tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-203815442024-03-04T23:18:09.835-06:00Fat Lady ParkingMy journey to lose weight...without losing my mind first!Regular Cinderellahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00479594734899424831noreply@blogger.comBlogger133125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20381544.post-63778952484163557552015-11-12T23:54:00.001-06:002015-11-13T00:08:22.335-06:00The Words I Don't Say<p dir="ltr">I talk a lot.<br>
I get nervous and uncomfortable and the words are out of my mouth before I can stop them. I will tell a silly joke. A lame story. I'll talk about a TV show or a movie or a book. A song I happen to think about. I can't shut myself up. </p>
<p dir="ltr">I say stupid things because, for whatever reason, I need to keep talking. I need to fill the empty space. </p>
<p dir="ltr">There are those--some that matter, some that don't--that hate this quality. This quirk. This flaw. So often, I grimace at my own voice, willing it to quiet, rolling my eyes at this incessant need I seem to have for communication. </p>
<p dir="ltr">Maybe I'm trying to quiet the words I don't say.</p>
<p dir="ltr">I complain more lately.  I don't like it. Negativity is so "not me." But I hate lying even more and I'm not good at it. The words, "I'm fine" aren't so believable when my blue eyes are filled with fresh tears and my fair skin betrays red, angry blotches.</p>
<p dir="ltr">I'm easy to read. I can't hide my feelings so I know the words I don't say are plainly evident, even as I try to drown them out.</p>
<p dir="ltr">But I still wish that I could say them. </p>
Regular Cinderellahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00479594734899424831noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20381544.post-20981234491919379242015-11-03T23:43:00.001-06:002015-11-03T23:43:34.564-06:00Reunited (And it feels so Good!)<p dir="ltr">Guess what I did tonight? (Yes, I'm writing, but that's not the answer I'm looking for...)</p>
<p dir="ltr">I've been having a rough day. (Or few days. Week. Month. Year. Life. You know. Well, you don't, because I haven't been writing, but you might know bits and pieces. Anyway.) When my eyes filled with tears for the hundredth time today (in the middle of Costco and for no good reason,) I wondered if maybe it was my time of the month. I had to check my calendar--I no longer have the plumbing, just the hormones, so it's harder to keep track of. I had a boyfriend in high school who used to track my period. When I'd get upset, he'd pat my hand and tell me sweetly, "It's okay. I know you're having your..." Want to guess what I thought of that at sixteen? That guy would be pretty handy to have around now, especially if he came prepared with wine and chocolate. Alas, I make due with a dot in my datebook. Not until next week. Hm. </p>
<p dir="ltr">Rather than feeling sorry for myself, I decided to try to change my mood. I mentioned to a friend tonight that I miss Turbo Kick so after the kids were in bed tonight, I dug out a Fan DVD that I ordered ages ago. I have 3 of them, but it's been so long, I can't remember which rounds I like or don't like. Round 36 sounded vaguely like one I remembered liking, so I went for it. (Note to future self: Yes, you like Round 36.)</p>
<p dir="ltr">The familiar warmup put a smile on my face almost immediately. I was surprised how quickly everything came back to me. The punches and kicks, the form drilled into my head from hours and hours of Turbo Jennie yelling, "Keep your guard up! Hands by your face!" I even remembered the "twist" that took me weeks and weeks to even figure out what was going on when she called it out. </p>
<p dir="ltr">It was fun. Not, of course, as fun as clapping and hollering in a sweaty studio. Not as fun as facing off with Jennie. Or the time Sara Rrrrr got up in my business and I whispered, "I think I just saw your IUD." But still fun. </p>
<p dir="ltr">And I feel amazing. I probably won't feel so great tomorrow since I can't settle down, so I'll be tired, and I'm sure my body will rebel at some point, but for now, I feel great. This picture doesn't do justice to how pink and sweaty I was, but my smile captured the exhilaration I was feeling pretty well. </p>
<p dir="ltr">No more tears...for tonight, anyway. </p>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAzxcb6xFss12Hq20EfIEMhLUEcA3VjRIIR4a-C3d7DNDLXel1AaRqQsjyUoWsCHcIRPY84mqGTDYnf3ZkBR2su-kpzoDd02noJLhpjPLKZxrQbqBxia6UJG25UpkCPF_etra5AQ/s1600/20151103_220745.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"> <img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAzxcb6xFss12Hq20EfIEMhLUEcA3VjRIIR4a-C3d7DNDLXel1AaRqQsjyUoWsCHcIRPY84mqGTDYnf3ZkBR2su-kpzoDd02noJLhpjPLKZxrQbqBxia6UJG25UpkCPF_etra5AQ/s640/20151103_220745.jpg"> </a> </div>Regular Cinderellahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00479594734899424831noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20381544.post-34440718807523824452014-07-02T22:47:00.000-05:002014-07-02T22:47:31.725-05:00A Whole lot of Whole30<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I’ve been wanting to blog for a while, but I didn’t want to just pop back in and pretend I haven’t been missing for months. Doing it anyway, though, so I can share some awesome info.</span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Around three months ago, a friend of mine posted on Facebook that she was starting another Whole30 if anyone wanted to join in. I had never heard of it before, so I turned to Google and discovered this: </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIIR61o2jsRTM9ifZ5nxF6NO4gi7WrLGJhFDZzSuXXfkV04cC8YpzpoW-KJif-fxkR8TLK2ob06KkvkRspeZOgsiuyNWs4Yve7VhX2rjobLaEn2x-RhTybpjswS-tXo7xD2lqjYg/s1600/Rules.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIIR61o2jsRTM9ifZ5nxF6NO4gi7WrLGJhFDZzSuXXfkV04cC8YpzpoW-KJif-fxkR8TLK2ob06KkvkRspeZOgsiuyNWs4Yve7VhX2rjobLaEn2x-RhTybpjswS-tXo7xD2lqjYg/s1600/Rules.png" height="274" width="320" /></a></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Nope. Uh-uh. No way. Not doing it. </span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">But I kept reading. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Great for migraines. (I have those.)</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Allergies. (I have those!)</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Depression. (Yep, that, too!)</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Change your relationship with food. </span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Change my relationship with food? I need that. </span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I told my friend that I wanted to try, but I was NOT prepared to join her the next day. I had just gone grocery shopping and had a fridge and pantry full of crap to eat, first. She recommended I read the book,<a href="http://www.amazon.com/Starts-Food-Discover-Whole30-Unexpected/dp/1936608898/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1404356652&sr=1-1&keywords=it+starts+with+food" target="_blank"> “It Starts with Food.”</a> Of course, I hopped on Amazon and bought it for my Kindle.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I wish I had read it years ago. It’s not a diet “rule” book. It doesn’t say, “Don’t eat this. Don’t eat that.” It gives the science behind how different foods affect the digestive system and the body. It made so much sense. Even if you’re not interested in trying the Whole30, I still highly recommend this book. The <a href="http://whole9life.com/" style="text-decoration: none;" target="_blank">Whole9</a> and <a href="http://whole30.com/" target="_blank">Whole30</a> websites and their <a href="https://www.facebook.com/Whole9" style="text-decoration: none;" target="_blank">Facebook</a><a href="https://www.facebook.com/Whole30" style="text-decoration: none;" target="_blank"> pages</a> are full of great resources and fantastic information and people who have survived it. Have a question about an ingredient? <a href="https://www.google.com/" style="text-decoration: none;" target="_blank">Google</a> [ingredient] Whole30 and I can almost guarantee you’ll find the answer. </span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">There are no cheat days during the Whole30. You have to follow ALL the <a href="http://whole30.com/whole30-program-rules/" target="_blank">rules</a>, and for good reason. There is a great metaphor in the book--if you owned 10 cats and discovered you were allergic to them, you wouldn’t get rid of 9 cats and expect to be completely better--you’d have to get rid of all of them. You can’t cut out only some of the bad stuff and expect to be “cured.” It all has to go. At the end of 30 days, (or 60, or 90, or however many you want to do it for,) you can start reintroducing foods and examining how they affect your body. And if it’s worth it to you to keep eating it or not. </span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">So, let’s get real. </span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Grocery shopping is HARD. It is very hard to find things with no added sugar. Sugar is in the most bizarre, random things, and masquerades under so many different aliases, it’s ridiculous. WHY is sugar in everything? It’s totally unnecessary! Soy is something else food companies sneak into the ingredient list. Even “natural” foods are guilty. (Looking at you, <a href="http://www.applegate.com/" target="_blank">Applegate</a>, with your extremely overpriced lunch meat.) </span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Going out to eat is HARD, too. I went twice and I was riddled with anxiety both times. (Both times, I managed to arrange eating at a salad bar, which made it a million times easier. If you have to eat out during the Whole30, go to a salad bar.) I also went on a roadtrip and to four potlucks. (One of which, I was only able to eat the salad I’d brought with me. If you go to a potluck during the Whole30, bring something you can eat. For a roadtrip, try to make sure your hotel has a fridge or buy a good cooler and eat lots of snacks and drink lots of water!)</span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Explaining it to people is NOT fun. No added sugar really means no sweeteners of any kind. No honey or maple syrup or molasses. Yes, I understand that all that stuff is natural, but I can’t eat it. No beans. I know they’re good fiber and protein. They can also be inflammatory. Yes, that dessert looks delicious, I’m sure it tastes really good, but I’m not eating sweets right now. My grandma tried to force-feed me a piece of toffee just last weekend. I told her I wasn’t throwing away 27 days of hard work for a piece of toffee. Yes, I realize I sound like an alcoholic. </span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">We weren’t perfect. Around day 8, I discovered that the garlic salt I’d used in just about every meal had sugar AND soy in it. Towards the end of week 2, we sampled and purchased some fancy salts at Costco, only to get home and find we couldn’t eat ANY of them--the ingredients on the jar didn’t match the ingredients on the packaging. Boo! On day 15, I made my dad a drink and took a sip without even thinking about it. As soon as the whiskey was in my mouth, I realized what I’d done and spit it out--but I was shocked that it was such an unconscious thing for me to do. On day 31--yes, the day after we “finished,” I realized the tuna we’d been eating contained soy. Bah. For the most part, though, we made conscious efforts to eat real, whole food and avoid anything on the “do not eat” list. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">We ate beautiful, delicious food like this:</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnwXz4jb9qT31tjjTVk8JDn3o66JgAVYEiwhEQr3LXXcYwa98ogWzrbtvsxfZI599rV5F0x6EXZ9LS5vzfpt69mBiKjkFau8tYbSZ_w11DIqtdlNpTsh9vA-hvSZpri1HmedCBAw/s1600/20140607_141253.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnwXz4jb9qT31tjjTVk8JDn3o66JgAVYEiwhEQr3LXXcYwa98ogWzrbtvsxfZI599rV5F0x6EXZ9LS5vzfpt69mBiKjkFau8tYbSZ_w11DIqtdlNpTsh9vA-hvSZpri1HmedCBAw/s1600/20140607_141253.jpg" height="320" width="180" /></a></div>
