Not A Stellar Day

Yeah, so today was kind of a reckless day for me. Not a bad day in a whole, but I'm guessing I didn't make any strides in the right direction.

I'ma put it to you straight, momma: I'm on my period. So I literally, like, literally, might need to have PDOs once a month.

Period Day Off.

Because I just have to go wild one day, it seems, or I end up either raging on the world, or crying in the fetal position in line at Target. Neither is really good.

For lunch I went to the Indian buffet and for dinner I ended up chowing down on take-out Chinese.

Neither dinner came from a box that said Healthy Choice, Lean Cuisine or anything, so as you can imagine, they were filled with fat and calories. It was way more laziness and less craving, really. And I allowed myself that. No excuses tomorrow, though, I gotta be a really (really) good girl if I want to make my goal.

I did not gorge, though, at either meal, which is still a shift to a better way of being. I would have taken a walk if I weren't busy shopping and feeling like I was walking around with lead in my butt.

OH. But I did get a pedicure. And if it weren't for that lead feeling, I'd take a picture and show you how cute my toes are. Trust me, they're cute. And it was a good pedicure. Splurged an extra 5 bucks for the leg massage, foot massage and extra pampering. Worth it, totally. Although I had some stubble on my leg, so the dude who gave me the pedicure had to cut his hands while he massaged my calves.

All in a days work.

Making A Better Choice

Today I ate at one of my favorite sub places: Milios. Instead of ordering my regular sub (Godfather on wheat with extra turkey and mayo), I checked out their nutritional information and calculated a turkey & ham sub (this is on the "light" menu at Subway -- I've gotten it twice before). True, in the past I always preferred the Italian version of any sub, and would always have extra sub sauce, or would come home and put olive oil and vinegar on it to make it my own. But, I'm working on changes right?

So I got my turkey sub, hold the mayo (I planned on putting my own on at home so I can use my light mayo, but also so I can know exactly how much is going on it). I added banana peppers, Italian seasoning and my Newman's Own Light Balsamic Vinaigrette, too. I ended up with a very tasty sub, at about 1/2 the calories of what my standard normal would have been. Here's the comparison:

Old sub: 1315
New sub: 573

Quite a difference, eh? It is an 8" sub, and I can eat about 2/3 of it, saving the rest for a quick snack later.

That's still a lot of calories, but I feel good about making a better choice. Again, concentrating on slow(er) weight loss, aiming for solid changes that are going to get me where I need to be in a way that I'm able to reasonably stick with in maintenance (which is a whole 'nother beast in itself).

I also worked out this morning, and then spent 45 additional minutes exerting energy scrubbing the bathroom down.

Weigh In: 281

I lost 2 more pounds. I hesitate to say it because I never feel like it is real. I feel like I've been totally naughty and someday I'm going to step on the scale and will see this:


I don't really know why that is. I still hope to make that goal of 279 by July, and it is looking good so far. Today when I plugged my weight in at Sparkpeople it told me I should adjust my caloric intake a bit. I have to admit, one of the sheer pleasures of being obese is that you are allowed to consume a LOT of calories to keep your lively shape. Right now there are days where I feel like I can't possibly eat all my calories, and days where I feel like I could open my mouth and funnel the entire kitchen right into it.

Calories In A Chinese Buffet

I really don't know how to count how many calories are in a Chinese buffet. I'm counting it as 1200. All I do know they seriously are NOT worth it. My kids like to go there, and I'm not going to be a sourpuss that goes to the buffet and eats nothing.

But seriously? I think everything is doused in movie theatre butter and canola oil, laid under the hot sun for 45 minutes, shelved for 8 hours, then reheated in a wok, let out to cool enough to put a skin on the top, and put out for grazing. Poopy pants at table one?

Just not that into the buffet anymore. Sorry. I used to like it, even though it was like a Valium to me, putting me to sleep about 1/2 hour after eating it. But now, it's just straight up gastro-torture.

I have to say, I did better today. Sampled, but gorged on nothing. Skipped dessert, and my favorite -- peanut butter chicken (which, I think is rolled in sugar first, fried, dipped in sugar, peanut buttered, thrown in more sugar, doused with high-fructose peanut butter glaze, and put out to offer).

'Skipped the sugared doughnut and ice cream (another favorite). It's improvement. Totally not eating would be unrealistic (even though I literally feel like I drank a cup of movie theatre butter). So I ate, was conscious of what I put in my mouth, and there it is. I'm not going to dwell on it much more. But I am going to wash it down with a couple glasses of wine so I can forget about the nagging urge to puke. Never said I was normal.

