I am shutting this baby blog down and for a full explanation, please see me my old/new blog, midlifejulie.blogspot.com. I appreciate all the love you have shown me here and hope you will follow me over to my new home.
Please.
Always and forever,
Your Princess of Whales
Wednesday, July 25, 2012
Tuesday, April 24, 2012
Soda-licious
What is the difference between Catholics and Mormons?.......The temperature of their caffeine.
I learned the true meaning of this joke after moving from Southern California to Utah when I was ten. Back in the day (ah, yes, I've reached that age...) when you were a Mormon in Southern California, you would drink vinegar before you would let Coke or Pepsi cross your lips. Drinking alcohol was almost more acceptable. Almost. We were constantly reminded that we were examples to others with regards to how we lived the tenets of our religion and though few outside the Mormon church knew much about our belief in Christ, everybody knew Mormons don't drink alcohol, coffee, tea, or caffeinated drinks. We felt like we were always being watched, so we took our beverages very seriously.
Shortly after I turned twelve, I went to my first Young Men/Young Women (church youth) activity, a boating trip to the lake. It was July, it was hot, and I was not a lake swimmer, so while hanging out on the beach I was happy to see that cold drinks were being provided. I'm not sure you can fully appreciate my horror when I opened the cooler to find that the only drinks inside were...(dramatic pause)...Coke and Pepsi! I frantically dug through the ice, desperate to find the root beer or 7-Up I knew had to be in there. Surely someone was testing us by putting the alcoholic stuff on top just to see if we would indulge. But that was not the case. There really was nothing else to drink. I chose to go without that day, confident that if I were to be seen drinking either of the caffeinated sodas, I would surely lead someone to he** by my example, or end up there myself.
It took me two more years before they broke me down. I can distinctly remember the very first time I knowingly tasted liquid caffeine. It was in the library at North Ogden Junior High School. Looking back, I have no idea why there was soda in the library, but I crumbled under peer pressure from the hot library aide and I had my very first taste of Coca-Cola. Ahhhh.....he** tasted yummy, but I'm embarrassed that I caved so easily when now, after all these years and for all of his hotness, I can't even remember the name of the aide. I sold my soul for nothing. The Coca-Cola led to Dr. Pepper, then Diet Dr. Pepper, then Diet Pepsi, and now Diet Cherry Pepsi. But no hot library aide.
It is amazing the lightning speed with which I went from never having had a taste of the stuff and abhorring the very thought of drinking it, to accepting it as an option. I guess that's the slippery slope I keep hearing about.
However, over the last several years, I have noticed a marked change in how I feel if I drink carbonated beverages. I get particularly sluggish and achy. I like to tell people that I'm not fat, it's just carbonation bloat. I had hoped it was just carbonated beverages with caffeine, but even non-caffeinated drinks have an effect on me. I have heard all of the horror stories about what carbonation does to your body, how it saps the calcium out of your bones and eats your innards. My youngest daughter did a science fair project titled "Meating Liquids" where she soaked pieces of meat in different liquids to see how the meat reacted. The Coke meat was just plain gross. I've read many, many articles on the PH/acid balance of your body and how carbonation affects that. But when all is said and done, most of the articles end with the same conclusion - that an occasional soda won't kill you. Occasional. Moderation. Hmmm...there are those words again.
I would love to give it up completely, but there is something I always really miss when I stop drinking soda. I'm not sure how to put this delicately or lady-like, but since neither of those words particularly apply to me, I'll just say it - there is NOTHING like the burp a good soda provides. That rolling, roiling burp that starts at your toes, travels through your entire body bringing up every possible gas trapped inside you and delivers itself in a grand operatic pronouncement - yeah, it's the bomb.com (as they would say about five years ago).
Truth be told, I love ice water, evidenced by the 100 oz. Maverik Monster Mug that is an extension of me and that holds nothing but ice water. I have an obsession with ice quality, favoring the pellet ice (aka cute ice, rabbit poop ice, Cap'n Crunch ice, happy ice...) we have at the high school and the flake ice we have at the airline. Put ice with water and it's my favorite drink. I can drink water out of virtually any tap. I am not a water snob and I refuse to pay someone to drink water out of a bottle when God gave them the water for free. But it doesn't make me burp.
So, like everything else, the challenge is to find the balance, to find a way to have an occasional soda without throwing my PH levels off, sapping all of the calcium out of my bones, dehydrating myself, or destroying my innards. Moderation with soda - a goal with a burpose (pun completely intentional).
I learned the true meaning of this joke after moving from Southern California to Utah when I was ten. Back in the day (ah, yes, I've reached that age...) when you were a Mormon in Southern California, you would drink vinegar before you would let Coke or Pepsi cross your lips. Drinking alcohol was almost more acceptable. Almost. We were constantly reminded that we were examples to others with regards to how we lived the tenets of our religion and though few outside the Mormon church knew much about our belief in Christ, everybody knew Mormons don't drink alcohol, coffee, tea, or caffeinated drinks. We felt like we were always being watched, so we took our beverages very seriously.
Shortly after I turned twelve, I went to my first Young Men/Young Women (church youth) activity, a boating trip to the lake. It was July, it was hot, and I was not a lake swimmer, so while hanging out on the beach I was happy to see that cold drinks were being provided. I'm not sure you can fully appreciate my horror when I opened the cooler to find that the only drinks inside were...(dramatic pause)...Coke and Pepsi! I frantically dug through the ice, desperate to find the root beer or 7-Up I knew had to be in there. Surely someone was testing us by putting the alcoholic stuff on top just to see if we would indulge. But that was not the case. There really was nothing else to drink. I chose to go without that day, confident that if I were to be seen drinking either of the caffeinated sodas, I would surely lead someone to he** by my example, or end up there myself.
It took me two more years before they broke me down. I can distinctly remember the very first time I knowingly tasted liquid caffeine. It was in the library at North Ogden Junior High School. Looking back, I have no idea why there was soda in the library, but I crumbled under peer pressure from the hot library aide and I had my very first taste of Coca-Cola. Ahhhh.....he** tasted yummy, but I'm embarrassed that I caved so easily when now, after all these years and for all of his hotness, I can't even remember the name of the aide. I sold my soul for nothing. The Coca-Cola led to Dr. Pepper, then Diet Dr. Pepper, then Diet Pepsi, and now Diet Cherry Pepsi. But no hot library aide.
It is amazing the lightning speed with which I went from never having had a taste of the stuff and abhorring the very thought of drinking it, to accepting it as an option. I guess that's the slippery slope I keep hearing about.
However, over the last several years, I have noticed a marked change in how I feel if I drink carbonated beverages. I get particularly sluggish and achy. I like to tell people that I'm not fat, it's just carbonation bloat. I had hoped it was just carbonated beverages with caffeine, but even non-caffeinated drinks have an effect on me. I have heard all of the horror stories about what carbonation does to your body, how it saps the calcium out of your bones and eats your innards. My youngest daughter did a science fair project titled "Meating Liquids" where she soaked pieces of meat in different liquids to see how the meat reacted. The Coke meat was just plain gross. I've read many, many articles on the PH/acid balance of your body and how carbonation affects that. But when all is said and done, most of the articles end with the same conclusion - that an occasional soda won't kill you. Occasional. Moderation. Hmmm...there are those words again.
I would love to give it up completely, but there is something I always really miss when I stop drinking soda. I'm not sure how to put this delicately or lady-like, but since neither of those words particularly apply to me, I'll just say it - there is NOTHING like the burp a good soda provides. That rolling, roiling burp that starts at your toes, travels through your entire body bringing up every possible gas trapped inside you and delivers itself in a grand operatic pronouncement - yeah, it's the bomb.com (as they would say about five years ago).
Truth be told, I love ice water, evidenced by the 100 oz. Maverik Monster Mug that is an extension of me and that holds nothing but ice water. I have an obsession with ice quality, favoring the pellet ice (aka cute ice, rabbit poop ice, Cap'n Crunch ice, happy ice...) we have at the high school and the flake ice we have at the airline. Put ice with water and it's my favorite drink. I can drink water out of virtually any tap. I am not a water snob and I refuse to pay someone to drink water out of a bottle when God gave them the water for free. But it doesn't make me burp.
So, like everything else, the challenge is to find the balance, to find a way to have an occasional soda without throwing my PH levels off, sapping all of the calcium out of my bones, dehydrating myself, or destroying my innards. Moderation with soda - a goal with a burpose (pun completely intentional).
Sunday, April 22, 2012
A Tribute to Queen
Did you know that the songs "Bicycle Race" and "Fat-Bottomed Girls" by Queen are the A and B sides of the same 7" vinyl record (Google it, young 'uns who don't know life before MP3) released in 1978, the year I graduated from high school? Coincidence? I think not. I LOVE to ride my bicycle, I love to ride my bike, and fat-bottomed girls, they make the rockin' world go round! Talk about cosmic destiny.
This knowledge makes me that much more excited to be back on a REAL bicycle (the stationery bike at the gym doesn't count). I took it for a spin around the block and it is nothing short of awesome! Oh, the places I'll go! I felt like I was twelve again, except it was painfully obvious to me that I might be creating a safety hazard because my fat bottom has a tendency to block the view of those coming up behind me. I have too much pride to wear a "wide load" sign on my back, although I probably should take some measurements and make sure there isn't a federal mandate that requires me to do so. At the very least, I should wear yellow so people will at least yield. Fortunately, this bike is more of a cruiser and does not require me to bend over the handlebars quite as much. Those bikes force a "moon" of eclipse proportions. And we all know crack kills.
My husband was thoughtful enough to put lights on the front and back so that I could give fair warning when I ride at night when it is much cooler in this fiery desert. Today I was reading outside in the sunshine when my iPad overheated. Seriously. It sent me a warning message to turn it off until it cooled down. This is a first-generation iPad, not the new ones that are known to do that sort of thing with normal use. My "book" was too hot to handle and there aren't any nasty parts in this book (yet, anyway...a girl can hope...). So as much as I would love to ride my bike to work, it's too dang hot to ride it home. Nighttime it is.
I'm excited to get moving again. My knee was really giving me grief and making it impossible to walk or move much, but I was able to get a cortisone shot that has helped immensely. I did discuss moving up my knee-replacement surgery with my ortho. The thought of being the cart lady at Walmart is much less appealing in my early 50's than it would be in my late 60's. And like I told him, I really don't want to limp around for ten or fifteen years and then get hit by a bus. Besides, medical science is improving with technology so quickly that I'm banking on the hope that some bright person will soon invent knee parts that don't wear out. My ortho is willing to do the surgery any time I want (his college-aged kids could use the money) but we agreed that a 100 pound weight loss would make the surgery that much more successful. I can lose 100 pounds in a month, can't I?
So while this fat-bottomed girl won't be entering any bicycle races anytime soon, I will be listening to Queen for inspiration because, after all, they are from England and I am the Princess of Whales. We're practically related. Coincidence? I think not.
This knowledge makes me that much more excited to be back on a REAL bicycle (the stationery bike at the gym doesn't count). I took it for a spin around the block and it is nothing short of awesome! Oh, the places I'll go! I felt like I was twelve again, except it was painfully obvious to me that I might be creating a safety hazard because my fat bottom has a tendency to block the view of those coming up behind me. I have too much pride to wear a "wide load" sign on my back, although I probably should take some measurements and make sure there isn't a federal mandate that requires me to do so. At the very least, I should wear yellow so people will at least yield. Fortunately, this bike is more of a cruiser and does not require me to bend over the handlebars quite as much. Those bikes force a "moon" of eclipse proportions. And we all know crack kills.
My husband was thoughtful enough to put lights on the front and back so that I could give fair warning when I ride at night when it is much cooler in this fiery desert. Today I was reading outside in the sunshine when my iPad overheated. Seriously. It sent me a warning message to turn it off until it cooled down. This is a first-generation iPad, not the new ones that are known to do that sort of thing with normal use. My "book" was too hot to handle and there aren't any nasty parts in this book (yet, anyway...a girl can hope...). So as much as I would love to ride my bike to work, it's too dang hot to ride it home. Nighttime it is.
I'm excited to get moving again. My knee was really giving me grief and making it impossible to walk or move much, but I was able to get a cortisone shot that has helped immensely. I did discuss moving up my knee-replacement surgery with my ortho. The thought of being the cart lady at Walmart is much less appealing in my early 50's than it would be in my late 60's. And like I told him, I really don't want to limp around for ten or fifteen years and then get hit by a bus. Besides, medical science is improving with technology so quickly that I'm banking on the hope that some bright person will soon invent knee parts that don't wear out. My ortho is willing to do the surgery any time I want (his college-aged kids could use the money) but we agreed that a 100 pound weight loss would make the surgery that much more successful. I can lose 100 pounds in a month, can't I?
So while this fat-bottomed girl won't be entering any bicycle races anytime soon, I will be listening to Queen for inspiration because, after all, they are from England and I am the Princess of Whales. We're practically related. Coincidence? I think not.
Tuesday, April 17, 2012
Getting the Joke
First, I need to make a couple of changes and clarifications to my last post, both brought to my attention by my ever watchful and caring daughters. The quote at the top of the post was not found by my younger daughter on Pinterest but rather was heard on that TV show known for its wealth of quotable quotes and life-affirming inspiration, "How I Met Your Mother." (Barney...so awful, and yet....wait for it....awesome...)
The second point of concern is my parting remark declaring myself a female canine that has returned. My older daughter expressed reservations about the use of that particular word, but since I was talking about teaching an old dog new tricks, I felt it was highly appropriate. If you are offended, it was not intended, but then if you are offended, you should probably stop reading this blog. I have a tendency to unintentionally offend because it takes a lot to offend me. That's why I think fat jokes are mostly funny. For example:
This is VERY funny. My younger daughter posted this on my Facebook wall (who knows where she finds all of her funnies, but she has lots of work-approved time on her job to search for this sort of stuff).
This is what I look like in an airplane seat. Notice the effort to keep the arms and legs close together so as not to encroach on the personal space of the passengers on either side of me. Traveling next to my husband makes it somewhat easier, but then again, he's no small guy, either, so there is a considerable amount of smooshing going on when we are together. This is also insanely appropriate because my husband is a twelve-year-old who still hasn't forgiven me for not providing him with an opportunity to go on the water slide on the cruise ship when we went out of Miami. I didn't make it a priority because, quite frankly, I feared becoming wedged on the slide. My plan is to lose enough weight by June so that we can go to Atlantis in the Bahamas for our anniversary and he can water slide to his heart's content. If I grease my hips, I might make it down a couple of them, too.
It does pay to have a sense of humor about this stuff. It has prevented me from doing unspeakable things to my unloved body. My challenge.....find humor in jokes about turkey necks when I get back to that saggy stage.
I'll sign off for now so that I can clean something in my hoarder office and then head out for a maiden spin on my new bicycle. My coccyx will report back tomorrow.
The second point of concern is my parting remark declaring myself a female canine that has returned. My older daughter expressed reservations about the use of that particular word, but since I was talking about teaching an old dog new tricks, I felt it was highly appropriate. If you are offended, it was not intended, but then if you are offended, you should probably stop reading this blog. I have a tendency to unintentionally offend because it takes a lot to offend me. That's why I think fat jokes are mostly funny. For example:
This is VERY funny. My younger daughter posted this on my Facebook wall (who knows where she finds all of her funnies, but she has lots of work-approved time on her job to search for this sort of stuff).
This is what I look like in an airplane seat. Notice the effort to keep the arms and legs close together so as not to encroach on the personal space of the passengers on either side of me. Traveling next to my husband makes it somewhat easier, but then again, he's no small guy, either, so there is a considerable amount of smooshing going on when we are together. This is also insanely appropriate because my husband is a twelve-year-old who still hasn't forgiven me for not providing him with an opportunity to go on the water slide on the cruise ship when we went out of Miami. I didn't make it a priority because, quite frankly, I feared becoming wedged on the slide. My plan is to lose enough weight by June so that we can go to Atlantis in the Bahamas for our anniversary and he can water slide to his heart's content. If I grease my hips, I might make it down a couple of them, too.
