thankfulness and the election

A few words on the election and thankfulness:

This will likely offend some people, but the very people who find it offensive would likely learn a few things if they sat back and reflected on this and how it pertains to them.

I am amazed. Totally and utterly amazed that the very same people who have been making a “what I am thankful for” post every day are so enraptured with this election and its results that they have completely lost the ability to reflect on those very things. The things you were thankful for yesterday: your health, the health of your family, your home, food in your belly, etc…..all those things have NOT disappeared since last night. I think it’s a slap in the face to all those who live in areas where they aren’t free, or those who are terminally ill, or those who don’t have a roof over their heads for you to carry on like you can’t continue to live because the election did not go your way. We found out yesterday that someone we know has been diagnosed with a very aggressive form of cancer. I bet she couldn’t care less who was elected.

Spare me the bullshit “America is going down the crapper” speech. I get it. Obama is not an ideal president. But what I would love more than anything – especially more than the patriotic “save our country” bit – is if you would tell me what specifically has happened in the last four years that has directly affected you. No, I don’t mean that you have to work and the person in front of you in line used food stamps to buy steaks and drove off in an Escalade. I don’t mean how it makes you upset that we don’t test welfare recipients. I don’t even mean how you don’t think you will get to retire because of the state of Social Security. I mean real things that are happening now that affect you in a direct way that you can feel in your everyday life.

For me personally, the only thing that will affect me is the 3.6% tax I will pay when I finally sell my home. Aside from that, I can’t think of a single solitary thing. I’m sure there are and will be others. Don’t get me wrong, there are things I am concerned with – how some policies will potentially affect businesses in a way that may hurt our family’s income – but in the end, he has been elected and it’s OVER. Carrying on about it now does nothing to change what has happened or what will. I exercised my right to vote. I explained how elections work to my daughter and told her in a way that she would understand why we voted the way we did. But for me to cry over this, to be unable to function outside of what’s happening, to all but throw a tantrum over it does nothing but set a bad example for my child of how one behaves when things don’t go their way.

If my saying this has pissed you off, I apologize. Not for pissing you off, but for the fact that you are potentially missing the forest for the trees. Go on with your life. Hug your spouse and your kids. Cook a good meal for dinner tonight – not to celebrate the election of the president, but to celebrate the fact that you live in a home with electricity and can afford ingredients to cook said meal. Take a fraction of the time you’ve spent being upset over what has happened to volunteer at a hospital or a shelter. Go on. It’s not a betrayal to your beliefs or values to do so. It’s what Mitt would have wanted you to do! (I don’t know that for sure, but that may be the only thing that gets some people to move on!)

And now I’m going to tell you the things I am thankful for. Not the big ones like my husband, family, kids, home, health. I’m going to tell you about some of the little things that, though small, make me happy and thankful.

I’m thankful for Coke. Not Diet Coke, though I love it as well, but real Coke with sugar and caffeine and little bubbles filled with joy in every sip.

I’m thankful for stretchy pants, without which I may never leave the house.

I’m thankful for flip flops and to live in a place where I can wear them all but five months out of the year.  

I’m thankful to have good grammar and punctuation for the most part. I’m thankful that I know when to use your vs you’re and their vs they’re.

I’m thankful I don’t generally have to deal with stupid people every day. I have friends who do through no fault of their own and it breaks my heart.

I’m thankful for cheese.

I’m thankful for my new flat stomach and perky boobs. Oh yeah.

I’m thankful for my smokin’ hot husband J

I’m thankful for Pottery Barn sales.

I’m thankful for non-fluorescent lighting in dressing rooms.

I’m thankful for commercial free TV courtesy of my DVR.

Most of all I’m thankful to be able to spout all this off and let the chips fall where they may.

Tales of Plastic Surgery

I said earlier this year that 2012 would be “the year of skinny”. I started in January. I dieted and lost 15 pounds. I worked out incessantly and toned up a great deal all over. Almost all over. As it turns out, despite what the “all you need is diet and exercise” believers preach, I needed more. It was time to call in the experts.

Before I go into detail, I’m warning you that this is not pretty. It may be “TMI” to a lot of people. If you think you may feel that way, stop reading now. When I started this blog I said that I would be sharing things that were sometimes embarrassing to me in the hopes that maybe people would stop being so judgmental about the way others look. Not to mention that I feel like if we can laugh at our own expense, maybe we will stop trying to laugh at the expense of others. So that was the warning, folks. If you end up offended after this point, it’s a big, fat not my problem.

