186.4 & Hanging In There

Quite frankly, I'm astounded to have lost anything this week. My stress level was through the roof, and as a result I let my eating get out of control.

The biggest stressor -- losing my phone -- has been eliminated. While I didn't recover my old phone, my mom saved the day with an early anniversary/Mother's Day gift: a new iPhone 4. And thanks to some software magic, all but about a week's worth of my pictures were restored.

I also got an interesting phone call from a friend who needed some guidance. I have to say, it's kind of a new experience to have anyone ask me for help with a weight-related issue. She asked me how I stayed motivated, how I kept going. It's a simple question, but not a simple answer. As usual, I rambled and babbled, but hopefully gave her some of what she was looking for. Now that I've had a few days to ponder, I think I can reduce my babbles into a few more concise points.

So how do I do it? How do I stay motivated? Here's what works for me:

Accept the fact that sometimes, it's going to suck. Like, REALLY suck.
Losing weight, or getting in shape, or whatever it is you're trying to do? It's hard, friend. Some days are harder than others. So when it's hard, when what you really want to do is quit, just accept that it sucks. Get upset, get mad, cry, whatever. BUT DON'T STOP! Don't quit. Keep pushing through, and I promise, when you do, you'll look back at that suckage and think one of two things: a) it wasn't really so terrible, or b) DAMN, that sucked, but how kick-ass am I that I got through it?

Get it out in the open, ask for help, and accept help when it's offered.
No matter how strong we are, none of us can do this alone. And if you try to do it alone (like I did for a very long time), you'll most likely talk yourself out of the things you need to do most. Take it public, friends. Tell somebody, start a blog, post it on Facebook, whatever. You have to let the people in your life (or even just your virtual life) know what you're doing if you want their support. And believe me, YOU WANT THEIR SUPPORT. I couldn't do what I do every day if it weren't for my friends and my family. You'd be surprised how much a little love on your Facebook page can do for you, particularly on a down day. And when people try to help you, LET THEM. Don't let your pride get in the way, and don't live in fear of what they might think "if they knew." I'm going to let you in on a little secret -- the people in your life? They know you have a weight problem. It helped me tremendously to sort of "out myself" as a fat person, a closet eater, and someone who desperately needed to change. Once it's out there, it's a relief. Trust me.

Focus on the big picture.
These things take time. And there will be speed bumps, roadblocks, and traffic jams (bear with me, I ran out of transportation metaphors) along the way. My weight fluctuates from week to week, sometimes up and sometimes down, but when I look at the trend over the last six months or more, the overall trend is down. That keeps me going. It helps me to survive the minor setbacks, like gaining a pound after a week of being off plan. Don't be discouraged. Focus on your long-term goal, and look at the big picture. A narrow view does nothing for me except set off a cycle of obsessive, unproductive thought.

Do it for the right reasons.
In some ways, weight and my relationship with food is similar to addiction to alcohol or drugs. When people give up those substances, one of the things they're usually told during the recovery process is to do it for the right reasons. Giving up booze so your wife won't leave you? That doesn't work. So losing weight or changing your relationship with food so that someone will love you or be proud of you isn't going to work either. For your kids, for your family, to blow people away at your 20th high school reunion...those things can be good motivators in the short-term, but for the long haul, it has to be about you and only you. There is only one reason to do this: YOU.

Stop being so hard on yourself.
You have to let go of the cycle of self-abuse. Beating yourself up over poor choices (or even just less-than-perfect choices) does nothing but diminish your self-esteem. Having less self-esteem makes it easier to be even harder on yourself. And so it goes, on and on. You have to let go of it. I remember one of my favorite teachers of all time, Ms. Alley, telling me during orchestra rehearsals that if I was going to make a mistake (in this case, during a difficult section of some musical piece), make a really BIG one, and get over it. Because once you make that big mistake, it's out there, and it can't get any worse than that. You figure out what you did wrong, and you do better next time. Whether Bach or brownies, it makes no difference. Learn from your mistakes, maybe take some time to figure out why you made that choice in the first place, and then let it go. Move on.

It's transformation, not change. And it doesn't happen overnight.
We're bombarded with articles, infomercials, and TV shows that try to make us believe we can magically fix our weight problems with a special diet, a new gadget, or a stay on some ranch where we can work out with a celebrity trainer for six hours a day. They might call it reality TV, but it's not reality by any stretch of the imagination. The cold hard fact is that significant weight loss takes time, sometimes longer than you ever thought it would take. While it's possible to lose weight quickly, it's neither healthy nor likely to give you long-term success. I've lost 35 pounds in a month before by working my ass off and eating a truly frightening diet. That weight stayed off for maybe three months, and then it came back with a vengeance. And when it did, I felt awful. I felt like I had failed to change. Now I understand that this isn't a change, it's a transformation. I'm not suddenly changing into a different person; I'm learning and growing and transforming. Think about the caterpillar/butterfly scenario. The caterpillar doesn't just wake up one day and say, "Hey! I'm going to be a butterfly today," strap on some wings and fly away. Not at all. He has to prepare; he eats, he finds a good spot for his cocoon. Then he gets all snuggly and over a period of time, he becomes a better, more evolved version of himself. I don't know about you, but I don't want to be someone different; I want to be a better version of myself.

As always, this is what works for me. It may or may not work for you, or resonate with you. I can only hope that you can take something from this, maybe one little thought that helps you get through your day. Thanks for reading -- knowing I'm actually writing for real people and not just the black void of the internet helps me more than you know.

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?

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.

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!

D-Day

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

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

2. I've lost a few pounds.

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

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

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

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

It's A Choice

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

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

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

It's a choice.

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

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

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

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

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

Halloween, I Kind of Hate Your Face

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What can I do?

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

Panty Raid

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

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

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

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.

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.