It does pay to have a sense of humor about this stuff. It has prevented me from doing unspeakable things to my unloved body. My challenge.....find humor in jokes about turkey necks when I get back to that saggy stage.
I'll sign off for now so that I can clean something in my hoarder office and then head out for a maiden spin on my new bicycle. My coccyx will report back tomorrow.
Sunday, April 15, 2012
Sabotage
"The future is scary. You can't just keep running back to the past because it's familiar."
(My daughter's Facebook status, no doubt gleaned from Pinterest, and spot-on for what I'm experiencing.)
Just a quick affirmation that I am, indeed, alive. However, I have not been living an inspirational existence and therefore I have not blogged. When I have any measure of success with weight loss, I have a tendency to frantically sabotage myself so that I can get back to my comfort zone, and that is pretty much what I have been busy doing.
Losing weight, while something I desire very much for my health and for my travel comfort, is really quite frightening for me. My weight is such a "big" part of who I am that I get incredibly uncomfortable moving forward beyond a certain point. In this case, people were starting to notice my weight loss through my face, I could see that my neck skin was getting saggier (gross...thought I'd be hot and sexy, not saggy...) and I received stellar lab results for my blood sugar and cholesterol. All the good news freaked me out, so how did I handle it? I sabotaged myself with whatever holiday/event I could use as an excuse, in this case - Easter. Ah, the pagan chocolate eggs and the (not-related-to-Easter-but-a-favorite) Cheetos. Make those ChEAtos. All thoughts of moderation flew out the window and I have successfully (unsuccessfully?) put myself back closer to where I started.
Like the quote at the top says - the future is scary! What if I make all of these sacrifices and my life is no better than it is right now? Having a saggier neck didn't make me happier. I know on "The Biggest Loser" everyone talks about how meaningless their lives are being heavy and they think all of their problems will be solved when they lose weight. And then it doesn't really happen and a good percentage of them gain back all of the weight they lost because the way they lost it was completely unrealistic (yeah, I HATE that show!). While my life certainly isn't sunshine and roses (unlike almost everyone else on Facebook and Pinterest, it would seem) I do know that all of my problems are NOT going to be solved simply because I am healthier. But I don't REALLY know that, because that's the future. And it's scary. What if I'm uglier and unhealthier? It could happen...
I do know that I can't keep running back to the past just because it's familiar. I also know that making such huge changes and adopting new habits is incredibly difficult for this old dog, but new tricks are definitely in order and they are doable, even at my age. I'm not sure if I thought writing a blog would negate all of the previous experiences of trying to achieve this goal of mine, but blogging is a new trick and I'm going to work it to my full advantage.
The new plan - stop reading inspirational quotes on Pinterest about flat stomachs and rock-hard muscles and get back to making better food choices. I'm lightening my commitment load until I can get this back under control so that I can get into the gym again, and the thing I am most excited about at this point is the purchase of a new bike for me yesterday. Hopefully this one fits better and will leave my tailbone intact. I also made another purchase online that I'll write about after I actually get it and try it out.
New tricks? Woof! This "bitch" is back!
Sunday, April 1, 2012
Break Into Spring
I don't know if anyone has noticed or not, but I haven't blogged for several weeks. Originally that was due to an incredibly hectic schedule between my two jobs, and then a quick trip over spring break. After that it was a panic attack over my successful weight loss, but that's an entirely different blog post. Let me start with spring break...
From a food and health standpoint, spring break was a smashing success, despite some early disappointment and some stressful incidents largely unique to the non-rev style of travel.
Our original plan was to fly to Sydney, Australia and hope for first class so that we could experience the new pods in the Airbus planes. Non-revvers don't always make their planned flights, but sometimes when they do, and especially on international flights, they get to do it first class. Don't hate. It's the payoff for accepting a lower hourly rate than the competitive market. And if it makes you feel better, the Australia plans fell through due to high tax rates on the flights and incredibly overpriced hotels in Sydney. We deemed it too expensive for a four day trip, with two of those days spent in the air, with only a very slim possibility that we would see either a kangaroo or a koala bear. And what's the point of going to Australia if you can't see either of those?! Besides, the exchange rate is bleak, to say the least, so we decided to travel within the United States, land that we love.
At this point, our flight selection was based solely on our options on direct flights out of SLC. Connecting hubs were booked to the max and so that pretty much ruled out anything tropical. In the end we decided on Baltimore as a central location for visits to Philadelphia, Gettysburg, and Washington DC. God Bless America.
Flying out of SGU I experienced the best news of the day - despite requesting my seat belt extender (as usual), I found that I didn't need one! Oh, the joy! I didn't breathe for 48 minutes, but I did it! It was a proud moment when I handed the extender back to the flight attendant, informing her I didn't need it, as if she could see that I was far too slim to even have asked for one in the first place and she had given me one just to humor me. People, that was a moment!!!
That moment was short-lived, however, as we raced to make our connection to Baltimore. As usually happens when you have a tight connection, our SGU plane landed at the very last gate in the "E" gates and our Baltimore gate was the very last gate in the "C" gates. We raced as quickly as we could with my gimpy knee and I plopped down, sweaty and exhausted, to wait for boarding, only to see the tiny little hand-written note that said the Baltimore flight was delayed for two-and-a-half hours and would put us into Baltimore at 1:40 a.m. I remembered there was a Philadelphia flight scheduled close to the same time as the Baltimore flight so we then raced from that very end gate in "C" up and over to the very last gate (of course) in the "D" gates.
I wanted to give up and stop to rest several times, but my adrenalin was still pumping from the whole seat belt extender experience and we got to the Philly gate just in time to walk on the plane. I immediately got on the phone to change our hotel and car plans since we were now going to a different destination (all the time feeling really bad that I would not get to sing "Good Morning, Baltimore" when I woke up the next day). I got it all changed and then settled into my seat, so glad that I didn't need to ask for an extender because the "big planes" usually have longer seat belts.
Usually.
My bubble of excitement blew up and deflated when despite my best squirming, adjusting, and inhaling, I had to ask for an extender. Crap. I had just run the equivalent of an ultra-airport-marathon and should have lost an additional fifty pounds since landing and I was STILL too big for the seat belt. I humbly asked for an extender, and despite wanting to eat my way through the flight, I just strapped myself in and went to sleep.
The disadvantage of changing your hotel plans over the phone while sitting on a plane is that you don't have any control over the quality of the hotel you are being changed to, so we woke in the morning to the ghetto that is the neighborhood surround the PHL airport. We quickly showered and headed out for a day of historical adventures. Having been born on July 2, I have an almost unnatural devotion to my country. I have long wanted to see the Liberty Bell and the Pennsylvania State House (the correct name for Independence Hall, as we learned from paying close attention to our tour guide whose voice was a dead ringer for Chris Farley when he was living in a van down by the river). I punched in "Liberty Bell" on my smart phone GPS and through the miracle of satellites, the phone took us straight there. Specifically, it took us to the street named "Liberty Bell" on which is a convenient shopping center. After slapping myself for being so stupid, we recognized it as divine intervention and stopped by the Walmart for refreshing beverages. We then turned around and backtracked for over twenty minutes until we reached the "real" Liberty Bell.
Philadelphia, like Boston and many other historical east coast cities, is a walking city and my legs aren't made for walking, so we looked into a Segway tour. Segway tours are all the rage in tourist towns and look to be a great way for my bad knee to conquer the streets. Until you read the small print and I exceed the weight limit. Really?! *&#^&$* I can understand not wanting me to kill a mule by riding on its back down steep cliffs to the old leper colony in Hawaii, but a sturdy piece of machinery? That's just wrong.
So, I survived downtown Philly on my own two, fat, legs after which we headed for the classic of Philly foods, the Philly Cheesesteak. After seeking the opinions of several locals, and getting several different answers, we headed to the original - Pat's. Winding through the narrow streets took us through the Italian/Asian outdoor market and a look into a life completely different than ours. It also took us through several detours as we happened to be there on the same day as the St. Patrick's Day parade and this is truly a city that takes its Irish celebrations seriously.
This was my experience with the Philly Cheesesteak:
Yeah, I dumped it all down the front of me and ended up throwing away the shirt because it smelled so nasty. It was a favorite shirt because it actually covered my gut, and the cheesesteak was just not that good. But as you can see, the weather was beautiful for the outdoor fine dining. (On a health note, I refrained from getting fries or other greasy accessories.)
The next most important place for me to see was the Rocky statue located at the bottom of the stairs of the Philadelphia Museum of Art, the stairs Rocky (aka Sylvester Stallone) ran up when training for his fight with Apollo Creed. Don't judge me, but I had a major crush on Sly when I was 16 and the movie first came out. I still dream of my husband battling it out in the ring and then calling out my name, even though it's not Adrian. My wonderful smart phone GPS led us astray once again, but the bigger problem was battling the St. Paddy's traffic and diversions. We finally found a place to park behind the museum that was available for the bargain price of $30.00. I want to say Sly was worth it, but I'm still debating.
This is me after gimping up the stairs (my husband did run them) and nearly dying (and yes, I had changed into a clean shirt in the car without flashing anyone...hopefully). As you can see, there was a big VanGogh exhibit at the museum but no, we were there to see Rocky. I'm sure the museum people are mortified by rednecks like us, but we paid their $30 parking fee so they can eat it.
Surprisingly, there are so many other stories about our day in Philly I haven't shared, but I'll just say that after spending almost $80 in parking fees and toll charges, I was done with big cities and all plans to go to DC went out the window. Instead, we spent two days in Gettysburg (again, too large for the Segway tour) and then headed to Hershey, PA for an afternoon of chocolate (in limited quantities) and a kiss with NO calories:
Cheesy & staged...perhaps. But still non-fattening. We got to design and make our own candy bars, attend Hershey U, and tour the city of kiss-shaped street lamps in the trolley. I miss my kids when doing things like this, but I have to admit it was nice being able to do everything because we didn't have to pay for seven people to do it.
That night we slept in a steamboat-shaped hotel (ah, the Americana experience) in Lancaster, PA, home of the Pennsylvania Dutch Amish, and saw many buggies and scooters navigating the intersections right along with our motorized contraptions. The next morning we had an Amish breakfast in Intercourse (insert your own joke here) and did a little shopping in the quaint downtown area. I'm pretty sure scrapple (fried pork parts) aren't on any "diets" but I did have a bite of my husband's to taste the local flavor. Not bad. Better than cheesesteak, for sure. The weather could not have been more perfect as we drove through the countryside (you know you're old when driving through the countryside is a major trip highlight) and watched as the Amish boys plowed the fields with horses. My husband was ready to move there right then, but we drove on to Valley Forge and then back to the ghetto of PHL so we could catch our early flight.
I'm quite proud of myself for handling the food options and snack challenges with maturity and thoughtfulness and was rewarded when I weighed in and had not gained a single pound. Walking through some of America's most historical sights filled me up enough with the pride I have in my country so that I didn't feel the need to do it with chocolate. That moment when we paid $23 at the toll gate because we didn't know how it worked nearly drove me to a Dunkin' Donuts, but in the end I said no, despite my thoughtful husband's offer.
I still had to use seat belt extenders on the way home, but I found new inspiration for eating healthy and working out - the promise of many Segway tours in the future (and that mule ride in Hawaii I still dream about).
From a food and health standpoint, spring break was a smashing success, despite some early disappointment and some stressful incidents largely unique to the non-rev style of travel.
Our original plan was to fly to Sydney, Australia and hope for first class so that we could experience the new pods in the Airbus planes. Non-revvers don't always make their planned flights, but sometimes when they do, and especially on international flights, they get to do it first class. Don't hate. It's the payoff for accepting a lower hourly rate than the competitive market. And if it makes you feel better, the Australia plans fell through due to high tax rates on the flights and incredibly overpriced hotels in Sydney. We deemed it too expensive for a four day trip, with two of those days spent in the air, with only a very slim possibility that we would see either a kangaroo or a koala bear. And what's the point of going to Australia if you can't see either of those?! Besides, the exchange rate is bleak, to say the least, so we decided to travel within the United States, land that we love.
At this point, our flight selection was based solely on our options on direct flights out of SLC. Connecting hubs were booked to the max and so that pretty much ruled out anything tropical. In the end we decided on Baltimore as a central location for visits to Philadelphia, Gettysburg, and Washington DC. God Bless America.
Flying out of SGU I experienced the best news of the day - despite requesting my seat belt extender (as usual), I found that I didn't need one! Oh, the joy! I didn't breathe for 48 minutes, but I did it! It was a proud moment when I handed the extender back to the flight attendant, informing her I didn't need it, as if she could see that I was far too slim to even have asked for one in the first place and she had given me one just to humor me. People, that was a moment!!!
That moment was short-lived, however, as we raced to make our connection to Baltimore. As usually happens when you have a tight connection, our SGU plane landed at the very last gate in the "E" gates and our Baltimore gate was the very last gate in the "C" gates. We raced as quickly as we could with my gimpy knee and I plopped down, sweaty and exhausted, to wait for boarding, only to see the tiny little hand-written note that said the Baltimore flight was delayed for two-and-a-half hours and would put us into Baltimore at 1:40 a.m. I remembered there was a Philadelphia flight scheduled close to the same time as the Baltimore flight so we then raced from that very end gate in "C" up and over to the very last gate (of course) in the "D" gates.
I wanted to give up and stop to rest several times, but my adrenalin was still pumping from the whole seat belt extender experience and we got to the Philly gate just in time to walk on the plane. I immediately got on the phone to change our hotel and car plans since we were now going to a different destination (all the time feeling really bad that I would not get to sing "Good Morning, Baltimore" when I woke up the next day). I got it all changed and then settled into my seat, so glad that I didn't need to ask for an extender because the "big planes" usually have longer seat belts.
Usually.
My bubble of excitement blew up and deflated when despite my best squirming, adjusting, and inhaling, I had to ask for an extender. Crap. I had just run the equivalent of an ultra-airport-marathon and should have lost an additional fifty pounds since landing and I was STILL too big for the seat belt. I humbly asked for an extender, and despite wanting to eat my way through the flight, I just strapped myself in and went to sleep.
The disadvantage of changing your hotel plans over the phone while sitting on a plane is that you don't have any control over the quality of the hotel you are being changed to, so we woke in the morning to the ghetto that is the neighborhood surround the PHL airport. We quickly showered and headed out for a day of historical adventures. Having been born on July 2, I have an almost unnatural devotion to my country. I have long wanted to see the Liberty Bell and the Pennsylvania State House (the correct name for Independence Hall, as we learned from paying close attention to our tour guide whose voice was a dead ringer for Chris Farley when he was living in a van down by the river). I punched in "Liberty Bell" on my smart phone GPS and through the miracle of satellites, the phone took us straight there. Specifically, it took us to the street named "Liberty Bell" on which is a convenient shopping center. After slapping myself for being so stupid, we recognized it as divine intervention and stopped by the Walmart for refreshing beverages. We then turned around and backtracked for over twenty minutes until we reached the "real" Liberty Bell.
Philadelphia, like Boston and many other historical east coast cities, is a walking city and my legs aren't made for walking, so we looked into a Segway tour. Segway tours are all the rage in tourist towns and look to be a great way for my bad knee to conquer the streets. Until you read the small print and I exceed the weight limit. Really?! *&#^&$* I can understand not wanting me to kill a mule by riding on its back down steep cliffs to the old leper colony in Hawaii, but a sturdy piece of machinery? That's just wrong.
