2010: That's the Year, and (Thankfully) Not My Weight

As 2010 draws to a close, I'm trying desperately to get back into the habit of blogging regularly. I've been slacking, despite many, many complaints from those eight folks out there who read what I write. So! Tonight I'm tackling the same year-end questionnaire that I did at the end of 2009. (I'm using the modified version from Linda's blog, so it's not identical to last year's.)

1. What did you do in 2010 that you’d never done before?
Publicly (well, by way of my blog) admitted my weight. The last time I did that, I was in third grade. As part of a numbers/math exercise, we all wrote our weights on the chalkboard. I had no idea that I weighed "too much" until I wrote my number and heard the class gasp.

2. Did you keep your new year’s resolutions, and will you make more for next year?

I'm proud to say that I absolutely DID do what I said I would:

"To take the damn NCE and be done with my massage certification once and for all." CHECK. Took and passed the NCE, and I'm now finally working full-time as a CMT at a place I really, really love.

"Another is to resolve all of my seemingly never-ending medical issues (hernia, knee, facial cyst, and now gall bladder)." CHECK #2. Although the hernia business required a third and horribly unexpected surgery, and the knee turned out to be nothing. Well, nothing except a random slug of metal in my femur, but, you know.

3. Did anyone close to you give birth?

Yes! Smith and his wife brought an adorable daughter into the world in January. And my old Starbucks pals Megan (who has a blog herself) and Lisa had their second daughter and son, respectively. And Mona! Mona had a baby, too. Oh! The lovely super-mommy Luce rounded out her gang with a son, too. I may be forgetting somebody, but dang. Was 2010 the year of the newborn or what?

4. Did anyone close to you die?

Fortunately, no. But I'm sad to say that several of my friends suffered losses this year.

5. What countries did you visit?
None. LAME!

6. What would you like to have in 2011 that you lacked in 2010?
More focus -- I've been a little all over the place this year.

7. What dates from 2010 will remain etched upon your memory, and why?
January 17th -- Welcome, Baby S!
May something -- FINALLY left Starbucks. For good.
April 24th -- The anniversary that almost wasn't.
November 4th -- My epiphany day (also known as the day I got my cajones back)
December 13th -- Broke the 204 lb plateau, finally.

8. What was your biggest achievement of the year?

I have to say, I'm most proud of the fact that I finally, FINALLY took the NCE. It had been hanging over my head for so long. Now that it's done, I've been able to go back to what I love doing most: MASSAGE.

9. What was your biggest failure?
I think I could have been a much better wife this year. I didn't work as hard at that as I have in years past, and it showed. Sorry, Hubs.

10. Did you suffer illness or injury?
Cue the hernia-inducing laughter here. Oh man. Three surgeries (one minor, two major), many trips to the hospital, more prescriptions than you can shake a stick at. Not a good year, health-wise. But hey! I'm still here!

11. What was the best thing you bought?
My iPhone. The only thing that even comes close is my CamelBak water bottle.

12. Where did most of your money go?
Debt (sigh) and our lovable, aging house.

13. What did you get really excited about?
Massage, finally. And exercising, which is awesome but weird.

14. What song will always remind you of 2010?
Not a song, but a whole album: Jack Johnson's "Sleep Through the Static," mostly because I got to listen to it on repeat for two hours almost every week.

15. Compared to this time last year, are you:


...happier or sadder? Hmm. Sadder about some things, happier about others. Sorry to be cryptic, but I'm still working through a lot of crap. Bear with me.

...thinner or fatter? THINNER, and how mothereffing good does it feel to type that?! TWENTY POUNDS DOWN FROM THIS TIME LAST YEAR, PEOPLE.

...richer or poorer? Well, we made a decision that resulted in the elimination of a lot of our debt, but we're still in that weird place where I'm not making quite enough money for us to be super comfortable. It's getting better though. So both, I guess?

16. What do you wish you’d done more of?

Yoga. Writing. Hugging. Saying NO.

17. What do you wish you’d done less of?

Eating (blargh!). Thinking about the past. Obsessing.

18. How did you spend Christmas?
Same as last year, with the Fam, at my house. It was a little more stressful this year, but it was good.

19. What was your favorite TV program?
You know, I honestly can't say. We got rid of cable, so I've been watching stuff on Netflix. I can't think of a single show that I made a point of watching on a regular basis. After the huge letdown that was the LOST series finale, I think I was too pissed to commit to another show.

20. What were your favorite books of the year?
I'm embarrassed to admit that I didn't read much this year. I re-read a few favorites, but I don't think I read any bestsellers.

21. What was your favorite music from this year?

I got sucked into the Lady Gaga frenzy (YES!), and I spent more time looking for and listening to electronic stuff. And by that I mean house music, NOT this weird shit performed by hipsters in BCG glasses and their little sisters' jeans. (And if you don't know what BCGs are, go ask somebody who's been in the Army.)

22. What were your favorite films of the year?
If you can believe it, I didn't see a single movie in the theater this year. I actually had to Google "films of 2010" to remind myself what came out. The few that I did see from this year, I saw on Netflix after the theatrical run was done. I enjoyed: Brooklyn's Finest, The Crazies, and Get Him to the Greek.

23. What did you do on your birthday, and how old were you?
Let's see...surgical consult, pho, shopping, spa day, dinner at my favorite restaurant, and ruining my own surprise party by showing up too early. I was 32.

24. What one thing would have made your year immeasurably more satisfying?
If my little epiphany in November had happened, oh, six or eight months sooner -- yeah, that would've been great.

25. How would you describe your personal fashion concept in 2010?
My entire closet is black clothes. Seriously.

26. What kept you sane?
My little man (although as the days go by, he's getting much better at driving me crazy). Smith. Music. Most recently, Rachel. I must have done something pretty fantastic in a past life to deserve having a friend like her in this one.

27. Tell us a valuable life lesson you learned in 2010.

I keep going back to my day in November. I haven't written about it here for a number of reasons, but to sum it up in the simplest and least drama-causing way, it finally dawned on me that if something is making me unhappy, I CAN CHANGE IT. People bitch all the time about their lives, their jobs, their kids, their spouses, everything. And that's fine; we all need to vent. But if something is making you truly, truly unhappy...what are you waiting for? Make the change. I did, and I plan to keep doing it in 2011, and beyond.

200

Almost there...

Today is New Year's Eve. I want to start 2011 under 200 pounds. I can do this!

I can do this, even though I woke up feeling sick as a dog (thank you, Kid and your endless parade of daycare diseases) and have had to cancel the party I've been looking forward to for a week.

I can do this, even though my trainer is several states away and can't be here to help me today.

I can do this, even though there is a delicious homemade pear cobbler in my fridge, calling my name.

I can do this, even though I'm coughing so hard I probably won't be able to work out.

I can do this.

201

I am determined to start the new year under 200 pounds. DETERMINED.

201.6

Record low...

203.2

I know my normal weigh-in day is Friday, but I was feeling so good after my run this morning that I couldn't help but hop on the scale. A new low, I think? SWEET!

Note: I checked my old posts, and this IS indeed my all-time low since I started blogging about my weight. I'm beyond stoked.

Pushing It

Sometimes, the universe is unrelenting in its efforts to drive a point home. A message or a sign, faint at first, gets repeated and repeated and repeated, thrumming in your head like an inescapable pulse. You can ignore it, sure, if you try. But not for long. Eventually it breaks through.

Since my yoga class last week, and my realization at the sushi case, my message has been playing in a loop, with the volume increasing at every repetition:

I am strong, I can do anything, and the only real obstacles in my life are the ones I create myself, in my head.

I heard it loud, so loud tonight. Smith came over to work out with me. He'd called on his way to let me know that we were going to be doing stuff outside. Greaaaat, I thought. I just love exercising outdoors. I tweeted about it, of course, making the comment that I feel fatter outside than I do anywhere else. It's weird, I know, but it's true. Working out outside makes me feel super vulnerable, self-conscious, and insecure. (This is why my treadmill is my best friend.)

Anyhow, it turned out to be not as bad as I'd feared. Some goofy high-stepping, burpee thingies, and stretching. Then back inside, where I did standing squats (which Smith assures me will give me the butt I've lacked my whole life). After that? You guessed it...running.

Now, I've been running a little bit on my own. Or, I thought it was running. Chuffing away on the tready, one foot in front of the other, getting sweaty and all that business. Oh no, friend. No, no, noooooooo. Smith proved to me beyond any reasonable doubt that what I've been doing is NOT running. What I've been doing is (shocker!) being lazy, and not pushing myself anywhere near my limit. So what did ol' Smithypants do? He (shocker number two!) pushed me.

When I run on my own, the fastest pace I usually hit is about 4.2 mph -- maybe 4.4 if I'm feeling feisty. Tonight, I maxed out at over 5 mph. Granted, it was not a continuous run at that pace; Smith had me doing intervals. Over the course of two miles, he kept alternating, fast and slow, fast and slow, increasing the "fast" pace every time.

