Confessions of a Fat Chick

Vacation: All I Ever Wanted and Getting Back on Track

2010-07-06T20:50:00.003-04:00

From June 20th through the 27th, my family and I vacationed in Myrtle Beach, South Carolina. It was a trip with a huge group of us going together, and I vowed that while I was on vacation, I would be mindful of what I was eating, but that I wasn't going to be strict about it.

Mindful totally went out the window.

First of all, let me say that my husband's family is the absolute LAST people you want to be around when you're trying to lose weight. My mother-in-law baked two cakes to bring with us. My husband's aunts brought brownies, cakes, cookies, and about anything else with enough calories and fat to choke a horse. When they cooked breakfast, there was nothing healthy to be found. Gravy, biscuits, bacon, sausage, country ham, etc. (and let me say that country ham has to be the worst breakfast food ever. I tried it one time, and the pure salt taste of it choked me to the point that I thought my throat was going to close. I would LOVE to know the sodium content in that crap. Luckily for me, I can pass on it easily because I hate it so.)

Anyway, temptations abounded in our hotel room and the meals that were eaten there. And I am a weak, weak woman and succumbed to those many temptations. Especially the two cakes baked by my mother-in-law, as they are probably two of the best things that the woman creates in the kitchen.

I cannot blame it all on my husband's family and their artery clogging cooking or food pushing skills. The second morning we were there, my husband and I took the kids out to breakfast at Friendly's. I could have scoured the menu and found the best option for my breakfast, but I didn't. Instead, I had pancakes with apples, walnuts and caramel, topped off with a big scoop of vanilla ice cream. And bacon. And a Diet Coke, but at that point, what was the point? The only defense I had in ordering a Diet Coke with said meal is that I can't stand regular drinks anymore, milk makes me nauseous unless it is skim, and orange juice would have been nasty with that meal.

I proceeded to eat what I wanted and as much as I wanted during this entire trip. I did have some smart snacking options, and I exercised those options. But not nearly as often as I indulged in foods so sinful that I am almost certain I heard Satan applauding.

I didn't want to face the scale when I came back from vacation. I knew it was going to be bad, and I dreaded seeing that number. But I put on my big girl panties and hopped on the scale to assess the damage.

I gained 5.4 pounds. In a little over a week. That kinda speaks for itself.

I was very upset and very angry with myself. My husband and I made an agreement at my urging that we would try for Baby #3 when I lost 15% of my body weight. Was all that food I inhaled at the beach worth setting myself back that far? Isn't having a baby one of the most important things to me right now? How in the world could Swiss Chocolate Cake and pancakes with ice cream on them be more important to me than expanding our family?

Humiliated at my weakness and infuriated at the number on that scale, I decided to fight back. I vowed that this week would be better, and that I was going to stay on program. I was going to take out a chunk of that beach weight gain and say adios to it.

The week was not without low points. I had one particular weak moment when placed in a room alone with several dozen Krispy Kreme doughnuts, I consumed three of them. But I tried my best to compensate the rest of the week to even it out.

My disastrous beach weigh in was on Wednesday night. With my schedule at work being odd this week, I decided to do my next weigh in early. So I weighed in on Sunday night, four days after the post-beach binge weigh in.

I was down 2.3 pounds!

This proves to me that the program works when you follow it! I have been bolstered by this loss and vow to do my very best to stay on track. I know that we all stumble, and that this journey is going to have its ups and downs, its victories as well as defeats, its proud moments and its embarrassing ones. But I'm in this for the long haul, and I have to remain dedicated to making myself healthier and thinner. The power is in MY hands, and I have to take that seriously and stop letting food take control over my life.

So as of Sunday, I have 38.6 pounds left to lose before it becomes baby making time. Weight Watchers says that an average weight loss with their program is 0.5-1 pound per week. If I can keep at it, and stay on the upper end of that average, I could be trying to get pregnant by April. That kind of seems a long way off, but at the same time, it's a realistic goal. We'll see how well I do, and maybe I can beat the average and get there a little sooner.

But the one thing I do know is that I learned a very important lesson during my beach vacation: I cannot eat everything that tempts me in whatever quantity I want, or I'm going to stay fat and just gte fatter. And that while that food tastes great while I'm eating it, the taste of the disappointment that follows is very bitter, and it's a taste I don't care for. I'm stronger than that, and I'm changing my life!

Don't Know What I Was Afraid Of

2010-06-18T03:02:00.003-04:00

So I haven't been the best in the world with following the Core plan. I've tried to be good, but I've fallen prey to several temptations along the way. And it's fear of what those tempations might have done that has kept me off the scale for several weeks.

So tonight, I'm working, and I went into the equipment room to get a blanket for one of my patients, and as soon as I opened the door, the scale was sitting there, staring me in the face and beckoning me to step on. So I did.

And I have lost 4.8 pounds.

Now, I know that I've eaten some bad things. Some WAY off program things. The thing is, I haven't really been eating a whole lot of everything else, so I'm guessing the good and bad and smaller amount of food intake just happened to balance the right way for me to lose some weight. I know that it had to be a total fluke, but I'm going with it and taking it as a sign that I can do this, but I definitely need to get back on track.

However, I'm scared for an entirely new reason now. Sunday, I'm leaving to go on vacation for the week, and we're going with a huge group of people. It's always a blur of restaurants and goodies passed around between hotel rooms, and it's going to be a HUGE temptation for me. Part of me feels that since I'm on vacation, I shouldn't really worry about it all. Another part of me says that if I use that vacation as an excuse to go off plan, I'll find one excuse after another until I'm well over 300 pounds. But the realist in me says that I will do the best I can to make good food decisions, but I'm not going to beat myself up over a few lapses. I'll report how it all went once I get back and weigh-in.

So, after adding my loss tonight to the total, I now have 35.5 pounds left to lose until it's game on for babymaking. It still sounds like a lot to lose, but for some reason, it's starting to sound a little more within reach. That is, if I can keep all those cakes and fried foods out of my reach!

Oops, I did it again...

2010-05-30T03:09:00.004-04:00

Thursday night was supposed to be my weigh-in night. But since I didn't work that night, I'm going to have to face the scale on Monday night instead. I'll be sure to report back to you what happens there.

However, this week has not been a good one for me. Lots of emotional stressors, and I've binged a few times. It wasn't pretty. There was one night that I woke up at about 2am and realized, in a panic, that there was cookie dough in my house. Instead of just going back to sleep (like a sane person) or getting up and dumping it out (like a rational person,) I got up and baked what cookie dough I had left, eating all 18 cookies that it made over the course of three different episodes. Where's the logic in that? I'm scared that the cookie dough in my house is going to set me up for failure, so I binge on it just to get rid of it? Am I freakin' insane?

The season finale of Biggest Loser was this week, and true to form, I cried through the entire thing. I want that moment. I want that instant where someone sees you after a long seperation and they are totally amazed into speechlessness at how incredible you look. I want someone I love to see me transformed and have tears in their eyes. I want to hear someone say, "Look at what you've done! I'm so proud of you."

The reality? I ain't gonna get there drowning my sorrows in cookie dough and M&Ms.

So it's moving forward from here. I'm awake right now, and I know that I need to pick up a few things from Food Lion that I couldn't get during my grocery trip to Aldi today. However, I also know that going to the grocery store while everyone else is asleep is a minefield for me. I go there, and I always end up coming home with something forbidden that I devour in the dark, then cram the evidence into the dark recesses of a garbage bag like a criminal. And I've already caught those little demons in my head debating on what kind of sugary concoctions might be available in the bakery and how good spinach dip and Tostitos would be right now.

So I made a proud decision. I'm gonna eat some apple slices dipped in sugar free caramel dip. (Thank you Splenda!) Then I'll head to Food Lion in the less dangerous daylight hours when someone is here and awake, and I have some tangible form of accountability.

This journey is so hard for so many reasons. I was watching Intervention tonight, and the crack addict on the show was saying, "I have this big gaping hole in myself, and I'm always trying to fill it with drugs." I know his feeling, only I'm stuffing that hole full of food, which in and of itself is my own personal form of crack. I'm not entirely sure about the origins of said hole, or why other things don't seem to fill it quite as nicely as food does. But the one thing I do know is that I have to find something else that works, and find a better way to live. Much like the aforementioned crackhead, I'm hitting bottom pretty quickly, and it's time to ask for help.

So the binges from the week are behind me, and I've made honest attempts to get healthy foods into my house while trying to limit the unhealthy things. I've recognized my destructive behaviors for what they are, and I've made conscious decisions that have shown that if I practice STRS before acting on my food instincts (Stop, Think, Realize and Substitute,) that I have the power to avoid these binges. Knowing that I can do it, andd actually DID do it tonight during a really weak moment, gives me hope that I'm moving forward from the two steps back I took earlier in the week. So I'm off to enjoy my guilt-free snack, knowing that I will rest much better without the guilt of an entire loaf of cinnamon raisin bread on my shoulders and in my stomach. (By the way, that is what I had decided to buy and devour had I actually made that trip to Food Lion)

(Re)starting weight

2010-05-23T10:12:00.004-04:00

Thursday was the official big weigh-in day. It was the day when I would step back on the scale, assess the damage, and figure out what I have to do to get to the prime babymaking weight, and better yet, start to regain what I've lost of myself and my life.

Can I get a drumroll please?

The official restarting weight is...277.1 pounds!

*Boo* *Hiss*

Before I move forward, I need to make a confession. On Wednesday night, I laid down to go to sleep. I tossed and turned, but something just didn't feel right. I decided that I would get up and see what I could do to try to make myself more comfortable so that I could actually get some sleep.

Apparently, all I needed was to bake some peanut butter chocolate chunk cookies and eat them alone in the dark while watching old episodes of Weeds.

Why on earth was I doing this the night before the official weigh-in? I love me some cookies, and I'm a dangerous person with cookie dough in the house. However, I had no intention of eating anything, let alone baking anything. I full well intended to go to sleep. But I was restless and antsy, and it was like my body was telling me that I needed to get up and do something. And when I left the bedroom and walked into the rest of the house, I immediately headed for the kitchen and commenced with the cookie baking. It was like some kind of crazy cookie demon had invaded my body and was taking over.

Now, I do have to give myself a little credit. I only baked 6 cookies. Granted, they were big cookies and I ate all 6, but this was a victory for me. After all, I am the person who will roll up the cookie dough and press it into the 12 spots on a muffin pan to make these huge muffin/cookie conglomerations that are insanely, wickedly, sinfully incredible. And I will eat all 12. By myself. While watching tv, and all washed down with a Diet Pepsi for good measure.

So the fact that I made 6 normal cookies was a bit of a victory for me. But, amazingly enough, as soon as I finished those cookies, I felt this strange sense of peace as if everything was right with the world. I hid the evidence of my baking and crawled back into bed to sleep, my dirty deed done.

So I was thinking about all that when I stepped on the scale the next evening. While it disgusts me to look at that number, and realize that I'm on the downhill side careening toward 300 pounds, I honestly gave a small sigh of relief. Because the number wasn't quite as bad as I thought it would be. I was expecting 280 or more, and I didn't miss my expectations by much, but apparently those 2.9 pounds made all the difference in my head.

So I did the math to find out how much weight I have to lose in order to hit my 15% babymaking goal. The verdict? Drumroll please...41.6 pounds. *BOO* *HISS*

This brought a lump to my throat. That's a LOT of weight to lose. And knowing how terribly I'm aching to get pregnant, how long is all that going to take? Tears sprang to my eyes as I saw myself having to wait forever to have a baby in my belly again.

Then I realized that I'm totally in control of this. My behavior can definitely sabotage the road to Babyville, but it can also deliver me there quicker than I realize. Do I want hot chocolatey cookie goodness, or a baby? Am I really too tired to workout, or would the prospect of eating for two (with a valid excuse!) get me through 30 minutes on the treadmill? That number seems so far away right now, but I've got the perfect motivation to work toward achieving it.

Now, I've just gotta get all this damn fund-raiser cookie dough I bought out of my house!

Crybaby

2010-05-19T16:53:00.002-04:00

Well, another week and another incident of me sitting on the couch watching The Biggest Loser and crying like a baby. This show gets to me in a way that nothing else can. I turn into the biggest freakin baby when I watch that show! I cry for the entire thing, every week, no matter what.

I think a lot of the reason for my extreme emotional reaction to this show is because I see so much of myself in the contestants. No, not the buff, confident, sexy people they have become, but the fatties that they started out as.

For those of you who have never had a weight problem, you don't realize that there is this whole psychological component to being fat. It's not just that we love food, and therefore want to put as much of it into our mouths as humanly possible. Being overweight is a symptom of some other underlying illness. Be it depression, compulsive overeating or denial, most fat people have something lurking beneath the surface that has led them down this destructive path and kept them down it.

I look at myself and my own emotional reactions to my size, and I can't deny that my feelings about being fat are helping to keep me fat. You would believe that it would be the opposite, but it's not true.

I am embarrassed about my size. I don't want to go to the gym, because I don't want all the other fit people in the gym to point to the fatty and make jokes. And it doesn't matter to me how many thin people say, "Oh we would NEVER do that!" I've heard the comments. I've been the topic of such conversation. I've heard people say, "Hope she doesn't break the recumbent bike" and "How much you wanna bet she has an asthma attack before she spends 5 minutes on that treadmill?" Going to the gym is extremely scary for us fat people. We're there because we need to be working out, but we're being judged for doing it. And while everyone in the gym may not be doing it, the ones who are WAY overshadow the ones who aren't. And I suppose we should adopt a thicker skin and just suck it up and take the negativity, but that's another thing that thin people don't understand. All of those voiced jokes and put-downs merely echo the negativity going on in our own heads. It feeds into the notion that we are so far gone that we don't even deserve to try to change our situation.