So, I survived downtown Philly on my own two, fat, legs after which we headed for the classic of Philly foods, the Philly Cheesesteak. After seeking the opinions of several locals, and getting several different answers, we headed to the original - Pat's. Winding through the narrow streets took us through the Italian/Asian outdoor market and a look into a life completely different than ours. It also took us through several detours as we happened to be there on the same day as the St. Patrick's Day parade and this is truly a city that takes its Irish celebrations seriously.
This was my experience with the Philly Cheesesteak:
Yeah, I dumped it all down the front of me and ended up throwing away the shirt because it smelled so nasty. It was a favorite shirt because it actually covered my gut, and the cheesesteak was just not that good. But as you can see, the weather was beautiful for the outdoor fine dining. (On a health note, I refrained from getting fries or other greasy accessories.)
The next most important place for me to see was the Rocky statue located at the bottom of the stairs of the Philadelphia Museum of Art, the stairs Rocky (aka Sylvester Stallone) ran up when training for his fight with Apollo Creed. Don't judge me, but I had a major crush on Sly when I was 16 and the movie first came out. I still dream of my husband battling it out in the ring and then calling out my name, even though it's not Adrian. My wonderful smart phone GPS led us astray once again, but the bigger problem was battling the St. Paddy's traffic and diversions. We finally found a place to park behind the museum that was available for the bargain price of $30.00. I want to say Sly was worth it, but I'm still debating.
This is me after gimping up the stairs (my husband did run them) and nearly dying (and yes, I had changed into a clean shirt in the car without flashing anyone...hopefully). As you can see, there was a big VanGogh exhibit at the museum but no, we were there to see Rocky. I'm sure the museum people are mortified by rednecks like us, but we paid their $30 parking fee so they can eat it.
Surprisingly, there are so many other stories about our day in Philly I haven't shared, but I'll just say that after spending almost $80 in parking fees and toll charges, I was done with big cities and all plans to go to DC went out the window. Instead, we spent two days in Gettysburg (again, too large for the Segway tour) and then headed to Hershey, PA for an afternoon of chocolate (in limited quantities) and a kiss with NO calories:
Cheesy & staged...perhaps. But still non-fattening. We got to design and make our own candy bars, attend Hershey U, and tour the city of kiss-shaped street lamps in the trolley. I miss my kids when doing things like this, but I have to admit it was nice being able to do everything because we didn't have to pay for seven people to do it.
That night we slept in a steamboat-shaped hotel (ah, the Americana experience) in Lancaster, PA, home of the Pennsylvania Dutch Amish, and saw many buggies and scooters navigating the intersections right along with our motorized contraptions. The next morning we had an Amish breakfast in Intercourse (insert your own joke here) and did a little shopping in the quaint downtown area. I'm pretty sure scrapple (fried pork parts) aren't on any "diets" but I did have a bite of my husband's to taste the local flavor. Not bad. Better than cheesesteak, for sure. The weather could not have been more perfect as we drove through the countryside (you know you're old when driving through the countryside is a major trip highlight) and watched as the Amish boys plowed the fields with horses. My husband was ready to move there right then, but we drove on to Valley Forge and then back to the ghetto of PHL so we could catch our early flight.
I'm quite proud of myself for handling the food options and snack challenges with maturity and thoughtfulness and was rewarded when I weighed in and had not gained a single pound. Walking through some of America's most historical sights filled me up enough with the pride I have in my country so that I didn't feel the need to do it with chocolate. That moment when we paid $23 at the toll gate because we didn't know how it worked nearly drove me to a Dunkin' Donuts, but in the end I said no, despite my thoughtful husband's offer.
I still had to use seat belt extenders on the way home, but I found new inspiration for eating healthy and working out - the promise of many Segway tours in the future (and that mule ride in Hawaii I still dream about).
Tuesday, March 6, 2012
Baby Weight
It's been a salty, sordid week so I did myself a huge favor by staying off of the scale today because I knew it would have been painful. Sometimes ignorance really is bliss. Knowing it was a 50/50 on restraint this week, I want to believe that if I don't weigh myself, then no harm, no foul. I've been weighing myself long enough to know that you can have a really focused week and not lose a thing, but eat one cashew during the week and you gain five pounds (and maybe it was more than just ONE cashew...).
One of the big emotional food bombs for me this week was that my oldest "baby" turned thirty. Besides the fact that I am celebrating how successful my son is despite his upbringing, I'm reflecting on all of the baby weight I acquired over the years and wondering if I really do have any regrets about being as big as I am if it was all in the name of childbirth. For thirty years, I have been able to believe that my weight has less to do with chocolate than it has to do with the fact that I bore six children in ten years (during the first ten years of my marriage), and I got toxemia (preeclampsia) with every one of them AND our second child died of SIDS when she was three months old, AND our next son, born nine months later, had a coarctation of the aorta that required that he be flown to Primary Children's Medical Center when he was five days old and had open-heart surgery when he was a week old. Just writing about it makes me wish Baskin-Robbins was still open.
All of this started shortly after I got married when I was two weeks shy of my twenty-first birthday. I got pregnant immediately because we only briefly discussed the timeline for children, and because I had several friends experiencing infertility issues, we opted out of birth control. This is the part where ignorance was less than bliss.
Our oldest son was born ten days before our nine month wedding anniversary. Before you judge our worthiness for temple recommends, I was induced three weeks prior to my due date because of the severity of the toxemia. I retained so much water that my own mother didn't recognize me when I was standing right next to my husband. I also didn't lose all of it after the baby was born. At my post-natal check-up, the nurse seemed concerned when she commented on how much weight I had lost. I told her I had delivered three months prior. Her response? "Oh!" Apparently she thought I was still pregnant. Not encouraging.
Before I lost much more weight, I became pregnant again and our oldest daughter was born eighteen months after our son. She was a beautiful, healthy baby girl who, because God lives by natural laws, died suddenly at three months old. That was a tough one for a twenty-two-year-old mom with Fairy Tale Syndrome to take, but we moved forward with faith and nine months after she passed away, we had our second son.
We brought him home as a healthy baby but five days later his breathing and coloring became erratic and it was determined he had a congenital heart defect that required surgery when he was a week old. That still didn't temper our faith (or our youthful stupidity) as we had our second daughter eighteen months later. On our fifth wedding anniversary, at the age of twenty-five, I had given birth to four children. I was also grossly overweight and incredibly worn down physically, emotionally, and spiritually. Fortunately I had youth on my side and as my father always said, "You do what you have to do." We did what we had to do to get through all of it and somehow we kept moving forward.
Through it all, we were very, very well fed. Neighbors brought dinners over with each life event and we're talking really good dinners. When you live in Huntsville among cattle ranchers and dairy farmers, you get roasts, potatoes, and some of the best home-made rolls ever produced. I maintain I had my last three children just for the quality and quantity of food the neighbors would bring. Add to that all of the celebrations and family gatherings that children create and we were beyond well fed. It is during this time that I think I unknowingly sealed my fate with food. But I survive(d).
We did finally figure out what was causing some of what was happening and I stopped allowing my husband to put his pants on any bed where I might possibly be sleeping. It worked for four years during which time I bought a bike and started those daily rides around the lake. It was awesome. It was also productive and I lost almost all of my weight before I got pregnant again with our third son and then two years later our third daughter. You can probably guess what happened with the weight. That was almost twenty years ago and I'm still calling it baby weight. I think I have that right, even if it's not true.
After my last delivery, my doctor told me that I had pretty much thrashed my metabolism. My thyroid was messed up (and isn't it every fat girl's dream to be told it's her thyroid that's the problem, even if it ultimately turns out that isn't the problem), my blood pressure wouldn't come down, and I simply didn't have the time, energy, or desire to take control. I think that was all the excuse I needed to accept myself at whatever size I was and relinquish myself of personal responsibility for trying to lose weight.
My advice - DON'T DO THAT!!!
In any case, that was thirty years ago and realistically, I could have another thirty years. Although neither my husband nor I have been surgically altered, I'm pretty sure the next thirty years will not bring any more births for us. Make that extremely sure. Not everybody gains excessive weight when they have children (especially if you live in the areas of Los Angeles and St. George). I'm not one of them. But every pound I carry is worth it, if that's what it took for me to have the amazing, brilliant, and complex children that I have (and even better, the grandchildren!). Regrets? Not so much.
Our last "child" living at home is set to move away for school in two months. Since I am now too far removed from childbirth to keep blaming that for my weight, at least I will soon have "empty nest" to blame it on. Blaming others sure beats the heck out of taking personal responsibility (but that's another, more politically charged, post for another time...)
I guess I'll go put away the cashews and do a couple of leg lifts. If not, it's my own fault.
One of the big emotional food bombs for me this week was that my oldest "baby" turned thirty. Besides the fact that I am celebrating how successful my son is despite his upbringing, I'm reflecting on all of the baby weight I acquired over the years and wondering if I really do have any regrets about being as big as I am if it was all in the name of childbirth. For thirty years, I have been able to believe that my weight has less to do with chocolate than it has to do with the fact that I bore six children in ten years (during the first ten years of my marriage), and I got toxemia (preeclampsia) with every one of them AND our second child died of SIDS when she was three months old, AND our next son, born nine months later, had a coarctation of the aorta that required that he be flown to Primary Children's Medical Center when he was five days old and had open-heart surgery when he was a week old. Just writing about it makes me wish Baskin-Robbins was still open.
All of this started shortly after I got married when I was two weeks shy of my twenty-first birthday. I got pregnant immediately because we only briefly discussed the timeline for children, and because I had several friends experiencing infertility issues, we opted out of birth control. This is the part where ignorance was less than bliss.
Our oldest son was born ten days before our nine month wedding anniversary. Before you judge our worthiness for temple recommends, I was induced three weeks prior to my due date because of the severity of the toxemia. I retained so much water that my own mother didn't recognize me when I was standing right next to my husband. I also didn't lose all of it after the baby was born. At my post-natal check-up, the nurse seemed concerned when she commented on how much weight I had lost. I told her I had delivered three months prior. Her response? "Oh!" Apparently she thought I was still pregnant. Not encouraging.
Before I lost much more weight, I became pregnant again and our oldest daughter was born eighteen months after our son. She was a beautiful, healthy baby girl who, because God lives by natural laws, died suddenly at three months old. That was a tough one for a twenty-two-year-old mom with Fairy Tale Syndrome to take, but we moved forward with faith and nine months after she passed away, we had our second son.
We brought him home as a healthy baby but five days later his breathing and coloring became erratic and it was determined he had a congenital heart defect that required surgery when he was a week old. That still didn't temper our faith (or our youthful stupidity) as we had our second daughter eighteen months later. On our fifth wedding anniversary, at the age of twenty-five, I had given birth to four children. I was also grossly overweight and incredibly worn down physically, emotionally, and spiritually. Fortunately I had youth on my side and as my father always said, "You do what you have to do." We did what we had to do to get through all of it and somehow we kept moving forward.
Through it all, we were very, very well fed. Neighbors brought dinners over with each life event and we're talking really good dinners. When you live in Huntsville among cattle ranchers and dairy farmers, you get roasts, potatoes, and some of the best home-made rolls ever produced. I maintain I had my last three children just for the quality and quantity of food the neighbors would bring. Add to that all of the celebrations and family gatherings that children create and we were beyond well fed. It is during this time that I think I unknowingly sealed my fate with food. But I survive(d).
We did finally figure out what was causing some of what was happening and I stopped allowing my husband to put his pants on any bed where I might possibly be sleeping. It worked for four years during which time I bought a bike and started those daily rides around the lake. It was awesome. It was also productive and I lost almost all of my weight before I got pregnant again with our third son and then two years later our third daughter. You can probably guess what happened with the weight. That was almost twenty years ago and I'm still calling it baby weight. I think I have that right, even if it's not true.
After my last delivery, my doctor told me that I had pretty much thrashed my metabolism. My thyroid was messed up (and isn't it every fat girl's dream to be told it's her thyroid that's the problem, even if it ultimately turns out that isn't the problem), my blood pressure wouldn't come down, and I simply didn't have the time, energy, or desire to take control. I think that was all the excuse I needed to accept myself at whatever size I was and relinquish myself of personal responsibility for trying to lose weight.
My advice - DON'T DO THAT!!!
In any case, that was thirty years ago and realistically, I could have another thirty years. Although neither my husband nor I have been surgically altered, I'm pretty sure the next thirty years will not bring any more births for us. Make that extremely sure. Not everybody gains excessive weight when they have children (especially if you live in the areas of Los Angeles and St. George). I'm not one of them. But every pound I carry is worth it, if that's what it took for me to have the amazing, brilliant, and complex children that I have (and even better, the grandchildren!). Regrets? Not so much.
Our last "child" living at home is set to move away for school in two months. Since I am now too far removed from childbirth to keep blaming that for my weight, at least I will soon have "empty nest" to blame it on. Blaming others sure beats the heck out of taking personal responsibility (but that's another, more politically charged, post for another time...)
I guess I'll go put away the cashews and do a couple of leg lifts. If not, it's my own fault.
Monday, February 27, 2012
Progress
I can be positive about the scale today because it reported a 3.6 pound loss, which translates to a total of 20 pounds lost to this point. That said, I'm tempering my desire to run around the house naked while screaming hallelujahs because if I celebrate too much, it means, conversely, that I need to be depressed if the scale is less encouraging. This chick is trying to stay off of that roller coaster.
So the clothes are staying on (you're welcome), and I'm simply enjoying the fact that the shoulders and back of one of my favorite muumuus are feeling a little bit looser and AND I just talked myself out of eating ice cream straight out of the bucket since I should be going to bed instead.
That's progress.
So the clothes are staying on (you're welcome), and I'm simply enjoying the fact that the shoulders and back of one of my favorite muumuus are feeling a little bit looser and AND I just talked myself out of eating ice cream straight out of the bucket since I should be going to bed instead.
That's progress.
Sunday, February 26, 2012
Viva Las Aftermath
The trip to Vegas was great, but it turns out I'm not quite the party animal I thought I was and the most frightening part of that for me is that I'm okay with it. I'm the one who used to close the place down (well, in a non-gambling, non-drinking, non-prostituting kind of way) and I was never expected at home before three or four in the morning. Today I was excited to get back shortly after 7:00 p.m. so that I could give my granddaughter the new sandals and twirly princess dress I got her before she went to bed. The times, they are a-changing...
The components were set up to be the same - fun friends, dinner, a show, hotel overnighter, shopping - but the execution was decidedly different. First of all, I miss my Suburban and even (gasp) my Dodge Grand Caravan because we didn't have a vehicle big enough to accommodate the eight of us driving down together. Half the fun is the road trip and we missed out on that. We ended up going in three separate cars that divided us up right from the start and in the end, the "young 'uns" got split up from the "oldies." I'm pretty sure you can guess where I fall in that division.
I knew going into this trip that food and eating out was going to be my big challenge, thus my preemptive blog post. So I wasn't thrilled when it was decided that we would meet to eat at Cheesecake Factory in the Forum Shops at Caesar's Palace. I've never really been a fan of that place, mostly because they have one of the most extensive menus I have ever seen, rendering it painful to pick just one thing from the menu. Then, when I finally decide, it ends up not tasting nearly as good as I thought it would. I don't think I've ever eaten a meal there that I truly enjoyed. Nobody else ever seems to rave about their meal there right after they have eaten and yet it remains sooooo trendy and popular. I'm going to be bold and call it out as a case of "the emperor's new clothes." I'm saying that is one naked restaurant. Blech.
It didn't help that rather than being able to get a table for eight, we ended up with two tables for four with a table and a column in between us so there could be no social interaction between the two groups. The waiter had a tough time understanding my salad order when I tried to get all of the dressings on the side and he was completely dumbfounded that I didn't want to order cheesecake. Apparently trying to be a sensible diner is not expected at a place where, despite their ginormous menu, they have to insert an additional "skinny" menu for me and the supermodels. Ugh.