The genetics of childbearing have not been on my side. I’m not shirking responsibility for my hand in it, but if you really think about all the women you know you will realize that genetic predisposition plays a huge part in a lot of this. I know women who have had one child and never really bounced back despite their best efforts. I also know women who have had multiple children and still look like a 13 year old without so much as counting a calorie. The former cover up in modest mom-style swimsuits and sundresses on the beach each year (if it were up to us we probably would avoid the beach altogether, but what about the children?) while the latter put on string bikinis and sip margaritas while they pose with their children and post the pictures on Facebook. I’m a firm believer that despite your rockin’ body, there comes a time when modesty should render such things age-inappropriate, but that’s my opinion and it’s neither here nor there. The point is, sometimes you really don’t have a say in how you turn out looking after having kids. It is a scientifically proven fact that if you are predisposed to getting stretch marks that you can slather 10 gallons of cocoa-shea-almond-whale fat-butter-body-cream all over yourself during the course of pregnancy and all you’ll be doing is making yourself a slippery, ultra-moisturized, scented ball of hormones. If you’re going to get them, you’re going to get them. The good news? If you aren’t predisposed to getting them, you won’t. Women who don’t have them have often been heard saying what they did to prevent them. News flash, honey: All you did to prevent them was to be born to the right parents.

While we all may have slightly more control over the way our bodies morph after having children, in some cases it isn’t much. In my case, I had to have a c-section with my first child. While I managed to lose the pregnancy weight almost immediately, things never quite regained the level of elasticity they once had. I had a droopy tummy. I worked on it and learned to dress it in a way that was not as noticeable, but it never truly went back to being tight and flat. Over time I experienced several more pregnancies that did not result in children for us and one that even resulted in surgery. Over all that time, no matter how much diet and exercise I still had the droopy tummy. And what a small price to pay for such a beautiful gift! Then came the news that we would be having twins – a miracle to us! – but the toll it takes on the body is something to behold.  

The pregnancy went well by any standards and we were given two healthy six-pound babies. Anyone who knows anything about multiples pregnancies will tell you that the thought of all the horrific things that can go wrong is nothing short of terrifying each and every day until delivery. The last thing you’re thinking about is what your body will look like after. Once again, the weight was lost almost immediately. But the once droopy stomach was now a full-fledged deflated balloon.

I worked hard. I dieted. I exercised. I lost weight. I gained weight back. I ran. I walked. I lifted weights. I ran some more. Finally after two years I realized this was as good as it was going to get on its own.

In addition, I was now close to a G. No, I don’t mean I was becoming gangsta. I mean my bra. Was a size G. “G” as in GINORMOUS boobs. For real. Don’t start thinking all sorts of playboy fantasy images. There is nothing, and I mean nothing sexy about back aches and bras with straps wide enough to tow a small car. I had always been large-chested, but things had gotten out of hand. Weight loss was not changing this either. I exercised my pectoral muscles so they would have a better shot at remaining above my waist, but all that did was make them stick out further.

Since the twins were now at an age where they didn’t have to be lifted (sleeping in regular beds vs cribs, out of high chairs, able to get into the car on their own) I decided to get a consultation to see what sort of nightmare repairs would be. So here is the story of how 2012 truly became the year of skinny (or will soon):

Consultation –

Most plastic surgery offices are decorated beautifully and tastefully and this one was no exception. Even the exam rooms are aesthetically pleasing and comfortable. Until they tell you to strip down and put on the robe. So you do and you wait. And then they come in. With a camera. Like a telescopic lens camera that can take pictures of the rover on Mars. And you’re in a 10x6 room. This is all a necessary part of the consultation – rationally I understand that – but having never in 30 years been photographed naked (even when I was smokin’ hot in college) and now becoming a “before” picture is unnerving to say the least. (And really makes me wish I had taken some pics back then before I was the “before” picture!) The doctor discusses options. He lifts, tugs, pokes and prods. He shows you other before and after pictures (without a face, thank God!) and goes through the details like cost (think: used car), what you want the outcome to be (I’d like to not be a fat ass anymore, thank you), how the recovery is (one week! No big deal, right?), and when to schedule surgery (ASAP!). Overall it isn’t a terrible experience and very informative.

