Trudging back in.

I had just one giant bitch of a week, and I decided to wait until I stopped lavishing in my own misery to write about it so I could at least look back with some perspective on things, and so now I'm back...2 pounds heavier but hopefully with some sort of plan for moving forward.

A very heavy depression descended on me this week...one of those where I'm honestly concerned about whether or not it will ever lift, and for awhile yesterdy while I sat in my car in the dark garage for thirty minutes because I couldn't will my body to get up out of it I really didn't think I was ever going to be able to think clearly again. Lots and lots of stress and exhaustion and tension and stupid adult problems with banks and cell phones and insurance companies sort of just kept building and building until I freaked and spent a lot of time eating various forms of fried chicken...chicken on buns, chicken dipped in gravy, chicken shaped into tiny balls and crammed into my gaping maw by barbecue sauce stained fingers. Somewhere in central Arkansas, dozens of Tyson Chicken employees just got laid off because I ate EVERY FREAKING CHICKEN in their farm. Sigh.

And I've spent a lot of time wondering what it takes to be brave enough to do all this. To just go and move your body and eat the right foods no matter how many chocolate cakes are shoved under your nose or how many time your brain says that the world doesn't need another obese person waddling down the sidewalk in sweatpants. I went from actually being sort of brave and hopping on an airplane for Chicago at the last minute to hiding in my bedroom because a picture taken of me standing on the beach at Lake Michigan finally revealed to me just how bad things had gotten. There were no artfully posed "Fat-girl-with-chin-down-quirky-smile-to-hide-the-jowls" shots, no pageant position standing to minimize the waist and obscure at least one hip from the lens, no black on black couture to hopefully detract from the rolls and the pudge...just me in my pear-shaped glory, squinting at the camera and trying desperately to shield myself from sight with my forearms. And if I were serious about any of this, my blogs should've revealed a steady progression of good choices and moderate weight loss every week since January. Now I just have fits and starts and big gaps in the entries where I became an utter fuckup and ate away my disappointments and washed it down with a large Coke.

I wonder what it takes to be THAT person...the one who swims and dances and does yoga in a big-lady Speedo and XXL workout pants and doesn't apologize for wanting to do any of it. The one who says the Curves gym is okay if you want to not do very much, but that I have a right to be in the real gym with the real people, so move over so I can leg press thank you very much. The one who jiggles her way around a few miles of town every morning, no matter what, until the jiggles stop jiggling and the flesh is replaced by muscle and suddenly no one is staring or laughing as she steps into the pool. Where does the self-possession to say "I don't give a fuck" come from, or does it never actually click until you've earned the right in the eyes of everyone else?

I wish I knew...I'd like to instill myself with at least a modicum of bravery and integrity before I end up threatening the entire poultry population of the Central Plains.

Usually if I've been gone for a week or more, you can be assured it's probably because I found myself lost in a junk food induced haze and I've only come out of it long enough to type a plaintive "What was I thinking?" entry before resuming my two steps forward/one step back trudge down the path to physical well-being.

So of course I'm true to form this time and am limping back into Fatblogland with my tail between my legs and a terrible sugar and fat hangover from ten days worth of indulgence. The last week of school is dizzying melange of ice cream socials, potlucks, long lunches at Mexican restaurants, and general hedonism on the part of the teachers and students. I think our PTA was even considering renting a vomitorium for next year's orgy.

Surprisingly, I haven't gained any weight--still holding steady at 221--but my body just feels beyond nasty. I was never sure if I bought into body toxins and cleansing the body, but boy do I ever now. I spent the entire day today languishing on the couch and flipping between Maury and Greg and wishing I were dead. There wasn't anything wrong with me--I wasn't sick and I wasn't tired--I just felt like crap.

I go to Chicago on Saturday, but tomorrow and Friday I'm going to see if I can flush out some of the thirty-seven tons of assy foods I stored in my intestines (lovely mental images, no?). A friend of mine who's battled cancer and gall bladder issues and kidney issues and all sorts of other awful things was given a bottle of that 48-Hour Hollywood Miracle Diet (I know, right?) to drink with foods off the Detox Diet and lots of water. So it doesn't do the harmful 10 lbs. in two days weight loss like it advertises...it just detoxes and lets you keep up your energy while you eat small amounts of stuff like brown rice and miso soup and vegetables and fruit.

