The New Definition of Stoner

Or in my case,  just foods that cause stones...

"Um...are you experiencing a lot of pain?"

When your ultrasound technician says these words to you as she's gliding her gel slathered wand across your abdomen, trust me when I tell you, it's not cause for celebration. As a matter of fact, as I learned just this morning, it's simply a precursor for shitty news.

I barely had time to spew out a severely condensed version of My Indigestion Nightmares, Volume I before the tech confirmed why she had asked such a loaded question. "Your gallbladder is packed with stones," she said somewhat emphatically. Almost like she was happy about it. I didn't even know lab technicians were allowed to divulge this kind of information during a procedure, but mine just came right out with it, with no regard to how I might take the news. Personally, I can't say I was thrilled. I don't really know what kind of news I was hoping for, but I'm pretty sure this wasn't it. 

Yes, I wanted answers. And this revelation via ultrasound certainly explains a whole heck of a lot in terms of my devil-on-the-inside symptoms. Of course, I still need to wait on the official diagnosis from my doctor. But I'm guessing, in order to resolve this little ole' problem of mine, there's something unpleasant I'll have to do in my near future. I'm no clairvoyant, but I'm guessing I'll need surgery based on the tech's description of how "packed" my gallbladder is with these intrusive stones.  Packed. Ugh...it's hard not to picture a can of sardines. Hopefully, I'll be offered a solution with a more holistic approach first. Seriously - I'll do whatever it takes not to go under the knife. Confession: I'm terrified of the prospect of surgery. I've made it 43 years without ever having anesthesia and I'd be perfectly fine with going another 43.

In the meantime, I'm going to try not to think about it too much until I speak with my doctor. I still have the endoscopy scheduled for April 17 which, Lord only knows, could provide even more, a-hem, "good" news. 

Naturally, after I left the hospital today, I couldn't help but Google the crap out of 'gallstones' and 'what causes gallstones'. The fact that I'm female doesn't help, and as much as I'd like to believe that genetics play a major roll, I know that's only partially true. At the end of the day, my fat-laced/candy/baked good/rich and savory diet over the last umpteen years is the true culprit. Ok - so maybe I am somewhat pre-wired to have this condition. My grandmother did. My mom did. I can't escape my family medical history. But, knowing what I knew, I certainly didn't help myself avoid the situation, either. My life leading up to this point has been one big love affair with all the wrong foods. Like my inflated weight, this condition didn't happen overnight. As a matter of fact, according to WebMD, these stones have probably been hanging out in gallbladder de Rochelle for quite sometime, unbeknownst to me, of course. It's only after the stones increase in number and have prolonged habitation in the gallbladder that the "host", aka, me, begins to experience symptoms. Gallstones are not an uncommon condition in overweight people, especially women. Yay me. Not.

If you are truly curious, or just like looking up really nasty stuff on the internet, do a search for gallstone images online. Guaranteed, you won't eat dinner afterwards. Hey - perhaps this is the diet solution I have been searching for all along?!?! Why didn't I think of this sooner? Ha!

Anyway.....Here's the good news. I'm not dying!

The bad news is, my food issues are catching up with me in more ways than one. The better news is, I'm finally wising up and doing something about it. 

Even if it's too late for my gallbladder, it's not too late for the rest of me. 

Hell Ride

I mean, seriously...

Let me preface this post by saying I apologize to anyone with a March birthday.

The truth is, I kind of hate March. It's not quite winter, not quite spring, and everything feels like it's in a perpetual state of limbo. Will it snow or won't it? Will we ever see the sun again or are we living inside the Ray Bradbury story, All Summer in a Day? I'm longing to wear my cropped pants but when I leave my house it's 28 degrees outside, even if the forecast says it'll be 63 later in the day. It's a confusing month all around and I just want to press the fast forward button to May and green grass and flowers and sunshine.

If only there was a fast forward button for those times in life when we really need time to pick up the pace. I, for one, would be slamming my palm down on that sucker right about now. Hard.

If you are a regular reader of this blog, you know about my nasty bouts with horrendous, chest-clenching indigestion. Well, after being on Pantoprozole for a little over a month with no real improvement, my doctor sent me to see an endoenterologist. Unfortunately, he didn't have much to offer me in the way of an explanation of my condition, especially since I don't have typical heartburn or acid reflux symptoms. However, he was concerned enough about the issues I do have to set me up with an ultrasound and endoscopy. Hence my burning desire for the fast forward button. I just want to get this shit done and over with - pronto. I want some answers.