It was during one of the fast intervals, the fastest one of the workout, I think, that my message came through again. I saw Smith's finger on the button, that horrible, horrible up-arrow that increases the speed of the tready, and my immediate reaction was to think "CRAAAAAAP! I CAN'T GO ANY FASTER!"

And then it happened. Those words fell away, and I felt my body do something I've never really noticed before. Somehow, some way, through some weird tightening of muscles and relaxing of breath, it told my brain to shut up. I felt my feet kick up a little higher, my arms (of which I'm hyper-aware when I run, simply because I don't want to look goofy) fell into a nice rhythm, my stride lengthened a little bit, and I felt this sort of bounce in my step. It was hard, and my breathing was strained, complete with knives in the diaphragm and that goose-honkish panting that no one should have to hear. But I was doing it. Running. FOR REALS. Smith even told me I was making it look easy (what the WHAT?!) and gave me a coveted high five. To put that into perspective for you: high fives from Smith are harder to score than an Hermès Birkin bag.

Once again, I got the message that all these stupid obstacles, all these lies I tell myself about what I can and can't do, they're all in my head. I'm strong. I can make my body do whatever I want it to. I can. I can. I CAN.

I ended up doing over two miles in under 40 minutes. I was soaked in sweat, bright red at the end, and climbing up the stairs to shower required Herculean effort. AND I LOVED EVERY MINUTE OF IT.

I'm feeling beyond amazing right now. My body isn't where I want it to be yet, for sure, but all these moments that keep happening give me so much hope. I feel so good. I feel strong. I feel happy, and proud, and peaceful, and excited, all at the same time.

To Blog, or Not To Blog?

I'm kind of horrified that it's been almost two months since my writing came to a screeching halt. I don't really remember what made me stop, other than feeling generally overwhelmed and not wanting to drag the pitiful, dessicated corpse of my personal life out into the glaring light of teh intarwebs. While I'm not any more inclined to share a lot of what's happened, I'm ready to get back on the blog-wagon.

So! Let's get started.

My weight has been fluctuating between 204 and 208. I can't seem to get below 204, but honestly I haven't been working too hard on it until this week. I started running again -- pitifully slow, but running nonetheless. I also took a yoga class for the first time in a bajillion years, and it was beyond amazing. I'm stronger than I think, and more coordinated. And I'm in love with anything that makes me feel that way.

On the food front, I decided that it's time to go back to a meat-free diet. I was a vegetarian years ago, thanks mostly to the influence of my old roommate (who I lovingly refer to as Captain Straightedge), but gave it up. I wasn't really doing it for the best reasons, and at 23 years old, I was too damn lazy to be a healthy vegetarian. You can't live on macaroni and meatless "chik'n" patties and expect to be healthy. So why go back to it now? Well, I started thinking about the healthiest people I know (mentally, physically, emotionally) and it occurred to me that the majority of them eat little to no animal products. No matter how you slice it, meat is bad for you. It's also bad for the planet, and for the animals from whom it's derived. You can argue with me if you want, but I'm not changing my mind. And I don't expect you to change yours -- your body is your body, feed it whatever you choose.

I was at the grocery store today getting a salad for lunch, and I felt a pang of sadness when I walked past the sushi case. "No sushi for ME," I thought, wah wahhhhh, pitiful pitiful. And then it dawned on me: I was letting myself be sad over a spicy tuna roll. A little fish-filled log of rice, wrapped in seaweed. Food was making me sad. FOOD!

It's just food. It's fuel for your cells. It's not love, it's not an escape, it doesn't fix anything.

IT'S JUST FOOD.

(This may seem like common sense to you, dear reader, but this is a thought that is as foreign to me as responsible journalism is to Glenn Beck.)

That one simple thought makes me feel so free, so hopeful, so ready to tackle any challenge. If I can end a 20 year dysfunctional relationship with food, I can do anything.

Oh, and speaking of things I can do? Check THIS out:



That right there? That's Crow Pose. AND I DID IT. No, the picture is not of me, and I didn't do it nearly as perfectly as this nice young lady, but I did it. I balanced my body weight on my arms, I got my feet off the ground. And it felt so, so, SO good to have physical proof of what I've been scared to believe for so long: I am strong, I can do anything, and the only real obstacles in my life are the ones I create myself, in my head.

That's the mantra. That's the code. That's how I'm getting from here to there.

207.2

A long overdue post. I've just been too busy to blog. Life is what happens when you step away from the computer, right?

211

Inactivity is catching up with me! Only three more days...I hope.

To Err is Fattening

Remember how I said in my food post a couple of days ago that I still make bad choices from time to time? Well, I made one last night.

After a long, emotional roller-coaster day, I asked Hubs if he wanted a treat. (That's code for "I'm going to send you out to get something bad for me.") He did, and so he went, and he returned with ice cream and a Slurpee for me. The Slurpee was tiny -- and it should have been enough. I dug into the ice cream anyway. Mmmm...cookie dough.

Within two bites, I was done. It was inexpensive ice cream, the kind that's a little gritty. It was a little too sweet. It wasn't what I wanted. But I kept eating. Bite after bite, a little more, a little faster, and before I knew it I was on the verge of speed-eating the entire pint. I wasn't even tasting it, wasn't even present, if that makes any sense. I was just consuming.

Something made me snap out of it; I don't know what it was. I looked down and saw that in about five minutes (maybe less), I'd inhaled almost two-thirds of the container. Two-thirds of an 800-calorie, 40g of fat container of lousy ice cream. My heart was in my throat; the spoon was still in my hand and I could feel it wanting to dig into what was left. "Go on, you've already eaten most of it. Just finish it off!"

I didn't.

I didn't finish the pint. For a single moment, the small part of me that's strong and steely and food-resistant jumped up and said NO. I clapped the lid on the carton as fast as I could, and ran downstairs to put it in the freezer. NO MORE.

I didn't want that damn ice cream. So why did I eat it? Because I had a sort of crappy day. Because I want to work out and I can't. Because being alone for almost two weeks has made me neurotic and paranoid and slightly depressed and I wanted something, anything, to make me feel happy. Guess what? After I ate that stupid ice cream, a wormhole didn't open up and erase my crappy day. I still couldn't work out. I was still feeling neurotic and paranoid and slightly depressed. That stupid, lousy, not-worth-it ice cream didn't fix anything.

It may seem like common sense -- how could food fix anything? Emotional eating has been my M.O. for so long that I hardly ever question it. I suppose in some ways it's like an addiction; there is a need, a huge, screaming, demanding need and I answer it. I give it what it wants because (used to be, anyway) for however short a time, filling that need with food makes everything else disappear. For those few fleeting moments, my brain checks out, my hands and mouth do the work, and everything goes away.

I don't want to check out anymore. I want to be here. I want to be present. I want to deal with things instead of hiding behind food, and fat, and funny.

GPOYW: Progress

Let's go back in time today. Back to just over a year ago. What did July of 2009 look like?

Oh yeah...fat.


I look happy, but I was so miserable. I felt awful in the outfit I had on, and I felt even worse when I saw the pictures that showed just how fat I looked. This was my wake-up call picture.

So what does July of 2010 look like? Well, it's a heck of a lot different, kiddos:


What a difference thirty pounds makes. Go me!

I Can Has Foodz?

My friend Michelle, who recently started her own blog, left a comment for me here asking about my diet. As promised, I'm dedicating a whole post to food today. Her question was (in case you're too lazy to go back a post and look at the comments), essentially, what do you eat?

That question would be much easier to answer if I was on a diet -- South Beach, Atkins, Zone, whatever -- but I'm not on a diet. Diets do not work. Well, I mean, they can work in the short-term. You can live on two bowls of Special K a day and drop weight, but it won't last. Why? Because you can't eat that way for the rest of your life. It seems like such a simple concept, but it's taken me a lot of years and a lot of failed attempts to really understand it. You have to change the way you eat, your lifestyle. Even two rounds of Weight Watchers didn't drive this home for me (more about that in another post).

I don't count calories, fat grams, fiber, or "points." Much to Smith's chagrin, I also don't keep a food journal anymore (I should probably start again, though). So, Michelle, there really isn't a magical menu I can type out for you. I try to eat mostly lean protein and vegetables, fresh fruit, lots of water. Here's a few essentials that I always try to have on hand:

Chicken breasts
Plain oatmeal
Salad (get the bagged stuff -- it's cheaper and already washed & cut up)
Greek yogurt (plain -- add fruit to sweeten it)
Whole wheat or multi-grain pasta
Pasta sauce
Frozen broccoli (cheaper than fresh & lasts longer)
Bananas (for smoothies)
Lara bars (or Clif bars, or PowerBars -- for snacks)
Avocados (for guacamole or to add to salads)
Tomatoes
Fresh fruit
Canned soup (low fat/low sodium type)

That's pretty much it. I don't buy a lot of processed or pre-packaged food. I do not buy junk food. If it's not in the house, I can't eat it. I've tried to set up my pantry and freezer so that I can throw a healthy meal together without a whole lot of thought or advanced planning.

