Out Of The Mouths Of Babes . . .

“Momma!”

“Where do you see Momma, honey?”

“Wite dere!”

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

“DAT’S MOMMA!”

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.

Practice.

When A Weight Loss Blogger Disappears . . .

The pounds have reappeared. Either that or they can’t find time to blog in between workouts.

Nah. It’s the former.

In the beginning you might be all RAH RAH about losing weight and shout it to the world, pretending that it gives you some form of accountability. But how accountable do you have to be to a cyberrific audience? It’s too easy to hide. You just stop posting, networking, connecting with fellow bloggers.

Until you start RAH RAH-ing again.

This is where the battle of the bulge is won. When you fall off, how quickly do you get back on track? How much do you beat yourself up? What type of vitriolic nastiness do you shower upon yourself? Or is this the time you cut yourself some slack and say, you know what? I screwed up and that’s okay. Now I must confess and start with a clean slate:

  • Juicer? What juicer? Oh, that contraption sitting on my counter collecting dust over the past three weeks? The machine I nicknamed Biff (for BFF) while juicing my way to vibrancy has been neglected. Surprised it didn’t unfriend me on Facebook.
  • Client sends nearly five pounds of gourmet chocolates as a thank you. Yes, I gave some away, but at the same time, gorged on the rest. I was reminded why moms say “too much candy will make your belly ache.” Ouch.
  • Why drink water when there’s alcohol?  My hydration has been lacking to non-existent. Oh swollen ankles, how I have not missed you.
  • Eating at home has not been an option the past couple of weeks – unless leftover casseroles, ham and brownies would suffice.
  • Ah, vegetables . . . almost forgot how to spell it.

There you have it. I have repented my gluttonous sins and am cleansed anew . . .

At least I will be after that New Year’s Eve party tonight!

 

A Slippery Sloppy Slope…

I’m sure as heck glad I dropped nearly twenty pounds so I could put ten back on over the holidays.

Hey, it’ll be a net loss.

As a matter of fact, I got an early start! After being so good for two weeks, I started sliding down a slippery sloppy slope . . .

It seems that once you make a bad choice or two, you fall victim to the default behavior that has gotten you fat in the first place. I know that’s what happens to me. It doesn’t help when the people around you believe that you will give up and revert to the old you that they are comfortable with. I talk about this more in The Push Back Problem

But crying VICTIM and looking for people to come save you from yourself is not the answer. They have their own problems and stuff they are thinking about. You can not depend on others to keep you walking a straight line. It’s your responsiblity.

While I contemplate all of this, I am also contemplating how much cheese I will consume tomorrow.

My choice. My cheese. My chub.

And my consequences.

A Glutton For Football…

A gluttonous mind screw, football is . . .

Beer and pigskin. Beer and nachos. And beer.

Crap.

Literally. I pooped all morning. Gas all day.

Yucky.

This is exactly what I wanted to stop doing. It’s why I UNJUNKED MYSELF two weeks ago. But here I am. Dealing with the morning after shame of guzzling what equates to nearly a 12 pack of brewskis – hey, those 20 ounce drafts go down smooth after the first two – and the inevitable midnight french fry tostito snacking marathon that follows. Let’s hear it for refined processed carbs!

Normally this would derail me. It would send me into a pizza laced tailspin rationalized by the “eh, I already screwed up, what’s one more day?” school of thought.  But not this time.

It’s okay if I’m not perfect.

Wait. I think I have to say it again . . . It’s okay if I’m not perfect.

Wow. That’s liberating.

Allowing yourself to be human is AWESOME.

If I don’t eat all the right things or go a bit overboard during a happy hour, it’s okay. What I have consistently drilled into my own mind is the fact that I am not dieting. I am learning a new way of healthy living. Mistakes will happen, realistic bumps in the road will happen, life will happen. And it’s all good.

Football gluttony is a part of that. And I enjoy it. DANG IT!

This is no longer a race to skinny.

It’s a life-long path to health.

Grab a beer for the ride.

 

 

Is This Endorphinese? Or . . .

I don’t know if it’s the post exercise endorphins talking, and if it is I’m loving the way they think, but I feel as if a fog has lifted from my mind, my attitude, my overall self.

It’s genuine happiness.

Could it be? Crazy funny goofball ass me? Spewing positivity at even the most curmudgeonous of curmudgeons without a care? Dancing in the grocery store no matter who stares? Fearless in my sarcasm and corny jokes? In real life and not just on my blog for you folks? Yeah baby.

I feel good. Nana nana nana na (James Brown interlude)

Look what a rush of live nutrients, clean eating and activity will do for you. Strip away the crap inside and a shining light breaks through the residue, not to be denied. I literally feel alive. Like my authentic self has been freed. That person I’ve been looking for, for YEARS while simultaneously cramming the very essence of who I am further and further away from my heart and soul with massive amounts of emotional binge eating, beer drinking, and other bad choices that I consciously made. But that is over.

Time to stop hiding. The world needs me.

The Post Workout Happy Zapper…

This isn’t a fitting room, Mr. Gym.

So fuck you and your flourescent lights!

Sorry. I couldn’t hold back.

There’s no better way to deflate the euphoria you feel after working out than to take your elevated heart rate having, chest heaving behind into the bathroom at the gym. Forget the fire engine red face and whispy hairs standing at attention all over my head. Why do I look wider than all outside? I didn’t look this HUGE in my mirror at home before I got my ass to the gym, so why do I look like a massive mound of tapioca pudding wrapped in lycra now?

ENOUGH! STOP IT.

This is where I need to talk myself up instead of beating myself down. Who cares what I look like after kicking my own ass at the gym? At least I am here, sweating to the beat of my own drum, not caring who is watching while I’m breathing as if I’m having a panic attack.

The point is I am DOING IT.

Why berate when you can praise yourself for getting your tapioca pudding butt running on the treadmill? Yes RUNNING. Not walking, holding onto the bars to avoid the embarrassing fall and subsequent belt trip to the floor, but actually running. Give yourself some credit!

Screw the lights and keep up the fight . . .

 

Unjunking Myself

I made a decision.

After years of dieting, intermittent exercise and countless amounts of processed, fried and toxic foods crammed down my pie hole, it was time to replenish my body with what I’ve stripped away through hazardous, unhealthy behaviors.

Time to renew my depleted physiological self. Time to start over with a clean, nutrient rich body from the inside out.

Time to REBOOT.

While mentally beating myself into an emotional coma for my dehydration induced swollen ankles several days ago, I came across the documentary  “Fat, Sick and Nearly Dead” and thought hmm. I’m not nearly dead, or even sick. But I am fat and miserable. I’m gonna watch it.

You may have heard of the 2011 film, or maybe not, because I didn’t know it existed until that moment. It chronicles one man’s 60 day journey across the U.S. juicing his way to health. Yes, drinking ONLY juice made from fresh veggies and fruits, filling up with micronutrients to get rid of all the garbage in his body, jump start a plant based lifestyle and most importantly, get off multiple medications.

It was crazy inspiring. Some think it was just plain crazy. But you can’t deny the doctor supervised results.

Clarity. Energy. Vibrancy. WEIGHT LOSS.

I wasn’t looking to do two months of this, the holidays are around the corner for goodness sakes! However for ten days or so, I thought it was doable. Then I can pile the holiday yumminess onto a fresh and clean system! Not really. In actuality, I plan to ease lean animal proteins back into my diet along with eggs and practice moderation. I’ll continue to incorporate raw vegetable juices in my diet daily, as I already feel more alive than I have in a long time!

A few more days to go until my juicy adventure is complete, so till then I’ll have to change my name to Mystery Meatless . . .