I can't even begin to tell you the lengths that I have gone to in an effort to hide my embarrassment and being fat and an overeater. I've hidden food. I've eaten where no one could see me so that they couldn't see how much I was eating and judge accordingly. I hide under layers of clothing and avoid wearing the things I really want to, because I don't want someone to see me and point and laugh. It's a tightrope walk, this whole act of balancing the person I want to be and the fat person that I actually am. And I have no idea how to reconcile the two.

So I watch The Biggest Loser and I see how these contestants were when they started their journey. I see them getting out of breath climbing a flight of stairs in their own home. I see them struggling to fit into a booth in a restaurant, or hanging over both sides of a chair. I see them standing with their shoulders hunched and their heads down, as if they are trying to crawl inside their own bodies so that not only does no one have to see them, but they don't have to admit that they really look this way. I see it, and I know it, because I'm living it.

One of the best things about The Biggest Loser is that it shows that raw emotion. It shows Daris peeling the skin off his elbows on the gym floor to make it through that human tunnel because he's tired of being a quitter. It shows Michael having an anger explosion because he's lost 200 pounds and STILL has to shop in a fat man's store. It shows Ashley crying and saying that she wants to fall in love and get married and have babies, yet she's afraid that she won't be able to do that. After all, who's gonna love us the way we are when we hate ourselves?

Maybe it's the fact that their raw emotion is my raw emotion that makes me cry week after week. Maybe it's the fact that I'm so sick of accomplishing weight loss, only to gain it back. Maybe I'm tired of having the goal of being able to fit in the biggest size made in the regular clothing section, only to realize this goal means I would still be fat, but just less fat than I am now. Maybe it's because I realize that I put myself into dangerous situatios with guys I could barely stand for a long, long time because I wanted to prove to myself and everyone else that at least SOMEONE saw me as sexy, even if it was only for a few minutes.

But I think that the biggest reason I get so emotional is that I see their triumphs on the show and I think to myself how it would feel if it were my triumphs. I can't even remember the last time I was under 200 pounds. How would it feel to get there again? How would it feel to run a marathon and actually finish? How would it feel to have the people I love to tell me that they are so proud of me for facing my fears and changing my life? How would it feel to be the person I feel like is suffocating under all this fat?

So the season finale is next week, and in two weeks, a new show is starting with Jillian Michaels called Losing It, which I'm sure will also make me cry every week. I've heard a lot of people talk about how The Biggest Loser is "beating that horse to death" because they end one season and start another up as soon as the can. Those people are usually the ones who've never struggled. To those of us who are struggling or have struggled, we know why they do it. It's so that there's no downtime for us to get away from the realization that these are people just like us who are changing their lives. They're fatties who hated themselves and what they had become. They're people who were so embarrassed that they went to great lengths to escape from those emotions. They're people who were ready to give up that gave it one final shot and are succeeding in changing their lives. It's so inspirational.

Even though I know that much of The Biggest Loser doesn't really translate into the real world, the emotional aspect does. We've seen couples form on the show as people realize that not only do they deserve love, but they find it with someone else who never thought that they were worthy of love either. We see confidence bloom where none grew before as people realize that they are becoming the person they always knew they could be. And we see the failures. We saw Erik gain all the weight back, and we know that pain. We see the former contestants who looked so good at the finale struggling to maintain some semblance of that warrior who stood on the podium so proud of who they were.

This last episode of Biggest Loser really struck a chord with me too when Daris gained 2 pounds while at home. The denial he immediately slipped into, about how hard it is to lose weight while training for a marathon was so familiar. I can't tell you how many times I've gained weight and known the reason for the gain, but tried to pass the blame onto something a little more socially acceptable. And though many think that Jillian was being a bitch for calling him out on it, it's what Daris needed to hear. The ones who slip into the blame game when they gain weight are the ones who end up gaining it all back. I know. I am one. I had almost lost 20% of my body weight when I started slipping. I blamed it on anything I could point my finger at that was acceptable. And I kept gaining. And gaining. And gaining. Until here I am now, heavier than I started way back then. And I'm still blaming. I was depressed. I was stress-eating. Times got bad financially and I had to eat what I could afford. But the one thing that I don't admit (but am going to now) is that I was binging like there was no tomorrow.

Like Daris, the night time was the danger zone for me. It didn't matter what I had done during the day, at night, while everyone else slept and there was no one to bear witness, I binged. I ate, even if I wasn't hungry. I would bake a dozen cookies with every intention of eating every single crumb by myself. I would even go so far as to slip out of the house and drive to the nearest 24 hour grocery store, and buy insane amounts of junk food to devour. After all, if no one ever knew it was in the house, then no one knows that you ate it all, right?

And, like Daris, I couldn't deny the end result. Calories squandered when no one is watching don't just disappear because no one witnesses you putting them into your body. They pack on, and eventually, everyone around you knows that you're doing something that's leading to a weight gain. You can run 20 miles a day while everyone's watching, then eat until you feel like puking while everyone's sleeping. But in the end, that food's going somewhere, and your dirty little secret comes to light.

So here I sit, with a tear stained face from watching the latest Biggest Loser and a mind racing with thoughts of the parallels between the struggles of the contestants and my own struggles. More than that, I sit here with a desire to have one ounce of the courage that these brave men and women possess. They stood up and said, "Enough!" and made motions to change all the things they hated about themselves. And they're doing it. Sure, there are bumps in the roads and issues to deal with, but such is life, and those things are always going to be there. But they're looking forward, and they're struggling every single day to move closer to the person they want to be and further away from the person they can't believe they ended up as.

Tomorrow is Thursday, May 20th. For some reason, that strikes me as a great day to stand up and make my stand. Tomorrow, I start moving forward. Tomorrow night, I weigh myself, and receive that "starting weight" number that I've been trying to avoid for months now. And tomorrow, I start moving away from that number and toward the person I know I can be. Tomorrow, I start living my life for me, for the REAL me, the one who is screaming out, but is being muffled by all this fat and denied emotions. Tomorrow is Day 1. Tomorrow, I start my journey to become my best. Tomorrow, I stop being just "The Fat Chick" and start being The Strong Chick, The Determined Chick, and most importantly, The Happy Chick.

I'll report back with the damage from the scale, and I'll say that number with my head held high, knowing that it's not an admission of defeat, but a unit of measure for how far I'm going to go.

The Bitch is Back

2010-05-16T20:30:00.002-04:00

Well, here I am. Back again. And living through the one thing I swore that I'd never live through again...life with all the weight back on. And then some. That's right, I've gained it all back with a little extra thrown in for good measure.

So I had an epiphany the other morning. I was watching The Biggest Loser while working my way through an entire half gallon of ice cream. I was bawling as I watched it. Not just a little teary-eyed. Not just a couple of tears here or there. I mean body-wracking, shaking all over, can't breathe sobbing. Especially when Michael was talking about how much he hated being fat and that he's lost almost 200 pounds and still had to shop in a fat man's store. His anger quickly became my anger...and angst.

I hate this life. I hate not being able to buy the clothes I want because they don't come in my size. I hate being self-conscious about everything I wear or do because I'm fat. I hate the fact that I smile and make jokes so that no one can tell that I'm dying on the inside from letting myself get to this lowly state. I hate my body, and I feel like I'm trapped inside it. The fat is literally eating away at my soul, and I can't take it anymore.

The ironic part about all this is that the more angry and sad I became, the more ice cream I shoved into my fat face.

Finally, it dawned on me. I love food, and I love eating. But not this much. And I can eat well and enjoy food without having to gorge myself on it. The first bite taste the same as the hundreth, right?

So I started thinking...what do I want out of life the most right now. What is the one thing that I want more than anything? Ironically, it's not to be thinner. It's to have a baby.

So I made a deal with my husband. When I lose 15% of my current body weight, we will start trying to get pregnant.

It may sound ridiculous to the casual observer. Why lose weight just to get pregnant and get fat again? Isn't that defeating the purpose? I mean, why not get pregnant now, then try to lose the weight all at one time?

Simply, I'm not healthy enough to get pregnant right now. Oh, I'm sure that I could physically get pregnant and carry a baby to term. But that doesn't mean that it's a good idea. My body is a freakin wasteland right now, and I don't even want to be in it. Why put a baby inside that?

It's also going to be a really good motivational tactic. I see babies right now, and my body literally aches to have another one. It's all I think about. I even DREAM about it almost every time I sleep lately. So when faced with a dozen Krispy Kreme doughnuts and a half gallon of cookie dough explosion ice cream, what will make me the most likely to turn away from it? Knowing that if I indulge, it will mean that I will be without an infant that much longer.

So here I am, beginning this weight loss journey yet again, but with a little more motivation this time. Hopefully, I can use this 15% goal as a means to keep me motivated until this whole thing becomes more of a lifestyle change for me and seems like second nature. I vow right here and now to update this blog regularly, get back into my WW online support group, and make decisions every day that will lead to a thinner and healthier me. So look out everyone. I'm back!

Might As Well Face It...

2009-08-12T03:45:00.005-04:00

I just finished reading my last blog entry. Wow! Was I ever fired up? I was so pissed that I had fallen off the wagon, and I was going to be the Points Nazi and was going to workout so often and with such efficiency that I would be a role model to fat chicks everywhere. Grrrr!

Oh, how the mighty have fallen!

Notice how long it's been since I've posted a blog entry since my last manifesto? Yeah, that's because I've been off the wagon since then. Way off the wagon. Like the wagon's gone and there's no hope of returning off the wagon.

I'm a stress eater. Always have been. When the going gets tough, this girl gets tacos. And cakes. And anything else edible within arms reach. Anyway, times have been really tough for me and my family lately. A lot of financial woes, some sickness, and so on. And I did as I usually do when I start stressing, and I ate my feelings.

It has been within the past week or so that I came to the realization that I'm addicted to food. Go ahead everybody and get the laughs out now, because I'm serious. I'm an addict. There's no other way to describe the way that I abuse food and the way that abuse makes me feel.

Take for instance this situation which happened at my home a few nights ago. I was really starting to feel the strain from the money woes coming about at paycheck time. I felt like crap, and I was so anxious that there wasn't enough Xanax in the world to make me feel better. I got a sudden intense craving for cookie dough ice cream. Of course there's none in the house, because it's such a red flag food of mine. Cookie dough ice cream does not last long in my house, and I am much like a drug sniffing dog when it comes to that frozen, half-baked goodness--if it's in the home, I will catch it's scent, track it down, and devour it at once. Anyway, all I could think about was that cookie dough ice cream. The hubs and I were watching a really funny movie, and still, all I could think about was the sweet stuff. So what did I do? I got up and left my home, drove to the grocery store, bought a half-gallon of cookie dough ice cream, drove back home, and sat down in front of the television with the carton and a spoon.

Before Weight Watchers, this was not a rare occurrence. On the contrary, I knew which grocery stores had the good brands of ice cream on sale buy one get one free. Not only that, but I would go and buy four half gallons--two for me, and two for my husband. That's right, I would have a whole gallon of ice cream in the fridge that was solely for me. And I ate every single delectable bite of it too.

But during this last bout of frozen food madness, I realized something. I was physically and mentally craving that ice cream. My body ached for it, and my brain wouldn't let any other thoughts enter and take up precious space that it was using to convince me that I needed the ice cream. So I went and bought it, and came home with it. When that first bite entered my mouth and I chewed up that first little ball of cookie dough, I swear to you, it was orgasmic. Such a rush ran through my body that all I could think was, "More, more! Give me more!" So I did. I gave my body more until I physically started to hurt, which was after I'd eaten half of the container.

If that isn't addiction, I don't know what is.

Let's take your garden variety heroin addict for example. The addict gets it into their head that they need that heroin. Their body craves it, and their brain demands it. They feel like they'll either die or go crazy if they don't get that little bump. So they go out in search of the heroin, get the goods, and go home to shoot up. The drug enters their bloodstream and it's an instant euphoria. Eyes roll back in the head, and they melt into the warm pool of their high. And even in that moment, all they can think is "I need more."

Ladies and gentleman, that is the exact way I was with that cookie dough ice cream.

Now my addiction is really not that specific. It's not as though I feel like I need a fix and only the dough will do. It's a matter of what I'm craving. Sometimes it's pizza. Sometimes it's tacos. Sometimes it's one of the fine concoctions dreamed up by that harlot Little Debbie. But always, it's food. The craving is undeniable and it won't go away with my pleas that I'm trying to lose my weight and I need to be good. The beast is calling for food, and the beast must be satiated.

This is the first time since I started Weight Watchers almost 15 months ago that I've really had this huge food addiction relapse. Sure, there have been times when I've been a little less than mindful of what I've eaten. There have also been times when I've splurged, but still had the good sense to know that it was a special occasion and that I needed to get back on track. But in 15 months, I have never gone on a food bender to the extent that I've been on.

So if this is confession, I need to speak aloud my sins, right? *Sigh* Here goes...

I ate a whole large, thin crust pizza in one sitting. Straight out of the box.

I ate a half gallon of cookie dough ice cream in two sittings. Twice.

I ate twelve tacos in one sitting.

The last three weeks of school, I ate a bag of Quaker Snack Mix Baked Cheddar during the span of my class. I did this two nights a week, for a total of six nights.

The last two weeks of school, I stopped on my way to class and picked up three junk food staples and ate them in the car on the way to school. The repeat offenders were peanut butter M&Ms, Fudge Rounds, and Zebra Cakes. Damn you, Little Debbie!

I ate things in the hospital cafeteria that defied logic and the laws of physics. Like chicken tenders, a mammoth amount of fries and about five scoops of that God forsaken cookie dough ice cream.

I haven't counted a point in a long, long time.