My eating habits aren't perfect, and I don't know if they ever will be. All I can do is make the best choices possible at each meal. And if I make a bad choice (yes, it happens) I have to accept the consequences and move on. I still eat crap from time to time, but I eat it far less frequently and recently I'm enjoying it less every time. My body doesn't like junk anymore, and it is always sure to remind me of it whenever I eat something I shouldn't.

Frankenbelly

There's a four-inch incision in the middle of my lower belly. At present, it's held shut by a row of shiny metal staples. Kid pulls up my shirt to see it, a look of doctorly concern on his face. "That's Mommy's boo-boo!" I tell him. He nods, knowingly. Pulls my shirt back down, pats me gingerly. Then he points to his most recent bruise or bump or scrape. "Mama?" he says, little eyebrows pointed up in a question. "Yep, buddy, that's YOUR boo-boo." Solidarity.

Does he remember, I wonder, coming out of my belly? The quick yank that brought him out of the warm, aquatic world of my abdomen, and into the dry brightness of his life outside of me?

I remember it. Strapped to the table with my arms spread wide, barely able to see over the surgical drape. Pressure, voices, clinking of instruments, and then that little squall of him, tentative at first and then louder, louder, louder still. Startled by the separation, maybe? Or simply cold, or made grumpy by intruding, tugging hands.

Four times now I've been on the operating table. He was the first, and the scariest. Everything was new, unknown. How quickly it's become routine: bloodwork, IVs, nurses and doctors and gurneys with wheels that rattle and squeak as I'm taken from one room to another. Drugs that make me babble and cry and (sometimes) flail as I wake up, my own rude awakening, pulled from anesthesia into consciousness again.

My little man looks at me with his tiny doctor's face, furrowed brow, and I look back at him. We understand the journey. Solidarity.

210.4

I can't wait to start working out again. I feel like a little kid on Christmas morning, waiting for the okay from Mom and Dad to start tearing into presents.

I have ten more days of "rest" before I can do anything. My follow-up with Doc Hamburger is on the 19th, and only with his blessing can I start exercising again. He's already said that running is off the table for quite a while, which is infuriating because a big contributor to my belly issues is (duh) my weight, and running is the fastest (and now my faaaaaaaaaavorite) way to get weight off of me. BUT, I have to obey. Not just because he's a doctor, but because if I don't, my mom will likely come to my house and lay the smackdown on me. My mom acting as my doctor's enforcer is kind of hilarious, if only because she herself rarely used to listen to her doctors when they'd warn her about her intense running regime. One doc actually threatened to put her in a cast; she had stress-fractures in her tibias, I think, and kept running anyway, despite the pain. I understand her concerns about me, though, and I really do appreciate them. As usual, Mom is right. And I will obey, if for no other reason than that I really don't want to go through all of this again. Medical adventures make for great blog fodder, but I think three operations -- not including the C-section that started the whole mess -- in two years is enough for me. Besides, my belly is starting to look like a roadmap, what with all these scars.

Ten days seems like a long time, but I know the days will pass. Slowly or quickly, with boredom or excitement, they'll pass. Before I know it, I'll be writing about my workouts again, my milestones and roadblocks, my failures and my victories.

I'm so ready for some victories.

Disabling Cookies

At my request, Hubs brought home some Pepperidge Farm cookies on Tuesday night. My two favorite kinds: Milanos and Brussels (I've got a thing for Europe, what can I say?). After dinner, I put two of each cookie on a paper towel and nibbled them as I cleared the table and played with Kid. The strangest thing happened while I ate them:

I REALIZED THEY WEREN'T VERY GOOD.

This realization gets its own line, and capitalization why? Because I love cookies. ALL cookies. But especially Pepperidge Farm cookies. I used to wait until they were on sale and buy bag after bag of them, stashing them everywhere, eating an entire package at a time. I would go into a cookie trance: hand to bag, hand to mouth, hand back in bag. I even tried to hide how many of them I was eating by crumpling up the empty paper cup thingies and using them to prop up the last cookie in the bag. (My idea was that if somebody peeked in the bag, they'd see that cookie and think it was the last one in the first layer of cookies.) When I started getting in shape for the nine millionth time, I issued a self-imposed ban on these little buggers. No more! I said to myself. Not in this house! NO COOKIES!

I caved on Tuesday and asked Hubs to bring them home because I'm struggling with serious sugar cravings right now, mostly because I'm taking pain medication. As I've mentioned before, every time I go on heavy-duty pain meds (i.e. Percocet), I end up with insane, mind-bending sugar cravings that can only be eased by eating, well, SUGAR. My theory is that because the pain meds slow down my digestive system, my food is being digested/absorbed much slower than usual. And then I think my body kind of panics and says, "THERE'S NO FOOD IN HERE! SEND SOMETHING QUICK!" and makes me berserk for the easiest, quickest energy source (sugar). I've been keeping the Sugar Monster at bay by eating fruit and sucking on the occasional LifeSaver -- although quite frankly after the hospital I'm sick of those things -- but on Tuesday it was just out of control.

So there we are...another food obsession seems to have bitten the proverbial dust. I'm feeling a weird combination of relief, pride, and sadness. Relief, because really? Who wants to be a slave to a cookie? Pride because I can now see those cookies anywhere and know they're not the boss of me anymore. But why sadness?

I'm a little sad I suppose because who I am is changing (has changed). So much of my identity is based on me being the chubby, nerdy best friend, the funny fat girl, all of those stereotypes. But I don't want to be that anymore. I don't feel like I am that as much as I was even a year ago. And that leads me to the question, "Who am I NOW?" Or, more importantly, "Who do I want to be?" The answers to those questions aren't totally clear just yet. I know I have a lot of changing left to do, both internally and externally. I know that one's identity is never really set or fixed; it's always in flux, and that's okay.

Who do I want to be?

211.2

Since I wasn't able to weigh myself on Friday, I hopped on the scale this morning after Hubs and Kid left for the day. Not bad, not bad.

I drank a looooot of water in the hospital (I learned after my C-section that the more you pee, the more likely they are to send you home) and so far I've managed to keep it up at home. I'm averaging about two liters a day. Plus, thanks to my SUPER-FANTASTIC-AMAZING-THERE-ARE-NOT-ENOUGH-POSITIVE-ADJECTIVES-TO-DESCRIBE-HER mom, my fridge is full of salad, chicken, low-fat yogurt, fruit, and Lean Cuisines. As if that weren't enough, Hubs fulfilled my request for a big pile of pineapple and raspberries, so I've had that for breakfast. Mmmmm.

I'm having a little trouble with this whole inactivity thing, though. I mean, I'm not ready to go run the Boston Marathon, but sitting around all day with a book and/or my laptop, nodding off for a nap every few hours? Not as fun as it might sound. It might be easier if I were in pain, but (finally!) I'm not -- even without the painkillers. My incision is a little sore, mostly because it's healing around the staples, but I was in more pain on a daily basis before the operation than I am now. So my brain says, "Well, shit, you went to work and school and took care of the house and did all your usual things when we were in pain...now we have no pain and you're doing diddly squat! Get off your butt and clean something!"

It doesn't help that Smith is in full-on crazy fitness mode. He decided that he wanted to get back into "good shape" and thus has been working out like a madman, sneaking over here in the early morning to use our gym, using the gym at work, etc. Oh and apparently he's swimming, too? (There you go, ladies. Thought for the day: Smith in a Speedo.) I'm jealous! I want to swim! I want to run! I want to have biceps that don't fit through my shirtsleeves! Wait...what?

I'm trying to be patient. I keep telling myself to let my body heal, that my motivation will still be there when my body is finally ready. It's just a matter of time.

Poop: It IS That Simple!

If you follow me on Twitter or Facebook, you already know it's been quite an interesting few days for me. As I wrote in my last post, on Wednesday I saw my surgeon and had a bunch of fluid drained from my Lump of Doom, and ended up in a lot of pain, more pain than I'd had before he drained the silly thing. Well, I woke up Thursday morning feeling okay, despite the fact that the Vicodin prescribed by Doc Basil's office hadn't done squat for the pain. But I figured, get up, shower, go to work (where I always have fun) and you'll feel better. If the pain didn't go away, I was going to call and see if I could get a different prescription (nothing like a little drug-seeking behavior, eh?).

