No.

Although quite familiar with the word, it’s not one I’m particularly fond of. Especially when it’s followed by the word exercise.

I’ve been more than a bit remiss in updating here…at first it was because I hadn’t yet shared the news of my pregnancy with everyone and I had a hard time blogging without working it into my story somehow. Instead of essentially lying with every word, I chose not to write. (Okay, that’s not true. I was writing, just not anything interesting enough to share.)

I’m now 25 weeks pregnant with a very naughty little boy. I had some bleeding right around 6 weeks, which turned out to be nothing. An ultrasound at 12 weeks took almost an hour because he wouldn’t get in the right position for measurements. (It literally took jumping jacks in the hallway to get him to move.) At 19 weeks, the ultrasound tech had a hard time getting a peek between his legs. He also frequently rolls away from the Doppler during my appointments, along with giving me heartburn and drop-kicking my bladder every time I get into bed.

That said, I love the little bugger and can’t wait to meet him this summer.

This past Friday, I started having contractions just before I left work. I hadn’t really been feeling well and, having gone through preterm labor twice with Little Sister, I knew what the cramps in my lower back and pelvic area meant. I’d had a contraction or two earlier in this pregnancy, usually during or after exercising, but they weren’t really painful or consistent enough to cause my any worry. Friday was different.

I got home and sat down for a little while, then took Little Sister shopping. A friend of mine pulled into the parking lot as I was getting out of my car and we shopped together in the store. I got home around seven laid down for a little bit. I called my doctor’s office and explained what was going on. With my history of preterm labor, they wanted me at the hospital right away.

The Hubster was out on a bike ride, so I called him about fifty-bajillion times. When he got home, we left for the hospital. Once there, they hooked me up to some monitors, did a check “down under,” and ran a bunch of tests looking for infection and a protein that indicates labor. They monitored my sporadic contractions for a little while and came back to do another cervical check. There was no change and all the tests came back negative, so they sent me home with instructions to follow up with my doctor early this week. She told me to take it easy over the weekend and joked, “Don’t take a jog around the block.”

“What about kickboxing?” I asked.

She laughed before she realized I was serious. “No!” she told me. “No exercise.”

I rested for the whole most of the weekend, and had contractions here and there, but nothing lasting as long as I dealt with on Friday. I called this morning and got an appointment with my doctor this afternoon.

The doctor checked me out and found no changes from what the doctor I saw at the hospital had documented. He reassured me that everything is fine with both me and the baby. He asked about my work schedule and told me if my contractions get worse or more painful, I may need to cut back on my hours. Getting up, he asked me if I had any more questions.

Knowing and dreading the answer, I asked my question. “What about exercise?”

“No.”

“Swimming?”

“No.”

“Yoga?”

“No.”

“Walking?”

“No. You’re done. No exercise.” He told me I’m doing too much…my body is stressed out and the contractions are its way of coping.

He patted my arm and laughed a little, telling me that he usually really has to sell exercise to pregnant women. It’s normal for him to have to beg them to get out and take a walk…not so normal to have one in his office, begging to be allowed to kick-box. “Take a break,” he said. “It will be okay.”

I nodded, the tears already stinging my eyes, my nose already turning red, and my face burning. I got dressed when he left the room and opened the door to leave. He stopped me in the hallway and reminded me to take it easy.

I will try.

I’m having a hard time with it, though. I tried to go back to last summer when the orthopaedic surgeon told me I couldn’t exercise with my sprained foot. Back then, though, I had options. I could swim, ride a bike, and lift weights as long as I was sitting down. Exercising with limitations seems welcome, now that I’m facing no exercise at all.

Of course, I want a happy, healthy baby born close to term. I want to be happy and healthy, too, though. I’ll listen to my doctor because I know it’s for the best, however, my anxiety is already through the roof. On the plus side, my social calendar just opened up, so if anyone is up for coffee or dinner, most of my evenings are available. On the other hand, though, I’ve made a lot of friends at the Y and I’m going to miss the time spent sweating there together. I’m already feeling a little shunned since announcing my pregnancy and hanging out at home, alone, while the Hubster takes the girls to the Y for the next three months or so…I’m already lonely.

So tonight....when I should be in Hip Hop, perfecting my krump, I’m making enchiladas for the family. Later, when I should be in PiYo, bending and stretching myself into positions no woman who is six months pregnant should even look at, let alone attempt, I’ll be hanging with my girlfriend, The Sex Toy Lady bemoaning yet another activity I’m not allowed to enjoy for a few more months.

Angry Fat Girls

I’m reviewing this book for Turbo Jennie, who was sweet enough to let me borrow it before she even got a chance to read it herself. (Shoot, I think I’m not supposed to tell people she’s sweet. I meant to say she’s one tough cookie.)

Angry Fat Girls started with a blog. (See, Charlotte? It’s just that easy. What’s the hold up? Kidding!) Frances Kuffel lost 188 pounds, gained more than half of it back, and blogged her way through the trials of trying to lose it again. Through her blog, she met other women in similar situations (including one woman who had gained over 200 pounds in just three years) and several of her readers became friends. Angry Fat Girls is about Frances and four of these women—Wendy, Mimi, Lindsey, and Katie—and follows a year of their journeys to lose weight and change their lives.

The stories of these women really hit home for me. Their relationships with their mothers made me take a look at how I grew up with my mother. I remember nights of eating baked chicken breast and getting “the look” if I reached for seconds of something…the steamed vegetables and the “do you really need that” conversations we had. When I looked for someone to blame for my weight, I blamed her because I felt deprived of things so when I actually got the chance to eat forbidden foods, I went at them with abandon, resulting in uncontrollable binges that grew more and more frequent as I gained independence. As much as my mother tried to help, she was nowhere near as controlling as the mothers of the Angry Fat Girls. One mother was so distressed at her daughter’s weight that she refused to let her go on a trip unless she lost ten pounds. The poor girl nearly starved herself trying to meet her mother’s expectations.

So many of the AFGs suffered from one eating disorder or another and their combined list of failed weight loss plans was extensive and daunting…especially since my own list is fairly comparable. Reviewing the statistics of their yo-yoing numbers on the scale was a familiar experience, as was the negative self-image each of the AFGs felt.

Angry Fat Girls revealed a formula of which I was not previously aware. For every 25 pounds a woman loses, it takes her brain a year to adjust. Twelve months for her brain to catch up and actually see the thinner woman she’s becoming. It makes sense. It’s why I still browse sale racks that contain clothing four sizes too big for me. Why it never occurs to me to try on a smaller size and I end up buying pants that hang down to my crotch because they’re too big. It’s why I just can’t fathom a man smiling at me when there are so many other women to choose from. In my head, I’m still the Fat Lady I was when my journey began. And, while I’m starting to gain confidence and actually see the changes between who I was and who I am, it’s a difficult passage.

