Insomnia

I had another topic to write about tonight, but I've had this on my mind. I haven't been sleeping well.

Sunday night, I was up until one in the morning. When I finally forced myself to go to bed, I lay restless until at least two. Then I was up at 2:40. Up at four. Up at 4:40. I can't fall asleep. I can't stay asleep. I've been this way for months.

I've been exercising more than I ever have before. I'm eating right. I've cut back on caffeine and limited myself in the afternoon. Still, I can't sleep. I'm emotional. Irritable. The circles beneath my eyes are growing.

On Tuesday, I decided that enough time had passed that it was time to call my doctor. Of course, she was off yesterday, so I called her today. She called me back this evening, and I wondered if it might be my birth control. I have a long, complicated history with birth control, but the short story is that I was on Yasmin for years and everything was perfect until it wasn't perfect and last August, my doctor put me on the Nuvaring, which I love. However, right now, it's the only medication I take regularly, and I started having trouble sleeping at some point last fall...I thought it was the stress of the kids starting school...and then our upcoming trip to Nebraska...and then the holidays. I thought it was normal...but month after month of 3-5 hours of sleep per night has led me to think that maybe it's not so normal.

She told me she hadn't really heard of there being a link between the Nuvaring and insomnia, but since it's hormone related--and hormones do pretty much whatever the heck they want to--it could be the problem. She asked if I had trouble sleeping during my week off the ring...but I haven't been taking that week off, because she told me not to. I'd been having some major problems when having my period--most importantly debilitating headaches--and she told me to use the ring for three weeks and then put a new one in instead of taking week off. I still get my period every other month or so while on the ring, but it's not nearly as bad as it was.

My doctor suggested I "go off" the ring and see what happens. She told me to take it out and the hormones should be out of my system in 3-4 days. She said to give it a week or so and see how I'm sleeping--she's sending me samples of a sleep aid in the meantime, thank God, sleep! If I'm still not sleeping well, then I have to go see her to figure out what's wrong. (And I can go back on the ring.)

I'm torn. I'm worried I'm going to gain weight when I stop using the ring. I'm pissed that I just got a three month supply and now I'm wasting the one I just put in last week. (On the other hand, some decent sleep sounds so good to me, I don't care about the money.) Without the birth control, I didn't have my period for over a year--frustrating considering we wanted to get pregnant during that time. We're not trying to get pregnant right now, which is one reason I haven't minded staying on the birth control. I'm not worried about getting pregnant...I'm worried that my body is too screwed up to have a normal cycle without help. It took a lot for me to get back to normal...and I know I'm worrying for nothing, because if I'm still having trouble sleeping after a week, then it will be a moot point, and I'll go back on the Ring, and not have to worry about periods or pregnancy...and then I'll worry about why I can't sleep.

Kettle Hell

Oh. My. God.

Kettlebell class...so hard.

They had 10, 15, and 20 pound Kettlebells. I picked up a 15-pounder...then put it down and picked up the 10-pound. Didn't even glance at the 20 pound weight. (Although I'm pretty sure the Hubster picked one up, then put it back and took at 15-pounder.)

Trainer Dan demonstrated some of the moves while I watched with wide eyes, shaking my head. Trainer Dan is obviously insane.

Seriously? He squatted with the weight hanging between his legs, then swung it forward, up over his head. He did WHAT? You heard me.

He sat on the ground, holding the kettlebell at his chest with his elbows out, rolled down onto his back, then shot up, raising the the weight above his head. The girl across the room from me burst out laughing at the dirty look I gave Trainer Dan.

Then the fun started. A quick warm-up with some marching, some squats, some dead-lifts. And then we picked up the weights.

Oh. My. God.

I was sweating almost immediately. And not pretty droplets on my forehead or gee, my shirt's a little wet sweating...bright red, hey look at me, I'm sweating! kind of sweating.

But I squatted. And I tilted. And I swung that damn weight. I even did the sadistic sit-ups.

Trainer Dan said that one 30 minute class can burn as many calories as an hour of Turbo Kick. Hmmm. Makes me think.

Would I do it again? Yes. Would I pay $70 for 7 weeks of once-a-week classes? Probably not?

The best part about my YMCA is that all the stuff--the track, the studios, the weights, everything--is upstairs. So at the end of my workout, when I think I'm about to die, I still have to walk down those stairs and pick up Little Sister. Tonight, I made it down two steps. Maybe. And then I grasped the railing and said, "Oh. My. God. I'm not going to make it down these stairs."

A lady coming up the steps laughed and said, "Did you just do Turbo Kick? I went to my first class last week and felt just like that!"

I laughed and told her that I do that, too. But not tonight. Oh no, that's tomorrow. If I live that long.

Date Night...

Not flowers and candy, followed by candle light, oysters, and hours of sex.

GIRL date night.

Catching up with my girlfriend--M, who LOVES her snazzy new nickname, by the way. Sitting and eating...God, delicious french fries, which turned out to be ENDLESS, but I only had one serving. We talked about several million topics and discovered that besides sharing a name, we have the same wedding band, the same fears, and that we are essentially the same person. We even dreamed about each other the other night--no funny business, we were competing in Iron Chef in mine and shopping at Walmart in hers...bizarre.

I had a fantastic time and hope we get to see each other more often!

I got home and discovered I'd have to walk a good two and a half miles to hit my step goal, so I hung up my pedometer at just over 5000 steps for today. (And Lindsay was out of the office today, so my beating stress phone consult got rescheduled.)

The greatest news of all is that I'm down FOUR more pounds for a total of 19!!!

The Hubster is rubbing my feet right now because they're freezing. What a guy...he must be confused as to what kind of date I had tonight.

Choices

I ended up babysitting tonight for Mrs. C's three kids. Little Sister came with me and between the four of them, they were sweet and cute and funny and wild and naughty...all of those things as usual.

At bedtime, Little J tried to stall. Wanted a story...wanted a drink...wanted to play. I reminded him that he needs to get to bed because he as a big day tomorrow. He asked me why the day was so big. "Because it's your birthday party, silly!" I told him.

With that, he scampered into bed with a gigantic grin spreading across his face, telling me, "It's a HUGE day!"

A friend of mine from high school (Sorry, M, I'm tired. No cute name for you tonight) joined the YMCA recently--today, I think--and is coming to Turbo Kick with me tomorrow morning. I haven't seen her in a good 6 years or so and I'm very excited to see (and sweat with) her tomorrow morning. We're also planning dinner out next Monday after my WW meeting for a less strenuous reunion.

That said, tonight I'm left with a choice. Do I go upstairs and walk two miles on the treadmill and hit my step goal? Or do I go to bed so I'm not rushing everyone out of the house tomorrow morning? Perhaps if I had come home and changed and gone to the workout room right away, I would have been more motivated. As it stands, I think I'll take the early bedtime.

6,081 steps today. Not so fantastic. But not terrible, either.

Confession Time.

I have a confession to make.

I haven't been wearing my pedometer. I know. You're shocked. I can tell.

Over the weekend, I decided I would be really good and wear it every day this week. Monday morning, when I was getting dressed, I grabbed it off the bathroom counter and clipped it to my pants...then I changed my pants.

Tuesday, I brought back into the bathroom to put it on as I was getting dressed. I didn't put it on, but carried it with me into the bedroom, where I stopped to put on some lip balm. Then I left the room without it.

Wednesday, I wore the damn thing. Today, I wore it again. WOW! Two days in a row...it's a miracle!

Wednesday, I walked 7679 steps and did Turbo Kick, which converts to 14,500. A total of: 22, 179 steps!

Today, I walked 5703 steps and did Turbo Kick for a total of 20,203 steps.

20K+ steps two days in a row? I could lay in bed and do absolutely nothing for the next two days and still get in my 10K steps a day average!

My next phone course is about beating stress. It's one I definitely need!

Numbers

I've always been ashamed of my weight. I lie about it on my driver's license. I refuse to be weighed at the doctor's office. I didn't own a scale for years.

The day I went to the doctor's office and found out I was pregnant--seven years ago, I weighed 247 pounds. A couple months later when I went in for my first OB appointment, I weighed 232 pounds. They yelled at me for losing so much. (Like I knew or could help it that I was throwing up every three seconds. Anyone else throw up in the doctor's office parking lot? That always seemed to be a good target for some reason.)

Over the next few months, I slowly gained back that 15 pounds. I never wanted the Hubster to look at the scale, but I know he did. (Sneaky bastard.) As I passed 247 and edged closer to 250, I got more and more nervous. I did not want to hit that number.

On what turned out to be my last OB appointment--the do-you-want-to-be-induced-in-3-days-or-in-7? appointment--I hit it. 250. I cried.

Six days after Little Sister was born, I had a wicked case of mastitis. I was throwing up in the shower sick. It was also her first doctor's appointment and I got on the scale, too. After having my seven pound, four ounce little bundle of joy, I weighed 230 pounds again. Very exciting. The doctor gave me some antibiotics and told me to keep breast feeding and said the weight would fly off.

It didn't.

230 became 250 again. 260. 274. That's the highest I ever weighed myself at, when I started Weight Watchers 3 years ago.

Those are numbers I will never see again.

274
260
250

A couple of people have asked me where I'm at now...and I know that I haven't been sharing the numbers this time around, for some reason.

It wasn't intentional. Just something I didn't think of. I'm not shy about my weight any more. I'm proud of where I've come from and what I've conquered.

When I started WW on November 3, 2008, I weighed 258.8 pounds.
At my last weigh-in, on Monday, I weighed 243.8.

More numbers I will never see again.

274
260
258.8
250

I'll never forget where I came from.
And I'll never go back.

Not this time.

Positive Thinking

I know I come across as kind of negative.

There are lots of things about myself that I absolutely hate.

My stupid, crooked nose.
My freckles.
My stomach.

I'm trying to be more positive about...things. About myself. About everything.

On that note, here are somethings that I like about myself. Things, I've decided, that I will think about more often.