Anyhoo, I got to work and pretty much knew after an hour or so that something wasn't right. The pain was still there, I felt barfy and sweaty and just...wrong. I spent the next 45 minutes trying to get help from my doctor's office, to no avail. I got transferred between two offices and about four different people before one of the nurses/assistants told me, "If you're in that much pain you should just go to the ER," and HUNG UP ON ME. I called Hubs in tears and asked him to come get me; the pain was so bad I knew I couldn't drive. My awesome-sauce boss, who is like a combination super-mom and big sister and more all rolled into one, told me to get the hell out of there and take care of myself.

Hubs loaded me into the Jeep and I got back on the phone, finally reaching the office manager at Doc Basil's practice. Unlike pretty much everyone else I talked to, she actually sounded like she gave a crap. She conferred with another doctor and told me they thought I might be having an allergic reaction to the Vicodin, and that I could either come to the doctor's office the next day or go to the ER immediately. By the time she said that, we had already reached the hospital, so the decision was already made. I was in so much pain at that point, I really didn't care.

And oh, that pain. I like to think that I'm pretty tough, after a C-section and two abdominal surgeries, but this pain brought me to tears. It felt like someone was trying to push open the left side of my ribcage from the inside out, and someone else was stabbing me in the belly at the same time. I described it to Hubs as labor pains plus a gall bladder attack, just without the baby and the gall bladder.

We walked into the (nearly empty) ER and I explained to the receptionist what I thought was going on. The triage nurse checked me over and I was taken back almost immediately. Out of my work clothes and into the old familiar green hospital gown. Here we go again, I thought. Hubs was trying to keep my spirits up by making me laugh -- "Hey, hopefully they admit you so we don't have to pay the ER copay!" but by the time the ER doc came back to examine me, I was sobbing. I had started throwing up (and managed to pee all over myself in the process, lovely!) and I was just, for lack of a better or more descriptive term, DONE.

They started an IV (thank you, Paramedic Student, for being quick and managing to put the line in my hand without hurting me!) and gave me pain meds -- Dilaudid, otherwise known as HOLY SHIT THIS STUFF IS STRONG -- and had me sipping on a big bucket of ginger ale laced with CT contrast solution (not bad, it tasted like a Seven & Seven). My mom showed up so Hubs could go get Kid from school, and not long after he left they wheeled me off for a CT scan.

Within an hour I had my diagnosis: ANOTHER HERNIA, plus a bowel obstruction. Seems my intestines decided to bust through my abdominal wall yet again, and this time they wanted to play Twister. The bowel obstruction had caused a whole bunch of loveliness to back up into my stomach, making me nauseated and beyond uncomfortable.

(I have to pause here for a second to say that this speed of service is EXACTLY why people go to the ER instead of seeing a regular doctor. In a few hours, the ER had treated my pain, given me all the necessary tests, and identified the problem. So why does the same process take WEEKS when you see a regular doctor?! Our healthcare system is effed, people. EFFED. But that's another post for another day.)

Of course I still had my iPhone with me, so I texted Hubs and Smith to tell them the news. Smith, remembering our last conversation, was pretty triumphant:


Poopy system, indeed!

Hubs, on the other hand, was angry. Why was this happening again?! My mom was angry, too -- I was terrified for Doc Basil. I think if he had showed up at that point, my mom would have either punched him in the face or clawed his eyes out. Me? I just wanted it fixed. I didn't really care why it was happening, I just wanted it to stop.

Before Hubs could even make it back to the hospital, they were prepping me for surgery. At my mom's request, a different surgeon (we'll call him Doc Hamburger) was doing the procedure. He explained that, because my intestines had twisted, there was a chance that he might have to do a bowel resection -- meaning, if the intestinal tissue was damaged or dead, he'd have to cut it out. He wouldn't know until he got in there.

They started the now-familiar routine of pre-op procedures: blood draws, questions about religious preferences, discussion of anesthesia. The anesthesiologist told me that because I'd thrown up earlier, they'd have to put in an NG (naso-gastric) tube just in case. They planned to do it while I was knocked out, but it would have to stay in after the surgery. High out of my mind on Dilaudid, I really didn't think about it.

The next thing I remember is waking up in a hospital room (unlike my previous surgeries, I don't remember the recovery room AT ALL) with a tube in my nose. The NG tube. The horrible, uncomfortable, disgusting, NG tube. It was like a plastic loogie in the back of my throat, a loogie that gurgled and hissed and pumped the contents of my stomach out before my eyes. Every time the nurses asked me what I needed or wanted, I pointed at my nose and tried to look pitiful. Every time, they explained, as sweetly as possible, that it had to stay. I couldn't eat, I couldn't drink. I could suck on ice chips, and that was it.

Friday morning, Doc Basil showed up to do rounds. Again, I pointed to my nose. He explained that it had to stay; they were trying to "rest my bowels" by preventing anything from my stomach from having to go through them. I was not happy about this. By this time I was starving, my throat hurt, and I was sick of seeing my own stomach contents pass through a tube in front of my face.


Not a happy camper. Not at all. And why, yes, that IS my bile running through that tube! DELICIOUS!

Doc Basil explained that later in the day, they'd hook my NG tube to a "gravity bag" (basically a drain bag without a pump) and if less than a certain amount of stuff came out of my stomach within a four hour period, the tube could come out. I was ecstatic. He also told me that I could have Chloraseptic (for the raging sore throat I'd developed) and LifeSavers (I guess just to be nice). I was still really grumpy, hungry, and tired; it'd been nearly impossible to sleep the night before, between the NG tube, medication and IV changes, and constant checks of my vitals. I couldn't even get out of bed to pee. All I could do was lay there and try to rest. The morphine shots helped, but only knocked me out for about thirty minutes at a time. Oh, and do you want to hear something funny? Morphine makes me nod out like a junky. My head lolls over and I start drooling. I can only imagine what I looked like, drool pooling in the little well behind my clavicle.

So eventually they hooked up my gravity bag, and I was staring at the clock, waiting for that magical four-hour mark. My mom and Hubs took turns staying with me, comforting me, trying to calm me down (I had threatened to yank the tube out myself, I was so sick of it). Several of my friends offered to visit and I turned them down -- I didn't want anybody to see me like this!

As the magical hour of tube-removal approached, a nurse came back to my room and told me I had visitors. My mood had improved considerably by that point (yay drugs!) so I told the nurse to send them in. It was one of my best friends and her husband, and I was so happy to see them. They brought flowers, and a book, and Sudoku, and lip balm, and most importantly, smiles. Their visit got me through the last stretch, that never-ending hour before the NG tube was removed.

So the tube came out, and the relief I felt was beyond amazing. My throat was still hurting like crazy, but that awful, nagging loogie was gone! I could turn my head without pain! I would (hopefully) be able to sleep! And -- dare I say it -- I might be able to have BROTH in the morning! My spirits were lifted and I felt a million times better.

Saturday and Sunday passed like most of my other days in the hospital: rounds in the morning, reading through the day, hospital food, friends coming to visit, more reading, finally peeing alone (adios, catheter!), morphine injections, IV fluids, Heparin injections in my belly, ridiculous bedhead from plastic pillows...



They worked me up to solid foods by Saturday at dinner time. My mom and Hubs were there with me through all of it, bribing the nurses with coffee and hot chocolate from Starbucks, brownies from the Farmer's Market, sandwiches from Tropical Smoothie. More friends visited -- Smith's wife brought me tea on Saturday night, Smith came to hang out on Sunday -- more flowers came. I finished the first three books of Stephen King's Dark Tower series (how lucky was it that I had picked up a ton of books at Book Exchange on Wednesday?). I watched no TV. I did laps around the ward with my IV in tow. We agreed on Monday for my discharge date. The usual stuff.

Mom brought me home yesterday, after a quick pit-stop at Starbucks and a trip to the Target pharmacy. She made me lunch and stocked my fridge with groceries. She made sure I took a shower, and before she left told me that if I didn't stay upstairs, in bed, that I'd be in serious trouble. I took my pain meds and curled up for a nap. Being in my own bed was HEAVEN.

Last night was pretty normal. Hubs made tacos and I managed to get downstairs for dinner. Kid, who'd been with his grandma pretty much all weekend, was his usual sassy, chatty self. I missed him so much!

So that brings us to today...a fairly normal Tuesday, save for the fact that I'm in bed blogging instead of working. I'm on orders to rest and do as little as possible for the next two weeks. I'm thinking there will be a lot of writing, a lot of reading, and that's about it. Call, text, or come by -- I'm not going anywhere for a while.

Thanks to everyone who expressed their love, concern, and support. I received a ton of emails, Tweets, Facebook messages, and phonecalls over the weekend, and every single one of them helped me feel better. I love and appreciate all of you -- both my "IRL" friends and those I know only online. You guys are awesome!

GPOYW, Drains in the Belleh, and a Conversation with Smith

So here I am on a Wednesday, hair looking a little Robert Smith-ish, slightly tired. Once again wearing my beloved black Vans t-shirt, even though it has holes in the armpits and probably qualifies more as charcoal grey than black.