Perhaps the most startling breakthrough I had while reading this book came late last night as I struggled to keep my eyes open, knowing I was just pages away from finishing the book. Frances and three of the AFGs were planning a get-together and trying to decide where to go and who wanted to see what. Inevitably, the answer was, “Whatever we do is fine.”

Whatever we do is fine. I hate those words. It’s a fat thing: I need people I’m traveling with or entertaining to have a good time so that they’ll a)forget what I look like, b)forget the weakness and slothfulness that I am, and c)be in debt to me, a fat person’s approximation of love. To make it all worse, I, a fat woman, was in charge of three fat women. The Fat Code would be in complete effect. No one would voice an opinion, a desire, a dislike, an objection. We’d look like a collection of bobble-head dolls, always deferring, always listening for the subtle code of disagreement: “If that’s what you want to do…” “Whatever you say…” “I’m just along for the ride…”

It’s a fat thing. I knew that there were perils of being a Fat Lady, but I didn’t realize how deeply it had affected me. The Fat Code completely applies to me. I don’t like to be the decision-maker. I don’t want to decide where to eat for dinner, what movie we should see, or what book our book club should read next. I don’t want to pick something that someone won’t like…don’t want anyone to remember that I’m the one who made a bad choice. Will knowing this change the way I feel about making decisions? Probably not, but I will certainly be more aware…and I will attempt an effort to voice my opinions more often.

Angry Fat Girls was a great read and I certainly recommend it. In being a voyeur of these five women, it really made me look at how I see myself and how others see me. Whether you’ve been an Angry Fat Girl, you are one, or you know one, it will definitely give some insight into the minds and hopes of Fat Ladies everywhere.

I Can't Fight this Feeling

Traffic this morning was not fun. Lately, it’s been my “alone” time. Stolen moments to myself when I can crank up the radio and sing as loud as I want or talk to a friend on my Bluetooth without little ears to overhear and big mouths to interrupt. Today, the sign above the highway indicated my normal nine-minute-drive would take twenty-five. In reality, it took more than forty-five minutes, hindered by snow, poorly plowed roads, and busses moving on and off the shoulder.

The bridge over the river is an obstacle I endure daily. Since the 35W bridge collapse in 2007, I approach it wearily on most days, but I’m more apprehensive if traffic is backed up and I can see brake lights. My anxiety is worse yet if there is snow on the road. In my mind, the extra weight of the snow, combined with hundreds of vehicles idling while waiting to cross the bridge is the recipe for a disastrous repeat. On days I feel the trepidation rising, I try to distract myself with a phone call to my mom, a blast from the radio, a loud, off-key show tune…anything to get my mind off the stretch of bridge ahead of me. Other days, the uneasiness I feel turns into a full-blown panic attack.

Today was not a good day.

I was concentrating on the snowfall and keeping my windshield clear. The car behind me was intermittently flashing his brights at people who dared to come between us as he attempted to keep five or six car lengths between himself and the car in front of him. A bus on the shoulder was impeding traffic trying to merge onto the highway. I was listening to songs from Glee, wondering how in the world I’m going to make it until the show comes back on the air in April. My subconscious, though, knew the bridge was looming ahead.

My hands gripped the steering wheel until my knuckles turned white and I suddenly found myself unable to breathe. My chest tightened as I forced air in and out of my lungs, cursing when I discovered I had already passed the last exit before the bridge. I have a friend that lives nearby and I knew she would understand and let me hang out for a little while if I showed up on her doorstep, too afraid to cross the bridge.

The tears came then, stinging my eyes and choking me as my breath came in short bursts, accompanied by frantic sobs that sounded foreign to my ears. I wanted to turn up the radio to drown out my hysteria, but that would mean letting go of the steering wheel, which I held in a vice grip. In the center lane, I concentrated on the car in front of me. A cement truck pulled up along side my small sedan. Too heavy! That truck is too heavy! Get off the bridge! My mind screamed. I squeezed my eyes closed for a second, forcing myself to open them again and focus on the road directly ahead.

Images and thoughts filled my head and I wondered, for the millionth time, why I hadn’t invested in one of those tools that can slash though a seatbelt and break the car window in the event of an emergency. I had a plan, though. I’ve had it in the back of my mind for the last two and a half years. If the bridge started to crumble, I would throw on my emergency brake and open my power windows before the car started to fall so I could climb out before I hit the water below. I ignored the voice in my head telling me it was too cold…the river was mostly ice…there’s no way I would make it.

I stared out my windshield at the sea of brake lights creeping over the pavement, silently willing the cars blocking my escape to move out of the way. Okay, my pleas were not so silent. In reality, I screamed at them, my sobs making the appeals almost unrecognizable. GO!

After several minutes a few hours an eternity, I finally made it to the other side of the bridge. I contemplated taking the first exit to sit in the parking lot of a deserted gas station and cry for a while, but I was already flirting with being late to work. Instead, I loosened my grip on the steering wheel, and rolled my shoulders a couple of times. My entire body ached with tension. The crying continued sporadically until I reached my office building. In the parking lot, a woman I didn’t know grinned and greeted me with a comment about our everlasting winter. I offered her a weak smile, but couldn’t come up with a response. Shaking legs carried me into the building, where I stared at my reflection in the mirrored wall of the elevator. I looked tired. A little pale, but the image starting back at me certainly didn’t echo the anguish I’d endured this morning.

Crossing the bridge brings me a panic attack a couple of times a month. I never know when they’ll strike. While they’re more likely to happen when the weather (and therefore traffic) is bad, they can hit on a clear day when traffic is moving quickly, too. In May, I’m starting a new position at one of our locations less than four miles from my house. No highway. No river. No bridge.

Only seventy days left. And one hundred and forty more chances for absolute, uncontrollable panic.

The "Tomorrow" Diet

Confession time. Who is familiar with the “Tomorrow” Diet? Common variations include the “On Monday” Diet, the “After this next holiday/graduation/birthday party” Diet, and the ever popular “New Year’s Resolution”Diet.

You know, the diet that will start tomorrow—or whenever? Sometimes, tomorrow even comes. More often than not, it doesn’t. Or it comes and slips away, to be rescheduled for another day.

There are some benefits to diet planning. In 2003, The Hubster and I started South Beach on a whim. I’d bought the book and started reading it and decided we absolutely had to start right that very second. I went home and made the announcement and we started the diet that evening…without the proper groceries, money to buy them, or any clue about what we were doing. We made it work, but it would have been much easier if we’d been better prepared.