Just the other day I was driving home on 78, surrounded by an army of semis when I had one of my attacks. My usual solution is to make my self burp 1,000 times through the magical and delicious (not) combination of chalky-ass Tums and warm Coke, followed by jamming my hand down my throat to force myself to throw up. Anything, and I mean anything to alleviate the pressure. Driving during an attack presented a whole new problem, considering I was nowhere near a toilet in which to purge the demons within, so I had to do some quick thinking. I reached across the seat to dig out an empty plastic container from my lunch bag to stand in for said missing toilet. Class act all the way.

I'll spare you the putrid details, but suffice it to say, I'm not very good at spitting out of an open car window while traveling at 65 mph. And it's no picnic spitting into a plastic container that reeks to the high heavens of garlic shrimp when you already feel over-the-top nauseous. The good news is, I didn't hurl all over myself, even though my watery mouth suggested that very act was imminent. The bad news is, the chest pain and nausea lasted as I drove for miles and miles and miles. And miles.

In hindsight, I probably should have pulled over (duh). But all I could think about was getting home, so I drove like a bat out of hell, spitting and burping like a champ until a monster belch escaped with such force that the pain finally subsided. Who doesn't love a happy ending to a horror story?

It's hard to feel normal when you are afraid to eat. In the entire history of my life, food has served as a great comfort and source of extreme enjoyment. Now, it's enemy number one. I have no idea what's going to trigger an attack and I live in constant fear of each meal I eat. Eating is no longer enjoyable. As a matter of fact, it has become quite a nightmare.

If there is a bright side to all of this, I suppose it would have to be that I am continuing to lose weight, albeit at a snail's pace. I only lost a half pound this week, but I had already suspected my indulgent week after Sammy died would come back to haunt me at some point and this past week, it did. Still, a half pound down is a half pound down - not up - so I'm winning the battle, bit by itty bit.

One of my dear co-workers put it into perspective for me. She said I should think of where I'll be a few months down the road when all of these "small" increments of pounds lost are still adding up. She told me to think about where I'll be at the end of the school year, and over the summer, and even at the beginning of next year. Even small losses lead to big rewards eventually. Maybe I don't see it quite yet. My total loss so far is 15 lbs, and that's not enough for me to see any real physical changes. Again,  the fast forward button would be a real God's send for this situation. I'd love to be able to speed down this whole weight loss road to the final destination: Thinville. But somehow, I don't think I'd appreciate the new me as much if I didn't have the journey to look back on.

In the meantime, I'm going to try to stop wishing time away and focus on being in the present. My ultrasound is on Monday so perhaps I will get a few questions answered sooner rather than later. My endoscopy is on April 17. Whatever the results, I want to start doing whatever is necessary to make myself feel better. I pray that bananas, raspberries, blackberries and eggs won't be my only "safe foods"long term.

Only time will tell.

Dusting Myself Off

All I can say is, it's been a hell of a week.

Last Friday (3/13) started one of the most craptastic weekends I have ever had. We had to put our beloved dog Sam to sleep and for anyone who has ever lost a furry family member, I don't have to tell you how extremely sad, difficult, and life altering the experience is. Especially when those furry creatures are the only children you have.

It was a weekend for tears, reminiscing, and bonding with my husband and our two canine babies that remain. As the days pass, we are crying much less, but there is still a large hole in our hearts since Sam has crossed the Rainbow Bridge.

Depression can fuel an onslaught of bad eating. Thankfully, I didn't entirely jump ship, but I wouldn't  exactly admit sticking to plan either. Let's recap, shall we? Pizza on Friday, and again on Tuesday. Steak, pierogies, french onion soup with slices of french baguette and lots of melted gooey swiss cheese. Toast and granola. Too many carbs and too much fat. All in one week. Not exactly what you'd call a clean-eating menu, right? The less than stellar eating sort of dragged itself into this weekend as well. It's been a full week of just feeling really "lost" as far as my diet is concerned.

I even had ice cream. Twice. It hurts just to type that admission.

The silver lining to all of this is that despite the cruddy chow-fest that was happening 'round these parts, I still managed to lose a pound last week. Because I was so upset last Friday, I never got a chance to post about my 3 pound loss the week before (with Flo hanging around and all!), so in two weeks, 4 pounds disappeared. And that?  Is nothing short of a miracle. Amen.