Pre-Op Appointment –

So I scheduled the surgery for October 15^th. Two weeks prior you meet with the RN. This is the part where they know you’ve already paid for it and they tell you a more accurate version of the truth. Not that the doctor is dishonest, but they tend to leave out the details of the cutting and recovery that make the blood drain from your head during the consultation. I’m sure that’s out of consideration that they just inspected and photographed all your uglies. This is the part where you get the real details of the recovery. The timeline is still pretty much the same, but the reality of it is a bit more eye-opening. They tell you all the things you will need to get for after – what type of bra and ice packs and pain meds to get filled.

Surgery… D-Day –

Thankfully they gave me a Valium to take the morning of. I doubt that I would have shown up for the surgery without it. The surgery was to last five hours and no matter how many previous times I had been under anesthesia I had never been under for that long. It’s scary. I just kept thinking that if I died doing something elective like this I would be pissed.

So if you thought the consultation was fun, you’re gonna love this part. They literally take a marker and draw all over you. Just like on TV. I’m sure with me he felt like he was drawing all over a large topographical map. Not fun. After that you head over to the surgical suite and lights out!

On a side note, wouldn’t it be nice if the anesthesiologist was an overweight, middle-aged guy or perhaps a snaggle-toothed woman with chest hair? Instead I get a Christian Grey look-alike with an MD behind his name. Excuse me, but can you monitor my anesthesia from someplace that you can’t see all my fatness?

Recovery –

This is the part that’s crazy. They have now performed a breast reduction of massive proportions (from a G to a C), a full tummy tuck with reconstruction of the abdominal wall muscles (mine had apparently separated during pregnancy/childbirth), and some light lipo on the sides to even things out (this wasn’t what I signed up for, but I was told it was a necessary part of the tummy tuck procedure). This took the full five hours and I’ve now been dosed with Demerol and Flexeril (a muscle relaxer). I feel no pain, but very very dizzy. As soon as I’m awake they have me sit up in the bed and eat crackers. Saltine crackers. If you’ve ever been under, you know how dry your mouth is when you wake up. They gave me saltine crackers with nothing to drink. It was like eating glue. I finally got some diet coke (unfortunately they couldn’t put it in the IV directly) and was able to partially swallow the paste. At this point the nurse says it’s time to go home. Like to my house. In the car. Lady, I’m barely lucid and you want me to get up and walk to the car?! I remember telling her I wasn’t ready and I needed to rest more, but this chick was kicking me out the door! I know that’s protocol and it’s best for you to be up and moving about as soon as possible, but I was zapped! I don’t remember much after that. I managed to get in the car. I don’t remember the drive home or getting into bed. Apparently I ate a sandwich that night and got up assisted to pee, but I remember nothing. I even see that I texted a few people. Don’t remember.

I don’t remember much Tuesday either. God bless my amazing husband for handling things in my absence as well as being a nurse to me (who admittedly is not the easiest patient to care for). And thank God for the help of great friends who assisted with getting Camille to and from dance class, my mom and dad who helped with the kids, my grandparents who watched the kids during the operation and are helping out even now that I’m mostly back on my feet, even down to those friends who sent e-books and magazines – I love you all.

I remember a few parts of Wednesday – that was when I was able to shower. Showering included my poor husband putting an ice chest in the shower for me to sit on (I said I needed something to sit on when I could no longer stand and apparently he thought that was the most viable option?) and using the ribbon from the medal I received the previous Saturday in the Warrior Dash to hold the vessel from my drainage tube. Here’s where it gets nasty – they leave a piece of rubber tubing sewn into your body at the tummy tuck incision. Yep. At the end is a rubber bulb that looks like a grenade and fills with bloody goo leaking from your body. It stays in for a full week and has to be periodically emptied. You also have to wear this abdominal binder that has space-aged Velcro and takes two people to fasten. There’s a handy-dandy Velcro strip that loops through the bulb to hold it in place. So when you take a shower you aren’t wearing the binder, thus having so place to Velcro the bulb and trust me when I say, you do NOT want that thing getting tugged on. It will inevitably happen, but is not advisable. So I’m hunched over wearing the finishers medal from a 5k with my own goo hanging in a bubble from it sitting on an ice chest in the shower. You get the picture.

In addition to that grossness, the lipo punctures leak and ooze for the first few days so you have to lay on a puppy pad (yes the things you put on the floor for the dogs to piss on). I doubt they are called that, but that’s what it is. And you get to wear a super-stylish cotton sports bra around the clock.

