Mad Ramblings of an Addict

There are many places this post could start, but I feel it’s always best to “start at the beginning. And when you get to the end, stop.” There’s a little Tweedle Dum logic for you. I actually feel a certain kinship with Tweedle Dum. Poor dude’s a little whacked out, living in a crazy place, having to deal with the pressure of the Red Queen. Life’s stressful.  I feel ya, brother.

ANYWAY, I’d love to say I’m over halfway to my goal and getting fitter and stronger with each passing week. I’d love to say it, but it’s not true. I’m hanging in there. I’m battling the same six pounds I’ve been working on since May. Summer has not been my friend. At first, I couldn’t understand it. I was workin’ it! Primal eating had become second nature! Exercise wasn’t just something I watched them do on The Biggest Loser while I ate my ice cream! So what happened? Addiction. Addiction raised its big iron fist and slapped me down hard. I’m still trying to get my feet back under me.

Before you get all hopped up about drug dependency and how different it is from this, let me clarify the situation. Drugs can kill you. So can food. It’s just a slower way to go. Instead of riding the meth rocket and burning out like Lindsay Lohan, you take the Slowpoke Rodriguez route. Either way, you still die. With my way, you get to die with all your teeth. That’s about it.

The downhill slide began in June. The school year ended, and being the glutton for punishment that I am, I enrolled in graduate school. I haven’t been in school for thirteen years. I can write fiction stories all day, but organizing an analytical paper? Studying? Doing research? Um. Yeah. Not in the repertoire of mad skillz I possess. At least not at the moment. Each morning I’d log in to my online courses, get overwhelmed with the amount of work I didn’t even know how to begin, and log out. Eventually, I was wound tighter than Beyonce’s weave. This did not bode well for me. If I could be a super hero, I would be Anxiety Girl. Even every day stresses tend to set me off, but something like this felt like a truck on my chest. I had no time for food prep. I dropped exercise because I was too ‘busy’ with school. I was beginning to find it hard to breathe. I needed relief. Without even thinking about it, I turned to my old coping mechanism. I pulled into the fast food drive through, ordered, and dug into greasy, sugar and carb-loaded junk food. I felt the tension slip away as I numbed myself to the stress weighing on my shoulders. I’d gotten my fix.

The fact that I was using a substance to manipulate my emotions didn’t occur to me until later this summer. I’d feel guilty for ‘falling off the wagon’, promise myself to go strictly primal, and try to pull myself together. It would work for a little while, or at least until the next six-page paper assignment, complete with citations and footnotes, arrived in the email.  Then I’d be driving around looking for something to ease my nerves. My dealers aren’t hard to find. Most addicts have to search out a dude with saggy pants and a mouth full of gold.  I roll up looking for Sonic or Burger King. I can find them on every corner, and my fix is fast and cheap. Unfortunately, once sugar and grains are back in your system, they trigger those cravings. Before I knew it, I was well and truly hooked once again. I still didn’t understand what was going on.

Here’s where the guilt began to add to the stress I felt. I shouldn’t be eating this junk. Hadn’t I posted about the dangers of eating that crap on my blog and FaceBook page? I know what it does to my body! So why didn’t I have enough willpower to stop and get myself back on track? Feeling depressed and discouraged, I embarked on a fabulous downward spiral of blame and self-loathing. That’s definitely not a ride they offer in Disney. I don’t recommend it or the tilt-o-whirl of disappointment. I kept thinking, I should be stronger than this. I was wasting all my hard work. What kind of example was I setting for my girls, or even the people watching me as I followed this journey toward health? I just didn’t understand what was happening.

It finally clicked for me one afternoon. I had five assignments due that week, on top of the fifteen articles and three chapters I had to read. Anxiety gripped me in its jaws and shook me like a dog’s chew toy. Chest tight, blood pounding in my ears, I got in the car. Five minutes later, I sat in the front seat shoving French fries in my face, slurping on a shake, and sighing as the familiar feeling of numbness washed over me again.  I could breathe again. Then it hit me. I used food like a drug. Not good, healthy, primal food, but the addictive poisoning kind of crap nobody should be putting into her body. Thinking about it, I can see the pattern of abuse since I was sixteen years old. If I have an emotion I don’t want to feel, I bury it under a cheeseburger and Ben and Jerry’s ice cream. Food had become more than just nourishment for my body. It had morphed into this twisted method of stuffing my emotions down until I couldn’t feel them anymore. 