I was off work today, Kid was in school, Hubs at his office. I had a lazy morning (kind of -- it's not really lazy if you're cleaning bathrooms and washing sheets) and then headed to my doctor's office. (In case you're not familiar with my medical saga, I've been having problems with my belly since my C-section in 2008. I had a hernia, had the hernia repaired, had my gall bladder out, and had to have the hernia repair fixed. It's been a giant pain in the you-know-what. And of course, just when I think it's done, something else happens. What happened this time? Mysterious, excruciating abdominal pain paired with yet another lump in the area of the hernia.) Anyway, I finally saw my surgeon today. I explained what was going on, and he did a quick ultrasound that revealed a big pocket of fluid where my hernia used to be. One giant needle later, he'd drained about four ounces out of it, and told me I should be fine. He said the pain was probably being caused by all the pressure of that accumulated fluid.

Well, I'm not fine, of course. I'm home and in worse pain than I was before he drained the stupid thing, and it's already filling back up. Lumpy's Revenge. Now I have to go see a radiologist and have a drain installed (that just sounds wrong!) in my belly. The hope is that if the fluid can drain continuously, the pocket where the hernia used to live will close up and that will be the end. In the meantime, I've been given a prescription for pain meds. That's awesome, except that when I have to come OFF the pain meds, I'll go through that ridiculous sugar binge cycle I run into every time I take opiates or oxycodones or whatever they are. *sigh*

I'm trying really, really hard not to sit here and wallow in self-pity. I mean it. I don't want anybody to feel sorry for me or stroke me or hold my hand (although delivery of Thai food, Vogue, and a gin & tonic would be lovely). I just want this to be over and done with already. I've wasted so much time dealing with medical problems. I know I'm supposed to learn something from all of it, that there's a greater plan, that it's all happening for a reason, but right now I just want to stomp my foot and shake my fist at the sky and yell, "ENOUGH ALREADY!"

At least now I can stop speculating about what's going on in my abdomen. I wouldn't call myself a hypochondriac, but I do tend to imagine the worst when it comes to any sort of medical problems. Smith loves to give me a hard time about this:

Me: "My belly hurts. I think I have pancreatitis."
Smith: "You don't have pancreatitis. You need to stop looking at WebMD and go take a poop."

Poop. If only it were that simple!

The Dreamlife of Angels

As of this week, I'll be doing all of my writing here at FvF. Three Days in October has slowly but surely become a photo blog, and I'm fine with that. It's easier to track my writing if it's all in one place, anyway.

So this morning, I'm going to share with you another of my bizarre dreams. As usual, it was extremely vivid, but this time instead of jotting notes and doodles in my sketchbook, I typed out a synopsis using the Notes app on my iPhone. My original typed notes, complete with spelling and typographical errors:

"Dreamed I was married to an older German man, an artist who did photographs/performance art. Wolfgang massage instructor/helmut newton type. He made me take pregnancy tests that were inconclusive. I peed everywhere and water was getting sprayed from a hole in the wall where he wa drilling into a pipe. He had art scene friends at our house and I hated it. I went to smith and his wife's and Pete was there, he had a lamborghini. He was vacuuming. I had to leave Kid and groceries and childhood dog nappy because my husband (now Hubs) wanted me home. Pete came with me. There was a fire truck at my house and I stole the horn from it. The firemen thought it was my car. I yelled that it drives like a Cadillac. I went inside my house and tried to take another pregnancy test but couldn't. In another part I was at an ob gyn office waiting to be seen,I talked to the receptionist about tortilla chips. The clock was moving in an odd way. I was nervous about time because smith and his wife had come home while I was at their house and I wanted to go back there. While I was at their house and they came home smith asked to hug me and said something about wanting a certain type of hug with hearts together. Trying to get back there or to the doctors office I got lost and ended up at a mall with a kids shoe store, as I went to leave the mall a bunch of black girls were on my jeep and I had to get them off. I was telling them they should be glad to work for their boss, an older black lady. In another part I was driving thru a neighborhood and almost hit a little car with two ladies in it. That was right before Iade the turn that got me lost, to the mall. The whole time I just had the feeling that I had to get back to smith and his wife's house no matter what. And I didn't have my phone. I kept thinking it was going to be too late."

That's a doozy, eh? I'm amazed that I typed that much, half asleep at 1:30AM.

The characters are pretty interesting -- Wolfgang, for example, was a German man who taught a Lomi-Lomi massage class I attended. Helmut Newton, if you don't already know, was an amazing photographer (one of my favorites). Pete is Smith's wife's brother, whom I've only met once. Smith loves to tease me and tell me that I'm secretly in love with Pete. I remember that the medical receptionist looked and talked like one of the girls from nail school, and I think the black girls on the Jeep and their "boss" are probably my other classmates and my instructor. The two ladies in the car? I have no idea. I do remember now that one of them looked a little like Reba McIntyre.

There's a few plot points that make sense, and the rest is kind of nonsense. The art scenesters, well, I've always loathed them. Pregnancy tests? Water everywhere? Not sure about that. I'm sure Freud would have something to say about it.

Lambo Pete vacuuming Smith's house is just too hilarious for words. I'm checking on Smith's dog while he and his wife are out of town, and I had actually considered running the vacuum for them while they're gone (for some reason, here in Virginia, dust just multiplies everywhere whether you're home or not). So the thought of Pete beating me to the punch gives me a chuckle.

Let's see, what else...

Getting lost and feeling panicky about time is a pretty common theme in my dreams. I hate getting lost and being late, so of course those anxieties would manifest in my dreams. Same goes for the overwhelming urge to get back to wherever Kid was, somewhere safe.

The part with the fire truck is hilarious to me, only because it sounds exactly like something I'd do while drunk.

Oh! And the hug thing! Another of my massage instructors, Johnny Storm, always made a big deal about hugging so that your hearts line up. Basically, when you go in to hug somebody, you should move your head to the right, and your heart will be closer to the huggee's heart. I've always liked the thought of it, whether it's anatomically accurate or not. I think I told Smith's dad (very much a hugger) about it when I met him (or maybe he already knew about it?) so I suppose it makes sense that it would manifest in a dream as having something to do with Smith.

The only other thing I remember really clearly was Wolfgang/Helmut's "art." He was kind of a performance artist but also a photographer. The impression I got was that he would stage these happenings and someone would photograph them, and then he'd display the photographs. He did weird things, like shave women and let the hair fall all over him, or throw paint on people. I remember thinking that the work was really pretentious and that I hated having all his cronies in the house, worshiping him.

So yeah, weird dreams yet again. I'll be puzzling over this one for a while. Maybe I'll get another installment tonight? Hmm...

La Mer

We made an impromptu trip to the beach today. I fussed a little -- none of my shorts fit, so I had to lop off a pair of khakis. I ended up looking a little like Smee from "Peter Pan," complete with red cap (bandanna). I grumped at Hubs for not packing more towels, or snacks, or drinks. Not a great start to our trip.

I had a minor panic attack when we (me, Hubs, Kid) walked over the hill and onto the beach. There were people -- not a huge crowd, but more than I'd expected. I immediately felt self-conscious and wanted to go home. But I didn't. I wanted my son to play in the sand, and the water, and have fun with his daddy. Hubs, of course, could care less what anyone thinks and walked straight into the water with Kid in his arms, not caring that he was in shorts instead of swim trunks, not caring that people were looking at us like we were kooky European tourists. I stood uncomfortably on the sand, taking pictures with my phone and trying to act like I didn't think everyone was staring at me.

And then it occurred to me that I was letting these stupid, completely ridiculous, self-defeating feelings get in the way of me having fun with my family. I felt like an idiot. Who cares what random people on a beach think of me? Really. WHO CARES?

So I put my phone away and waded into the water, getting my shorts and shirt and everything else completely soaked. It felt so good. I forgot how much I love the water, the sand, the sun, the breeze. It felt so good that I decided on the spot to come back again, and soon, and in my bathing suit, and everybody can kiss my fat, lumpy behind. I want to have fun again.

211

The girls at school are having their own "Biggest Loser" competition, and while I'm not participating, it has made me pay more attention to my eating habits. I've done pretty well this week, save for a little overindulgence in the alcohol department. I was pleased when I stepped on the scale this morning.

My weird and as yet unexplained abdominal pain is still keeping me from exercising, but the urge is there. The urge to go slam out a mile, or two, or three on the treadmill, music pumping and brain shutting off after the first ten minutes. I need it, badly. So, I'm heading back to my doctor's office in two weeks (the earliest appointment I could get) and hopefully he'll be able to figure out the problem (again) and fix it (again), hopefully without surgery.

Oh, and I realized after reviewing my last few blog posts that I failed to report some very exciting and awesome news -- SMITH ISN'T MOVING! So among all the not-so-fantastic stuff I've been dealing with, there's a small ray of light. My number one cheerleader (and ass-kicker) is staying right here. Woo hoo!