Diet planning also has its downfalls. Anyone here ever had a “Last Supper?” The last meal you’ll eat before starting the diet that will change your life forever? Nothing like a big, greasy pizza with a side of bacon, a couple of tacos, some cheesecake, and an ice cream sundae to make sure you get it all in before those foods become taboo.

But food doesn’t have to become taboo. You don’t have to say “no” to pizza forever. You may have to say “no” to eight pieces of pizza in one sitting, but you can still eat pizza. (I use pizza as an example because it’s my favorite food. When we were on South Beach, it became a BAD word in my house and it was the first thing I ate when we fell dove off the wagon.)

Diets are bad. Diets mean deprivation. Diets consist of temporary changes made to drop a few pounds. But what happens when we slip back into our old habits? The pounds come back.

Instead of dieting, make changes you can live with permanently. A friend of mine tried a weight loss plan years ago that had her eating foods she didn’t like. I remember watching in awe as she ate a few tomato slices because “they were on [her] meal plan.” Seriously? This girl would wash the sauce off frozen ravioli meals, that’s how much she didn’t like tomatoes, but here she was eating them because some DIET told her she had to? How can that last?

Take me and South Beach as another example. It was a great plan. I lost a lot of weight on it, too. But I love fruit and didn’t like limiting it. I love bread. I love potatoes. I love PIZZA. I didn’t love a plan that told me I couldn’t eat those things. I never lasted more than six months on the plan and I always gained the weight back as soon as I started eating whatever I wanted again.

This time has been different. What started out as a diet for me, has become a way of living. And while I’ve progressed in leaps in bounds, I falter from time to time, too. Leader Pam gave me some great advice today. She told me to eat for nourishment. It sounds so simple, doesn’t it? Our bodies need food for fuel…not entertainment.

So make some changes. Drink more water. Eat fruits and veggies. Be more active. Today. Right now. Why wait until tomorrow to start a better way of life?

Having an Identity Crisis

I went to the doctor yesterday. It was a specialty office that I hadn’t been to since March. The nurse took my height and weight and brought me back into the exam room. She took my blood pressure, pulled up my file on the computer, and entered in all my information. I was distracted and not really paying attention until she said, “Well, I’ve never seen this before.”

A big, red warning had popped up on the screen. “PLEASE CONFIRM IDENTITY DISCREPANCY.” She clicked on the button to view the details, and we read the pop-up together. The weight you entered indicates a 13% difference from the patient’s last recorded weight. Threshold is 10%. Verify patient identity before continuing.

She glanced at me, probably a little unsure I was supposed to see that, but I smiled. “No, that’s right,” I told her. “I’ve lost 50 pounds in the last year.”

She asked me how I did it, and I told her that I had joined Weight Watchers and the Y and I did it with diet and exercise. “That’s just great,” she told me. “You must feel like a whole new person.”

And I do.

Missing my Fat Clothes

I miss my fat sweatshirt tonight.

I’m never cold, but lately, I’ve been dragging out the long sleeves, wearing pants and socks at home, slipping under an afghan while I’m watching TV. I always joked that I was always warm because I was well-insulated…but now I wonder if there wasn’t some truth to that. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve still got my fair share of padding, but…it’s like a fifty fifty-one-point-two (YAY!!!) blanket has been lifted off me.

During my big closet purge, I got rid of everything I owned that was too big for me. I didn’t even keep a pair of pants I could hold up in front of me and drop dramatically, Biggest Loser style. I also got rid of my fat sweatshirt.

It was a big (obviously) blue sweatshirt given to me by Mrs. C’s sister-in-law years ago. It was ratty and not really fit for public wear, but I dragged it out every once in a while. I found it folded on the shelf in my closet and considered keeping it for nights when I wanted the big, comfy shirt to relax in. In the end, I decided I couldn’t keep it. It had to go.

Tonight, though, I miss my fat sweatshirt. Tonight, I went to Target for hair dye and lip balm and walked out with dinner. I was famished after Body Pump…and the rotisserie chicken and fancy sandwich fixings I walked out with weren’t nearly as bad of a choice as I could have made. Tonight, I overate, as I have for most of the day. My boss brought in bagels and orange juice this morning, in which I indulged…the carb-laden bagel did me in, and I was starving for the rest of the day. Stupid, addictive, hunger-inducing bread.

Sunday was my weigh-in day, and I do not always make the best choices on Sunday—although I did sweat my way through two Turbo Kick classes that day. And yesterday…well, yesterday I wanted Chipotle, and ended up eating half my fridge contents instead. (After a healthy dose of Hip Hop Hustle and PiYo.) I had planned on doing better today. And now, I will do better tomorrow.

I’m cold, though. Wish I had that big, blue sweatshirt to drown in.

I'm Here

Saturday morning, I got on my scale and was surprised at the number I saw there. It was exactly fifty pounds lower than my starting weight. I still had twenty-four hours to get through, so I tried not to be too excited about it. My day included two hours of exercise, some shopping with Little Sister, and a concert, after which my friends and I went out to a bar. They ordered appetizers. I had water with lemon. They were concerned I wasn’t eating, but I had eaten soup before the concert and I wasn’t really hungry. (Okay, when the spinach and artichoke dip, fried cheese, and buffalo wings came out, I got a little hungry.)

Plus, it was nearing midnight, and I kept thinking about something Leader Pam shared during my first meeting with her. “Think about how you will feel if you eat this. Think about how you will feel if you don’t eat it.” Usually, when I think about how I would feel if I ate it, the feelings are negative. It might be something that would make me sick—a number of things will do that to me…too greasy, too much sugar…it might keep me awake, it might make me smell bad…and I will always, always be upset with myself for eating it, especially when it turns out to be something I didn’t really want—something I could have lived without. I generally don’t get around to thinking how I would feel if don’t eat it, because by that time, I’ve usually decided not to eat it. With the appetizers, was no different. I knew I’d worked hard all week, and I didn’t want to blow my whole week by eating something so heavy nine hours before weigh in.

I came home and crawled into bed shortly after one in the morning. When my alarm went off a few hours later, I stumbled out of bed and packed my gym bag and some breakfast, grabbed my Weight Watchers stuff and headed off to my meeting. I was nervous about stepping on the scale, but I kept reminding myself that a loss was a loss, even if I didn’t hit that magic number.

Turns out, I didn’t need to worry.

Leader Pam was watching over Leader-in-training Lysa’s shoulder and she smiled at the number that popped up on her screen. “You had a great week.”

I was suspicious. “How great?”

Lysa gave me the good news. “Fifty pounds!”

I almost clawed my way over the counter and kissed her. I could not wipe the smile from my face. Fifty pounds. I grinned through the whole meeting and later met a couple of Turbo buddies for (what else?) some Turbo and lunch. In the car, I shared my good news.