In other news, I attended the vinyasa flow yoga class again this past week. Why I thought we'd be doing the same routine as last week, I have no idea. What I DO know is that this week was even harder than the first time - so it's safe to say, I'm no yoga guru yet. I'm actually surprised by how much I enjoy something I find relatively difficult. Usually, I want to run from things that present too much of a challenge, physical or otherwise, but this yoga thing has me inspired. Even when I'm doing downward dog and being suffocated by my own boobs. True story.

Honestly, I'm not sure I'm even doing this yoga thing right. I know the idea is to focus on breathing (something that is hard to do when your heaving bosom is cutting off your air supply), and flow from pose to pose - ideally, as gracefully as possible. Well, hell. I am about as far from graceful's doorstep as one person can get. I find myself having to adjust my positioning several times just to place myself into the "correct" position. There isn't a whole lotta "flow" happening on my mat, unless you're referring to the beads of sweat dripping from my face onto the floor in front of me. Who knew I'd sweat this much moving this slowly?

I often have to suppress laughter during these sessions. And I'm just taking a stab here, but I'm pretty sure laughing while yoga-ing, is a yoga no-no. At least that's what the tranquil background music suggests. My inclination to crack up most likely stems from my own insecurities, but I can't help myself. I imagine I must look pretty damn ridiculous trying to contort myself from one pose to another. Getting into some of the poses feels a bit unnatural. And if they feel unnatural, I can only assume they look just as, well...you know - unnatural. Child pose is supposed to be an easy resting pose that you can come back to if you need a break. I actually don't find child pose comfortable at all, especially when we first begin (probably because I am as flexible as a steel beam) so when Erin, our instructor, said I should feel free to go back to child pose at anytime, I wanted to snort-laugh and say, "Why the hell would I want to do that?" Again, it may have something to do with my boobs getting all up in my throat and choking the crap out of me. I wear a sports bra, but really, those things can do only so much to keep my girls in check. Those bad mamajammas have a mind of their own.

Another chuckle-worthy moment occurred when Erin asked us to attempt the crow pose. For you yoga virgins, the crow pose looks like this:

Instructor says, "Crow pose" and I says, "Hell nos"

I believe I turned to my friend Margaret and mouthed the words, "Holy Shit!" before simply crouching down into what I personally like to call "frog pose" and admitting defeat. Ribbit.

Still, I left that yoga session feeling good. I did what I could and know that with time I will get better and really, that is all I can ask of myself. I'll be back at it again this Wednesday. God willing.

So, with the new week ahead of me, I have to, have to, HAVE TO get back on track with my eating plan. I think after last week's indulgences (and yes, this weekend's as well) I'm feeling pretty darn guilty and am afraid that if I don't take back the reigns, like this very second, this could be one of those spiraling out of control situations. I was feeling so good, but it is amazing how a bad streak can shake a person. Ultimately, I know that it is up to me whether or not I let that happen.

I choose not to.

I have a menu full of healthy meals on tap for the week. I have some plans for exercise as well. Fingers crossed we've seen the last of the snow and the weather will be more conducive to getting outside and moving my butt beyond the one day of yoga. The desire is still strong to keep the scale moving in the downward direction, even if my actions last week didn't show it.

Anyway, no sense in looking in the rearview mirror. That gets me nowhere. Moving forward. That's what it's all about.

Namaste

Wow, it's been a heck of a long week. And it's not even Friday.

I know I was just kvetching about being home during all of those recent snow days, but I forgot how tiring a full week of school can be after being off for so long. As much as I love my job, this week I had a few trying moments that reaffirm that, contrary to some people's beliefs, teachers really DON'T make enough money for the job they do.

But this blog isn't about work. It's about weight loss - so I won't digress any further. I want to share a little bit about how my week is going in respect to my diet and my experience with stepping outside my comfort zone to partake in a yoga class. That's right...not yogurt class, but YOGA class.

First, let's talk diet. I'm surprised how different I feel this week versus last. There were moments last week where I was sure I was going to cave in, and cave in hard. The urge to dive mouth first into something sinful was constant and I had to fight off some pretty serious fat demons that taunted me mercilessly to go to the dark side. Raging PMS didn't help matters. Nor did this display I came across while shopping at Wegmans:

I'm pretty sure I heard angels singing in the background. Because if this isn't heaven, I don't know what is. 