I have the bluest eyes ever.
I have a nice complexion.
I have really, super thick hair.

That's enough for now...I'm having a hard time of thinking of things that don't have qualifiers. (I like my nails but they grow crooked because of damage to my nail beds when I was young.)

I'm trying to be positive. I know I can do this.
This time.

Guilt

I had my Weight Watchers meeting tonight.

I gained, which irritates the heck out of me since I worked so darn hard this past week. I know I'll do better, though...it's a process. (And it SUCKS!)

After the meeting, I went to the grocery store to buy a few taco necessities. As I bagged my tortilla shells, cheese, and sour cream, I realized that the woman standing in line behind me had just sat behind me at the Weight Watcher's meeting. Oh God, I thought. Please don't let her recognize me.

When she came down to bag her groceries (This is the only state I've ever lived in where I had to bag my own groceries!) she smiled at me. "Hello again." Damn.

"Hi..." I took in her case of water, bags of frozen veggies, and other WW paraphernalia. "Don't look at my taco stuff."

She laughed. "Don't worry. I won't tell."

It's Monday night and I've starved all day, hoping for a good number on the scale. If I want tacos, I'll have tacos, consequences be damned. (Until next Monday, that is, when I'm pissed about my weigh-in again.)

My Cup No Longer Runeth Over

I went shopping today.

It was awesome. I love spending time with old friends and catching up.

We went to LB and I got measured for a new bra--I went down TWO cup sizes! That's CRAZY! I never lose weight in that area. It was so exciting to be able to buy a bra at the store and bring it home instead of special ordering and having it sent to me. I also got some cute panties (I love that word!) and a nice shirt--because some of mine are starting to look a little...sack-like. Between the two of us, we spent $105, but we SAVED $217--which is a way more important number!

We went into a couple of other stores...I'm looking forward to being a weight where we can try on the same clothes. There were a couple of things she picked out that were really cute, but I knew I could never squeeze into them. Some day...sooner, rather than later, I hope.

I made it to the shoe store, too. I grabbed a handful of shoes in different styles to try on and sat down. KB scouted the store and then came to check on me. She told me she saw a bunch of tennis shoes on clearance and asked if she should bring some over. She returned with a huge stack of boxes, which I sorted through and sent some of them back with her. I ended up with two pairs--some New Balance runners, which are suspiciously like my old ones, but pink, and a pair of VERY comfortable Dr. Scholl's walking shoes.

The best part is, when I got home, I slipped on my new running shoes and headed upstairs to the workout room. I walked a faster pace for 10 minutes, then did some weights, then walked a slower pace at a level 6 incline--my booty is killing me! I did some more weights and then came home.

I'm nervous about tomorrow's weigh-in. I try not to obsess about the scale during the week, but it's hard not to step up there a few times a day. This morning, I weighed a full NINE pounds more than I did last Monday night. We ate Chinese food last night, but I certainly didn't eat NINE pounds of it. What's the deal?

Unable to Wait

One of my early weight-loss goals was to buy myself a pair of new running shoes once I lost 25 pounds.

See, I worked at a shoe store in high school and I have kind of a...problem. I love shoes. I'm obsessed with them, really. I can't say no. Really, buy-one-get-one half off? The Hubster, Big Sister, and Little Sister all get a new pair...and I get three. I'm not kidding, either. Not that any one else in my family is hurting for shoes...Big Sister could wear a different pair every day for at least two weeks and Little Sis has a whole new wardrobe once she hits the next size up--I heart garage sales! The Hubster kind of gets the shaft, though...he's rough on his shoes so he gets limited to thrift stores and a new pair just every once in a while.

Running shoes are different. I tend to use the heck out of them and wear them until they're just about falling apart before I force myself into a new pair. And I'm picky about them. They must be light-weight. Must be cushioned. Must fit both of my feet--a difficult task with one foot longer and the other one fatter...I feel like both of the ugly step-sisters when I'm trying on shoes.

I know way too much about them, too. I'm ashamed to admit that I was a big dork--oh, wait, you knew that already? Damn. I thought I hid it so well--and I spent every break for five years in the back room reading information sent to us by manufacturers. (Minus the breaks where I was off flirting with the man who became the Hubster.) Cross trainers for aerobics? Look for grooves on the sole which allow for better stability and wear for quick, side-to-side movements. Walking? Look for a shoe that provides lots of cushioning. Runners? Look for a light-weight shoe with shock absorbing foam. Kids shoes? Don't buy them too big, hoping to outsmart a growth spurt--shoes that don't fit right will wear faster, and you'll end up buying a new pair before Junior outgrows them, anyway!

Anyway. On to my shoes. My beautiful shoes. I can't wait another 7.2 pounds. I need them NOW. We were stomping in Turbo Kick this morning, and I felt a sharp pain shoot up my shin. I started thinking about my shoes. I hadn't exactly been active until the latter part of 2008, so I haven't really been wearing out the running shoes left and right. I bought these last March, before our trip to Texas. These shoes carried me through Sea World, saw me cry in the Alamo, and shopped with me on the Riverwalk. They came with me to Florida and took me through Disney's Animal Kingdom, Magic Kingdom, and Hollywood Studios. They carried me in the rain to the Renaissance Festival last summer. They helped me through my first Turbo Kick class, stumbled through my first (and only!) Body Step class, and watched me from afar as I did Yoga, PiYo, and Body Flow--barefoot! They carried me many miles on the bike and the treadmill...through the grocery store, to orthodontist appointments, and to work on Fridays. These shoes have seen a lot.

But it's time.

I have a shopping date tomorrow with one of my best girlfriends. I'm planning on getting measured for a fancy new bra to celebrate losing 15 pounds...and I will also *sigh* be shopping for new running shoes.

Sweet Dreams...

Last night...I was tired. Dragging myself out of my recliner and into bed was a huge accomplishment. (One which involved knocking over a glass of water onto Little Sister's homework, of course.) When I got to bed, I turned on the TV to watch my super-secret-favorite show and climbed under the covers.
Since my eyes were already drooping, I took off my glasses and just listened for a few minutes. I was so close, I decided I would just miss my show and get some sleep.

Ten seconds later, I was out like a light. But I could hear music. Where was that music coming from? And I was moving. Lunge. Knee. Lunge. Kick. Lunge. Knee--Oops! I lost my shoe!

I sat up in bed.

Oh. My. God.

Turbo Kicking in my SLEEP.
What's wrong with me?

Ow. Ow...Ow.

I was sitting at my desk earlier today, innocently minding my own business when I had a thought.

I think I'll go to Turbo Kick tonight.

WHAT?!?! But it's Thursday! I just went YESTERDAY! I don't have to go again until Saturday!

But I want to.

Seriously? What is my problem?

So I called up the Hubster. "Hey. I want to go to Turbo Kick tonight."

"Again?"

"Yeah."

"Okay." (He's so easy, I love him.)

And so we went. We got there early and made it seven laps around the track...A few minutes before class started, we congregated at the door with a bunch of fellow Turbo Kickers. Turbo Jennie was there, too, and gave us a confused look. "Didn't you say, 'see you Saturday?'"

"Yeah. I did...but I'm a psycho." I figured that about summed it up.

About 20 minutes in, she asked me if I regretted my decision. I shook my head, unable to speak, my face already flaming red. "Oh, yes, you do," she said, "I can tell."

I laughed, as much as I could, anyway. She was right. I was tired and puffing and ready to fall over. But I stayed. And I made it. Until the ab track--excuse me, the EXTENDED ab track. My gut was already killing me from yesterday's extended track, so every crunch was like a knife in my midsection. It hurts when I sneeze. When I laugh. When I move. Ugh. (I just sneezed. Ow.)

And after Turbo, I finished my three laps around the track for a mile. Pretty darn good workout.

Turbo three times in one week. (Yes, I'm already counting Saturday. I get to.) I want to be down 30 pounds by the end of March. It's less than 2 pounds a week away...I know I can do it. I also know I need to step up the exercise.

I'm ready.
To be healthy.
To be stronger.
To be happy.
Let's move it!

The Trouble with Metformin

Years ago, I was diagnosed with poly-cystic ovarian syndrome and my doctor put me on Metformin. It's a medication that diabetics take to help control hyperglycemia. When I list it in the medications I'm currently taking doctors, nurses, and dental hygienists alike immediately assume I have diabetes. (Right, like I forgot to mention that.) One actually had the nerve to ask me, "Have you been diagnosed with diabetes yet?" Excuse me, "yet?" Rude.

I have an on again/off again relationship with the drug. The first doctor who prescribed it moved me up the dosage ladder too quickly. All of a sudden, I was taking 1500mg a day and getting dizzy spells. When I knocked it back to 1000mg, I felt much better. I was supposed to move back up to 1500mg, but never made it because I stopped taking it. When I finally admitted to my doctor that I'd stopped taking it, she asked me why.

It has the unpleasant side effect of...let me go look up the medical term...Ah, once again, Wikipedia says it so much better than I could: The most common adverse effect of metformin is gastrointestinal upset, including diarrhea, cramps, nausea, vomiting and increased flatulence. I didn't realize that's what was causing my...problems until I noticed that those problems were gone. Then I was reluctant (obviously) to start taking it again. When I mentioned it to my doctor, I asked her if I really need to take it. Is it doing anything? Is it going to help me lose weight? She laughed and said most people lose weight while taking it because they get diarrhea. So I sighed and rolled my eyes and said I would take it. (That was in August. I took it, too...for about three weeks.)

I know I should follow my doctor's advice and take the medication. But when the side effects are so distressing, it's a hard to do the right thing.

The Devil Sells Thin Mints

Every year brings the same old-same old New Year's Resolution.

Eat Better.
Exercise more.
Lose Weight.

The Hubster's birthday comes early and I get by, eating baked fish and broccoli. Valentine's Day comes and I open the cards and throw the candy away.
Easter comes and I look away from the candy and cry myself to sleep at night.