I survived the first food hurdle and the Beatles show was great for us "oldies" but the "young 'uns" didn't find it as great as we did. I'm thinking that as popular as the Beatles' music still is, there is a generational gap in the interpretation of the music and since the show followed the progression of the Beatles' music, it was obvious how drugs influenced their music over time. It did get pretty weird the longer it went on. This was my first Cirque show so I enjoyed the visuals, but those in our group who have been to other Cirque shows say the acrobatics in this one paled significantly in comparison to the other shows they've seen. Ignorance was bliss in my case because I thoroughly enjoyed it. AND, I made it past the concession stand with the tantalizing smell of movie popcorn. That was a feat!
After the show, the youngies bolted while the oldies went to Carnegie Deli, the place we wished we had gone for dinner. More food choices. Urgh. New York cheesecake is their specialty, of course, but I settled on one of the most delicious bowls of chicken broth, noodles, and matzoh ball soup I've ever had! Two desserts were ordered at our table but I limited myself to just tastes of both and left it at that. I realized I was kind of starting to get good at this being-in-control stuff!
I did get some exercise in by parking at the Mirage (where the show was) and walking to Caesar's Palace (where dinner was). They may be right next to each other on the Strip, but to get from point A to point B is a trek and I worked up a bit of a sweat, although honestly, that's not really that hard for me to do. I did use valet parking, but only because I've had a car stolen in Vegas before, not because I'm afraid to walk to the parking garage.
We headed to the hotel after I did a drive-by of the Gold & Silver Pawn Shop in North Las Vegas. My daughter pointed out to me that not everybody loves Pawn Stars on the History Channel like I do so she provided a hyperlink when I mentioned Chumlee in my last post. Hopefully you all read up on it and understand, just a little bit, my love for this show. The Old Man reminds me so much of my dad and I like to think that my house full of junk actually contains valuable, historic artifacts that I could pawn for millions of dollars. But I digress...
I slept like a rock and like the seasoned mid-life person I am, we didn't wake up and get ready until about 11:00 a.m. but it also gave my exhausted legs time to recoup for the shopping exercise later. We hit the inevitable buffet for brunch, but I was locked, loaded, and ready for bear. The salad bar was awful, but I filled my plate with fresh fruit, scrambled eggs that actually had flavor, a little bit of corned-beef hash (as opposed to my usual plate of the ultimate breakfast comfort food from my childhood that we called "dog food" because of its appearance - we thought it was pretty cool to eat "dog food" for some reason...) and then lots and lots of peel-and-eat shrimp. I can't tell you what was on the dessert bar because I never saw it and I didn't go looking for it. My dessert was one roll with one pat of butter and I was satisfied. I did have a moment where I thought, "Load up and get your $16.95 worth," but then I remembered how expensive shrimp and fresh fruit are and felt like the quality of my choices compensated for the quantity. Now there's some food maturity for you!
Our shopping after that consisted of everything we dreamed of - Marshall's and Smart & Final. This was yet another reminder to me that my wild Vegas shopping days have evolved considerably. Maybe that will evolve, yet again, when I lose enough weight that I can actually walk into Victoria's Secret without having the sales clerks instinctively guide me to the lotion section because it's the only stuff in the store that fits me, but in the meantime, I found killer deals on stuff I didn't know I needed until I saw it.
The crowning glory of success came for me on the very last stop of the day. Not once, but TWICE, I walked by the Girl Scouts selling cookies in front of Smart & Final. I don't know if you can fully comprehend how difficult that is to do for a woman who budgets about $75.00 a year for those cookies, but it's huge. A neighborhood girl will miss out on her quota this year because of me.
I conquered social eating on this trip and proved that what happens in Vegas doesn't necessarily need to stay in Vegas, and all I can say is that I better lose "Samoa" weight... Viva Las Vegas, indeed.
The components were set up to be the same - fun friends, dinner, a show, hotel overnighter, shopping - but the execution was decidedly different. First of all, I miss my Suburban and even (gasp) my Dodge Grand Caravan because we didn't have a vehicle big enough to accommodate the eight of us driving down together. Half the fun is the road trip and we missed out on that. We ended up going in three separate cars that divided us up right from the start and in the end, the "young 'uns" got split up from the "oldies." I'm pretty sure you can guess where I fall in that division.
I knew going into this trip that food and eating out was going to be my big challenge, thus my preemptive blog post. So I wasn't thrilled when it was decided that we would meet to eat at Cheesecake Factory in the Forum Shops at Caesar's Palace. I've never really been a fan of that place, mostly because they have one of the most extensive menus I have ever seen, rendering it painful to pick just one thing from the menu. Then, when I finally decide, it ends up not tasting nearly as good as I thought it would. I don't think I've ever eaten a meal there that I truly enjoyed. Nobody else ever seems to rave about their meal there right after they have eaten and yet it remains sooooo trendy and popular. I'm going to be bold and call it out as a case of "the emperor's new clothes." I'm saying that is one naked restaurant. Blech.
It didn't help that rather than being able to get a table for eight, we ended up with two tables for four with a table and a column in between us so there could be no social interaction between the two groups. The waiter had a tough time understanding my salad order when I tried to get all of the dressings on the side and he was completely dumbfounded that I didn't want to order cheesecake. Apparently trying to be a sensible diner is not expected at a place where, despite their ginormous menu, they have to insert an additional "skinny" menu for me and the supermodels. Ugh.
I survived the first food hurdle and the Beatles show was great for us "oldies" but the "young 'uns" didn't find it as great as we did. I'm thinking that as popular as the Beatles' music still is, there is a generational gap in the interpretation of the music and since the show followed the progression of the Beatles' music, it was obvious how drugs influenced their music over time. It did get pretty weird the longer it went on. This was my first Cirque show so I enjoyed the visuals, but those in our group who have been to other Cirque shows say the acrobatics in this one paled significantly in comparison to the other shows they've seen. Ignorance was bliss in my case because I thoroughly enjoyed it. AND, I made it past the concession stand with the tantalizing smell of movie popcorn. That was a feat!
After the show, the youngies bolted while the oldies went to Carnegie Deli, the place we wished we had gone for dinner. More food choices. Urgh. New York cheesecake is their specialty, of course, but I settled on one of the most delicious bowls of chicken broth, noodles, and matzoh ball soup I've ever had! Two desserts were ordered at our table but I limited myself to just tastes of both and left it at that. I realized I was kind of starting to get good at this being-in-control stuff!
I did get some exercise in by parking at the Mirage (where the show was) and walking to Caesar's Palace (where dinner was). They may be right next to each other on the Strip, but to get from point A to point B is a trek and I worked up a bit of a sweat, although honestly, that's not really that hard for me to do. I did use valet parking, but only because I've had a car stolen in Vegas before, not because I'm afraid to walk to the parking garage.
We headed to the hotel after I did a drive-by of the Gold & Silver Pawn Shop in North Las Vegas. My daughter pointed out to me that not everybody loves Pawn Stars on the History Channel like I do so she provided a hyperlink when I mentioned Chumlee in my last post. Hopefully you all read up on it and understand, just a little bit, my love for this show. The Old Man reminds me so much of my dad and I like to think that my house full of junk actually contains valuable, historic artifacts that I could pawn for millions of dollars. But I digress...
I slept like a rock and like the seasoned mid-life person I am, we didn't wake up and get ready until about 11:00 a.m. but it also gave my exhausted legs time to recoup for the shopping exercise later. We hit the inevitable buffet for brunch, but I was locked, loaded, and ready for bear. The salad bar was awful, but I filled my plate with fresh fruit, scrambled eggs that actually had flavor, a little bit of corned-beef hash (as opposed to my usual plate of the ultimate breakfast comfort food from my childhood that we called "dog food" because of its appearance - we thought it was pretty cool to eat "dog food" for some reason...) and then lots and lots of peel-and-eat shrimp. I can't tell you what was on the dessert bar because I never saw it and I didn't go looking for it. My dessert was one roll with one pat of butter and I was satisfied. I did have a moment where I thought, "Load up and get your $16.95 worth," but then I remembered how expensive shrimp and fresh fruit are and felt like the quality of my choices compensated for the quantity. Now there's some food maturity for you!
Our shopping after that consisted of everything we dreamed of - Marshall's and Smart & Final. This was yet another reminder to me that my wild Vegas shopping days have evolved considerably. Maybe that will evolve, yet again, when I lose enough weight that I can actually walk into Victoria's Secret without having the sales clerks instinctively guide me to the lotion section because it's the only stuff in the store that fits me, but in the meantime, I found killer deals on stuff I didn't know I needed until I saw it.
The crowning glory of success came for me on the very last stop of the day. Not once, but TWICE, I walked by the Girl Scouts selling cookies in front of Smart & Final. I don't know if you can fully comprehend how difficult that is to do for a woman who budgets about $75.00 a year for those cookies, but it's huge. A neighborhood girl will miss out on her quota this year because of me.
I conquered social eating on this trip and proved that what happens in Vegas doesn't necessarily need to stay in Vegas, and all I can say is that I better lose "Samoa" weight... Viva Las Vegas, indeed.
Friday, February 24, 2012
Viva Las Buffet
I'm headed to Vegas with a rowdy group of coworkers from the high school to spend a girls' weekend with heck-raising educators. That's right...only "heck" will be raised. We all need our jobs too bad to risk a scandalous picture going up on Facebook.
I'm looking forward to this trip for several reasons - spending time with really, really fun women, shopping (at Costco Business Center, Smart & Final, Marshall's - PARTY!), going to see Beatles' Love at the Mirage, and of course...dinner. And maybe lunch tomorrow. With possibly breakfast in between. Yeah, I'm worried. There may be a buffet involved so I thought that maybe if I posted my intentions on this blog, the preemptive strike might keep me balanced and focused. So here goes.
I intend to spend more money on non-food, non-gambling items than on food. If a buffet is involved, I will stray towards the salad bar and ignore the dessert bar. I will strive to remember who I am, what I am, and what I stand for. I will walk the Strip with vigor so that anything consumed will also be expended. I will not take snacks to the show. And I will have a great time.
So there it is. If I get to meet Chumlee, so much the better. I'll give the full report on my return. Please send positive vibes, 'cause I'm going to need them.
Mmmmmmm...shrimp....
I'm looking forward to this trip for several reasons - spending time with really, really fun women, shopping (at Costco Business Center, Smart & Final, Marshall's - PARTY!), going to see Beatles' Love at the Mirage, and of course...dinner. And maybe lunch tomorrow. With possibly breakfast in between. Yeah, I'm worried. There may be a buffet involved so I thought that maybe if I posted my intentions on this blog, the preemptive strike might keep me balanced and focused. So here goes.
I intend to spend more money on non-food, non-gambling items than on food. If a buffet is involved, I will stray towards the salad bar and ignore the dessert bar. I will strive to remember who I am, what I am, and what I stand for. I will walk the Strip with vigor so that anything consumed will also be expended. I will not take snacks to the show. And I will have a great time.
So there it is. If I get to meet Chumlee, so much the better. I'll give the full report on my return. Please send positive vibes, 'cause I'm going to need them.
Mmmmmmm...shrimp....
Monday, February 20, 2012
Big Fat Thanks
My heart is as big as my bum right now and I'm not talking cardiomegaly (I wasn't smart enough to know the medical term for an enlarged heart but I was resourceful enough to look it up...). I am completely overwhelmed at the positive comments and support I have received from so many of you whether it has been here on the blog or on my Facebook page, or even when I have run into a few of you at the gym, the pool, the grocery store, work, church, etc. I am truly not alone in my battle with food, weight, and addictive behaviors and I appreciate so much the words of advice, the helpful hints, and the encouragement I receive virtually every day.
After a week that started out with food love, your reminders that someone actually reads this blog shoved me back into focus and the net results are a 3 pound weight loss! I cut back significantly on many of my "good" foods that were loaded with sodium, and I also spent time at the gym and at the pool. After seeing a loss, I'm really happy that after a couple of days of excess, I didn't trash the rest of the week thinking all was lost. That's a definite improvement over times past, and I'm giving full credit to Internet accountability.
So, as they say, thanks from the bottom of my butt...it's a lot bigger than my heart!
After a week that started out with food love, your reminders that someone actually reads this blog shoved me back into focus and the net results are a 3 pound weight loss! I cut back significantly on many of my "good" foods that were loaded with sodium, and I also spent time at the gym and at the pool. After seeing a loss, I'm really happy that after a couple of days of excess, I didn't trash the rest of the week thinking all was lost. That's a definite improvement over times past, and I'm giving full credit to Internet accountability.
So, as they say, thanks from the bottom of my butt...it's a lot bigger than my heart!
Saturday, February 18, 2012
Chasing the Wagon
When you've had fat habits for as long as I have, it's pretty dang hard to change those habits. I knew that was going to be the case, but knowing hasn't made it any easier. What I didn't consider is how hard it is to change fat habits others have towards you, especially when you want to pretend that other people really don't think that you're fat. Even though you know they do. Because you are. ANYWAY...
Valentine's Day this year is a perfect example. My husband is very supportive of me losing weight. He likes to say that he doesn't care if I'm fat or thin, he just doesn't want my weight to prevent me from doing anything I might want to do, like water parks, or zip lines, or riding donkeys down mountains to former leper colonies (I'll explain another time). I often tell him that when I lose weight, I'm going to run off and find a boyfriend. He always tells me he'll take his chances.
For V-Day, we planned to eat dinner at home because we hate fighting the crowds at restaurants. My husband makes a mean immediate-family-famous, grilled, thin-cut, boneless ribeye steak that he marinates in lots of evoo and spices. Mmmmmmmmm. We agreed to complete the menu with a nice baked potato and some steamed broccoli, all doable on my "life plan." In an effort to save our son and his girlfriend from the same packed-restaurant plight we were avoiding, we offered to cook them the same dinner and serve it to them outside next to the pool so that it would be both romantic and away from us (we would eat on bar stools at the kitchen island - almost 31 years together).
I came home from work on Monday and started to prepare my usual delicacy of tuna with light mayonaisse and sweet pickles, when my husband informed me that he forgot that he was on-call at work on V-Day so he moved our V-day celebration and dinner up a day early. Such great news when you're facing down tuna. Again.
He had already done all of the shopping and had started the dinner so I was left to do nothing, which is sort of my speciality when it comes to cooking (I do have talents, cooking just isn't one of them). He then served me a GIANT steak, a GIANT baked potato, and enough broccoli to...well...a LOT of broccoli. The sad part of it is that I didn't see anything as giant or excessive when it was on the plate. All of the portions looked completely normal and I simply saw it as an awesome dinner lovingly prepared by my husband. I ate every single morsel. It was soooo good! And it wasn't until I had licked my plate that I came back to my senses and realized how much food I had just eaten. What happened to my committment to smaller portions? The only comfort I could take in what I had just done was that I had used spray butter (no fat, no calories, just chemicals) on my potato and broccoli.
I wish I could say that was the end of it, but in addition to the tasty dinner, my husband also gave me my most favorite of favorite chocolates - See's Bordeaux. He gave me the small, heart-shaped Bordeaux, and then gave me three more pieces of heaven along with three cherry chocolate cordials (fruit group!). This man knows me! It was portioned perfectly so that I could enjoy a little bit every day for an entire week, and if I had done that, I would be enjoying a piece right now. But no, I downed every last bit of chocolate, too. Rationalization? It was our Valentine's Day celebration and I was taking the day off from portion control. I would just get back on the wagon the next day.
