Archive for January, 2010
I had an interesting language and cultural experience with my 6th graders yesterday. What’s sad is that it dovetails right into the whole weight-loss issue and how we, as a culture, are obsessed with skinniness. Not healthy slimming but skinniness.
We’re refreshing our memories about the use and meaning of specific prefixes. One of the prefix groups we’re studying is the MIS-group. You know, misguided, mistake, misunderstand, misbehavior. All words my 6th graders are more than familiar with. I challenged them with a word they didn’t know–misrepresent–to see if they could intellectually apply their knowledge of MIS (wrong or error) to the new word to figure out the definition.
What I first discovered is that they also don’t comprehend root words because they wanted to say “wrong again present”, which lead them to believe this had something to do with Christmas (for my Mexicans) or Eid (for my Somalis). When I confirmed the root was “represent”, they got thinking but never quite mastered the meaning, so I helped them out.
Me: “Thinking about the word, “represent”, what’s one way we can define it?
Various kids who forget, even in the sixth grade, to raise their hands: “To show something about yourself”
Me: (hiding my shock that they remember anything I taught them): “Excellent. So if I come to class and tell you I’m a rich heiress to a bubblegum throne and I have six cars and servants, do you think I’d be misrepresenting myself?”
Various kids: (laughter) “Yes!”
Maico: “You have seeex cars? And you are reeech?”
Me: “So what do you think misrepresent might mean?” (“No, Maico, it was an example. I have one car. And no money. Cuz if I did, I’d be in your home country sipping margaritas by a pool instead of dealing with this crappy Ohio weather, OK?”)
Various kids: “to represent yourself wrong!” (the energy of their replies really does earn an exclamation point.)
Maico: “What ees margarita?”
Me: “Great! Now, can you give me an example of someone misrepresenting something or someone? A time you misrepresented yourself?” (“Maico, I hearby revoke your Mexican heritage based on the content of that question. No Mexican should ever ask what a margarita is. Even if you are in the sixth grade.)
Various kids:
“When someone lies about doing homework.”
“When my mom says she’ll give me allowance but doesn’t.”
“When the guy on TV tells you Oxyclean gets your whites whiter but it doesn’t work.”
Maico: “When my dad went to the Hummer man to buy a Hummer in the paper because of low price and the Hummer man try to sell him more expensive Hummer.” (“Maico, your parents are shopping for Hummers and you haven’t had a margarita yet? What’s wrong with your family?”)
Me: “Perfect! Now, playing off the idea of the Oxyclean commercial, what are some other commercials that misrepresent their products?”
Various kids: “You don’t get a leprechaun with Lucky Charms!”
“Certain clothes don’t make you popular.”
“Shoes with lights in the soles are the coolest things you can wear!!”
Maico: “Bood Light does not make girls like you. And Snoogies make people laugh at you.” (Ahh, Maico. Welcome to American culture.)
One girl: “Diet pills don’t make you skinny.”
While the cacophony of little voices discussed amongst themselves examples of misrepresented advertisements going bad, I sought out the girl who’d mentioned diet pills. I asked her what she’d meant, wondering how she’d come to her conclusion and wisdom at such a young age–and jealous that I’d spent thousands of dollars over the years believing.
“So, Madina. I have a question about your comment on diet pills. What makes you so sure they don’t work?”
She shrugged, her cute pink polkadot hijab sliding around her face. “My mom told me. One of my friends told me I was fat and I wanted to try them to get skinny. I liked how the girl was skinnier in the second picture, but my mom said skinny is ugly.”
Madina is about as fat as I am thin. Just to clarify, Wii Fit Plus considers me obese. I’m guessing that a BMI measurement in the 30s is not a good place to be, even with a fabricated cartoon character. She’s a beautiful little sixth grade girl whose wrists are about the size of three of my fingers put together.
“You’ve got a smart mom.” I wish Patti had told me that growing up. Where would I be if I’d have not grown up believing all the things commercials led me to believe on Saturday mornings between cartoons–when cartoon were good? Maybe I wouldn’t have had a fascination with stuffing myself with sugary cereals, spent my babysitting money on a Chia Pet or have believed I was less than popular if my jeans didn’t say Jordache and my shoes didn’t say Nike.
What a radical departure from my current state of thinking that would have produced. With a little shot of reality, a little rebuking of the commercial message, would I be a different person today? How much of who I am and what I think is a result of those early advertising sessions? Subliminally, of course. I’m too smart logically to believe anything I see on TV anymore, hence the reason I rarely watch (except soaps, of course. And QVC.)
How much of my life and time on Earth has been spent believing and buying the next perfect gadget to get me thin? (Don’t answer that, really. It’s beyond embarrassing.)
By the time I was told that there is no such thing as a quick fix (“If it’s too good to be true, it is. And you’re a fool to have believed it,” so said my senior Consumer Ec teacher Mrs. Bell), it was too late. I had already spent allowance and lawnmowing money on Dexatrim and those little chewy chocolate square diet pills that promised rapid weight loss. I’d already snuck diuretics from my mom’s stash to see if it would help me lose the bulge. I’d already bought a cassette that promised me strong abs and a body every teen boy would envy because the manufacturer had misrepresented the product and American society had determined it was OK to promote the lie with very colorful commercials.