And then come the Girl Scouts.
I do pretty well. I think I got by with two or three during last year's diet. Not-a-one the three years before that.

This year, though, is different.

This year, both of my girl are selling Girl Scout cookies.
Samoas.
Tag-a-longs.
Thin mints.

Heaven help me.
(And please email me if you'd like to order!)

Slowly but Surely

At my Weight Watcher's meeting tonight, we had a substitue leader. She was actually subbing the first two weeks I started WW, way back in November. At the end of the meeting, she came up to me and asked me how I was doing since I started. She remembered me and said I looked great and asked how much I've lost.

Down 16.8 pounds tonight!

(Of course, I'm fairly certain at least half a pound of it was hair..)


It was nice to hear a compliment from someone I don't see every day. If there's anothing I've learned from this run of WW, it's that it works. I know it does. It's ME. I have to stick to it...even if it's slow, it's better than nothing. Slowly but surely.

I wore my pedometer today! Of course, I took it off when I changed after my meeting so I can't give a step count. It's around 6,000, though. Not fabulous, but I was really busy today, too. Spent a lot of time at my desk finding ways to tell patients to provide their own medical care if they don't want to pay us. Ha! I only wish I could say that. At least once I day I think of this joke:

A well known rich businessman's wife broke her hip. The businessman got the best bone surgeon in town to do the operation. The operation consisted of lining up the broken hip and putting in a screw to secure it. The operation went fine, and the doctor sent the business man a fee for his services of $5000. The businessman was outraged at the cost, and sent the doctor a letter demanding an itemized list of the costs. The doctor sent back a list with two things: 1 screw: $1. Knowing how to put it in: $4999.

Angry Eyes

I hate it when my weekend turns out to be more hectic than I planned.

Saturday morning, we went to the Y where I turbo-kicked the Hubster. He is rarely doing what we're supposed to be doing and when I went to back kick--yes, I LOOKED--he was right there. It wasn't so much me kicking him as him running into me while I was kicking. (I just typed cooking. I'm starving but have to weigh in tomorrow so I'm going with a light dinner. Ick.)

Saturday night brought my office holiday party at a dinner theatre. The drive was long, the food was horrid, and we didn't stay for the show. I hesitated about going this year, but now I know for sure we won't attend the next one if they don't change the venue.

I woke up this morning to a crying baby. I thought at first that it was Little Sister, so I hauled myself out of bed and listened at her door. I could hear her snoring softly (she gets that from her dad!) so I went back to bed. There was a definite "maaaaaamaaaaaa..." embedded in the cries, so I know it wasn't the new baby down the hall. I heard it again later, but still couldn't identify where it was coming from.

Little Sister had a play date with a BOY from her class today. We met at an indoor play place and they had tons of fun. They were arm-in-arm adorable. (Although I kept recalling the picture Mrs. C showed me of friends of hers who met in Kindergarten and are now MARRIED. Yikes!)

After our play date, Little Sis and I went for haircuts. The first place had an hour and a half wait, so we drove to another place, which turned out to be closed. I called the Hubster for directions to another place, but the website listed conflicting information, so I ended up driving all over town. When I finally found a place that was open and could see both of us, there was a 40 minute wait. Since I'd been waiting all afternoon--plus the months and months I've been meaning to get a haircut--I decided 40 minutes wasn't so bad. Of course, when I finally got home three and a half hours after our play date ended, I realized I should have just gone to the first place and waited an hour and a half.

I like my new cut, but I hated the way she styled it so I came home and took a shower right away...not only to get out all the gunk she put in it, but also to get all the little hairs off of me. (I don't like stuff by my neck, so I made her close the drape loosely and ended up with hair everywhere...my own fault, I know.) Now I'm waiting for it to dry so I can see what it will really look like.

Six o'clock on Sunday evening and I have to work tomorrow. I didn't get half of anything I wanted to do this weekend done, and now I'm sitting here blogging about how I haven't worn my damn pedometer...oh, did I forget to mention that part? Yeah. The goodness the Hubster did laundry while I was gone so I won't have to call in naked to work tomorrow.

Also, I got my eyebrows waxed, so I've got lovely pink angry eyes. It's a good look. Really.

Having a Day.

Not doing so hot today. I'm stressed beyond belief.

I forgot to wear my pedometer AGAIN today--because, yes, I'm a complete moron. I was irritated with myself all day, but even more so at the end of the day when I got my cell phone from my purse and found my pedometer sitting in there. (Oh yes, in my purse, where I put it last night so I would be sure to remember it this morning.)

I could have used some exercise tonight, but there was too much to do...a trip to the post office, pick up my new glasses, out to dinner for the Hubster's birthday--I did excellent, by the way. Kudos to me for drinking water, putting half of my baked entree in a to-go box right away, and limiting everything else.

I slept peacefully last night for the first time ages. I'm hoping for a repeat performance tonight.

Guess What?

I forgot to wear my pedometer today.
I. Am. Awesome.

I was driving into work today when I realized it wasn't clipped to the waistband of my pants. I hit the steering wheel and threw a little swearing hissy fit. Darn it.

The good news is that I came home, put it on, and headed to the Y. Instead of sitting on the bench, watching Little Sister's swim class for 40 minutes, I went upstairs and walked a mile on the track. (I wanted to run on the treadmill, but they were all full!)

After swim class, I headed up to Turbo Kick with my friend, The Sex Toy Lady. TSTL hadn't been to Turbo in three months or so and was a little nervous. Of course, she rocked the house while I stumbled through my 4th...5th? session of round 35. During class, she turned to me and asked, "You seriously do this twice a week? Are you crazy?" Yes, yes I am. (But I've lost 15 pounds, too! Cross, cross, zig, zag, knee!) I literally had sweat dripping off me tonight, which I usually don't have. (I tend to just get really, really red.) I was breathing hard and pumping furiously...and I didn't cry!

The Steps

So, I'm totally short changing myself since I didn't even put my pedometer on until 5 tonight, but I think it will be okay in the long run since I get an insane amount of points for Turbo. I just have to pull out my handy, dandy conversion chart...

Turbo: 14,500 steps (I count it as a mixture of low impact and high impact aerobics)
Actual steps: 4360
Day One: 18860

Not too shabby, right?

Ten Thousand Steps

My new insurance company offers different over-the-phone courses free of charge. In order to obtain a $300 wellness credit--which pays part of my insurance premium each month--I was required to take an online health assessment. Shortly after taking it, I received a call from a nurse at my insurance company suggesting I take their weight management phone course. (Hm? It's free? Count me in!)

I had my first call about a month ago. I spoke with a nice woman, a nutritionist named Lindsay. We spoke during my two hour commute home. (What's turning out to be one of many, unfortunately.) She assured me that I was eating the proper amount of fat and calories and praised me for my weight loss. We scheduled my next appointment with a fitness specialist.

Tonight, I received a call from Kathryn. While Lindsay was easy to talk to, talking to Kathryn is like listening to a recording. "When you think about types of physical activities you enjoy, what comes to mind?" She answered my questions, though, and didn't scold too much when I confessed I hadn't been wearing my pedometer. (Part of the program...and it was free.)
"Okay," she said robotically. "Let's set a goal that relates to your pedometer."
"How about...I agree to wear it every day first? Can that be my goal?" (Did I mention she called right as I walked in the door and I had to pee so bad I was dancing in my bedroom? Yeah. I was.)
Apparently, that goal wasn't good enough for Kathryn. She didn't even laugh. "Your goals should be specific and attainable."
"Okay...how many steps am I supposed to have? Ten thousand? That's my goal. Ten thousand steps a day."
She did have a good suggestion, though.
Ten thousand steps a day on average for the week. I can handle that...because even if I don't get out of bed for two days, the forty million steps that Turbo Kick converts to will even me out for the week.

We came up with some ways I can do it, too...I refuse to park further away from my building, though...it was 20 below zero today.

Future blogs should include a step count. (Maybe. If I feel like you.) Feel free to yell at me if it's not there...I need that sometimes.

Rewarding Myself?

15.2 pounds!!!

I'm very excited. Weeks ago, I told a friend that when I hit 15 pounds, I was going to eat whatever I wanted.

Now that I'm there, I don't want to--which is a good thing.

But now I'm stumped as to how I should reward myself. I've gotten some good suggestions on Facebook, but my favorite came from a friend who said I should buy some sexy underwear. I love that idea. I think I might go spend a small fortune at Lane Bryant on some underwear and a matching bra...mine are starting to gap. Maybe I won't be Gigantic for too much longer.

25 pounds is new running shoes. I love shoes...I can't wait!

Tears in my Turbo

I have had a busy weekend.

Friday night, I went scrapbooking with some girlfriends. While there, we met the craziest ladies ever and had a great time. Didn't get home until around two in the morning, crawled into bed and passed out.

Saturday, I got up around nine (Seven hours of sleep...not too bad) and got ready for Turbo Kick. Seriously, there were at least 80 people in the studio. I kicked the woman in front of me--not on purpose, of course. She was back kicking and I was front kicking (which we were supposed to be doing, thank God) and our feet collided. Sorry I kicked you! We had to do push-ups--AGAIN. My poor arms were shaking, my abs were killing me, and I was almost crying the last ten minutes of class. I say almost because I was taking huge, deep breaths and reminding myself that if I cried, everyone would know because I am NOT a pretty crier. My nose and eyes get all red, my face gets blotchy, and I'm basically a HUGE mess. I checked out the mirror and my nose WAS red, but so was the rest of my face, so I figured I was safe. I'm blaming the endorphins released during exercise for my rush of emotions during class yesterday. I felt sad for no reason the whole way home, cried in the shower, and emerged with a raging migraine.

Awesome.

Today, I've got what I like to call a migraine hangover...it's just like a regular headache without the fun of the night before. I'm physically and emotionally exhausted from dealing with pain all day yesterday and I'd like nothing more than to crawl into bed and sleep for the rest of the day. (Okay, I'd also like a hot tub or a massage...but would settle for the nap.) Of course, I'm a mom so that sleeping-all-day thing doesn't exactly work for me. Too much to do. Too little time to do it in.