Come on. Are you freaking serious? Can't a fat girl catch a break?

Anyway, when I was finished convulsing and drooling in front of this fattastic display (the smell wafting from those shelves was enough to send me into full on Pavlov's dogs mode), I knew I had limited time to finish my grocery shopping before I lost all sense of reasoning and took one of those bunnies home with me. And let's be honest. When I say take one home with me, what I mean is get as far as the parking lot before I rip the box open like a wild animal and bite the head off that damn thing.

Thankfully, I was able to steer my cart around the disaster area, only to find this waiting for me on the shelves in the next aisle:

Foodgasm Alert!!!! Foodgasm Alert!!!!

What the....? Does Wegman's suddenly have it out for me? It's like they knew I was coming and my defenses were down. Like way down. I've never seen those chips before in my life and God willing I never will again. Seven weeks ago, a bag of those sweet and salty suckers would have landed in my cart in a heartbeat. Maybe even two bags because I probably wouldn't have wanted to share just one measly zit-inducing bag with my husband. I'm not going to say I didn't want to buy them last week, but at least now I have the ability to rationally talk myself out of it. And that's progress. Can I get an Amen?

This week, eating in control has been much easier. My inner monologue was more about being positive about food choices I was making versus lamenting over food I think I need to deny myself. Recently, I've tried to think of food as simply a means to nourish my body versus the notion that it needs to be something gourmet, over the top tasty and fabulous every single day. Once I stopped thinking I had to have things I LOVED to eat everyday, food lost a little bit of its power over me. That feels good - I'm not gonna lie.

Another NSV (non-scale victory) came in the way of a yoga class I attended last evening with a good friend from my past life in the fashion biz. I completed one hour of vinyasa flow yoga - my first ever experience with this type of exercise. When your body throbs from your shoulders to your butt-cheeks to your inner thighs, perhaps you've done something right, no? Admittedly, I modified some of the poses quite a bit but it felt great to finally bite the bullet and trying something new.

I've never liked exercising with others because I've always thought I look stupid. Maybe it's my advancing age, but I'm really starting to change my viewpoint on that quite a bit. I'm much less, "Don't look at me!" and more, "Oh, who the hell cares?" I tried my best to follow the instructor and my friend Margaret who has been doing yoga for years. I know I wasn't graceful by any stretch of the imagination. What I did was concentrate on my breathing and revel in the fact that I was doing something good for myself. Maybe I did look stupid, but last night, I didn't care. And that, too, felt amazing.

Slowly but surely I am addressing my issues. Issues that have held me back and held me down for a very long time. These are small, maybe even minuscule steps I am taking - but with each one I feel the burden of this weight leaving me. Literally and figuratively.

Yoga will become a part of my routine, as will other forms of exercise I've been too shy or embarrassed to try up until now. Saying no to temptation, even when it's as large as a grocery store kiosk, will also become a part of my routine. I never realized that for so long, I was saying yes to all of the wrong things and no to all of the right things. It's nice to have a little clarity for once.

Weigh in day is tomorrow. I'm hoping for a loss - but with Aunt Flo hanging around, I know that whatever shall be, shall be.

Either way, I'm prepared.

Crimes of Fashion

At least this get-up adds height.

It's not your typical Sunday morning around here. It's the Sunday morning associated with Daylight Savings Time. Spring ahead and all that jazz. It's the Sunday everyone seems to hate because (gasp!) we lose that precious hour of sleep. Being a hard core coveter of extra sleepy time myself, I used to loathe this day, too - but this year I'm kind of embracing it. It's been such a looooooooong winter of what seemed like perpetual cloudiness and darkness - so I'm already planning what I can do with that extra hour of daylight. It almost makes me giddy.

Perhaps it's the fact that spring is but a mere 12 days away. That alone is enough to make me click my heels in delight (if only I could jump high enough to do such a thing without landing flat on my face). I miss seeing green grass, feeling the warm sunshine and opening windows to air out our house. I will not miss having to warm my car up for 15 minutes, the feeling of frozen toes and the threat of snowpolalypses (snowpocalypsi??) every other day. Admittedly, I've been a bit of a hermit this winter. Not UniBomber hermit-like, mind you....but close. I've not ventured too many places other than school and the grocery store for what seems like months on end. It feels like the last time I spent any quality time with anyone other than my husband and canine children was in December - and frankly, the cabin fever is really starting to kick down the door.