The most exercise I've gotten during that time was working up a sweat worrying about there being enough junk food to pull me through the craving of the moment.

I'm sure there are many others that I'm forgetting, but these are definitely the bigger sins, and the highlight of the hell bound eating behaviors I've engaged in.

So what do I do from here? I mean, it's easy to get all fired up and make a plan and swear that as God is my witness I'll never binge again. But I did that in my last blog posting. And we see how far that got me.

I guess the best course of action would be to take it one day at a time, like the Alcoholics do. I'm going to set myself up with a "sponsor" who can give me a swift kick in my fat ass and tell me to put down the damn ice cream if I want to watch my children grow up to be adults. I'm even considering going to Overeaters Anonymous meetings. Seriously. I mean, if alcoholics have AA, and drug addicts have NA, shouldn't OA work for food addicts? It only makes sense.

Regardless, I refuse to use my new found knowledge as a crutch. There's not going to be any of this stuffing my face and binging like there's no tomorrow, then saying, "I'm an addict. I can't help it. It's a disease. Pass me the pizza. Extra cheese please." No. That shit doesn't fly. Just like any addict who wants to rid themselves of their drug of choice, I have to want to get beyond where I am now. I have to have that desire to feel and look better. Not only that, but I have to be committed to the lifestyle choices that will get me there. That lifestyle does not include eating a meal meant for half a dozen people all by myself. I have to practice control. Which is sometimes easier said than done.

But I refuse to give up. I view the sins of these past few weeks as a relapse, but it's not going to pull me off the path to recovery. No way I'm going to allow that to happen. So I'm recommitting, here in front of all you witnesses. And if I fall off the wagon, I'll jump right back on, without taking a week or three to drown my sorrows in sugar and fat.

Because the only person I hurt with this behavior is myself. And I've had enough pain!

I've Been a Bad, Bad Girl...

2009-06-25T10:16:00.003-04:00

I have a big confession to make. I have officially fallen off the wagon.

It started innocently enough. I couldn't make it to a weigh-in. Then I didn't want to go the next week because I had been given a bunch of IV fluids after a major migraine sent me to the ER. Then the next week school got in the way of my weigh-in.

Cut to last week, when I realized that I couldn't really remember when I went to my last weigh-in.

In my own defense, my school schedule did change this semester, and I'm now in class on the evening that my Weight Watchers meeting was always held on. But it's not the only meeting held in my area. Not by a long shot. As a matter of fact, there are literally Weight Watchers meetings somewhere in my vicinity seven days a week. I have no real excuse for all that.

I decided to make the change to Weight Watchers online. A big deal for me, because I loved my meetings. But I realized that with my ever changing school schedule and such, it would probably be a better game plan to do it all online and weigh myself at the YMCA, so that I have consistent scales.

So that day, I made my decision. I was going to start weighing in on Thursday mornings at the Y, and I was back in the saddle again. Here I come.

There I went, and I had gained four pounds in the time I was away.

So I swore to myself when I stepped off that scale that I was going to get that four pounds and crush it under my foot. It would be history very, very soon. Never to be seen again. Hasta la vista, baby. Poof. Gone.

Cut to my weigh-in this morning, when I was up another 1.7 pounds.

Now, I could very easily rationalize this away. I could blame it on my Aunt Flow, who came to visit Sunday night. I could blame it on the fact that I weighed about two hours earlier than I weighed the last time. I could even blame it on the fact that the bra I had on today had padding in it, thus was MUCH heavier than the cotton sports bra I wore last week.

But the fact of the matter is, I know exactly where that weight has come from.

I vowed that this week I would track every morsel of food that went into my mouth. I had gotten away from tracking my points in the time that I was skipping weigh-ins, and I made a solemn promise that from that point on, I was going to track everything. However, I didn't promise that I wouldn't do the "liberal tracking" method common to us diet backsliders. You know what I'm talking about. You pour salad dressing on your plate at the salad bar (and it's NOT the fat free kind, either) then you say, "Eh, that looks like about an eighth of a cup." Even though you know that it's probably closer to a third of a cup, but you just don't want to take the points hit. You know, Weight Watchers actually doesn't work when you make up your own liberal version of their rules? Dude, why didn't somebody tell me?

Anyway, not only did I commit the above mentioned sin, but I also tracked my way right into a point deficit. Yes, that's right, even with all that liberal point tracking, I still managed to go into the hole for the week. I can only imagine what the real damage would have been if I had been honest about the points of the food I was putting into my mouth. Actually, I don't want to imagine how bad it would have been. Too depressing. Let's just say pretty damn bad and leave it at that.

Also take into account that more nights than not, I consumed chicken fingers and french fries from the hospital cafeteria with the gusto of a person who hadn't seen solid food in a month or so. Yeah, that's never a good thing.

As if these sinful acts weren't shameful enough, let's delve into my workout routine for the week. Or rather, the lack thereof.

I started out with the best of intentions. Really, I did. But you know what they say about what road is paved with good intentions don't you? That's right, and into the fiery pits of hell I went.

I found this awesome website, swimplan.com. They ask you questions about the pool you swim in, your swimming abilities, the purpose of your workouts, etc., then they tailor a plan to your specific criteria. I was so excited that I ran off to the pool with my swimplan in hand.

First of all, it had been a minute or two since I had darkened the doorway of the gym. So needless to say, the moderate intensity level that I asked for when I created my swimplan more than moderately kicked my ass. It was a 45 minute routine, and 20 minutes in I was waving the white flag and wondering if I should beg the teenaged lifeguard to come rescue me.

No biggie. I got home, logged on, and adjusted my swimplan to make it a bit easier, but not too easy. I printed it off, stuck it in a plastic protective sleeve, and headed to my car for work, ready to do some damage in the pool the next morning.

But it didn't happen. I was too tired after working all night. Then the next day I felt like crap. Then the next day was a clinical day. Then the next day I didn't want to take Aunt Flow to the pool with me. Then the next day I hadn't shaved my legs.

I am not making these up for humor purposes, people. These are the exact, honest to God excuses that I made for not going to the pool, or going to workout on any of the bazillion devices available to me at the Y.

It goes without saying that I earned every ounce of that 1.7 pound gain.

But now I'm mad. I'm so mad at myself that I would kick my own ass if I were double jointed. I have worked so freaking hard to lose weight. I'm getting compliments from people. I'm feeling better. Why am I trying to sabotage myself? The only excuse for what I've done is pure laziness. I slacked off, and all of a sudden, I don't want to put in the work anymore.

So here, today, right now, this moment, I'm taking a stand. And I'm putting it out there for all of you to see, and hopefully help hold me to it.

I will track all of of my food honestly. That means that if I eat a brownie the size of my head, I don't track it as 1 1/2 brownies. There is no place on earth that would consider that much of a brownie a serving and a half.

I will stay within my points allowance. If I know that I only have three more points for the day, I won't go grab the keys and head to Taco Bell.

I will make wise food choices. This means that if I get to the cafeteria, and the hot bar line doesn't have something healthy that appeals to me, I won't immediately hop over to the grille line, where the food has to be drained of grease before it's given to me.

I will work out at the Y, even if it's only for 15 minutes. I always feel so much better after a workout, and I have no clue why I fight it so hard at times. I mean, I've been known to make more excuses to get out of working out than a politician caught with some woman's panties on his head.

And brace yourself folks, because here's the clincher, borrowed from a dear, sweet fantabulous to the maximus friend of mine.

If I gain more than one pound in a given week, I am grounded from Facebook until I'm back on track.

I know! It's a punishment of the worst kind. Guantanamo Bay wouldn't even subject its captives to such brutal horrors! But desperate times call for desperate measures, and I WILL NOT allow myself to gain back the weight that I've worked so freaking hard to lose.

Today, I swam 35 minutes. I feel like a million bucks right now. I leave Sunday to go on my beach vacation, and I'll be on my best behaviour around the food, but I'm allowing myself a little leeway. But after that, it's game on at the weigh-in. More than a pound up, and I'm grounded from Facebook. And I've already informed the hubs of this plan, and trust me, he's so possessive over the computer for his mistress, aka World of Warcraft, that he will gladly enforce the Facebook grounding.

So that's the plan. No more excuses and no more whining. No more major food sins and no more lying about what really went into my mouth. Hopefully, all of that will also lead to no more big gains!

If not, then expect this blog to really grow, cause I'll be bored as hell without my Facebook!

Tears for Fears

2009-05-12T01:16:00.003-04:00

Last week, I watched the two hour episode of Biggest Loser, in which the contestants went home for 30 days, and completed a marathon at the end of that time. Biggest Loser has been a favorite show of mine since way back when it first got started. Although I know that the results these contestants show are definitely not typical and that the average person can't keep up with that type of lifestyle in everyday life, I still find it inspiring. These are people who never thought that they could lose a large amount of weight triumphing over all of the obstacles and finally succeeding in the one thing they've always wanted so desperately to do.

However, this episode of the Biggest Loser hit me especially hard. I cried for the entire two hours the show was on. I didn't just cry, I sobbed. Uncontrollably. So hard that I woke my husband up, and he was two rooms away from me with the door shut.

The first thing that really hit me was when Jillian visited Tara and she was talking about all of the chaos in her life. I realized while watching it that she might as well be talking to me. My life is one big ball of chaos, and has been for a long time. My emotions strangle me, and I hurt so deeply that for years I self-medicated. In college, I did it with drinking and drugs, but for years and years, I did it with food. It really doesn't make a lot of sense to stuff myself full of food in an effort to feel better, and I really wish that I could explain the logic behind it. The truth is that even I don't know why. It made me feel better in the short term, but I still can't seem to wrap my mind around how stuffing myself to the point of pain made me somehow feel better about my out of control life. Maybe it was that I was actually controlling how much of something I put in my mouth, and that made me feel slightly triumphant. Maybe it was the fact that when I binged to the point of pain I felt like I was punishing myself for bad things that I had done. I honestly can't explain it, but I definitely identify with Tara and Jillian's concerns for that chaos still following her around.

However, the part that hit me the hardest, and has made me tear up all season long was the issues with Mike and Ron. Mike is a super kid, and I hope he takes it all. He is not just a fierce competitor, but he is so loving and giving and caring. But his relationship with his dad and brother has really hit home for me. I grew up in a family that was full of love, but we weren't always the most financially stable family in my earlier years. There were times that had it not been for our garden and other family members, we would have gone hungry. I believe that a lot of my eating habits come from the deep seeded fear that took root in my very early years that I better eat as much as I can when it's in front of me, because there may come a meal when I have nothing to eat. However, I can't blame that for my weight problems now, because I've been out of that situation for quite a while now.

The worst thing that bothered me about the whole dynamic between Ron, Mike, and Max is the fear that I might pass my terrible eating habits along to my children. I look at my boys, and see these two gorgeous kids who have no self-esteem problems and whose future stretches out in front of them with more possibility than I can imagine. And I can literally feel my heart break when I think that my eating habits and my obesity could possibly lead these two wonderful kids down the same painful road I've been traveling. I would rather walk through fire on broken glass than to think for one second that I'm condemning them to the fat life I've led. I honestly didn't really think much about all that until I saw Mike in tears, asking Ron why he didn't try to do something about his weight and eating habits for him and his brother. I felt like someone had sucker punched me in the gut. I can't do that to my children. I just can't. I would hate myself forever if I knew that I could be the cause of such immense pain for them.

So the tears poured down my face for two solid hours. I was still crying after the show ended. I'm just so sick of being the fat girl. I'm so tired of hiding behind other people in pictures, and of being so self conscious that I scrutinize every little article of clothing for the right amount of coverage and perform smoke and mirror acts with my clothing that would make David Copperfield jealous. I don't want to be defined by my weight anymore. I don't want to fear people looking at my plate in a restaurant and thinking, "Well, that explains why she's so fat." I want to move past all that. I want to feel attractive again. I want to be proud of the way I look, and not ashamed. I want to be able to see pictures of myself and not be disgusted.

Now, I know that I'm definitely on my way. I mean, I've lost three pant sizes, and that's no small feat. But I'm still scared. I'm scared of hitting a wall and gaining back everything I've lost. I'm scared of failing. I don't want everyone who knows me to think, "Well, she was doing such a great job, then something happened, and she just put all that weight back on and then some." I'm so terrified that this weight loss is only temporary, and that I'm not going to continue to have progress. I'm scared to death of plateauing and giving up. I don't want to fail, and I'm determined to keep pushing forward. But I'm so scared that I'm not strong enough to do it.

I'm also terrified of how my weight will affect my kids. I'm scared of them falling into the habit of stuffing obscene amounts of food into their bodies, and I'm scared that they will follow in my fat footsteps. I'm scared that one day they'll look at me with tears in their eyes and ask me why I didn't try harder for them. I'm afraid that my obesity will cause health complications for me that rip me from their young lives and force them to grow up with only the shadow of a memory of their mother. I'm scared that they will grow to hate me for not changing myself now, while I can. I'm absolutely terrified of failing my children, because they are the only two people in this world that I owe everything I have to. And I owe them a life built on healthy choices, not built on self-medication and pain.

Even as I sit here now, I'm crying. This weight loss journey has brought lots of triumphs my way, along with a lot of laughter. From nearly knocking people over to get to the Fiber One bars to being able to walk into Old Navy and walk out with a pair of jeans that fit, I've definitely had happy moments along the way. But I would be lying through my teeth if I sat here right now and said that I have it all figured out and that it's only getting better from here. I'm terrified. I have moments when I slip and eat things I know I shouldn't, and in the back of my head, there's this little niggling thought saying, "You're gonna fail, and you're gonna gain it all back."