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<i>Adapted from<a href="http://www.pinterest.com/pin/204491639305330786/" target="_blank"> this recipe</a>, but I nixed the sweet potatoes and added spinach. This was my favorite meal!</i></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">And this:</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvZqdeOkcMNwcE8wYVZwfOxBkBRzjvqThhBd1U6Gn1F9CBQUcpNGqyPwVV7UP-Xv1wg8JiNcRAk9MWWQrvfk2RnAginc9MoGVInwg_5VS3LK4NP1jNkkl9Jxzh-w36AcS6bhCKmw/s1600/20140610_181206.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvZqdeOkcMNwcE8wYVZwfOxBkBRzjvqThhBd1U6Gn1F9CBQUcpNGqyPwVV7UP-Xv1wg8JiNcRAk9MWWQrvfk2RnAginc9MoGVInwg_5VS3LK4NP1jNkkl9Jxzh-w36AcS6bhCKmw/s1600/20140610_181206.jpg" height="320" width="180" /></a></span></div>
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<i><a href="http://popularpaleo.com/2013/01/07/crock-pot-carnitas/" target="_blank">Carnitas</a> with <a href="http://popularpaleo.com/2013/01/07/cilantro-lime-cauliflower-rice/" target="_blank">cilantro-lime cauliflower "rice,"</a> guacamole, and tomatoes</i></div>
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<b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b><br />
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">And this:</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZ9PeKRgpXbDlNuc9icERWuoF82yEyLXSpR9P9cIukIM4sJv4TvD73GbiSMOckkmSNd66dc0nnhjCj1kwY0yA_cObO-zdDS4Z49SboOeZ8z-dJbXIRyFyfyHJNReKS1uPtTIgpPg/s1600/20140602_194141+(1).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZ9PeKRgpXbDlNuc9icERWuoF82yEyLXSpR9P9cIukIM4sJv4TvD73GbiSMOckkmSNd66dc0nnhjCj1kwY0yA_cObO-zdDS4Z49SboOeZ8z-dJbXIRyFyfyHJNReKS1uPtTIgpPg/s1600/20140602_194141+(1).jpg" height="180" width="320" /></a></span></div>
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<i>Burgers with veggies, coleslaw made with homemade olive oil mayo, roasted asparagus, and watermelon</i></div>
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<b style="font-weight: normal;"><br />And this:</b><br />
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<b style="font-weight: normal;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2V4MRtDASQcsAeFwzFn9EZGN8D_tDlGPM_wGTK5VGRfo7T3bn4I_OwN4QT6IxgB-O4uMfTtP1ouooEVYT42ev84WJvVQI2R7UK0US9Yf150LNPTHalZ4fW7eKjTEMweaONMGi7Q/s1600/20140609_180155.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2V4MRtDASQcsAeFwzFn9EZGN8D_tDlGPM_wGTK5VGRfo7T3bn4I_OwN4QT6IxgB-O4uMfTtP1ouooEVYT42ev84WJvVQI2R7UK0US9Yf150LNPTHalZ4fW7eKjTEMweaONMGi7Q/s1600/20140609_180155.jpg" height="320" width="180" /></a></b></div>
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<i>Simply Balanced Garlic and Spinach chicken sausage with roasted spaghetti squash, spinach, onions, and mushrooms. Even the kids loved this!</i></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">We ate not-so-beautiful, but still delicious food, like this: </span><br />
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizW9-9Dn0-WOolWz9PSaGYw9IYa1JfjhcCEhblKHe22agszXvFRC0t7LYt1ndbYZaSbdeGjYK_C0Kqyu1xEHD1l4lKdpElzFo2ldYtV2Vpwojr4n5JXdr7ftib8vDEQSHsXQ_PFg/s1600/20140618_201517.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizW9-9Dn0-WOolWz9PSaGYw9IYa1JfjhcCEhblKHe22agszXvFRC0t7LYt1ndbYZaSbdeGjYK_C0Kqyu1xEHD1l4lKdpElzFo2ldYtV2Vpwojr4n5JXdr7ftib8vDEQSHsXQ_PFg/s1600/20140618_201517.jpg" height="320" width="180" /></a></span></div>
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<i>Adapted from <a href="http://www.onelovelylife.com/chicken-zucchini-poppers-gf-df/" target="_blank">this recipe</a>, these "meatballs" were DELICIOUS. I yelled at J for eating the leftovers because I wanted to take them for lunch the next day. </i></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjopvBijQ_pHv_pOG963rSWzgskSstut0uE2se79LVyNpTv3aQcITv2BLQYB95B36RWE1-x_8k004zM0P97rDWVWgq22-Ej5wxyKjHygademr51q_nEfiMt9JQOA1H70XSQYhpiwg/s1600/20140616_175050.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjopvBijQ_pHv_pOG963rSWzgskSstut0uE2se79LVyNpTv3aQcITv2BLQYB95B36RWE1-x_8k004zM0P97rDWVWgq22-Ej5wxyKjHygademr51q_nEfiMt9JQOA1H70XSQYhpiwg/s1600/20140616_175050.jpg" height="320" width="180" /></a></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><i> Stirfry I threw together with chicken and spinach and other veggies. Tumeric gives everything that lovely yellow color. </i></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">And we ate beautiful food that was NOT delicious, like this: </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikJvDm2tq9n4OC0Am72KqFBTJKkKUNqP9zxp1G5ZekEe6LkIL5PwUgsO9EcZcsVXNSj78802U0aMkSMZArX7MPurke_JCO2YivCD1nHuN8qXWu47wSlPZsAh-BZcGSzetmkulXtw/s1600/20140612_183405.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikJvDm2tq9n4OC0Am72KqFBTJKkKUNqP9zxp1G5ZekEe6LkIL5PwUgsO9EcZcsVXNSj78802U0aMkSMZArX7MPurke_JCO2YivCD1nHuN8qXWu47wSlPZsAh-BZcGSzetmkulXtw/s1600/20140612_183405.jpg" height="180" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><i>This was absolutely the most disappointing meal we ate this past month. The turkey burger was dry and NOT good, the watermelon was funky, and the sweet potatoes and avocado were still too hard. The mushrooms and onions were good. Everyone else who tried this <a href="http://www.rippedrecipes.com/recipe/coconut-crusted-turkey-burgers-2224.html" target="_blank">recipe</a> loved it, so I’m sure I just did something wrong. Not sure if I’ll try again, though.</i></span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">We ate new and different foods and discovered new favorites, and the kids did, too. Little Sister loves asparagus. Baby Sister loves mango. Little Brother...is three and alternates between eating anything and everything and eating nothing, almost on a daily (hourly?) basis. I rekindled my love of avocados. And HOW did I live for 33 years and no one told me I could put guacamole on fish? To die for. (Guac is my <a href="https://www.franksredhot.com/" target="_blank">Frank's</a>. I put that $*&% on everything!)</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The Whole30 takes commitment. 90% of the time, the only clean room in my house was my kitchen because I was constantly cleaning it. Meal planning and prepping things ahead of time was essential for us. There is no ordering a pizza when you don’t have anything thawed for dinner. (No cereal or PB&J, either!)</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">How do we FEEL, though? Was it really worth it? </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Yes. Yes. Yes! A hundred thousand times--YES!</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I found this graphic during week one and braced myself. </span><br />
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMxgQJCVuHbQMur0q2B1q46-yHB8OxArPuFE5tYVlHjx1uO3YYWEbet87nOsz-m1Ah7ORkIDwoJMfWiN4eXhdLznq8lq8fpcwCmMUhyphenhyphenIiLXh1FRigEz3wbakeae4CZ8yMM9JQppw/s1600/what-to-expect.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMxgQJCVuHbQMur0q2B1q46-yHB8OxArPuFE5tYVlHjx1uO3YYWEbet87nOsz-m1Ah7ORkIDwoJMfWiN4eXhdLznq8lq8fpcwCmMUhyphenhyphenIiLXh1FRigEz3wbakeae4CZ8yMM9JQppw/s1600/what-to-expect.png" height="160" width="320" /></a></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">But days 2-7 it never happened. I felt so good, I worried I was doing it wrong. </span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Part of the Whole30 is not weighing or measuring during the 30 days. It’s not a “diet.” It’s not about how much weight you lose--it really is about changing your relationship with food. That said, I absolutely couldn’t wait to get on the scale yesterday. I knew I’d been losing because I could see and feel changes and people have been making comments, but I wanted to know how much! </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">My Results: </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I lost 17 lbs. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I lost 17 inches. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I haven’t had a migraine in over a month. </span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I did this with some friends and we all took "before" pictures in our underwear. Around day two or three, someone said we should take pictures with our clothes on, too, so we could actually share our results. I thought it was a great idea...but I never did it. I do have a clothed picture that was taken on my birthday a couple of days before we started, but I haven't taken an "after," yet. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">J’s Results: </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">He lost 9 lbs.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">He reports that he has more energy during his runs and bike rides. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Mentally, he feels more clear.</span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Overall, we FEEL great. </span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">And did it change my relationship with food? I think so. In the beginning, I can’t even say how many times I started at a bag of popcorn or a box of cereal and wondered, “Did I just eat some of that? My breath doesn’t smell like popcorn, but did I just eat some?” Even just last weekend, I was pulling a chicken finger apart for Baby Sister and licked my fingers when I was done. WHAT? Why did I do that? I can’t imagine how much I used to eat without even a conscious thought. I even dreamed about eating “no” foods--not that I wanted them, but that I ate them by accident and was really upset about it. It was disturbing. (Happy to say most of those thoughts went away during the second week or so.) </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Food is nourishment. Fuel for our bodies. That’s all we really need. For the first time in my life, I GET that. </span></div>
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<br />
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">One thing I will say--that I’m SURE is not the program’s intent--is that I am a little afraid of food now. I feel so good that I’m afraid to add foods back in that might be harmful to my body. Why on earth would I WANT to give myself a migraine? Or make myself sick? The problem is...if I don’t reintroduce things, I’ll never know what to avoid forever. And really, there’s no sense to NOT eat peanut butter if I don’t have any problem with it. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">We’re doing it for another 30 days, making it a Whole60. We’re kind of on a roll, we’ve discovered some great recipes, and we really like eating this way. I thought I could never give up cheese or yogurt or tortillas...but, to be honest, I haven’t even missed them. I’m not saying I’ll never eat cheese again, but I’ll definitely eat it differently. I won’t sprinkle it in every dish...I’ll eat cheese. Good cheese. (Okay, I’ll stop thinking about cheese now. Now. ...now.) </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I promise to check back in and update on how it’s going. I miss writing. Do you miss me? </span>Regular Cinderellahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00479594734899424831noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20381544.post-14366057876967175092013-12-15T18:10:00.000-06:002013-12-15T18:10:23.681-06:00Say Something<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.youtube.com/embed/-2U0Ivkn2Ds?feature=player_embedded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><i><br /></i></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><i>Say something, I’m giving up on you.</i></span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span></div>