Now that I understand what I’m doing, it’s a little easier to try to control the impulse to binge on bad foods. But like any addict, I’m going to have relapses. This last week, my neighbor’s tree fell on my house. While it didn’t cause major damage, I still have to work with insurance adjusters, contractors, and tree people. The weekend contained fried chicken strips, fries, and two trips to get ice cream. Damn. But as of today, my refrigerator is stocked with primal goodness, I’ve gotten a planner to keep myself organized for school, and I’m back at CrossFit. Maybe Satan can help me work out some of this anxiety! At least that's a healthier coping mechanism. Standing still has gotten me nowhere, so I’m moving forward. Because if I keep doing what I’ve been doing, I’m not going to get better. As Tweedle Dum would say, “That’s logic.”

Easter Memories and Today's Victory

Y'all won't believe this, but the Easters of my childhood have involved food.  Overcooked ham with brown sugar and mustard glaze, my mom's oven baked macaroni and cheese (always perfect), green beans and corn (straight from the can), rolls and the piece de resistance, lemon meringue ice box pie.  Oh my, how I loved that pie.  It seemed to take so long until it was time for lunch and there was nothing to do at my grandmother's house except stay out of the kitchen and watch King of Kings.

This was all served on my grandmother's green plastic plates, while we sat, scrunched, at the dining room table on chairs covered in plastic, smirking at each other because the overcooked ham was nothing, if not predictable.

And let's not forget the Easter baskets.  Filled full of the candy I loved.  Mom almost always got that right.

It would be safe to say that as an adult, I have tried to incorporate the traditions of my childhood into our holiday celebrations.  Minus the King of Kings.  And hopefully, the overcooked ham.  Except this year, I've been so busy taking care of my recuperating daughter and getting back on track, primally, that I didn't really think about the "special" meal Easter demanded until Saturday night about 10pm when I called my dad to see what he was doing.

And of course, he had a plan.  It was a great plan.  In fact, the best part was that he was willing to bring his plan to my house and leave me with a minimal amount of work to eat said plan.  Except for one problem.  He wanted to me to make a cake.

Oh, yes.  A cake.

After my tongue lashing from Stacey this week, I have been on the straight and narrow.  Because I am worth it.  I thought I could make this cake, a chocolate cake with chocolate frosting, without any problems.  I had the box mix in the pantry.  The cake diversion purchased while planning Brian's surprise party.  Making a cake was the least I could do to contribute to a meal that I had nearly zero part preparing.

But I got a text this morning as I was getting ready for church:  Just wanted to encourage you to stick with it - especially on a chocolate covered holiday like today!  I promise you will feel so much control and pride by skipping that cookie today!

Oh.  My.  Word.

I made a decision right then and there.  There would be NO CHOCOLATE CAKE IN THIS HOUSE TODAY.  PERIOD.  I was certainly in control what I was going to eat and serve in my own house.  I would put together a dessert, but it wouldn't be that.  Talk about feeling empowered.  I wanted to feel in control at the end of this day.  Proud.

And then after church, when Brian suggested that we pick up something to eat at Whataburger on the way home before our Easter supper, I said, "Absolutely not.  I am not having a hamburger, fries and a Dr Pepper for lunch."  You gotta know, I love Whataburger.  It's my favorite fast place to get a burger.  But there was no way in the world I was going to eat something from there today.  I was working a Goal for the Day.

So we ended up at Chili's where I know exactly what I can eat.  Which is fine because it's a salad, I love salads, and it's a good one.  When we got home, I prepared my dessert which was NOT chocolate cake.  I made Cinnamon Swirl Muffins and Paleo Banana Bread and they were good, all things considered.  (They were collapsing like crazy.  I think they were still too hot for transporting.  But no matter, they were still good.)    