Today, I went out with some girls from nursing school to celebrate the end of our first year. I made a good choice for my entree, then everyone started ordering dessert. I gave in and ordered one too. I ate to the point that I literally hurt, and all I could do was sit there and hate myself for doing it. I don't know why I did it, and I certainly didn't feel better after doing it. I was miserable, in pain, and simply loathing myself for the sabotage. Is it that I'm scared to succeed? Is it that my identity is so tightly woven around being a fat chick that I don't know how to be anything else? Why did I sit there and stuff myself to the point of exploding? It makes no sense to me, and I'm still left trying to figure it out.

So, to put it all out there on the table, here are my thoughts. I'm scared of failing. I'm terrified that if I start gaining this weight back, I'll never get it off. I'm afraid of passing this addiction on to my children. I'm terrified that they will grow up fat and unhealthy because their mother is fat and unhealthy and they never learned any better. I'm scared of my health being sacrificed due to my weight, and I'm afraid of having precious years with my children taken away because of my inability to lose the weight that I know I have to get off. I'm scared of letting down everyone who has cheered me every step of this journey. I'm terrified that I'll never be able to look in the mirror and be happy with what I see. I'm trying to stop tying my emotions to food, but at the same time, I'm scared because I don't know how else to deal with the powerful emotions.

In many ways, I feel like an alcoholic or a drug addict. My poison of choice is food. I can't approach food like a normal person can. While you might see a box of doughnuts and think about eating one, I approach a box of doughnuts and think about eating them all. I can't have red light foods in my house, because if I do, I'll eat them until I puke or run out, whichever comes first. I used to eat in secret, much like Mike confessed to doing on the Biggest Loser. I would go through the drive thru and eat something before I came home. I once sat in the parking lot of Wal-mart and ate an entire mega box of Little Debbie Fudge Rounds before going home a cooking dinner. Twelve of those cakes I ate, then ate an entire meal with my family. I never sat in the same place twice at gatherings centered around food, because I didn't want anyone realizing how many trips I made back to fill my plate up. I was ashamed of myself for eating that way, yet I didn't stop. The rush I got from a big slab of cake was similar to the rush one gets when taking drugs. And the crash is just as harsh.

So here and now, I'm making a vow to myself and to my children. I will not go back to the way things were. I will move forward, learning every day how to eat better. I will move more, and involve myself in physical activity until it becomes second nature for me. I will teach my children to push their plate away when they are satisfied, and that they need not eat any more than that. I will show them healthy ways to snack, and that it's fun to get out and move. There may be times when I slip, but I will not allow myself to use them as an excuse to engage in more bad behavior. I will put that one incident behind me, and move forward from there. I will never again allow myself to weigh 270 pounds. I will not teach my children that all their wounds can be soothed with the right combination of sugar and fat. I will become a healthy role model to them, and perhaps just as important, I will work to inspire myself. To be able to face the image in the mirror and say, "That's right. Look at what you're accomplishing!" I will no longer hate myself for being weak, but I will celebrate myself for being strong. And I will look forward to the day, much like the contestants on the Biggest Loser, that I can stand up and say, "This is what I've accomplished, and I'm a strong person for being able to do it."

And, from here on out, when I lie down to sleep, I will ask myself and answer back one simple question..."What have you done today to make you feel proud?"

I've been a bad, bad girl...

2009-04-30T00:00:00.004-04:00

Two weeks ago, I embarked on an adventure with my family to the wild and wacky festival in my hometown known as Hillbilly Days. Hillbilly Days was started 33 years ago as a fundraiser for the Shriner's Children's Hospitals. People come from all over the country to celebrate mountain heritage and embrace the stereotype and laugh at ourselves.

Oh, yeah, they also come from all over the country to eat the ungodly amount of terrible, artery clogging foods that are offered.

One of the things I always loved about Hillbilly Days as a child was the food. I would spend weeks before it actually started trying to plan out what I was going to eat during the festival. Greek food, smokehouse barbecue, funnel cakes and elephant ears--these wares were not typically offered in my hometown during any other time of year. But during Hillbilly Days it was there and in insane excess. The culinary wizardry was mine for the taking.

One of the things that people from my area of Kentucky love the best is excess. Big hair, overdone makeup, and tons of food. It sounds like my Grandma's house on Christmas Day. When done in a once a year festival, it definitely goes to the extreme.

Since moving to NC, I had not been able to return home for Hillbilly Days. It always falls pretty close to Easter, and given the choice between the two, I've always preferred to spend the holiday with my family. However, since work dictated that I stay in town during the Easter holiday, we planned to go to Hillbilly Days and let my husband and sons experience my culture in full tilt Hillbilly mode.

This is the first time I've ever come at this festival with the brain of a Weight Watcher. Before, all bets were off, and I would be lucky if I could make it through the entire festival without having to unbutton my pants. The typical attire for Hillbilly Days is bibbed overalls, and it's not because of the typical vision of the hillbilly. It's because you can have a lot of extra gut room in those things.

So being a Weight Watcher, I was scared of Hillbilly Days. I told myself that I would be as good as possible, but I was not going to let it damper my good time. I hadn't attended Hillbilly Days in 9 years. This is definitely an infrequent occasion, and I'm going to have a good time, even if it means fudging a little on my points budget for that week.

Mmmmm, fudge.

Anyway, I did really well on the first day. We ate before we left my parents' house, and while we were there that evening, I had a Greek gyro without any sauce and a Diet Coke. Nothing too terrible diet wise, and I earned some activity points by riding a mechanical bull. I left the day feeling proud of myself.

Then the next day, the bottom fell out.

My mom convinced me to leave my boys with her for the day, so that my husband and I could have a day to ourselves to have fun. We were also meeting a bunch of my old high school friends at a restaurant for dinner and drinks. We walked around the festivities, and got a little snack before heading over for the dinner. Weight Watchers definitely would not have approved of the plate of ribbon fries I chose for my "snack." We had that, then we went to meet up with my old friends.

I did well at the restaurant. Didn't order any of the appetizers. Got my salad dressing on the side. Had grilled chicken topped with steamed veggies and a baked potato. Then, things started downhill.

This restaurant has the BEST bananas foster I've ever tasted. I have been wanting one for four years. Literally for four long years. So I reasoned that I should definitely have one. And with this being a special occasion with everyone drinking, I also reasoned away the draft beer, whiskey shot, black Russian, and cosmopolitan that I also had.

After the dinner, we went back to the downtown area for more Hillbilly Festivities. I wanted a funnel cake, so I got one. I don't know if they always had that much powdered sugar on them, or if I can see it more clearly now that I'm not eating so much terrible stuff. Regardless, the mountain of calories in the powdered sugar alone did not keep me from digging in. I ate the entire funnel cake by myself, and actually stopped short of literally licking the plate clean.

The next day, we brought the boys back with us for the Hillbilly Days parade. We met up with my best friend from high school, her husband, stepkids, sister, and cousins. We had a great time watching the parade, and I munched on some ice to keep cool.

The boys were getting fussy after the parade was over due to the heat. So we took them back to my parents house, with the intention of the hubs and I going back out to meet up with another dear friend from high school and her husband, who also happens to be a dear friend from high school. We stopped at my parents store on the way back out to get a drink, and decided to get milkshakes since it was so hot.

I wish that I could say that the food depravity ended there for the day. Sadly, it does not.

We met up with my friends and had a great time walking around, laughing and joking with each other. We decided that it was time to get something to eat, so we went to a busy little area near the courthouse to get a bite.

This is where I ran headlong into what is now known as my kryptonite. Three words for you, my friends. Deep. Fried. Oreos.

At first, this really didn't sound all that appealing to me. That is, until I saw them. Basically, they're Oreo cookies, wrapped up in funnel cake batter, deep fried, and then sprinkled with powdered sugar. They come six to an order, so I got an order for me and the hubs to share, along with a blooming onion for myself.

I ate four of the deep fried Oreos and almost all of the blooming onion all by myself.

Thus the great big bang of an end to my Hillbilly Days diet massacre. I felt so incredibly guilty afterward and could only hope that all of the walking around that I did could possibly cancel out all of the food I shoved down my throat.

So all week long I worried and stressed. Why did I do that? I KNEW that I shouldn't have gone that crazy, and I definitely could have enjoyed some of those foods without going to extremes. I mean, hello, the first deep fried Oreo tasted as heavenly and decadent as the fourth one. Why couldn't I have stopped at just one?

Then I realized that this was the habit that brought me to my fat chick state to begin with. I couldn't just leave anything at one.

So I fretted and stressed over my weigh-in for days. Then, I did the one thing that I always urge other Weight Watchers not to do.

I skipped my weigh-in.

I know that it's not logical. I know that if I gained weight, that weight is on my body whether I see the number on the scale or not. I know that missing that weigh in does not keep me at the previous weight I was beforehand. But I didn't want to feel like I should punish myself for having a good time at Hillbilly Days, when my habits there are so not typical of my habits at home.

I should have punished myself.

The whole week after that missed weigh-in, I ate horribly. I tracked everything, and I went over my weekly points and my activity points on Sunday. I was still eating like there was no tomorrow. I was eating Weight Watcher friendly foods, but just eating them in insane portions.

Then, yesterday, I hit the realization that this is exactly what got me to 270 pounds. Finding a way to rationalize every splurge, every binge, every stolen moment locked in the bathroom with two boxes of Girl Scout cookies and a 20 oz root beer. Had I held myself accountable for the food decisions I made, then I probably wouldn't have ended up a fat chick. I wouldn't be locked in this constant struggle to eat with the realization that it is not my final meal, and that I will have the opportunity to eat again.

I went to my weigh-in today and I have gained 4.2 pounds. It's honestly much, much better than I thought it would be.

So starting now, today, right this moment, I am fully accountable again. I will work on getting in activity, and I will diligently count my points and not rely on activity points and my weekly point allowance. I will only eat when I'm hungry, and not when I'm bored/lonely/stressed/awake. I will eat more fruits and veggies and less potato chips and powdered doughnuts.

More importantly, I will lose that 4.2 pounds that I gained and try to ensure that I never cross paths with a deep fried Oreo again.

Do you know what today is?

2009-04-06T00:09:00.004-04:00

Okay, so actually, since it's after midnight, this should read "Do you know what yesterday was?" The answer to both questions?

It's my anniversary!

That's right, April 5, 2009 marks six years of me and the hubs not killing each other or having the police answer a "domestic disturbance" call at our house.

Due to the fact that neither one of us really schedule anything by actual dates and only in terms of "next Tuesday" or "three weeks from today," he had already made plans for the day of our anniversary. So we decided to celebrate on Friday instead.

We quickly stowed the kids away at my in-laws house, threw a few kisses and a hasty goodbye and we were on our way.

From back when we were dating, it used to be our tradition to celebrate our anniversary with dinner at Ruby Tuesday's. Not because Ruby Tuesday's is any kind of culinary mecca or anything, but because that's where we had our first date. However, Ruby Tuesday's underwent some changes, and the food went south quick and in a hurry and we no longer wanted to go there for our anniversary dinners. Instead, we decided to switch it to the restaurant where we had our first dinner out after the wedding festivities came to an end. Red Lobster.

First, let me tell you that I'm quite certain that Satan owns the Red Lobster, or at least plans their menu. There's no way on earth that anyone good and righteous could come up with so many tempting dishes that will lead you straight down the path of weight gain hell. I mean, seriously? Have you tried the cheese biscuits? And they bring them to you by the basketful. As many times as you ask. I know, because there was a point in the not so distant past that the waiter would just bring a new basket if he was coming anywhere near the vicinity of our table. This time, I had three biscuits, and was thrilled I was able to stop at that. I mean, really, I've had three BASKETS of those things before by myself. That's definitely a victory in my book.

But Red Lobster also houses two great weaknesses of mine in impeccable form: the Caesar salad and shrimp (not together though.)

What wrong with Caesar salad, you might ask. I mean, after all, it is a salad, right? Yes, it is a salad. However, it is a salad that houses at the very least seven points, and you know they aren't going to err on the side of "least" at Red Lobster. That's just way too many points for me to spend on a salad before my meal. So I abstained. The hubs, however, did not. I tried my best to remember that I loved him dearly as I sat there salivating over that delectable looking salad. Instead I stuck to my garden salad, with red french dressing on the side, which I dipped my salad into. Only ended up using a tiny bit out of the cup, and I felt victorious. DING! Round 1 is over, and the score is Fat Chick 1, Satan 0!

When it came to the entree, however, I did not practice restraint. You see, I've been having a torrid love affair with shrimp for years. I love shrimp in nearly every possible scenario. So much so that I have quite honestly earned my nickname of "Bubba Gump." And much like dear Bubba, few things get me as excited as the possibilities of shrimp.

So I ordered the shrimp trio, which has butterfly shrimp, shrimp scampi, and coconut shrimp bites. I got a baked potato with it, butter only. I was almost giddy with the anticipation of my shrimp. I kept craning my neck around to see if I could see the waiter, and if I did, I was trying to determine whether or not he had my shrimp with him. Finally, the food made it's way to our table, and I swear I think I almost dislocated the waiter's wrist trying to get my plate away from him. I ate with more abandon than a death row inmate being fed his last meal. DING! Round 2 is over. Fat Chick 1, Satan 1.

I passed on dessert, and me and the hubs headed out to the car. We still had plenty of time before our movie was supposed to start, so he wanted to go to Barnes and Noble. And here is where it gets interesting.

You see, our Barnes and Noble has a Starbucks inside, and I plan on one day blowing the whistle on those evil little baristas. I know that they are putting crack in their coffee drinks, and that's why they've become such a phenomenon. There is simply no other explanation for the depth of addiction I have developed to those blessed lattes. So I went to the counter and ordered my usual, which in and of itself is the measure of a true addict. It went a little something like this:

"I'll have a venti iced Chai Latte with no ice, nonfat milk, no whip please."