They were both so sweet, and so excited for me. One of them asked how much more I want to lose. “I want to lose...” I hesitated, doing the math in my head. “Oh. I guess another fifty.”

“You’re halfway there!” She told me.

Halfway. Luckily, we were still in the parking lot so I wasn’t driving when I realized that she was right.

Have I ever made it this far before? I’ve weighed less than I do now, back in 2003, the first time I did South Beach, I weighed about 8 pounds less than I do now. But I didn’t feel this good. I didn’t look this good. And I never thought I could do it.

But I can. And it doesn’t matter how quickly or how slowly I got here. I’m here.

Speechless...for once.

Something wonderful happened in a dressing room at the mall today. My mom and I were in the small room together. I was trying things on and she was hanging them up for me, a relief after the horrors of back-to-school shopping with my girls. One shirt had me on the fence…it was cute, flattering, and pretty colors, except for a big orange flower splashed right across my left boob.

I decided I couldn’t live with the bizarre foliage and took it off. I went to hang it up and my mom said, “Wait, I want to try that one on.”
Thinking she meant the shirt she had brought in the dressing room for herself, I continued hanging up the weird-orange-boob shirt. Then, I realized what she was saying. My mom wanted to try on the shirt I had just been wearing. It was like a dream come true. Really.

Turns out, neither one of us looked good with a weird, orange flower spattered across our bosoms, so we left the shirt in the "No" pile--in betweent the "Maybe--after I double check the price" and the "No way in hell" piles. The next shirt I tried on had big, billowy ruffles for sleeves and an unflattering elastic band that raised the Is-she-dressing-for-two? question. I was giddy as I took it off. “Here,” I told my mom. “Try this one.” We giggled over the ridiculous shirt while I held back tears and tried to contain my excitement. Trying on clothes in the dressing room with my mom without having to shop in a completely different department. Without even having to find different sizes.

I'm trying to come up with something clever that describes exactly how I felt when I realized I had obtained this goal...I almost wrote without even really trying, but the truth is I've been working my buns off. I've met other goals...Losing my first 10 pounds. 10% of my body weight. 20, 30, 40+ pounds. But this is a different kind of goal...And this is a rare occurence, so take note--I have no words.

That's Gonna Leave a Mark

Monday’s child is fair of face.
Tuesday’s child is full of grace.
Wednesday’s child is full of woe.
Thursday’s child has far to go.
Friday’s child is loving and giving,
Saturday’s child works hard for a living,
But a child who is born on the Sabbath day
Is bonny and blithe and good and gay.

I was not born on a Tuesday, something that is painfully obvious.



I took dance as a child, a pretty little blond girl in a pink tutu. It was not something I excelled in. Not something I stuck with. Maybe I should have. Maybe I would have learned the fundamentals needed to be more graceful…or at least gain the ability to put one foot in front of the other without running into something or hurting myself.

At the shoe store I worked at in high school, I was often falling victim to one trap or another. Running into hooks, tripping over boxes, falling into sock bins. I was hilarious. I even won a fake award for being “Most Graceful.”

My lovely daughter seems to have inherited her mother’s poise. (And, funnily enough, she was born on a Tuesday.) At her first dance recital—actually, her second, since she refused to dance the first time and we spent twenty minutes crying in the hallway instead—we could see the difference in the kids who were naturally good at dance, and the others who had to work at it. Little Sister fell into the latter category, preferring to stand in the middle of the gym floor, mouthing the words to the song instead of performing the carefully choreographed moves.

As I aged, (Aged? Really? Yes, like fine wine or good cheese.) I hoped I would be able to execute day-to-day moves with more elegance. But that’s not the way it works. I am constantly putting myself in harm’s way, however unintentional.

A month or so ago, I was distracted at the Y, trying to get to class on time, worrying about changing my shoes, and chatting with someone at the same time and I walked into the leg press machine, which was being used by a rather large, muscular man. He felt terrible, but truthfully, it was my own fault. I was bruised for weeks. Just last night, I tripped over my own feet in the studio. There's just no hiding that kind of grace.

This morning, in the shower, I found a bruise on the back of my leg. It’s fairly new, and when I saw it, I started laughing because I know exactly where it came from. Monday night, in PiYo, I managed to kick myself in the calf. I don’t remember what we were doing (or rather, what we were supposed to be doing, because I’m fairly certain it was not kicking ourselves) but I do remember my foot making contact with my leg and thinking I was going to end up with a bruise.

That right there? That takes talent.

Scorcher

"We’re not stopping until somebody pukes!”

It’s a favorite quote from Turbo Jennie.

Tonight, I was almost there.

Tonight, Turbo Kick was held in the sauna. Sixty-eight people showed up to kick it to Round 38. We were literally asses to elbows, crammed together in the studio. During the warm up, a woman near the wall had to stop herself from hitting the wall on her cross punch. Ouch! It was jammed-packed-crazy-full in there.

To make matters worse, the air wasn’t working. At least, I’m pretty sure the air wasn’t working. Maybe it just felt that way because of all the people? It was HOT! Within minutes, my skin was flushed and sweat dripped down my face. During a quick break, a turbo buddy asked, “Is it just me, or is it 800 degrees in here?”

“It’s really freaking hot,” I told her, eyeing her pregnant belly. “I don’t know HOW you’re doing this.”

There were lots of red cheeks tonight. Lots of sweat (and CALORIES!) on the floor. After the second turbo—a couple of minutes of high intensity burn, for those who aren’t schooled in the ways of Turbo Kick—I started feeling…weird.

It could have been the heat. Or the headache that’s been plaguing me all day. It could have been that I was already exhausted from Hip Hop and work and…life. I stopped a couple of times and got a drink of water, trying to breathe through it. But the people…and the music…and the moving…I had to get out. Had to.

Walking out of the studio was like that first step outside on a crisp fall morning. Getting out of a hot tub and rolling down a snow bank. A breath of fresh air after being trapped for hours. I stumbled my way across the weight floor and into the bathroom. I dry-heaved over the toilet, positive that I was about to revisit all of the healthy food choices I made today.

After a moment or two, I turned on the cold water in the sink and tried to cool myself off. From the bathroom, I could hear Jennie yelling over the music in the studio. On the fitness floor, people were peering into the crowded room, trying to see what was going on in there. I had to go back.

It was like getting into the car after it’s been parked in the hot sun all day. Reaching into the oven to read the meat thermometer. The stinging heat that burns your nostrils when you step into the sauna. It was hot.

I kept it fairly low impact and managed to make it through the finale and the rest of class. It was a killer, though…can’t wait to do it again tomorrow.

Gym Panties

This picture cracks me up every time I see it.


“Ugh, I am having some major underwear issues,” I told a pal during Turbo Kick tonight.