I'll catch up with all of you tomorrow, hopefully. Have a wonderful Thursday and stay away from sugar cookies and Kool-Aid at all costs!

Will they even dye my eyes to match my gown? Jolly good town!

I've decided that, once a month, I'm going to do something very nice for myself that has nothing to do with weight or weight loss or weight gain or ANYTHING AT ALL about inches, pounds, or bodies. I decided this after typing a letter to a friend and realizing I had spelled the word "way" as "weigh" and "wait" as "weight" at least once in the body. I may but just a teensy trifle obsessed with ass-reducing right now.

So today, since it was raining out and my original plans of calling up a friend to do something outside were thwarted I decided to indulge in a day (or hour) of beauty. Unfortunately, because I have chosen to reside in the stank, humid armpit of the Midwest, there aren't really many institutions of beauty from which to choose and especially not on the Sunday before a government holiday. Sometimes, though, the rural Missourian in me rears its spiral permed and frosted head and I start feeling a peculiar urge to do very Midwestern things like tan, or go drink Bud Light by a lake on a pontoon, or get fake nails and the instinct must not be denied.

So I wasn't really surprised when I ended up in a vibrating armchair at the nail salon located in the local Wal-Mart. (Yes, I said the nail salon in the Wal-Mart, which, like the Subway-in-the-Wal-Mart, and the Bank-of-Greater-Metropolitan-Wal-Mart, I try never, ever to visit. But it's a holiday and they're very, very inexpensive and the urge was strong so JUST BACK UP OFF)

I had never gotten a mani-pedi before; my only experience with phalange-related beauty happened several years ago when the manicurist accidentally sliced open my finger with a cuticle pusher and screamed and practically shoved me out the door when she saw the blood spurt up. I guess she had legitimate concerns about HIV, but I got stuck with like an eighth of a manicure, and a pretty gnarly scar on my middle finger. I was hoping that the salon would be filled with the usual number of pre-teen girls and their mothers out for a "Girls' Day", but when I tentatively stepped in the door, the only other person in the room besides the nail techs was a stunningly overtanned woman in cutoff jean shorts and a hot pink tank top. She smiled broadly at me as I sank into a massage chair next to her and the pedicure lady sunk my feet into a heavenly spa jet thingy.

Over the next hour I learned that I should never, ever cut my nails on my own (as evidenced by a quarter-inch long hangnail the pedi lady exorcised from my big toe and waved accusingly at me as if she had discovered a bag of heroin between my toes), and that I should never, ever get color put on my nails (advice from the Mahogany Truck Driver Woman who told me that the way to get great sex was to get a French pedi and find a good man with no kids and a foot fetish). I decided to get hot pink anyway, not only because it's springtime, but because I'm certain it complemented the color of my cheeks after Mahogany Truck Driver revealed very intimate details of her love life with her Pederast Truck Driver Boyfriend.

A flash of impulse compelled me to ask the salon owner if they had time to put acrylic French tips on my fingers, too, and suddenly I was being slathered with all sorts of adhesives and attended to with scary dentisty drill things and there was acrylic flying everywhere and when the dust cleared I looked down to see ten very grown-up looking nails. I'd had French tips painted on when I got married, but I bit them off in the bride's room before the ceremony and I think they've been in various states of dishevelment since then. The new nails sort of hurt a little bit, and I'm terrified to do anything other than sit and display them carefully, but in a way I really like them.