Now I know what you are thinking. Why order an iced Chai Latte with no ice? Because the ice takes up space, and all I care about is that it's chilled. Without the ice, I get even more latte. Yep, that's what I thought. Now you know that I'm an addict.

Fat Chick 1, Satan 2

After inhaling my latte and perusing the books for a little while, we left to go to our movie. We watch A Haunting in Connecticut, which was a really good movie. My tummy was full from all that cheddar biscuit, shrimpy, chai latte goodness, so I was able to watch the movie all curled up to the hubs in a total state of bliss.

When the movie ended, and we exited our theater, I was hit with the overwhelming urge to NOT go home. I looked up at the hubs and said, "Hey, why don't we catch another movie?" He was pretty quick to agree, so we bought tickets to see Last House on the Left.

We had a good 20 minutes to kill, so the hubs went to the game room to play Galaga, and I stood by and watched him. But only evil can come out of lingering in a movie theater's lobby for too long.

I was hit with an overwhelming urge to hold up the concession stand. I had visions of myself jumping up on the counter with a gun and demanding that they give me one of everything they sell so that no one will be harmed. I love movie concession stand food. The chocolate candy in the oversized packages. The nachos with hot melty cheese on them. The super-duper buttery popcorn that proves to me that there is a God and He loves us very much. The tubs of soda. I love it all.

I quickly whipped out my cell phone and texted one of my Weight Watchers buddy. This was a dire situation, and I needed someone to talk me down from the ledge. I asked her to please tell me what would be the lowest point item that I could possibly obtain from the concession stand. She texted me back that she figured it would be a kid's size or small popcorn with no butter. But that was still going to cost me points, and I was agonizing over what to do, what to do?

I walked up to the concession stand, and with every ounce of energy I had in my body, I made the following statement to the teenage boy behind the counter: "A large Diet Coke and one energy drink please." (Energy drink was for the hubs.)

What? Are you freakin' serious? I just walked up to the concession counter, bought something, and only walked away with a Diet Coke? That never happens! I always eat something at the movie theater, even if I just finished dinner 10 minutes before arriving there. But not this time. This time, it was Diet Coke only, and I felt like I had just climbed Mount Everest. I wanted to jump up in front of the screen in our theater and announce to everyone my victory.

Fat Chick 2, Satan 2

So after that movie ended, we headed home. I was still on a high from my victory at the movie theater that I couldn't sleep. I sat down at the computer and logged in all of my food from the date, and stared at the screen with my jaw in my lap. With all of my sins from Red Lobster and Starbucks, I only went over my daily points by 9, and I had more than enough weekly points to cover that. No point apocalypse like I was expecting.

Fat Chick 3, Satan 2

Now, the big challenge that looms ahead is my weigh in on Wednesday. That will be the true measure of who has won this battle.

However, I want to end this post by going back to the reason for this little soiree: my husband. It's been six years that we've been married, and 8 1/2 years together. I love him truly, madly, deeply. He loved me as much at 270 pounds as he does now at 230. He has never made me feel unattractive and he always made me feel like I deserve the best. He's wonderful, even if I do bitch about him from time to time.

He's my soulmate and my teammate. And I'm looking forward to many, many years with him.

Happy Anniversary, honey.

If the pants fit...

2009-03-30T02:15:00.003-04:00

Sorry for my absence over the past few days. It's been a whirlwind and this is the first real chance that I've gotten to sit down at the computer to do this.

I had another weigh in on Wednesday. I was down 0.6 which brings the weight loss total to 38.4 pounds. I know that 0.6 is not a huge loss by any means, but it definitely beats gaining that much, and I'm just happy that the scale is finally moving in the right direction.

On the heels of that wonderful occasion, my order from the Old Navy website came in Thursday. When I got home from class that night, I decided to get the stuff out of the package and try it all on to see how it looks.

Let me pause here for a moment and give some props to Old Navy. I don't know if any of you are aware of this, but Old Navy has a Women's Plus section online. They sell clothes in that section up to a size 30, and they are definitely NOT old lady clothes like we usually get stuck with at the Wal-mart or the K-mart. They are cute and sexy. And, since you can't return or exchange your merchandise in the store, you can print off a postage paid label to send it back to them if it doesn't work out. Totally awesome. So you should check out www.oldnavy.com as soon as you finish reading this.

Anyway, back to my brand spanking new clothing. I ordered a swimsuit, a pair of pants, and three shirts. Before starting Weight Watchers, I was in a size 26 pants. For Christmas, my mom bought me a pair of size 22 jeans, and they fit at that point. Now, they're starting to get loose, but they're not falling off as I walk through the house the way my 24's do. I ordered my pants from Old Navy in a 22, and the tops and swimsuit were all 2x's.

I tried the swimsuit on first, because I figured that it was going to be the biggest disappointment, so I'd get it out of the way to begin with so that the rest of my awesome clothing could lift my spirits. I slipped into the swimsuit with my back turned to the mirror. I adjusted the straps, took a deep breath, then turned around. OH MY GOD! It looked FABULOUS! It showed just the right amount of cleavage to be sexy but not slutty. It hit my legs in just the right spot to make my legs look slimmer. And it has a mesh lining inside the whole suit that must be made of some space age material, because it sucked everything in.

I have never, ever, ever liked shopping for a swimsuit. Now, I can't wait to order more from Old Navy. I go to the beach the last week of June. I'm betting that I'll end up having a different bathing suit for each of the seven days we'll be there. I love it beyond description!

Riding on the back of that glee, I grab the pants and one of the shirts I had bought. I slip the pants on and button them, then quickly slip into the shirt. The shirt looked fabulous and was very beautiful. The pants, however, were a different story.

They were too big!

I was so excited I went running into the living room to show my husband, who couldn't understand why in the world I was so excited that I had bought something that I was going to have to return. He couldn't understand the excitement that comes with trying on a size that is supposed to fit, then realizing that it needs to be smaller.

I quickly tried on the other shirts, and found them to be good. I might have been able to wear the next smallest size in them, but they weren't really baggy, so to avoid muffin-topping or having it cling to all the wrong places, I decided to keep the size I have.

The next day was going to be an errand running day, so I decided that before I sent my pants back to Old Navy to exchange them for a smaller size, I would run in the local store and try on a pair of pants. See, our local Old Navy carries up to a size 20 in their store. So I figured that instead of sending back the pants and exchanging them for a 20 only to have those be too small, I'd go in and see how it worked first.

I didn't see the pants that I have in the store, and realized that since it was a Women's Plus item, which are only carried online, they probably didn't have that style for the skinny girls. I decided to try on a pair of jeans instead, and I got a size 20 in the "Sweetheart Fit" jeans, and went to the dressing room.

I quickly disrobed and stepped into the jeans. I pulled them up, buttoned them and zipped them. Without trouble. Without sucking anything in first.

OH MY GOD!!! I was wearing a size 20. In Old Navy!

I went into that store with no intentions of buying anything. I was merely planning on seeing what size I needed in order to exchange my size 22 pants. But as I stood there turning this way and that, looking at my size 20 jean clad reflection, one thought kept running over and over in my mind.

There is no way on this earth that I am leaving here today without these jeans.

I begrudgingly put my old jeans back on and took the new ones to the counter and checked out. I had never been so happy to spend $29.50 in my entire life. The cashier kept looking at me funny, and I know I must have looked like either a maniac or mental patient, because I had this huge permagrin plastered to my face.

I didn't care that they watched me as I left to make sure I wasn't attempting to steal anything. I just bought clothes for my own body that actually fit in the Old Navy store.

So I came home and rushed through the door, totally bursting at the seams. My husband seemed happy for me, but he was definitely giving me that "Should I get ready to have you committed?" look. I ran to my bedroom to put the jeans on with my new shirts to see how they looked. Fan-freakin-tastic is exactly how they looked. I paraded each new shirt with the new size 20 jeans in to show my husband. He just smiled and nodded. I know that he was humoring me, because he had just seen these shirts the night before, and it wasn't like the new size 20 jeans suddenly transformed the shirts in any way. I was just so ecstatic that I wanted to run around the entire neighborhood, knocking on doors and saying, "You see these jeans? They are three sizes smaller than I was wearing 10 months ago."

Now, I'm super anxious to go shopping again. I want to try on every size 20 in the world to see if they fit, or if this was just a fluke. What if some other fat chick had already tried them on before me and stretched them out? But on the off chance that it was just a fluke, I want to clad my fat ass with as many size 20 pants as I can possibly find. I want to wear my pants inside out so that everyone can see the label. I have even briefly entertained the thought of having a t-shirt made the says "I've lost three pant sizes!" I want to wear those jeans every day. I want to eat in them. I want to sleep in them. I want to live every moment of my life in those blessed size 20's.

But alas, I cannot. They are, after all, only one pair of pants. But that's okay. I plan to get many more in that size, and smaller than that too. I cannot even begin to imagine what kind of a ruckus I'll cause when I get into an 18. I'll probably pass out or end up having to buy the size 18 pants because I got so excited that I peed them.

But for now, I'm proud of the 20. And anyone who enters my master bathroom will know how proud I am. You know that little sticker that they put on the leg of the pants to tell you the size while they're folded up in neat little stacks? Yeah, that sticker is prominently displayed on my bathroom mirror!

The Food Police

2009-03-20T02:04:00.003-04:00

Since I started Weight Watchers, I have heard so many people say that they haven't told any of their family or friends that they have joined. Their rationale is that they don't want everyone breathing down their neck about their progress. I could never really understand how someone could vow to make a lifetime change in their eating habits and not tell those around them. It's so much easier to have your family know, so that they can look out for you on holidays and family gatherings, making sure that there are good options for you and your weight loss program.

But I now know the real reason why they don't want to tell their friends and family. They are afraid of the Food Police.

Members of the Food Police can be anyone. You may not even realize that a person is a Food Police officer until a sticky situation arises and their true colors shine through. Food Police officers could be your spouse, your parent, your child or your best friend. You never quite know who they are or when they're going to strike.

Food Police officers make it their duty to call you on any questionable food decision you make. Having a piece of cake? Pull over to the side of the road ma'am. Eating full fat dressing on your salad? Can I see your license and registration? Having seconds of something at dinner? Could you please step out of the vehicle?

You see, for reasons no one can quite put their finger on, these Food Police officers have made it their mission in life to make sure that you succeed in your weight loss goals. Oh, they won't be there to walk beside you on the treadmill or run in the mornings with you. They won't spot you on the weight bench, and they definitely won't go to step aerobics with you. But they will call into question any morsel of food that goes in your mouth that was not grown in a garden somewhere.

Some people don't realize how the Weight Watchers plan works. It's not about deprivation and only eating certain foods. If you want cake on Weight Watchers, you have the stinkin' cake, count your points for it, and move on. The plan works so much better than its other counterparts because of the daily living factor. This is a plan that you could see making a part of your daily routine for the rest of your life. A lot of people don't understand how you can be dieting and still have a piece of cake. It totally blows their minds.

I would like to say that ignorance of how the plan works is what creates Food Police officers, but that's simply not the case. You can tell these people all about the plan until you feel like a personal spokesman for Weight Watchers, and it doesn't make a bit of difference. In fact, they will change their tactics to reflect that they have some knowledge of the program, such as "How many points is that ice cream sandwich?"

It may be a little easier taking a shaming from the Food Police if these people were shining examples of healthy living. More often than not, though, this is not the case. These are the people who will berate you for taking a slice of case that is about one eighth the size of the chunk on their own plate. Or they will call into question your desire to have a margarita after they've just inhaled four beers. Sometimes, they shame you for ordering fries at the drive thru, while eating a double cheeseburger, a super sized fries, a full sugar drink and an order of chicken nuggets.

So what makes someone a Food Police officer? It's hard to say. Some people think that it's because they feel threatened by your own weight loss process. Others think that it happens because they don't want to be the only person not losing weight. Perhaps it's because they're just mean, vicious people. No one really knows for certain.

It's hard to have anyone call your eating habits into question when you're overweight. It's even harder to handle it when it's coming from someone who is just as bad off, if not worse, than you are. You want to grab the closest mirror, hold it up in front of them, and scream "Take your own advice!" But much like the cop who writes tickets all day long for speeding, then hops in his car and goes 75 mph all the way home, these Food Police officers adhere to a strict policy of "Do as I say, not as I do." Or as one officer told me, "Well, I'm not the one trying to lose weight."

So when you happen upon a Food Police officer who calls into question what you are about to eat, close your eyes and slowly count to ten. Then open your eyes, fix them right on the officer and say as firmly as you can, "I've lost x amount of pounds doing this program. I know how to do it. I know what I'm doing. Now back the hell off."

And if that doesn't work, just kick them in the shins and use your new, svelte body to run like hell.

Looking my fears in the face and flipping them the bird

2009-03-19T01:37:00.004-04:00

After two weeks worth of gains, I finally had a loss tonight. I'm down 1.4 pounds, bringing the official overall weight loss total (taking gains into account) to 38.4 pounds.

I was so nervous about my weigh in today, because those gains had really begun to psych me out. I've never really been the type of person who loved exercise. I loved sports, and I loved dance. But to walk on a treadmill just for the sake of fitness? Hell no! I felt like a hamster on a wheel. Why on earth would I want to do that?

But now, I've morphed into a person I hardly recognize. I'm swimming laps or hill climbing on a treadmill after working twelve hours. I'm scheduling my days off around what activities I'm planning on doing that day. I don't feel right on the days I don't get to go to the YMCA. I go all day long feeling like my day is lacking something. It's a really weird experience for me.

Anyway, back to the reason I was nervous about my weigh in. I kept at it with the activity this week, but in the back of my mind, I had this little nagging worry that I would step on that scale and see a gain again. I was terrified of it happening. I had already seen my 40.8 pound loss whittled away to a 37 pound loss. I didn't want that number falling any lower.