So another Easter in the books, but this time, I had a major victory over my life.  I am worth it.

And I can do it.

Where's the Tough Love?

Good lawdy!  Shanon is rocking the casbah.  For real.  She is down 30 big ones and is under 200.  That is a huge, huge accomplishment.  Those numbers on the scale are so significant.  She deserves every zero point tenths of a pound that is gone.  She is working hard and when she screws it up, she is learning from it and doing her dead level best to move forward.  She is doing this thing.

Ummm, me?  

Well, not so much.  I haven't gained it all back.  I'm sort of maintaining at a 20 pound loss, but I'm definitely struggling.

I keep thinking I'm going to get back on track.  Then something happens.  Insert Chick-Fil-A sandwich and a large Dr Pepper here.  At Wal-Mart, I was like an alcoholic. I could not even look at the bags of Lays Kettle Chips for fear my eyes would rest on the Salt and Vinegar variety.  Then who knows what I'd do...

I've been very silent on our Facebook page and here on the blog, and it's caused me to wonder:  where's my tough love?  Where are the people who should be asking me just what the samhill I'm doing?  I've actually had nothing to report, of course, except I think that Whataburger has better Dr Pepper than most any other place.  

I need some tough love, y'all!  This is hard!  I had a disagreement with Brian.  I stood in front of the refrigerator, trying to solve that problem.  I didn't plan well for meals while he was gone and gone and gone for what seemed like forever.  Actually I didn't plan at all.  Chick-Fil-A, et. al., solved that problem.  I threw a surprise party for Brian's 40th birthday.  Potato salad and a big, beautiful cake was on that menu.  None of that cake went to waste.  (Although I do have the name of a great cake person in this area...)  I went to a conference and had alone-access to one of my favorite restaurants.  "I'll start again on Sunday,"  I told myself.  Every week.  For the last 2 months.

I have found every excuse possible.  And my whole life is a slippery slope!  Brian and I have to be working in complete conjunction because one person stepping off the mark takes the whole train with them.  For real.  We are the worst food enablers.  I clearly need some tough love.  I am frustrated with myself because I could be where Shanon is instead of where I am now.  

Hold me accountable! When I don't post weight updates, ask for them! Someone, anyone, order me to GET. BACK. ON. TRACK.  To stop wallowing in it.  I  need to report to someone.  Stacey Garnett, I think this is a job for you.  I want to do this and I know it can be done.  But I'm working with the same old me and she's been doing things this way for a while now.  Just need a gruff cheerleader.  No more free passes or sympathetic looks.  

Anyone willing to be tough on me?           

I did something today that I never allow myself to do:  I went into a "regular" store.  Like The Limited and Jones New York.  Just to see how it felt.  It kind of reminded me when I was in high school and I was sooooo flat-chested.  And I would try on the padded bras and feel sad about how good I would look if I had some boobs.  

Except this time, it didn't feel sad and pathetic.  It felt doable.    

But I think I'm gonna need to answer to someone first.  

    

      

Choose Your Hard

Hi. How are you? It's been a while, I know. Do we really need to talk about it? Yeah? Ah, crap. Okay then, here it is.

When life gets crazy, this lifestyle changing thing gets hard. I'm not a fan of hard, unless we're talking about Ryan Reynolds' abs. The other kind, the sort that makes you tired and worn down, is not on my list of FAVE things. Take the last two weeks, for example. It's like a study in What Makes Shanon Lose Her Mind. Losing weight got hard.

It's hard when you get sick. Feeling like you've been backed over by a large truck is not helpful in getting to the gym or preparing meals in the kitchen. That stomach virus laid me smooth out. I didn't feel like moving, much less doing the prep work for a week's worth of breakfast meals. Then when I recovered, I felt so hollow I thought I'd never get full. And there were no groceries in the house. Hello, Sonic.

It's hard when your children get sick. For a few days, I couldn't even plan to leave the room for a few minutes, much less make a menu for the week. Going to the grocery store became the impossible dream.