Not Sure How to Handle This...

I never watched 90210. Not religiously, anyway. Yes, I knew of Dylan and Brenda and Kelly and Donna. I saw the prom dress episode. And I caught 30 seconds of a very early episode where one of the girls told Brenda she had to lose weight because she couldn't hide under baggy winter clothes anymore. She was wearing a sweatshirt at the time--not a hoodie, an honest-to-God sweatshirt. I know. Those were some crazy times.

I guess I pictured myself hiding under bulky clothes and whipping out my whole new body come this spring. (Because I am beyond serious this time.) But people are noticing already.

"Are you losing weight?" One woman in my office asked me today.

Shushing her, I looked around to see if anyone had heard. I nodded. "I'm doing Weight Watchers," I admitted. "I've lost 13 pounds."

I'm kind of embarrassed to tell her this because--like the rest of the world--she knows I've done this before. Over and over again, in fact.

She used her hands to outline my rather large oversized hourglass shape. "You look great!" She told me. This woman had gastric bypass about 4...3? years ago. (I'm terrible at timelines. I can remember stuff...just can't remember when it happened. Could have been 3 years ago...could have been yesterday. How the hell should I know?) She said she's lost 160 pounds since her surgery and she just can't imagine hauling that kind of weight around every day. I came home and picked up a 12 pound weight...It puts it in perspective, that I used to carry that much weight with me all the time.

A few hours later, another woman followed me down the hallway. "Hey," she whispered as I peeled my orange. "I just wanted to come down here and tell you that you're looking really good...I can tell your boobs are getting smaller." (It's a compliment in my book. Have you seen my boobs? Gigantic.)

The Over-Complimenter caught me today, too. "Hey, Skinny Minny. Your shirt's too big."

It's too much. All at once. I'm embarrassed to talk about it...all of these people have seen me lose weight before. They've all seen me pile it back on...lose a few pounds, gain a few more...lose more, gain it back. It's been an endless cycle. I want to look them in the eye and say, "This is IT. I'm really doing it this time, I PROMISE." They've all heard it before. But then again, so have all of you.


MizFit, I am proud of myself, thank you. Scared to death and unable to take compliments, but proud. (And I like Pink, too. I heard that song twice at work today and wanted to get up and jam...but NOT do push-ups.)

New Year, New Body

"New year, new body! Come on, people, let's MOVE!!!"

I have a love/hate relationship with Turbo Kick. MOST of the time, I love it. (I also love this new Subway commercial where people are eating fattening things and their clothes are popping open...back to Turbo Kick, though.) I hate the thought of going. I hate how out of shape I feel when I'm gasping for breath three minutes in. I hate being sore two days later. But I love the rush. The moving. The jumping. (Thanks to my new sports bra.) I HATE the push-ups.

The first time we did them, she called them something different. "Tricep push backs" or something crazy like that. When I realized what they were, I was pissed. "These are PUSH-UPS!!!" Tonight, we did push-ups. I struggled, of course, on my knees, face inches from the floor, arms trembling from trying to push up my Fat Lady body.

"New year, new body!"

Ironically, we were rocking out to Pink's So What...which was exactly what was going through my head.

So what? I'm not a rock star.
I don't have rock moves.
And I don't need to be thin.
And guess what? I'm not havin' fun.
Are we almost done?
I'm gonna fall on my face...
I'm not alright.
And I'm not fine.
And I'm a tool.
So what? I'm not a rock star...

And as I'm collapsing to the floor and shoving myself up, praying no one can hear me sobbing, I start thinking, is it worth it? I know it is. I know it is. I know it is. But it's SO HARD.
Sometimes, I think it would just be so much easier to be...a Fat Lady.

New year. New body. New me.
Keep moving.

The Over-Complimenter

Is there such a thing? In all my years of weight-gain and weight-loss, I've never really learned how to take a compliment.

In 2003, when we did South Beach for the first time, I remember my boss telling me to buy some new jeans because she was tired of watching me hitch them up all the time.

When I fell off the WW wagon a three years ago, a friend told me how disappointed she was because she'd been so proud of my weight loss.

My dad is famous for making comments...some positive, mostly negative. I didn't even tell him I'd joined WW this time...until last week when he called in the middle of my meeting and I sent him a text message that said I would call him after my meeting. Of course, the first words out of his mouth were, "What meeting?" Damn. My cover was blown. (And I GAINED last week, too, of course.)

This time, I was so nervous about it not working...so embarrassed about all my ups and downs--The world is a witness to my yo-yo--I didn't want to tell many people. I told a small handful...and the Internet. At work, I told K, of course, and confided in one other woman, in the break room while we heated up our lunches.

I love her, but she's kind of an Over-Complimenter, if there can be such a thing. I never know what to say to her. She always wants to know how I'm doing--which is great, having one more person to answer to. But she's too much. She tells me I must be "redistributing," because she thinks I look like I've lost way more than 4, 10, or13 pounds.

What do you say to the Over-Complimenter? "Thank you" seems painfully inadequate when her comments often make my day. "Oh, no I don't," seems rude since she's trying to be nice. But when it's every day...and on the days when I'm feeling my fattest...I run out of appreciation for her well-meant words.

I've never liked the way I look. I've always been too fat. Too tall. Too...something. At the eye doctor today, the assistant told me my glasses needed adjusting, and I told her, "No, my nose is just crooked."

I'm trying. I am. It's hard for me to accept that people could see me as anything other than...a Fat Lady.

Fat Lady Arms

I felt great all day today. It was my weigh-in day, and I've been very, VERY good. I drank lots of water and prayed for a good day on the scale. Suddenly, this afternoon, I started to feel bloated. By the time I drove to my meeting, I felt so fat I could barely breathe.

At some point today, I was distracted by my arm laying on the desk. (I often get distracted by various parts of my body, if you hadn't noticed.) I pinched some flab, poking at the softnes, pulling the skin around my bones, trying to imagine what they would look like skinny.

I can't see it. I have huge arms. I hate them...and while I can feel the muscle I've been building, it's buried under layers of flab. And my hands are ridiculous. So small, I can't play piano because I can't reach the whole octave. My aunt has small hands, but she has slim wrists, also. I have small hands attached to thick wrists which morph into heavier arms.

I feel like a skinny girl trapped in a Fat Lady's body and I'll always be saddled with these Fat Lady arms. (Not that I'll be a skinny girl any time soon.)

I don't know why I'm feeling so down on myself today. I did GREAT this week. I'm down a total of 13.2 pounds. Good for me...and my Fat Lady arms.

Love what you Do. Do what you Love.

Last year, I spent some time searching for a publishing house where I could submit the romance novel I slaved over for two years.

(To answer the questions I know will come, my book was rejected for reasons of content. The story is good, and I will resubmit and resubmit and resubmit until I'm published.)

While paging through page after page of submission guidelines, a link on one page caught my eye. Employment.

I clicked on it.

There were job listings for readers...they paid in trinkets and gratitude but I thought it would be perfect for me. I love to read...and would love the opportunity to read never-before-seen material. As I scrolled down the page, I discovered another job listing for editors. Are you called the “comma queen” by your critique partners? Do people line up to have you do a critique because they know they will get something solid in return? It was as if the ad was written just for me. I followed the link and emailed the editor-in-chief to introduce and brag about myself.

We emailed back and forth and a few days later, she called me for a phone interview. I was up to my wrists in cheeseball when the phone rang and I quickly washed my hands and locked myself in my room to escape the calls of "Mommy, I'm hungry," and "She's touching my stuff!" for a while. The phone call went well and by the end of our conversation, she told me she would mail me a contract.

And I became an editor.

It's been the experience of a lifetime and I feel blessed every day to have been given this opportunity. The pay is minimal. At times, it's thankless. But I love it.

I make my editorial debut in July with the release of Lara Stephens' Hit Reply, to be published by The Wild Rose Press.

I am loving what I do. And doing what I love.

You Raise Me Up...

I got my new sports bra in the mail yesterday, just in time for this morning's Turbo Kick.

I have some serious issues with sports bras. They're uncomfortable. They're expensive. They're hard to find.

Hard to find in my size, anyway. I've got a Gigantic chest. No, not Enormous or Full-sized. Gigantic. At least it's not Huge. (Get it now? Yeah. Ha ha, I'm hilarious.)

I pulled it out of the box and held it up for inspection. "Oh, my God. This thing is gigantic."
"Well, honey," said the Hubster, somewhat proudly, "so are your boobs."
And what can I say to that? When he's right, he's right.

When I rolled out of bed this morning, I was very excited to have some extra support. I usually wear a regular bra and a tank top with a built in bra. (Those things are jokes, by the way, NOT built for someone who's built like me.) It's hard not to notice the bounce when I'm facing a mirrored wall, and all I can hope is that no one else is noticing as well.

So I struggled into my gargantuan new undergarment, pausing to adjust the straps twice. I still ripped the damn thing when I finally got into it. Nothing a quick run through my Janome won't fix. Standing in front of the bathroom mirror, I realized it gave me an odd Madonna-esque shape. I hopped up and down a couple of time, scrunching up my nose at the result. I dug out my tank top with the built in bra and decided, just to be safe, I would double bag it.

I was amazed at the end product and distracted through class because my stuff was actually where it was supposed to be. That tiny pee problem that I blame on childbirth almost 7 years ago still kept me from air-jacking, but hey, I jumped. I ran. There was minimal bouncing. (And Charlotte, who has had four children, air-jacks like a pro. I am ashamed.)

It's nice to have a good support system and feel more confident during my workout. There were half a million people there this morning and I talked to a couple of newbies after class. They said they really enjoyed it and they're planning on coming back for Wednesday class. I welcomed them and told them they should keep it up because it's a great workout and lots of fun. One asked me how many classes it takes to get the moves down. I said, "Are you kidding me? I'm STILL trying to get them all down." It's a fun time, though!