<b id="docs-internal-guid-14fde9a4-f8b4-7022-5b5b-d190ea1071a1" style="font-weight: normal;"><br /><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span></b>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Turbo Jennie sent out the video to this song, sung by A Great Big World with Christina Aguilera. I . watched it one time and I fell in love. </span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span></b>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><i>I’ll be the one, if you want me to. </i></span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span></b>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I watched it over and over again, crying each time</span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span></b>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><i>Anywhere, I would have followed you</i></span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span></b>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">During their AMA performance, I whispered, “I love this song” even as tears stung my eyes. I couldn’t breathe. </span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span></b>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><i>Say something, I’m giving up on you. </i></span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span></b>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I shared the video with a friend at work. “It’s missing a word,” she said. “Shouldn’t it be ‘Say something OR I’m giving up on you.’?”</span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span></b>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><i>And I am feeling so small</i></span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span></b>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“No,” I told her. “There's desperation without it. ‘Say something. HURRY. Say it right now.’”</span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span></b>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><i>It was over my head</i></span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span></b>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">HURRY</span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span></b>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><i>I know nothing at all.</i></span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span></b>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“There’s just something about it. It just calls to me,” I said. “I don’t know what it is.”</span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span></b>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><i>And I will stumble and fall</i></span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span></b>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I felt stupid. I watched again alone that night. </span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span></b>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><i>I’m still learning to love</i></span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span></b>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">And I cried and I cried and I cried</span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span></b>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><i>Just starting to crawl.</i></span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span></b>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The next morning, it hit me. </span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span></b>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><i>Say something, I’m giving up on you.</i></span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span></b>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">It’s me. </span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span></b>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><i>I’m sorry that I couldn’t get to you.</i></span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span></b>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">With everything going on in my life lately, I haven’t been taking very good care of myself.</span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span></b>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><i>Anywhere, I would’ve followed you.</i></span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span></b>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Not eating well. Not sleeping well. Not doing anything for ME.</span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span></b>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><i>Say something, I’m giving up on you.</i></span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span></b>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Maybe I’m giving up. On me. </span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span></b>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><i>And I will swallow pride</i></span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span></b>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">It was quite the “aha” moment. </span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span></b>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><i>You’re the one that I love</i></span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span></b>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">There were more tears, of course. </span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span></b>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><i>And I’m saying goodbye</i></span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span></b>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">But relief, too. </span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span></b>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><i>Say something, I’m giving up on you.</i></span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span></b>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Maybe it is stupid. </span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span></b>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><i>And I’m sorry that I couldn’t get to you.</i></span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span></b>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">But I feel like my mind has been trying to tell me something. </span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span></b>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><i>And anywhere, would’ve followed you.</i></span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span></b>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">And I’m just now understanding. </span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span></b>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><i>Oh, say something, I’m giving up on you.</i></span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span></b>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><b>Hurry. </b></span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span></b>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><i>Say something I’m giving up on you. </i></span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span></b>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I’m finally listening.</span></div>
<br /><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><i>Say something. </i></span>Regular Cinderellahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00479594734899424831noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20381544.post-55624556383856715192013-06-10T15:52:00.002-05:002013-06-10T15:55:15.603-05:00Trying"I've been reading your blog."<br />
<br />
The words were innocent, but the admission from my uncle shocked me.<br />
<br />
I'm not really in hiding, but I was surprised to learn he took the time to read the things I'd written. <br />
<br />
In that moment, I tried to remember the last thing I'd written about. "Oh," I think I said. Then, "OH." <br />
<br />
I wish I could say that things have changed in the last 9 months or so, but they really haven't. <br />
<br />
Okay, that's not true. Some things have changed. My grandpa died. Baby Sister turned one and started clapping and saying "mommy" and walking. My dad found a mass on his kidney, and while he hasn't necessarily been diagnosed with cancer, it's still terrifying. In October, our finances took a turn for the worse, but we climbed out of the rubble and things are better than they've been in a long time. Things are happening. <br />
<br />
I'm still stressed...between work and school and the kids and the Hubster working two jobs, I feel like nothing ever gets done. My house is a disaster area and I'm trying to breathe through it and activate my tunnel vision until my classes end on Friday. <br />
<br />
I'm BUSY. <br />
<br />
I wish I could say that I've managed to eat healthy and keep up with exercise even though I had to cancel both Weight Watchers and our gym membership...but I don't really like to lie.<br />
<br />
I am, however, trying. And that's the truth. <br />
<br />Regular Cinderellahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00479594734899424831noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20381544.post-50407222516709835562012-09-30T23:59:00.000-05:002012-09-30T23:59:21.226-05:00Day One<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRxnzGL2LZP3fS6Oy76ujTeyLGeohVG1zKvk1YqdGIvcyWBtAS7ecPkLc3j3RabreD1csMqWzBUMWOLNvmncf0SF864CH26MEk6A_u3tM9bnoryWu0NwKy4mCaLC6lmJsmXja55w/s1600/Calendar.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="319" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRxnzGL2LZP3fS6Oy76ujTeyLGeohVG1zKvk1YqdGIvcyWBtAS7ecPkLc3j3RabreD1csMqWzBUMWOLNvmncf0SF864CH26MEk6A_u3tM9bnoryWu0NwKy4mCaLC6lmJsmXja55w/s320/Calendar.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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</div>
<div>
After a month long absence, I finally went back to Weight Watchers. I didn't want to go and I had a million and one excuses, but I had promised people, including myself, that I would go. I don't really have the money to spend on it, especially if I'm not even making the effort to go. Pulling into the parking lot, I had to fight the urge to turn around and leave. Thank God my friend was there to walk inside with me. </div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
I squeezed my eyes shut as I stepped on the scale, whispering that I didn't want to know the number, and could she please just hit the "reset" button for me and tell many how many points I get each day? I still can't bring myself look at the little sticker taunting me from the book inside my purse. After weighing in, I wanted to leave, but followed my friend to our usual spot. <em>How can I just pretend that everything is normal?</em> I wondered if everyone was staring at me. <em>Do they know how close I am to losing to it?</em> My hands shaking, I dug my fingernails into my skin, blinking away tears from time to time. </div>
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</div>
<div>
I left right after the meeting, not daring to talk to--or even look at--Leader Pam and barely acknowledging my friends. Deep breaths in the parking lot, and then I drove to Target for some fresh fruit and health(ier) groceries. Unfortunately...I started crying before I made it there and had to sit in my van for a few extra minutes. When the tears wouldn't stop, I just wore my sunglasses inside. Today was one of the miraculous days were I managed to not run into anyone (or everyone) I know while shopping. </div>
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</div>
<div>
Fast forward to tonight, and I'm prepared for tomorrow. Yes, it would be nice if I was going to get more than 6 hours of sleep, but the fact is, I'm not. I don't even know if I remember the last time I did. At least my breakfast and my lunch are made for tomorrow. The Hubster teaches tomorrow night, so dinner is (almost) ready, too. I've even got most of my tracking entered. I'm ready for Day One.</div>
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</div>
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But...</div>
<div>
I've made it through Day One before. Day One is actually pretty easy. It's Day Two...Day Ten...Day Seventeen...that are hard.</div>
Regular Cinderellahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00479594734899424831noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20381544.post-78505727936820743012012-09-29T09:41:00.000-05:002012-09-29T09:41:00.684-05:00Chest Pain
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">There are not very many words that will get someone quicker
medical care, besides “I can’t breathe,” or “My water just broke!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I haven’t been feeling well, lately—and no, this won’t turn
into another “I’m pregnant!” post…we’re done with those for sure! My tonsils
are swollen. Not painful. Not red. Just swollen and making it difficult for me
to swallow. I thought, at first, that it might be an allergic reaction, since,
you know, I’m allergic to everything. But it didn’t go away. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">On top of that, I’ve been having chest pain. A heaviness.