Where would I be today without all that?
Poolside in the Mexican jungle with a personal waiter, double-salted rims and the perfect margarita on ice, all paid for by my bubblegum inheritance, that’s where. Without a Maico in sight…
Are you sensing a theme to my updates? Like they’re getting later every week? Hopefully this weekend I’ll be back to Saturday postings. My last few weekends have been terribly busy–as in out of town busy–and I just haven’t had the time to catch up. But I am still working hard…
Last week was slightly better than Week #2, you know, the one I said was the second worst week of my life. It was mildly acceptable and I made it through. I’m still grappling with the issue, and I know I will be for some time to come. It’s not something that is easily solved or cleared up–let’s say that. I’m facing it daily and each time it pops up, it’s like I’m literally stepping on a rollercoaster. I’m either thrilled–arms in the air–with how I’m dealing with it or I’m plummeting to the valley of a hill and the bottom of my stomach is falling out.
The good news (if there is any in all of this) is somewhat sadistic. Since I found this out, I have zero desire to eat. And by zero, I mean zero. Not in self-medicating with donuts, no wanting to cram myself full of ice cream (I’m not really an ice cream fan anyway), not sneaking through drive-thrus randomly around town to cover the hurt feelings with garbage. No, I have literally been forcing myself to eat for most of the last three weeks. As a result, I’m down three notches on the belt (but the scale hasn’t really moved–and that pisses me off). I find an odd sense of sadistic pleasure in the fact that I’m losing weight because I’m facing a major life issue. How weird is that?
Anyway, on with my progress report. I’ve got other good topics saved for upcoming posts so you’ll have to tune in!
Eliminate fries and soda from my diet
I took a sip of the kid’s pop when we went out to eat the other night, but out of sheer habit. I needed something to wash down a bite of food and I was out of beer. Please. I only have about one or two a week. I just couldn’t do another water, and didn’t want to drink caffeine at 11pm. So I did slip but immediately after I did, I realized my mistake. HOpefully won’t happen again.
Walk My Dog Daily
I hate that I’m not doing this daily. I really need to get my attitude adjusted because Dogger needs walking more. Period.
30 Minute Workout 5 of 7 Days
I’m trying to remember because it looks like my stickers may not have made it on every day. Monday and Tuesday, yes. Weds…had to take the kid somewhere after school. Thurs, had to shop for a new formal dress which was Saturday night’s activity. Friday, no–had a game. Saturday out of town. Sunday I did two workouts, so that’d bring the total to 4. Not quite five but not zero either. And yes, I work out even though I’m only eating one or two times a day. And you thought the starvation was sadistic.
15 minutes of yoga or meditation 5 of 7 days a week
This and dog walking need to take priority. I really need something to slow down the brain and live in the moment. I really do. And with my powerwalking still continuing at lunch, I need a little more stretching than the workout is giving me.
I am still powerwalking, though yesterday I only did 9 minutes compared with my usual 20ish. Our schedule is screwy at school and that was my ONLY free time the entire day. And by ONLY, I mean the only time to pee, check email, get materials and lesson plans and everything copied. So I compromised because I didn’t want to miss the streak but I had things I absolutely had to do. Add to that training a new student teacher and you have the makings of a mental disaster but I managed. I even came home and worked out. Oh, I should get a sticker for that…;-)
In contemplating the many reasons for my diets (if you want to call them that) failing in the past, one of the biggest, IMHO (which is all that matters here on my blog) is the need, the necessity and the basic human compulsion to get results right away. By results, I don’t mean progress. I mean 60 pounds of excess weight gained over the course of 38 odd years being shed in nine days.
There’s something ingrained in the human mind–perhaps the result of genetic coding, perhaps with the advent of instant sea monkeys you can reconstitute as soon as you tear open the package–that makes us believe that if we do x for any extended period of time (and, by ‘extended period of time’, I mean longer than it takes a laptop to reboot), Y and Z will happen miraculously, instantaneously before our eyes. We can’t help it. We can’t fight it. Even if we say that we are patient, there are times we’re not. Even if we believe we’re in for the long hall, we still want a little bit o’that instant gratification we believe is our birthright.
It’s part of the reason I decided that my weight loss goal wasn’t even going to be met in this calendar year. When I went back and assessed (and obsessed) over why I haven’t lost and/or managed to keep off the weight before, that time factor came back to bite me in my very fleshy ass. It occurred to me that in setting my goals within a specific (read: short) time frame, I was unintentionally setting myself up for failure in one huge way–miss a target, give up on a goal. I’m an all-or-nothing thinker (something else I’m also working on this year) and to set a close (I even consider six months “close”) goal, I expected myself to have this absolutely 100% perfect start and continuation of my goals right out of the gate. I didn’t give myself any time whatsoever to adjust my bad habits into good ones. There was no room for experimenting, no room for really even reflecting. When I woke up in the morning, I had to work out. I could only eat salads. I must be in size 14s in two months. Those were ultimatums I gave myself for measuring progress but I didn’t give myself the tool–the mental adjustments and time–required to get there.