Without forcing too much symbolism on the occasion, I'm kind of glad I spent the money to do this, because not only do I feel sort of pretty and sexy, but I also feel older...more ready to be a woman. I've been kind of a twenty-something twelve year old for several years now with my baby face, and my unruly hair, and my penchant for wearing sweats and t-shirts and tennis shoes when I could be dressing like an actual woman. I've also always been afraid of improving parts of me while the most noticeable aspects weren't so great. Whenever I'd get dressed up or made up or I'd try to look feminine and pretty, I'd ultimately always think, "What's the point? No one ever sees anything but the fat, anyway". I got really good at becoming one of the guys, or the funny fat chick, or the quiet, unassuming one who made every attempt to hide but could be devastatingly cool once you made the effort to know her...but you know what? It's almost harder work being unapproachable anymore, especially when I actually have things I'm proud of about myself. So these silly, forty dollar acrylic appendages that are making it hard for me to type correctly are kind of a little step toward liking myself most of the time, even if I can't be completely satisfied with who I am yet.

I think next month I'm going to go for a proper haircut and highlights at the day spa where the Wisterians go. It's not exactly Bliss in New York City, but at least it's not flanked by a bait refrigerator and an ice machine in the middle of a Super Wal-Mart.

American Beauty

A combination of delayed first flights and early connecting flights forced me to cancel for the weekend (my scale thanks me, but my social life is shaking its head in frustration). I purloined this from a friend's blog...the magic of Photoshop, no? It sort of makes you wonder what models and actresses really look like before the airbrushing, but it's also a pretty sobering look at what it takes to be "beautiful", and how incredibly hard it would be for some to get there.

Potentially NSFW, if women wearing negligees fall under that category for you. Also, loud, loud techno music blares when you click, so have your Ecstacy and glo-stick already in hand, please.

EDIT: The song is actually "Bootylicious" by Destiny's Child, as roz was very nice to point out. I guess I have the same reaction to the introduction that song as I do to "Sound the Alarm", which means I body slam my speakers until it's muffled, even though I like the actual song part of both of those a lot.

The ass and I are out of the office...

After a 6 am workout at the Fat Lady Gym (honest revelations on whether or not I think Curves is lame and why to follow next week), I go to work and then leave scool to drive straight to the airport for a mini-vacation to Birmingham, AL. The friend I'm visiting is a bit of a foodie, and was more excited about making reservations at restaurants than about making reservations for the flight. In about thirty-five minutes' time, he had decided we would visit The Highlands Restaurant (named the #5 restaurant in the country), Dreamland's BBQ (known for its ginormous rib platters), and Bogue's (to die for biscuits and gravy, and infamous for recommending that patrons seeking healthier fare go to the "Commie frou frou restaurant down the street). I think, even as recently as a couple weeks ago, I would've been all for this food-crawl adventure, but my rather sobering experience with the Flex Points and Mother's Day, coupled with the fact that I just don't have a taste for shitty food anymore is making this whole situation more awkward than I expected. Since he's essentially treating me this entire weekend, I feel like I can't request different restaurants, so this is all going to be a big challenge.

Since it's a big vacation weekend, the WW topic this week was "Turnaround will Travel", and I think it was helpful on a fairly basic level. Some of the lifers suggested switching from Flex to Core for the week, so you could have as much food as you wanted and then splurge on one item with the extra points. Other people said to pack your own food and bring a cooler. Both ideas are great, but I was disappointed we didn't get down to the root of a fairly emotional issue: What do you do when you're spending your time with someone who expects to eat, and expects the act of eating to be a bonding experience?

I ran headfirst into this issue as a kid, and while dating my husband. In my household, food was always an issue of money, and non-eaten food meant wasted grocery cash that my parents didn't have. If we went to a buffet, the unspoken rule was we ate three plates worth plus dessert, or the $7.99 a head wasn't worth it. It was a weird existence, trying desperately to eat enough to keep my parents' blood pressure down while we were out to eat and then being told at home not to eat anything, because I was getting fat and I was eating them out of house and home. I finally sorted out that issue in college, when I got serious about eating healthfully and I turned to salads and Lean Cuisines and Subway as an easy, quick fix to sort out my eating.