It's hard when you have kids going in all different directions. After recovering from the Creeping Death, we had to get back into the school, dance, drill team, softball routine. I have four kids going to the far corners of the world every afternoon. Last week, a few went to the ends of the earth for tournaments and competitions. I spend my life in the car, I swear. Swinging through the drive-thru seemed to be the only answer to feed these little people who wail that dreaded cry from the back seats, "I'm hungry!". I couldn't send them off to dance or play on empty stomachs, and once again--no groceries. Sense a pattern here?

It's hard when work gets stressful and you just want to come home and sit without SOMEONE needing SOMETHING from you for five minutes. By the time I walk in the door, it's time to get dinner going if we're going to eat before 8 o'clock at night. The strength to drag out the pans and get a healthy meal on the table began to elude me. The restaurants beckoned, with promises of quick, hot meals made by someone who is not me. While it is possible to eat primal at a lot of restaurants, you must be careful. I was not. This mama was tired. I don't always make the best choices when I'm exhausted.

It's hard when the weight isn't coming off as quickly as it was in the beginning. The scale no longer flashes those 3-5 lb. weight losses each week, and the novelty of the new lifestyle began to wear off. Knowing something is good for you doesn't make it easy. After working out and eating that salad while the people around you gnosh on pizza and burgers, you expect to see some numbers going down on that scale. When they don't, you begin to doubt the plan. Yourself. The purpose in skipping that double chocolate shake.

So you can see, life got hard and I got soft. I 'didn't have time' to eat healthy. I just 'couldn't' get to the gym because of the kids' events. I gained three pounds. I felt guilty. I was discouraged and depressed. I started to let it slip more and more, letting the nagging little voices in my head win. And then, I found this on Pinterest.

The truth of this smacked me right between the eyes. Yes, trying to change my lifestyle got hard. Planning and preparing seemed too difficult when I was tired. But what about being overweight?

It's hard when you know you can't even climb the stairs without sucking wind like a Hoover vacuum. Playing with your kids is not an option unless you're sitting your big butt in a chair and observing from a distance. Fun stuff.

It's hard having to pass by all the cute clothes in the fun stores on your way to the fat girl shops. Being in my thirties and having to dress like my grandma doesn't make me feel sexy.

It's hard to be a social person but dread being the fattest woman in the room so much you stay home to avoid the feelings of inadequacy. Seeing all the other women looking so put together and stylish, while I have two pairs of jeans that still button, kind of pokes a hole in my self-confidence. I isolate myself in self-defense.

It's hard to wonder if you'll fit into things like amusement park rides, airplane seats, and theater chairs. The embarrassment of having to step out of line or buy two tickets to accommodate your girth is enough to keep anyone behind the safety of their own door. Fortunately, I never reached this point, but it was on the horizon.

It's hard to feel so ugly and unlovable when you compare yourself to the pictures in magazines and women in movies. To hate what you've become and see the disappointment in your husband's eyes. How demoralizing to think he's with you because he loves you, and he's committed to you, but he's not attracted to you.

So you see, there is a choice here. I can jump back into the fray and fight like hell for the life I want or I can sit back and live in hell in the life I have. Neither is an easy way out. There's not a quick fix or an escape from the hard things. After several weeks of feeling ill and out of sorts, I made a choice. If it's going to be hard, I may as well go with the hard that pays off in the long run. I'm going with the hard that gets me somewhere better.

I'm back. I'm down 21 pounds, and I'm ready to keep going. Bring it.

Nearly 20

Sunday, I was weepy.  I really was.  Y'all know.  I was frustrated with my progress, the response to my posts, pretty much everything.  I needed some encouragement, and of course, Shanon was there to drag me a little further down this road.  Love that woman.

Today is a different story.  I am this close to a 20 pound loss.  As in one-half of one pound.  Eight ounces.  A Double Quarter-Pounder (minus the bun, of course).

I'm close.  And it has made all the difference in my attitude.  My "new" old jeans are starting to get a little baggy so I spent the morning trying on some of my old clothes.  I'm getting dangerously close to being able to go down another size.  I actually skipped down the hall to the bedroom after prancing around in a sweater that I haven't worn in 5 years.