If I could have changed my behavior and habits that easily, don’t you think I would have?
I’m more about taking notice of the small things on this particular fat-burning journey. I’m enjoying taking my lunch to school in all my Ziplock containers. Finding fun in portion control. Feeling a sense of accomplishment by working out in 20 minute increments rather than a hunk of an hour. And observing the fact that my body is changing–ever so slightly–in the direction that I want.
Yesterday I had a day-long teacher’s meeting which equates to jeans and a sweatshirt. Normally I stuff myself into a pair of jeans and wear something long enough to hide the muffin top because, let’s face it, the only attractive muffin top is one with a pat of butter melting down the sides. Instead of the usual long sweater, at the suggestion of Stacy and Clinton, I chose something with a little bit of shape and a shorter hemline. (and because it was clean and because it was pink, but don’t tell Stacy. She’ll yell at me.) This seemed like a good choice until I’d been sitting for about two hours at the meeting and we got a potty break. I realized I’d not worn a belt–under normal circumstances, an activity to cause abject horror and blindness in anyone who witnessed a chunky girl in low-cut jeans (stupidest things invented, BTW. I only kept mine because I’m too cheap to throw them out) try to get herself and her muffin top back together incognito.
When I reached down to my waist line (as inconspicuously as a fat girl can fix her clothes) to fold up my waistband that had surely been flattened by my gut as usual, I was pleased to discover no rollover. The denim band holding my pants to my body had not been assaulted by my baby fat. (So what if the baby just turned 18?). My pants were still happy. I could stand up from the chair in my shorter fleece and jeans and not be petrified every eye was on my gut and my rearranging myself to get presentable again.
And that was just the kind of progress I needed. Sure, it’d be nice to fit into a size 10 for my sorority’s 20 year reunion on Saturday night, but I’ll take the little bits of progress I can find here and there. Besides, I’d have had to start in December to lose those 60 pounds by this weekend….
A few days late and mega-dollars short. Sue me!
Last week was, hands-down, the second worst week of my life. The first was almost exactly one year ago when my brother nearly died three separate times in a span of three months. That’s not something a big sister (he’s seven years younger than me) should have to endure, especially because I adore that little bugger (even if by “little” I mean 31 year-old bugger”).
What’s amazing is that I kept myself together as well as I could–physically, emotionally, food-wise and everything. Sure, I sucked in a couple of ways (when depressed, I can starve myself for weeks. I don’t feel hungry so I don’t eat. Period.) but I kept my eyes focused on the long term, the goal of meeting 40 with a decent body and successful stint on the weight loss wagon.
Here’s how I fared on those initial Ten in 10 Goals. All in all, I’m pretty satisfied (but know there’s room for improvement).
Eliminate fries and soda from my diet
Not even an obstacle. Not tempted once. I think I had one or two diet sodas, and even then they weren’t that great. If only the rest of my goals were as easily met…
Walk My Dog Daily
The part that stinks about this goal is when I don’t achieve it, I let the dogger down, too. We did walk at least three days, even though I forgot to put my “dog walked” sticker on my calendar. I know the hubby walked two of those days with us to the park. Now that all the snow’s melted here and the temperatures are above thirty, there’s no excuse not to meet this one daily. I know Dogger is happy to hear me say that.
30 Minute Workout 5 of 7 Days
Let’s see. I know I did Monday and Tuesday, not Weds, Thurs and off Friday-Sunday. Friday would have been impossible with hubby having a game, but Saturday I could have done one early, before leaving for all-day basketball tourney. Yesterday, no reasonable excuse. None. I even remember thinking about it a couple of times. When it was really time for me to do it, the kid had a bunch of friends downstairs. I workout upstairs, on the Wii Active, and it requires jumping and jogging. Here’s why I didn’t: embarrassment. I didn’t want those kids to hear me pounding my heavyweight fighter body on the floor (their ceiling) and making comments and thinking about how fat Jason’s mom is. That was my final excuse. Of course, I can make it up today (within one workout on the Wii Active Calendar) by doing two workouts today. I can do that…if his friends are gone.
15 minutes of yoga or meditation 5 of 7 days a week
For a woman who claims to love yoga (I do) and touts the benefits to all her friends whenever they will listen (I do) I have been LOUSY at this goal. Lousy is actually too generous–it gives you the impression that I’ve actually done something when I have done precisely nothing. Yes, that’s right. Nothing. Not even the Wii Fit Plus–since I’ve been doing the Wii Active exclusively, the Fit Plus has fallen by the wayside. This is one part of me I need to change a lot. Given the demon I faced this week, I need that silent meditation time more than I ever have at any point of my life. And I normally enjoy meditation. What’s in my way? Discipline. I need to go to bed about twenty minutes earlier so I can stop by the cushion for a short session or work a couple of minutes of yoga in after my Wii Active workouts. No reason I can’t start today. I deserve it and I need it. What else needs said?
