Out Of The Mouths Of Babes . . .


“Where do you see Momma, honey?”

“Wite dere!”

“No, silly. That’s Auntie. That’s me…See?”


After a couple more attempts at trying to reason with a two year old and convince her that the beautiful bride in the wedding photos was me and not her mother, it hit me. My sweet niece doesn’t know me to look like that. She just knows me FAT.

A sobering thought.

You see, kids have no agendas. They aren’t beating around the bush. They aren’t holding back as to not hurt feelings. They call ’em how they see ’em. To her, I looked entirely different than the woman in the photo. That was nine years and over one hundred pounds ago. Of course she wouldn’t recognize me. I’m not that person in the picture anymore. But it doesn’t mean I can’t be new and improved.

The sheer adamancy of her statement struck a cord.

A toddler just might change my life.







I Ordered A Salad. So There.

“You got a salad?”

The quizzical yet amused look on my husband’s face was priceless and disturbing at the same time. We were at one of our usual spots, not the wing place or the burger joint or the craft beer bistro, the other one where pizza with extra cheese and spicy sauce was the typical fare after a buttery bread stick snack. Extra napkins required. I was looking at the menu – that I could recite like the alphabet – and nothing looked good. Before I knew what I was doing, I blurted out “SARATOGA SALAD PLEASE” the moment the waitress came over.

I think there comes a time when your body and mind are both fried. Not only from the overdose of battered foods plunged into hot oil, but from the mental war waged on ourselves. Suddenly, you’ve had enough. You crave the taste of health. Your body wants to heal. Your head used to get in the way, rationalizing how one more order of cheesy bread won’t hurt, but now even your own brain can’t take your self sabotage anymore.

It feels good to let go of the inner struggle. To stop the munchie madness that keeps you fat. In the end, it’s always just a choice.

So yes. I choose salad.

A Time For Love . . .

I was getting all set and ready to go full on self-deprecation mode with this. I mean, it has been nearly two years since I last checked in. And probably about thirty pounds in the wrong direction. How would I know for sure? I’ve contracted scale-itis. It stares at me with that knowing, blank, LED screen when I enter the bathroom and have to turn sideways to maneuver between toilet and tub. . . but I’m certain not to make eye contact for fear of feeling shamed by an inanimate object.

We might lie to ourselves and think “it’s not so bad” as we burgeon out of stretch pants and refuse invitations to go places, afraid of not being able to fit into our jeans, but deep down we know the truth. At least I know my truth. I feel it in my skin, in my knees, in my inability to sleep well. I see it in the mirror, in disgusted looks from strangers, in the eyes of concerned loved ones too worried about hurting my feelings to say anything about the weight gain.

But the longer we hide, the worse it gets.

It’s easy to douse ourselves with loathing. What am I doing? Why can’t I get it right? I know better, what’s my problem? I HATE MYSELF!!! But that only gets us to the bottom of an ice cream carton.

It’s love we need. It’s love I need . . . from myself.

The First Wing Night Wednesday Of 2013 AND…

I survived.

My body didn’t go into wingless-itic shock.

And I didn’t involuntarily drink three – or more – pints of beer.

Cause ya know, that’s what you (I) do on wing night. Beer, wings, sports.

Instead, a nice evening combo of housework, Nike+ training and a delicious stir fry chock full of veggies. Boy do I love to cook. I wish I could bottle that feeling I get watching someone devour the meal I just made. Or how I feel about myself after planning, prepping and creating a delicious, healthy dish.  A cook’s high, I suppose.

Why is it that we KNOW how good doing something we love, or just doing something that is simply good for us, makes us feel yet we consciously choose to not do those things?

Default behavior. Excuses. Laziness.

So how do we get beyond this seemingly infinite emotional battle between self-sabotage, guilt, and that gung ho yet fleeting inspiration to make better choices for ourselves? Is the popular “21 days to healthier habits” school of thought accurate? What’s the key? How can we make this automatic, where we take decision making and thinking out of the process?

When I have time to think about something, I overthink everything. It’s why I was much better playing third base than I was playing second base. At such close proximity to the batter’s box, especially with right hand hitters, I depended on my reflexes and instincts because I didn’t have the extra seconds to think about what I was going to do with the ball once I got it at the hot corner. It was all routine. It was all automatic. Second base? Forget it. What angle should I take to the ball? Should I flip it underhand or throw overhand? Do I have time to tag the runner first? E-4. Dammit. (E-4 is how you score an error by the second baseman, just in case you were wondering what the heck that was)

How did I get automatic at third base? Reps. Lots and lots of reps. The more you do something the more it seems to do itself. The effort you gotta muster up becomes less and less. Muscle memory takes over. So, it’s time to attack healthy habits the same way I did softball.


The Push Back Problem . . .

Drastic lifestyle changes call for drastic “WHAT ARE YOU NUTS?!” reactions from people in your life.