I felt completely comfortable placing full blame on my husband for my being fat. If he hadn't provided all of that yumminess, I would have stayed on the wagon. See's candy? He should have known better! It was all his fault. And then, as I was writing this blog post in my head about how my husband is the reason why I'm fat, the light came on.....it wasn't his fault at all. He was the one who cooked the steaks, but I'm the one who pulled an entire steak onto my plate rather than cut off a smaller portion and save the rest for another day. I was the one who inhaled the entire baked potato rather than cut it in half and save the other half to eat another time with the rest of the steak. The broccoli? Well, that's just plain good for you, no matter how much you eat. And he steamed it just right!
That's all well and good, but what about the chocolate? That's his fault. Except he didn't sit on me and stuff every single piece down my throat in a single sitting. He gave me a few pieces of my favorites rather than a pound of assorted chocolates that would taste good, but that wouldn't have any meaning. I should have had the heart Bordeaux as a special Valentine treat and then had one piece of candy each day for the next week so that the love I felt with each morsel would have lasted so much longer. It's my own fault.
Crap.
I can't blame anybody but myself and I need to stop trying to place responsibility on anyone but myself for my own choices. And I also have to understand that because I have been the way I have been for as long as I have, it's going to take some time to acclimate others around me to the fact that I am trying to be different than what I've always been.
The most enduring gift my husband gave me was a small sign to put in my home office:
It says more to me about so many different things that are far too personal for me to share on this blog, but I know I'm always looking for miracles. If I'm the Princess of Whales in the same princess category as Cinderella, like I think I am, I need to cut myself some slack and give myself the time it's going to take to make this healthy miracle happen.
So it took me a couple of days to chase down the wagon (or chariot, as a princess should see it), but I caught up to it and I climbed back on. It has been, and will continue to be, a bumpy road. I just need to adjust my grip so I stay on better and stop believing that everyone is trying to push me off.
Valentine's Day this year is a perfect example. My husband is very supportive of me losing weight. He likes to say that he doesn't care if I'm fat or thin, he just doesn't want my weight to prevent me from doing anything I might want to do, like water parks, or zip lines, or riding donkeys down mountains to former leper colonies (I'll explain another time). I often tell him that when I lose weight, I'm going to run off and find a boyfriend. He always tells me he'll take his chances.
For V-Day, we planned to eat dinner at home because we hate fighting the crowds at restaurants. My husband makes a mean immediate-family-famous, grilled, thin-cut, boneless ribeye steak that he marinates in lots of evoo and spices. Mmmmmmmmm. We agreed to complete the menu with a nice baked potato and some steamed broccoli, all doable on my "life plan." In an effort to save our son and his girlfriend from the same packed-restaurant plight we were avoiding, we offered to cook them the same dinner and serve it to them outside next to the pool so that it would be both romantic and away from us (we would eat on bar stools at the kitchen island - almost 31 years together).
I came home from work on Monday and started to prepare my usual delicacy of tuna with light mayonaisse and sweet pickles, when my husband informed me that he forgot that he was on-call at work on V-Day so he moved our V-day celebration and dinner up a day early. Such great news when you're facing down tuna. Again.
He had already done all of the shopping and had started the dinner so I was left to do nothing, which is sort of my speciality when it comes to cooking (I do have talents, cooking just isn't one of them). He then served me a GIANT steak, a GIANT baked potato, and enough broccoli to...well...a LOT of broccoli. The sad part of it is that I didn't see anything as giant or excessive when it was on the plate. All of the portions looked completely normal and I simply saw it as an awesome dinner lovingly prepared by my husband. I ate every single morsel. It was soooo good! And it wasn't until I had licked my plate that I came back to my senses and realized how much food I had just eaten. What happened to my committment to smaller portions? The only comfort I could take in what I had just done was that I had used spray butter (no fat, no calories, just chemicals) on my potato and broccoli.
I wish I could say that was the end of it, but in addition to the tasty dinner, my husband also gave me my most favorite of favorite chocolates - See's Bordeaux. He gave me the small, heart-shaped Bordeaux, and then gave me three more pieces of heaven along with three cherry chocolate cordials (fruit group!). This man knows me! It was portioned perfectly so that I could enjoy a little bit every day for an entire week, and if I had done that, I would be enjoying a piece right now. But no, I downed every last bit of chocolate, too. Rationalization? It was our Valentine's Day celebration and I was taking the day off from portion control. I would just get back on the wagon the next day.
I felt completely comfortable placing full blame on my husband for my being fat. If he hadn't provided all of that yumminess, I would have stayed on the wagon. See's candy? He should have known better! It was all his fault. And then, as I was writing this blog post in my head about how my husband is the reason why I'm fat, the light came on.....it wasn't his fault at all. He was the one who cooked the steaks, but I'm the one who pulled an entire steak onto my plate rather than cut off a smaller portion and save the rest for another day. I was the one who inhaled the entire baked potato rather than cut it in half and save the other half to eat another time with the rest of the steak. The broccoli? Well, that's just plain good for you, no matter how much you eat. And he steamed it just right!
That's all well and good, but what about the chocolate? That's his fault. Except he didn't sit on me and stuff every single piece down my throat in a single sitting. He gave me a few pieces of my favorites rather than a pound of assorted chocolates that would taste good, but that wouldn't have any meaning. I should have had the heart Bordeaux as a special Valentine treat and then had one piece of candy each day for the next week so that the love I felt with each morsel would have lasted so much longer. It's my own fault.
Crap.
I can't blame anybody but myself and I need to stop trying to place responsibility on anyone but myself for my own choices. And I also have to understand that because I have been the way I have been for as long as I have, it's going to take some time to acclimate others around me to the fact that I am trying to be different than what I've always been.
The most enduring gift my husband gave me was a small sign to put in my home office:
It says more to me about so many different things that are far too personal for me to share on this blog, but I know I'm always looking for miracles. If I'm the Princess of Whales in the same princess category as Cinderella, like I think I am, I need to cut myself some slack and give myself the time it's going to take to make this healthy miracle happen.
So it took me a couple of days to chase down the wagon (or chariot, as a princess should see it), but I caught up to it and I climbed back on. It has been, and will continue to be, a bumpy road. I just need to adjust my grip so I stay on better and stop believing that everyone is trying to push me off.
Monday, February 13, 2012
YoYo MaMa
Well, crap.
The down came back up and I regained every single tenth of an ounce I lost last week. Apparently whatever I am doing isn't right or isn't enough. It's a good thing that "crap" is the strongest language I'm allowing myself to use on this blog or you wouldn't be able to read this through filters and firewalls. CRAP!!!
I guess I thought (in my Fairy Tale Syndrome little mind) when I started this blog that my virtual accountability would make it so that there would mostly be successes to report with an occasional plateau, but a GAIN?
Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaarrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrggggggggggggghhhhhhhhhhhhhh.....CRAP!
Alright, enough with the potty fingers. Deep breath, regroup, evaluate...
When I put my jeans on this weekend for family pictures, they felt a little looser and my daughter commented that I was starting to look like I had lost some weight. I do recognize that at my weight it's going to take about fifty pounds before the general public notices anything in the slightest, but my family is very supportive and knows I like to have my efforts acknowledged. When I got dressed this morning, my shirt felt a little looser through the arms and back, so I was sure I would be rewarded with good news when I did my weekly weigh-in.
I do know that muscle weighs more than fat, but I think that's only a good argument when you don't have a lot of fat. I have plenty. I've been working out long enough that I'm thinking I should be past that trade-off. Maybe not. I can only hope that's the case and I gained over four pounds of muscle this week.
I did my best to work my bum off in my workout and now I can barely walk, so I'm hoping it helped, but for all the time I have spent working out with few results (at least on the scale), I'm only cautiously optimistic. On the bright side, 4+ pounds of water are a heck of a lot easier to get rid of than 4 pounds of fat or muscle, so I'll be making a few adjustments to my go-to foods and hoping that really is what caused the jump.
My trainer did assure me that I'm going to yo-yo a little bit while I get this all figured out which explains why my weight graph looks like a child's first drawing of a mountain range, but I'm ready for a chart that looks like the stock market after a stimulous package.
And so it goes...
The down came back up and I regained every single tenth of an ounce I lost last week. Apparently whatever I am doing isn't right or isn't enough. It's a good thing that "crap" is the strongest language I'm allowing myself to use on this blog or you wouldn't be able to read this through filters and firewalls. CRAP!!!
I guess I thought (in my Fairy Tale Syndrome little mind) when I started this blog that my virtual accountability would make it so that there would mostly be successes to report with an occasional plateau, but a GAIN?
Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaarrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrggggggggggggghhhhhhhhhhhhhh.....CRAP!
Alright, enough with the potty fingers. Deep breath, regroup, evaluate...
When I put my jeans on this weekend for family pictures, they felt a little looser and my daughter commented that I was starting to look like I had lost some weight. I do recognize that at my weight it's going to take about fifty pounds before the general public notices anything in the slightest, but my family is very supportive and knows I like to have my efforts acknowledged. When I got dressed this morning, my shirt felt a little looser through the arms and back, so I was sure I would be rewarded with good news when I did my weekly weigh-in.
I do know that muscle weighs more than fat, but I think that's only a good argument when you don't have a lot of fat. I have plenty. I've been working out long enough that I'm thinking I should be past that trade-off. Maybe not. I can only hope that's the case and I gained over four pounds of muscle this week.
************
I return to writing this post after a sweaty visit to my personal trainer. I told him about the weight gain and I was fully prepared to place all of the blame on him where I thought it belonged. He asked about what I had eaten and I vowed to him that I had eaten good foods all week. He then asked me about sodium. Hmmmmm. Does that mean giant dill pickles? Pistachios? Cashews? Tortilla chips? Okay, maybe he was on to something. Dill pickles have no fat and are a vegetable. Nuts are great sources of protein. Tortilla chips get the oh-so-healthy salsa down and I very carefully count them out. But yes, every one of them is jam-packed with sodium. And those are just the ones I could remember. So I let the trainer off the hook. For now.I did my best to work my bum off in my workout and now I can barely walk, so I'm hoping it helped, but for all the time I have spent working out with few results (at least on the scale), I'm only cautiously optimistic. On the bright side, 4+ pounds of water are a heck of a lot easier to get rid of than 4 pounds of fat or muscle, so I'll be making a few adjustments to my go-to foods and hoping that really is what caused the jump.
My trainer did assure me that I'm going to yo-yo a little bit while I get this all figured out which explains why my weight graph looks like a child's first drawing of a mountain range, but I'm ready for a chart that looks like the stock market after a stimulous package.
And so it goes...
Sunday, February 12, 2012
Heavy J
I'm listening to the Grammy Awards and they are inspiring me to play the piano more in the hopes that someday Adele or Chris Martin ask me to tour with them. I wouldn't mind if Someone Like You (me) was able to Viva La Vida and Make You Feel My Love while Rolling in the Deep in Paradise at the Speed of Sound. (Okay, I'm done.) Wait...and I'd like to be 21 again. (Okay, now I'm done.)
I LOVE music and have fairly eclectic tastes, much to the consternation of my family, mostly because I embarrassingly love to listen to pop and clean hip hop (what little there is) but I pretty much can't stand country music, my husband's lifeblood. My favorite playlists probably wouldn't be considered age-appropriate, nor would my behavior at the various concerts and music award shows I took my kids to when they were age-appropriate. (I make no apologies for my conduct at either life-changing Ricky Martin concert I attended that were truly the only "what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas" experiences I have ever had.) But music has a way of moving me emotionally and physically in a way nothing else can. And that includes food.
I have mentioned that I grew up with food as our measure of wealth, but another thing we always had in our home was a piano. We couldn't afford sports or dance lessons, but my parents made whatever sacrifices they had to in order for all of the girls in the family to have piano lessons. We were allowed to start lessons when we were eight, but when we moved from California to Utah when I was ten, that was the end of the piano lessons because there simply wasn't enough money. Despite that, we still had the piano and we had lots and lots of sheet music.
While building our home in North Ogden, we lived in a couple of transitional houses in Layton. One was a trailer (a mobile home when you're living in it, a trailer when you move) and the other a really, really old house in a decaying neighborhood behind a car dealership. Few, if any, kids were our ages in these neighborhoods so that left us a lot of time on our own to entertain ourselves. My choices of activities were to decorate my room with Donny Osmond and David Cassidy pictures (my sister, who shared my room, decorated with the Jackson 5), and play the piano. Having listened to my sisters practice for years, I found every song I could possibly play and just practiced and practiced and practiced. And practiced some more. In my ten-year-old fantasies, I would imagine myself serving lemonade to my husband Donny while impressing him with my piano skills. So I kept practicing even more in case he needed me to ever accompany him on the piano. (I have since had a real-life dream-crushing run-in with Donny so I don't care if he ever hears me play, and he can make his own lemonade.)
As I went through junior high and high school, I had the most accommodating choir teachers who allowed me to accompany the choirs (I was good enough to play for Donny, after all) and playing the piano through the years has been a lifesaver and has provided me with opportunities I could have never imagined (I'm still imagining the Grammys...). It got me a scholarship in college (although I later became a major disappointment to the choir director at WSC) and I will forever be grateful to my parents for providing us with piano lessons because it has given me an identity outside the weight issues. The piano is an awesome psychiatrist/psychologist that you don't have to pay. I can play happy songs, sad songs, angry songs, emo songs, dancing songs, silly songs...there is a song for every emotion. It also, however, has contributed to my sendentary lifestyle.
There are people who play the piano very physically and dramatically to the point that they are probably burning some calories, but I'm not one of them. Sister Jones (my piano teacher who was at LEAST 100 years old) would grab my shoulders and hold them still if I ever started to sway with the music like I watched them do on TV. She told me I would likely never play solos in Carnegie Hall but that I "sure as heck" would be playing hymns at church and as an accompanist I was not to draw attention to myself. She was absolutely right in that I have never even been to Carnegie Hall but I play the piano or organ in church pretty much every week. I'm not a great soloist, but I think I'm a pretty good mid-level accompanist and if your accompanist dies on the way to your gig, I'm the one you want to call, as long as you have the sheet music because I can sight-read but I can't make anything up. And thanks to Sister Jones, I hold perfectly still while playing so as not to attract attention away from your performance.
So while the piano does not contribute to my exercise, I have been reminded by my nutritionist (another post entirely...) that it is difficult, if not impossible, to snack while playing the piano. It really isn't advisable to eat Cheetos while practicing because the keys and sheet music end up orange (the same reason it is a highly unprofessional snack to eat at work when you are an administrative assistant/secretary). She suggested that whenever I have the urge to snack on something I know I'm going to wear on my hips later, I am to use the piano as an alternative activity. So that's my challenge for the week - substitute a potentially bad choice with a constructive activity like playing an instrument.
I did try to diversify my music skills earlier in my life by teaching myself to play the flute in high school, a very short-lived career due to the self-teaching part. Most recently I took some guitar lessons because it's really hard to sing around the campfire with a piano, but with my giant stomach and tyrannosaurus arms, I recognized that I was going to have to lose some weight in order to properly work the strings on the guitar. Another goal.
So if you hear me playing "Flight of the Bumblebee" (a song I have never been able to play) to perfection if you go by my house this week, stay away because it means I've been practicing way too much and I've been without Cheetos and chocolate far too long to be congenial.
Oh, and if I ever get the chance to go to the Grammys, you can just call me by my hip hop name - Heavy J.
You know I'll keep you posted.
I LOVE music and have fairly eclectic tastes, much to the consternation of my family, mostly because I embarrassingly love to listen to pop and clean hip hop (what little there is) but I pretty much can't stand country music, my husband's lifeblood. My favorite playlists probably wouldn't be considered age-appropriate, nor would my behavior at the various concerts and music award shows I took my kids to when they were age-appropriate. (I make no apologies for my conduct at either life-changing Ricky Martin concert I attended that were truly the only "what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas" experiences I have ever had.) But music has a way of moving me emotionally and physically in a way nothing else can. And that includes food.
