My friend Luce had told me about this site a while ago, and I'd completely forgotten about it. Well, they have all the trackers I need, and more.

One of the cool things about this site is that they help you set specific goals, something I really suck at (just ask Smith). I tend to be very vague and/or overambitious. I think it's easier to quit if you're not specific. The things I'm focusing on this week are water consumption (I've been slacking), exercise, and tracking my calories. I think this will be a good compliment to what I'm already doing with Smith.

Smith is out of town this week, which is kind of a bummer. I've gotten back on track with my running after that month of inactivity, and I was looking forward to starting with weights this week. Of course, there's a good chance he'll read this, and I'll get a text message saying something like "Aww, you miss me? ADD A HALF MILE TO YOUR RUN."

Speaking of running...I took a big leap yesterday and signed up for my very first 5K run. My dear darling Peggy talked me into it, and this post from Sundry, one of my favorite bloggers ever, was extremely inspirational. I do need to take on something ass-kicking, something I think is impossible. I need a goal, and a deadline.

So, on December 5th, I'll be doing my truffle shuffle around the local university campus. Hopefully I don't die. Or barf. But if I do, at least it'll be for a good cause!

228.8

Whew. Yes, I'm relieved. After the way I ate this weekend (Halloween themed baby shower...oof!) I'm not upset about not losing weight this week. The leftover cake went in the trash yesterday, and the leftover candy is going to work with the Hubs today. No more!

Panty Raid

I've been holding on to a few pieces of maternity wear for too long now. They're so comfy; broken in, a little baggy. They accommodate my post-baby belly flap so nicely. Not my maternity jeans, or work pants, or even stretchy pants -- I'm talking about my underwear.

For about two years, I've been rocking these granny panties. You know, the ones that come all the way up to your bra and have leg holes that come down around mid-thigh? I was warned during my pregnancy that it'd be hard to let them go, these belly-warmers. But I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror a couple of weeks ago, and MAN. Me in huge underpants? DEFINITELY NOT BOOM BOOM SEXY TIME.

So, in hopes of feeling slightly better about how I look in my underroos, I decided to order some new ones and bid farewell to my grannies. I was tempted to have an official retirement ceremony and burn them, but Hubs told me the last thing he wanted was to have the fire department here putting out an underpants blaze. Because seriously, with my luck, I'd burn the damn house down.

Powered by Natural Gas

Smith has me taking a whole bunch of supplements: some for my joints, some for my heart, some to make my blood a little less sludge-like. An unexpected side-effect of these has been ridiculous, gut-busting farts. The Hubs, of course, finds this hilarious, even going so far as to tell me he was so proud of a late-night toot that roused him from his sleep that he wanted to wake me up and give me a round of applause. Kid also finds it extremely funny, and I'm a little ashamed to admit that I've been enjoying his "ZOMG MOMMY FARTED!" face.

That's probably more about my intestinal activities than you ever wanted to know, but it doesn't stop there. I've also got a case of what I like to call "El Poopo Negro." All my vitamins and the fact that I'm eating better mean that I'm getting a lot more iron in my diet. And what does that do to our poopies, boys and girls? If you don't know the answer, go take an iron supplement and call me in the morning. (The only thing more startling than a Poopo Negro is a post-red velvet cake poop -- just ask my boss.)

My apologies if I've grossed anyone out. I've never been shy about talking shit. :)

228.8

I'm totally content with a .4 gain after the last week. I was a complete and total lazy fatass.

This morning, however, I got up at 3 AM so that I could run before work. That's right. THREE IN THE MORNING, PEOPLE.

Hiatus

It occurred to me last night that I'd completely flaked and forgotten to post on either one of my blogs yesterday. I'm not sure if my priorities have shifted a bit, or if I just don't have anything to write about at the moment. Either way, I'm going to take a brief hiatus from actively posting on either blog (here or 3 Days in October). This'll give me time to deal with some changes around the house, including my return to work and a lot of computery switcheroo-ness (Hubs got a new laptop and thus we're reorganizing everything).

See you next Monday!