The entire ordeal was painful. By Thursday I decided I wanted to get off the painkillers so I started to wean. Demerol is not a fun drug to stop taking. I also decided I couldn’t bear to look at the four walls of my bedroom anymore. I sat on the couch for a while but even that wore me out and required a nap after a few hours. I wasn’t feeling myself until the weekend and even then nowhere near 100%.

Follow-Up –

Monday I went for my post-op appointment. They removed the dreaded drainage tube!!! I almost passed out thinking about how that was going to happen knowing the searing pain I experienced when the thing was accidentally pulled on. Turns out, it hurts when it gets pulled because it’s stitched into your skin. When the stitch is clipped, it slides right out. All 18 inches of it. Imagine how that feels inside your body being snaked out – it’s odd to say the least. And finally I no longer have to wear the abdominal binder! I’m going to be fitted for a “compression garment”. Apparently, when all that fat gets zapped and messed with it liquefies and re-congeals later (appetizing, I know) and the garment gives it a shape to take when it does. If you don’t wear this compression garment for 6 weeks, you end up a lumpy bumpy mess. Well after the hell I’ve been through, I’m not taking that chance and surely it can’t be that bad, right……right?

Wrong. You know how when you buy a pair of Spanx and you open the box and pull it out and it looks to be about the size of a newborn onesie? And you check again to be sure you got the correct corresponding letter to your measurements. And you did. And you check again. But it’s right. So you make sure your skin is dry (because let’s face it, the slightest bit of moisture renders the entire process impossible) and wrestle around on the floor yanking and pulling and rolling and you start to sweat and OMG I’m sweating and they’re sticking to my skin and and and voila! They’re on and you look slimmer and trimmer and you get down on your knees to praise Jesus that there is a hole sewn in for you to pee from because you know in the deepest part of your soul that if you pull them down to potty you will NEVER get them back on again. Ever. And then you add a prayer: Dear Lord, Baby Jesus, looking so sweet in your little manger, please please please don’t let me have to go #2. Because if I do, the jig is up. And without these Spanx, the dress won’t zip. And then you curse the person whose wedding you are required to Spanx-up to attend and go on your merry way. You know about all that? Good. Now imagine that times 10. To the 10^th power. Times the square root of infinity. Because a compression garment…..makes those itty bitty Spanx….look like sweatpants you lounge in on your day off.

And you’re sore and tender and you’ve got an incision from hip to hip. So there will be no wrestling on the floor to get these bad boys on. And you realize they have a hole sized so that you can do ALL your business without removing them. And you know….shit just got real.

So you do the only thing you can. You sit on the ice chest in your shower and cry. Then you dry your eyes (and your body – twice) and you call your loving spouse and you beg him to help you get into it. And it takes a little blood, a lot of sweat, and a few tears, but you get in. And realize you have to pee, so you go and because of your inexperience manage to piss all over the damn thing, requiring you to take it off, hand wash it and start all.over.again.

I’m better at expelling my bodily fluids now and have been accident free for a while. We’ve even gotten the art of putting them on and taking them off down to a smaller scale ordeal (though I am still unable to get into them unassisted).

All in all, things are slowly but surely getting better. I’ve been able to drive the kids to school and activities and even went to Target yesterday. I’m still achy and sore, but every day is better than the last. Do I regret going through all of this? Not at all. I regret being nervous about telling people what I was doing. So many people judge and say “Why are you so vain?”, but while I am sure vanity was involved, this was not something that couldn’t be categorized as a quality of life issue. I am certain that I will be able to run more comfortably, dress more easily and actually buy the size I need, not the one two sizes larger because it’s the only thing my boobs and excess skin will fit into, and enjoy my time with my kids more because I’m not trying to avoid a camera. Those who will judge will do so regardless of what I write here. Hell, I’m guilty of it myself when I see someone who gets plastic surgery who I don’t feel really “needs” it. But that’s wrong. Who am I to say who needs what? I have had so many people say they didn’t think I was large enough for a breast reduction and were blown away when I told them I was a G. The thing is, I learned to hide it well so who knows what that other person looks or feels like underneath their clothes.

I do know one thing: this has given me even more motivation to continue what I was doing before because I know now I will actually be able to see the fruits of my labor. It was disheartening to exercise so hard before and not ever really see much happening because of the damage done to my abdomen. And it was painful to run with breasts so large. In any event, I’ll feel better.