I have mentioned that I grew up with food as our measure of wealth, but another thing we always had in our home was a piano. We couldn't afford sports or dance lessons, but my parents made whatever sacrifices they had to in order for all of the girls in the family to have piano lessons. We were allowed to start lessons when we were eight, but when we moved from California to Utah when I was ten, that was the end of the piano lessons because there simply wasn't enough money. Despite that, we still had the piano and we had lots and lots of sheet music.
While building our home in North Ogden, we lived in a couple of transitional houses in Layton. One was a trailer (a mobile home when you're living in it, a trailer when you move) and the other a really, really old house in a decaying neighborhood behind a car dealership. Few, if any, kids were our ages in these neighborhoods so that left us a lot of time on our own to entertain ourselves. My choices of activities were to decorate my room with Donny Osmond and David Cassidy pictures (my sister, who shared my room, decorated with the Jackson 5), and play the piano. Having listened to my sisters practice for years, I found every song I could possibly play and just practiced and practiced and practiced. And practiced some more. In my ten-year-old fantasies, I would imagine myself serving lemonade to my husband Donny while impressing him with my piano skills. So I kept practicing even more in case he needed me to ever accompany him on the piano. (I have since had a real-life dream-crushing run-in with Donny so I don't care if he ever hears me play, and he can make his own lemonade.)
As I went through junior high and high school, I had the most accommodating choir teachers who allowed me to accompany the choirs (I was good enough to play for Donny, after all) and playing the piano through the years has been a lifesaver and has provided me with opportunities I could have never imagined (I'm still imagining the Grammys...). It got me a scholarship in college (although I later became a major disappointment to the choir director at WSC) and I will forever be grateful to my parents for providing us with piano lessons because it has given me an identity outside the weight issues. The piano is an awesome psychiatrist/psychologist that you don't have to pay. I can play happy songs, sad songs, angry songs, emo songs, dancing songs, silly songs...there is a song for every emotion. It also, however, has contributed to my sendentary lifestyle.
There are people who play the piano very physically and dramatically to the point that they are probably burning some calories, but I'm not one of them. Sister Jones (my piano teacher who was at LEAST 100 years old) would grab my shoulders and hold them still if I ever started to sway with the music like I watched them do on TV. She told me I would likely never play solos in Carnegie Hall but that I "sure as heck" would be playing hymns at church and as an accompanist I was not to draw attention to myself. She was absolutely right in that I have never even been to Carnegie Hall but I play the piano or organ in church pretty much every week. I'm not a great soloist, but I think I'm a pretty good mid-level accompanist and if your accompanist dies on the way to your gig, I'm the one you want to call, as long as you have the sheet music because I can sight-read but I can't make anything up. And thanks to Sister Jones, I hold perfectly still while playing so as not to attract attention away from your performance.
So while the piano does not contribute to my exercise, I have been reminded by my nutritionist (another post entirely...) that it is difficult, if not impossible, to snack while playing the piano. It really isn't advisable to eat Cheetos while practicing because the keys and sheet music end up orange (the same reason it is a highly unprofessional snack to eat at work when you are an administrative assistant/secretary). She suggested that whenever I have the urge to snack on something I know I'm going to wear on my hips later, I am to use the piano as an alternative activity. So that's my challenge for the week - substitute a potentially bad choice with a constructive activity like playing an instrument.
I did try to diversify my music skills earlier in my life by teaching myself to play the flute in high school, a very short-lived career due to the self-teaching part. Most recently I took some guitar lessons because it's really hard to sing around the campfire with a piano, but with my giant stomach and tyrannosaurus arms, I recognized that I was going to have to lose some weight in order to properly work the strings on the guitar. Another goal.
So if you hear me playing "Flight of the Bumblebee" (a song I have never been able to play) to perfection if you go by my house this week, stay away because it means I've been practicing way too much and I've been without Cheetos and chocolate far too long to be congenial.
Oh, and if I ever get the chance to go to the Grammys, you can just call me by my hip hop name - Heavy J.
You know I'll keep you posted.
Tuesday, February 7, 2012
Measure of Success
The scale said I lost 4.4 lbs. and that means I lost the pounds I gained the week before and dropped another 1.4. I'll take it!
I really am thrilled with the weight loss, but to be honest, I was prepared to be thrilled no matter what the scale said, because I've learned from experience that the scale has a tendency to talk smack. There are a lot of times when, despite my best efforts, the scale mocks me with a weight gain or no change and I've worked way too hard this past week to let the number on the scale be the only thing that defines my success. (The number itself is massive enough on it's own that I found myself repeatedly yelling, "Rookie!" whenever they posted the weight of one of the players while watching the Super Bowl.)
I know that the scale is the standard to measure how successful you are when you are trying to be healthier because after all, you are trying to "lose weight" and the scale measures weight. But a scale doesn't measure family disasters, Super Bowls, hormone swings, or discounts on chocolate cherry juju hearts. When you're a food addict, some credit should be given for surviving life's challenges without reverting to old habits. I survived the first three pretty well this week and struggled with the fourth (have you ever HAD a chocolate cherry juju heart?!...) but even in my darkest moments, I was able to get myself through without emptying the pantry. That should count for something.
Another thing the scale doesn't take into consideration is what I could have eaten versus what I actually did eat. This week I should get credit for not eating all-you-can-eat steak fries at Red Robin. I didn't have any of the to-die-for chocolate chip cookies one of our teachers brought to school. I didn't take a Snickers bar that was offered to me by the administration, and I've already shared with you just a few of the things I didn't eat during the Super Bowl. I have to look at that as success even though with all of those refusals, I should have lost twenty pounds.
I also worked out with my trainer to the point that I nearly had to crawl across concrete to get back to my car, and I worked it in the water to Lady Gaga and Katy Perry as one of the only dark-hairs (dyed, but still...) among the blue-hairs at water aerobics. That should be another twenty pounds!
So while I'm happy with the scale this week, I give myself a big pat on the back for making a pretty focused effort. Well, I would if I could actually reach my back to pat it.
There's another goal to work towards...
I really am thrilled with the weight loss, but to be honest, I was prepared to be thrilled no matter what the scale said, because I've learned from experience that the scale has a tendency to talk smack. There are a lot of times when, despite my best efforts, the scale mocks me with a weight gain or no change and I've worked way too hard this past week to let the number on the scale be the only thing that defines my success. (The number itself is massive enough on it's own that I found myself repeatedly yelling, "Rookie!" whenever they posted the weight of one of the players while watching the Super Bowl.)
I know that the scale is the standard to measure how successful you are when you are trying to be healthier because after all, you are trying to "lose weight" and the scale measures weight. But a scale doesn't measure family disasters, Super Bowls, hormone swings, or discounts on chocolate cherry juju hearts. When you're a food addict, some credit should be given for surviving life's challenges without reverting to old habits. I survived the first three pretty well this week and struggled with the fourth (have you ever HAD a chocolate cherry juju heart?!...) but even in my darkest moments, I was able to get myself through without emptying the pantry. That should count for something.
Another thing the scale doesn't take into consideration is what I could have eaten versus what I actually did eat. This week I should get credit for not eating all-you-can-eat steak fries at Red Robin. I didn't have any of the to-die-for chocolate chip cookies one of our teachers brought to school. I didn't take a Snickers bar that was offered to me by the administration, and I've already shared with you just a few of the things I didn't eat during the Super Bowl. I have to look at that as success even though with all of those refusals, I should have lost twenty pounds.
I also worked out with my trainer to the point that I nearly had to crawl across concrete to get back to my car, and I worked it in the water to Lady Gaga and Katy Perry as one of the only dark-hairs (dyed, but still...) among the blue-hairs at water aerobics. That should be another twenty pounds!
So while I'm happy with the scale this week, I give myself a big pat on the back for making a pretty focused effort. Well, I would if I could actually reach my back to pat it.
There's another goal to work towards...
Sunday, February 5, 2012
Not-So-Super Bowl
Today is a perfect example of all that is wrong with social food pressures - The Super Bowl (dun, dun, duuuuuun...).
This annual salute to the end of the NFL season and funny commercials has ultimately become more about good tailgate food. And lots of it. In years past I have embraced this and have even gone so far as to color coordinate the snacks to match the opposing teams. But this year? I couldn't possibly care less about the teams who are playing and I'm trying to lose weight, so what's the point besides the commercials? About food. Doritos. Pizza. Pepsi. Mmmmmmm..... At least I don't drink beer, but it's still brutal.
We're a Packers/Broncos/49ers family and had hopes for all of them this year but when the 49ers were the last to fall a couple of weeks ago, all excitement and anticipation for the Super Bowl evaporated. My son, though, who has been gone the last two years serving a church mission in Mexico, wasn't having it with the thought that we wouldn't put out our usual feast to the football gods. He can get pretty much get anything he wants by saying, "Hey, remember I was gone for two years," or, "Wow, I haven't had/seen/done that for at least two years."
Even that didn't inspire me much, but in an effort to be a good mother, I asked him what foods he had to have that were absolutely essential for him to consider it Super Bowl Sunday and he came up with clam dip and chips, Little Smokies in BBQ sauce, and perhaps a BBQ. Occasionally after that he would mention something else but nothing he suggested was even remotely what one might consider a healthy food. But who could I blame? I had raised him on Cheetos as a dairy product.
As the game approached, I did try really hard to pick a team since no matter how lame the game, the TV WOULD be on. I liked the Giants because, well, I'm giant, but then Boston is my favorite city and I'm truly a patriot. But Tom Brady is married to a Brazilian supermodel - blech - and my husband and son tell me that the Patriot's coach is a cheating crook. Then again, New York's uniforms are uglier than New England's, and that's an important consideration.
In the end, I decided to go with the Giants because I decided I would allow myself to be giant during the game with all bets off on what I ate. So I bought the Smokies, made the clam dip (almost pure cream cheese - yum), and bought an extra large bag of chips. But that's all I could make myself do. I figured I was probably going to blog about the experience and I didn't really want to have to admit that I went face down in the candy bowl.
My husband picked up on my vibe and saved the day for everyone by making sure we had brats, guacamole and tortilla chips, M&M's, Cadbury eggs...I'll stop the list before I start licking my computer monitor. But (or as pertains to this - butt) he also made sure there were grilled, skinless chicken breasts, fresh pineapple cut up into bite-size pieces, and cut celery with fat-free ranch dip. I made a big pan of sugar-free orange jello with mandarin oranges (my diet drug of choice), so I pretty much ate like a queen. A queen on a diet. But a queen. At the very least, it was a meal befitting the Princess of Whales.
Do I feel deprived? Absolutely! Do I feel cheated? And how! Some things just aren't fair, and having so much great food associated with a non-holiday is almost a crime, but that's just how it is. I'm now living the quote "trade something good now for something better later" so I'm trying really hard to visualize saying hello to a flight attendant without adding, "Can I get an extender?" Or buying clothes in a "normal" store. Or maybe just even wearing the next-size-down clothes I have hanging in the closet.
Excuse me while I go have some fake ice cream on a stick for less than 100 calories. I deserve a treat. And as for the game? I still don't care. It's on right now and there have been some great commercials. The food is still surrounding me, but I'm okay. I just wish there were a Lombardi Trophy for me staying out of the candy bowl.
It really isn't fair...
This annual salute to the end of the NFL season and funny commercials has ultimately become more about good tailgate food. And lots of it. In years past I have embraced this and have even gone so far as to color coordinate the snacks to match the opposing teams. But this year? I couldn't possibly care less about the teams who are playing and I'm trying to lose weight, so what's the point besides the commercials? About food. Doritos. Pizza. Pepsi. Mmmmmmm..... At least I don't drink beer, but it's still brutal.
We're a Packers/Broncos/49ers family and had hopes for all of them this year but when the 49ers were the last to fall a couple of weeks ago, all excitement and anticipation for the Super Bowl evaporated. My son, though, who has been gone the last two years serving a church mission in Mexico, wasn't having it with the thought that we wouldn't put out our usual feast to the football gods. He can get pretty much get anything he wants by saying, "Hey, remember I was gone for two years," or, "Wow, I haven't had/seen/done that for at least two years."
Even that didn't inspire me much, but in an effort to be a good mother, I asked him what foods he had to have that were absolutely essential for him to consider it Super Bowl Sunday and he came up with clam dip and chips, Little Smokies in BBQ sauce, and perhaps a BBQ. Occasionally after that he would mention something else but nothing he suggested was even remotely what one might consider a healthy food. But who could I blame? I had raised him on Cheetos as a dairy product.
As the game approached, I did try really hard to pick a team since no matter how lame the game, the TV WOULD be on. I liked the Giants because, well, I'm giant, but then Boston is my favorite city and I'm truly a patriot. But Tom Brady is married to a Brazilian supermodel - blech - and my husband and son tell me that the Patriot's coach is a cheating crook. Then again, New York's uniforms are uglier than New England's, and that's an important consideration.
In the end, I decided to go with the Giants because I decided I would allow myself to be giant during the game with all bets off on what I ate. So I bought the Smokies, made the clam dip (almost pure cream cheese - yum), and bought an extra large bag of chips. But that's all I could make myself do. I figured I was probably going to blog about the experience and I didn't really want to have to admit that I went face down in the candy bowl.
My husband picked up on my vibe and saved the day for everyone by making sure we had brats, guacamole and tortilla chips, M&M's, Cadbury eggs...I'll stop the list before I start licking my computer monitor. But (or as pertains to this - butt) he also made sure there were grilled, skinless chicken breasts, fresh pineapple cut up into bite-size pieces, and cut celery with fat-free ranch dip. I made a big pan of sugar-free orange jello with mandarin oranges (my diet drug of choice), so I pretty much ate like a queen. A queen on a diet. But a queen. At the very least, it was a meal befitting the Princess of Whales.
Do I feel deprived? Absolutely! Do I feel cheated? And how! Some things just aren't fair, and having so much great food associated with a non-holiday is almost a crime, but that's just how it is. I'm now living the quote "trade something good now for something better later" so I'm trying really hard to visualize saying hello to a flight attendant without adding, "Can I get an extender?" Or buying clothes in a "normal" store. Or maybe just even wearing the next-size-down clothes I have hanging in the closet.
Excuse me while I go have some fake ice cream on a stick for less than 100 calories. I deserve a treat. And as for the game? I still don't care. It's on right now and there have been some great commercials. The food is still surrounding me, but I'm okay. I just wish there were a Lombardi Trophy for me staying out of the candy bowl.
It really isn't fair...
Saturday, February 4, 2012
TMI
When I was little (yes, I used to be little), I would watch my mother plan for months to prepare her lessons for Relief Society (the women's organization of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints) and these always included amazing object lessons, handouts, treats and visual aids, although she stopped short of ice sculptures. I really looked forward to the day when I would be able to teach and I got that opportunity shortly after we moved to Huntsville. I was very excited when I was asked to substitute for the regular teacher one week and I couldn't wait to start working on the lesson. The topic? Abortion. Yeah, try making a fridge magnet for that one, and visual aids are NOT recommended.
I was hoping to get another chance at it, and soon after I was asked to teach the lesson for Homemaking Night, back in the day when they still called it that. The topic? Fitness and Nutrition. Really? You want the large couch potato to teach the Fitness and Nutrition lesson? I can understand my qualifications for teaching about abortion because I'm opposed to it and I've never had one. But Fitness and Nutrition? Seriously? To have me teach a lesson on fitness and nutrition is like asking Dr. Kevorkian (Google him, young 'uns) to teach CPR to the elderly. Obviously they were going with the concept that "the teacher learns more than the student" when preparing the lesson. Maybe they were subtly suggesting that I needed to lose weight and that the research I would do for the lesson would inspire me.