Food is going well today, though it will go better once all the Holiday junk is out of my house. I sent the Hubster to the store with a list divided into two parts: BUY and DON'T BUY. The former included bottled water, fruits and veggies, and double-fiber-whole-grain bread. The latter included peanut butter, tortillas, and cheese. There is half a log of summer sausage, a huge block of cheese, and a box of crackers calling my name, but I'm trying to shut them up with clementines and apples.

I'm done being a yo-yo.

Head Start...

Things have been going...well. I've lost a total of 12.8 pounds doing Weight Watchers--I've gained a couple pounds back over the holidays, but I really feel like I have a head start on the New Year's Resolution crowd. There were a number of new members at my last meeting, and I'm curious to see how many there will be this week.

I'll be hitting Turbo Kick tomorrow morning with what Jennie calls "the tourists." The people who make a resolution to workout more and invade the YMCA in January, only to disappear months weeks days later.

I'm feeling better about myself. My pants are looser, my face is thinner, and I feel like I'm making better choices. (No, not 100% of the time. I can't be expected to forsake every Christmas cookie I meet.) Even a bought with bronchitis hasn't kept me down, although it did keep me out of Turbo for a couple weeks.

I only made one resolution this year...I'm going to win the lottery. It's a start, anyway.

Compliments

I got my first weight loss compliment the other day. A friend that I work with patted herself under the chin and said, "You look thinner here." (Thanks, K, I love ya!)

I rolled my eyes and said, "Yeah, 4 pounds." But at least it's something, right?

During Turbo Kick on Wednesday, the instructor called me out in front of everyone.
"Hey," she said, "You kicking it twice this week?"
"Yeah," I said, breathlessly, as we were already well into the warm-up.
"You are?" she asked.
"Yeah, twice."
"This week?"
"Yeah, this week."
"Okay...you know that means you have to come again, right, because Saturday was LAST week!"

Ha, ha. Very funny, right? She got me. And I DID go twice. Two weeks in a row. Good for me.
(Probably won't go twice this week, though, I have to work on Saturday.)

No Hope for Fat Ladies...

I was sitting at my desk yesterday morning when I suddenly became very dizzy. It was a strange feeling, and one I couldn't quite shake. Later, my ear began hurting, and it crossed my mind that I probably had an ear infection. (Because I went swimming...I've developed them the last couple of times I've gone...I think I'll start wearing ear plugs.)

I went to urgent care on my way home, and when the nurse asked me to step on the scale, I asked if I could just tell her my weight. She wrote it down, and I told her that I had just weighed in at Weight Watchers (WW or "Quad V" as my friend calls it) the night before. She asked me which one I was going to, and told me that she had done WW herself years before. She said that she lost almost 40 pounds and had tears in her eyes as she told me that none of her numbers went down...her cholesterol, her blood pressure...everything stayed the same. The nurse looked at me and said, "You think you're going to lose the weight and it's going to fix everything and it just doesn't."

I was shocked that she had shared such personal information with me and a little intimidated, too. If there's no hope, then why bother, right?

But I will bother. My glucose was down at my appointment this year, and I want to keep it that way. I don't want the label of Type 2 diabetes, and I know that's what's in store for me if I don't lose some weight.

I'm working on it. I have hope. (I also have an ear infection.)

Not New Anymore...

So, it's been a week. (Kind of...almost.) I got my monthly friend (even though I'm not supposed to have it right now) this week, and I'm feeling fatter than ever. I hate this.

It hasn't stopped me from eating right and exercising every day. Go me.

I even went to Turbo Kick twice this week. (Am I awesome or what?) During the class, the instructor yelled at me for not keeping my fists closed. "Who are you going to hurt with that punch? You're not new anymore, sister." No. No, I am not new to Turbo Kick anymore. I am, however, still fat. And while I wasn't about to blurt that out in a room full of people, it didn't stop me from thinking it and repeating it over and over again for the rest of class.

It never hit me...really, until just now...that being fat shouldn't keep me from keeping a tight fist. I might not move as fast as everyone else in the class, and I sure as hell don't look as good, but I can do the moves correctly. I know it's working...just moving that hard for that long each week is helping me. My arms aren't bulging with muscles and my six-pack is still hiding under layer upon layer of flab, but I know it's helping.

I've got to quit using being fat as an excuse.

Watching my Weight

Here I go again...

Joined Weight Watchers tonight. For good this time.

I know.

I know it's been a while.
Forever, in fact.

I'm BUSY. I'm editing my heart heart out now, and loving every minute of it.

The Hubster and I started South Beach (Again) Super charged on the 6th of July. I'm down about 15 pounds--which is a start at least.

Ran into a friend after swim class at the Y last week, and she invited us to do the Turbo kick class with her and her husband. I wrote it on my calendar for tomorrow night. (Gulp.)

Got the Hubster's credit report emptied...working on mine.

Got a raise. (Hooray!)

Got a new wedding ring.

Got school shopping for two kids to get started on. (Yikes!)

I'm living. Be proud. (And wait for me. I'm around.)

We are Not Alone

Here's a Y update.

I've been three times. The Hubster and Big Sis have been a little bit more...Little Sis was asleep last week, I was editing a book, and another night, I was off scrapbooking...We've just been BUSY!

Today, I biked 11 or so miles...last time, I did 12.5, but I had a NOISY bike today! I walked a little more than half a mile. I did that blasted triceps machine for 10 reps today! (Last time, I did 5.) I swam 8 laps. (2 last time...oops!)

During my laps around the track, I passed one of the exercise studios a few times. I think it was the Turbo Kick class...it looked fun and interesting, and a little exhausting. I tried not to stare through the windows as I walked by, because I know that I wouldn't have liked it if I was in the class...but it was hard not to glance in every round.

There were men and woman of varying ages and sizes participating in the class, and I thought I might give it a try some time. The first time I passed it, I noticed a heavy woman in the back row. She was heavier than I am, and I was impressed with her actions in keeping up with the rest of the class. Each time I passed, I saw her there, silently cheering her on. Go, Fat Lady, Go! On my fourth pass, though, I noticed she was missing from the back row. As I rounded the corner, she stepped onto the track, red faced and puffing, an apologetic look on her face. Great job! I wanted to tell her. You were working hard in there...I've been thinking of trying it myself. Of course, I said nothing. I wasn't sure of proper etiquette, so I kept my mouth shut.

Soon, I caught up to the woman, and I debated whether or not I should pass her and the woman ahead her--who was also heavy...or if I should just slow my pace. I don't like passing people. I have to speed up to pass them, and if I end up slowing my pace, then they'll end up passing ME. I hate passing people. In the end, I decided to pass them, and I did so, wondering how we looked, three Fat Ladies trying to desperately to save ourselves.

"Y" Not?

Yesterday, the Hubster and I took the girls to our local YMCA and became members. We dropped Little Sister off at the daycare, and the rest of us headed upstairs to check it out. (Big Sister went there a few times over the summer before the membership her mom carried on her was cancelled, so she graciously showed us around.) She and I tried out some recumbent bikes while the Hubster tried to prove just how macho he is with the dudes working the weight machines.

After that, we all walked a lap, then ran a lap...okay, Big Sis and Hubster ran a lap while I ran about 3/4 of one. (My chest was killing me...maybe after I find a better sports bra.) Then I decided to test some of the weight machines...I've been looking for some major arm work. I last three reps on the triceps machine with the minimum weight--five pounds. My triceps were burning, they hurt so bad. (My mom told me to look on the bright side, and try and do it four times next time. We'll see.)

Later, we picked up Little Sis and all of us went to the pool. We took turns watching her--that girl seriously needs some swimming lessons, it's next on my list, I swear!--while the rest of us played, Big Sis did the rope swing, and the Hubster and I swam laps. He made it 3, and I forced myself to do 10. I almost died after the first one--it's a LONG pool!--but I made it. My arms are feeling it today. 33 laps makes a mile, so maybe next time, I'll do 15...then 20...then 30...THEN 33. (I don't think I need to do more than that, really. Yikes!)


Tonight, instead of sitting down to write, I made myself get some exercise first. The great Tanya Little (Oops! I meant Tony, of course! The hair always throws me...) recommends just 5 minutes every other day on his new toy for beginners. I've had it since we got back into town on Thursday, and I've faithfully done my 5 minutes every other day since. So it's only been 3 times that I've used it, but I swear I feel my legs getting stronger already.

I'm such a sucker for infomercials, though I can usually will myself away from the phone or the computer. I happened upon Ms. Little on HSN one night, and couldn't seem to stop watching. My first thought was "that looks like something I would fall off." But as I watched more and more, I just became more interested. I mean, FREE shipping, for goodness' sake. And FLEX pay options! I was hooked. When they set up with the "first time users," I told the Hubster, "If they show a fat lady doing it, I'm buying it." Well, the third lady in was fat enough, so I hopped out of bed and bought it in a flash. The next day, I read the not-so-stellar reviews and started having second thoughts, but I figured I would give it a flash. People complained about the smell--which was awful at first, but went away very quickly. They also complained about it moving across the carpet--which I haven't had a problem with, and also about it squeaking--which again, I haven't experienced. Whatever, right? It's a fun little thing that we all can and will use. Totally worth it, in my opinion. (I plan on adding my review, soon...just wanted a few more sessions to get acquainted with it!)

Maybe There is Something to It...

I'm staring to think there is something to this destiny thing.

Tonight, I finished wrapping Christmas presents and was putting everything away when the shelf in my bedroom suddenly gave way. I was kind of stunned at first, thanking God nothing had landed on my head and knocked me out. Then I realized that was completely pinned down. (The shelves aren't heavy, but we keep cookbooks, magazines, etc, there, and that stuff IS heavy.) My leg was twisted funny because I was reaching to put stuff away, and my left thigh was stuck under the rubble.