So, what's a girl to do when she's got a severe case of the winter blahs and blues? She heads to the mall, of course! I had a couple of Macy's gift cards that have been burning a hole in my pocket and figured a little retail therapy might get me out of my funk. In theory, it sounded like a solid plan. Having gift cards is essentially like going shopping and walking out of the store with "free" clothing, no? The problem is, when you weigh as much as I do, finding clothes that look good on you, is like finding that proverbial needle in a haystack. Fun is not a word I'd use to describe the experience.

I just have one thing to say. Fat fashion is hideous. We're talking Elephant Man meets Quasimoto and they have a baby type hideous. Strolling around Macy's yesterday made my blood boil in a way it hasn't in a long time. It seems the bigger the size, the tackier the color palette, the uglier the print, the more unflattering the cut and style. It's like Stevie Wonder was put in charge of the plus size design department and had a field day. To add insult to injury, prices are higher for "women's" size clothing versus their "regular" missy sized counterparts because they are bigger. You know, because being fat isn't punishment enough, now your wallet has to get kicked where the sun don't shine, too. What irks me is that you don't see petite sized garments priced for less than missy size, despite them being smaller....so what gives? Try as I might, it's hard not to take it personally.

As an ex-fashion designer, this type of fat-shaming hits closer to my heart than you know. I LOVE clothes and fabrics and color and design and subscribe to the belief that more often than not, clothing can make you or break you. For me, when I find that outfit that makes me look good and feel good, I carry myself differently. For the short time that I am wearing it, I feel less fat, less frumpy, less conspicuous for the wrong reasons. In other words, less like Jabba the Hut. For a while I feel pretty and don't have to think about what people are thinking of me. A good outfit can change my outlook on a given day or night and allow me to finally be the person I feel like I am on the inside. It's an amazing gift.

The bitch of it is, those prized outfits are few and far between. For someone who gets her rocks off shopping as much as I do, I can honestly say that a huge percentage of the clothing I buy is because I think it doesn't look that bad, versus thinking it looks really good. And that, my friends, is a really f'd up way to shop, I gotta tell you. I pay good hard-earned money, not for clothing that I love - but for things that simply pass muster. De. Press. Ing.

My weight, coupled with my (lack of) height, makes shopping next to impossible. It's akin to trying to dress a basketball. With boobs. And a big butt. I'll let you think about what that looks like for a second. My husband wants to know what takes me so long at the mall. Obviously he has no idea how long it takes to find a garment that flatters a body that often feels as wide as it is tall. This is very much how I felt yesterday as I perused racks upon racks of tops so fugly they nearly made my eyeballs bleed. Never mind trying to find pants for legs with an inseam to rival that of a pygmy goat. Charge extra for plus size? What about the 10" of fabric I have to cut off of nearly every stinking pair of pants to make them a proper length for my height? If I send that fabric back to the manufacturer do you think I'd get some of my money back? Me neither.

If there ever was a motivating force driving my weight loss journey, fashionable clothing would be firmly planted at the wheel. Pedal to the metal, y'all.

What yesterday's trip to Macy's did for me is plant yet another seed of reality. Weight loss is not just about one thing, such as becoming thinner. It is about a plethora of things. Things that may seem insignificant or shallow, such as wanting to wear prettier, more stylish clothes. And things that are much more urgent and paramount, like getting health concerns under control. And there are a whole lot more reasons - big and small - in between. I'm sure over the lifetime of this blog, I'll talk about many of them. But for today, I'll just stick to the gripe I have about the fashion industry screwing plus size women over a barrel.

The week ahead, with it's new daylight hours brings a fresh start and an opportunity for new beginnings. I'm feeling good about my eating plan and exercise plan this week. I'll be consuming more veggies than I can shake a stick at, plus I'm even trying my hand at yoga this week! Because of the extra daylight, I'll be able to come home and take walks after school as well. I see no reason why this week I can't amp up my exercise. It shouldn't be too difficult, as it's been next to non-existant. One Latin Dance workout during the week does not constitute an exercise plan. I'm sorry.

I really want this week to be a game changer. I feel confident that I can make good choices and get moving. With a loss of 1.25 lbs this past week, I'm now in double digits! While I am happy with the progress, I feel I can do better. I want my weigh in on Friday to be cause for a seriously obnoxious happy dance. Fingers crossed.