“I’m going to be honest with you,” she told me. “Sometimes, I just opt out.”

Good point, but my pants were thin material and I already felt like I was jumping around the studio half naked, so au natural was not an option for me tonight. (Um, or ever.)

I have certain pairs of underwear set aside for the gym. From time to time, I forget to pack “gym panties” and end up Pumping in pink lace. One night, in Hip Hop, I hitch-kicked and almost split myself in half. It was a giggle-fit that just could NOT be explained, followed by some very delicate minor surgery…and it’s hard to be discreet when one wall is completely covered in mirrors.

Recently, I’ve been on a mission for black gym underwear. Nothing fancy: just plain, black, cotton panties to wear under my gym pants, which also happen to be black. This way, when my too-big-for-me pants start to slip, I don’t have to worry about my underwear peeking out, because TA-DA! They’re the same color as my pants. Extremely clever, I know. Yes, I could buy new pants. But I didn’t think it would be too hard to find plain, black, cotton panties. But can I find them? No. No, I can’t. (Did I forget to say cheap? I meant to say cheap, too.)

During a trip to my local Walmart, I found a package of 3 pairs of black with 3 pairs of white. I considered it, until I checked the sizing measurements and realized they didn’t have my size. (Oh, and that felt good—the packages they had left of the black and whites were all too big for me!!!) I found another package with one black, one white, one gray. I figured that ONE pair of black gym panties was better than NO pairs, so I bought them. They are cute; cotton boy shorts, which I have bought before, but not to wear to the gym. I thought it would be okay. I was wrong.

This underwear is creepy. It creeps up, it creeps down…It creeps to places it just shouldn’t visit, and there is absolutely NO time during Turbo to put things back to where they should be…and really, what’s the point, because the next roundhouse, back kick, side push, or knee sends them right back into hiding. Seriously? My apologies to anyone I unintentionally mooned over the last few workouts. I’m working on it, I swear.

How about you? Do you do step class in satin? Karate commando? Turbo in a thong? (Okay, and no one will ever, EVER convince me that thongs are good, period. And hello? No one wants to see that thing poking out from under your pants. Ahem.) What’s your workout gear game plan when it comes to undergarments?

Pot Holes

I’ve been writing this in my head all day. I was going to title it Inviting Failure. But I haven’t failed. This is just a stall. A bump in the road. I will get past this and I will be okay.

I made a big mistake this week. I’ve been excited and anxious for today’s weigh-in because it marks my anniversary with Weight Watchers. It was Monday, November 3, 2008 that I joined. This is the longest I have ever made it on the program. This is the most I have ever lost on the program. This is the last time I will ever have to lose this weight. I am confident in that.

This week has been a rough one for me, food-wise. We had two parties at work, food left over from a board meeting, and yesterday, we went to KB’s house, where her husband is all but a gourmet chef and makes the most delicious food EVER. And, did I mention it was Halloween?

On Tuesday, I sampled the party fare, but did not stuff myself.
Wednesday…Wednesday is where I made my mistake. I was standing in front of the fridge, searching for something, anything to munch on, and I told the Hubster, “You know, I think I will just expect to gain this week.” Little Sister had been sick, and I had been at home with her. I always struggle with food when I am at home during the day—fajitas for breakfast and popcorn for lunch, meals for champions, right there. It was as if I had given myself permission to fail…not to fail, but to…to not succeed. And it was nice to not be anxious about the scale for a few days. It was nice to allow myself a treat and not agonize over the choices I made. However, those few days of peace were not worth the anguish I felt today.
On Thursday, I managed to avoid the cookies in the break room that rivaled the size of my head. I even talked myself out of seconds of a sandwich that I really wanted.
But on Friday…what happened on Friday? Sausage and cheese dip happened. And bagels. And candy. Candy happened on Friday. Mother Nature showed up and gave me another excuse to gain weight this week. (Um, did I just tell the whole world what they think I just told them? Yes, I did. I’m a girl. It happens. It’s one of the facts of life, even—no, not the TV show, but who’s singing the song right now? “You take the good, you take the bad, you take them both, and there you have the facts of life…the facts of life.” You’re welcome.)
Saturday, I rolled out of bed in time for Turbo Kick and Body Pump, and then went shopping, and it wasn’t until I arrived home around 2:00 that I realized I hadn’t eaten anything all day. I grabbed a sandwich, and then indulged that evening at KB’s house, and only snagged a few of Little Sister’s treats.

Still. I woke up this morning feeling lousy. Before I even stepped on the scale, I knew. I tried to tell myself that it was okay. That I’ve lost for the last 6 weeks, and I was bound to gain sooner or later. I reminded myself that I expected it, given permission, even. Then, I got to my meeting. Leader Pam weighed me in. “You’re up a little bit,” she told me. “Is everything going okay?” I explained work parties and gourmet food and Halloween, and yes, even the facts of life to her, and she smiled and said that life happens, and it’s okay not to be perfect all the time. Then she handed me my book. I was horrified at the number behind the plus sign. Tears sprang to my eyes and I looked back at her. “That is NOT a little bit.” She patted my hand and told me it was okay. I was not okay, though.

I stewed in the meeting, setting ridiculous goals for myself. (Cabbage soup all week? Working out 3-4 hours a day?) Afterwards, I cried in the car as I drove to the YMCA in Prior Lake, texting Turbo Sara that I needed a good butt kicking. Since I got there early, I ran on the treadmill, pushing myself, punishing myself, sweat flying everywhere. By the end of class, I was dripping, my heart pounding. But I felt better, too. I know that this is temporary. I know that I am not going back to where I was, and that I have the tools and the knowledge (and the support) to turn myself around right now, before it gets worse. Before I give up. Before I stop believing in myself.

While I’m unhappy with the gain I had this week, and anxious about what the holidays in the next two months will bring, I’m impressed with my attitude. (Okay, not my initial attitude, my I’ve-had-a-while-to-think-it-over attitude.) This is a major breakthrough, a key change for me. I won’t pout and feel sorry for myself and drown my woes in chocolate. I won’t push myself so hard, I lose hope. I will lean on people I know will support me and I will look to myself to make the choices I know are best for me.

That said, I’ve set some more realistic goals for myself. I will track my points every day. I have discovered that this really helps me. It makes a difference in my weight loss and I will do it. I will continue my regular workouts, which hasn’t been a problem, but I will push a little harder. Jump a little higher. Do a little MORE. I am starting a new Kettle bell class on Thursday, and I am a nervous, but excited for the change, too.

In January, when everyone and their mother joins Weight Watchers to help them with their New Year’s Resolutions, and the studios at the Y hit capacity with all the “tourists” who hang out for a few classes, never to be seen again, I will be there, smiling, encouraging, and making room for them. I will get through this. I will lose the weight. And I will succeed.