So there it is – all the gory details. Take from it what you will. I’ll try to update as the circumstances of recovery change!

Defining Moments

So today was a defining moment in this weight loss journey. I looked down and what did I see? A chocolate stain on my shirt from a Dairy Queen malt – yes, I did see that. Don’t judge. We were on our way back from Lake Charles and there are two Dairy Queen’s en route. They don’t have those in these parts and I was stressed. 

You got me off track. The important thing I saw was that my jeans are now too big. Only a little, but too big nonetheless. Big enough to need a smaller size even. No more muffin top in these. Now I have to hike them up when I’m walking because they sag like I’ve got urban street cred. 

This may not seem like a big deal, but to me it’s huge! I’ve been going to stupid Weight Watcher meetings for a month and watching what I eat since mid-January. I really do try to get into the WW meetings, but it’s way more fun to internally crack jokes about it. But I do go and I pay attention for the most part. And as abhorrent as I think it is to reward adults with golden start stickers, I still get pissed when I don’t get one. Skinny bitch, give.me.my.sticker.

When I step on that scale every week my stomach feels like it’s going to empty itself in one way or another. (If only it would do that before the meeting, I’d have a bigger loss). I’ve consistently lost weight each week with one exception when I weighed in after a weekend of drunken debauchery and many Miller Lite’s. Even then I only gained 0.2 pounds. That’s practically nothing. Let me take off my watch and try again. 

Hopefully the Easter candy (which will be at LEAST 50% off come Monday…) won’t tempt me too much and Monday evening I’ll show a loss as well. So far it’s been 14.6 pounds lost since mid-January and 9.4 since I started WW. It doesn’t show quite yet to the general public, but I know my pants are too big. And that’s enough for me. For right now at least.

Trying something new. Again.

When I first posted about trying to lose weight it was mid-January. It is now March. So far, I started and failed at the 17-Day Diet. I say failed because I didn’t stick with it. I started, lost about 7 or 8 pounds and stopped. Eating a diet consisting of only chicken, carrots, cucumbers and green beans just wasn’t working for me. (You can eat fish and other veggies on 17DD but my finicky palate will not allow it). 

The good news is that I did not yet regain the 7 or 8 pounds I lost. The bad news is that even though I’ve been at the gym pretty consistently, I’ve not lost another pound. Not even really early in the morning with no clothes on after I’ve peed any additional possibility of weight away. 

So, for about the millionth time today is day one. No, seriously. For real this time. I really mean it. 

I’m hesitantly joining Weight Watchers again. Like the kind where you go to the meetings and all. This is totally not my thing. I laugh at the Jennifer Hudson commercials and the support group mentality. But since being accountable to all of you is not working I’m going to try to go be accountable to the bitch who will be weighing me in every week (she’s probably a really nice lady but unless she’s bigger than me I’m inevitably going to call her a bitch). They should cut the crap and just call these things overeaters anonymous meetings. 

“My name is Kristyn and I’m a cow.”

“Hi, Kristyn.”

“Last week I hit rock bottom. I was willing to sell my body for a brownie.”

You get the idea. (And I am in no way making fun of drug users, recovering addicts, or the AA/NA system as a whole). 

I figure I should pad my initial weigh-in number for this evening’s meeting so we are having pizza for lunch. And probably breadsticks, too. Don’t judge – I’m like a crack head having one last binge before entering rehab. I finally understand the no, no no Amy Winehouse was crooning about…

So I guess I should start practicing my attitude for when I become one of the skinnys. As of today I have 47 pounds to get there. The immediate goal is 10 pounds by Camille’s birthday in mid-April. Lofty, I know, but achievable. This Weight Watchers thing is not a quick fix unfortunately so I’ll be relying solely on the grace of God to keep me motivated. 

In the meantime, I am looking forward to pizza and breadsticks and being entirely sedentary during my children’s nap time today. One last time. 

Back on Track (maybe)

I’m baaack! We have safely arrived home from Disney World – the most stressful, I mean happiest place on Earth. We had a great time, but this was not the typical relax by the beach type of vacation. This was balls to the wall go-go-go the entire time. 