Tidal

I remember learning to swim when I was little, not in the pool with my favorite aunt, but at the beach with my dad. He wouldn't allow me to be afraid of the ocean. He picked me up in his arms, turned his back to the waves, and let them crash over us, telling me when to close my eyes and hold my breath. Telling me when it was safe to open up and breathe again. As I got bigger, I could stand in the breakwater myself, bracing my little body against the impact. I remember anticipation, waiting for the dull smack of the water, secretly hoping for a huge wave that would knock me off my feet and drag me out to sea. I loved the disorientation that came when I was trapped under the wave-belly -- where is up? watch your bubbles -- the near-panic of running out of breath and then the euphoria of breaking the surface and gasping for air. Dragging myself back onto the shore, still panting, then running back to do it all over again.

Older and bigger, I stopped turning my back to the waves. I faced them and learned to dive into them, more in control of where I ended up. The thrill of truly swimming, able to outstroke the currents, clear the breakers, and glide out into the deep, deep water where feet and sandy bottom drew further and further apart. Floating on the surface of swells, human sargasso weed, watching the sky and losing my bearings, drifting, drifting, drifting.

Sometimes a storm, sometimes a flat, glassy sea. I swam, always.

I don't remember when it changed. But it did. Fear and caution make a timid swimmer, one who waits for the waves to die down before wading out, eye to the shore, remember where your towel is, don't go too far astray. Self-conscious (who swims in a T-shirt and underpants?), self-doubting (I can't), self-defeating (I never really liked this anyway).

I want returned to me what fear and caution took away. Brashness, and boldness, and not-giving-a-damn. Let the tsunami come; my feet are in the sand and my back is to the sea, I want it, I'm waiting, I'm holding my breath and closing my eyes and waiting.

214

About five weeks of no weigh-ins, and although I've gained a little, I'm not feeling too bad about it. I know exactly why I gained back the weight, and I'm on my way to fixing it.

Overall, I've been feeling like total poop lately. Not just physically, but emotionally, too. There's a lot of turmoil right now, some of which is subsiding, and some of which seems to continually spin in a neverending vortex of pain-in-the-ass-ness. I'm back in therapy (yay!) but I may also be heading back to my surgeon's office (boo!), because yet again, I have a bulge in my belly. I'm pretty sure this time that it's not another hernia; I think there's just more fluid accumulating in the pocket that the hernia left behind (also known as a seroma). And I'm having mysterious abdominal pain, sometimes after eating, sometimes not. Shaking the Magic 8-Ball that is WebMD yields scary results -- pancreatitis? IBS? I really need to lay off teh Intarwebs.

Anyhoo, I'm still here, and I managed to get my food under control this week. I upped my water intake, I laid off the Starbucks. Ate a lot more veggies. Next week I'm determined to get back in the gym, pain or no pain. I have to get those numbers moving back in the right direction!

Radio Silence

A lot has happened over the last few weeks. I haven't had any interest in writing until this morning, when I decided to just sit down to write. What happened of course is that I got distracted by the oh, thousand emails in my inbox (forgot to close Mail before leaving the computer weeks ago). And now here I am with about twenty minutes to write before I have to go upstairs and get ready.

So what is there to say? What's the big drama that's kept me from blogging for weeks on end? Part of me doesn't even want to rehash it all this morning. Part of me wants to pretend like everything is the same and bang out a funny blog post with no "real" content. And the other part of me wants to lay myself open like a map and show you all how I got from there to here.

I'll compromise. I'll give you this: All is not right with my world at present, and that's okay. I am physically well but emotionally bruised. There has been good news and not-so-good news. I'd be lying if I said I'm doing my best to deal with all of it, but after another perfectly-timed kick in the ass from Smith last night, I'm done with the sniveling pity party. A good portion of the mess I'm in is my own damn fault, and thus it's my own (damn) responsibility to claw my way out of it.

213.2

Ugh.

Too much:
1. Easter candy
2. Beer

Not enough:
1. Vegetables
2. Running

GPOYW - Unedited!

Craziness! 4.6.2010

So I'm finally okay with posting unedited pictures of myself. I don't do any editing that makes me look thinner, but I do usually tweak the exposure and crop things to make them, well, prettier. I've done nothing to the picture above, and I'm okay with that. It's not the most flattering shot, but it captures exactly what I wanted it to: I'M HAPPY. We (me and Hubs) were outside playing with the kiddo, who decided to fill up his watering can and douse me with lukewarm water from the rain barrel. It was a warm spring evening, almost feeling like summer, and I was outside with my family doing nothing but having fun.

Abandonment Issues

I have sad news, friends.

Smith is leaving. He has to transfer out of state for work, and that means that he and his adorable wife (also my dear friend) and his darling baby (also known as my future daughter-in-law) have to pack up and move. This is the nature of his job; it takes him everywhere. I knew this when we became friends, but I sort of tucked it away in the back of my mind, the possibility that he might have to go somewhere, someday.

I'm having a really hard time writing about this today. Maybe it's my Easter candy hangover, maybe it's hormones, maybe it's the fact that I just went back and re-read pretty much my whole blog. I don't know. We haven't been working out together regularly for a while -- with two jobs for me and ridiculous job demands for him, there hasn't really been time. But he's become one of my best friends, and I'm going to miss him.

I know that just because he's not going to be here in Virginia anymore doesn't mean he can't help me, or that he can't be my friend anymore. We're all grown ups, we have cell phones and Facebook pages and (yes, it still exists) snail mail. It just means he won't be HERE. So today I'm sad, and it's hard. It's hard because I'm thinking about how much Smith has helped me, not just with working out and weight loss but with my whole life. He helped me get motivated to get my massage certification done, to take better care of myself, to be a better person.

I don't want him to leave. I don't want his wife to leave. They are both so much a part of my life that I don't remember what it was like before we were friends (funny how that happens, isn't it?).

So today is hard, and there are tears. There's still weeks to go before the big move, plenty of time to be spent together, plenty of Taco Nights and beers on the back porch and haircuts and merciless teasing. Plenty of time, but not nearly enough.

210.4

I haven't been at this weight since just before Austin was born. Two and (almost) a half years ago.

211.6

Holy schnikes!

GPOYW: A Day Late...AGAIN

For the last few days, I haven't really known what day it is. On Tuesday, I was sure it was Wednesday. Yesterday, I thought it was Tuesday. Basically, I'm (somewhat) losing my mind. You have to remember that my day usually begins around 3:30 AM and keeps going, and going, and going until at least 9:00 PM. I put an end to my early bedtime (I used to go to bed around 7:00 PM if I had to open the next day) when I realized how much family time I was missing, how much extra work it made for the Hubs, and how much it made me feel like an 86-year-old retiree from Boca Raton. And I feel like that enough already, what with the kaftans and short-term memory loss. Add to this the fact that I almost always work both Saturday and Sunday, so there is no "TGIF!" or "Oh crap, it's MONDAY," and that's why I don't usually know what day it is.

Anyway, here we are on Thursday (are you sure?!), and it dawns on me that I've missed yet another self-imposed photo deadline. I've really been dropping the ball on these. I guiltily snapped a shot of myself this morning, after I finished getting ready for Job #2:

Look at those shifty eyes. GUILT! GUILT! they scream.

First, I'd like it noted that my hair has improved considerably. The weird La-Femme-Nikita-Before-Her-Makeover 'do is pretty much gone, and it's growing out into a decent bob. I'm sure Kim Vo would have something to say about my roots, but he can suck it. I spent $5.99 and 25 minutes on that hair color, peeps. As long as you don't see any grey, I'm happy.

Second, this picture really reminds me why I hate my glasses and have wanted desperately to switch back to contact lenses. It's such a drag to spend any time putting on eye makeup, only to have it completely camouflaged by my huge (crooked, ghetto-tastic, half-broken, LensCrafters-SUCKS) glasses. Fortunately, Hubs has agreed to let me use a small chunk of our tax return to set myself up with new contacts...can I get a HALLELUJAH?!

Finally, and not to toot my own horn too hard or too loud, but my skin is seriously improving. I've been using this amazing skin care line from the spa -- it's all organic, no crap chemicals, not full of water and alcohol -- and after only about a week, I'm seeing a huge difference. As far as I'm concerned, this alone makes the job at the Spa worthwhile.

Speaking of the Spa, everything's going well there. It's incredibly low-key, even when stuff gets a little crazy (and it does). I'm really, really happy there.

Now, if only I could figure out a way to keep my days of the week straight...

214.6

Teeny, tiny, itty bitty loss. But still a loss!

GPOY...Thursday?

So yesterday was kind of a cluster. I started working a second job last week, and some miscommunication about that job (which has since been cleared up) freaked me the eff out. As a result, my regular blogging schedule went out the window, along with a hefty chunk of my sanity.