Weekly Habit

I'm finding myself severely lacking in the motivation department this week. I have a few ideas for things I could change this week (cut out sugar, increase veggie consumption, etc.) but I haven't done anything different so far. All I really want to do is lay on the couch like a blob and do nothing.

I don't want to give up. I can't give up. I won't give up.

Maybe that's all I can do this week -- don't give up.

Request

Someone, please come kick me in the ass. All I feel like doing today is laying on the couch and eating leftovers. Blargh!

228.4

Yes! And I get to start working out again this week. Yahoooooooo!

Weekly Habit

Adios, mah vino.

Yep. This week, alcohol goes bye-bye. I'm not a heavy drinker, but I've been blowing a lot of calories on beers and glasses of wine here and there. I had my last taste when we went out for Thai food; I washed down my dinner with a cold n' delicious Asahi. At some point I'll phase it back in as a treat. Until then, though, I'm as dry as can be.

Saggy

I don't think I've actually dropped a size yet, but my pants are definitely fitting more loosely than before. It's great, except for the "Hey! I just pooped in my drawers!" look that I get in the back. I don't have one of those fantastic sticky-out butts; mine, as my friend Nathan once said, is a Montana Ass: wide and flat.

Other than that...not much to report. I'm still feeling good, despite not being able to exercise. I'm meeting with my surgeon tomorrow; hopefully he'll schedule my operation soon so I can get all of this over with.

231

Holding steady...I dipped down to 228 earlier in the week, but I think the cheeseburger and fries I ate yesterday took care of that.

Shoegazer

I was feeling a little funky this morning, so I decided to try on my old "feel good" shoes. I haven't been able to wear these since before I got pregnant (early 2007). Pregnancy made my feet swell to inhuman proportions, and unfortunately they stayed that size thanks to my weight gain. I didn't think I'd be able to get into them; I braced myself for disappointment.

But, lo and behold!

That's right. THEY FIT. AND THEY FIT WELL. No pinching, no rubbing, no "O dear lord why did I wear THESE today?"

My mood's been lifted ever since. Woo hoo!

Weekly Habit

I had a bit of a meltdown when we met with Smith last night. He came by to go over our food journals and to talk to Hubs about his workouts, supplements, and all that good stuff. I sat in on their conversation and made an ass of myself by getting upset. I felt like I was being accused of sabotaging Hubs again, because he ate crap for lunch at work on days when I didn't pack the meal for him. So of course, I cried. I'm not sure what reaction I thought that would get, but I wasn't expecting what Smith did.

He put me in time out.

Seriously. He made me leave the room until he was finished with Hubs. I stomped to my office and sat their crying for a good ten minutes, kind of feeling sorry for myself. I felt guilt, and anger, and sadness, and frustration. I cried. I played some John Mayer.

Then Smith knocked on the door. He came in and sat down, and before he said anything, he gave me a hug. (Anyone want to guess what happens when you hug a tearful Fattie? Yeah. More tears.) We talked for a while about what's going on with me. He knows I'm depressed, and he wants me to work on that during this (totally frustrating and annoying) physical down-time. I agree with him -- I am depressed, and if I don't fix that first, any weight loss or physical change that I make happen won't stick.

Poor Smith -- he thought this was going to be a personal training gig, and now here he is being my therapist.

So, that's how we chose this week's habit: Do something creative - EVERY DAY. And ask for what I need, like, you know, HELP.

Frustration

I'm about at the end of my rope with this hernia thing. I was in agony for a week, then woke up the other day with zero pain (no gut pain, no back pain). Now my back is starting to hurt again, just when I'd decided to start running again. Yeah, I was going to flip my surgeon the bird and get back on the treadmill. But now, my entire low back, hips, and heiny are ablaze with aches and twinges. AGAIN.

I'm so over this. I'm so tired. And the worst part is, the self-doubt has given up on tiptoeing and is now stomping into my mind with huge steel-toed boots. THIS IS YOUR FAULT. IT'S PSYCHOSOMATIC. YOU'RE MAKING IT UP. SEE, NO ONE BELIEVES YOU. THEY JUST THINK YOU'RE A BIG FATTIE WHO'S TRYING TO AVOID WORKING OUT.

It doesn't help that I'm frustrated with the Hubs, too. And mad that I can't work. And worried about money. And just all around losing my shiitake.