One positive addition to my day that’s not on my Ten in 10 list has been that I’ve been walking–power walking–at lunch time. Instead of going straight from the 6th graders to a bowl of soup, I strap on my iPod touch and do a minimum of a mile around the school. I’m hovering around the 15/14 minute mile, which is good for me given that I have to dive between groups of kids at some point. The walk leaves me not hungry for lunch, which, given the demon, I’m not hungry for anyway. I’ve been eating a lot less (sometimes nothing, which I know isn’t good but, frankly, I don’t care. It won’t last) and saving my small lunch (usually a bowl of cereal and a piece of fruit) for my planning time two hours later.
The mid-morning (around 10:20) has been doing me a world of good. I feel better, warmer, stronger when I get back. Other teachers have commented and admire my determination (and don’t say a thing about how hard I’m sucking wind by the end of my laps). This was when I had planned to do yoga during my day but the walk is working for me. This week, now that the snow has melted, I might be able to take it outside around the block. We shall see.
That’s my week in a nutshell. How about yours? Am I still the only person still working toward my goals in the new year or are some of you finding success as well? I haven’t weighed myself this week, mostly from laziness. I’ll do that and let you know (why would you want to know if I don’t even want to know?!) And I’ll do better this week. I promise!
Over the course of achieving any worthy goal, there are going to be baby problems and massive obstacles. The key to success is to plan ahead for the baby problems on a daily basis–preparing both mentally and physically–thereby building your strength to face the massive obstacles when they arise. If it’s done right, it can be a really powerful 1-2 punch in your quest to win glory and fame by making your goals.
This has always worked for me in other areas of my life, and during the one period of time when I lost 40 pounds. (Of course, I gained it all back and then some, that’s why I’m here). I’d intended to do the same this time. Baby problems to me are always preparation-related: having healthy food when I’m hungry, working out like I plan to, keeping a tight rein on emotional eating and staying away from situations when I know my defenses will be low. Those are givens, the little speedbumps that should serve to make us stop and question our committment on a regular basis–they’re not necessarily the big problems that could derail us from winning.
Part of the reason I started another (hopefully, the last) weight-loss journey in January had nothing to do with the giddy ridiculousness of New Year’s Day and everything to do with the ebb of my calendar year. This is normally a slow time for me. Busy on the part of hubby’s basketball calendar but slow for me–few meetings, little reason to go outside, friends don’t normally visit or come into town. Time to focus on me and making myself better.
Only life thought it would be funny this time. Instead of starting slow, building momentum and confidence, it threw the biggest obstacle possible in my path just ten days into the new year. I’m not going to mention what it is because I’m still grappling with it, it’s hugely painful in an emotional sorta way and frankly, it’s nobody else’s business. Except when it come in the way of meeting my goals.
Even with this “issue”, I still want to hit my 40th birthday (and beyond) in a body I like. This time, the pull and the possibility of finally losing the weight was stronger than falling prey to the emotion of an “issue” that will, without question, change my life in one way or another.
Instead of crumbling into a mass of cake-seeking cells, I pulled myself together and made myself exercise–within ten minutes of finding out this little tidbit of information. I won’t lie–my initial inclination was to go upstairs, climb into bed and take this week off of work to cry myself into a stupor. But one of the changes I’m trying to make isn’t just with what I’m eating–it’s with what I’m thinking. I’ve realized that I’m a highly emotional decision-maker. In a nutshell, what that means is that when I’m faced with the decision of working to meet a goal or doing something against that goal that would feel better in that moment (not just eating here–exercise vs. watching tv, sleeping vs. planning, making dinner vs. eating out), almost exclusively to this point in life I’ve chosen the emotional reaction–no matter how stupid it might be. (The Great Donut Debacle of Easter ’09 is a prime example of that). I didn’t come to realize this on my own–it’s a little bit of a lesson I learned about myself as a writer from a recent writing workshop that seemed to make crystal-clear logical sense when I applied it to my life.
So, in trying to be more conscious and making more logical and less emotional decisions on this path, once I stopped shaking and tamped down the nausea, I sat down, took a deep breath and reflected. Let’s see…I was dressed for a workout. I’d just stopped to check something on my way to burn calories when this popped up. I had a choice and I truly felt as though I were at two major crossroads, one being my weight loss goals: I could sit with all kinds of horrible thoughts in my head, make myself achingly miserable over those thoughts and let it lead to a day of binging on sleep and Kleenex, which would only lead me to feel doubly bad after I came out of the stupor because not only would I have to face this demon head-on sooner or later, I’d also have skipped my part of the plan that I’d worked so hard to set.
After collecting myself, I worked out. I’ll be honest–it was more an attempt to do something with my body, a way to force my mind off the problem for a bit of perspective and fresh air and new blood cells than it was a wholly concerted attempt to be thinner by next April. There were moments of crying during the workout, and moments when my intensity was firecracker-hot crazy mad.