I woke up this morning determined to have a better day, and determined to make up for yesterday. Here's me around 4:00AM, getting ready to head to Job #1:

Anybody want to guess where I work? Heh.

And here I am a few hours later, getting ready to head to Job #2:

Wow. Not bad!

My second job is at a wonderful new spa opened by my two favorite instructors from massage school. I'm working at the front desk for now, and picking up massage clients here and there. There are plans for me at this place, big plans. Plans about which I am RIDICULOUSLY EXCITED. Let's leave it at that for now, shall we? Ahem.

Anyway, my day did indeed turn out to be a thousand times better than yesterday. There were several nice bonuses: new shoes, sushi lunch, free skincare products from the amazing organic line we carry, and a hilarious eyebrow-desquirreling session. (That's right. We call it DESQUIRRELING. Doesn't that sound so much more fun than "waxing"?) The result was a very happy Fattie:

Significant Reduction in Squirrelyness

You might be wondering why I chose to write about this in my weight loss blog versus my regular blog. Well, kids, my work has a profound impact on my happiness, and my happiness is directly related to how I eat. Unhappy Fattie = Overeating Fattie. Pretty simple. In addition, working two jobs doesn't give me any time to lay around and watch movies, zone out in front of the computer (hence, very little blogging lately), or spend half my day eating when I'm not hungry.

Today? Today was awesome. BEYOND awesome. Drama resolved, plans set, money in my pocket, and a smile on my face. I'm looking forward to a lot more days like this...work that I truly love, and homecoming kisses and hugs from my boys.

That's the best part, you know. I get to end my day with this:

My little man. So happy to see me when I walked in the door. So happy to see ME happy. And that, my friends, makes it all worthwhile.

214.8

And now I have to go to work. Mwah!

216

Hooray for losing almost a full pound! Amazing what happens when you get out of bed.

I've had a really hard time the last two weeks. For some reason, when I take heavy-duty painkillers, and for a couple of weeks after I stop taking them, I have INSANE sugar cravings. I experienced this after my hernia repair surgery last year, but I don't think I was as aware of it at that time. What makes these cravings different than a regular sugar craving is that the usual fixes (fruit, protein, water, exercise) don't make them go away. The only thing that stops them is, well, sugar.

They hit suddenly, these cravings, and they send me into a near panic. Before I can blink, I'm rooting through my kitchen cabinets, desperately trying to find a cookie, or a piece of candy, or some long-forgotten stash of sugary goodness. Fortunately, I don't keep stuff like that in the house anymore. I think the only candy-like thing here is a bag of semisweet chocolate chips that I keep on hand for baking, and (so far) I've not touched those. UNfortunately, I have a wonderful, caring, obliging husband who, upon hearing me say that I'm DYING for something sweet, asks what I want and goes out to get it. Limeade from Sonic? Sure. Milkshake? Of course. A candy bar from the 7-11 down the street? Done. Before I know it, I've inhaled an extra thousand calories. I finally had to ask him to tell me no when I demand this stuff. I even agreed to write "I will not get mad at you when you tell me NO" on a piece of paper, a sort of Fattie Rage Protection Order. My poor hubs.

Anyway, I'm determined to get back on track again. I picked up a small notebook at Target last night, to replace the food journal that I lost (read: stopped using), and I'm writing down everything I eat -- like Smith asked me to MONTHS ago. I've been cleared by my surgeon to resume "light" exercise: walking and jogging are okay, heavy lifting and ab work are not. So, there's a run on the schedule today. And tomorrow. And the next day.

Oh! And a big shout out to my mom, who took me out last Saturday for coffee, a pedicure, groceries, and new running shoes. My mom is one of my biggest cheerleaders, and I'm beyond grateful for her. YAY MOM!

GPOYW - Kissy Face!

My Best Guido - 2.24.2010

Gym. Tan. Laundry.

Oh, and that's a new shirt, from the REGULAR SIZE SECTION of OldNavy.com. No more plus sized shirts for me! Woo!

216.8

Not as bad as I thought. And, as Bitchcakes reminded me (are you reading Bitchcakes? You should be!), it's a temporary fluctuation, and I just had surgery FOR PETE'S SAKE!

GPOYW and HOLY COW!

Thanks to Photojojo, I recently discovered a fun intarwebs trend called "Gratuitous Picture Of Yourself Wednesday" or GPOYW. Apparently everybody likes to do self-portraits on Wednesdays, and who am I to argue? They're fun, and on Wednesdays I usually don't have much to write about here. So, here's my first one:

Aside from the fact that I need some waxing and a fashion intervention, I think I look pretty good! Not bad for somebody who got hacked open on the operating table less than a week ago.

But what's "HOLY COW" about, you may be wondering. Well, right after I snapped this picture, I grabbed my phone and called to set up my NCE test date. HO. LY. COW! I can't believe I'm finally going to get this done. My test is on March 20th, so feel free to send good ju-ju my way on that day.

Just to clarify why this is such a big deal...I graduated from massage school in 2007. That's right, THREE YEARS AGO. And I never signed up for my certification test, until now. What's even worse is that I went through school TWICE because I didn't finish all the program requirements the first time. Anyway! That's the past! Now I'm done with school, I've scheduled my test, and before long I'll be free from the Green Apron Empire and on my way to building a successful massage therapy practice.

I'm A Visual Person

I made a sort of project board in my office to keep track of the three big goals I have for this year (NCE, AAS, and esthetics school). It's a daily reminder for me. Whenever I'm about to get distracted with Facebook, or Twitter, or wandering around the internet, I look at this board.

What visual reminders (if any) do YOU use to stay on track?

RIP Heidi Montag

Cue the triumphant music, bitches.

Remember that checklist of medical issues I wrote a while back? Well, I'm super stoked to tell you that ALL of those issues are resolved. For realsies. Fred the Face Lump -- GONE. My knee -- still hurts from time to time but the orthopedist found no problems. And most importantly, my own personal pain in the ass, Heidi Montag, is DEAD AND GONE.

(Before people start wigging out and zipping over to People.com for confirmation, I have to clarify: I gave my gall bladder a nickname.)

This past Friday, my wonderful and trusted surgeon (Doc Basil) put some dime-sized holes in my abdomen and fished out my stone-filled and pain-inducing gall bladder. While he was in there, he also checked my mystery lump and found it to be (as he suspected) a pocket of fluid. And as if that were not enough, he discovered the cause of those debilitating pains I had back in September -- the surgical mesh used to repair my incisional hernia had SLIPPED as the area healed. Super fun, huh? At least now I know it wasn't all in my head.

Anyway, so here I am four days out from surgery, and I feel pretty much awesome. The only ookie part of this whole ordeal is that the fluid pocket thingy is still draining. What that means is every couple of hours I have to swap out a big wad of gauze pads that are taped to my belly. Gross, yes, but it's a hell of a lot better than having some mystery lump staring back up at me.

The physical stuff is straightforward, but there's also been an emotional change that I can hardly wrap my brain around. The best way to describe it is to say that it's as if somebody lit a bonfire under my ass. I have never, and I do mean NEVER, felt so motivated to get things done in my entire life. I'm not talking about housekeeping, or writing, or just scratching things off the To Do list. I'm talking about making all the changes that I've been talking about and dreaming about for years. I'm talking about having concrete plans for work, exercise, family, and travel. I'm talking about looking at those goals that seemed unattainable and KNOWING, not just thinking but KNOWING, that they are attainable. I feel inspired, ambitious, passionate, and excited about my life. And man OH man, is it a good feeling.

So what are these things that I'm so excited to tackle?

• I'm finally, finally, FINALLY taking the NCE and getting my license to practice massage therapy. I've sent in all my paperwork, scheduled a test prep class, and now I'm just waiting for a test date.
• I've decided that after the NCE, I'm going to finish my Associate's Degree. I looked over some of my school paperwork, and I'm actually much closer to being done than I thought I was. I'm scheduling an appointment with an admissions/advisory person at the local community college before the end of March.
• After the Associate's is done, I'm considering going to esthetics school. It's a 600 hour program, and it would cost a good chunk of change, but being both a CMT and a licensed esthetician would make it extremely easy for me to either a) get a full-time position at a spa or b) start my OWN business, which is really what I'm more interested in.
• FITNESS! I had a fantastic workout with Smith on the Wednesday before my surgery. It felt so good, and it was exactly what I needed. He gave me a serious kick in the booty along with some great words of motivation (I'll be writing more about those later).

This is my year, kids. This is the year we're going to make it all happen. Let's GO!

215.4

Just a tiny loss this week. It's still a loss, though! And I also just feel a little smaller, finally. I ordered some new clothes from Old Navy and I actually have to send them back because - GASP! - they're TOO BIG.