Food for thought: What will you do this week to make sure it's a good one?

Pour Some Sugar on Me

Good God - if we have one more bloody snow day I think I'm going to scream. Don't get me wrong. If I wasn't dieting, I probably wouldn't care if we had 10 snow days in a row. But the reality is that I am dieting...and being at home is absolutely friggin' killing me.

I need routine. I need to be busy. One might think I should be busying myself here at home, but I swear this weather has put a spell of complete lazy-assism on me and any motivation I may have once had to be productive is sinking as quickly as the temperatures outside. My ears hear "snow day" and my body takes it immediately to heart. We're talking instant hibernation mode. I become lethargic and slothful and no matter how much I try to get things accomplished around here, I can't seem to do more than a few simple chores before I hop back on my computer to mindlessly peruse Pinterest. What a waste of time. Plus, looking at all of those recipes is something akin to water boarding myself. And my own kitchen has become Gitmo.

Thank goodness for one of my best friends who called during a near moment of weakness. I love that she didn't mind spending 2 hours gabbing away on the phone with me, even helping me talk myself out of turning the big old batch of overripe bananas hanging out on my counter top into a big old no-no of a dessert. When life hands you lemons, you're suppose to make lemonade, right? Well, if life hands you overripe bananas, I'm pretty sure you're supposed to make a cake. What? ...Is that not a saying? Perhaps not. But let's just say you have no idea how much your gift of conversation helped me today, Val. I am forever grateful.

Days like today are harder than others. It might be sacrilegious to say this as a teacher (we generally tend to covet our snow days), but I like it better when I am at work and busy. I don't want to be an annoying dessert-deprived whiner, but I feel like I've had more than my share of a few idle days at home like this recently and this blog is my outlet to vent about them. Besides, if I'm typing, I can't be jamming my face with food.

Days like today demand that my mental willpower kicks into overdrive. I have to somehow summon Superman strength to avoid whatever food kryptonite might be lurking in the kitchen. Or as I'm calling it these days, the Devil's Lair. Apparently, I have reached the dieting stage where EVERYTHING is tempting now - even that gross half-eaten bag of stale tortilla chips that has been hanging out on top of the radiator for weeks (why the hell is it still there?). Even that looks good to me. It's as if my taste buds have no shame. They beg to be slathered in something, anything, that isn't in the fruit, veggie, or protein family. Carbs and sugar, baby. That's the ticket. That's what they want.

Why are some people seemingly pre-wired to crave sugar like heroin? (Hand raised high right here). My friend and I talked a little bit about that today - the fact that she doesn't really have a sweet tooth. Yeah, I don't get it either. I was born with a mouth full of sweet teeth. It's fair to say I have had a wicked sugar addiction from the moment I could eat solid foods. Some of my earliest (and best) childhood memories involve having a hefty thick square of chocolate cake smothered in fudgy icing....for breakfast. I simply cannot fathom what it is like to NOT want sugar. I wish to all that is holy that I did.

Of all the things I am proud of since beginning this journey, the fact that I have not gone off the rails of this crazy train and caved into that addiction is at the top of the list. I've done everything possible to stay away from sugar as much as possible. I've admitted to having some chocolate and one or two cupcakes from a birthday treat at school - but that's really it. And for me, that is saying something - big time. I think about it constantly and have to talk myself out of giving in to the desire daily. In a way, I feel like a recovering addict. I wouldn't give a shot of vodka to an alcoholic, and I shouldn't give myself a "hit" of sugar either. The stakes aren't quite as high, but they're high enough. I have to keep reminding myself of that.

Cleaning out dresser drawers and putting away laundry certainly does not bring me the same joy as baking and eating a banana cake with cream cheese frosting, but it did help me get over a rough patch today, and for that, I am thankful. Talking to my friend was a saving grace as well. In other words,  there are ways to get around the enemy. I'm learning.

If Mother Nature has her way, I'll be staring down another day like today, tomorrow. Luckily for me,  I have a pile of laundry that isn't going to wash itself and some serious school work that needs doing. Friday should be back to normal.

Just in time for the weekend. 

Working it Out

Normally I don't get much time during the week to post, but since Josh is still working and I have a few moments to breathe before I make dinner, I thought I'd share a little insight into what has been bouncing around in my brain today.