Let me first say that one does not go to Disney unprepared. That, my friends is a death sentence. And I don’t mean book hotel, flight, transportation and show up kind of prepared. No no no. I mean research every square inch of rides and attractions at all four parks for up to a year before arrival kind of prepared. You need to know what rides your kid meets the height requirements for, what rides they may be afraid of, what characters will be at what place at what time and what you are going to wear for the weather. You also need to know what places you could possibly patronize for meals, which parks are most crowded on which days, what time the shuttle to the parks will run and which reservations you need to make while your child is still in utero for the trip you plan to make when he or she is five. This is no joke people. 

All that being said, we arrived in one piece with minimal disruption to our fellow passengers on the plane. We made it to our hotel and were even allowed early check-in. Only when the hotel clerk mentioned purchasing tickets to the parks did I almost pass out. All this planning and preparation and I had left our park tickets on the counter at home. Seriously. $800+ worth of tickets hundreds of miles away. Thankfully my mom was able to photograph them and email them to me and Hussania at Disney Guest Services was able to cancel and reissue the tickets. Not until after multiple nervous breakdowns on my part, but the day was saved nonetheless. If I am ever to bear another daughter, I hereby swear that she will be named Hussania.  (Thank goodness I’m neutered).

Having ignored the projected crowd volume on Monday, we visited Magic Kingdom (along with every other human being on the planet). Tuesday we went to Hollywood Studios, home of the Tower of Terror. Camille is still upset that we did not let her ride it. Wednesday was Epcot – or as Camille says “Effcot”. And Thursday was Animal Kingdom. To all non-English-speaking patrons of Disney World: it will heretofore be required that you learn and understand one English phrase before being allowed admission. That phrase is “Excuse me” which translates to “Get the Effcot out of the way of my double stroller before I run over your sock and sandal covered foot”. 

On to diet news: I had brownies for breakfast this morning. I also had a beer-battered-deep-fried hamburger while on vacation (All hail Dublin!). I had been religiously in the gym until the week prior – I missed the second half of the week due to illness and despite walking literally hundreds of miles through Disney parks, I did not formally work out on the trip. Sadly, it seemed I was getting something that resembled muscles in the weeks I had been training but with only a week and a half of no exercise I have gone soft again.

This makes me wonder how anyone can stay in shape if all it takes is 10 days off to throw you right back into fat-ville. Am I in for a life sentence of constant dieting and exercise? It seems so. Sorry, Dublin. I constantly struggle between a desperate need to be thin again and thinking that it could be worse and I’m not thaaat fat so I should just eat wheat I want and be happy. I see pics of me from Disney and I say I HAVE to lose weight (then I delete the pics where I wasn’t smart enough to hide my body behind my kids and just have my face showing). Then I see pics of other people and I think to myself at least I’m not that big and the size I am is really not that bad since I pretty much eat nothing but garbage and I still don’t have to shop at the fat girl store. 

I swore I’d be back on the wagon come Monday (today). Unfortunately there are Ghirardelli brownies in my house and with starving children in Africa I cannot let them go to waste. My social consciousness has once again foiled my healthful attempts. At this rate they will be gone before the end of the day so that’s good news, right? 

I am going to go to the gym this afternoon and get back into the routine. If I’m lucky and consistent in two weeks I’ll have some semblance of muscle again. I’ll give myself this much credit – since I joined the gym in July, this has been the best attendance record I have ever had (which isn’t saying much, but still). 

I thought I’d start sending the twins to the nursery again now that the trip is over but that place is a zoo in the mornings. All the skinnys are there with their skinny mom-friends. At least in the evenings it’s the people who work and are there to work out and go home rather than have a grown-up playdate near some exercise equipment. I think the new years resolution rush is still happening (hurry up and just give up already! You know it’s coming!) so hopefully come March the crowd will thin. 

Well, I’m off to feed the kids lunch and spend some time on Pinterest pinning craft ideas I know I’ll never actually execute.

Gym Snark

Hello All. The weight loss is sort of at a standstill. I can say this much – carb-free is nearly impossible. Even for only 17 days. Not totally impossible, but close. I’ve pretty much fallen off the wagon yet again (shocker, right?). 

Our trip to Disney is in about a week and I know trying to diet while on vacation is just stupid. I know, I know, just another excuse to put off the inevitable. But really, who diets while they are on vacation? Seriously? The plan is to go 17DD hard core when we return. Tier 2 of the plan is to try and not gain back the 9 lbs I’ve lost between now and then. 