I honestly think that my biggest fear after having gained while increasing my activity level so dramatically was that it would be the beginning of the end. The end, of course, being the end of losing weight. I was so terrified that I would continue to gain until I just said, "Forget it. I'm working my tail off and I keep gaining. Let's go on a binge spree!" Because that's the point I've gotten to a million times before, and that's what always happens.

After that last gain, I decided that I was going to fight back, and I wasn't going to slack up on going to the Y, playing my Wii, and following the Weight Watchers plan. Oh trust me, there were plenty of times that I wanted to. I looked at two forlorn boxes of cake mix in my pantry and thought about baking them both, frosting them, and eating them in the dark while my family slept. My mind was filled with visions of pepperoni and bacon pizza, chimichangas, penne rustica, and desserts so sinful you should go to confession after eating them. I wanted to shove my fat face full of every calorie I could get my hands on. I was on the verge of calling up the Guinness people to ask them what the world record for calorie consumption in a day was, just so that I could make an attempt at breaking it.

But then, something in my brain just clicked. It was a really simple concept, and now that I think about it, it's so simple that a first grader with any type of deductive reasoning skills could get it. Exactly what was I going to accomplish by binging? Does it really make sense to say that because I gained weight after working my ass off that I was going to binge, which would make me gain weight, which would only worsen the situation I was upset about in the first place? Wouldn't it make more sense to have a "don't get mad, get even" attitude and fight back with even more activity?

All of a sudden, I felt this indescribable feeling wash over me. I did it. I reasoned my way out of a potential emotional binge.

To most people, this wouldn't seem like a celebratory event. I mean, come on, we reason our way out of doing stupid things everyday, right? But to a fat chick, it's huge. In our minds, the binge is always justifiable. We can find 365 justifications for eating anything that's not nailed down, and we will use those justifications, too. I distinctly remember getting mad at my mother-in-law on my last birthday because we were all supposed to go out to eat for my birthday, and she called us to say she "didn't feel like going" 10 minutes before we were supposed to leave our house. So I rounded up my husband and sons, got in the car, and drove to a Mexican restaurant, where I proceeded to not only work my way through an order of cheese dip and two baskets of chips, but I had a cheese laden dish and a dessert chimichanga as well. Not a proud moment on my part, but I felt vindicated. Take that, mother-in-law! You ruined my birthday, so I took my family out and stuffed myself one spoonful shy of puking. How do you like that?

Looking back now, it doesn't make any sense. But at the time, it was all perfectly reasonable in my mind.

So to be able to stand in the face of such a weight loss disappointment, have those fantasies about binging, and not give in to them was huge. I pressed forward and kept on doing what I knew I needed to. My mantra had become, "Sooner or later, the tide has to turn."

So I swam. And walked. And Wiied. And did a dance class. And you know what? It paid off! 1.4 isn't a mind-boggling loss by any means. But it sounds like heaven to me right now.

So fat fears, here is your one finger salute. Now get the hell out of here. There's a skinny girl in here somewhere, and I'm hellbent on letting her out!

When family visits attack

2009-03-16T02:25:00.002-04:00

I love my family. I really and truly do. It kills me that they are all a minimum of a four hour drive away from me. And when I really get homesick, the best thing in the world is to get a call from them saying that they are coming to visit.

However, that leads into the flip side of the coin...eating once they get here.

I don't have a huge place, and we eat dinner in the living room for lack of a better option. So when my family comes to visit, we usually go out to eat simply because there isn't a ton of room for everyone to eat. Also because my dad is the pickiest eater to ever grace this earth. I mean, seriously, a man who doesn't eat cheese? Do you have any idea how many foods that rules out?

So when my parents called to say that they were coming to visit this past weekend, I got really excited. I've been really homesick and really wanted to see them. But I immediately started thinking about plans regarding where to eat out.

After my parents assuring me that they were going to stop for dinner before arriving to my house on Saturday night, and that they were going to leave on Monday afternoon, I figured that all I needed to do was make plans for Sunday. If I could get Sunday handled, I'd be in the clear.

Much like a fat chick, there are few things that my father loves more than a buffet. For some unknown reason, he's just drawn to them. Maybe it's that he can pick and choose what he likes and build his own finicky meal that way. Maybe it's because it's mostly down home comfort foods. Maybe it's just that he can eat to the point of having to unbutton his pants for $9.99. At any rate, this man is a buffet aficionado.

So I figured that on Sunday, we would eat at Golden Corral. Which is fine with me, because I mastered the Weight Watchers buffet attack plan months ago. First, I make plates for both of my sons, which gives me time to scope out the offerings. Then, I make myself a salad, going easy on the high point stuff. The salad takes the edge off my appetite so that when I get to the hot food, I'm not turned into a ravenous eating machine that fills my plate to the point of overflowing. I put things on my plate that I know are not high point foods. Then, if I'm still hungry, I allow myself to go back and get small servings of the no-no foods. That way, if I get those foods last, the chances that I'll be able to hold them are slim to none.

So when my parents got back to my house from church on Sunday, I asked my dad if he wanted to go out to eat for lunch, or if he wanted to stay at home and eat something. Of course, per usual, he wanted to go out to eat, and he wanted lunch to be the "big meal." I was poised for a Sunday lunch visit to Golden Corral. I could practically taste the sizzling steak fresh from the grill.

Then I heard my father say, "I don't want to go all the way into town. Let's eat somewhere close by."

I am not a person who likes to be rattled. I like it when I know how things are going to go and what to expect. My brain scrambled to come up with a place nearby that would both satisfy my dad and keep me from blowing my whole daily points allowance at one meal.

My dad suggested a country cooking restaurant, and much to my horror, I heard myself say, "We could try it." We could try it? I doubted that there was anything on the menu that wouldn't make my arteries scream for mercy. My mind was reeling, and I was desperately trying to reach out and grab a thought, hoping for a suggestion that would save the day.

"How about the Captain's Galley?" I heard myself spit out, without even knowing the words were coming.

"What's that?" my dad asked, and I knew that there was a distinct possibility that I could sway him in my direction.

"It's a seafood place, but they have steaks and chicken and pasta and lots of other stuff," I hurriedly answered, hoping for the gods to shine upon me.

"Let's go there," dad said, and the angels rejoiced.

So for lunch that day, I had a great dinner of broiled Canadian flounder, baked potato, and a minimal amount of the heavenly hush puppies that they sit on the table in huge bowls and refill until you're about to pop.

With lunch behind us, I had to turn my thoughts to dinner. I knew that my dad would not let me cook anything for him that evening, but I also knew that we would have to eat again at some point. Not really knowing which way his tendencies would lean, I was at a loss for a plan.

Later that evening, we all started getting hungry again. I asked the question once more, again dreading the answer I would receive. "Where would you like to eat?"

His reply, "How about just picking up something at a drive-thru?"

And once again, the angels rejoiced.

See, I've mastered the drive-thru. I know what items I can eat without guilt from all of the Big Ones. I asked Dad and Mom what they wanted, took my orders, and headed out to pick it all up. I went to Taco Bell and picked up a Zesty Chicken Border Bowl (no dressing) and a couple of crunchy tacos. Very satisfying, very filling, and very points friendly.

I'm happy to report that I ate out twice with my parents, and only went 3.5 over my daily points.

Can you hear the angels? "HAAAALAAAAAALLLUUUUJAAAHHHH!"

Wii, Wii, Wii...all the way home.

2009-03-14T23:51:00.003-04:00

I remember the first time I ever saw it. I was sitting on the couch watching American Idol. Then the commercial came on with these two Asian men knocking on someones door and proclaiming, "We would like to play." Then, they introduced me and the rest of the world to the Wii.

And thus, my new obsession was born.

I have lusted after the Wii since it first came onto the market. I would love to say that my desire to possess one is fueled by the fact that I can actually burn calories playing a video game, or that all of the workout accessories, like the WiiFit, would greatly enhance my exercise program.

But the truth of the matter is that I want one because it's looks so freakin' fun to play.

I have been telling myself for a long time that I had to earn the Wii. I didn't want to just run out and buy one willy nilly. It was the holy grail for me, and I needed to do something to earn it besides forking over the debit card at Best Buy.

I finally said that when I got to the point that I had made exercise a part of my daily routine, then I would believe that I had sufficiently changed my very core character, and thus would earn that sweet bit of salvation granted to us by the video game gods and goddesses.

Well, my friends, that day finally came. On Wednesday, March 11, 2009, I bought my Wii.

I will admit without an ounce of shame that I knew that me and my husband were going to get it, and we sent the kids to my in-laws' house for the night. While they mistakenly thought that they were merely spending some quality time with Poppy and MeMaw, me and my husband were at home alone, acting like kids instead of like parents.

We bowled. We played baseball. We played tennis. We took the fitness test and laughed until we cried when we realized that both of our fitness ages would most definitely qualify us for Medicare. We trash talked each other, with my husband trying to "show me how it's done." I dubbed him Captain Coordination after his feeble attempts to play tennis by just swinging the racket back and forth as quickly as possible, as if he were going to fan the ball back over the net.

I've got to be honest. I was the teeniest bit sad to see the kids come back home.

I didn't realize until the next morning exactly what a dual blessing this Wii was. I had no doubt in my mind that it was going to be more fun than a game of drunk water polo. I knew that it was superior to all the other video game systems on the market in that it forced you to get off your butt and work more than your thumbs and eye muscles. However, I was not prepared for the tenseness I would feel in my arms. It wasn't anything that required medication, but I definitely could tell that my biceps and triceps had been awakened from their blissful slumber.

Now, I was undeniably hooked.

Take today for instance. I had my nursing school clinicals from 6:30 am to 6:30pm. For someone who has trouble sleeping during normal human hours, this is akin to Chinese water torture. However, I had my eye on the prize. As I struggled through a day of learning about reading cardiac telemetry strips and assessing abnormal lung sounds in pulmonary patients, there was only one thought that gave me the determination to plod forward. When I get home, I can play my Wii. I made it through the day, and I came through the door looking for that sweet little white remote that springs to action the sports games that I love so much.

To say that I'm smitten would be a total understatement. If a band of armed robbers were to break into my house, shove a gun into my face and say, "Your husband or your Wii," I would definitely have to take a moment to reflect on which one has brought more joy into my life. And the Wii has never hurt my feelings or made me cry. Definitely something to ponder.

I would love to meet the creative genius who came up with such an awe-inspiring game system. To marry the concepts of video gaming and physical exertion in such a manner that you don't realize that you've worked any muscles until the next day, well, there ought to be a Nobel prize for that kind of mental superiority.

I'm in love. Head over heels, birds suddenly appearing, cupid shooting arrows at my ass, fireworks, and every other cliche you've ever heard. If marriage between humans and electronic equipment were legalized, I might very well have to divorce my husband. Because the Wii definitely doesn't snore, and I'd be willing to bet that it doesn't fart while biting it's nails either.

When It Just Isn't Enough

2009-03-12T01:37:00.003-04:00

Today, I went to Chuck E. Cheese with my family before my weight in. I ordered the salad bar, and had two slices of cheese pizza with my salad. I drank water, and had what I thought was a reasonable meal. Then at 5:00, I went to my weigh in.

I gained two pounds this week.

When the receptionist gave me that little sticker, and I saw that +2 on it, it took everything I had not to burst into tears standing there.

I am the girl who absolutely loathed exercise. I always joked about how I don't run unless something's chasing me, and even then, it had better pose a large amount of harm to me, or I'm still not running. My idea of a workout was parking at the other end of the parking lot. I've never been a gym junkie, and I was perfeectly happy that way.

But I've made a complete turn around lately. Since joining the YMCA a couple of weeks ago, I've made exercise a part of my daily routine. I actually feel cheated if I miss a day. Before I lay down to sleep each day, I have already planned out my activity for the next day. Slowly, but surely, I'm turning into the one thing I swore I would never be...an exercise freak.

My poison of choice lately has been swimming. I absolutely love it, and the thought of getting in that pool and giving it all I've got makes me all giddy. I relish in the feel of kicking off the wall, and love the burn that I feel when I pause to catch my breath. Once upon a time, the smell of a pizza, the taste of warm chocolate chip cookies, and the feel of the taco seasoning burning on my tongue were the sensations that brought me the most comfort. Lately, though, those have been replaced by the smell of chlorine, the burn in my arms and thighs, and the feeling of my body slicing through the water. Swimming has brought me such immense pride in myself and an overwhelming feeling of calm. It's a totally zen experience for me, and when my body lifts out of that water to exit the pool, I have a smile on my face, because I know that I've pushed my body to its limits and that little chunk of time that I was in the water feels like a mental vacation. It's just me, the water, and my breathing.

Then today, with that one little number with that unholy plus sign in front of it has made me question the very thing that I have grown to love so deeply.

I talked with my leader after I stepped away from the scale, and she asked me if I felt sore. I told her that my thighs, my arms, and my shoulders do feel sore, and have been sore for a while. She explained to me that when someone who has never worked out like me starts such a strict regimen of exercise, the muscles retain water to cope with the damage, because in order to build muscle, it first has to undergo a great physical strain. We also discussed the fact that I ate my Chuck E. Cheese meal just a couple of hours before my weigh-in, and I usually work the night before my weigh in day, so I usually don't eat anything for five or more hours before my weigh-in. She encouraged me to continue the activity and to not give up.

I'm not going to give up. No way in hell. But that doesn't mean that I'm no discouraged.