The problem with that then, and now, is there is too much information out there on the topic and most of it is conflicting: eggs are bad because of the cholesterol. Wait - eggs are a good source of protein. Meat is bad so be a vegetarian. Wait - meat is a good source of protein and iron and it's hard to get those things if you're a vegetarian. Milk has calcium and vitamins and is good for you. Wait - milk contains growth hormones and is bad for you. I could go on like this for a long time, but I think you get the point.
I was hoping to get another chance at it, and soon after I was asked to teach the lesson for Homemaking Night, back in the day when they still called it that. The topic? Fitness and Nutrition. Really? You want the large couch potato to teach the Fitness and Nutrition lesson? I can understand my qualifications for teaching about abortion because I'm opposed to it and I've never had one. But Fitness and Nutrition? Seriously? To have me teach a lesson on fitness and nutrition is like asking Dr. Kevorkian (Google him, young 'uns) to teach CPR to the elderly. Obviously they were going with the concept that "the teacher learns more than the student" when preparing the lesson. Maybe they were subtly suggesting that I needed to lose weight and that the research I would do for the lesson would inspire me.
The problem with that then, and now, is there is too much information out there on the topic and most of it is conflicting: eggs are bad because of the cholesterol. Wait - eggs are a good source of protein. Meat is bad so be a vegetarian. Wait - meat is a good source of protein and iron and it's hard to get those things if you're a vegetarian. Milk has calcium and vitamins and is good for you. Wait - milk contains growth hormones and is bad for you. I could go on like this for a long time, but I think you get the point.
The same can be said about exercise. Running is said to be good for cardiovascular health, but then Jim Fixx, the man who most recently popularized the sport of running, died at the age of 52 of a heart attack after running. My son ran in the Olympic marathon trials (obviously his gift did not come from me). One of the top elite runners in that race died shortly after the race started. Just yesterday I was talking to someone about swimming for exercise and they shot me down saying swimming isn't good exercise because it doesn't get your heart rate up high enough to do any good. URGH (there is a much stronger word I would like to use in the place of "urgh" but I'm trying to keep this a relatively family-friendly blog)!
So this is what I came up with for my lesson, and I had samples of all them on hand:
The Food Groups
by Princess of Whales
Meat/Protein
Pork Rinds
Cinnamon Bears
Almond Joy
Animal Crackers
Goldfish Crackers
Dairy
Anything Milk Chocolate
Milk Duds
Nutter Butters
Milky Way
Cheesy Cheetos
Fruits
Cherry Chocolates
Orange Sticks
Raspberry Truffles
Apple Fritter
Vegetables
Corn Chips
Potato Chips
Carrot Cake
Onion Rings
Breads/Carbs
ALL Breads & Carbs Are Approved
Basically, I just structured the staples of my personal diet around the guidelines set forth by whatever government agency does that sort of thing (even though I think the government needs to stay out of my diet, illustrated by the fact that they no longer use the food groups, but a food pyramid), and that was the result. The information may not have been the best, but the visual aids were delicious!
The point was to show the extreme opposite of what we instinctively know as healthy and it started a great discussion about all of the different methods and ideology that are out there. As I've said before, what works for one may not work for others and the trick is finding what works for you. Bottom line - running can be good, but not for me.
All of this was before Al Gore invented the Internet and since that time there has been a complete dump of information as to the best way be healthy (most of it involving great expense) so I'm more confused than ever. TMI. All I know is that as old as I am, and as much as I know, there's still so much I have to learn.
But more importantly, I still have so much to DO! I guess I can start by getting off of the computer...for now.
Wednesday, February 1, 2012
Making a Splash
I'm thinking of changing the name of this blog to "A Lap, Or So" because I have spent more time in the pool than I have on the road in the last couple of days. Water + My Knee = Bliss.
I made good on my commitment to buy a pass to the local aquatic center, despite my hesitation to pay a little money to use a public pool (where you have no idea what people have done in it) when we pay a lot of money to have a private pool in our backyard (that is pristinely maintained by my live-in pool boy). That hesitation dissipated, however, when the posted temperature on their indoor pool showed that it was 82 degrees and our outdoor pool sits at a less-than-balmy 42 degrees. Definitely worth every penny to buy a quarter-year pass rather than heat the winter water storage. The pass will take me through the end of April which is about the time of the reopening of the "Hairibbean" (named after my pool boy/husband who, while wearing only his swimsuit/Speedo, looks like he is still wearing a sweater).
When I walked in to purchase the pass, the entire floor of the entry was covered in small children because apparently there is an elementary school who brings their students for swim lessons after school on Mondays. After hearing their leader remind them to go to the bathroom, blow their nose and stand under the shower before entering the pool, I made a mental note not to come for a swim on Monday afternoons. I think it would be mutually scary. Instead, I decided to go back later in the evening when I could have the place to myself. What I failed to take into consideration is that the aquatic center was not built specifically for me and has, in fact, stayed in business for many years without my business, so why should I think no one else would be using it?
There are two pools at the center - a competition/diving pool, and a leisure pool (translation - big people pool and swim-diaper-to-tween pool). The competition/diving pool consists of a deep water area, and several lanes for lap swimming. I arrived for my "solo" swim to find two large groups learning to scuba dive in the deep water area and every single lap lane occupied. That left the leisure pool, which is divided into an area that has fountains, frogs, and slides and then an open area with depths starting at just over three feet and ending at just over four feet. The frog area was overrun with at least 1,000 kids (with a generous allowance for my exaggeration) - I had completely forgotten that Monday Night = Family Night and that apparently swimming is a favorite activity for this night of the week. The tween area was pretty empty, though, so I slithered into the deepest part of the water to begin my workout.
This would probably be a good time to mention that I really don't swim. Not in the traditional sense, anyway. I am extremely claustrophobic when my head goes under water, so "swimming" to me is a modified breaststroke with my head sticking out of the water. I consider myself the Princess of Whales because of my attachment to Lady Diana, but I would imagine that in the water I look more like a bloated alligator bobbing along the top of the water. This style of swimming also doesn't do well in a pool less than five feet deep, so I tried doing some water jogging but my boobage kept slapping against the water and stirring up turbulence to the point that the lifeguard kept looking over at me to make sure I was okay. I then tried doing some stretches but when I would lift my arm out of the water, I looked like I was rehearsing a solo synchronized swim or auditioning for the lead in Black Swan - The Water Adaptation. After awhile I just tried to focus on keeping all of my body parts under the water while still moving enough to consider it exercise, and if you know how buoyant fat people are, that was it's own workout. It wasn't easy, but it worked, and I was substantially more sore the day after my water workout than I usually am after a regular gym workout (sessions with personal trainer not included).
So I'll definitely be going back. Probably not on a Monday night, and I'm going to ask for a schedule of the scuba classes so I can avoid those, but I sure do like how I can move in water and completely forget that I even have knees. If I'm lucky to get in the big people pool, I might even be able to let my mind relax and think deep thoughts. I'm going to hope for that, because while I didn't freak anybody out in the kiddie pool (that I am aware of) I don't want to push my luck.
I made good on my commitment to buy a pass to the local aquatic center, despite my hesitation to pay a little money to use a public pool (where you have no idea what people have done in it) when we pay a lot of money to have a private pool in our backyard (that is pristinely maintained by my live-in pool boy). That hesitation dissipated, however, when the posted temperature on their indoor pool showed that it was 82 degrees and our outdoor pool sits at a less-than-balmy 42 degrees. Definitely worth every penny to buy a quarter-year pass rather than heat the winter water storage. The pass will take me through the end of April which is about the time of the reopening of the "Hairibbean" (named after my pool boy/husband who, while wearing only his swimsuit/Speedo, looks like he is still wearing a sweater).
When I walked in to purchase the pass, the entire floor of the entry was covered in small children because apparently there is an elementary school who brings their students for swim lessons after school on Mondays. After hearing their leader remind them to go to the bathroom, blow their nose and stand under the shower before entering the pool, I made a mental note not to come for a swim on Monday afternoons. I think it would be mutually scary. Instead, I decided to go back later in the evening when I could have the place to myself. What I failed to take into consideration is that the aquatic center was not built specifically for me and has, in fact, stayed in business for many years without my business, so why should I think no one else would be using it?
There are two pools at the center - a competition/diving pool, and a leisure pool (translation - big people pool and swim-diaper-to-tween pool). The competition/diving pool consists of a deep water area, and several lanes for lap swimming. I arrived for my "solo" swim to find two large groups learning to scuba dive in the deep water area and every single lap lane occupied. That left the leisure pool, which is divided into an area that has fountains, frogs, and slides and then an open area with depths starting at just over three feet and ending at just over four feet. The frog area was overrun with at least 1,000 kids (with a generous allowance for my exaggeration) - I had completely forgotten that Monday Night = Family Night and that apparently swimming is a favorite activity for this night of the week. The tween area was pretty empty, though, so I slithered into the deepest part of the water to begin my workout.
This would probably be a good time to mention that I really don't swim. Not in the traditional sense, anyway. I am extremely claustrophobic when my head goes under water, so "swimming" to me is a modified breaststroke with my head sticking out of the water. I consider myself the Princess of Whales because of my attachment to Lady Diana, but I would imagine that in the water I look more like a bloated alligator bobbing along the top of the water. This style of swimming also doesn't do well in a pool less than five feet deep, so I tried doing some water jogging but my boobage kept slapping against the water and stirring up turbulence to the point that the lifeguard kept looking over at me to make sure I was okay. I then tried doing some stretches but when I would lift my arm out of the water, I looked like I was rehearsing a solo synchronized swim or auditioning for the lead in Black Swan - The Water Adaptation. After awhile I just tried to focus on keeping all of my body parts under the water while still moving enough to consider it exercise, and if you know how buoyant fat people are, that was it's own workout. It wasn't easy, but it worked, and I was substantially more sore the day after my water workout than I usually am after a regular gym workout (sessions with personal trainer not included).
So I'll definitely be going back. Probably not on a Monday night, and I'm going to ask for a schedule of the scuba classes so I can avoid those, but I sure do like how I can move in water and completely forget that I even have knees. If I'm lucky to get in the big people pool, I might even be able to let my mind relax and think deep thoughts. I'm going to hope for that, because while I didn't freak anybody out in the kiddie pool (that I am aware of) I don't want to push my luck.
Monday, January 30, 2012
Accountability
Today was weigh-in and apparently skinny mom should have been screaming at fat mom a little more - net gain of 3 pounds. After reevaluating the pros and cons of last week, here is the game plan for the week (as opposed to my usual gut reaction to say to he** with it) -
1) Limit carbonation to no more than 20 oz. per day to cut down on bloat.
2) Avoid onion blossoms.
3) Buy a pass to Sand Hollow Aquatic.
4) Stretch every day.
5) Cease getting rid of bad foods in the house by getting rid of them in my mouth (thank you Rodger).
6) Ramp up the biking at least one extra day this week.
7) Commit to weightwatchers.com because if Charles Barkley can do it, I can do it.
8) Work on my rebounds.
I think I can, I think I can, I think I can, I think I can, I think I can, I think I can, I think I can.....
1) Limit carbonation to no more than 20 oz. per day to cut down on bloat.
2) Avoid onion blossoms.
3) Buy a pass to Sand Hollow Aquatic.
4) Stretch every day.
5) Cease getting rid of bad foods in the house by getting rid of them in my mouth (thank you Rodger).
6) Ramp up the biking at least one extra day this week.
7) Commit to weightwatchers.com because if Charles Barkley can do it, I can do it.
8) Work on my rebounds.
I think I can, I think I can, I think I can, I think I can, I think I can, I think I can, I think I can.....
Sunday, January 29, 2012
Fat Mom/Skinny Mom
Back in the day when Roseanne Barr was still funny (and that was a LONG time ago so some of you may have to Google it), I watched a stand-up routine she did where she talked about the benefits of having a fat mom versus a skinny mom. To paraphrase, she asked what kind of a mom you want when you're depressed - a skinny mom who invites you to join them on a run so that it will release adrenaline in your blood and relieve your stress, or a fat mom who says, "Well, lets have pudding, Oreos and marshmallows. When you wake up from that sugar coma, it'll be a brand new week." I speak from experience that Oreos work every time.
That said, it's the sugar comas that are forcing me to rethink my parenting style. I do believe that the skinny mom solution does have it's place, but I HATE running (plus the whole knee issue). The challenge, as always, is to find the balance, and possibly an alternative adrenaline-inducing activity that doesn't involve running. Thanks to my youngest daughter's mini-crisis this past week, I was able to try out a new "trying-to-be-less-of-a-fat-mom" approach by combining elements of both philosophies.
A couple of days ago, I got a phone call from my adorable, happy, outgoing, hard-working, self-sufficient, incredibly bright daughter (these adjectives easily describe both of my daughters on earth, but I'm talking about the one who worked so hard this year we got five W2s for her). She was clearly upset by some events of the week that hadn't turned out the way she expected (hmmm...like mother, like daughter...) and it was causing her to rethink her entire life as opposed to just addressing the issues at hand (hmmm...like mother, like daughter...).
My gut reaction was to panic because the entire state of Utah lies between us and I could not do what I wanted to do most - give her a hug and some chocolate. So I ate a few (and I'm sincere when I say "a few") milk chocolate almonds on her behalf and talked her into taking a much needed nap before making any big decisions (she works full-time, goes to school while paying for all of it herself, and almost completely supports herself, so a nap seemed way more helpful than a run...).
I don't remember what life was like before cell phones and I don't ever want to go back to that time because at the very least, she was able to call me while I was at work and we got to electronically talk it out a little. That said, no amount of phone talking, texting, Facebooking, or even Skyping can compensate for some face-to-face time so I was grateful when my husband agreed that we needed to make a quick trip up there.
As I've mentioned before, my emotions have a tendency to get the best of me (something I hope and pray is tempered a bit in my children) and food is my coping mechanism, but I managed to make it through the night drowning my anxiety in some baked tortilla chips with salsa and about six pieces of fruit. Now that's progress.
Thanks to the blessing of flight benefits, we were able to jump on our trusty steed (disguised as a regional jet) and meet her for dinner the next night. We had hoped to talk things out on a long walk afterward so that I could incorporate this trip into the goal of my blog, but if you've ever been to Cache Valley in January, long walks outside are not optimum if you don't want to freeze-burn your lungs. So we talked at the restaurant where I took care to substitute my usual side selection of butter-with-a-little-baked-potato for the steamed veggies and a salad with dressing on the side. Admittedly, there was an onion blossom involved, and while I tried to avoid it entirely, I did allow myself a few bites. Baby steps.
We did discuss the possibility of "cleaning the sink" at Angie's, a local favorite (this involves two bananas, six mounds of ice cream, three different toppings, whipped cream, nuts, cherries, and a bumper sticker if you eat the whole thing) but in a show of utmost restraint (so I thought), we opted instead to just get some Aggie Blue Mint ice cream at the grocery store and take it back to the hotel.
This was all well and good until I finished the small bowl that my daughter dished out for me. This was not ice cream...this was nothing short of crack cocaine for someone who can't remember the last time she had REAL ice cream, not the fake stuff on a stick that has 100 calories or less. Thankfully, my daughter was paying attention when I grabbed the carton and started eating it right from the source. In a moment I'm not proud of, she pried the half-gallon from my cold, stiff grip while yelling, "No, Mom! Not one last cigarette!" That broke the spell.
It was then that I did the unthinkable. I drew from the playbook of the skinny mom and suggested we go to the fitness center before we hit the biggest indoor pool in Logan, conveniently located at the Holiday Inn Express (you're welcome, HIE). My daughter, who has been running regularly, was all for it and had brought her workout clothes. I hadn't packed mine because we were originally going to go for a walk and all I needed for that was my street clothes and walking shoes. This is where being a fearless fatty comes in handy because I just put on my swimsuit, my swimsuit cover-up and my walking shoes with footie socks and headed to the fitness center.