In the end, the important thing was that I focused on myself. This is a first. I mean, my focusing on myself usually means I give in to whatever pain reducer I can muster–sleep, crying, lethargy–but that never helps “myself” do anything but feel worse. After the workout, the sweating had a somewhat cleansing effect. I wasn’t over my anger by any means–hell, I’m still getting familiar with it because my tendency is to ignore and move on–but I knew I’d done something good for me. And that was good for me.
This demon is the number one issue I’ve faced in my life and the way I see it, if I can look him (demons are always male LOL) in the eye and stare him down, there’s really no excuse for not being able to move my fat ass and lose this weight. What doesn’t kill us can only make us stronger, right…?
Don’t revolt. My title’s not referring to the F word you’re thinking of. (Potty mouth!) I’m thinking of the other F word–
Fat.
Most of my adult life (for me, it began at age 19, when I got married), I’ve thought of and referred to myself as fat. The fat girl, fatso, fatty-licious. Even my dad calls me Fat Girl (and I call him Shorty). I know it’s negative and self-defeating, according to all the shrinks and self-help gurus. On one hand, I agree with them–if you don’t like something about yourself, you probably shouldn’t refer to yourself with that nickname. Like nerds calling themselves nerds (I am a nerd at times too but my knowledge is a good thing.) (Only a nerd would think so…)
But, in all honesty, I’m also comfortable calling myself Fat Girl. On a superficial level, it doesn’t bother me. I actually find it somewhat funny. So when I sat down and started thinking about the history of how I got here, how I came to see myself as fat (for the record, I am always corrected by friends when I say I’m fat. None of them agree with me–since I’m not busting-out-of-my-jeans obese, I guess they don’t think I’m fat. Maybe they should compare my BMI with the insurance charts–they’d probably wonder how I’m still living, in that case), I came to a startling realization:
I created the F word–fat–in reference to myself. Meaning that in all my reflection on childhood and growing up, no one ever called me fat (that I remember). I decided that myself.
There is no indelible moment when someone called me fattie or fatso that scarred my subconscious. We reserved that nickname for B.C., the kid in town who always smelled of his mom’s bait shop and dirty clothes. B.C. was round, and for some reason, his mom always put him in horizontally striped shirts–not a good combination. I wasn’t round (and didn’t have Garanimals with stripes), I was just big. Not in a giant, overactive glandular kind of way, either. I don’t stand out in any of my elementary school photos like Shaq (I’m trying to find one, use your imagination). When my Playskool Plastic kKtchen girlfriends were frying imaginary eggs for their pretend husbands in kindergarten wearing size 2 elastic pants, I was in the 6X pants–but no one noticed. When we got our uniforms for Jr. High volleyball, I could never get anything lower than 13 since that’s where the Large tops started. I couldn’t borrow a pair of shorts if I forgot them and I wondered why the girls in A and B cups even bothered to snap on that medieval torture device known as a bra if they didn’t need a C cup to corral their “girls.”
Never did any of those times produce discussions about my weight. It was more my observations of myself in comparison to them that started me along the mental path of thinking I wasn’t “normal” like them. When we shopped for homecoming dresses, I knew better than to even turn my head toward the Juniors section. I started in Misses and occasionally ended up in Women’s. When money was tight and we borrowed from family friends whose daughters had graduated five or more years ahead of us, there was only one girl I could borrow from–my sister had her pick of racks of hand-me-downs, but I had to fall in love with the 1978 powder blue fashion sensation covered in crocheted lace or stay home. (and I hate all forms of blue. Especially powder blue). My girlfriends showed up at the pool in a bikini, I had two one-pieces to choose from. (I actually did wear a bikini once. I was four. Mom has a photo to prove it, but I wonder if the back wasn’t held together with duct tape. My memory fades after so long…)
So how did I get “fat”? I remember pictures of myself as a kid: feeding our pet goat, standing in front of dad’s Volkswagen ‘Thing’ with all my cousins, standing next to my cousin Casey and Mickey Mouse in Disneyland and I don’t look –fat–. I look strong and healthy and like I should have been born into a farming family (I was one generation too late). I don’t have the rolls I have today, but I do have the chub rub that I’ve never been without. There’s no bra overhang in those photos, but I am bigger than my oldest male cousin who played football. (I’m the oldest of this generation of kids; he’s three years younger than me). In team photos, J.B. is bigger than me (but my heinous home perm is the ugliest thing going).
I think what I’m searching for is that very first moment someone called me ‘fat’ so that I have a crutch to fall back on, a place to lay blame for my feeling as though my body has kept me from getting involved in life in a more assertive way. My weight doesn’t stop me from doing anything (except sky-diving and bungee-jumping, which I fully intend to do before I kick the bucket) but it does keep me more on the sidelines than the real game. I’m content being quiet, because when I’m in the spotlight, I get nervous about what people think.