At 25 pounds gone, I'm getting a reward.  I thought it was going to be a massage, but I think reaching my first major goal demands shoes, don't you?


 I'm really feeling GREAT today.  I put on a shirt that I love.  Then I decided to do something fun with my hair. My hair loves hot rollers.  I felt so good that I decided this was the day I would take my "before" picture.  Right on the cusp of a 20 pound loss.  When I'm done with this aspect of the journey, I want to be able to remember how empowered and on top of the world I felt today.

02/07/2012

Oh, and just in case you've missed it somehow, Shanon and I are on Facebook.  You'll get more of daily struggles and successes and just downright reality.  The same reason you hang out here.  Except more!  Leave us a note or a comment.  Or a recipe.  Shanon likes to cook.  I like to tell my husband about it.  He's been making magic with spinach, inspired by Shanon's spinach saute.  See you there!

*Update:  I just noticed that our Facebook box is just *right* there.  To the right there.  Click on "Like".  And you're in.  Just like that. We take everybody.  Even haters.  'Cause no one can hate on us more than we have hated on ourselves.

Also, would it be wildly inappropriate to put up a "No Fat Chicks" designation?  Just curious...  And only as a reminder that as we "ungrow" our big sizes that we never, never, ever come back to this place again.

Eight Pounds A Week

I gotta admit.  It's hard to share a blog with my sweet sister-in-law, whom I love like a real sister.  Because she's like a professional writer.  She feels this burning desire to write, has ideas floating around bursting forth and even has special software to help her plot stories and I....well, I write exactly how I talk and exactly how I think. I don't plan anything and I'm not that great with imagery and invoking feelings.  My stuff just doesn't seem to have the same appeal.  I realize we have different styles, and I don't know why I'm just feeling blah about it today, but there it is.  Maybe I'm more entertaining in person?  You know, when I actually tell the story and I'm being very dramatic?

Anyway.  

This week, I lost 1 pound.  Last week I lost one pound.  I want to lose 8 pounds a week.  This week, today, this task of losing weight is feeling so monumental.  I don't know that I can "work matters to completion" if it's going to be One Pound A Week.  I'm wearing my smaller clothes, but for some reason, I'm still looking in the mirror and seeing a Fat Frump.  I can't explain it.  Or maybe I can.  I can say that I have done ZERO working out in the last 2 weeks. I bet if I were more diligent about walking and Lifting Heavy Things, the weight would be coming off faster.  Maybe I wouldn't feel so overwhelmed.  Maybe I'd see someone working hard to get better instead of The Frump I saw this morning.  

I'm a sniveling mess today, frustrated with every stupid thing.  Everything feels hard.  I know I've been successful and for not working out, the pounds are still coming off.  But for some reason, I feel so disappointed in myself, like I'm somehow not getting it right.  Maybe I'm having to face my "big feelings" as we call them at my house, and since I don't have my cakes and hamburgers with the buns to soothe them, I'm just having to face them.  I wish I could understand how when I'm being successful, I still feel like a failure...  I go between wanting to be an absolute individual and making a mark to wanting to be lost in the shuffle, a part of the background, left alone.  

All that to say, another pound gone. 

                

Life Preserver, Please

We've been in this thing for about a month now, and it has gone surprisingly smoothly. For me, that usually means the crap is about to hit the fan, because I do nothing the easy way. No. Thing. You're looking at a woman who touched her mother's iron forty million times as a child, just because I had to 'see if it was hot'. I spent many an afternoon tearfully holding a burnt finger in a cup of ice water to ease my pain. Couldn't do anything for the stupidity, though. Suffice it to say, I learn lessons the hard way. Last week, I learned two.

