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.

236

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!