233.4

Not too bad, considering I didn't run for an entire week, didn't log my food for a few days, and drank a lot of beer.

231

I'm kind of surprised -- I slacked off this week.

Hurdle

I wrote about this over on my other blog already, but I feel like I need to write here, too. I'm facing a hurdle, again, six months after I cleared the first one. What sucks the most is that it's the same hurdle, and it's one over which I have absolutely no control.

My C-section incision seems to have ruptured a second time, leaving me with another hernia. This one's larger than the first, and as of this morning, it's WAY more painful. I stood up this morning and immediately felt an excruciating, burning pain shoot from the area of the hernia, across my whole incision, down my leg, and up to my ribs. I almost fell over. After staggering around for a few minutes, and calling my doctor's office, I had to get in touch with Hubs and have him come home. He drove me to the doc, who said, "Yep, it's another hernia" and scheduled me for a surgical consult on the 15th. Until then, I'm out of commission. No work, no intense workouts, no heavy lifting.

I'm trying very, very hard not to let this break me. I can still walk, I can still get up and move. I don't have to lay in bed for a month. But DAMMIT...why is this happening AGAIN? I'm so frustrated...and this frustration, I can't run out.

Weekly Habit

Smith went through my food journal on Saturday and pretty much decided this week's habit for me: Eat smaller, lighter meals, and eat consistently from day to day.

He told me that my eating is "all over the place." One day, I have a good solid three meals, and then the next day, it's an Odwalla bar and espresso until dinner time. Not good. So, since Saturday, I've been having oatmeal and fruit for breakfast, salad with chicken for lunch, and a balanced dinner. It's made a big difference so far -- I don't feel like I'm on the starving/full roller coaster.

Something else I've noticed is that my skin is starting to clear up a little. I've never had acne, or even what I'd call "bad" skin, but I do get the occasional chin or nose tumor. I think it's a combination of increased water intake and then sweating on a regular basis. (And I got one of those Neutrogena Wave thingies, but that's a whole 'nother post.)

232.6

Woo hoo!

Okay, Seriously?!

I like running.

(I may retract that statement after tomorrow's workout with Smith. You know, the one we're doing AT A TRACK? Where people RUN?)

It's hard, really hard; I huff and puff and my ass hurts and sometimes my stomach feels like it's about to fling itself out of my mouth in protest, and it feels like there's bricks where my calf muscles should be. I get hot and sweaty and the blood pounds in my ears and behind my eyes and I think to myself DEAR GOD HOW DO PEOPLE DO THIS FOR 26.2 MILES?

But I like it.

Doable

I have learned a very important lesson:

DO NOT BE A SMARTASS WITH YOUR TRAINER.

Smith called last night to set up a a time to train together this coming Saturday. In the course of the conversation, I told him that his wife (a friend of mine) told me he thought I was "cheating" by eating a banana for breakfast instead of what I serve the Hubs (bacon and eggs). "I'm NOT cheating!" I insisted.

He seems to think I've completely revamped my eating habits (something he specifically told me NOT to do) and that I'm "fighting dirty" by feeding Hubs more food than I eat. Not true -- I'm just not a big breakfast person. I got a little whiny with him, and tried to get off the phone by telling him I had to go do my second half-mile run for the day. "Oh? Well why don't you go ahead and add another quarter mile to that."

Blargh. But here's something amazing: I DID THE FREAKIN' THREE-QUARTERS OF A MILE. Not a big deal to the super-fit. To me? Huge deal. I ran all of it, no walking, no stopping, not even for the first tenth of a mile where I usually walk to warm up (I did a slow jog instead). And when I was done, it occurred to me for the first time that if I can run a mile, I can run three miles, and that's a 5K. Holy achievable goal, Batman!

Habit

This week's habit: Run a half mile, twice a day.

I started this on Sunday, and so far I've done it every day. Well, except for yesterday -- I let the day get away from me, and ended up trying to do both runs after dinner. It didn't go too well. I was tired, and my dinner was sloshing around in my stomach. Bleh! This morning's run wasn't too great either. I felt like there were big bricks where my calves should be. But I did it, I did my half mile.