It’s a very odd nervousness, too. Like I think people can’t see past my size 16 ass to realize that I’ve got solid knowledge and that I”m a really great person. I don’t ever judge the abilities and knowledge of other people based on their weight–so why do I constantly second-guess my own self on criteria I don’t use for others? Makes no sense. I know there are shallow, self-centered people who like to think they’re better than the fat girl because they’re skinny, but most of the time they’re just genetically gifted in the body and not the brain. If you can’t see past a person’s size to the heart of the matter, then no amount of knowledge you possess is valuable.
I think there’s more to the advent of the F word–in relationship to me–than I’ve said, but I’m going to be thinking more about it now that that train of thought has left the station (toot toot!). In the meantime…I have a date with the Wii. He better go easy on me today–he gave me sore thighs yesterday (if only that were as dirty as it sounded….).
Since I signed up for the Ten in 10 Challenge (10 weeks of working toward healthy goals) and blogged about it last week , I’m feeling the social media pressure to give an update as promised. Not that I’m resisting…I actually have a little bit of good stuff to report.
As you’ll recall, my Ten in 10 goals were as follows:
Eliminate fries and soda from my diet
I did perfectly on this one. Had two almost-errors but took the upper hand in diverting disaster. Hub and kid wanted to do Roosters after a basketball game (remember, it’s not the fries I like. It’s the gallon of jalapeno cheese sauce and bacon on top of said fries) but I convinced them to go somewhere else. And at that same game, I asked the kid to get me a diet Pepsi and he brought me a regular. I haven’t had regular Pepsi (hate the stuff) since Michael Jackson’s commercials convinced me to give it a try (God rest his soul. I so miss him still.) I put it in my purse and brought it home. I really needed the caffeine, too, but managed without it.
Walk my dog daily
This one, according to the stickers on my calendar and the foot of unplowed snow outside, hasn’t happened daily as planned. Looks like I managed it 2 of 7 days–not good news for me or the dogger. Will try harder this week. The snow makes it treacherous as not only does the city fail to plow our street on a regular basis but some of my neighbors have never heard of a snow shovel. And dogger needs it. Will do better this week.
30 min workout 5 of 7 days a week
Have done well on this one. Even on days I didn’t think I would. Tuesday-Thursday and yesterday I did well, Monday I did 20 minutes of walking at lunch but didn’t do anything at home. Today I’m planning another Wii session. I went against my rule of not buying any more Wii games and got the Wii Active yesterday because of raves from friends and online reviewers. I really do like it, and really do like the 30 day workout plan option. Of course, that’s because yesterday was Day 1 and everyone likes Day 1 of anything. I get one day off a week so that will make me accountable.
15 minutes of yoga or meditation 5 of 7 days a week
Yikes, not so great. I’ve tossed in a few yoga poses but not 15 minutes a pop. I will work on that more also. I’ve come up with a very strong writing plan, and part of my writing plan is to begin with some yoga/meditation to get the brain focused–let’s hope those work together well. And the Wii Active workout from yesterday (lots of squats) left me slightly sore, and I know triangle and side angle poses will help loosen up those thighs.
On a good note, my Wii weigh-in racked me up at a loss of 2 pounds since my last weigh in. I’m encouraged by that–I am sweating in my workouts–but I’m not 100% convinced it’s real loss. I have been waiting to weigh in after school hours and I know my body well enough to know I weigh a few pounds less in the morning than the afternoon. Another mini-goal is to start weighing in daily on the Wii when I make coffee (around 4:30) before writing to get some consistency.
I think that’s it…for now. Let’s hope next week my report comes back even better…
*non-food post coming. Just warning you in case you’re here looking for another example of my witty culinary humor–don’t want you to be disappointed.
Contrary to popular belief (and I am popular, just check out all the people who think they know me on Facebook…), my life doesn’t revolve around food. Alright, you know me better than that. It’s a lie. But I do manage to work in other events during my day where chewing and swallowing are not involved, if indirectly.
Earlier this week, while in line at CVS for the second time in 9 minutes (the first time I was told my Vicodin Rx wasn’t called in by my sadistic endodontist and I made a quick call from my car to verify it had been. Interestingly enough it’d already been put into the insurance system but not filled. Hmmm…), I was thoroughly put off by the whiny crush of humans seeking pills of all kinds (my god, what a lucrative industry…) that I began entertaining myself while eavesdropping on their sad state of why they needed more pills in such a short period of time.
I made three startling observations:
1. People take too many damn drugs. Seriously. I mean, I know some people need to. But some of you need to wean yourself off the crap. I feel like an addict taking less than half a dozen Vicodin for a root canal gone awry, and it’s the first Vicodin RX I’ve had in my life. Pills are not the answer (except in some cases).
2. The more shiny the package, the more expensive the cheap chocolate. Luckily, for me, the end cap near the pharmacy is loaded to the gills with Valentine’s stuff. Yeah. Seriously. It was actually put up the day after New Year’s. Speaking of sadistic.