The weight of the world crushing me, stealing air from my lungs. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I had an idea of what it might be, but scheduled an
appointment, anyway. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Chest pain.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The words bring a controlled panic and an onslaught of
tests. Oxygen level: Normal. Chest x-ray: Normal. EKG: Normal. A strep swab,
WBC, and mono test for my swollen tonsils: All Normal. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I try to work up the courage to say the words, but she says
them for me: “Could it be anxiety?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">My chest tightens more, my swollen throat closes, and tears
burn my eyes as I nod, not trusting my voice. She asks what I could be anxious
about and I whisper, “Everything.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The family problems that are boiling over after simmering
for 30 years. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The teenager I’ve helped raise for 13 years who suddenly
tells me I have no place in her life. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The sick relative. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The husband who refuses to communicate. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The weight I can’t lose.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The time I don’t have.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The house that stays messy and the bank account that stays
empty. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The schoolwork I have to excel at. Someone told me yesterday
that a C is passing, but I can’t get a C. I have to get an A. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The sleepless nights, partially blamed on my baby, but the
fact is that I toss and turn long after she has finally gone to bed. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I can’t breathe.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I am
in a constant state of panic. Of waiting for the rug to come flying out from
under me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What’s next? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">It’s too much, but it’s too hard to talk about. Even with
friends I love, my first instinct is to pretend, “I’m fine.” The words are out
of my mouth before I can stop them. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I’m a terrible liar. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Everything is not okay.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I am not fine. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
Regular Cinderellahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00479594734899424831noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20381544.post-60519225838920156152012-08-25T23:33:00.001-05:002012-08-25T23:33:44.383-05:00Coming up for AirI've been spiraling, I know. I am not going anywhere, not circling the drain. I am clawing my way up to a point where I can breathe again. (Although, there are times I get a few precious breaths and then immediately get sucked back down again...I really am trying.) I wanted to share some lightheartedness tonight. <br />
<br />
<iframe allowfullscreen="allowfullscreen" frameborder="0" height="720" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/fqymcJRSbxI" width="960"></iframe>
<br />
A few days before Baby Sister was born, this video went viral. While I was in labor, we watched it several times, filling my delivery room with laughter and keeping my thoughts away from contractions. Our nurse stayed to watch the video with us and later came back to find out what it was called so that she could tell the other nurses about it. I laughed EVERY. TIME. I saw it.<br />
<br />
My labor was induced. I didn't want it to be...I had a somewhat traumatizing induction with Little Sister, and was terrified of a repeat performance. But I'm a big girl now, and older, smarter, and wiser, I was able to control the situation and still get the birth that I wanted. <br />
<br />
My doctor was doing rounds when we arrived at the hospital, the Hubster, my mother, my doula, and I. I was asked a million and three questions and finally admitted and allowed to roam the halls to wait for my doctor to make an appearance. Once he did, he broke my water and we wandered some more, hoping to avoid the dreaded Pitocin. <br />
No such luck. With only three contractions on my own, I was hooked up to an IV. My wonderful nurses allowed me to continue to move and to labor how I wanted to as the contractions grew more intense. My birth team took turns rubbing my swollen feet, my back, and holding my hand while we looked at pictures of Little Sister and Little Brother when they were babies. We watched this video and arm wrestled and talked. <br />
An exam revealed I was halfway there. Disappointed, because I thought I was surely much further along, I retreated to the bathroom to cry by myself for a little while. <br />
And that's when things got crazy. <br />
My mom was the one who finally dragged me back to bed so the nurse could monitor us again. Another exam showed I was progressing even further, and she went to tell the doctor I was close.<br />
VERY close! The next contraction brought pressure and pushing. There was some chaos because there was no medical staff in my room, and when they returned--responding to my doula yelling in the hallway, there were two doctors because it was shift change. The Hubster caught her as she was born--wearing my robe backwards because there was no time to put on the gown they had brought him--and, just an hour after being told I was halfway there, I was holding my baby girl. <br />
<br />
Oh, and she is beautiful. A head full of shocking dark hair when her older siblings were all bald as cue balls. Big, blue eyes. Pretty, red lips. It was love at first sight. For all of us. <br />
<br />
And now, whenever I hear this song, no matter the artist, I smile, and I think of those hours in the hospital, waiting on our second miracle baby, and the joy I felt when first I saw her. Regular Cinderellahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00479594734899424831noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20381544.post-68985629167205358772012-08-12T15:39:00.000-05:002012-08-12T15:39:40.625-05:00Regression<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRmcwXSIWL4kyxqQyPk-Z9VddfSr7BYlD9mPr6qrNHprPHX98vNn5BPARcZjN9KInbrVAJCm_P0GV9V2WZmf6gbcmD2qJuFyRZq72I-8d1Q9UJuOisGMsnBRV5HqVmau-ZRTup1A/s1600/zInvisible.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRmcwXSIWL4kyxqQyPk-Z9VddfSr7BYlD9mPr6qrNHprPHX98vNn5BPARcZjN9KInbrVAJCm_P0GV9V2WZmf6gbcmD2qJuFyRZq72I-8d1Q9UJuOisGMsnBRV5HqVmau-ZRTup1A/s320/zInvisible.jpg" width="257" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I’m struggling to write these words. My emotions are too raw
and my heart is too hurt to form sentences correctly. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I am a child again. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I didn’t have a happy childhood. I had a nice house to live
in and food to eat and…I guess you would say “things,” but I wasn’t happy. I
wasn’t beaten physically, but I was abused. Verbally. Emotionally. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">My parents divorced when I was very young. An infant. I grew
up in what they call a blended family. Only ours was a mixture of oil and water
and I was the oil. Shake it all you want, you can break down the oil into tiny
beads, but it will never be accepted as part of the water. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“This is our son,” my stepfather would say. “And this is
Julie’s daughter.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The words still echo
in my head all these years later. Of course he wouldn’t want to lay claim to
me. I’m nothing. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I was fat. Am fat. I would play outside and he would tell me
the neighbors called and reporting sightings of a beached whale. And I retreated.
My mother served up boneless, skinless chicken breast next to their burgers and
slapped my hand with her eyes, her voice, if I dared ask for more. “Do you
really need that?” <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">No.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Thirty years later, I’m still causing problems. She tells me
it’s not my fault, but it is. How could it not be? My words. My actions. The
knowledge that so many lives would be easier if I had never been born
blindsides me. This fight, this incident comes at a bad time. The onslaught of
postpartum depression, surprising only because it hit me so early this time—this
last time, isn’t helping. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I am a child again. Eating to fill a void that keeps
expanding. Trying to ease the physical pain that feels unreal. Why does sadness
hurt so much? <o:p></o:p></span></div>Regular Cinderellahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00479594734899424831noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20381544.post-43731591230029078642012-07-18T21:16:00.000-05:002012-07-18T21:16:26.195-05:00Wrong<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg91BaGGnf9wnu6fXwvgeVRwypJWLcgW0dt1hm7c-NfmbmbqiO1FMYyztoZEaXWqHX-wog6qa8nUxy85CaaMjanwhC9EVC9D_n8MXknDhBxtd-R64T43RnRvS2BwjqtOH1wZQlDmA/s1600/zbrokenglass.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="257" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg91BaGGnf9wnu6fXwvgeVRwypJWLcgW0dt1hm7c-NfmbmbqiO1FMYyztoZEaXWqHX-wog6qa8nUxy85CaaMjanwhC9EVC9D_n8MXknDhBxtd-R64T43RnRvS2BwjqtOH1wZQlDmA/s320/zbrokenglass.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">
</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I was wrong. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I said that the number the scale showed me on Sunday was
three pounds lower than the highest weight I’ve ever been. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">But I was wrong. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I had to go digging around my past, trying to remember when
it was I weighed that much. I have an issue with timelines. Was it yesterday?
Ten years ago? I have no idea. I just know it happened. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">When I found the date, my lunch jumped from my stomach to my
throat. My hands leapt from the keyboard as if it was scorching me. I think I
actually pulled off my glasses and rubbed my eyes to make sure I wasn’t seeing
things. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I was wrong. SO wrong. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">It was that moment when you’re out to eat and someone drops
a tray of dishes. The whole restaurant falls silent for a moment until someone
laughs quietly and someone else shouts the obligatory, “Job opening!” I heard
the crash, but I’m stuck in that silent period, waiting for someone to start
laughing. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I don’t weigh three pounds less than the highest weight I’ve
ever been. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I weigh two pounds more. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Someone tell me to calm down. Tell me I’m being ridiculous
to let this get to me. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Tell me it’s only
two pounds.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Nothing to get worked up
over. Remind me I’m already making better choices, I’m already on my way, and
maybe those two pounds are already gone forever. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Someone, please start laughing. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
</div>
</span><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
</div>Regular Cinderellahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00479594734899424831noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20381544.post-23420981417872576332012-07-16T10:28:00.000-05:002012-07-16T10:28:36.430-05:00Empty Space<br />