Of course it was.

Because I was going to put my wrapping stuff away, get up off my fat butt and go exercise. I SWEAR I was. TODAY was the day. (Don't look at your computer screen like that! I meant it this time! I'm going to fucking Disney World and I don't want to be too damn fat for everything!)

I could barely stand and my thigh is bruising nicely already. I guess...at least I'm alive, right?

Family Pride

My brother has had his low points. He's had trouble with drugs...with the law. He stole our mother's jewelry to pawn for meth money. He's stolen checks. He's lied. He's hurt a lot of people. He has not been a very good person.

Today he graduated into the National Guard. There have been times I wanted to wash my hands of him; I was so angry with him and the choices he made.

Today, I am so proud of him, I am almost bursting. I contemplated driving 6 hours to see him and then 6 hours home to make it in time to go to work tomorrow. (Obviously, I didn't do that.)

I am so proud of him and this choice that he made. Lots of the kids that signed up with him went home. They gave up and never made it. He stuck it out...and his goals are so different now. He wants to go to college. He wants to get a good job. He wants to make something of himself.

We've been texting back and forth tonight as he's trying to get home. He told me some guy told him "Thanks for serving," and gave him airline money to buy drinks on the plane. He also said "Too bad I'm not 21 yet." In the weeks before basic training, he was pulled over (underage) for a DUI...now I trust him to make the right decision. He sent me another message telling me he'd been upgraded to first class.

Politically, no matter what personal views on the war are, our service men and women deserve our support and respect. I'm so proud of my brother for making the choice to stand up for our country.

God Bless.

The Great Closet Clean-Out

I have big closets.



They're huge. This picture of the one in the girls' room was taken shortly after we moved in and got all unpacked. (Hence the reason everything looks so clean and organized!) My closet is exactly the same...except it's jam packed full of crap.

Dresses: I have a brand new $400 wedding dress hanging up in the garmet bag with the tags still attached. I have the maternity dress that I actually wore for my wedding hanging next to it. I also have all my old prom dresses.

Jeans: HOLY shit, do I have a lot of jeans. Fat jeans, skinny jeans, and every size in between jeans. Lots and lots of jeans.

Hangers: The next time we're at the thrift store, and I say, "Hey, we should get some hangers while we're here," tell me NO! NO, NO, NO! We have enough fucking hangers!

Pictures: The Hubster is a photographer. An honest to God-used-to-get-paid-to-take-pictures photographer. I have so many damn pictures, it's insane. At our old place, we had wall space for them. We had a whole wall dedicated to his hockey pictures, etc. Not here, though. Here, they live in a box. (Some of them were still wrapped in newspaper from our move over a year ago.)

"Time Capsule" Objects: Again, that would be the Hubster. That man...he's a pack rat. I cannot get him to throw shit away. We have the paper from our kids' birthdays every fucking year. The whole damn paper. And maybe, MAYBE, one day, it will be fun to look back on them...but right now, when we're living in an apartment the size of a bathroom, it's not OKAY with me to keep them. Perhaps if he took care of them...preserved them so that they're actually readable in a few years, it would be okay with me...Right now? NOT OKAY.

Fabric: This one is all me. Like I have time to make that quilt, right? Out, out, OUT!

STUFF: Where the hell did all this stuff come from? I don't care what it is. I don't care how it got here. I just want it out of my closet! If it's been on the floor, in a box, or shoved into a corner for the past year, I probably don't need it anymore. (Okay, the handheld Uno game I forgot I had was a pretty cool find...along with the other half of my jewelry box.)

It's getting there...I had to wrap Christmas presents tonight, too. One of these days, my kids are going to wonder why they're banned from my room this time of year. One of these days, I'm going to be able to find all the presents I bought for them. One of these days, I'm going to fit into all those clothes hanging on "The Back Rack."

But not today. I swear, just thinking about getting up to exercise made me start coughing. Must be my body telling me I'm still too sick...right?

One Last Kiss

When I was growing up, my mother wanted me to date more.

Not that she wanted me to be a floozy...she just didn't want me to fall for one guy and get "stuck" at a young age.

She was married to my stepfather, and I knew how their relationship was, so I adamantly refused to take love life advice from her. Sometimes, though, I wish that I had listened.

I did tend to fall for just one guy...I never dated around. I thought I was fat. (And I was, but it wasn't fatal.) I was terrible at choosing, too. I picked the one that hit me. The one that never respected me. The one who hurt me time and time again.

Since I didn't date a lot of boys, I didn't kiss a lot of boys, either. Unfortunately, I can count on one hand the number I've kissed. (God, is that pathetic? I guess I'd never thought of it like that before.)

Don't get me wrong. The Hubster is a great kisser. But we're married. We have jobs, and kids, and a home to take care of. We don't waste much time just kissing. (Because when we do, it tends to lead to other things!)

I don't know why I'm so hung up on kissing...probably because I'm sick and haven't been doing much kissing of anyone lately.

I do wish I had kissed more boys. It's weird, I know, but I do.

This is SO Not Helpful

You Are Destined to Struggle With Your Weight

Like most people, you find it a little difficult to stay at at weight you're comfortable with.If you change a few habits and make food less important, you may find the struggle hardly exists anymore.

Are You Destined To Be Overweight?

The Best Laid Plans

"The best-laid plans of mice and men often go awry." (Robert Burns)

I had plans today. Plans that included getting up, choosing from one of my many, many (many!) exercise DVDs, working out, and then taking a refreshing shower.

My plans did not include the migraine that woke me up, the vomiting that arrived with the migraine, the wicked case of vertigo that took me off my feet, or the several hour long nap I took a few minutes after getting out of bed.

It's hours and hours later, and I'm just now starting to feel like myself again.

"Plans are only good intentions unless they immediately degenerate into hard work."
(Peter Drucker)

Getting Published

I have a dream.

I have lots of dreams, actually.

I'd like to be happy with the way I look.
I'd like to own a house someday.
I'd like to have more children.
I'd like to be published.

I love to write. I love putting myself out here in print. It's just something I do. I never realized I was good at it.

I was actually surprised when people commented on my writing...like I said, it's just something I do.

I have stories, words, paragraphs, sentences in my head. All the time.
I have notebooks and journals that I've filled with short stories. Poetry. Comments to myself.

There was a story that kept beating at me until I started to write it down. 52,811 words later, it was a book. An honest to goodness-sending it to a publisher-ready to get rejected book. My book has not been published yet. I don't have high hopes that it will make it, because I know the number of undiscovered masterpieces is unmentionable, and what I wrote--while fantastic--is no masterpiece.

I write other things, too. Earlier this year, I started writing articles for Helium.com. I've written several, but I enjoy reading the articles of others even more. There's a section there called the Marketplace, where publisher post titles of articles they're looking for. Helium writers right the articles, and the publisher picks which one they want.

They picked me.
I got the e-mail earlier this week, and words just could not describe the euphoria I felt.
I'm getting published.
The pay is...well, the pay is $16, and I just can't find a good word to describe that amount...but it's more than I've ever been paid for anything else I've ever written.

Published. FINALLY.

The Key Ingredients for Grasping a Second Chance at Life

Up and at 'em

Even if I miss my alarm(s) in the morning, the sound of the front door opening is sure to get me out of bed in a heartbeat.

Not because I think there's an intruder, and I'm worried for the safety of my family--no, I know that it's the Hubster returning from delivering the paper.

No, I haul ass out of bed because if I don't, and the Hubster comes in to wake me up, he'll get fresh with me. That's right. FRESH. And I love him, I do. But when I just woke up and I'm not quite coherent yet, I don't need or want him climbing into bed with up to feel me up or kiss me awake. Sometimes he's sweaty. Sometimes he had morning breath. Sometimes I have morning breath--and he may not care about it, but I do.

So this morning, when I heard the front door open, I jumped out of bed, not realizing that my alarm hadn't even gone off yet. (Okay, my early early one did, but I slept right through it.) After going to the bathroom and donning a bra, I exited the bedroom, surprising the Hubster, who had gotten up early because of "the time change," and then finished early as well. "Good," I told him. "Now we can exercise."

We did, too. 15 minutes of Pilates is better than 0 minutes, right? This was my third consecutive day of at least a little bit of exercise, and I'm feeling pretty proud of myself.

Rock on.

Do you know what this is?

I don't think I ever would have guessed it.
It's my arm.

I was standing in the hallway, watching my kids trick or treat when the Hubster snapped this picture. Disgusting. Is the back of my arm really so...fat?

Then I remember. I'm fat. I'm a fat lady, remember? (I'm the one who sings. This is where I park.)

But my God...how often do I see the back of my arms? I had no idea they looked like THAT!

Fat arms.
Fat legs.
Fat hands.
Fat feet.
Fat face.
Fat butt.
Fat stomach.
Fat back.



Fat Lady.

This Girl

I love this girl.

This girl laughs so hard, she cries.
She talks so much, her mouth gets dry.
She doesn't care that she's fat.
She doesn't hide behind her weight.
She doesn't hate everything about herself.

She doesn't come around very often, but I saw her today.
And I captured her in this photograph.
And I wish...that I could be this girl more often.

I love this girl.

I'm on a Roll...

Or rather, the rolls are on me. And I'm SICK of them.

Could tomorrow be the day?

My doctor suggested I might have an eating disorder, which I kind of blew off...but I think she might be right. She said she would give me an appetite suppressant, but really, I don't eat because I'm hungry...I eat because I want to eat. Not a good sign, is it? She recommended a few, more costly programs, but then suggested Over eater's Anonymous. That's free, right? I pulled up their website tonight...they had a meeting 4 hours ago, which I missed, of course...but I'm kind of freaking out right about now. (Honesty is the best policy, right?)

Are You a Compulsive Over eater?
Welcome to Over eaters Anonymous. This series of questions may help you determine if you are a compulsive over eater.
Do you eat when you're not hungry?
Yes. Every day. All the time.