I know I have been remiss in my blogging of late. The A/C adapter on my laptop died and it’s a proprietary part, which means I have to shell out $70 to Dell or risk eBay to obtain a new one. Since funds are a little light right now, I’m putting off the purchase, which chains me, once again, to my desktop. Blogging is much more fun from my recliner.

~FLP~

Temptation

I'm thinking I should print this out and put it on my fridge.

I am home alone. Well, not really. The Hubster went to play hockey for the first time this season and Big Sister is hanging with her mom. Little Sister is in bed, so I have the place to myself.

This is a dangerous, dangerous time for me. I am not hungry. I had plenty to eat today…a smallish breakfast because I had Turbo and Pump this morning—I absolutely cannot kick it on a full stomach—followed by a protein-filled lunch consisting of an egg and ham sandwich with some fruit…nuts and granola later for a snack…and a good-sized fillet of grilled salmon with a double helping of broccoli for dinner. I am not hungry.

But I am starving. I want to eat. I want to make brownies or cookies and eat the whole pan before they have a chance to cool. I want to shred up some cheese and make quesadillas. I want to make dip and eat all of the little bags of chips we bought for the girls’ lunches. I want to investigate my fridge and eat everything I can find.

But I don’t. I have to weigh in tomorrow morning, and while I haven’t been tracking this week, I am feeling pretty good about where I’m at. I hate it when I have a good week and ruin it the night before my meeting by eating something too salty or too heavy. I like Weight Watchers and I can honestly say that having this accountability is really helping me, but only being able to count my weight once a week is hard…it really can be thrown off by a poorly planned meal or two.

I shouldn’t be thinking about it. I should get up and do something productive…or, better yet, go to bed and get some real sleep and then wake up tomorrow refreshed and ready for breakfast to go. I should NOT keep sitting here, thinking about food I want, food I shouldn’t have, feeling sorry for myself and dreaming about the cheeseburger I’m having for dinner tomorrow.

On the Horizon...

I'm changing. I can feel it. Not just my body, not just my clothes. Me. The way I think, the choices I make, the way I feel about myself. Change is coming.

Writer Sarah and I were talking books one day, and she told me she was reading The Four-Day Win by Martha Beck. Always on the lookout for a life-changer, I rushed out to the bookstore that day and bought it. (Along with a couple more cookbooks to feed my addiction.) I took it to bed with me that night and started reading.

I laughed at the first chapter title: “Why are you so Damn Fat?” On page two, I had an epiphany. (On page TWO!) “Bottom line: eating is a deliberate behavior, however compelling.” My eyes got big and I dropped the book. I might have cried a little bit.

It’s true. Not matter how many times I’ve thought that I have no control over what I eat, I do. I have to make a conscious decision about putting the food in my mouth, chewing it up, and swallowing it. It isn’t like breathing or blinking. It’s something my brain has to okay before I can do it. So, why did it take a book to tell me that?

Chapter Five starts out with an explanation of “The Polar Bear Effect.” The reader is challenged to think of anything she wants to for the next ten seconds as long as it has absolutely nothing to do with polar bears. It’s impossible. The more you think about the foods you shouldn’t or can’t have, the more you will crave them.

The day after I read the chapter, we had a party at my office. I had offered to make dessert, thinking I could bring in some fruit or something else sensible that I could eat, too. I was told that cookies had already been purchased for the party, and imagine my dismay when I walked in that morning and discovered they were my absolute, all-time favorite cookies ever. I went into panic mode.

I thought about them all day. Oh. My. God. There are cookies in the break room. I LOVE those cookies. I haven’t had them in SO long…they are SO many points. If I have one or two, I’ll want more. I have to have those cookies. There are cookies in the break room. COOKIES in the break room.

Just before lunch, it hit me. Those damn cookies were my polar bear. I wouldn’t be able to stop thinking about them if I kept telling myself I couldn’t have them. I took a few deep breaths and thought about what I should do. In the end, I decided I would have two cookies for 3 points. I ate them, enjoying every bite, and tracked my points. When they were gone, I flossed my teeth and popped some gum to get the flavor out of my mouth. The next morning, there was still an entire tray of those cookies left. Instead of being upset that they were still there, I was able to ignore them because I wasn’t still thinking about them and stressing over the fact that here cookies down the hall from my desk.

I feel empowered over food like I’ve never felt before. I am in control. I make the choices. And I can do this.

Purging

No, not that kind of purging. While there have been times I wished I had the nerve to stick my finger down my throat and relieve myself of a heavy meal, I know I never could. In short, I don’t do puke—at all. It’s in my wedding vows. The Hubster promised to love, honor, kill spiders, and clean up all the vomit. (It was very romantic.)

I am talking about the purging of STUFF. Tangible things that take up space and create havoc in my tiny living quarters. This afternoon, I found myself sans children and decided to tackle a project I’ve been putting off for far too long.

My closet. (Cue scary, psycho, knife music here.)

I have really big closets. (We’ve discussed this before.) Two years later, my closet is still jam packed full of crap. It is not a walk-in closet anymore…it is a climb-in-and-pray-nothing-falls-on-you closet. In fact, when I got close to the bottom, I found a garbage bag half filled with trash…probably from the last time I attempted to clean the damn thing. I hate it.

Time to do something about it, then. This afternoon, I turned on the radio and got busy. I started with the floor, so I could reach the clothes. It wasn’t as bad as I thought it was because there were a lot of empty boxes acting as “filler.” The Hubster seems to think we need to keep every box that comes through our door…shoe boxes, stereo boxes, shipping boxes…everything. Well, those babies went in a big pile right inside our front door so they would be the first thing he saw when he got home.

I moved his stuff—guitar stuff, tools, etc in a pile by his side of the bed so he could go through it in his own time just as soon as he walked in the door.

There was clothing on the floor…not on purpose (mostly) but errant from slipping off a hanger. I started trying on everything I could reach, and in the process, I learned a few things. Of course, I was compelled to share my new found wisdom here.

Don’t buy clothes that don’t fit. Period. Don’t think you’ll save time by not trying something on in the store because if it doesn’t fit, time is wasted going back to return it or, even worse, money is wasted when it sits in the closet for so long you pass that size. I found pants in my closet that still had tags on them because they were too small when I bought them. I thought I would keep them for when I lost a few pounds…but they’ve been buried for so long that they’re now too big for me. (I know, so sad. Go get a tissue. I’ll wait.)

Also, don’t buy clothes that don’t fit. Don’t buy that cute sweater a size smaller because they didn’t have in your size and it was such a steal, you had to have it. You don’t know how it’s going to look on you when you get there—if you remember you have it. (See above.) I had a cute, pink sweater I actually bought at a garage sale…probably two summers ago, thinking I would be able to wear it in a few more pounds. I never got there and it sat, taking up space in my closet. Now that it fits me, I don’t like it. It’s too short, the neck is cut funny, and it’s itchy. I put it in the donation bag.