I went back to Weight Watchers yesterday. <br />
<br />
I had planned on going back the week before, but Friday rolled around with my first paycheck since Baby Sister was born and it was gone before I could blink. I wanted to go back. It’s possible I could have made it work, but I was scared. So I stayed home. <br />
<br />
Things happened last week. Big things. Little things. The Hubster and I had an argument. I ran into a friend at the grocery store. We scheduled family pictures. I made a huge decision about my future. I shaved my legs. Things. <br />
<br />
And while those things were happening, I realized how unhappy I am with myself. I tried to reason away another month of excuses why I shouldn’t go back to Weight Watchers, but in the end, I went. <br />
<br />
It was bad. I told myself I wasn’t going to look at the scale right away, but habit drew my gaze to the numbers on the counter. Three pounds away from the highest weight I’ve EVER been, pregnant or not. I swallowed and told myself that it’s a good thing I didn’t wait until next week to come back. Who knows what that number might have done to me?<br />
<br />
Taking deep breaths now, because I’ve already taken the most important step. It was a doozy. <br />
<br />
I’m trying to be new. Trying to re-teach myself all the things I’ve forgotten in the last 11 months. Sure, I know how it works, but I don’t know <em>how it works</em>, or I would have been doing it by myself. And I <em>couldn’t</em>. Wouldn’t. <strong>Didn’t</strong>. <br />
<br />
When I logged into the online program, I discovered all of my saved foods and recipes. It’s nice to know that all of those things have been there, waiting for me to come back. For some reason this morning, I clicked on the Weight Tracker, expecting it to show my current weight and goal line. What I didn’t expect was this:<br />
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<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">
<br /></div>
The angry progress of my weight loss after Little Brother was born. How I hated each of those hills before they shot down into valleys, creating empty space on an ugly graph. How I hate now the piercing incline that climbs steadily for almost a year. <br />
<br />
I can’t see it. I can’t see the gentle, downward slope that passes one goal line, one milestone after another. Some of it, I’ve done before. But never this much. It’s <strong>SO. MUCH</strong>.<br />
<br />
I feel lost and overwhelmed. Helpless. Hopeless. Failing before I’ve even begun. <br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<strong>Can't.</strong></div>
The word echoes in my mind, not caring that I don't want to hear it. <br />
<br />
What I wouldn’t give for a little <em>empty space</em>. <br />Regular Cinderellahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00479594734899424831noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20381544.post-88231220785525871462012-06-01T22:21:00.000-05:002012-06-01T22:21:08.483-05:00Just a Dream<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><em>“I thought I almost lost you.”</em> The words were spoken quietly
by Turbo Jennie. She could have been teasing, but she wasn’t. Tears sprung to
my eyes.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<em>
</em><br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><em>“I guess you almost did,”</em> I whispered.<em> “I just thought
it would be easier.”</em> <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Guilt washed over me. I felt sick. And then I woke up. Just
a dream. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I haven’t really been thinking about giving up. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Just taking a break. I have a million and one
excuses. And four kids. I’m not even back to work yet, and life is already so
busy. I can’t even imagine what it will be like when the kids are back in
school in the fall and I’m being pulled in every direction. There are nights I’d
sell my soul for a shower and a glass of wine. Nights I’ve cried in relief upon
seeing my bed. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I’m nursing Baby Sister and it’s going so well. With Little
Brother, I had supply issues and I can’t help but wonder if dieting and
exercising caused those problems. I rushed back to Weight Watchers when he was
17 days old and back to the gym when he was 7 weeks or so. Was it my fault he
wasn’t getting enough to eat? Was I so concerned with myself that he might have
suffered? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I waver between jumping back in, taking it easy, and taking
a break. In the biggest of pictures, another year of nursing standing between
me and my goal weight isn’t really that much time. I’m not sure I can go back
and take it easy. Not sure I can watch my weight week after week without
feeling discouraged that it’s not falling faster. I don’t mean I’ll spend the
next year on my couch eating ice cream and brownies, but I’m not sure I can
count calories (or Points) without making things worse for myself. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My
goals seem so much further away now, as I’m reaching numbers I swore I’d never
see again. It’s frustrating. It’s scary. It sucks. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I know me. I can see into my own future—I’ll spend the next
12 months riddled with anxiety that every drop I sweat during a workout will be
the one that means I’ll be buying formula for Baby Sister, instead of
breastfeeding like I wanted to*. I’ll spend every Sunday Morning in a Weight
Watchers meeting, cheering for my friends’ losses and achievements, and crying
in my car on the way home because I didn’t lose what I wanted to. In a year, I’ll
maybe weigh a little less, but will it be worth the stress I’ll have caused
myself? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Is it just another excuse? I know what I want, but I know
what I don’t want, too. I don’t think the two are mutually exclusive, but I
feel like, by making a decision either way, I’m giving up something. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">So I won’t decide. I’ll do what I can. I’ll certainly TRY,
but I’ll do it how I’m comfortable and in my own time.<strike> I will try really hard
not to feel guilty.</strike> I will not feel guilty. <strong>I will NOT feel guilty.</strong> <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><em>*I’m absolutely not saying there’s anything wrong with formula. I have been lucky enough to be able to breastfeed my first two babies
and I hope to continue to nurse Baby Sister for as long as I can. Not talking
Time Magazine covers or anything, but at least a year. I don’t judge others for
their personal decisions, and I would hope tonot be judged for mine.</em> <o:p></o:p></span></div>Regular Cinderellahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00479594734899424831noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20381544.post-8491801140308488492012-05-22T23:16:00.000-05:002012-05-22T23:18:56.122-05:00MoreAfter Little Sister was born, The Hubster and I talked about how many more babies we wanted to have. Big Sister wasn’t yet living with us, and I wanted to have two more kids. The Hubster felt we should stop at two. I <i>kind of </i>agreed with him…Yes, we should have two. Two <b>MORE</b>.
<br />
<br />
As the years passed with no pink lines, I eventually gave up hope of ANY more, let alone TWO. And then Little Brother came along, and I was so caught up in the little miracle we created, I never dreamed of tempting fate by trying for another.
<br />
<br />
But the good Lord remembered that four letter word I’d uttered so many years before. “More.” <br />
<br />
A few days after Little Brother’s first birthday party, I knew. The thought woke me at four in the morning, and I sent the Hubster a text to pick up a test for me, but to be quiet about it because we still had family visiting. I was awake when he got home a little after six and thrust the plastic bag at me. I quickly ripped open the box and did my business. It was <a href="http://www.fatladyparking.blogspot.com/2010/12/year-ago.html">another digital test</a>, so the answer was undeniable. Pregnant. Again. I handed it to him and collapsed on our bed as he asked me, “How did this happen?” Hilarious, right? When we know the answer, but we ask the question, anyway. I wondered what we were going to do, how we were going to make it, deep down remembering all the prayers I’d whispered for MORE.
<br />
<br />
Thank God He remembered when I’d almost forgotten.
<br />
<br />
Whereas my pregnancy with Little Brother was riddled with anxiety that something would happen and I would lose the miracle I’d waited so long for, this one was much more peaceful—in the beginning, anyway. I told my mom that I was trying not to feel cocky, but I felt like it wouldn’t have happened if it wasn’t meant to be. I started showing early, and had to spill the beans to suspicious co-workers at nine weeks. My news wasn’t quite greeted with the joy I felt, which was heart-wrenching. One friend asked me, “Where are you going to PUT it?” I was overwhelmed with surprised silence on more than one occasion and spent lots of time wondering who had replaced my friends with the judgmental peers I found myself surrounded with.
<br />
<br />
The nine months I spent nourishing Baby Sister were laced with complications. A strong belief that I was carrying twins was quickly dispelled by an ultrasound. A terrifying episode of Decreased Fetal Movement landed me in Labor and Delivery at 27 weeks, where I showed early signs of pre-eclampsia. The rest of my pregnancy included doctor appointments two or three times a week, with a weekly ultrasound and non-stress test. I was diagnosed with gestational diabetes (again,) gestational hypertension (again,) and ultimately induced at 39 weeks (again.) I experienced the ultimate high of childbirth with no pain medication (again) and my beautiful daughter was born on March 30th.
<br />
<br />
I knew all along that she would be my last baby. I wish I could have relished each movement and sensation a little longer. At the end, though, there was so much pain and anxiety that something would go wrong when we were so close...I just prayed to make it through each day to make her healthier and stronger. The first time I saw all of my children together, a little less than two hours after her birth, I knew my family was complete. Big Sister tried to play the stoic teenager, but couldn’t hide her excitement. Little Sister all but busted down the door to my hospital room to get inside and meet her new sibling. Even 21-month-old Little Brother had a huge smile and a cheerful “Hiiii!” for his Baby Sister.
<br />
<br />
In the years that followed Little Sister’s birth, two of my good friends had babies, got pregnant again, and had miscarriages. Each of them came to terms with their loss and felt they could be happy with just one child. I felt tremendous guilt because I never reached that point…I never felt like I could be happy with my family “as is.” Even after Little Brother was born, and I thought we were done—told people we were done, got rid of all our baby things again—I still never felt like our family was complete. I always wanted something <b>More</b>.
<br />
<br />
