I'm So Lame

Really, I am.

I’ve been writing and working…and feeling sorry for myself in general.

I was injured recently…the orthopaedic surgeon I saw declared it a foot sprain, but I’m not so sure it’s not something more serious. (Following up one week from today.) I’ve been in an air cast for the last three weeks. Missing my classes and my regular workouts. Missing running. Missing life.

So, I’m here. Wallowing in self pity and trying not to think of how much easier it would be to just give up and be a Fat Lady for the rest of my life.

I Think I Love You (So What am I so Afraid Of?)

No one ever told me it could be this good.

I love the way it makes me feel. The thrill of my heart pounding against my chest. The burst of energy I get when my lungs crave oxygen. The sweat dripping off my body.

I love it. I can’t believe I never did it before now. It’s always been something I said I hated, but secretly always wanted to try...something I’ve always been afraid of.

I’ve only just started. I might end up hating it...but I don’t think I will. I think I love it.

There are a lot of things I’ve done recently that I never thought I would do. I never thought I would come to enjoy exercise as much as I do. I never thought I would see the changes that I’ve been seeing in myself. I never thought that this could really be it. (Because I've said it too many times before.)

But I never dreamed in a million years that I would love this.

I love to run. Love it.

Where I Belong

I’m hovering.

I’m between milestones. Between sizes. Not quite a plateau yet, but I need an extra push to get me to the next ten pounds. To get me to the next size down.

I need to get there.

And I will. It’s just taking some time.

It’s always been a goal of mine to get out of the Plus-Sized department. My mom and Gramma are pros at scouring the clearance racks, and it’s always been frustrating for me to have to walk away from them to look in a different department. And really? 12 racks of 90% in the “regular sizes” and 1 in the bigger sizes. Plus, most stores tend to mix maternity in with plus sizes. Like Fat Ladies aren’t self conscious enough. Nothing like pulling out an adorable top, only to discover it was made for a pregnant woman. (“Wow, this shirt is so roomy! It really hides my tummy, almost like it was made for…Oh.”) I’ve never been able to grab a medium off the rack and try it on. Or take a shirt my mom has just tried on and say, “Hey, let’s see how it looks on me.” I would love to be a medium. I would settle for a large. Hell, at this point, (and with my rack) even an extra-large will do. I just want OUT of the Plus Sizes.

And I’m getting there.

I went shopping last week…there was a skirt that I had seen at Kohl’s that I really wanted. It was pretty, and I was very excited to buy it with my Kohl’s cash. It was not in the Plus-Size department, which was thrilling. I grabbed it, and a couple of others, with some shirts and headed into the dressing room. I zipped it up without even sucking in…and was disappointed to discover that it had pleats in all the wrong places and made my ass look like an elephant. A pink elephant, at that. Damn. The next skirt was the same style, so I didn’t even bother. The next one was cute, but tighter around the legs than I was comfortable with. Then came shirts. The first two had buttons, which create a big, gaping problem for me. The third had snaps, which I thought might work…until I couldn’t even pull the shirt down over my gigantic…problem area.

I almost cried. Standing there in the dressing room in a skirt that made my hips look like a bread truck, with my head and one arm sticking out of a shirt I couldn’t squeeze into…I almost broke down.

That’s it, I thought.
I’m done, I though.
Back to the Fat Lady department…It’s where I belong.

I struggled out of the shirt and blinked my tears away. As I hung it back on the hanger, I noticed a zipper down the side of the shirt. Oh. Yeah. I unzipped it and slipped it on with no problem…and turned to see two huge cantaloupes fighting to escape from the snaps down the front of the shirt. No, wait. Those were my breasts. Yowza. Definitely not work attire. Satisfied that at least the damn thing fit, I put it, and everything else, back on the rack and meandered my way back to the Plus Sizes.

Kohl’s has a pitiful selection of clothes for Fat Ladies. Every once in a while, I will get lucky with a cute shirt or two, but unless I need elastic-waist pants or a bedazzled sweater, there isn’t much to chose from. For example, my Kohl’s had 3 styles of plus sized dresses, each in two different colors. Two of them looked like shapeless sacks, one of them made me look pregnant—it wasn’t maternity, I checked! Come on, Kohl’s. Fat Ladies want to look pretty, too!

I could not find a single skirt, but grabbed a few more shirts and made my way to yet another dressing room.

No.
No.
No.

Damn, why are these shirts so tight? Checking tags, I realized I had somehow found my way back to “regular” sizes and grabbed some XL’s as opposed to the plus-sized 1X. I wanted to leave everything in the dressing room and spend my $20 in Kohl’s cash on socks, but I only had one more shirt to try on. An XL. Why bother?

And what do you know? It fit.

Guess I may not belong in the Plus Sized department after all. (Not for much longer, anyway!)

If the Shoe Fits...

But what about when it doesn't?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What's a girl with irregular feet to do?

Reasons

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

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

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

Sunday, November 2, 2008

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

If I had a Million Dollars

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


And now for random poetry...

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

Look into my Crystal Ball...

I've got a lot to write about. In fact, I've been writing blogs in my head for weeks now.

About life.
About dieting and weight loss.
About exercise.
About being a pack rat.