First, while the paleo/primal way of eating (I will not call it a diet, because it implies that this is a 'quick fix' weight loss plan, and not a lifestyle) is extremely healthy, you can still overdo it on food. This explains why there are fat vegetarians. While I don't have the cravings I did while still addicted to carbs and sugar, there are dozens of yummy things I adore still on the food list. One such delicious treat is sweet potatoes. Fried, baked, stuffed, or mashed, I am in love with that spud. It borders on ridiculousness. Why is this bad, you may ask? Sweet potatoes are loaded with vitamins and are good for you! See, this was my thinking, too. And if a little is good, a boat load of them must be excellent, right? Sweet potatoes every day! Sometimes twice! In portions large enough to satisfy an NFL team! Yeah......this did not end well. At the end of the week, standing on the scale, those numbers glared up at me in bright orange. How ironic. The digital readout mocked me, as it flashed that extra pound and a half up at me. I came to a screeching halt, and really, I wanted to be upset. I wanted to get mad and go all Drama Queen about how unfair it was, because I'd been working so hard! Satan and his workouts were kicking my ass three times a week, and I'd walked...a little. But a still, small voice in the back of my head was laughing loudly enough to drown out my little pity party. That little know-it-all reminded me that overeating is overeating, and hadn't I done plenty of that this week? I was lucky the scale didn't read three or more pounds gained. Satan had saved me from inflicting more damage upon myself. Again, I feel slightly guilty for calling him Satan, but it's too late to change now. Anyway, this little fiasco reminded me that there is more to getting my weight under control than just the food. Which brings me to my next lesson.

If you've read my About Me page, you know that I am an emotional eater. "Stressed" is just "desserts" spelled backwards, you know. In the past, a tough day could be buried in enough Ben and Jerry's ice cream to numb me, heart and soul. Anger dove into a pizza and didn't come up for air until it had dwindled to overstuffed lethargy. Rejection could be soothed by the balm of double cheeseburgers and chocolate malts. Stuff those emotions down your throat with a huge helping of Denial and a side of onion rings. Let's face it, most overweight people have other reasons for being that way other than just unhealthy foods. I definitely have mine. So this week, when life began to get a little hectic and worry began knocking at the door like Dr. Sheldon Cooper from Big Bang Theory("Penny.* knock* Penny. *knock* Penny. *knock* Penny. *knock* Penny.") my first thought was to find something yummy to take my mind of the things that were bothering me.

Driving alone in my car used to be the worst time for me. It was too easy to swing through a drive through and get something before picking up a kid from wherever it was I had dropped them off earlier. Me and Sonic were really tight, yo. They always had my back when I needed a little somethin' somethin'. Kinda like a dealer. So it was at Sonic I sat one evening, stressed and worried about some things that were going on, contemplating what terrible thing I was going to order to help me cope. Of course, I hadn't thought about the reasons why at that moment. I was just following old routines. The thought of me using food like a drug to escape my emotions had not even occurred to me. "What's she on, she's so out of it? "Oh, no. It looks bad. I think she's hopped up on tater tots and chili cheese dogs. We need an intervention." But as I sat there looking at all the things I no longer eat, I began to wonder what the hell I was doing.

I haven't eaten a grain or anything with more sugar in it than some fruit and balsamic vinegar in a month. Why was I sitting in the car at Sonic, preparing to poison myself? I began to unpack the week in little boxes. Work issues. Kid issues. Worry. Fear. The heat had been turned up a bit on the burner of life, and I was beginning to feel it. I gave my negative emotions the power to control my actions. So I took a step back to, as the Sassy Gay Friend says, 'look at my life, look at my choices'. I was choosing to fall into old habits. Well, how had that been working out for me? Obviously, not so well. When the voice came on the intercom to take my order, I choked out, "large unsweetened iced tea", and reached for the tissues stuffed in the glove box. It may be uncomfortable to deal with the crap in my life, but I won't use food to avoid it anymore.

I found this on that huge black hole of time suckage, Pinterest, the other day. I pinned it with the note, "I am rescuing myself." It's now about a hell of a lot more than just my health.

"Because I'm Worth It!" With Apologies to L'Oreal

I have learned some things about myself over the years, and about other women, as well. Some magical shift occurs when we have children. A change from caring about ourselves and meeting our own needs to the raising of small people. We give up sleep to rock a crying infant. We give up pedicures to pay for diapers and toys. We let go of those dreams that we carried from childhood in order to focus on these little souls’ happiness and safety. We become mothers. It is an earth-shaking, monumental task we take on willingly. It rewards us with kisses, snuggles, hugs and moments of pure beauty. Unspeakable joy. But sometimes, we allow it to rob us of ourselves.