Thankfully, it was directly across the hall from our room, so I avoided subjecting the general public to that visual. Unfortunately, I was not so lucky, because the fitness center sports a wall of mirrors making it virtually impossible to avoid looking at reality. And reality at my age and weight is pretty intense in a wall-length mirror. But we did it. She ran on the treadmill (I was super impressed) while I did my best on the elliptical (in the absence of a bike). She booked through two miles but I had to stop occasionally for sips of water from the fountain because I was overheating from the cover-up I had on and I was not fearless enough to lose the cover-up and do this in just my swimsuit. Beaches and swimming pools, yes. Ellipticals with shoes and socks, no. It was a decent workout, with a BIG finish in the oh-so-awesome swimming pool where I completely forgot I even had knees. I had to admit, skinny moms do have a point.
In the end, there was a moderate adoption of both philosophies - a little bit of fried food, ice cream and chocolate, and a little bit of adrenaline-inducing exercise. Add to that a good night's sleep and a father's blessing for my daughter and we're both ready to face a new week.
There may be something to this moderation thing.
That said, it's the sugar comas that are forcing me to rethink my parenting style. I do believe that the skinny mom solution does have it's place, but I HATE running (plus the whole knee issue). The challenge, as always, is to find the balance, and possibly an alternative adrenaline-inducing activity that doesn't involve running. Thanks to my youngest daughter's mini-crisis this past week, I was able to try out a new "trying-to-be-less-of-a-fat-mom" approach by combining elements of both philosophies.
A couple of days ago, I got a phone call from my adorable, happy, outgoing, hard-working, self-sufficient, incredibly bright daughter (these adjectives easily describe both of my daughters on earth, but I'm talking about the one who worked so hard this year we got five W2s for her). She was clearly upset by some events of the week that hadn't turned out the way she expected (hmmm...like mother, like daughter...) and it was causing her to rethink her entire life as opposed to just addressing the issues at hand (hmmm...like mother, like daughter...).
My gut reaction was to panic because the entire state of Utah lies between us and I could not do what I wanted to do most - give her a hug and some chocolate. So I ate a few (and I'm sincere when I say "a few") milk chocolate almonds on her behalf and talked her into taking a much needed nap before making any big decisions (she works full-time, goes to school while paying for all of it herself, and almost completely supports herself, so a nap seemed way more helpful than a run...).
I don't remember what life was like before cell phones and I don't ever want to go back to that time because at the very least, she was able to call me while I was at work and we got to electronically talk it out a little. That said, no amount of phone talking, texting, Facebooking, or even Skyping can compensate for some face-to-face time so I was grateful when my husband agreed that we needed to make a quick trip up there.
As I've mentioned before, my emotions have a tendency to get the best of me (something I hope and pray is tempered a bit in my children) and food is my coping mechanism, but I managed to make it through the night drowning my anxiety in some baked tortilla chips with salsa and about six pieces of fruit. Now that's progress.
Thanks to the blessing of flight benefits, we were able to jump on our trusty steed (disguised as a regional jet) and meet her for dinner the next night. We had hoped to talk things out on a long walk afterward so that I could incorporate this trip into the goal of my blog, but if you've ever been to Cache Valley in January, long walks outside are not optimum if you don't want to freeze-burn your lungs. So we talked at the restaurant where I took care to substitute my usual side selection of butter-with-a-little-baked-potato for the steamed veggies and a salad with dressing on the side. Admittedly, there was an onion blossom involved, and while I tried to avoid it entirely, I did allow myself a few bites. Baby steps.
We did discuss the possibility of "cleaning the sink" at Angie's, a local favorite (this involves two bananas, six mounds of ice cream, three different toppings, whipped cream, nuts, cherries, and a bumper sticker if you eat the whole thing) but in a show of utmost restraint (so I thought), we opted instead to just get some Aggie Blue Mint ice cream at the grocery store and take it back to the hotel.
This was all well and good until I finished the small bowl that my daughter dished out for me. This was not ice cream...this was nothing short of crack cocaine for someone who can't remember the last time she had REAL ice cream, not the fake stuff on a stick that has 100 calories or less. Thankfully, my daughter was paying attention when I grabbed the carton and started eating it right from the source. In a moment I'm not proud of, she pried the half-gallon from my cold, stiff grip while yelling, "No, Mom! Not one last cigarette!" That broke the spell.
It was then that I did the unthinkable. I drew from the playbook of the skinny mom and suggested we go to the fitness center before we hit the biggest indoor pool in Logan, conveniently located at the Holiday Inn Express (you're welcome, HIE). My daughter, who has been running regularly, was all for it and had brought her workout clothes. I hadn't packed mine because we were originally going to go for a walk and all I needed for that was my street clothes and walking shoes. This is where being a fearless fatty comes in handy because I just put on my swimsuit, my swimsuit cover-up and my walking shoes with footie socks and headed to the fitness center.
Thankfully, it was directly across the hall from our room, so I avoided subjecting the general public to that visual. Unfortunately, I was not so lucky, because the fitness center sports a wall of mirrors making it virtually impossible to avoid looking at reality. And reality at my age and weight is pretty intense in a wall-length mirror. But we did it. She ran on the treadmill (I was super impressed) while I did my best on the elliptical (in the absence of a bike). She booked through two miles but I had to stop occasionally for sips of water from the fountain because I was overheating from the cover-up I had on and I was not fearless enough to lose the cover-up and do this in just my swimsuit. Beaches and swimming pools, yes. Ellipticals with shoes and socks, no. It was a decent workout, with a BIG finish in the oh-so-awesome swimming pool where I completely forgot I even had knees. I had to admit, skinny moms do have a point.
In the end, there was a moderate adoption of both philosophies - a little bit of fried food, ice cream and chocolate, and a little bit of adrenaline-inducing exercise. Add to that a good night's sleep and a father's blessing for my daughter and we're both ready to face a new week.
There may be something to this moderation thing.
Wednesday, January 25, 2012
The Disorders of Eating
The overwhelming reality of this quest is starting to set in and to be honest with you, I'm feeling quite small right now (figuratively, of course...but not my figure...you get the point). The sheer number of what I am up against has overshadowed my thoughts over the last couple of days, especially now that I know so many of you are watching me with your beady little eyes (loving and supportive beady little eyes, of course, but nonetheless...).
Looking at this from a poundage standpoint, I essentially have to lose 140 of those suckers to put me at what I consider a healthy weight for a muscular me (although insurance guidelines say I have about 200 pounds to lose and that just ain't gonna happen). When you put 140 pounds into more visual terms, that's like losing the equivalent of either two supermodels, one average teenager, or twenty newborn babies. Somehow I can't see duct-taping twenty newborns to a skinny person and getting my body, but that's how it plays out.
When an anorexic looks in the mirror, this is what she sees:
When I look in the mirror, this is what I see:
Except she has more hair.
To a non-delusional person, this would seem ridiculous. I think it's obvious that I'm delusional. I used to call myself a reverse anorexic until I Googled to see if that was an actual disorder and it turns out, according to the indisputable medical expertise of Wikipedia, it is a very real condition and I don't meet the criteria. (I also diagnosed myself as being partially bulimic - I binge, but I don't purge.) The disparity between Britney and myself is a bit skewed, but suffice it to say, I have a twisted perception of how "big" of an issue I really have.
Basically what it boils down to is that I have truly come to discover that I have an eating disorder, no less severe than Amy Winehouse (they wanna make me go to rehab but I say no, no, no), but more along the lines of Oprah Winfrey (although no one gets a car). To tell someone like me I just need to eat less is like telling an anorexic they just need to eat more, or a bulemic that they just need to hold it in. It's a bit more complex than that. But at the same time, there's no point in making it any more difficult than it needs to be.
I wish it were that easy.
Looking at this from a poundage standpoint, I essentially have to lose 140 of those suckers to put me at what I consider a healthy weight for a muscular me (although insurance guidelines say I have about 200 pounds to lose and that just ain't gonna happen). When you put 140 pounds into more visual terms, that's like losing the equivalent of either two supermodels, one average teenager, or twenty newborn babies. Somehow I can't see duct-taping twenty newborns to a skinny person and getting my body, but that's how it plays out.
When an anorexic looks in the mirror, this is what she sees:
To a non-delusional person, this would seem ridiculous. I think it's obvious that I'm delusional. I used to call myself a reverse anorexic until I Googled to see if that was an actual disorder and it turns out, according to the indisputable medical expertise of Wikipedia, it is a very real condition and I don't meet the criteria. (I also diagnosed myself as being partially bulimic - I binge, but I don't purge.) The disparity between Britney and myself is a bit skewed, but suffice it to say, I have a twisted perception of how "big" of an issue I really have.
Basically what it boils down to is that I have truly come to discover that I have an eating disorder, no less severe than Amy Winehouse (they wanna make me go to rehab but I say no, no, no), but more along the lines of Oprah Winfrey (although no one gets a car). To tell someone like me I just need to eat less is like telling an anorexic they just need to eat more, or a bulemic that they just need to hold it in. It's a bit more complex than that. But at the same time, there's no point in making it any more difficult than it needs to be.
I wish it were that easy.
Monday, January 23, 2012
Madness In My Method
This morning I got on the scale to see what it said. It said, "Get off of me."
Actually, it said that I weigh 16 pounds less than the very most I have ever weighed in my entire life (which was about three months ago). That's the number I'm starting with so that I get complete and total credit for any and all efforts I have made to this point to lose weight. I won't tell you that number, I'll just wait and let you do the math when I have lost as much weight as I would like to. Actually, maybe I'll hold a contest to see if people can guess my top number, sort of like guessing how many M&M's are in a jar. On second thought, that's probably not a very good idea. I would eat the M&M's before the contest was over.
Upon finding out that I really have to lose weight, one of the first questions people have asked me is how I plan to do it. People generally assume that because I am so large, I must have unsuccessfully tried every commercial diet, fat pill, and exercise gizmo available and that maybe now I've discovered the golden ticket. Au contraire (and don't be fooled by the French...I hate the French...). I am suspicious of every single weight loss method put out there and I have eschewed all of them (I'm delighted to use the word "eschewed" in a sentence, especially about weight loss, because it has the word "chew" in it).
Except one. Moderation.
Several years ago, after the birth of one of my many children, I approached my OB/GYN about getting a magic pill because as I told him, I had tried really hard and I wasn't losing any weight. He told me I must not be trying hard enough because he had never seen a fat person in a concentration camp. At the time, Fen-Phen was all the rage so imagine my excitement when he whipped out his prescription pad and started scribbling. This was going to be so easy! It's a good thing I read the prescription before I took it to the pharmacy, though, because this is what he had scribbled: D&C 89.
(For those of you who are not members of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, D&C in this instance does not stand for the gynecological procedure "dilation and curettage." It is an abbreviation for Doctrine & Covenants, a modern-day book of scripture containing revelation from God to the prophet Joseph Smith and section 89 is a revelation regarding physical health. That confusion with the medical procedure explains why I am a long-time fanatic about referring to the book by it's full, non-abbreviated name.)
I kid you not. My MD was prescribing scripture. Quick translation - he was prescribing moderation in all things (although that phrase is not used specifically in the scripture), the only consistently successful weight-loss method he knew of as a medical professional.
So no magic pills. Fen-Phen was later proved to damage heart muscle and I have been especially suspicious of every other method besides moderation since that time. I did consider HCG, but it is a pregnancy hormone, after all, and with my luck, the shots would have made me pregnant.
My current doctor recommended lap-band surgery but there are several things that keep me from doing that: 1) expense (that kind of money will buy a LOT of chocolate); 2) fear of surgery and the possible complications; 3) I know too many people who have gained all their weight back after the surgery so if it isn't a permanent fix, I don't really want it; and 4) (and this is probably the most compelling reason for me) it would make me ineligible to be a People Magazine cover story in their annual "Half Their Size" issue. It could happen...
Please understand that I am not knocking anybody for whatever method they may choose to achieve and maintain a healthy weight. Everybody is different and different things work for different people. I just know what does and doesn't work for me so while I appreciate all of the love that has been expressed to me by way of offers of the best way to go about this, my issues go far deeper and I'm hoping that as I remember how I got to where I am, I'll figure out the best way to get to where I need to be.
In the past, if I had told my father I had lost 16 pounds, he would have replied, "Look behind you, you'll find it." And if he were still here I would tell him, "That's exactly what I'm trying to do, Dad. Put those pounds behind me."
Actually, it said that I weigh 16 pounds less than the very most I have ever weighed in my entire life (which was about three months ago). That's the number I'm starting with so that I get complete and total credit for any and all efforts I have made to this point to lose weight. I won't tell you that number, I'll just wait and let you do the math when I have lost as much weight as I would like to. Actually, maybe I'll hold a contest to see if people can guess my top number, sort of like guessing how many M&M's are in a jar. On second thought, that's probably not a very good idea. I would eat the M&M's before the contest was over.
Upon finding out that I really have to lose weight, one of the first questions people have asked me is how I plan to do it. People generally assume that because I am so large, I must have unsuccessfully tried every commercial diet, fat pill, and exercise gizmo available and that maybe now I've discovered the golden ticket. Au contraire (and don't be fooled by the French...I hate the French...). I am suspicious of every single weight loss method put out there and I have eschewed all of them (I'm delighted to use the word "eschewed" in a sentence, especially about weight loss, because it has the word "chew" in it).
Except one. Moderation.
Several years ago, after the birth of one of my many children, I approached my OB/GYN about getting a magic pill because as I told him, I had tried really hard and I wasn't losing any weight. He told me I must not be trying hard enough because he had never seen a fat person in a concentration camp. At the time, Fen-Phen was all the rage so imagine my excitement when he whipped out his prescription pad and started scribbling. This was going to be so easy! It's a good thing I read the prescription before I took it to the pharmacy, though, because this is what he had scribbled: D&C 89.
(For those of you who are not members of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, D&C in this instance does not stand for the gynecological procedure "dilation and curettage." It is an abbreviation for Doctrine & Covenants, a modern-day book of scripture containing revelation from God to the prophet Joseph Smith and section 89 is a revelation regarding physical health. That confusion with the medical procedure explains why I am a long-time fanatic about referring to the book by it's full, non-abbreviated name.)
I kid you not. My MD was prescribing scripture. Quick translation - he was prescribing moderation in all things (although that phrase is not used specifically in the scripture), the only consistently successful weight-loss method he knew of as a medical professional.
So no magic pills. Fen-Phen was later proved to damage heart muscle and I have been especially suspicious of every other method besides moderation since that time. I did consider HCG, but it is a pregnancy hormone, after all, and with my luck, the shots would have made me pregnant.
My current doctor recommended lap-band surgery but there are several things that keep me from doing that: 1) expense (that kind of money will buy a LOT of chocolate); 2) fear of surgery and the possible complications; 3) I know too many people who have gained all their weight back after the surgery so if it isn't a permanent fix, I don't really want it; and 4) (and this is probably the most compelling reason for me) it would make me ineligible to be a People Magazine cover story in their annual "Half Their Size" issue. It could happen...
Please understand that I am not knocking anybody for whatever method they may choose to achieve and maintain a healthy weight. Everybody is different and different things work for different people. I just know what does and doesn't work for me so while I appreciate all of the love that has been expressed to me by way of offers of the best way to go about this, my issues go far deeper and I'm hoping that as I remember how I got to where I am, I'll figure out the best way to get to where I need to be.
In the past, if I had told my father I had lost 16 pounds, he would have replied, "Look behind you, you'll find it." And if he were still here I would tell him, "That's exactly what I'm trying to do, Dad. Put those pounds behind me."
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