Turnstile Tourture And Overcoming The Fear

Like a moth to a flame. That's the only way I could describe it.

St. Louis, 2010. The Gateway Arch. My fear of heights, swirling in my belly, telling my bladder that a bathroom might want to be close. The desire to conquer my fears, trumping it all.

I don't know how I did it, having a palatable fear of both heights, small spaces, and a periphery distaste for crowds. A trip to the top of the Gateway Arch involves all three. I was with my child and his friend, both teenagers, both able to sense my discomfort, but unaware of the extent I was truly battling.

See, fear has driven many of the decisions I've made in the past 10 years or so of my life. Anxiety over the unknown, of the possible, and of the absurd. All equal, all giving reasons for me not doing this, or avoiding that. Embodiment of who I am, who I've become.

It is exhausting.

I haven't taken my kids to amusement parks because of the fear of not being able to fit on rides. I would have gone, long ago. But I know better. Not... that I couldn't take them and sit, watch. We do that at our local fairs, the kids go on rides and we watch them ride. But the big-daddy parks that are few hours away? No.

Surely there's more I've avoided, but if you're fat--and maybe if you're not-- you get it.

So, the day I ventured to the Arch was a day purely inspired, because it didn't come naturally.

I realized it might be my only chance, and made my move. We arrived, we walked up the stairs, past the metal detectors, and I steamed ahead, without asking many questions. OK. I lied. I went up to the lady in the Information booth and said:

So. About 4 minutes to the top, huh? And you sit in what? I mean... how many people can sit together? And what about a big girl? Could a large momma fit? Yes, me, I'm the big girl. Really? You think so? No problem, eh? Mmmkay. Oh? That's a replica over there? OK I'll check it out.

I quickly scuttled over to a small, globe-like cage; the simulator. It looked like a full circle version of those globe chairs? But it seats five. I climbed in it taking the corner seat. My neck had to bend down, the ceiling too short for me to sit straight. Wave of claustrophobia.

I bought our tickets before I could back out. I figured if she sold me the tickets, I must not be too big. Right?

We waited in line and I scanned the crowd for people with girth comparable or larger than my own. Radar tuned; state of perspicaciousness. Zeroing in on any and every fatty that walked past us having already survived the experience.

As we closed in on the front of the line, I noticed a fat persons bane of existence: a turnstile. I looked to the workers as they shuffled around, commanding the people in line, asking how many riders and handing us our car number. I locked in on their eyes for any signal of distress -- any hint that they may be questioning my ability to fit, to ride, to be caged in with four other passengers. Images of walkie talkies and secret conversations about having a rider to big to fit playing over in the back of my mind.

I prayed. Prayed just a fervently that I would fit through that turnstile as I would live, and not be blown up by terrorists while at the top of the Arch. Both were equally as important, at this point. If I had to be turned away by the Gateway Arch employees for "failure to fit" right in front of my kid and his friend, I would literally throw myself off the top of the Arch anyway (after climbing up the outside of it), so it was a lose-lose situation.

I nearly broke out in a cold sweat. Mouth dry, bladder screaming, I began to grow concerned that the entire line was wondering the same thing I was: Would She Fit? More than likely nobody else cared or even gave it a second thought, because they weren't fat and they had other things to concern themselves with. More than likely it was me, thinking the world revolved around my circumstances, and if I noticed, then surely there was an audience taking note as well.

For ten long minutes, I held in my nervous pee, glancing from turnstile to worker, back to worker (one of whom I engaged in nervous, poodle-like chatter, in hopes that they wouldn't deny me). Between my yippy comments to the worker, my child, the friend, the wall, the carpet, I played over and over in my mind how I would own that turnstile and defy the odds. There was, after all, an escape. Right next to the excruciatingly narrow turnstile that was not made for childbearing women (seriously, it was abnormally narrow -- I had already resigned to the fact that there was no way I'd fit head on and I would need to shimmy through sideways), there were 3 crate-like boxes propped between the turnstile and the wall. Oddly, peculiarly, propped. As if an escape hatch for the rejected fatties to exit through.

I'm sorry, sir. You won't fit, therefore you can not ride. George?! Move the crates - a reject needs to make way for the rest of the riders!!!

A wave of the hand from the supervising Arch worker, a well-crafted, thought out move by this Gordita, and I was through the torture device.

What? I was going to ride?!

I made it!!!