When I met my husband, though, I realized quickly that he viewed food as a way of expressing love and companionship. He was appalled by my habit of quickly throwing together a veggie wrap and sitting on the couch to study or read while I ate it, and soon my rabbit food was replaced in the refrigerator with steaks and rice and sauces and desserts and I bought recipe book after recipe book and scrambled around trying to create the perfect three-course meal every time. As a working student, it became too much and soon my husband and I ended up eating out every meal as a way to satisfy his expectations. But again, if I didn't finish a meal or I didn't ask for seconds, he was offended, because his father taught him to always compliment the cook by asking for more. It was so hard feeling that out of control in those situations...to watch my waistline expand and my thighs squeezed by the fabric of the jeans and all my hard work unraveling because I wanted to make sure he was happy, even if I wasn't.

So, I'm kind of haunted by those insecurities going into this weekend, especially after a conversation with my friend where he said it was going to be impossible for me not to gain weight, so to just give into it. When I told him I've had plenty of biscuits and gravy in my lifetime (probably more than I rightfully ought to have had) I didn't need them at Bogue's, and that while I'm sure the BBQ at Dreamland is luscious, I could probably make do with a salad, he got really hurt and I know it's because he wants to share those experiences with me. But, my goodness...if sharing food opinions is the best thing we have going on between us, maybe we ought to find other things to talk about? I don't know. I don't want to hurt his feelings, but I also know I don't want to slide off the wagon just because someone will raise an eyebrow if I ask for dressing on the side.

Anyway, I'll be out for a few days, so have a safe and wonderful Memorial Day. I'll be looking forward to catching up on Tuesday.

12.5 lbs.

A very nice reader (I feel like when I write that I've turned into my aunt and I'm wearing a sweater set and pearls and writing this on some lovely cream stationery) emailed and asked if I would restart the graphic representations of my weight loss again, just for perspective and inspiration. I stopped doing that during the February-March debacle of readjusting my scales and starting weight and not actually dieting and then being vegan for two weeks and then just trying to eat intuitively and discovering that my intuition has been smothered by my more primal urges for pizza and ice cream, but I think now that my manic MUST LOSE 3LB EVERY WEEK OR I'LL JUST DIE phase has passed and I'm on a slightly healthier path, I can start doing it again.

So...thus far in my Reduxing, I've lost the equivalent of:



A very cool garden owl that I might actually buy and stick on my patio so I can stub my toe on it every time I go out and water my flowers to remind myself to never, ever again allow that much weight to accumulate on my body. I mean, a garden gnome is quite a lot. I think if I ever hit goal, I'm going to force myself to walk around with 10 garden gnomes in a sack every time I have a craving for a Quarter Pounder.

Weigh-In Edition: Week 19

I keep stepping on and off the scale, trying to mentally calibrate how I'll determine a loss for this week. I didn't make it to Weight Watchers because during my trip from one side of KC to the other, where my meeting and home is located, I ended up in a bottleneck and an hourlong standstill on the hottest, most boring, most foul smelling highway in Western Missouri. The man in the Subaru next to me took care of his boredom by lighting up a joint and taking a nap in his reclined seat, but since I'm a 50 year-old woman in training I had no such entertainment so I sat primly at the wheel of my LeSabre and very calmly planned my dogged pursuit of our transportation department and how I would ruin them in small claims court for my cost of Weight Watchers plus 1/8 tank of gas. I'm ruthless where insignificant amounts of money are concerned.

So, I didn't get to weigh myself on the WW Official Scales of Doom and Judgement, but I have my trusty Health-O-Meter at home and it says I now weigh 219 without my clothes on. So I guess with lunch and breakfast in my stomach plus my usual WW ensemble of yoga pants and a t-shirt, I'm probably sitting at 222 for this week. I'm very happy with that...it's a loss of abut 2.5 pounds for the week and 4.5 overall since I started the program.

I'm really chomping at the bit to hit 219 legitimately because I haven't really given myself a reward yet for any of this, and I'd really like to update my progress pics. I don't think there's much of a visible body change, but once the reward kicks in (a Curves membership) I think the various lumps and rolls will reconstitute themselves into something slightly more feminine. At least I hope.

Happy Sunday, everyone.