Now, I’m not advocating selling your kids to the highest bidder or locking your children in the closet so you can soak in the bubble bath. Well…no. Really, I’m not. Child Protective Services frowns on that. I’m talking about how to stop putting ourselves last on the To Do list. That walk we need to take gets canceled due to soccer practice. The healthy meal we meant to cook gets postponed because there was dance rehearsal. We skip yoga or let the gym membership go because we need the money for kids’ braces and our busy schedules won’t allow it anyway. We let our health go because we don’t have the time to focus on ourselves for 30 minutes a day. Or we get so tired that we spend the 30 minutes we DO have lying on the couch, catching our breath.

Since beginning this journey, I’ve had to take a long, hard look at how I treat myself. I made a mental list (Yes, mental. I am not so anal that I actually wrote this crap down. Seriously, I don’t have that much free time on my hands!) of all the things I’d done for other people in a day. Made lunches, brushed teeth and hair, checked homework, drove carpool, dropped off at dance, cooked dinner, washed laundry, helped with a project, made appointments, located lost items…and the list went on. Then I tried to remember something I’d done for myself that week. Um…I could hear the crickets chirping. No time had been spent working on my novel-in-progress. There had been no exercise or quiet moments stolen to read a book that did NOT rhyme. I hadn’t even taken the old, chipped polish off my fingernails. And it was left over from Thanksgiving holidays. Not attractive. At all.

I began to consider the fact that I am raising four daughters. These girls see me put myself last and consider myself least important. What kind of message is that sending to them? Don’t they deserve to see a woman who values herself enough to put the time and effort into taking care of her body? A mother who makes time to keep herself healthy? This isn’t about pampering myself, although occasionally that wouldn’t be a bad idea, but more along the lines of providing a model for my girls. Do I want them to grow up and think that mothers do not deserve to treat themselves with as much care as they tend their families? The thought of my precious young women thinking of themselves as inferior curdled my stomach. Yet, that’s the lesson I taught through example.

At that moment, I decided. Yes, I will have to refuse my children on occasion in order to take care of myself. Sometimes, they will have to finish their project and wait for me to get back from my workout to check it. They will, God forbid, have to learn to do their own laundry! And, sorry to tell them, they will have to eat what Mama feels like cooking even when they are certain one taste will absolutely kill them. What I need matters, and the sooner they understand that all of us need to value ourselves enough to take care of ourselves, the better.

So now I’m trying to make a list of treats to use as rewards when I reach weight loss or strength goals (non-food, of course). Number one for me is always some alone time somewhere with a notebook and a pen or a quality book. Taking another look at these nails, I also think a manicure wouldn’t be a bad idea.

Take a few moments this week and see if you’re mistreating yourself, too. Make a promise to yourself to do something strictly for you. Share the importance of this with your family. I guarantee they value you enough to understand. If they don’t? Well, that’s an entirely different lesson you’ll have to teach. I may have a big stick available to aid in the instruction if you need it.

I Will Not Quit

I’m going to write and post this while the emotions are still fresh. As are the tears. Bear with me, friends. I’m not feeling funny this evening. Hopefully, though, you can get real with me. That’s what this journey is about, after all.

I went to my first “regular” workout class. The last two visits it was just me and the trainer learning the movements. This time, I joined the group. I dreaded it all day, knowing how out of shape I am. When I walked in, ‘Satan’ came bopping up and introduced me to some of the other people in the class. By far, I was the fattest, most out of shape person in the room. Every part of me screamed, “Run! Run away!” But I sucked it up, slapped on a smile, and shook hands with all the healthy, trim people. Then I saw the Workout of the Day. My heart fell into my stomach. I am unable to DO any of those movements. What the hell am I going to do? And how embarrassing is it going to be when I can’t do this, right here in front of God and everybody? And we have to do 5 rotations of them? That voice saying, “Run!” got louder. And it brought some tears to my eyes. How did I let myself get like this? All the women in the room were slim and muscular. I imagined them rolling their eyes at the fat girl who couldn’t hang with them. I compared myself to every woman in the room, and came up short. And very round.