Know your body. For example, I don’t buy turtlenecks. I don’t like stuff by my neck; I know I will never wear them; I do not buy them. Ever. Once in a while, I will find something cute with a cowl neck and try to talk myself into it…but I usually manage to avoid temptation by putting my hand around my throat for a second or two.

And, know your body. The ladies in my office are always freezing. They wear cute sweaters and rub their hands together and comment about how cold it is. One woman even knitted everyone shawls to ward off the chill. I am always fine. It is very rare that I am cold at work. While everyone else is sporting layers and running a space heater at their desk, I’m in short sleeves with my fan on, pulling my pant legs up under my desk. That said, why the hell do I own sweaters? Hey, Genius, don’t buy sweaters! You will never wear them because you know you’ll get hot so don’t buy them! No more sweaters.

Know when to hold ‘em. Know when to fold 'em. (Know when to walk away, know when to run...sorry. Couldn't help it.) Some things, I just have to hold on to. I told the Hubster he could ditch the suit he wore to our wedding, but I couldn’t bring myself to do the same with the maternity dress I wore. Age has stained it, though, so I decided to do something with the fabric. (I don’t know what yet, baby steps, people.) I also held on to the dress I’ve been saving for the last ten years now, hoping that one day, it will fit me again. I unzipped it today, but didn’t try it on. I was flying high off of all the clothes that were too big for me and didn’t want to bring myself down by squeezing into something I wasn’t ready for.

So, when all is said and (almost) done, I’ve got five bags full of clothes to donate-—plus two more I’ve already donated—and two bags full of garbage. I can see the floor in my closet now, and, while I’ve generated a few “side jobs”—like going through the box of old pictures I found in there, I’m feeling pretty happy with how much I accomplished today. Some of the clothes were hard to get rid of…shirts that I liked, pants that were comfortable…but it felt SO GOOD to try on so many things that just hung off of me. I focus on my trouble spots—my stomach that won’t seem to shrink, my calves, which are anything but sexy…but at the end of the day, my body is changing…so I must be doing something right.

Stalked by Jillian Michaels, Part Two

Seriously? This is freaking me out.

Here is the post I started last night and saved as a draft before I scooted off to bed.

An Open Letter to Myself

Dear RC;

It’s Friday. Take the night off from exercising and do NOT feel bad about it. I know what you’re thinking. We already had a night off this week. We skipped Pump on Tuesday to babysit for the Mrs. C. We should run on the treadmill tonight. Maybe see how long we can go on the elliptical. Something? Anything.

No. No. NO. We will take the night off. Think about how great Saturday morning Turbo feels with fresh legs. We’ve worked hard this week. We’ve already got 7 hours in, looking at 2 more on Saturday. Hello?—9 hours in the gym is pretty damn good. Be proud of us and what we’ve already done this week. Don’t worry about doing MORE.

I was tired and not really doing a very good job at convincing myself--come on, just 20 minutes of Pilates? How about the PiYo video I haven't opened yet? Something? Anything. No!

Luckily, Jillian Michaels is looking out for me and I got this in my inbox this morning.

From: Losing It With Jillian Michaels
To: Me

Date: Friday, October 16, 2009 at 4:34 AM
Subject: Prop Those Feet Up--Take Time Tonight For You

Pamper Yourself

You've been working hard lately, and now it's time to take a little pampering break. That's right, guys: I want you to take a break from your life! Forget about whatever it is you think you have to do and give yourself some TLC. To hell with the laundry, the dishes, the accounting, the errands, and even the Internet! Turn your cell phone off and try these tips tonight:

Soak in a tub. Nothing feels quite as decadent as a warm bath. Add some essential oils — such as lavender and rosemary — or organic bubble bath. Place some candles around the bathroom and then soak away the stress.

Take time out to read. Whether it's a book, your favorite magazine, or the newspaper, set yourself up in a quiet place and indulge yourself without interruption.

Make a pampering appointment. Get a new haircut, go for a manicure and pedicure, or get a professional shave at the barber's.

Go to a movie. Think you don't have time to catch the latest flick? Think again. This is your downtime, kiddo. Grab some air-popped popcorn — but hold the butter — and go Hollywood!

Sleep in. Seriously, it feels so great to just turn the alarm off before you hop into bed. Give yourself permission to sleep, sleep, sleep the morning away.

Enjoy it while you can — because tomorrow it's back to work!

I am still feeling a little anxious about planning to not exercise...but I am also feeling a little better about it, too. Funny what a well-timed mass email will do for me.

Happy Friday! I am taking the night off!

Avoidance

I tend to avoid things that I am uneasy about. If I think a patient will yell at me, I don’t want to call them back. If I’m worried about an email from an angry author, I won’t check my email for days. If I think I’ve gained weight, I avoid the scale at all costs.

Considering my addiction to the scale, it’s a pretty big deal for me to not weigh in every day. It’s me making a conscious decision not to step on that little machine that I usually rely on.

I have been avoiding the scale this week. My meeting on Sunday was fantastic, but I was disappointed that the 40 pound mark eluded me. (I weighed in at 39.8 pounds…it was all I could do not to shed all my clothing right there in the lobby and demand to be weighed again.)

I tracked my food on Sunday until we picked up pizza for dinner, and then I decided that I should get to have one meal a week that I don’t worry about points. (Not a whole cheat day, just one meal.) On Monday though, I helped myself to two pieces of apple cake with homemade caramel sauce. I’d left my tracker in the car and never got around to writing down what I ate that day. At home, I had a hankering for some onion dip…which I just happened to have ingredients for. Tuesday, I successfully evaded the cream cheese Danish screaming my name from the break room…however, I was starving when I got home and ate some leftover pizza while I cooked dinner…and then some chicken nuggets while I was babysitting Mrs. C’s clan…and then two pieces of garlic bread…and some hot chocolate…when I got home. Oops.

Today was tricky. I had the day off of work, which can often spell disaster for me. At work, I just bring healthy food and (generally) only eat what I bring. At home…well, I can make whatever I damn well want. (And I keep mostly healthy stuff around the house, but I like to bake… ’nuff said?) When I got up, I made a deal with myself that I would write down every bite I ate today…to keep me honest.

I did well, and only went over by 2 points. I also earned 30 activity points today, so I’m pretty sure I’m okay. Tomorrow morning, I will get on the scale. I know it will be fine. I know I am obsessing over it for no reason. I know that, overall, I make healthy choices, and that I’ve worked my ass off in the gym. (Like burning 2000 calories in the gym today? Yeah, I’m not so worried about those two points. It was a glass of milk, anyway. Not chocolate or something like that…Mmmmmm, chocolate. Oops.)