Afterwards, while I was fixing breakfast for everybody, I got into a spat with the Hubs. I don't really even know why, but I do know that as I got more and more frustrated with him, all I wanted to do was go get back on the treadmill. I guess the whole "run it out" thing is starting to take hold.

Miles and Miles

I did my first run on Saturday morning. Smith was at our door at six, went through some stretches, and then put me on the treadmill. After doing a tenth of a mile walking briskly, I had to ramp up the speed and actually run (well, jog I guess...whatever...it's fucking running to me) for another four tenths of a mile. And campers, it was hard. I didn't think it'd be so hard. I didn't think my lungs would burn, or that I'd sweat, or that I'd tell Smith I felt like I was going to die (his response to that? "It's okay. I know CPR. KEEP GOING.").

What surprised me even more was that the feelings I'd stirred up the night before started bubbling away while I ran. I tried to block them out and stare at the mileage on the treadmill's display, but Smith caught me and covered it up. He made me think about my breathing, getting it in rhythm with my stride. It helped, both to keep me from passing out and to keep me from crying. He kept telling me, "Go to that place. Go where you need to go."

And I did.

It happened really fast, but for just a few moments, I knew what he meant. My feet were thudding away on the treadmill, and the thought came to me:

"I AM NOT A BAD PERSON."

Thud. Thud. Thud. Breathing. Again:

"I AM NOT A BAD PERSON."

Thud. Thud. Thud. Breathing.

For that thirty seconds or so, I got it. I understood, finally, that this was going to be my way to let it all go, all the bullshit, all the sadness, all those steamer trunks of garbage that I've been hauling around for years. I wanted to stop, and sob, and let it all out in an avalanche of feelings, but I didn't. I kept going, I finished my half-mile.

After the run, I was in the kitchen, coughing my brains out and slurping water. Smith heard me and said, "You knock some stuff loose there?"

Yep, I sure did. But not from my lungs.

234

Yes!

Epiphany

Smith asked me a really simple question during our sit-down meeting on Friday night. After we'd gone over the outline of his training plans, my goals, and such, he said, "You already know all this stuff. So, what's keeping you from doing it?"

That's the first time anyone's ever asked me that question. Seriously -- no one's ever asked me why before. Why do I do this to myself? Why do I let myself stay obese when I know exactly how to get rid of the weight? I told Smith I didn't know, squirming in my chair. But when I crawled into bed on Friday night, the answer came to me. It hit me in the chest like a fastball, knocked the wind out of me.

Because I feel like I deserve to be punished.

Typing that sentence brings tears to my eyes. Most of the people who know me these days can't imagine why in the world I'd ever think something like that. But that's it. That's the reason.

The truth is, I've done some really god-awful things in my life, things I'm too ashamed of to ever write about here (at least at this point, anyway). I've hurt a lot of people and done a lot of damage. And I've never forgiven myself. Instead, I've spent years doing whatever I can to keep myself from being truly happy, because how could somebody as awful as me ever deserve happiness?

I don't know why this has never occurred to me before. It makes perfect sense, though. Every time I've ever given up on something I was good at, or something that made me happy, deep down I felt like I had to because I didn't deserve it. Giving up on the things I love, keeping myself fat and miserable, that's my punishment. That's my penance for doing the wrongs I've done.

I think it's going to take me a while to get through this part. I've been crying off and on since Friday night, barely made it through a wedding and time with friends last night. I don't know where or how to start the process of forgiving myself. I just know I have to.

NOTE: Please don't interpret this as a plea for positive comments, affirmations, or "OH, but you're so AWESOME!" messages. I'm not fishing for love this morning, honest.

Nerves A-Janglin'

So Smith is coming over tonight to go over Operation Un-Fat Me. I'm excited, but a little nervous, too. I've never had anybody (well, other than my mom) act as my trainer before, so I'm not quite sure what to expect. I know it'll be good, and I also know it's going to be hard. It's like the first day of school, or something. I just keep telling myself, "I can do this. I can DO this. I CAN DO THIS O MY GOD I MIGHT BARF."

Oh god, what if I barf on Smith? He'd probably think it was funny. But still. Oh god.