3. Santa would not make a good pharmacist.
Allow me to elaborate…
On the wall to the left of the busy pharmacy (I wonder if yesterday was directly related to the great welfare check rush every month at the post office that mom used to comment on regularly) (she was postal for almost 40 years, she can say whatever she damn well pleases about the USPS) were three wooden plaques beside a plastic sign that said “Meet Your Pharmacists”. I know I felt safer knowing my Vicodin were coming to me having carefully been counted out by Jim and/or Lynn. But someone’s Christmas decorating holiday joke wasn’t sitting well with me. (Ironically, this display had to be the *only* non-Valentine’s themed display in the entire store. Had it been Cupid drawing his bow beside Jim and/or Lynn, we’d have a different essay.)
Santa was the third pharmacist. For this photo op, he’d chosen a smartly tailored red suit edged by crisp, white fur with a matching cap. He was, indeed, checking his list for the third time, scroll of parchment still in his hand and greeted anyone who noticed him with a jovially winking eye from behind his gold-rimmed spectacles.
I’m not saying Santa isn’t smart enough to become a pharmacist. Working in his climate with elves and reindeer and other wintery-based creatures, it’d probably be a wise investment for him to have some medical training and save himself on employer-paid insurance premiums. I’m saying that it’s a little creepy to think the big guy has an eye on what kind of drugs we’re serving ourselves from the pharmacy.
Here’s the scene that played out in my head while the bustle of pill-seekers grew to epically loud proportion around me and my chocolate end cap: Santa in his santa throne with a scrolling list of every prescription that comes through the pharmacy. He’s gotta read it before they dispense it. Now it’s not just intuition that tells him if you’ve been naughty or nice.
It’s also your Rx history and all the naughty and nice choices that led to said prescription.
I think some of you will be in serious trouble. Not my brother, with his lineup of drugs to keep his ticker ticking after a triple bypass, or aunt Nancy and her cholesterol-lowering pills. Or my posse of diabetic camp friends who rely on insulin since their pancreases let them down. Not even old people who get suckered in to thinking something’s wrong with them by the doctor who only wants them to visit so he gets a bigger hit of Medicare (you know who you are).
No, I’m referring to those needing a “rush” order of Viagra because you’re headed to Vegas. Or Valtrex because you got too drunk (again) ran into your ex-boyfriend (again), wound up at his house (again) doing things with your mouth that require you to take Valtrex (again) for those little “spots” you get “only at the change of the seasons”. Or, my personal favorite, Latisse, the one that warns of potential of blindness caused by bacteria, change in eye color and possible unintentional facial hair growth–all in the name of thicker lashes.
Do you think Santa considers Sin City sexcapades, sleeping around and vanity as bullet points on the naughty or nice list? I have a hunch the lump of coal in your stockings, if Santa were a pharmacist, to be the least of your worries if you’re on his ‘list’.
So, for now, I’m happy with Jim and/or Lynn as my pharmacists, even if my Rx gets screwed up, requires two phone calls, a massive splitting headache/toothache and the chance to witness the glory of humanity as they all huddle around the pharmacist’s white counter like plane crash survivors in Antarctica would huddle around their last, dying fire. The less St. Nick knows, the better for all of us.
P.S.: Santa, I only used four of the Vicodin. I’ll leave the rest out with the cookies and milk next year. My best to the elves!
Have you ever had a problem and not known you’ve had a problem until someone mentions it? Maybe you’re always tapping your pencil when you think. Or pacing the room when you’re nervous. Or randomly stealing silverware from fancy restaurants. Whatever your vice, when it’s brought up, brought out into the open, it’s almost see it as a problem at first. After all, this is how I behave. It happens for some subconscious reason to keep me safe (even the kleptomania). And it’s very hard to change.
I know you’re thinking that I steal things for fun. Not true. My problem is that I have been, for much of my natural-born life, unable to accept personal compliments. There are very, very few things that, when commented upon by an outside person in a positive manner, I am able to take at face value. My writing skills and creativity are the only things I can accept. (why? Because I’m a creative genius and I’m underappreciated).
Retrieving my mail Tuesday after school, the secretary commented on how I look like I’m ‘thinning in the middle’. She’s shorter than me, so I didn’t assume I had a growing bald spot. She made curvy motions down the length of her torso, so common sense led me to deduce she meant my lump of clay was being shaped into something slightly human.
“Are you sure you don’t need new glasses?”
She giggled. “I’m sure. I actually noticed it earlier today but was too busy to say anything.”
“I’m not sure what there is to notice.”
She punched my arm. You’re looking thinner through the middle. Like something’s going on.”
“Something’s going on for sure,” I said. “Trying not to buy a bigger pant size after the holidays is what’s going on.”
She shook her head at me. “No, I mean it. You’re looking good. Whatever you’re doing is working.”
I’d just spent two weeks scarfing too much food and doing zero exercise. True, I’d walked twice since Monday, but doubted it had anything to do with her perception.
“Great! I’ll keep eating junk food in front of the tv! I’m so glad you gave me the go-ahead!”