It seems for me to be a constant struggle between wanting to be thin again and wanting to enjoy life. Yeah, yeah, yeah…”you can enjoy so many things about life without eating things that are bad for you”. Shut up. Seriously. Shut the hell up. If I am going to the movies and want to have popcorn or nachos and I enjoy that about the movies then so be it. It’s not fair for people to say what sort of things you should be allowed to enjoy in life anymore than it is for a heavier person to try and get a health nut to eat those things. But alas, enjoying those things has consequences. I know that much. So for now, I am trying to watch what I eat to an extent (no specific diet plan – the vacation, remember?) and enjoy those things in moderation. By moderation, I don’t mean only eating half my nachos – I paid practically a semester’s worth of college tuition for them so I am going to eat every last crumb. By moderation I just mean that I won’t eat them (or things like them) every day. 

I know it’s not where I should be in all this, but it’s a step in the right direction at least. I also know that eating this way will make me lose approximately 5 pounds a year if I’m lucky. I know that I am going to have to hard core diet to lose the now 41 pounds (yay! It’s no longer 50!) I need to lose. My hope is that once I lose the weight I will be able to just be conscious of what I eat and maintain it. Is that too much to ask, Mother Nature? 

In the meantime I have been working out like a maniac! I’m still doing the New Rules of Lifting for Women regiment with cardio added in a few times a week. I’m very sore pretty much all the time, but I’m going to take that as a sign that something is happening. My husband swears that he sees a difference in my thighs – not so much the size of them but that they are less flabby (my words, not his….he knows better). I don’t see it yet, but then again I’m trying not to get too hung up on “results” with this like I do with eating and the scale. I know I feel good when I work out and I don’t mind it as much as I used to. 

It’s amazing how on a rainy afternoon you just don’t feel like driving all the way to Baton Rouge to go to the gym but then your kids start to get fussy and you are out that door in a flash. I am hoping to start bringing the twins back to the gym nursery again after our trip. That means working out in the mornings, which I prefer. Hopefully all the skinnys at the gym will stay home with their sick kids so mine don’t catch illness there. 

I shouldn’t hate on the skinnys – I hope to be one someday. It’s just hard watching them at the gym all chatty while they are running the track. Let me tell you: there is NO speed above “leisurely walk” where I can chat with a buddy while jogging. I don’t have breath to spare to talk. I barely have enough breath not to fall out on the floor. Same with the elliptical machine or anything else for that matter. My attitude is that when doing cardio, if you can still hold a conversation then you aren’t doing it right. (Visually I see them and figure they must be doing something right if they look like that and I look like this, but I guess the ability to work out at a leisurely pace is a privilege earned by the thin.) Meanwhile I just give them the stink-eye as the sweat literally pours off my fat ass. It’s the price to pay, I suppose. Maybe one day I can turn in my baggy t-shirt for a cutesy little matching set of lycra gym clothes and hang out with my buddies at the gym and talk about how fabulous we all are that we are all here and health-conscious. 

“Oh, you know me, Barbie! I never miss a day at the gym! I mean, little Timmy has a highly contagious, deadly strain of Ebola virus, but I brought him to the nursery anyway! I’m only hurting him if I don’t stay at my healthiest!!”

“Oh, of course, Muffy! We must keep our bodies in perfect condition so our much older husbands continue to financially support us and we can be the trophy wives we promised to be! Did you know I am 45? Thanks to the surgeon I don’t look a day over 23!”

“Oh, Barbie, don’t you just love my new Nike exercise clothes? They are all hot pink and size XXS! I even got the matching sports bra so if I get too hot I can just work out in that!”

So yeah, I’m a little mean-spirited when it comes to this. In all honesty I have about a hundred of these imagined conversations I play in my head. It’s hard to be one of the bigger girls at the gym. It’s hard not to feel like everyone’s looking at you funny. Who am I to judge? But it’s easier to think mean thoughts in my head about others when I’m already thinking mean thoughts in my head about myself. The things I imagine them thinking about me are really just the projections of what I think of myself. Those skinnys could be just like me but only on the other side of the struggle. Or I could be right and they could be Muffys and Barbies. Sometimes, though, there are the nose-in-the-air types who are rolling their eyes because you are on the machine they want. For those, I have one thing to say: I may be fat, but you’re old. I can get skinny. Do the math. 

Oh well….what’s a good workout without a little snark.