Do you go on eating binges for no apparent reason?
Yes. Sometimes I have a reason...not a good one, probably, but a reason, nonetheless. Most of the time, though, it's just eating.

Do you have feelings of guilt and remorse after overeating?
Yes. God, all the time.

Do you give too much time and thought to food?
Yes. I call it menu planning...but I think about food constantly.

Do you look forward with pleasure and anticipation to the time when you can eat alone?
Yes. Because I don't want people to judge me on what I'm eating, so I hide it.

Do you plan these secret binges ahead of time?
Yes...

Do you eat sensibly before others and make up for it alone?
Sometimes.

Is your weight affecting the way you live your life?
Yes.

Have you tried to diet for a week (or longer), only to fall short of your goal?
All the time. Every day. Every moment for the last 20 years.

Do you resent others telling you to "use a little willpower" to stop overeating?
No, but I've never had anyone tell me that...except for my doctor. (And I resented it.)

Despite evidence to the contrary, have you continued to assert that you can diet "on your own" whenever you wish?
Yes.

Do you crave to eat at a definite time, day or night, other than mealtime?
Not necessarily.

Do you eat to escape from worries or trouble?
Yes. (Does it help? No--but that doesn't mean I stop trying.)

Have you ever been treated for obesity or a food-related condition?
See my post on fat lady problems. I'm currently considered pre-diabetic and suffer from PCOS.

Does your eating behavior make you or others unhappy?
Me. Me. Me. It's makes me unhappy.

Have you answered yes to three or more of these questions? If so, it is probable that you have or are well on your way to having a compulsive overeating problem.

I'm freaking out. I'm scared to go alone...but I need help. (You hear that? I need HELP!)

Eyes Wide Open (Or "I Can See Clearly Now")

I bought my first pair of glasses in 2001. It was exciting because with them, I could see things that had been blurry for quite some time, they made me look different, and my insurance covered them.

Fast forward almost 7 years, 2 pairs, and 2 (3?) insurance companies later. My prescription has changed every year, which means every year I'm forking over more and more money for a decent pair of eyes. While the price of living (and everything else in the world) keeps going up, my insurance coverage has gone down the drain. Imagine my distress to learn that my most recent prescription was going to cost me $250+ for lenses alone!

I'm done buying new glasses and lenses every year. I've watched my husband pop contacts in and out for 8 years...it's no big deal, right?

WRONG...but I'm learning, and it's gotten easier every day.

It's been fun. It's amazing walking around the grocery store or driving or...just doing anything without these damn glasses on my face! (Yes, I still have the invisible pair that I reach to adjust or move occasionally.)

I haven't worn glasses forever. It's only been 7 years. But a lot happens in 7 years, and apparently, people forget what you really look like.

I definitely have to take better care of my eyebrows, and be more careful with my eye makeup since I don't have glasses to hide behind anymore. It's so...liberating to be free from frames.

Someone told me today that they never realized I had such pretty eyes. I guess they've been hiding, too.

RUN

I love magnet poetry.

I love those little letters and words that seem so random, yet tie together so perfectly. I got a page free somewhere, and found an entire box for a quarter at a garage sale, so the front of my fridge is covered in words. I play with them, the kids play with them, and apparently, Little Sister's Polly pockets use them as skates. They tend to wander when no one is looking, and little words end up all over the house.

Tonight, I've just had it. Another argument with Big Sister, and the way she treats me and Little Sister, and how the Hubster does nothing about it. I lost it, big time. Went on a screaming rampage. Told both of them that I was going to take Little Sister and leave because she doesn't deserve to be treated the way Big Sister treats her...how she's going to wind up hating her because all she ever does is yell at her. I've just had it. I'm done with half assed "I'm sorry's" that don't mean anything. I'm done with the Hubster standing by and watching it happen. I'm just done.

I've started picking things up when I'm mad...It's a habit I picked up from the Hubster, I think. Something psychological about controlling the physical chaos when I'm on an emotional roller coaster. I folded a basket of laundry. I cleaned one of the bathrooms. I organized the shoes in the rack by the front door.

RUN.

I saw it through my tears as I picked up, strangely enough, one of my running shoes. The little rectangular word, free from it's magnetic prison of the fridge, lost in the carpet, staring up at me.

RUN.

Is it a sign? That I'm really done? That it's time to just give up trying to fix things, cut my losses and go?

RUN.

How odd that I found that particular word at that moment in time. Does it mean something? Do I listen?

My Life is SAD

My life has been so stressful in the last month.

I just...can't even find the words to describe it.

I haven't eaten right. I haven't exercised. I haven't wanted to do any of the things I normally do. I'm tired all the time.

It's SAD. I know it is.

I am so far from fine this year. Fall is hitting us kind of early...the leaves changed from green to yellow to red to brown, fell off, and blew away all in one day while I was at work. One day it was 80, and the next morning, it was 34. I hate the cold. I hate Fall. I hate living here.

It's so easy to blame it all on the weather.

It can't be the turmoil of the challenges of everyday life, having two children in school, being employed full time, so far away from my family, or the distance of the friends I used to be so close to, right?

It has to be the weather.

The "D" Word, the Other "D" Word, and the "S" Word.

I had my yearly physical last week. I'd been looking forward to it and dreading it at the same time... you know how it is.

I really, really like my doctor. While I can't say exactly WHY I chose her, I can say that I knew she would help me do something about my weight. She's always been honest with me and I don't have to worry about her sugar coating it for me. I also don't have to worry about her telling me all my problems are weight related. (I HATE that!)

Two years ago, we were discussing my weight (I was crying, of course,) and she asked me, "Have you ever considered weight loss surgery?"

I looked at her, shocked and said, "I guess I didn't think I was that...far gone."

In her brutally honest way, she told me the truth. "You are. At your weight, you'd certainly qualify."

I was stunned. I thought that surgery was only an option for people who had far more to lose than I did. Was I really that overweight?

Yes. I was. I weighed 274 pounds. 274! Every time I think about that number, I just shudder. I can't believe it had grown so high. And SURGERY? I couldn't handle the thought. I told her I wanted to do it on my own. I thought I could.

I still think I can. But now I'm not so sure.

As for the words...

Diabetes. My blood sugar was high again this year. Not REALLY high--in fact, only 3 points above normal, but it's the third year in a row I've been high. I was dreading that call telling me I'd developed diabetes. Luckily, I didn't get it. She did bring up the term "borderline," though. I laughed and said, "I thought diabetes was like pregnancy; you either have it, or you don't." She laughed right back and said that it is, but just like you can have pregnancy scares, you can have diabetes scares, too. Next year, my glucose might be high enough to make an official diagnosis. Time to do something about it.

Diet Pills. This was the first year she offered me diet pills, which surprised me. I'm worried she thinks I can't do this on my own, and it's making me start to doubt myself. I turned down two pills that would "help block fat absorption," (read: give me diarrhea) and one appetite suppressant. I don't eat because I'm hungry...I eat because I want to eat. So now she thinks I might be a compulsive over eater...and I think she's right about that. I'm looking into it. I'm giving myself 6 months. If I can't get myself under control, I'll rethink the diet pills.

Surgery. The thought scares me to tears, really. I know several people who have gone through with it and several more who are considering it. Some really needed it for health reasons. Some, I think, saw it as an easy, lazy way out. I know there are different options, and it's not nearly as dangerous as it used to be, but still... If I haven't made significant improvement and I'm not well on my way to a healthier life in two years...then I'll consider it.

I think I can do it. I hope so, anyway.

The Water Thing...

Life has been hectic...but moving on.

A friend of mine passed on some good advice from her doctor. What you do is take your body weight in pounds, and half that. That number is how many ounces of water you should drink every day. Believe it or not, I've heard that advice before, I just can't remember where.

So, I weigh roughly 240 pounds right now, which means I should be drinking 120 ounces of water a day. That's A LOT of water. But it's not as hard as I thought it would be.

I've actually been drinking a whole gallon of water a day, which is about 128 ounces, for the past week. I'm feeling pretty good about myself, too. There was one day that I just couldn't stomach it all, but I made up for it the next day.

On Monday, I took a gallon jug of water to work and filled up a glass all day. The next day, I brought another jug of water, and the empty jug from the day before. (I now carry a jug with me everywhere. It's borderline weird to open it in the car and take a swig.) I filled the empty and popped it in the fridge for the next day, and used the water I'd brought with me. Now I have two jugs at work, and I just carry the one I'm using that day and bring it back empty in the morning. What if I get thirsty before I get to work? Easy. I drink a 16.9 oz bottle of water, and fill it with water from the jug when I get there. Strange, I know, but it works for me. It's my system.

I've got half the people in my office doing the water thing. We're all having a great time in the bathroom.

I was worried about doing it at home today because I tend not too drink much at home--I'm not really sure why. So, this morning, I got out my sharpie and numbered water bottles 1-8. I actually drank8 bottles of water, a glass of milk, and half a glass of soda today. Wowie.

I weighed in at exactly 240 on Monday morning, and I've been going up and down all week--238 on Thursday, 243 on Friday. We'll see what the scale says come Monday morning.

Counting Down...

In just 2 short hours, I will officially be on vacation.
An entire week off...I haven't had that since my maternity leave ended almost five and a half years ago.

I. Can't. Wait.

That's IT.

I am just going to absolutely lose my f-ing mind. Whatever this is my page. I want to say fuck, I'm saying fuck. I'm going to lose my fucking mind.

Miss Late Every Day to Work, Lies on her Time Card, Always Takes Too Long for Break, Shuts her Phone Off for No Reason, and Would Not Shut-up Yesterday when I had the Headache of the Century just went to OUR boss and complained that *I* was talking too much today.

That's it. The gloves are off.

I WAS feeling better today until that. Time for some serious ass kicking.

Could it be?

Is my "Is she pregnant?" pouch a little smaller than it was yesterday, or am I seeing things?