There were 2 more checkpoints to get through, but none as painful as the first. The final stop before riding was to stand, waiting in front of one of 8 doors for your round spaceship to take carry you to the top. But it isn't worth discussing, as I made it, it's over. I rode it to the top, and I made it back down. I conquered a fear that I did not think I could. Literally. I still, looking at pictures, have no clue how in the world I made it through all that, given the anxiety and fears that I have.

Prayer. I prayed a lot.

I am proud of myself. And, more than making it to the top, I learned a lot about me, and I felt like a person again. I didn't have to give something up because of my fatness and my fears.

Saving The Best For Last

Sometimes it's a good idea to save the best for last. Sometimes... not so good.

If you save the best for last, for instance, the cheesiest part of the lasagna, or the butteriest section of the potatoes on your plate - you've pretty much guaranteed that you'll be eating everything to get to that last, cheesy or buttery bite.

(I dug this up from last year. Timeless.)

Rewarding Myself With Bodywash And Trying To Stay On Point

Today I got up, sat on the couch, checked email, decided I:

1. Was awake enough
2. Had procrastinated enough

and I busted out my recently purchased My Fitness Coach for Wii and took it for a second spin. Verdict is still out on it, but initial reaction is quite sour. But that's not the whole point of what I'm talking about today, and I'm trying to do a little better with staying on point.

Not working so well in the first few minutes here.

Ah well. So anyway, I was up, exercised and ready for my day, which is not normal. And I'm not saying it's going to BE normal. I'm just saying I did it today. Living in the moment... Then, I had my breakfast, and hopped in the shower. Slightly excited to hop in the shower, because I had a new body wash. Nothing fancy, just a Softsoap creamy something that's supposed to moisturize. It was $3 at Wal-mart.

And then I realized how, in the past few weeks of counting calories and a bit of self-denial, I had made a subtle switch. I said "subtle" honey, not groundbreaking; keep that in mind. But I realized that for $3 measly dollars, I totally brightened up my morning, and rewarded myself for a workout well done. It wasn't a food reward (which is my normal way of doing things), it didn't cost me calories, or make me feel guilty later.

See, I often tell myself that my food rewards are somewhat "passable" because, well, ya have to eat, right? So going out to dinner is a necessary evil -- why not enjoy it? Right? Weak, I know. But that led to my fat self weighing in at linebacker stats. And it isn't cheap either.

But... a woman's also gotta shower. So why not enjoy that? I'm not saying that I need to go spend oodles of dollars on body washes, scrubs and such, but responsible spending on little non-food items that make me happy aren't hurtful.

After my shower I lotioned up with some new Jergen's Natural lotion, and felt pampered and happy.

And then I pondered on the patience that weight loss requires and how I really wasn't blessed in that department. But we can talk about that later, because I'm trying to stay on point today.

Scared to Lose?


That's the number on the scale as of yesterday. I thought that's what it was last time I weighed in but apparently not. There was a little fluctuation between weigh-ins, and the mind gets foggy.

But here's the thing between me and you: I'm scared.

I don't know. When I plugged in my weight here, and changed my numbers, my tummy did a little flippyflopping. I'm pretty sure that's not normal, pretty sure I'm a freak. Most people are happy to lose weight. Goodbye fat!!! see ya later!!!!! -- But not me. I mean, I'm happy. I like to see that my sacrifices and changes are working, but I'm kind of scared to change.

I've been fat for so long. Not that I'm worried about not being fat, 'cause as I've said before -- I'll always be a "big girl" by society's standards. My goal isn't 150, or 125, it's like, 175 and that's not "skinny" in most eyes.

It's a commitment, it's a change. I'm accustomed to stuffing my face wherever I go. I'm accustomed to being fat, having a fat buffer.

It's like losing your hair, even if you hate your hair.

I can't put a finger on it. I'm trying to. Give it time. Maybe it is the commitment. If I lose this, I need to continue to work on keeping it off. Like getting a new job. If I take this new job, I can't just quit whenever I want to. I have to continue to work.

In the end, I'm not complaining. I'm interested in the changes I see in my body. They aren't wildly different. Not yet. Little things, though. Like, riding in the car and being able to rest my forearms on my legs. Normally they'd fall on my big pillow tummy, obstructing them from falling to my lap. My shirts all feel loose in the shoulders. Basically I keep my spare tire midsection, and lose my narrow shoulders and breasts. Sexy, I know. My legs, when I'm standing I can cross them farther and easier than 20 pounds ago (which is where my body adjusted recently).

You know what, though? I can't believe I'm 5 pounds away from being the lowest I have in YEARS. It is exciting and frightening at the same time.