Momentum

The Right Stuff - 1983

Do you know this scene? It's when the astronauts are doing their lung capacity test. It turns into a competition, all the guys fighting to keep their little red ball afloat. This is kind of how I feel right now. All of my effort is directed at a single goal. 

I feel good. Things have been going smoothly. I talked to Smith for a while about training (turns out he wants to work with the Hubs, too!), my mom treated me to a family membership at the Y, and everything around the house has just fallen into place. I'm cooking healthy dinners, packing lunch for the Hubs, and even eating a real lunch myself every day. Everything's just sort of rolling along, gathering speed.

I'm not used to this. Part of me is waiting for something to go wrong, waiting for the other shoe to drop. Like on Tuesday - I drank a root beer. (It tasted AMAZING. I highly recommend ice-cold IBC on a hot day!) "Well, that's it, you had a SODA! You might as well just give up now. Sheesh!" I thought.

Nope. Not giving up, not going to pig out just because I drank a single root beer and enjoyed it. Nor will I beat myself up for having pizza last night - I ate less than normal, and I had a big salad with it. For me, that's progress.

Habit

This week's habit: Hope.

My friend JoAnna left a really sweet comment on my Facebook page the other day:

Jenny, you are a beautiful person. I keep up with this blog, and you are very hard on yourself. I know you think that you have to be. I have been there. Last year, I weighed 240 lbs. I am by no means where I want to be now, but I have lost 70 lbs. It is habit. A very hard habit to break. I know you can do it, God knows if I can, anyone can... If the hubs brings home junk food, tell him not to. Don't buy cookies and chips, trust me, if they were in the house, I would have eaten them. It is a habit now for me not to want them, and I don't crave them anymore. You can do it Jenny. If you want, we can do it together.

The part that jumped out at me was the second line: "...and you are very hard on yourself." I think that's true. I've used self-deprecating humor as a defense mechanism for so long, I almost don't know how to stop. I learned a long time ago that if I crack a joke about myself first, then when others joke on me, it doesn't hurt (as much). Kind of a Cyrano complex, I guess.

Anyway, this week I'm working on my attitude. That's a habit, just like drinking water or eating breakfast. I am staying positive, throwing the negativity out the window, and keeping the little stew-pot of hope bubbling on the stove.

They're Just Food, They're Not Love

I spent the better part of yesterday wallowing in self-pity. By mid-afternoon, I managed to snap out of it, and decided I'd enjoy making a good dinner in my new kitchen. So, yay for getting over myself, but seriously? I'm so sick of the numbers on the scale dictating how I feel.

Yes, I gained about four pounds. I know exactly why, and I know exactly how to get rid of it. So why do I spiral down into a pit of misery and try to self-medicate with the very stuff that makes me feel shitty in the first place? I AM FAT. I GOT SLIGHTLY MORE FAT. SO HEY, LET'S EAT LEFTOVER CUPCAKE FROSTING AND POTATO CHIPS UNTIL WE FEEL BETTER. But guess what...it never feels better. Because after I'm done, I look at the dessicated remains of whatever I've devoured, and I get mad at myself for being "weak." I put it in quotes because I'm not really sure that weakness is what makes it happen. I think it's just a habit: Feel bad? Eat. Feel lonely? Eat. Feel anything...EAT. That's the habit I need to break.

240.4

Ugh.

Calling for Backup

We had a party last night. A huge, tacky, messy, loud, drunken, full-of-cupcakes kind of party. I didn't eat much, but I think I drank more than my share of calories. The fitness planets must have been in alignment, because two amazing things happened: my friend Jesse showed up, and I got an offer that I can't refuse.

Among other things, Jesse is a personal trainer. (Not mine, unfortunately -- I can't afford him.) Sometimes I have a hard time picturing him training people, just because he's so laid back. He's like an in-shape Buddha, with a red goatee. Imagine him standing over someone on a weight machine saying stuff like, "Dude, I can't MAKE you do this. It's all about you, brotha."

Seeing Jesse always makes me want to do something new; he talks about surfing and I think, "Ooooh, I want to do that!" And then I picture myself in a bathing suit, and think, "Meh, not so much." In a roundabout way, it motivates me. It makes me want to tell self-deprecating Fattie to shut the fuck up and DO something about it.