This is a common issue for me, this comparison thing. When Georgia posts her amazing weight loss, I forget the fact that I lost 8 freakin’ pounds in two weeks and begin to wonder what I’m doing wrong. Why is she doing better than I am? Forget the different body types, heights, workouts, metabolisms, etc. Ignore the work I’ve done. I just compare and fall short. This is a problem, I know.

So the workout begins, and ‘Satan’ comes over. I can do the weight lifting move, even if there isn’t much weight on my bar. I’m actually pretty good at it. It’s the next two activities that have me feeling nauseous. Hang from the bar and pull your knees to your chest 10 times? I can’t even hang! So he has me hang as long as I can (about 15 seconds, ugh), then do sit ups. With an exercise band for assistance. Not embarrassing, or anything. Next, I am supposed to run 200 m and start the rotation of weights and sit ups again. RUN? And not away, as I’d been planning. Holy crap. He scales it back to 100 meters, and shows me how far it is. Sighing with relief, I take a deep breath and begin. In my head is one sentence. I begin repeating it like a mantra. A prayer. A hope.

I. Will. NOT. Quit.

I jog it the first and second round, wheezing and puffing like an eighty year old lady. With every slap of tennis shoe to earth, I am repeating it. I will not quit. The third round, I jog half and walk back. By the fourth I am strictly walking, still gasping for breath. But I will not quit, dammit. With tears in my eyes, I start the final round. Weights. Hang. Sit ups. Run. Done!

I finished all five rounds with 30 seconds to spare. ‘Satan’ comes over and congratulates me, high fives me for doing all five and not giving up, and I start to feel a little bit guilty for calling him Satan. Then he tells me the “Cash Out”, or ending exercise, is 25 push ups and that feeling fades instantly. I do wall push ups, because raising this bod from the floor just wasn’t happening.

Driving home, I admit I teared up several times. I felt so inadequate and disgusted with the state I’d let my health deteriorate into. I take some deep breaths and try a new perspective. I finished. I didn’t leave. I Did Something About It.

This is not about anybody but me. I’m not in competition with Georgia, or those fitness models at CrossFit, or anyone else. This is my time. Finally, I am doing this. And I will not quit.

Merrily We Roll Along

It's Sunday and you know what that means!  It's time to update The Weight Board!  Officially, I've been doing this thing for 2 weeks, and I have lost a grand total of 12.5 pounds.  I know the ticker says 13, but it rounds up.

I am not a fan.

I prefer an honest representation of my weight loss with no rounding.  It's seems like embellishing or cheating to me.  Which I am trying not to do.  In spite of a very large temptation looming inside my house:  It's Girl Scout Cookie Time!  What the samhill?!  And I have not one, but 2 girls selling cookies this year.  Clearly, I did not think this through.  It would probably be okay if I could eat just one.  Box.  But I can't.  I love those Peanut Butter Patties, especially after you put them in the freezer.  So. Good.  And it is not freakin' helping that my daughters are pooling their money together and buying (and eating) as many boxes as they can.  Leaving those cookies unattended in the refrigerator.  

"Hey, Mom?  Want a cookie?  Aren't these your favorite?  They've been in the freezer, just like you like 'em!"

Really, Little People?  It would be okay, just this once, to not share.  You don't even have to offer it to me.  Go ahead and give my share to Bubba.  He's just gonna take it right out of the package when you're not looking anyway.        

These stupid cookies are going to be my undoing.  I must keep in mind that I did not just lose 12.5 pounds by eating Girl Scout cookies by the boxload.  Wednesday I pushed Bubba in his stroller at the Nature Center, in the mud.  I am not fighting all this C-R-A-P to eat freakin' Girl Scout cookies.  I am not doing this so I can feel like a failure.  And I will, if I eat those damn things.  Today, it's not about the high heels or the zombies or being healthy.  It's these cookies.

For once in my life, THEY WILL NOT TELL ME HOW IT'S GOING TO BE.