And now we have her. Welcome to the world, Baby Sister.Regular Cinderellahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00479594734899424831noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20381544.post-86715250280035421442011-09-23T09:41:00.003-05:002011-09-23T09:46:56.935-05:00Pregnant Lady vs. Pregnant Mom<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHEa59wt6maPAXPEnMRfha6WDKDFDnjICoU9TvQs20YOHXRjxxXiDf6dkBofySgPyz91edge-WFsNFwRtqTrVe5RsMnz6k9rsas1HnF_bslbhdGFn5557jlKOQ9bOhUiclbmX-KA/s1600/Pam+Pregnant.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 224px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHEa59wt6maPAXPEnMRfha6WDKDFDnjICoU9TvQs20YOHXRjxxXiDf6dkBofySgPyz91edge-WFsNFwRtqTrVe5RsMnz6k9rsas1HnF_bslbhdGFn5557jlKOQ9bOhUiclbmX-KA/s400/Pam+Pregnant.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5655565377046448354" /></a><br /><em>Did anyone watch the season premier of The Office last night? Pam is pregnant again! (Not a spoiler--I read it weeks ago in Entertainment Weekly and it's been all over Hollywood because Jenna Fischer is pregnant in real life.) Last night's show was super emotional for her--and I could relate because I totally had a day like that yesterday. Crying at every stupid thing! Couldn't stop laughing. Pregnant ladies are hilarious to watch.</em><br /><br />Being a pregnant lady is hard. Your stomach and ankles swell, you have to pee all the time, and your boobs inflate to proportions that don’t seem humanly possible. Losing control over your growing body is hard to accept and throwing in a plethora of hormones can make for a pretty interesting nine months. <br /><br />Being a pregnant mom is even harder. <br /><br />Though this is my third pregnancy, I feel like it’s my first time being a pregnant mom. When I was pregnant with Little Sister, (was it really ten years ago?) Big Sis lived with her mom, so it was only The Hubster and me…and our psychotic cat. When I was pregnant with Little Brother, the girls were 8 and 14…so while I was still a mom, they were pretty self sufficient. I could sneak off for a nap when I needed to, or go cry in my room without someone watching. <br /><br />This time around is different. I’ve never had to protect my growing belly from the kicking feet of a toddler who won’t sleep. I’ve never been woken up from one of those crazy pregnancy dreams by someone pulling my hair, yelling, “Mom! Mom!” Little Brother still gets up at night two or three times a week. There are diapers to change, more laundry to do, and a baby to entertain and keep out of trouble <br /><br />Although the exasperating fatigue of early pregnancy is finally slipping away, I’m tired. Some will say that it’s because I’m older now, but there are moms much older than I am who are doing this, too. More will smirk and make snide comments about birth control…yes, I know how babies are made, and though this one (or any of them, for that matter) wasn’t planned, I still feel blessed. After so many years of heartache when we were trying, it was a thrill to be surprised with one more when we weren’t. <br /><br />And even though I’m exhausted, I’m not sure I could be more excited to be a Pregnant Mom. Well…maybe if I’d gotten more than four hours of sleep last night.Regular Cinderellahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00479594734899424831noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20381544.post-45983088624939419342010-12-04T08:33:00.001-06:002010-12-04T08:33:46.514-06:00A Year AgoFriday, December 4, 2009<br /><br />I’m pregnant. <br /><br />I can’t quite get the words through my head.<br /><br />I’ve been feeling nauseous and dizzy. Getting weird headaches. I’ve been really, really hungry…and really, really tired. I’ve been PMSing for the last two weeks, just waiting for my monthly visitor to appear at any moment.<br /><br />But I’m late. And what’s a sure-fire way to have a period? Take a pregnancy test. <br /><br />The Hubster bought me those silly, digital pregnancy tests. I guess he thinks I’m too blonde to read the lines correctly. So, this morning, I took it. (Yes, that means I peed on it.) A tiny hour glass started flashing in the results window. I rolled my eyes and set it on the bathroom counter while it “worked.” I washed my hands, weighed myself, peeking from time at the stick on the counter, which was still flashing. No pink lines to catch my eye, I stared at the test until the result popped up. <br /><br />Pregnant. <br /><br />I picked it up and looked closer, thinking maybe it was possible to read it incorrectly. Pregnant? Me? No. Way. I compared it to the picture on the box. (Just in case I was reading it wrong. I suppose there’s a chance that could happen.) Pregnant.<br /><br />Alone in the bathroom, I started laughing. I snapped a picture of the result with my phone and sent it to the Hubster. He called me seconds later. <br /><br />“Hey, did you just send me a picture message?”<br /><br />“Yeah.”<br /><br />“What is it?”<br /><br />“You can’t tell?” Damn.<br /><br />“No, it’s kind of dark.” (And his phone sucks.)<br /><br />“It’s a pregnancy test.”<br /><br />Silence. Then… “What does it say?”<br /><br />“Do you think I’d send you a picture of it if it said no?”<br /><br />“Really?”<br /><br />Yes, really. I’m pregnant. And excited. And terrified. <br /><br />~~<br />Reading these words a year later still brings tears to my eyes. I remember exactly how I felt that day…laughing all alone in my bathroom at six in the morning—completely dumbstruck and absolutely ecstatic. For years, I agonized over pregnancy test after pregnancy test, praying for two pink lines, a plus sign, a positive. Month after month, I was disappointed, devastated, and depressed. Medication didn’t work. Trying didn’t work. Time didn’t work. Nothing worked. Nothing. <br /><br />I gave up.<br /><br />The miracle that broke my streak of negative pregnancy tests turns four months old today. One day, I’ll write my recollection of the morning he was born. I remember laughing alone in my bathroom. Horror I felt when I started bleeding around six weeks. Relief when the ultrasound tech showed us the tiny heartbeat. Excitement when she pointed out his boy parts a few weeks later. The thrill of that first kick and of sharing his movements with my family. The exhilaration I felt when I realized I was in labor for real following several hundred contractions that meant nothing. Laughing and crying all at once when they laid him on my chest.<br /><br />Today, he smiles when he sees me. He laughs when I talk to him and make silly faces. He rolls over and beams at me in pride for his accomplishments. He continues to amaze me with every breath.<br /><br />A year ago today, my life changed forever. In some ways, I can’t believe it’s been a whole year. But I also can’t remember life without him.Regular Cinderellahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00479594734899424831noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20381544.post-37510981376971802262010-10-31T23:06:00.000-05:002010-10-31T23:07:29.710-05:00ImpossibleSince he was born, I love watching Little Brother, wondering what he’s thinking. He’s such a little miracle and I often marvel at the tiny fingers, pink lips, and perfect dimples that grew inside of me for nine months or so. He is amazing and his big, blue eyes are so full of wonder that I can’t imagine what’s going on inside his sweet, bald head.<br /><br />Tonight, I watched him while he nursed before bedtime, and it struck me what he might be thinking tomorrow. Because, tomorrow, I’m going back to work. And he’s still at the age where he thinks I’ve actually disappeared when I hide behind a blanket, so tomorrow, what will he think? That I’ve abandoned him completely? <em>Where is my mommy and who is this lady holding me and why do I have to drink out of a bottle all day? </em><br /><br />I KNOW it’s ridiculous. I know that he will be fine and we will both survive and I am being completely irrational. But I can’t help it. Familiar panic and anxiety well up inside of me and I can’t breathe and the tears burst from eyes before I can stop them. I get angry. I hate my husband and the fact that he doesn’t make enough money so that I don’t have to work. I hate my friends who are able to stay home with their children. I hate the women who work because they want something to do other than being a wife and a mother. I hate myself for starting my maternity leave two days before giving birth, stealing time away from the precious baby boy I’ve spent nearly every second with for the last 88 days. I hate my life. <br /><br />I know that everything will be okay. Little Brother will be at a home daycare with a woman I know and I trust and I love. The Hubster and I will both be only a few miles away if we’re needed. I know that millions of women before me have endured and overcome this same obstacle. But tonight, I am still sad.<br /><br />I am sad and angry and anxious, and I rocked Little Brother long after he had fallen asleep, dreading the moment I’d have to kiss him goodnight. I am avoiding my bedroom, avoiding sleep. Agonizing over waking up tomorrow morning and deserting my son, if only a few hours. Tonight is impossible. <br /><br /><em>(I’m sorry. I don’t really hate anyone—I am just feeling very, very sorry for myself tonight. I am SO grateful for the time I have been able to spend with him, and I know that many women aren’t able to do the same—I have been there, too. With Little Sister, I was on bed rest for 2 months, and I went back to work when she was 4 weeks and 6 days old. When that day rolled around this time, I sent up prayers and thanks that I got nearly two more months with Little Brother. I know I am lucky, but this is still so, so hard.)</em>Regular Cinderellahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00479594734899424831noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20381544.post-25092576431355110192010-10-27T23:14:00.002-05:002010-10-27T23:22:52.803-05:00Defnitions<strong>inspiration</strong><br />[<strong>in</strong>-<em>spuh</em>-rey-<em>shuh</em> <strong>n</strong>]<br /><em>–noun</em><br />a thing or person that inspires<br /> <br /><strong>motivation</strong><br />[<strong>moh</strong>-<strong><em>tuh</em></strong>-vey-<strong><em>shuh</em> n</strong>]<br /><em>–noun</em><br />something that motivates; inducement; incentive<br /> <br /><strong>teacher</strong><br />[tee-<strong>cher</strong>]<br /><em>–noun</em> <br />a person who teaches or instructs, esp. as a profession; instructor<br /> <br /><strong>leader</strong><br />[lee-<strong>der</strong>]<br /><em>–noun</em><br />a person or thing that leads<br /> <br /><strong>friend</strong>[frend]<br /><em>–noun </em><br />a person attached to another by feelings of affection or personal regard<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSuyJI1bpYnmiSJx_XXTgNU-lnBtEaxWvEFclG5Ts5t-yOVfnE2waerUx75OWkeRf30jbhWLS2s6MX_GbNEViqkzD2JD9pGIitcFt7_zrUCI6PRT8_EfvRaK9am5dfvFG0vMa6DQ/s1600/Pointing.bmp"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 282px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSuyJI1bpYnmiSJx_XXTgNU-lnBtEaxWvEFclG5Ts5t-yOVfnE2waerUx75OWkeRf30jbhWLS2s6MX_GbNEViqkzD2JD9pGIitcFt7_zrUCI6PRT8_EfvRaK9am5dfvFG0vMa6DQ/s400/Pointing.bmp" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5532945808419542370" /></a><br /><br /><br />Turbo Jennie called me out tonight. (It was not the first time. It will not be the last. And I. Love. It.) The music was loud (it usually is) and there was something wrong with the microphone (also very normal) and I heard her say my name a couple of times…and at one point, she came over and pointed her finger in my face a la Jillian. I knew I must be doing something wrong, but couldn’t figure out what it was.<br /><br />After class, I asked her what she was saying. Turns out, it was because I was going low impact. I had excuses…I usually do. My boobs are too big. My foot hurts. I’ll pee on the studio floor. But she just shook her head. “Those days are over!” she told me. <br /><br />I thought about what she’d said for the rest of the evening. And damn it, if she isn’t right, AGAIN. I’ve gotten comfortable. I don’t jump too high. I don’t get too low. And why the hell not? It’s not that I CAN’T because I CAN. I’m doing what I’m used to. Doing what’s safe. But how can I grow? (Well, shrink?) How can I get better if I don’t try something new? If I don’t challenge myself? <br /><br />So that’s exactly what I’m going to do—challenge myself. Jump higher. Get Lower. Work harder. Do MORE.Regular Cinderellahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00479594734899424831noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20381544.post-67717648188722544942010-10-17T16:39:00.002-05:002010-10-17T16:43:11.322-05:00The "I've Only"s<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYChzRcsjqb-OFKS6ACycc1nyXBklLccSoHemLmwP0EIaPe4VvmOK_Em6QWYS1hpLrLbIQTZ93-spQ6wd_cWeyLbBGQgw7eOP4ZUuztjkcLNcsZsYkC_ed5IZk_zOlSIpAFZufhw/s1600/Mondays.