And that amazing offer? My friend Smith* said he wants to help me. He's been reading this here blog, and a few minutes after he arrived, he looked at me and said, "So, I want to help Foodie."

I was slightly dumbstruck. He wants to HELP? Wait, so like, people care about me? People other than my Hubs and my mom? I almost cried. Why have I never thought to ask for help? Oh yeah, because I'm supposed to be Wonder Woman and hide the fact that I'm scared about not fitting into my giant blue star-studded underpants, afraid to admit that I need someone not related to me to light a fire under my (fat) ass.

Smith has to be super fit for his job, and as a result knows all sorts of ways to get in shape and stay there. He also seems to understand that it's hard for me to let go of food. After we talked a while about eating lots of chicken and running in parking structures, I got the impression that he could make me puke, cry, and laugh all in one workout. That's what I want. I need (and want) somebody to kick my ass and push me past my limits until I can push myself. It's like when you're learning to ride a bike -- somebody holds the seat and pushes and your little legs pedal, pedal, pedal, and then suddenly, the hand is gone from the seat and you're gliding down the street.

I'll pedal if you push.

*Not his real name. Not everyone wants to be a blogosphere celebrity.

Habit

This week's habit: Eat breakfast before 10 AM.

I don't usually eat breakfast. If you have a toddler, or a work schedule that's different every week, you understand. (I have both.)

If I work during the week, I'm at my store by 4:45 AM. My only interest at that hour of the day is in a big cup of something hot, caffeinated, and preferably tasting of vanilla. I get a ten minute break during my shift, and if I eat anything, it's something loaded with fat and/or sugar from our pastry case. Do we have healthier options? Yes. Do I eat them? No.

By the time my husband comes to the store at 8:45, all I want to do is get my son and go home. And when we get home, I nap while the Kid naps, or work on my computer (read: play stupid, time-wasting games on Facebook), or clean, or watch TV. Before I know it, it's lunch time, and I haven't eaten anything. I'm starving. So I scarf down whatever's nearby, or worse yet, make a run to the store and eat what I've bought on the way home.

I'm hoping that a solid breakfast (like oatmeal and fruit, or Greek yogurt, which O MY GOD WHY DID I NOT DISCOVER THIS SOONER?) will keep me from going food-crazy at lunchtime, which in turn will keep me from overdoing it at dinner time. We'll see what the scale says next Monday.

Then and Now

The Hubs & Me, December 2004

That's me at my thinnest - probably around 175 pounds. Not my ideal weight, but I was in a size 12 and very happy to be there. See, only one chin! And look at those COLLARBONES! 

My wedding was only four months away, and the pressure of having to fit into my (very expensive) dress was keeping me and my food in check. I was doing Weight Watchers that year, and so was the Hubs (that's his "skinny" picture, too). We look hot, don't we? Heh.

Fast forward about five and a half years, and here I am:

The Fat Roll and Me, July 2009

Wow. Just...wow.

My friend Peggy took this picture at a cookout over 4th of July weekend. When I saw it, I couldn't believe how bad I looked. That big ol' roll...I never had that before. Did I? DID I?! O DEAR GOD HOW LONG HAS THAT BEEN THERE?! And you can't tell where my head ends and my neck begins. Nice food stain on the fat roll, too. *sigh*

This is the picture that I needed to see. It was a big, fat (literally) kick in the ass. I don't want to look like this anymore. I don't want to hide from the camera. So whenever I want to give up, I'm going to look at this post. Just a reminder of what is, what was, and what WILL be.

236.4

So much for those eight pounds of water weight.

I know all the right excuses to make -- I didn't poop, I ate salty food last night, the scale's wrong. But the truth? The truth is I've eaten a whole bunch of lousy food in the last few weeks. I'm actually surprised that I didn't gain weight. 

In the words of a relatively unknown band called the Story, "It took a long time to gain this weight, it will take a long time to lose it again."

You're Pushing Maximum Density

In my first post here, I mentioned that my current weight was only three pounds shy of my "highest recorded weight." That'd be the 239 pounds I reached a few months back. I wrote it on a Post-It note and stuck it on my computer monitor. 