She leveled a serious stare at me. “Hey. Just say ‘thank you’ and get it over with, ok? You look good. Stop trying to convince me to change my mind.”
Her words were painfully familiar. I’d heard them from a friend once, years ago, when I lost forty pounds through hard work. He’d complimented me, I’d trashed myself in some form and he’d chastised me for not accepting the compliment. “Just say ‘thank you,’” he’d said. “If you make a smart-ass compliment, it’s like you don’t trust my judgment to notice things.”
I didn’t want to second-guess his observation, so I’d quietly thanked him and moved on with my day. Likewise, I thanked the secretary and headed back to my room, deep in thought why I can’t take compliments. I came up with a two-fold reason: one, if I don’t feel the compliment is true, I can’t agree with it. I generally don’t go along with things in general that I don’t agree with without some type of feedback, so why would I agree that I look thinner if I feel like a beached whale? And the second reason, I think, goes way back: protection. Mean girls in school gave compliments only to have them twisted when you accepted them. If they said your hair looked nice today, they’d follow it with “nice for a rat’s nest, that is.” Or if they mentioned your eyeshadow color, you immediately ran to the bathroom and scrubbed it off with those lovely sandpaper-based paper towels. The worst were weight comments: love those pants! (they make them in your size?). Love that sweater! (look what the thrift store has now!). Pretty prom dress! (I know it’s a hand-me-down, I’ve seen it before.) Your cookies are delicious! (and you shouldn’t be eating them.)
The smarminess of their tone still echoes in my head. When anyone–even an honestly nice adult person far removed from my growing-up days makes a positive comment, I hold my breath and wait for the punch line, expecting a rim shot and howling laughter from the other mean girls in a pack (ever notice they can’t travel alone?). It’s easier for me to hate on myself and control the situation than it is for me to allow their compliment to glimmer, even if for a second, with the potential for belief only to have it snapped away by their slobbery jaws.
If I’d only have lost a fraction of a pound or not have felt I was bursting at the seams I might have smiled and agreed, if only half. But there’s more to being a fat girl than just the weight. There’s all kinds of mental baggage, ingrained habits, ways of thinking and behaving that come from years of protecting ourselves from bullies that takes just as long to undo as it takes to take off the weight. One without the other will never lead to success, so not only do I need to start acting and eating like a healthy person, I need to start thinking like one. Far easier said than done.
As for the kleptomania…
I might be a real smarty-pants in general but I have a very strong belief the in fact that there are opportunities all around you to help you meet your goals once you set them in place–you just gotta open your eyes.
I had no more than posted Technically, I Didn’t Screw Up…Yet…and surfed to a few various foodie sites online than a I serendipitously stumbled across Lori Lange’s RecipeGirl.com website and her Ten in 10 Challenge.
In a nutshell, Lori’s put together a healthy challenge of sorts where you choose the behaviors/goals you feel are most healthy for you and work to achieve them over the first ten weeks of 2010. Weight loss is only a fraction of the goals listed by the participants.
She officially started yesterday but left the door open for folks to join whenever they want to/discover the challenge. Find all the info and details here on her blog, then join us.
My goals? I already told you yesterday–weren’t you listening? Here’s the run-down:
Goals for the 10 Weeks:
Eliminate fries and soda from my diet
In addition to not really being a fry girl (we’ve discussed this), I’m not really a soda girl. I’ve actually given up pop in the past–gave it up for all of 2002 (beginning with Buckeye tailgate season ’01), but I’ve come back slowly. With the exception of Coke, I don’t even like pop. How much sense does that make?
Walk my dog daily
I’m pretty sure my daughter (dogger) will love this. She’s a walk-a-holic and I’ve been seriously lax on this for a few months. Even if it’s only a 12 minute jaunt through the neighborhood park, it counts.
30 min workout 5 of 7 days a week
This will be anything from Jillian Michaels’ 30 Day Shred on demand, a Bodies in Motion DVD, A Chalean Extreme workout or a half-hour of fun with Wii Fit Plus. I know that if I cement one workout into my workout time, I’ll give up. I hate boredom.
15 minutes of yoga or meditation 5 of 7 days a week
I deserve this and owe it to myself. I was a yoga junkie a few years back and have never felt more myself than when fully stretched and mentally focused. I’ve been reluctant to get back into it because A) I don’t have a local studio anymore, and B)I can’t devote an hour or two at a time to practicing like I used to. But this isn’t about what I can’t do, it’s about what I can do. And what I know I can do is 15 minutes a day of a triangle, downward dog or warrior pose to feed my body and calm my brain. Chances are, I’ll keep going once I start. It’s not about minutes, it’s about doing.
This should cover it for the next ten weeks. My plan, like Lori’s, is to check in with the blog once a week. Saturdays seem as good as any day, so that gives me a week to put off putting up my stats. Ha!
I’m relying on you all to keep it quiet about my slip on the fries last night. Besides, you can’t prove it…
Any of you participating? What are your goals? Let’s commiserate…ermm…support each other…;-)