I haven't been doing too well on the exercise front. Between the snow last weekend and the overall "blah"-ness of the weather, I'm having a hard time getting up the gumption to pack up and head to the Y.

Food-wise, this week hasn't been too fantastic, either. I didn't plan our menu like I usually do, so as a result we've eaten take-out twice. Granted, the take-out we got wasn't total crap -- no pizza, no fast food -- but it still wasn't as healthy as a home-cooked meal.

So what's the plan for this weekend? Well, for once I don't have nine billion things to do, and I'm off both Saturday and Sunday. I'm going to spin class on Saturday morning, and Sunday we're having a Super Bowl party. I really want to try and work out before the party, just so I don't feel too bad if I eat a few stuffed mushrooms.

215.6

Amazing what happens when you give up espresso bar drinks for two weeks.

Normally, I have at least one grande (16 oz) or venti (20 oz) latte of some sort every day. I mean, I work at Starbucks, so it's kind of tough to avoid. But at the beginning of last week, I decided to switch back to regular ol' drip coffee. Smith had actually told me to do this a while ago, but I didn't listen. (Sorry, Smith.) Initially I was putting vanilla syrup and some half-and-half in my coffee, but this week I did just a little vanilla soy milk with one raw sugar if I needed a sweet kick. Losing 2.6 pounds in a week makes this feel less like a sacrifice and more like a big "DUHHHHH" moment.

218.2

The numbers are headed in the right direction once again!

Self-Esteem

Self-esteem. We throw that term around a lot. But what does it really mean? Does it mean that you're impervious to jokes (even the mean ones), that nothing ever bothers you? Does it mean that you do get upset, but you hide it? I don't think so.

I'm no expert here, seeing as how my own self-esteem is not the highest, but it seems to me that feeling good about yourself means you can stand up for yourself, or at the very least let someone know when they've upset you. I think I do a pretty good job of that, most of the time. I've also learned (especially recently) that there are a lot of things that you just can't take personally, no matter what they are or who they come from; you've got to shake it off.

People have said and done terrible, horrible things to me in my life. I could probably make a whole blog just on jokes made about me. I've spent many an hour hiding in the bathroom (hello, my entire junior high experience), hiding behind weight or funky clothes and hair (hello, most of my 20s), or just plain hiding my feelings. Most of the time, I rip on myself, beating others to the punch. Sort of like Cyrano de Bergerac, only less articulate.

I've also wasted a lot of time waiting for other people to build my self-esteem for me. News flash, kids -- it's called SELF-esteem for a reason. Nobody else can give it to you, and once you get it, you can't let other people take it away from you. This is something I'm still struggling with; I think I rely a little too heavily on those around me to boost me when I need it. I need to focus on what I can do to boost it myself. I started making lists of things I'm good at, accomplishments I'm proud of, and things I can do that no one else can. These are private lists, and I go to them when I'm feeling low.

But what about when people tease me? Because hey, they still do. Like me, most of my friends show their affection by ragging on me. Ninety-nine percent of the time, it doesn't bug me, because I understand the motivation, which is usually "LIGHTEN UP, JENNY!" But every once and a while, something will be said or done that gets to me. It's not always something big, but things do get through. For example...I hopped off a barstool in my kitchen, and Smith pointed out that I'd left a spot on the chair. I was HUMILIATED. I was ashamed that I'd dared to let my bottom get warm and sweaty. "How gross are you?! You're so big and fat, even your ASS sweats! UGH!" I thought. I could have cried. I wanted to cry. Instead, I just let myself feel bad for a second, and then I tried to think about it rationally. Smith wasn't pointing it out to be mean or make me feel bad. For Pete's sake, he didn't even know what it WAS. He pointed it out because he noticed it, and he thought I'd want to know there was something on the chair that needed to be cleaned off. Once I realized that, it wasn't even worth it to say anything, because I wasn't upset anymore.

Other times, people have said things that I couldn't justify or rationalize. And when that happens, all I can do is tell them (privately) that what they said or did upset me. Guess what, though? If I don't tell them I'm upset, then I can't be mad at them for acting like I'm NOT upset. For all they know, what they said was fine and didn't faze me. If they apologize, then that's it, it's done. If I'm still upset about it, that's my problem. (I've never had anyone NOT apologize, so I don't know where you go from there.)

People often say or do things they regret, myself included. I think if I ever joined a 12-step program, it would probably take me years to work through the "amends" portion. That filter between my brain and my mouth doesn't always work so well. I'd like to think that I do a decent job of catching my mistakes, and correcting them if and when I can, but who knows? There's always going to be someone for whom "I'm sorry" isn't good enough.

NOTE: Please know that this post is not an attempt to criticize, "call out," or bash anyone. These are just my own thoughts as they've popped into my head today.

Smith Layeth the Smacketh Down

I will not be going back to Weight Watchers. Why? Well, to put it simply, Smith said no. Now, before everybody gets all hinky about me taking orders from my trainer, let me just say this:

LISTENING TO SMITH WORKS.

What have I accomplished since he started working with me? Let's do a quick inventory.

1. I've lost close to thirty pounds.

2. I feel better about myself than I have in a really, really long time.

3. I am no longer beating myself up on a daily basis for the things I can or can't do.

4. I pay attention to what I eat without obsessing about it.

5. I have learned that I DO have time to work out, every day.

6. I DID A MOTHEREFFING 5K, something I didn't think I'd be able to do for at least a year.

Smith made some good points (ha! points!) about Weight Watchers without really dissing the program. His biggest concern was the cost -- he knows I'm broke, and he knows there are other things I should be putting my money towards (NCE fees, ahem). He acknowledged that he's been busy, and told me now that he's used to his new work schedule, we'll get back on track with workout sessions. He knows that I need the one on one time to stay motivated.

He also gave me a swift kick in the butt because he knows I've been slacking. I whined about my medical stuff, and he told me he was going to bring me some Advil for my knee, and a straw to SUCK IT THE HELL UP. Heh. Man, I needed to hear that.

So it's back to the grind -- treadmill, food management, weights, supplements. Woo hoo!

Pondering

I've spent the morning tooting around on the Weight Watchers website. I'm seriously considering rejoining, having been very successful with my two previous experiences. I have some other reasons for joining -- I need support, Smith is uber busy with work (and a new baby who should be arriving any second now!), I need to track my food better and WW has a tool for my Blackberry that will let me do just that.

The down side is, of course, the cost. If I sign up for the Monthly Pass, I get unlimited meetings and use of their eTools (which are pretty kick-ass). It's $39.95 a month. That may not sound like much, but it is to me. We've spent the last year cutting our monthly bills down as much as possible in order to pay off a seemingly endless pile of debt.

So, I made a decision. I'm going to use the tips I earn at work to pay for the monthly pass. It'll take me about two weeks' worth to get started, and that'll be that. I'm gonna do it. (I'm also hoping that my pal Peggy will sign up and do this with me, but that's up to her.)

Thanks to BitchCakes for her super inspiring blog that got me thinking about Weight Watchers again!

Let's Get It Done

I spent an hour at my doctor's office this morning. (Of course, of those sixty minutes, only twenty were actually spent in her presence.). I had a list of issues for her -- facial cyst, gall bladder, recurrent mystery bulge, and my knee. She patiently listened as I explained each thing, then she did a few quick assessments. Three prescriptions and three referrals later, and I'm not fixed yet.

So what's on deck for 2010 so far?

• I'm seeing a plastic surgeon about the facial cyst. Since I've lost weight, it's far more noticeable (to the point that someone asked "What IS that?!" on meeting me for the first time), and I want it gone. My regular surgeon could have taken care of it, but as my doc said, "You probably don't want that type of surgeon cutting on your face." Hopefully, they'll be able to hack it out without putting me under, and I'll be in and out in one visit. Hopefully.
• I'm going to an orthopedic surgeon to get my knee assessed. I'm guessing that he'll poke at it, and then order an MRI. So, more waiting, and more tests for which I'll have to shell out hefty co-pays.
• I'm heading back to my regular surgeon who'll decide if my gall bladder needs to come out (again, probably more expensive tests and waiting). If it does, then he can take a peek at the mystery bulge while he's poking around in my belly. If there's something to fix, he'll fix it.

Oh! And according to the doc's scale, I've only gained back four pounds, which really isn't too bad in my opinion. She was really pleased with my overall loss, and about peed her pants with excitement when I told her I did a 5k and had enlisted the help of a trainer. She says she'll do whatever she can to help me get all this mess resolved so I can get back on track with exercise.

I'm trying to keep my food under control, but the gall bladder stuff is making it difficult to eat. About twenty minutes after I eat anything, I either feel a) pukey or b) agony. I can take meds for either, but only when the Hubs is home, since both drugs result in serious loopiness and/or coma-like sleep.

Anyhoo, that's about it for now. Waiting, painkillers, and more waiting. I hope your 2010 has started off on the right foot!