My head knows that there are valid reasons why I gained that weight. I've studied anatomy and physiology, and I know how the body works. My brain says that it's okay, but my heart is a little more reluctant to move on. I have cried so hard this evening, and I've been so incredibly disappointed. I could have handled a little gain. A 0.5 or even a full pound I could have rationalized away. But two pounds? It feels like a kick in the gut. I feel as if my heart has been stomped on and the breath has been stolen from my lungs. My brain is looking at the science behind it, but my heart just cries out, "I've worked too damn hard to gain two pounds!"

So here I sit, trying to stop the tears and put the anger into it. I know that when I get to the Y tomorrow I'll put that frustration into my workout. But right now, my ego is bruised and I'm questioning everything about this entire process.

It's amazing how in the span of five months I gained forty pounds without even feeling the teensiest bit guilty until I decided to join Weight Watchers and saw what my start weight was. But a two pound gain has me crying like somebody I love just died. It really doesn't make sense to be this upset over it, and once again, my brain knows this. But my heart is a little slower to learn.

So tomorrow, it gets personal. I'm going to be back at the Y to work out, and I'm going to fight like I've never fought before. When I think about slacking off, that two pounds is going to jump to mind, and I'm going to pick the pace up again. I'm going to use this setback as the motivation to power through it.

Next Wednesday, March 18, 2009. I'm going to look that two pounds in the face, smirk, and give it a double middle finger salute.

The Fear of the Unknown

2009-03-11T01:27:00.003-04:00

There was once upon a time when I looked upon special events fondly. Especially those that revolved around food. Birthday dinners out had me rubbing my hands together in anticipation. Family reunions filled me with an inordinate amount of glee. Thanksgiving and Christmas? Well, let's just say that the pleasure I experienced at the thoughts of those holiday meals can only be rivaled by antics that occur behind closed bedroom doors. Special events with food were better than a birthday card with money inside.

Things change, though, when you start trying to lose weight. The smallest events that loom ahead can cause even the most disciplined of us to break out into a cold sweat and search the corners of our minds for some valid excuse to bail out of the whole thing.

Thus, I find myself in the throes of a predicament. We're taking my son, Logan, out to Chuck E. Cheese tomorrow at 1pm for a reward meal. And tomorrow, at 5:30pm...is my weigh-in at Weight Watchers.

The only defense I can offer up for scheduling the event on the same day as my weigh in is that I must be slipping into the early stages of Alzheimer's. Before you know it, I'll be sitting in a wheelchair in a nursing home somewhere, talking to my imaginary friend and painting the walls with my own poo.

So much suspense has built up around my house for this trip, that there is no way that I could postpone it for another day. Well, I suppose I could but the mental warfare tactics of two preschoolers would be too harsh a punishment to bear.

So it's off to Chuck E. Cheese I will go tomorrow, a few mere hours separating me from the meal there and my appointment with the scale.

We have a very great Chuck E. Cheese here. They have an incredible salad bar that is always very well stocked and very fresh. It's hardly used, because who would want a salad when there's so much yummy pizza and breadsticks to be had? So I have planned to order the salad bar for myself, and give myself a two slice limit on the pizza. I'm hoping that I can be strong enough to shun the pizza altogether, but come on, who are we talking about here? I'm not freaking Stonewall Jackson. We all know I'm going to be dipping into that pizza. I can only hope that the threat of a weigh in a few hours later can keep me sane, thus thwarting me from picking up the whole tray and diving in.

This happens quite often now. Events that I used to look forward to with a delicious sense of anticipation now strike fear into my heart. Vacations send me into a panic, and I end up packing more food to take with me than clothing. When a holiday meal looms heavy in the future, I'm on the computer searching low point recipes to make and take with me so fast and furious that I'm quite certain I've worn my fingerprints into the keyboard. And birthday parties? My only defense is to sleep as late as I possibly can, so that I simply won't have time to eat anything before I get there.

Weight Watchers has a great little feature that they thoughtfully added into the program for just such occasions. You have 35 extra points per week, and you can earn more points for doing certain types of activity. Those points only stretch so far, though, if you spend 68 points on Thanksgiving dinner like I did this year. Quandaries such as these are what those of us who are attempting to make ourselves smaller people dread. How in the world are we supposed to stay the course of our weight loss plan, when dear, sweet Aunt Bessie is standing there telling you that you look so thin that one piece of her Double Decadent Chocolate Mousse cake with strawberries won't hurt you? What we don't dare tell Aunt Bessie is that we don't want a piece of her cake. We want to wretch it from her frail wrinkly hands, run at breakneck speed to hide in the closet and devour every decadent morsel without the benefit of such extravagances as eating utensils or breathing.

There's only so much you can do about upcoming events that have the potential to totally wreck your points budget.

1) You can plan what you're going to eat based on what you know or are pretty sure will be available. This, of course, hinges on your ability to go up to the buffet that your father-in-law insisted on having his birthday dinner at, and fill your plate with the grilled chicken and veggies you planned on versus the fried shrimp, tacos and lasagna you really want.

2) You can do some clever point arranging. For example, I currently get 35 points per day. If I eat very few points throughout the remainder of the day and have any weekly or activity points that I can use, I can often manage a dinner out somewhere without an extraordinary amount of effort. On the flip side, though, if you go out to a restaurant for dinner having used all but 10 of your daily points, only have 5 weekly points left, and the most activity you've gotten that week was breaking out into a sweat because you couldn't find the remote control, then you're not going to do so well once you get to the restaurant.

3) If you have a complete relapse and find yourself shoveling in fatty foods so quickly that you fear you might actually gnaw one of your own fingers off, there is still hope that you can recoup that terrible eating day. Watch yourself closely on the rest of the days until your weigh in, get in as much activity as possible, and hit your knees every night and attempt to strike a deal with God.

As for me, I'm hoping that our excursion to Chuck E. Cheese will not totally kill my weigh-in. I plan to hit the salad bar, keep the pizza consumption to a minimum, and try to avoid eating anything high in points before we go. I've also had my husband make a solemn vow to me that once I grab for that second slice of pizza, he will lean over and tell the whirlwind that is masquerading as my three year old son that it's time to play games now. That will get me away from the food if nothing else does.

So, now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord, I will not eat. Please keep my plans from going south, and put your loving hand firmly over my mouth. If I binge before I weigh, it'll result in a price I cannot pay. So salad is good, and pizza is bad. Please Lord give me more control than I've ever had.

Amen!

Out of the Closet

2009-03-09T03:09:00.006-04:00

The closet. It seems a safe enough place, right? I mean, most people don't even consider it a room in their house. It's merely an afterthought. Just a place to store things that need to hang up or other items that need to be put away.

However, if you were to peek inside the closet of a fat chick, you would realize that there's much more to the story.

The closet of a fat chick is divided into three very specific categories. First, there's the clothing that you wear. Second, there's the clothing that you can no longer wear, but know deep in your heart that if you skipped a few breakfasts and walked to the mailbox a couple of times you could squeeze into. The third and final section is the clothing that we know that we will probably never ever fit into again, but are too emotionally attached to throw out.

Recently, every event that calls for me to put on clothing other than pajamas presents the same quandary. Nothing fits. Now, I'm no stranger to this predicament, but I'm used to it going in the opposite direction. Usually, I'm lying on the bed, holding my breath until I'm purple, and attempting to use Jedi mind tricks on the zipper to get it to close.

However, that's not the case anymore. Now I'm faced with the fact that nearly everything I own is too big. I have jeans that I can literally take off and put back on without ever unbuttoning or unzipping them. I have actually lost my scrub pants as I walked toward the front door on my way to work. Most days, I look like a little kid wearing her mommy's clothes.

Before I started losing weight, I was definitely under the impression that bigger, looser clothing could hide all my little sins. Because, seriously, who could tell that I had eaten a whole half gallon of cookie dough ice cream under that 3x t-shirt? It was that reasoning that often led my to buy shirts that could have easily passed for a circus tent. It was also that reasoning that kept me wearing maternity tops that didn't obviously look like maternity tops, even though my youngest child was three years old.

However, since I've lost 14% of my body weight, I've come to realize something rather startling. When I wear really baggy clothes now, I look fatter than I really am. Could it be that this has been the truth all along, and I was tricking myself into believing that my food indiscretions were safe under the cover of enormous clothing? Or is it possible that I'm so proud of my shrinking body that I want to show it off now?

This line of thinking lead me to the events that occurred this evening at approximately 5:45 pm.

I was supposed to work third shift tonight at the hospital. I slept all day in preparation, and work up at 5pm to get ready to go perform my duties as the nurse extraordinaire. I had just walked into the bathroom when my husband knocked on the door. "Work called. They said that the census is down, and they won't need you tonight."

I love getting those calls. It means that I get to sit at home and still earn a paycheck. Life doesn't get too much better than that.

I skipped happily out of the bathroom and dove back under the covers. "That's great," I told my husband. "Because I'm still a little sleepy and I'm gonna go back to bed."

His reply was, "I was kind of hoping we could go out and do something tonight, since the boys are with my mom and dad."

It is indeed a rare occasion when we are able to go out and do something alone. I've been planning just such an occasion for a while now, but it had not come to fruition. "How about dinner and a movie?" I asked hopefully.

"Sounds great," said the hubs, and I bolted back out of bed, and went to look up show times.

We found a movie that we both wanted to see, and I had about 25 minutes to get ready. Since I had already showered early that morning, it would just require me brushing my teeth, getting dressed, and fixing my hair. Basically, all I had to do was make myself presentable.

I went into our bedroom and put on one of the three pairs of jeans that I own that I can depend on not to expose me to the general public. Then came the shirt. What to wear, what to wear?

The first article of clothing my eyes fell upon was a grey t-shirt emblazoned with the South Carolina state logo and an old-timey "Welcome to Myrtle Beach" sign. I love that shirt, but it is a 3x and is definitely more than just a little large on me. So that's out.

The next item I spied was a beautiful grey sweater that my mom and dad had bought me for Christmas. It's gorgeous, and it really fits me and looks good on me. "Uh, honey," I heard a tentative voice behind me call out. "It's seventy degrees outside. You're going to burn up in that." So that's out.

I picked up a royal blue t-shirt that my parents had brought me back from their recent cruise to the Bahamas. I hadn't worn it yet, and thought that maybe I'd give it a spin. But then the thought occurred to me that this would be the first night in months that me and my husband had been able to have a date night. I might want to wear something a little more becoming. So that was out.

Then, I spied it. What it was doing out of it's place in the "probably never again" section of my closet I'll never know. But it was lying there on a shelf, spotlighted, with a chorus of angels singing backup. My blue camo Abercrombie & Fitch ringer T.

You see, when I was a sophomore in college, I found The Shirt at the mall on a clearance rack. I had never actually shopped in Abercrombie before, because I just figured that none of their clothes would fit me. But it was okay. I was perfectly happy to go in there and drool over the dead sexy men that worked/shopped/romped there. But when I was there with one of my skinny friends, I came across The Shirt. It is two shades of dark blue camo, with a navy ringer collar. Nothing spectacular, but it was Abercrombie, it fit, and it was $7.99. Needless to say, The Shirt went home with me.

After that, me and The Shirt went everywhere together. We went to dance clubs, we went to karaoke bars, we went to frat parties. The Shirt and I even made a concert appearance together. Good times. Definitely good times.

But shortly after leaving college, The Shirt didn't fit anymore. I had so many fond memories that I couldn't let it go. That is why it moved from dorm to apartment to house to another house with me.

So I stood there in my bedroom, staring at The Shirt and wondering if it there was any possible way that I could fit into it without looking like a sausage. I bit my lower lip as my mind raced. I peeked around the room like someone about to commit a crime, and then I quickly jerked The Shirt on and turned around to face our huge mirror.

OhmygodohmygodohmygodOHMYGOD! It fit! It not only fit, but I thought it looked decent on! Holy crap! I can wear The Shirt again!

I gasped and squealed and jumped up and down. My husband came running into the room to see what was going on. I composed myself and said, "Honestly, you are in the cone of safety here. Does what I'm wearing look okay? Because if it doesn't, please don't let me walk out of the house in it."

Then he said the words every girl longs to hear. "It looks great on you."

Can I get a hallelujah?

So I wore The Shirt out tonight. Granted, it's used to seeing a lot more action than dinner at a Mexican restaurant and a movie. There wasn't even any alcohol involved. But I'm sure that The Shirt didn't care about any of that.

The Shirt was finally out of the closet, and I'm sure that's all it cared about.

Multiple Grocery Personalities

2009-03-07T22:36:00.006-05:00

Grocery shopping used to be a favorite past time for me. I would spend hours going up and down the aisles, drooling over this cake and that fried item, engrossing myself in elicit food fantasies that would make Jenna Jameson blush. My cart would overflow with pound cake slices, huge bags of Reese miniatures, BBQ potato chips and TGI Friday's frozen line. I would push my cart to the checkout line holding my breath and hoping that nothing would fall off before I got there. I would lie shamelessly to the clerk as she asked me what type of party I was throwing where I would serve all this food.

After joining Weight Watchers, the grocery store remained a favorite past time. I would go to the grocery store with my hand little points finder, and go up and down the aisles, calculating points to my heart's content. I was pleasantly surprised by some items, such as the fact that Honeycomb cereal only has only 2 points for a cup and a half of cereal, minus the milk. However, other items made me realize exactly why I was in those size 26 jeans. I mean, come on, who wouldn't think that Spinach Artichoke dip was a healthy food choice.

Now, after being in Weight Watchers for a little over nine months, I'm no longer the food slut paying a visit to the whorehouse, nor am I an overzealous new point tracker. The new me that has emerged, however, is even scarier than those two combined.

Usually, I do the grocery shopping by myself. Occasionally, my five year old will tag along, but he's too busy looking for the items that he wants to buy to notice what Mommy is doing. I am able to go to the grocery store without witnesses to my new behavior. Today was the exception to that rule.