Maybe it's the migraine that woke me up this morning, but I think things might look a little, teensy, tiny bit different. Was it the Pilates from yesterday morning or the 30 seconds of 5 minute abs I did last night?

Feel the Burn

Oh. My. Goodness.

Who knew what 20 minutes of Pilates after a few weeks of inactivity could do to a girl. My arms hurt, my shoulders ache, my legs and buns are screaming, and I actually checked when I sneeze to see if I had, indeed, busted my gut open.

Hmm? Does that mean:

A: I got a good workout?
B: I'm WAY out of shape?
C: Both.

I vote C. And you?

I took a sneak peek at a new video I got...it's a 5 minute Abs workout. I know that before I can hope to see a hint of firmness, I have to get rid of the flab with some major cardio, but I thought I'd take a preview to see what it was like. After all, flat abs in a 5 minute workout sounds almost* too good to be true. (*But not all the way too good to be true, or I wouldn't have bought it.) Holy Lord. There's a ticker across the bottom...and here's me in my PJ's thinking, I'll just try the moves out, right? I was sweaty after about 30 seconds and I wasn't even trying! That's going to be one tough work out!

Must...Resist...

For the past two weeks, I've successfully manage to avoid about 20 million calories in the form of miniature candy bars sitting in a jar just a short walk away from my desk. Each time the container gets blissfully close to empty, some well meaning person refills it. It's been hard, and despite the suggestions that I could "eat just one," I've avoided them altogether because, well...I know myself. I know that "just one" will not happen. "Just 51," maybe, which is (obviously) not what I'm looking for.
This morning, temptation has been knocking me around a little harder. I think it's because I actually got my lazy ass out of bed this morning and exercised. 20 minutes of pilates can work up an appetite.
I walked into the break room to find a container boasting raspberry jelly filled doughnut holes. I spent most of the morning trying to talk myself into believing that it's a "special occasion," and I really could indulge in just one. I resisted.
I went downstairs and found a dish filled with Dove chocolates. I actually took one before I even realized what I'd done and forced myself to put it back. On the way out the door, I looked longingly at the dish, but still, I resisted.
Back to the break room to heat up my healthy lunch of Italian chicken with green beans. There are the doughnut holes again. Damn.

Before anyone pipes up saying that I should indulge at times and not deprive myself of things I want because it makes it worse...I spent most of the weekend at a friend's house, not depriving myself of anything. The booze, pizza, chili-cheese dip, peanut butter M&M's, and licorice were flowing quite freely, and I took it as "a special occasion" since I was doing something I don't normally do. Now is the time to get back on track. I'll be fine. I know I will be.

...but to any of my co-workers who might happen to be reading this: If someone doesn't eat that last freaking doughnut hole, I might just flip out.

The Perils of Being a Fat Lady

Yes, being a Fat Lady can be very treacherous at times. Okay, so there are times when more blame is placed on the weight than should be, but for the most part, it's a dangerous place to be.

Poly-cystic ovaries? Definitely a curse of being overweight.
Dry skin? Probably not.
Asthma? Hmmm...maybe. I'm on the fence about that one.
Sore knees? Fat problem.
Ingrown toenail? No way. (But what if I have fat toes?)
Low energy? Abdominal pain? Stretch marks? Yes, yes, and yes!
Hairy legs? Yeast infection? Chapped lips? Surely not.

I tend to blame all my problems on being fat. I developed a weird pimple this week, and called it my "fat lady pimple."

I know that losing weight won't solve all my problems. Believe me, I've got way more problems that how I look. It's fun to pretend that everything will get better, though. Oh! There's a dose of self-psychology: Since I can control my weight (supposedly) it's easy to think that all my problems will disappear once I'm slimmer. Hell, when I picture myself skinnier, I'm somehow shorter, too. How does that work?

There's a woman in my office building who definitely has some BIG problems. This woman is--unfortunately, there's no nicer way to say it--huge. She wears this disgusting, musky perfume that lingers where ever she's been, and I hate it, but thank God for it because one day she forgot it wear it, and the alternative smell was so much worse. She can only fit in the handicap stall in the bathroom and, for some reason, always takes a huge wad of paper towels in with her. She spends an eternity in there just trying to get herself clean, I imagine. She has left feces on the floor, smeared on the wall, and on the toilet seat. She frequently takes the bag out of the sanitary box to dispose of her things personally in the main garbage. Woe is the person who enters that stall after her. It's disgusting.

Yet, I feel for this woman. I know the problems I have at what is probably half of her weight. I can't imagine what she goes through every day just to get out of the house. (Although, please, please stop wearing sleeveless shirts to work.) There are lots of real perils of being a Fat Lady, and I'm sure this woman has lived through every one. There are times I wish I was friends with her, or knew her, and could say, "Hey Sally, let's go take a walk on our lunch." or "Let's go grab something at the salad bar."

I'm sure it's a medical condition--according to my boss, anyway--but at some point, there has got to come a day where you look in the mirror and decide to get rid of the Fat Lady for good.

Going Under

Depression.
It's become such a common word. Something millions of people suffer from every day.
It doesn't make me special, but it does pose a problem in my plan.

I won't insert the word severely. Not yet, anyway. I've been there, though. To the point where my doctor gently asked if I'd ever had suicidal thoughts and I suddenly burst out crying, admitting I thought about killing myself every single day.
It's gotten better. Through a year or more of medication, changing the way I let things affect me, and Faith--I've gotten better. I haven't been on medication for almost a year.

But all of a sudden, I can feel it pulling on me. I know that's what it is.
Tired all the time.
Loss of appetite. (Good for me--to a point.)
Overwhelming feelings of sadness and crying all the time for no reason.
Loss of interest in things I love.

All the signs are there. I just need to pull myself out of it.
I've got a doctor's appointment in three weeks. If I haven't snapped out of it by then, I'll get help.

Today's The Day

Once and for all, today is the day my life will change.

I woke up this morning, and it was just like any other day. I've had hundreds of days like this.

Today, however, is different. ( I hope I know. It's for good this time.)
Today, I woke up and started a diet. But it wasn't a diet. It's a way of life. And I've told myself that before--that it's got to be a "forever" kind of change. Somehow, "forever" never seems to last very long. Today is different.

Today, I got on the scale to find I weigh 244 pounds, 12 pounds more than the last time I stepped up.
Today, I looked past the root beer float ingredients still haunting the fridge in the office at work.
Today, I ignored the urge to dip into my wallet for a soda that I really, really wanted.
Today, I threw away the bag of Skittles I'd stashed away in my desk drawer and forgot about.
Today, I changed my clothes when I got home and today, I got off my butt and exercised.

So what if it was only 10 minutes? It was exercise.

Tomorrow, I will exercise again. For 11 minutes, 12, 13...In the grand scheme of things, it doesn't matter how long, as long as I do it. So tomorrow, I will do it.
I will avoid temptation.
I will be proud of myself.

And one of these days, I will stop feeling sorry for myself. I will stop hating everything about my body.
The way my face blows up like a balloon with every ounce I gain.
The way my chin seems to multiply when a camera is present.
The way my collarbone seems nonexistent and the "lovely lady hump" just below my neck on my back.
My big, huge, gigantic boobs.
My fat arms and wrists and pudgy hands.
The flab that rests above my "waist" that causes people to wonder, "Was I gone the day she told people she was pregnant?"
The bigger flab that rests below my "waist" that causes my underwear to roll down, my pants not to button, and my breath to catch when I bend over to paint my toenails.
My huge ass.
My fat thighs.
My ankles. (My God, do I even HAVE ankles?)
And my poor, poor feet, which bear the burden of holding all 244 pounds of me up.

One of these days. I will look at myself in the mirror, and actually like what I see.
But not today.

Once More, with Feeling

Did I say it last time? Did I?
Because if I did, I'm saying it again. But I mean it this time. For REAL.

Ready? Here goes.

This is it.

This is the day I make the decision to move the hell on with my life. (Okay, so I made the decision a couple days ago.) THIS is the day I tell the world about it.

It's not just my weight anymore. It's everything. EVERYTHING.
My not-so-neat house.
My less than stellar organization.
My paycheck-to-paycheck lifestyle.
My EMPTY savings account.

I'm changing everything that I hate about my life. And I'm changing it for good. I really, really am this time.

Not right this second. I'm not naive enough to believe everything will change in seconds when it took me a life time to screw things up.

I Feel Fine

It's not the end of the world as we know it, but I still feel fine. Although, truth be told, I'm a little hungry, but usually I'm sleeping by this time.
I got out of my nice, new, comfortable bed, unable to sleep for the first time in a while. I'm not sure what's caused my lack of drowsiness...it could be that I sat around and did exactly nothing today, but I just can't put my finger on the reason I'm not in dreamland right this moment.

I'm trying (with urging) to get back into writing. I love to write; I just need a little push to make myself make time for it somewhere in the rest of my busy life.

I didn't realize I never came back to update my woe-is-me-I've-screwed-up-another-diet post. I didn't do as poorly as thought I had, but I did gain back 20...okay, 21 of the 30+ pounds I had lost... so, I KNOW that's a lot. Don't judge me.

I began the year at 265, and I'm now 232, having lost 33 pounds in the past 6 months, and a total of 42 in the past 18 months. My family reunion is 3 weeks away, and I'm dying to lose another 8 pounds before then. I really want to be able to tell people that I've lost 50 pounds. (Although I realize that being able to say I've lost 42 isn't exactly a tragedy.)

There was a week or two I got off track, but with the Hubster's help, it hasn't been too hard to eat healthy. I've also exercised a lot this year...not so much in the last couple of months, but more than I ever did last year. In fact, I've walked on my lunch hour every day except one for the last two weeks, and on the day I missed, it was raining. I'm really trying to do better. My alarm is set to go off in four short hours so I can hopefully start my day with a workout instead of hitting the snooze for an hour. We'll see how that works out. It's enough to make me yawn, anyway...maybe I'll try hitting the hay a little harder this time.