Venturing out of your comfort zone threatens other people’s comfort zones in a number of ways:

  • OMG! She’s going to be skinnier then MEEEE!
  • You can’t stop drinking. Who will be MY drinking partner?
  • Vegetarian? You aren’t serious. I’ll give you a week.

It’s always about THEM. How you losing weight will make them look. How you cutting out bad behaviors will leave them with nothing to do. How your goals won’t be met because they can never accomplish theirs.

So they push back.

Sometimes people get angry. What, you’re better than pizza and burgers now? You don’t want to go to the after party? What the hell is going on?! Others may play a guilt trip while sabotaging your efforts. C’mon, we ALWAYS go to happy hour on Fridays. You’re just going to leave me hanging like that? One drink won’t hurt . . .

As you are making changes, others feel left out of your life. It makes those around you, who have shared in wing nights, flip cup tournaments, and too many Oktoberfests to remember, feel as if you are saying what they do stinks too. It leaves them having to look in the mirror. If she feels like the bar scene is killing her, is it killing me too? We personalize everything these days.

Your dress is so pretty! (She didn’t say that to me. I guess my dress is ugly!)

You look good. (He never tells me that, I must look bad!)

I’ve got other plans, next time! (Just say you hate me already!)


It’s like you must have the consummate “It’s not you, it’s me” conversation. Don’t get me wrong, it’s not EVERYONE. Just those that aren’t happy with themselves in the first place.

Change is hard. It’s hard on everyone.

I just hope to inspire people with mine.


Wrapper Cheese . . .


(And no, it’s not hammer time.)

You do not need to lick, pick or bite off those traces of cheesy bits from the wrapper.

I’m sure you didn’t NEED whatever was in the wrapper to begin with, however I am uber certain you don’t need to pick off the once melted, now hardened, processed fromage stuck to the paper.

Or the paper that inevitably comes off with the wrapper cheese. You know, the stuff you eat anyway, cause hey – it’s just paper.

It’s okay if you throw away the wrapper, cheese and all.


Impossible . . .

When you have a big chunk . . .

CHUNK. BABY BABY RUTH (Sloth voice from the Goonies – involuntary word association, sorry)

. . . of weight to lose, it looks, feels and sounds IMPOSSIBLE.

Especially when you’ve been there, done that and have the XXL t-shirt to prove it.

But, when you break down the word IMPOSSIBLE it suddenly reads I’M POSSIBLE.

Funny, huh?

I am probably not the first person to discover this word play juxtaposition. But it’s a new way to look at it for me. And it’s all about perspective.


Why not?

Joking Aside . . .

Well, kinda.

Humor is a coping mechanism for me. You could even call it a shield, used to deflect the self-disgust. Used to distract other people from my growing waistline. Used to convince myself they like me even though it’s obvious I don’t like myself very much right now.

Joking around fills this role for a lot of fat people. And yes, I call it like it is. Fat is fat. That’s part of the problem, everything is sugar coated. Literally and figuratively. But no joke can hide a triple chin. I’m not there yet, but easily could be after a few more rationalized, beer filled, wing nights.

So as I write with self-depricating humor and realization, it helps to work out my own feelings of dislike towards myself. To work out an honest realistic image of the consequences of my unhealthy behaviors and to SEE it in black and white.

To get my thoughts out of my head and have others read them. Respond to them. Relate to them.

And at some point, to be able to look back at how hopeless I was and simply laugh . . .

The Dreaded Butt Print . . .

Microfiber couches. Oh how I loathe thee.

The genius who developed this material as a selection for sofas and other furniture designed to be sat on was not fat. Obviously. If they were they never would have condemned big bottomed girls to the horror of seeing just how wide their butts spread out when sitting down.

The extra wideness of my butt span is a reality check in plain view of anyone within five feet.

Quick! My mind says. Pretend to be wiping off some lint and erase the big ass evidence!

Couches aren’t the only culprit. Have you ever flattened a two or three square foot area of grass with your toosh? Make like you’re kicking a bug to cover it up. What about at the gym? Swamp ass central? One set of pull downs and the vinyl seat displays your sweaty derriere markings for the entire workout floor to see. But(t), a stealth knee swipe or two takes care of that . . .

I suppose in the end (pun intended), butt prints are there as a friendly reminder.


Here I Go Again For The Last Time…

Diet. Lose Weight. Life. Gain Weight. SHAME.


Sounds so familiar. A story lots of women know. Men too. Weight struggles don’t discriminate.

So here I go again. On my own. Walking down the only road I’ve ever known.

But this time I will not walk alone. This time I am putting myself out there to walk with you. Well, kinda sorta. I don’t know who “you” is. It could be nobody. It could be anybody. The thought of documenting ups and downs, emotions, challenges and breakthroughs is excitingly cathartic. I could be no one. I could be anyone. Millions deal with fat stuff daily. Maybe I’m just like you. Maybe I’m not. That’s why this blog is anonymous. Hopefully no matter who is reading, it’s relatable.

With apologies to Whitesnake, I’ve made up my mind. I ain’t wasting no more time…

Here I go again. For the last time…