As I mentioned in my last post, although I was supposed to begin my exercise regimen last week, it simply didn't happen. There's really no excuse why - it just... didn't. I didn't agonize over it, until of course I got on the scale on Friday and the stupid needle hadn't budged - not even a smidge. Then I started to kick myself that I hadn't made the effort.

From all the years I have been on and off this dieting roller coaster, I know that I am most successful when I stick to a daily caloric goal of around 1250 calories AND move my rumpshaker at least a few times a week. It's not rocket science, you know? I am not completely devoid of understanding what it takes to shed some poundage. It's pretty simple, actually. Eat less, move more. So far, I've been working on the first part of that sentence. Last week proved to me that it's time to focus on the back half (no pun intended, although my own back half could use its own focus of sorts - in the form of squats). The time has come - I've got to peel myself off the couch and get this butt moving.

I'm definitely not one of those people who embraces exercise with every fiber of my being. I know a few of those types of people (my husband is one) and I try not to hate them... too much. Of course - I kid. It's more accurate to say I'm in awe of them. In fact, I would give my eye teeth to have the sort of drive, dedication, and desire they have to move their bodies on a daily basis. To those people, exercise is a way of life. It is enjoyable and fun and is viewed as something they look forward to doing.  Me? Well, I suppose I sort of have a love/hate (mostly hate) relationship with it. Once I'm doing it, I'm ok, but it's the extensive "psyching-up" I require prior to starting the whole shebang that I detest so much. I pretty much go into it kicking and screaming.

So even after Friday's weigh in and with the entire weekend wide open, I avoided exercise like the bubonic plague. It's not that I don't have any exercise equipment here. I do. It's not that I don't have 100 DVD's I can pop in to get my ample arse moving. I do. What I don't have is any acceptable reason why I didn't do it. And yet...

Truth time. I spent the weekend thinking about it. Yes, I said thinking about exercising. A lot. If only thinking about exercise burned as many calories as actually exercising, I'd be a total rail and there would be absolutely no need for this blog. Alas, (sigh) it does not.

I remember when I was younger and still living at my parents' house, I'd watching Gilad Janklowicz's Bodies in Motion on TV. There I'd sit on the couch for 30 minutes almost everyday watching Gil and his two long-limbed exotic-looking female cohorts do aerobics on their mats high up on a lush green hill, overlooking gorgeous turquoise waters, in what I always assumed was Hawaii. I was entranced by how seemingly effortless it was for all three of them to work out for 30 minute straight, in the hot sun, barely working up a sweat while I sat on the couch, sweating from just watching them. I was envious by how easy it seemed for them to move about from one pose to another. One fluid movement blended with the next. They were graceful, svelte, and coordinated. They looked like they were born to aerobicise.

As for me, I have never felt all that comfortable exercising. I feel clumsy and awkward and heavy and ugly. It's not a natural feeling process for me at all. I have never looked, nor can I ever imagine myself looking, remotely athletic or in shape (unless you count round as a shape). Even when I weighed the lowest I ever have in my adult life (40 odd lbs. ago, right before I met Josh), and was frequenting the gym and putting mega miles on the elliptical, I did not feel comfortable. I felt better....but not comfortable. Sure, I felt like I was doing something good for myself...but I did not feel like I was a natural part of that elite group of people that considers themselves fit or athletic. Maybe I just never gave it enough time????

It's tough to put all of my insecurities about how I look and feel when I exercise on the back burner but I have to, because keeping them in the forefront of my mind is poisonous. Those feelings nag at me and provide me fodder to conjure up a million excuses not to work out. Those negative thoughts make me simply not want to do it. And let's face it. Not doing it... is not an option.

I am proud to report that today, I finally took the first step. At 3:30, I locked the door to my classroom, pulled my shades down tight, changed into my unstylish workout duds, and put a Latin Dance DVD in the player, which projects up on my Starboard. For 30 minutes I white-girl sambaed and booty-shook my way through that DVD. All I can say is, thank the Lord there is no mirror in my classroom or I'm not sure I'd have the nerve to try it again.

My work out today is nothing to write home about, but it is a start. And the hope is that within time, I will make friends with exercise and find the activity that feels like the most natural fit to me. And while I may never be like Gil and his beach babes on Bodies in Motion,  that doesn't mean I can't find a motion that feels right for my body.

Here's to discovering the perfect fit for my fitness goals. To be continued....