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYChzRcsjqb-OFKS6ACycc1nyXBklLccSoHemLmwP0EIaPe4VvmOK_Em6QWYS1hpLrLbIQTZ93-spQ6wd_cWeyLbBGQgw7eOP4ZUuztjkcLNcsZsYkC_ed5IZk_zOlSIpAFZufhw/s400/Mondays.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5529133165835270610" /></a><br />I’ve got them. Not the Mondays. The “I’ve Only”s. And it gets worse…it seems I have passed them along to my kids. <br /><br />Little Sister’s school has a fitness challenge going on where the kids run during recess and someone tallies their laps. Once they reach five miles, they get a little keychain charm in the shape of a foot. She was talking to Leader Pam about it today, and I overheard her telling her, “I’ve only run 2 miles.” <br /><br />Big Sister is getting great grades in high school, which is a relief, because she struggled in middle school. At the beginning of the year, it because she’d “only” had a few assignments, but she’s keeping up with it and we are so proud of her. She’s a great artist, too, but “only” because she had a picture to guide her. <br /><br />And me. Since giving birth ten and a half weeks ago, I’ve only lost 25 pounds. Since joining Weight Watchers again 9 weeks ago, I’ve only lost 8.6 pounds. I went back to the gym recently, but I’ve only been 6 times in the last three weeks.<br /><br />Why? Why do we qualify our successes with that word? Why do we make them seem less important, less impressive than they should be? Leader Pam asked the question at my Weight Watchers meeting this morning—why can’t we celebrate our own successes? <br /><br />For me, it’s because I’m not done yet. I have a hard time seeing the place I came from because I’m looking at how far I have to go. It’s hard to celebrate fitting into regular, not maternity clothes because I’ve still got boxes of clothes I can’t fit into. It’s hard to celebrate losing five or ten pounds because I’m nowhere near where I want to be. <br /><br />It breaks my heart that my children have picked up on this and started qualifying their own achievements. <br /><br />So, this week, I’m challenging myself to celebrate the small things and stop demeaning my success. I DID go back to Weight Watchers. I DID go back to the gym. I WILL continue to lose. And I will set a better example for my children while I’m working on it.Regular Cinderellahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00479594734899424831noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20381544.post-47235930538902924022010-10-10T23:17:00.002-05:002010-10-10T23:20:14.397-05:00Written in the Stars<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvt78k3NEc705sq0Ct8E4mBnhWFj11PMNZ0ZHdufZY6i_RUxmFlFFWJthx3bhb98vjnTPxNoimM7sKLFUN3JBN0IiTwQzVg18zGKSSATa9jyPUmnqwa2VYJNF5q4pHHCAAKK9Cuw/s1600/gemini.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvt78k3NEc705sq0Ct8E4mBnhWFj11PMNZ0ZHdufZY6i_RUxmFlFFWJthx3bhb98vjnTPxNoimM7sKLFUN3JBN0IiTwQzVg18zGKSSATa9jyPUmnqwa2VYJNF5q4pHHCAAKK9Cuw/s400/gemini.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5526638134728207042" /></a><br /><br />A few months ago, I signed up at some website to have my horoscope texted to me every day. (Thank goodness for unlimited texting, or Big Sister would text us out of house and home—she’d racked up over 300 texts before she’d even owned the phone for 24 hours!) <br /><br />Most of the time, “my” horoscope is way off and it has absolutely nothing to do with me. (“We know you like to bottle up your feelings, Gemini…” What?!?) Every once in a while, though, it hits the nail on its head and tells me exactly what I need to hear. The week I went back to Turbo, my horoscope said that Venus was in retrograde in the fitness sector and it would turn my routine around. (Something like that.)<br /><br />Yesterday, I received this message: “There’s nothing wrong with your goals of getting healthier and finally fitting into your skinny jeans. But the way you go about it can make all the difference in the world—be careful not to get too obsessed, Gemini. All good things take time, so check the scale weekly, not hourly.” Considering I read the text at 11:30 in the morning and I’d already been on the scale 4 times, I think it was definitely advice I needed. (Advice I’ve heard before. Advice I never listen to.) <br /><br />This morning, I got this one: “You’ve counted calories all weekend. Tonight, ditch that Weight Watchers scale and head out for a feast with your friends. You won’t undo all the good work you’ve done if you remember that tonight is about friendship, not stuffing your face.” Turns out, I actually did have a social afternoon planned with friends. Weird, right? Since I weighed in this morning, I did <s>over-indulge</s> <s>indulge</s> OVER-indulge in some artichoke-spinach dip, but I also spent a lot of time visiting. I’m absolutely loving spending all my time with Little Brother, but it’s nice to talk to grown-ups, too. <br /><br />This week’s challenge: Not checking the scale! I rely on that thing WEIGH (ha-ha!) too much and I’ll admit that I let it affect food decisions that I make. This week, I’m going to eat smart, track my points, and keep up with my activities. I am NOT going to step on the scale until my meeting next Sunday morning. (In fact, I stashed it in my bathroom cupboard, just in case I feel the need.) I hate weighing “blind,” but the scale is definitely something I need to conquer.Regular Cinderellahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00479594734899424831noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20381544.post-19699219183752809092010-09-21T21:20:00.003-05:002010-09-21T21:29:04.585-05:00One Step at a Time<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheKPYsv_ddXTgQJJxmDVMFAXzdciwcGTJCJffhERJu4W8nTCl43d0DFRcQV-4AQInxRQSqKnasuChwgt8eluPmloOp_MhYlVdQPCriTfN4j_m5we8DzQuKbuocNPBOeMu_OKSdGg/s1600/steps.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 273px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheKPYsv_ddXTgQJJxmDVMFAXzdciwcGTJCJffhERJu4W8nTCl43d0DFRcQV-4AQInxRQSqKnasuChwgt8eluPmloOp_MhYlVdQPCriTfN4j_m5we8DzQuKbuocNPBOeMu_OKSdGg/s400/steps.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5519557195627205554" /></a><br /><br />Where to begin? <br /><br />I’ve been back at Weight Watchers for about a month now. Going back was easier than I thought it would be. Maybe too easy. I made the decision early on to give myself a day “off” on Sunday, the day of my meeting. I decided I would track the food I ate that day, but not the points. It was also my “cheat” day, where I would have a little something that I wouldn’t normally have during the week…bacon, ice cream, a soft pretzel…something like that. <br /><br />So guess what happened? Sunday turned into Sunday and Monday. And then Tuesday. And by Wednesday or Thursday, I’d wasted half the week and I was terrified to step on the scale. Why? I don’t know. I don’t have any answers. No excuses. <br /><br />Last week was a tough one. My sweet tooth was acting up and I’ve no experience being home alone with food. When I’m at work, I bring the food I can eat. I eat the food I bring, and I’m okay. When I’m at home, though…all the food is here. I can have anything I want. And when the baby’s crying, it’s easier to grab a pop-tart than make something healthy for breakfast. It’s easier to run to a drive-thru when I’m out than to worry about getting home and being able to make something for lunch before he wakes up. It’s easier. Not better.<br /><br />I haven’t been working out, yet, either. I’ve taken a few walks and attempted a post-natal yoga video I found on instant Netflix, but nothing like the workouts I did before or even during my pregnancy. At my post partum visit last week, my doctor made it a point to tell me I was healing, not healed, and I should continue to take it easy. He said I could try maybe 2 or 3 classes a week when I’m ready, but warned me not to dive back into the schedule I had before. <br /><br />But I’m not ready. Some of it is physical—the aches and pains of childbirth that I’m still dealing with, but a lot of it is mental. It’s been 5 months since I did Turbo. (I hadn’t realized it had been that long until just now. 5 months?!) I’m afraid to go back. I’m the Fat Lady again, <a href="http://fatladyparking.blogspot.com/2008/04/we-are-not-alone.html">staring into a studio full of strangers</a>. Worried I won’t be able to keep up. Worried I’ll make a fool of myself. Worried I can’t do it. <br /><br />I can, though. I know I can. I know I can get back to the place where I was. I know I can succeed. <br /><br />So I’m going to take it one step at a time. I bought some little jawbreakers at the store the other day. I can have 3 of them for 1 point, and they will last a long time, so I won’t be snacking all day on sweets. That’s my food step this week. I’m also going to meet my fruit and vegetable recommendation every day. As a nursing mom, I should be getting 8 servings a day. Yesterday, I had 10 and today, I had 9. It sounds like two steps, doesn’t it? They’re important ones. <br /><br />For my exercise step, I’m going to shoot first for some activity 4 times a week. Yesterday, I walked with Leader Pam. (Love her!) Today was harder. I planned a walk with Little Brother, but he fell asleep while I was changing clothes. I decided to do the yoga video, but put a load of laundry in first and he woke up before I got my yoga mat rolled out. He's been into cat naps, lately, although he did finally sleep for 3 hours. He was a little fussy for a while, though…walking around, carrying 13 pounds of baby counts as some activity, right? Because I do that all the time. Next week, I will think about returning to the gym. But for now…one step at a time. <br /><br />We’ve been talking weight loss mantras in our meetings the last couple of weeks. I didn’t really have one in mind…the old stand-bys: ELMO—eat less more often, or “Nothing tastes as good as being thin feels.” But they weren’t really mine. A friend of a friend posted on Facebook: “Eat clean and workout dirty.” I kind of fell in love with that one and I’m going to use it, but I kind of just realized I’ve got one of my own.<br /><br />One step at a time. It’s the way to go. Changing everything all at once is a recipe for disaster and failure. But I can change one thing. Can you? <br /><br />Good luck to my friend, <a href="http://www.comingupcollins.blogspot.com/">M</a>, who starts her Weight Watchers journey as a path to get back in shape before adding to her family again. And good luck to Leader Pam, who is walking 50 miles this weekend (starting on Friday, the day she turns 50!) to raise money in support of <a href="http://www.nationalmssociety.org/index.aspx">The National MS Society.</a> Remember, ladies…One step at a time.You both can do it. We all can.Regular Cinderellahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00479594734899424831noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20381544.post-53981798165043127552010-09-01T08:30:00.003-05:002010-09-01T08:34:55.892-05:00Us Versus Them<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUFF4GQJL7U5YuNreq3T24LIyKznE-82sHWTkF3g0xEYEwQBHPoHGh8bpDGHZCVynNEpIggFDxVtGsmZ2QU4dVo8MVwEs6q1ImeY1En8iGNdiPqiD6cLewmQKR5HXI9-NqDQ0hzw/s1600/Boxing+Gloves.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUFF4GQJL7U5YuNreq3T24LIyKznE-82sHWTkF3g0xEYEwQBHPoHGh8bpDGHZCVynNEpIggFDxVtGsmZ2QU4dVo8MVwEs6q1ImeY1En8iGNdiPqiD6cLewmQKR5HXI9-NqDQ0hzw/s400/Boxing+Gloves.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5511937928748704322" /></a><br />At my Weight Watchers meeting this week, we discussed ways to incorporate activity into our daily lives. A topic that always comes up is gym alternatives. <br /><br />Whether it’s an excuse people use to shy away or an honest fear, the gym can be an intimidating place. There are daunting machines, unclear etiquette, and the scariest pressure of all: Hot Bods. The Skinnies in Spandex stretching in front of the mirror and the Muscle Heads working it on the weight floor. THEY can be menacing and unapproachable to US, the average people, just looking to burn more calories than we take in.