I couldn't stop looking at it. 239. Closer to 250 than 225. The weight of a pro-football player a foot taller than me. 80 bags of bananas from BJ's. Two...thirty...nine. Ugh.

Needless to say, the Post-It got crumpled up and tossed in my trash can. Angrily. Fuck you, 239. My scale's broken, that can't be right. I don't weigh that much! Look at me. I look FINE. And I just had a baby, for Pete's sake!

But wait. My scale's not broken. It is right. I do weigh that much, I don't look fine, and that baby? Well, he's almost two.

There's no more time for excuses. My current weight puts my BMI over 40, which is very, very scary. Scary because I've been in denial of it for so long, and also scary because I know all about the health complications that occur when you're "morbidly obese." This is why I have to change, and I have to change NOW.

Habit

I've tried many, many times to lose weight, using just about every program or gimmick out there. I was most successful with Weight Watchers -- you know, where you go pay $15 a week to be told the same thing your mom's been telling you for fifteen years? Eat less. Exercise more.

I usually fail because I try to tackle too much at once, trying to adhere to a tremendous list of new rules and regulations. Like, let's start the South Beach diet AND a five-times-a-week workout program AND give up caffeine, all at the same time. A few days in, I end up at 7-11 at two in the morning, arms full of Twix, Grandma Utz's Potato Chips, and Red Bull. It's not pretty.

This time, I've decided to incorporate one simple habit every week. Something not-too-dramatic, easy to track, and not such a shock to my system. I wish I could say that the "habit a week" thing was my idea, but there's many folks who have used it as part of a bigger system or plan (the book "Simple Steps" comes to mind).

Water is my habit this week. Since this past Monday, my goal has been to drink at least 64 ounces of water a day. Recently, I'd fallen back into my old diet soda and coffee routine, so this seemed like a good place to start. So far, I've done it. I don't feel terribly different yet, but I have been sleeping a little better, and my mouth doesn't feel like the Sahara when I wake up in the morning. I know from my past experience with Weight Watchers and other programs that encourage you to stay hydrated that I could potentially lose about eight pounds of water weight this way. I'm trying not to focus on that, though. Instead, I'm thinking about how good the water is for me, how my body needs it, my skin needs it, especially on these painfully hot summer days.

Is it sad that my Foodie comes out even with water? I'm unbelievably picky about my water. My favorite is the Hawaiian brand bottled stuff, but I can't seem to find that anywhere here on the mainland. Second is Fiji, but it's too expensive. SmartWater takes third place, and Dasani is a weak fourth.

I'm on a shoestring budget right now, though, so what do I have? Nestle Pure Life. The cheapest stuff I could find at BJ's. It's alright...but I can't drink it cold, it has to be room temp or (my oh-so-clear term) "kinda coolish." Option B is the filtered water from my fridge, which (to me) is only drinkable with a good squirt of lemon. I've been alternating between the two, trying to limit the lemon for the sake of my tooth enamel.

That's probably more about my water preferences than anyone needed or wanted to know. Whew.

Anyway, I'll be weighing myself and starting another habit next Monday, so stay tuned!

The Origin of the Species

Mom (Maybe the Original FvF?) and Me, 2006

My mom loves food, probably as much as I do. But she has one advantage: her other love is exercise. SERIOUS exercise. She's been a runner since the 70s, got into triathlons, weight lifting, the works. At almost 60 years old, she's in the kind of shape people wish they were in at 30.

She wasn't always a super-athlete. Go back to pictures from her pre-running days, and you'll find a voluptuous (and unbelievably tan!) woman, not fat, but certainly not lean. She told me herself that she's always loved to eat, but she figured out a long time ago that in order to eat a lot, she'd have to exercise a lot. That light bulb went on probably around 1979 and hasn't flickered once in 30 years. She shared that lesson with me many times, even working out with me as a teenager and encouraging me to exercise throughout my adult life.

My mom taught me a lot that shaped my relationship with food. She taught me how to cook, but more importantly, she taught me how to appreciate good food. Not snobby food (although I did have a few Molly Ringwald/Breakfast Club moments as I unpacked my lunch at school), but GOOD food. No canned vegetables, no Hamburger Helper, no convenience food whatsoever. Spaghetti O's? Heck no. Try homemade pasta with chunky sauce that takes a full day to cook.

