Thursday, April 16, 2009

If the Shoe Fits...

But what about when it doesn't?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What's a girl with irregular feet to do?

Sunday, April 12, 2009


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

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

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

Sunday, November 2, 2008

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Friday, April 10, 2009

If I had a Million Dollars

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And now for random poetry...

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