It's a shame you all aren't mind readers.

I'm trying.

Doctor, Doctor...

I went to the doctor this afternoon. I ended up bringing Little Sister with me because she wasn’t feeling well. On our way in, she said, “We always come to this doctor.” I told her it’s because I like this doctor!

I never really cared about what doctor I saw. I used to see the same Birkenstock-wearing doctor my mom saw until I ended up getting an appointment with the only other female doctor in the practice. I couldn’t believe how different they were and immediately switched. When I was pregnant with Little Sister, I had to go to a different group because none of the doctors at my clinic did OB care. (I begged, too, but they wouldn’t start for me, how dare they?!) I ended up seeing a male doctor…and as it usually goes, by the end of my pregnancy, I didn’t care who was looking down there anymore.

When my insurance changed shortly after Little Sister was born, I had to change clinics again. I found a very nice doctor that I really liked before she moved to New Mexico. I chose my current doctor because I knew she would be a hard-ass about my weight. I need that. I don’t need a doctor who will smile and pat my arm and tell me she knows I’m trying. I need a doctor who will tell me to stop making excuses and get up off my ass and exercise.

Amazingly, I’ve been seeing her for almost five years now. I really like her and don’t mind driving more than a few miles out of my way to see her. She’s been with me through crazy diets, scared me about surgery, and written me prescriptions to make me exercise. This was the first time in a long time that I was excited to go to the doctor so I could show off my weight loss.

She’s so proud of me! (As I’m proud of myself!) It was so great to hear that I’m doing something right.

Onto the reason for my visit. I’ve been keeping a journal of my not sleeping patterns for the last two weeks. When I showed it to her, she asked me how I’ve been functioning. (And honestly, I’m not sure.) She asked about my history and family history. When I was in high school, I used to have nights where I wouldn’t sleep…and my dad has no trouble falling asleep, but can’t stay asleep. I’ve cut back on caffeine, increased my exercising, and tried everything I can think of to get to sleep.

My doctor said that if I could manage to get two weeks of good sleep—-with the help of medication-—that I may be able to get myself back on track and sleep without medication every night. She gave me Lunesta…I’ve tried Ambien CR and it hasn’t been working. She listed 4 or 5 other meds, but gave me Lunesta because she had samples—-which is okay by me. She also wrote me a prescription and a coupon for $25 off. (Also, fine by me.)

At this point, I’m desperate for sleep and willing to try anything. I’m off to bed…

Finding Time

Damn. A whole week. (And a day.) I've been trying. Really, I have.

My editing job has kept me busy. Especially since I'm not so good at scheduling. It's another thing I'm working on.

I've been sick. Little Sister has been sick.

I'm trying to cram too much into my life...it's getting to be a lot.
Employee. Editor. Mom. Wife. Friend. Dieter. Writer. Exerciser.
I'm not willing to give anything up. So I'm just going to have to try harder.

I'm down 20.2 pounds. My dad is coming from Texas to visit on March 24th...I'd like to have lost 30 by then. Totally doable.

I slept through the night last night for the first time in a LONG time. And I have an appointment with my doctor on Thursday.

And I have NOT been wearing my pedometer. D'oh!

Do Ya Miss Me?

I was doing so well, too.

Wednesday night--Turbo Kick. I took some Excedrin PM. Helps me sleep, but I still wake up in the night and I get a massive hangover the next day. Ick.

Thursday night--Skipped Turbo, not feeling well. Took a sleeping pill, but not until about 10. Yes, I thought it was a magical pill that would put me out right away. It didn't. I was up for a while and woke up half a dozen times.

Friday night--stayed home. I was tired, but knew I wanted to take a pill Saturday night, and didn't want to take one 3 nights in a row--because I knew I was definitely taking one Saturday night. Slept horribly.

Saturday night--Turbo Kick in the am. Got sick in the afternoon. Like awful, in the bathroom every five minutes kind of sick. Decided NOT to take a sleeping pill in case...you know. Slept horribly.

Sunday night--Turbo Kick in the pm. Took a sleeping pill around 8:30. In bed at 9, asleep very shortly after. Awake at 2. Awake at 4. Awake at 5:30. Alarm at 6. (What is my problem?) But, sleeping from 9 until 2 is the longest sleep I've had in a while. Hooray for me.

Tonight, I am going to try to sleep without a pill. I went to Body Flow class, which is like Tai Chi. There's a relaxation time at the end, and I'm feeling very...relaxed. Except I turned my head funny and my neck hurts. I'm tired and I think I can fall asleep without help tonight. (Although staying asleep is another story.) If my Nuvaring was the problem, the hormones should be out of my system within the next couple of days. I'm going to lay off the sleeping pills and see how I do.

In other news, tonight was my weigh-in. I'm down... .8. Seriously. 19.8 pounds total. Bah. (I know. A loss is a loss. It's still frustrating.) I wanted to be down my 10%, which is 25.8 pounds by the time I hit 16 weeks...which is next week. Can I lose 6 pounds in a week? Probably. Will I keep it off the following week? Probably not. (Although I told my mom that I could hit the Y Biggest Loser style this week and maybe do it.)

I have stuff to write about. I just haven't been feeling well. But I'm here.

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.