<br /><br />A woman in my Sunday meeting told us how she stayed away from the gym because she was concerned about how she looked compared to THEM. The sub-Leader (Leader Pam was out pounding 5k of pavement!) asked her how she thought THEY got to look that way. The woman muttered, almost under her breath, “They were probably BORN that way.” <br /><br />“But maybe they weren’t.” I hadn’t planned on saying anything. I didn’t know the woman and I was nursing Little Brother and I didn’t really want to draw attention to myself, but suddenly, everyone was looking at me. The sub-Leader asked me what I meant. I pointed out that you can’t know what someone has always looked like based on what they look like now. It’s not fair to assume that THEY don’t have to work just as hard as everyone else to look the way THEY do. <br /><br />It’s an assumption many people make though. We see someone who’s slim and fit and we assume it’s always been easy for them. We figure they can eat whatever they want. We think they don’t need to exercise because…they were probably born that way. <br /><br />Deep down, I know it’s not true. Last year, Turbo Jennie launched a “Before and After” campaign and challenged her followers (yes, it really is like a cult) to share pictures of the changes they’ve made with exercising and healthy living. She asked me to combine the photos for quick comparison, so I got first look at lots of them. She handed me photos at class one night and asked me to work my magic on them. I looked at them for a few minutes and then asked her who they were. When she told me, I was shocked. I had only known the girls in the picture for a few months, and to me, they were thin and strong and beautiful—and as far as I knew, they always had been. There was no way the round faces starting back from the photograph belonged to the women I knew. But they did.<br /><br />Prior to my pregnancy, I was exercising 8 or more hours a week. It happened unexpectedly…I never considered myself a gym rat, but one class a week turned into three, and then six. I looked forward to each and every class, excited to see my friends, excited to sweat, excited to work out. I cried the day Turbo Jennie called me an athlete. That wasn’t me—I was the quiet one. The bookworm. The fat girl.<br /><br />I am still one of US, but one day, I’ll be one of THEM. One day, someone I just met won’t believe how heavy I used to be and when I pull out a picture, they’ll be shocked and tell me they always just assumed I had it easy. <br /><br />But I’ll know the truth.Regular Cinderellahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00479594734899424831noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20381544.post-17262363493826129022010-08-29T20:02:00.002-05:002010-08-29T20:05:03.414-05:00Coming Home<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgF_o27v5RhIyRh9YyBbSn6sO3d2OH-XH9aAyqH2YE7KzGyTZY_oB5HLgoOdKXhz5B-2AwYw8FScMvVMN4r198Ff3v7RkOj_YLaBRVsi9wnGMvyGexJa22bkePGYB88ssU5yq5qBg/s1600/Welcome+Mat.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 241px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgF_o27v5RhIyRh9YyBbSn6sO3d2OH-XH9aAyqH2YE7KzGyTZY_oB5HLgoOdKXhz5B-2AwYw8FScMvVMN4r198Ff3v7RkOj_YLaBRVsi9wnGMvyGexJa22bkePGYB88ssU5yq5qBg/s400/Welcome+Mat.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5511002190177538242" /></a><br />Last Sunday, I stepped back into the world of Weight Watchers. It might seem a little early to jump back on the bandwagon—I have NOT made it back to the gym yet; I’ve still got some healing to do—it was a goal I’d set during my pregnancy. I was so sure Little Brother would be joining us sooner, rather than later, and darn it if the little stinker didn’t wait right up until his due date to make his debut. (We are both doing well and my family and I are completely in love with him.) <br /><br />My son was 17 days old when I attended my first meeting since quitting in December. I packed on 40 pounds during my pregnancy, and it took me almost the entire time to cope with my weight gain, but I survived. I did NOT have a 40 pound baby, and the weight I lost by the time I left the hospital was only a fraction of the total I’d gained. I am breastfeeding and I know I need to continue to nourish my baby, but I have been anxious to shed the excess weight I’ve been carrying. (Because baby car seat/carriers are HEAVY! I don’t need even more pounds to lug around!) Weight Watchers offers an option for nursing mothers that allows me to lose weight safely without affecting my baby or my supply. <br /><br />I was nervous about renewing the program I know so well. The last few weeks have been filled with hurried meals, eating out, and numerous trips to our local Culver’s. My first meeting topic was about not denying yourself foods you love, but rather, finding ways to incorporate them by choosing lighter versions, decreasing the frequency of indulgences, and making up for the extra calories with activity. It was a terrific meeting to attend because it reminded me that foods aren’t taboo or off limits, which is why this works for me. <br /><br />My week went well. I had difficulty following all the “Good Health Guidelines,” but I made it a point to write down and calculate points for everything I ate—including one trip to Culver’s on Thursday, treats at Movie Night on Friday, and a birthday party at Chuck E. Cheese on Saturday. I was stressed at times—especially when the baby was hungry at the same time I was—but I learned to ask for help when I needed it (which was often) and that it was okay to let him cry while I finish making my lunch so I could eat at the same time he did. <br /><br />And I lost 4 pounds. It’s not a record—I think last time I joined WW, I lost 6 pounds the first week. Once, I lost 11 pounds!—but it’s okay with me. I’m not worried about losing the weight quickly…I just want to lose it. From time to time, I lament over the goal I set years ago…to be at a healthy weight by the time I turn 30. I was on track to be there ahead of schedule, but Little Brother set me back a little bit. (Worth EVERY. Single. Pound.) I’ve got 8 months to get there and about 80 pounds to lose. I could still make it, but I’m not going to let the stress get to me. I’m going to stay on plan, exercise as soon as I am up to it, and enjoy my family. I’m going to live my life.<br /><br />But it feels so good to be back.Regular Cinderellahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00479594734899424831noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20381544.post-42344309825308023102010-04-26T17:44:00.002-05:002010-04-26T17:48:31.490-05:00No<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzJP9A2QsSsKaDX4Yt1oc08givGDDpsUF8h2b0pvhDCNBeh8_-uMWwgZFu4JC2dz3GwUrvSfj7Zu-hJcHKqfMY-Wt9FYwNBc1VAtJCFubcMVb0uZhC3GWiHPg9JVgBw5445ieJqA/s1600/Temper.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 234px; height: 260px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzJP9A2QsSsKaDX4Yt1oc08givGDDpsUF8h2b0pvhDCNBeh8_-uMWwgZFu4JC2dz3GwUrvSfj7Zu-hJcHKqfMY-Wt9FYwNBc1VAtJCFubcMVb0uZhC3GWiHPg9JVgBw5445ieJqA/s400/Temper.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5464581129093093538" /></a><br />No.<br /><br />Although quite familiar with the word, it’s not one I’m particularly fond of. Especially when it’s followed by the word <em>exercise</em>.<br /><br />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.) <br /><br />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. <br /><br />That said, I love the little bugger and can’t wait to meet him this summer. <br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.” <br /><br />“What about kickboxing?” I asked.<br /><br />She laughed before she realized I was serious. “No!” she told me. “No exercise.” <br /><br />I rested for <s>the whole </s> 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. <br /><br />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. <br /><br />Knowing and dreading the answer, I asked my question. “What about exercise?”<br /><br />“No.”<br /><br />“Swimming?”<br /><br />“No.”<br /><br />“Yoga?”<br /><br />“No.”<br /><br />“Walking?”<br /><br />“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.<br /><br />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.”<br /><br />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.<br /><br />I will <s>try</s>.<br /><br />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.<br /><br /> 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. <br /><br />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.Regular Cinderellahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00479594734899424831noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20381544.post-77495270218603022702010-02-17T22:49:00.003-06:002010-02-17T22:53:30.843-06:00Angry Fat Girls<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSgz-exBxfo_ZDTelk1XilaJd2BsXBlA3XDB1YH2o2N9fUjtCube9KEmqErMrcGZ9vVG4O5phCIqisF25W6-c6ox4ckRmE5ltopCK8KUuMPg1ChTB87suJQ_q2GlPLAcxtRHO6sw/s1600-h/AFG.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSgz-exBxfo_ZDTelk1XilaJd2BsXBlA3XDB1YH2o2N9fUjtCube9KEmqErMrcGZ9vVG4O5phCIqisF25W6-c6ox4ckRmE5ltopCK8KUuMPg1ChTB87suJQ_q2GlPLAcxtRHO6sw/s400/AFG.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5439441312207847218" /></a><br />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.)<br /><br /><a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/0425232182/bargaincom-20">Angry Fat Girls</a> started with a blog. (See, <a href="http://www.thegreatfitnessexperiment.blogspot.com/">Charlotte</a>? 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. <br /><br />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. <br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.”<br /><br /><blockquote><em>Whatever we do is fine.</em> I hate those words. It’s a fat thing: I <em>need</em> 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: <em>“If that’s what you want to do…” “Whatever you say…” “I’m just along for the ride…”</em></blockquote><br />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.<br /><br />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.Regular Cinderellahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00479594734899424831noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20381544.post-55740744962328264822010-02-08T22:49:00.003-06:002010-02-08T22:53:40.748-06:00I Can't Fight this Feeling<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYPpMHCGi3ss-bK45R5sgUjR_QVVEj8kMz59zNrsSzplD9rx1cikdz75tMMgeARg08nKB4g95ZSbfqQz2JcikPM8Sw54bKimD0P81EiB3jPy1rrhBkW2WcK6bB2BRVbXPPZ-uHzA/s1600-h/panic_button.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYPpMHCGi3ss-bK45R5sgUjR_QVVEj8kMz59zNrsSzplD9rx1cikdz75tMMgeARg08nKB4g95ZSbfqQz2JcikPM8Sw54bKimD0P81EiB3jPy1rrhBkW2WcK6bB2BRVbXPPZ-uHzA/s400/panic_button.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5436102075204189202" /></a><br />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. <br /> <br />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.<br /> <br />Today was not a good day. <br /> <br />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. <br /> <br />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.<br /> <br />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.<br /> <br />Images and thoughts filled my head and I wondered, for the millionth time, why I hadn’t invested in one of those <a href="http://saveyourlife.us/resqme.html?gclid=CKyKt8as5J8CFRDxDAoduSy5KQ">tools</a> 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. <br /><br />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! <br /><br />After <s>several minutes</s> <s>a few hours</s> 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. <br /><br />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. <br /><br />Only seventy days left. And one hundred and forty more chances for absolute, uncontrollable panic.Regular Cinderellahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00479594734899424831noreply@blogger.com0