Not all of her lessons were healthy ones, unfortunately. Without realizing what she was doing, Mom was so strict about junk food that it almost became an obsession for me. If my sister and I asked for soda, we got Fresca. We asked for "good" cereal, and we got Honey Nut Cheerios. We had to ask permission before getting food from the pantry or the fridge. If you told my mom, "I'm hungry!" you'd hear, "Have a glass of water."

She didn't know then what we know now -- that when you deprive kids of a certain type of food (like junk food) they'll overindulge when they finally have access to it. Whereas if you give them a free choice, they tend to sample moderately from the different groups.

I don't think she had anything but the best intentions for my sister and me; she never told me I was fat, never made fun of my weight, never picked on my eating habits. She was always one to make gentle suggestions, and I never felt like she was judging me when I didn't follow them.

Maybe she was just afraid that we would end up struggling with our weight like she felt she had as a teenager? Maybe she was just trying to save us some pain later in life? Who knows. I just know that I don't blame her for my obesity. I don't buy into the whole "blame your parents for everything that's wrong with you" mentality (especially now that I'm a parent myself, heh). I think parents do the best they can with what they have, making the most of whatever parenting skills they did (or didn't) learn from their own parents. How they raise you does have an impact on your life, obviously, but I don't like the word "blame." You learn from their example, either how to cope with life or how not to cope. But I digress...

All I'm doing here is trying to figure out when and why this whole weight dilemma began, and hopefully that knowledge will help me end it once and for all. I'm waiting patiently for my own light bulb moment, making sure that the socket is wired up and ready to go.

What's In A Name?

I had a list of blog names going in a little notebook next to my bed: mostly self-deprecating, a few downright hateful, some just ridiculously lame. Finally, I settled on Foodie versus Fattie. Why? Because part of my problem with weight is my totally unhealthy relationship with food. I don't just like to eat. I love to eat. But here's the catch -- I'm a food snob. So when I binge, it's not Fritos and Big Macs that I'm stuffing down my gullet. It's organic this, field-raised that, hand-crafted-by-hippies-in-Vermont stuff that packs the caloric equivalent of six hours at the Old Country Buffet.

My inner Foodie understands that these amazing things are supposed to be enjoyed in small portions, the two- or three-bite dishes you see on Top Chef. Beautiful food. Passionate food. Artfully prepared food. You know, FOODIE food.

Fattie, on the other hand, has no understanding of "less is more." MORE is more, and more is better, right? If an ounce of fresh buffalo mozzarella, sandwiched between home-grown basil and a slice of organic heirloom tomato, is good, then a whole pound of mozzarella is fucking Shangri-La.

So the battle rages on...Foodie spies high-end goods at the store and loads up the cart, imagining fantastic meals for everyone. Fattie gets to the car, waits 'til no one's looking, and scarfs down half a baguette before leaving the parking lot. It all sounds very schizophrenic, and in some ways I guess it is. But what they both have in common is that they're emotionally attached to food. Foodie is getting high on flavor, and Fattie is self-medicating (a habit that started back in the period I like to call Eating My Way Through My Parents' Divorce).

I just want to eat in peace. I'll never be one of those people who can see food purely as fuel -- I think that's kind of a sad way to live (unless you're a pro athlete or something, and you HAVE to live that way). But I'd like to be able to eat a meal without ten steamer trunks of emotional baggage tied to my fork.

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This is where I begin: only three pounds shy of my highest recorded weight.

I've decided to chronicle my latest weight-loss journey here. I need something separate from my regular blog, something just about my weight. I want to figure out how I got here, and why I've stayed at this weight for so long. I've tried many times, both successfully (at least for a little while) and unsuccessfully to do this.

My ultimate goal is to reach my "ideal" weight, about one hundred pounds lower than my current weight. In the short term? Stop feeling like crap every day. Get out of the plus-sized clothes. Feel better about myself and what I put into my body.

So, pull on your big-girl panties, 'cause we're in for a heck of a ride!