I know that the anxiety I’m feeling about weighing in after a few days is unfounded. I know…or I hope, at least, that I will be thrilled with the number I see when I step on the scale in the morning. I just have to remind myself that even if it’s not as low as the number I saw on Sunday, it’s not the same number I saw a month ago. It’s not anywhere close to the number I saw when I started this journey. Still, I know it won’t be the last time I use avoidance as a defense…it’s just something I do.

~FLP~

Boobs

I am a well-endowed girl. Always have been. I never struggled with little-girly training bras or had that awkward does she/doesn’t she need one? stage. I went to bed flat-chested one night and woke up with C cups.

It was embarrassing when I was younger. I always had the biggest boobs of anyone in my class. In the middle of seventh grade, we moved from Indiana to Colorado…I’ll never forget that first gym class. My mom had oh-so-thoughtfully written my name across the front of my shirt. We were running in gym and a BOY ran up beside me and introduced himself. When I told him my name, he said, “I see that,” his head bobbing up and down with the writing on my shirt. I was mortified.

Once I started high school, things improved because most of the other girls finally had them, too. There were still problems…In choir my sophomore year, we had to wear tuxedo shirts. Um, hello? Girls are not made to wear tuxedo shirts. Shopping for prom dresses was a chore, too.

Ugh. Boobs. Women who don’t have them want them, but girls who have them know they’re more trouble than their worth.

Finding bras that fit has been next to impossible. I never wore the right size. I was spilling out all over the place…it was not pretty. Finally, I went to get measured and discovered what I hoped I wouldn’t. I was a 46G. Woah.

My chest accessories have long been a hazard in the gym. They often served as my excuse not to exercise, until I learned that double bagging it is the only way to go. Still, even under wraps, they regularly pose problems.

I was having trouble with triceps exercises during Body Pump one night and Turbo Jennie came over to assist me. She told me to keep my elbows closer to my ribs. “I can’t,” I whispered. “My boobs are too big.” Ha! Not a defense she would accept. During my birthday turbo round we were shaking it, and she yelled over the music, “Birthday Girl, put those things away!!!” During a Hip Hop class, we were dipping and shimmying and she looked over her shoulder and asked me, “You don’t even have to try, do you?” Ah, yes, my breasts are a frequent topic of conversation and cause for consternation.

Most recently—yesterday, to be more specific—I had a little trouble in PiYo. The class is an athletic offering of pilates and yoga and is guaranteed to get me sweaty and swearing. I love it and I hate it…it is HARD, but awesome and I am loving the changes I’ve seen in myself since I started taking it. Last week, we started a new round and Jennie demonstrated the shoulder stand.



I watched her with wide eyes, shaking my head, thinking to myself, I can’t do that. There’s no way. But I tried it (because she made me)…and I did it! I was amazed with myself and very excited. This week, I knew it was coming and I was ready for it. The first time, I executed it with no problems. The second time, however, was a little more difficult.

I was a little overzealous in getting my legs in the air and almost fell over. I managed to stabilize myself, but my knockers—defying two sports bras and two tank tops, but not, it seems, gravity—slid forward, into my face, smothering me. There were several seconds where I struggled to catch my breath as I actually choked on my own boobs. After I shoved everything back into place, I tried a repeat performance, but by then, I was giggling too much to hold the pose. (It did not help that a girl next to me fell over right after that. Jennie scolded us for having fun.) Of course, I had to share with her the reason for my laughter after class. Nothing like ending the night with a mouthful of mammary.

In the 20 years or so that my weight has been yo-yoing, I have very rarely lost in my chest…yet, it was always one of the first place I gained. So it seemed I just kept getting bigger. This time around was different. The weight loss was noticeable in my face, first…but then my boobs started shrinking.

In the last year, I’ve dropped about a million bra sizes. Okay, not a million, but it sure feels that way. (As Jennie pointed out, it just goes to show that they’re only fat. Sorry, boys.) Don’t get me wrong, I still have plenty of boobs to go around. (I often offer them to other, “less fortunate” women. I only wish it was that easy.) I’m hoping that this is a good sign…another thing on my list that tells me that this time the last time I have to struggle with my weight.

October is Breast Cancer Awareness month. (No way, right?) Ladies, whatever size your jugs are, remember to do a self exam once a month, see a doctor for a breast screening once a year, and get a mammogram yearly after age 35 or 40, depending on risk factors. Also, visit this website daily and click to give free mammograms to women in need.



~FLP~

Just a Quick Note...

 

I just wanted to say thank you SO much to everyone for their support, kind words, and sweaty hugs over the last few days. I cannot even begin to explain how much it helps me to write out my thoughts and have a good cry over them...and of course, I'm always so compelled to share. I'm glad, though...it seems that most of us have been there before, and I thank you for sharing your stories and understanding. I have the greatest friends EVER.

I've Been Here Before

I will always think of myself as a Fat Lady. In my head, I will always be the girl to whom boys didn’t pay any attention. The girl who cried in the dressing room every time she tried on clothes. The woman who couldn’t fit on the amusement park ride with her daughter. When I look at myself, I see me at 274 pounds. Granted, that was almost four years ago, but it’s the heaviest I’ve ever weighed in at. The heaviest I’ve ever been. The heaviest I’ll ever be.

I’ve gone up and down, and up and down…and up and down for years. For most of my life, really. Where I am now…I’ve weighed less. I’ve weighed more. I’ve been here before. My friend, KB, is worried about me. She thinks I’m becoming obsessed. Worried that I am giving myself an eating disorder. I fret over food, panic about portions, and struggle with the scale. To be honest, I’m a little anxious about it, myself.

I know that she’s right. I need to take a deep breath, take a step back, and stop agonizing over this weight loss thing. But I’m terrified of going back. I had to look back through the years and find out when I weighed in at 274. Was it two years ago? Was it four? Or was it yesterday? Will it be tomorrow because I ate too much tonight? She points out that I won’t be going back because of the lifestyle changes I’ve made with both food and exercise. But I’ve been here before. Over and over again. Up and down. And up and down. And every time…EVERY single time, I swear that this it. That I’m making changes for good. Over and over again, I made myself that promise.

I want to believe that this—right now, right this second—that this is the time. That this is really, really it. No going back.

But what if it’s not?

I lost 3 pounds last week. Despite missing a few workouts. Despite overeating on a couple of occasions. Despite candy corn, Jimmy Johns, and chicken tacos, I lost 3 pounds, bringing my total to 37.4.

37.4 pounds! It's amazing and I am thrilled and proud of myself...

But I’ve been here before.

~FLP~