With the kids tucked away at their grandparents' house, my husband decided he was going to go to the grocery store with me. This gave me a little tiny flutter, not unlike that feeling that a person gets right before he or she grabs their chest and collapses in the throes of a heart attack.

The whole way to the grocery store, I was giving myself a silent pep talk. It's okay. It will all be okay. He's seen you at your worst. He's watched you eat an entire pack of Double Stuff Oreo's, then go to the kitchen to start round two. This is fine. It's all okay.

We got to the grocery store, got our cart, and went inside. I have a strategy all mapped out when I do the shopping, and I always go to the same store and shop in the same pattern. This would be no exception. I took great comfort in the fact that I knew exactly where everything was, and that I knew exactly what I was coming for. The only other items that would find their way into my cart would be the little extras that my husband wanted.

We made our way up the first aisle, and I had my husband pick out the type of potato chips him and the boys might want. I calmly pushed my cart up to the area where my 97% fat free microwave popcorn always sits.

There was none there.

I dropped to my knees right there in front of the shelves and started rifling through all of the boxes of popcorn. How can there be none here? I mean, there has to be at least one box, right? Butter, extra butter, movie theater butter, butter, extra butter. WHERE IN THE HELL WAS MY 97% FAT FREE POPCORN?????

I looked back at my husband who was looking at me in what appeared to be a pretty even mixture of shock and disgust. Who was this woman, on her knees in a grocery store floor, repeating the phrase, "No, please, no, they have to have it here somewhere."

I took a deep breath and counted to ten. There are other grocery stores, and they all sell popcorn. It's okay. I can get it on another trip. There are at least five packets of popcorn in our kitchen. I could definitely make due with that.

I composed myself and walked on down the aisle calmly. I kept stealing glances at my husband, who appeared to be wondering if he had just hallucinated that entire event. I wasn't about to mention my miniature breakdown, and I would be perfectly happy letting him go on to believe that perhaps I had slipped some 'shrooms into his Dr. Pepper.

I turned the cart around the aisle and stopped at the place where the grocery store always keeps the Fiber One bars.

I didn't see any.

The freakout episode over the popcorn was nothing compared to the insanity that ensued. I was pushing boxes left and right, granola bars and Pop-Tarts raining down to the floor. As I was ankle deep in Nutrigrain bars, I spied a row of Fiber One bars at the other end of the shelves. There only appeared to be a few left. I jumped toward them. Literally. My feet honestly left the floor. I butt-bumped a perfect stranger out of the way as I grabbed two boxes of Oats 'n' Chocolate and a box of Oats 'n' Caramel. I really don't even care for the Oats 'n' Caramel, but I was getting them so that the other lady couldn't have them.

By this time, I knew that my husband was mentally reviewing a list of witnesses that he could call upon for my commitment hearing. I was running through the grocery store at break neck speed, trying to get all of my must-have food items before any of those other fat bitches took the food that was rightfully mine.

As we made our way toward the canned food and the meat section, my blood pressure had come back down, and I had returned to the woman that my husband knows and loves. He had even dared to initiate a conversation with me about what meals I had planned to cook the next week. It seemed that the storm was over.

That is, until we got to the produce section and I realized that they were completely out of bananas.

I stood there, staring at the empty display, sure that my eyes were failing me and that I was about to be stricken completely blind. I've never been to this particular store and not seen bananas. I looked around, as if I thought that the bananas had gone rogue and were hiding from me. Then I did what any insane woman would have done. I started crying. That's right, I stood in the middle of a grocery store on a Saturday evening and cried. Over bananas, or rather, the lack thereof.

My inner monologue was going a mile a minute, as I attempted to soothe myself with the idea that bananas hadn't gone away forever, and that if I looked hard enough, I might even be able to find some at another grocery store. The water works finally dried up, and I was able to pull myself together enough to finish the grocery shopping.

You see, food has always been a source of pleasure for me. Always. At one point in my life, if you had given me the choice between sex and a platter of cheese fries. I wouldn't have even hesitated. Cheese fries never disappoint, and I've always walked away from them completely satisfied.

Since joining Weight Watchers, food is still a source of pleasure, but with a twist. I take immense, indescribable pleasure from find foods that are large in portion size and small in points.
I honestly don't know if I had ever eaten Honeycomb in my life, but after seeing what a huge portion I got for two points, I panic if I'm only down to one box in my kitchen. So the tried and true items that I know are going to be filling and not kill the points budget I stock up on. I make sure that I have a never ending supply, so that I won't run out.

I don't know when I became so neurotic that I would crawl on the floor for 97% fat free popcorn or risk getting bitchslapped over some Fiber One bars. And I'm not entirely sure what the lady said to me in Spanish when I shooed her child away from the ice cream cooler so that I could get my low point ice cream sandwiches, but I'm pretty sure it wasn't complimentary.

I think it's pretty safe to say that from here on out, I'll be flying the grocery store mission solo. But that's fine with me. I figure that eventually, I'm going to need my husband at home to pool together bail money for me.

I Need a Spin Doctor

2009-03-06T23:54:00.003-05:00

Being a third shift worker, there comes a time (quite often actually) when the ability to sleep at normal human hours escapes me. When this happens, it's not uncommon for me to go to bed at 5 am. Well, this happened to me on Wednesday night/Thursday morning, which led into the ugly downward spiral I'm about to relate to you now.

Armed with my brand spanking new YMCA membership and an overzealous desire to get every cent worth of that monthly fee, I decided I would look at the group exercise schedule to see what was being offered on Thursday morning in the wee hours. Since I couldn't sleep anyway, I figured it would be the perfect time for me to try something new. I noticed that there was a 5:45 am spinning class being offered. I've never tried spinning and decided that I should give it a go.

I got there, and the instructor helped me bring out a bike and get it all set up. I got on the bike, and thought that the seat was a tad bit uncomfortable. She adjusted it, and it was the right height, but still just didn't feel quite right. I shifted around a bit and decided that it was probably just the fact that I wasn't pedalling yet. I gave the instructor the thumbs up, and she went to get everything ready for the class to begin.

I was a little shocked when I realized that I was one of the only three people taking this class. I know I am a zealous new YMCA member, but I expected more than three people, myself included, to be in this class. I also did not expect the other two members of the class to be 60 year old men. But they were. I thought to myself, "Dude, if these 60 year old men can do this, then I'll be great!"

The instructor came back out, and got on her bike and informed us that since we had recently gotten a small amount of snow, we were going to be doing our spinning to Christmas music. Excuse me? Christmas music in March? I don't really even like to hear Christmas music at Christmas, let alone in my workout in March. But I swallowed my snarky comments and commenced with the warm-up.

I shifted and squirmed my way through the warm-up, trying my best to find a comfortable position on that stupid seat. It wasn't working out too well, and I was having the hardest time sitting on that torture device and trying to sync my peddling to the melody of Deck the Halls. I kept going, slowing down my pedalling every few minutes to readjust myself on the seat.

Next, we added resistance, and we were going to be standing and pedalling every time we heard the phrase "Silver Bells." I was ultra happy at this prospect, not that I love Silver Bells, but at the fact that I would be able to relieve the pressure on my increasingly painful butt. I pedaled away, and stood to pedal when I heard Silver Bells. However, my elation was short lived, because I learned that while sitting on that concrete slab that was masquerading as a bicycle seat was painful, standing up then sitting back down on it repeatedly was excruciating.

I glanced over at my two compadres in this class, certain that I was going to witness a heart attack, stroke, or some other type of medical emergency. No, these old men were spinning away to their hearts' content. I started trying to glance over my shoulder at my bicycle seat to see if perhaps I was the victim in some sort of new spinner hazing ritual, and they had given me a different seat. But no, they were all the same, and these Medicare mavericks were indeed kicking my ass.

I was determined to power through it. I tried easing myself down a little bit slower with each return to the seated position. I tried sitting so far back on the seat I almost dismounted my bike. I tried scooting forward so much that I was almost "intimately entangled" with the bike. Nothing helped. At this point, I was certain that Satan was jabbing a pitchfork into my ass, because I had no doubt that I had died and gone to hell.

Then, the two seniors beside me started carrying on a conversation. I was trying my best to convince myself that I could make it through this class, and these men who could have quite easily been my grandfathers were acting as if this was a leisurely stroll. Did they not have pain receptors in their asses? How in the hell were they carrying on a spirited conversation about the weather when I'm willing myself to not lose consciousness?

Our instructor informed us that we were going to increase the resistance on the bike, and we would be sitting down pedalling, then pedalling in faster sprints during certain portions of We Three Kings of Orient Are. Wait a minute, did she just say that we were going to remain seated, and pedal even faster during certain parts of the song? I took a deep breath and decided that if I had pushed out a 9 pound baby, I could certainly do this.

I was wrong.

I had made it through one sprint when I heard myself say out loud, "Okay, I'm done." My feet came out of those pedal straps with lightning speed, and I was off the bike in a flash. The old men looked at me as if I had just announced that I was going to drown a kitten. Then, the one directly beside of me broke into a grin and said, "It's a little bit too tough for you, huh?"

It took everything in me to not grab him by his Santa Claus beard and punch him in the face.

I stood beside my bike waiting for my heart rate to come back down and my ass to cease all sensation. I could not believe that I had been bested by two senior citizens. They finished their work out, while I was looking at rear view in the mirror and the bike seat at the same time, trying to figure out if it was just the enormous dimensions of my butt that didn't coordinate with the sharp curves of the bicycle seat. I eventually came to the conclusion that these new bikes that the Y had just received a month ago must have been unearthed from Concentration Camp sites in Germany, because they were indeed torture devices.

The old men finished their workout, and began chugging their water. We all went over to get stuff to clean the bikes off with, and one of the men said, "Guess we'll see you next week, then."

No chance in hell, Pop-Pop. Me and my throbbing ass are officially retired from spinning.

Heres the story of an overweight lady...

2009-03-06T00:21:00.004-05:00

I guess the best place to start this blog would be at the very beginning.

I've struggled with my weight for quite sometime. I would think that I needed to lose some weight, I'd do a fad diet for a while, maybe lose a little, then I'd be right back to where I started from. Not enough to make me feel hopeless, but just enough to make me think, "Screw it, I'll just stay fat."

I am the mother of two wonderful boys. I'd love to say that is where most of my weight came from, but I'd be lying...sort of. I didn't gain much weight during my pregnancies. However, after the boys were born, I wrestled with postpartum depression. And I self-medicated with food.

When you talk about addiction, most people think about the big three: smoking, alcohol and drugs. But very few people think of food as an addiction. The truth of the matter is that food can be just as big of an addiction and carry the same amount of health risks, if not more.

I can't say that the weight came out of nowhere. I can't blame a lazy thyroid or some other type of body chemistry issue. I ate, and I ate big. I ate like an inmate in the final days before his execution. It was commonplace for me to eat an entire package of sandwich creme cookies in one sitting. I would make tacos for dinner, and eat at least a dozen. I have, on more than one occasion, eaten an entire large pizza by myself. I would love to point the finger and someone and something and say that's why I'm fat. But the only person I can point the finger at is myself.

I decided that I needed to do something about my weight one random evening at home with my husband. It's started as a typical day for us. We were sitting at home, watching TV, relaxing. We decided to order pizza. The delivery guy brought it to us in record time. I sat down and ate an entire large pizza with pepperoni and bacon. I didn't even have the decency to use a plate. I just ate the entire pizza straight out of the box.

When I had polished off the entire pizza, I decided that I needed a little more soda. So I let the empty pizza box fall to the floor, and I got up from the couch. Actually, I tried to get up from the couch, and after four attempts, I finally made it to my feet. As I was walking to the refrigerator, it dawned on me that I was having trouble getting off the couch because of my weight. I bypassed the fridge and went straight into the bathroom and took a good look at myself. Then I promptly vomited all that delicious pizza I had just practically inhaled.

I decided that I was going to go to Weight Watchers, and that I was going to lose weight, no matter what. I could tell you that I wanted to do it to be in better health and to have more time with my husband and my boys. I could spout off all kinds of PC crap, but I'd be lying. What it all came down to was that I hated my body, I hated the person I had become, and I wanted to look good again. I wanted to do something to be proud of, and I didn't want to be the person that everyone pointed at and talked about. I wanted to be normal. I did not want to be fat anymore.

On May 28, 2008, I joined Weight Watchers. I went into that meeting, filled out all the necessary paperwork, and turned it into the receptionist. I took off my shoes, and stepped on the scale. The receptionist printed off a sticker, put it in this little booklet, and handed it to me. I opened it up to assess the damages. I stared at those numbers, blinking, positively certain that my eyesight was failing me. I looked down at the scale to make sure that there wasn't anything around it that could be skewing the results. Then, in what I can only describe as a wave of panic washing over me and stealing the air from my lungs, I almost collapsed onto the receptionists desk. I sat down in the chair, hyperventilating. I opened that little book, and looked again. It was still there. Dear God, no God, please God say it isn't so. I weighed 270.4 pounds. I was only 29.6 pounds away from 300 pounds.

As I sat there, convinced that I was having a heart attack and wondering if I had enough male friends and family to be able to carry the enormous weight that would be my coffin, my meeting leader came around and said one thing to me. It was as if I heard angels speaking when she said, "Don't panic over this. Think of how dramatic the before and after will look. Now, let's get you started on the way to being the after."

As my lungs slowly began to function again and I felt a little less like I was going to die, I sat through my first meeting. I made a vow to myself right then and there that I would never, ever be that fat again. That in that moment, I was the heaviest I would ever be in my life, and I was prepared to do whatever it took to make sure that I never saw a number on the scale bigger than 270.4.

For time's sake, let's fast forward to today. I am now 231.4 pounds, after a small gain last week. I have lost (and kept off, because this number takes into account the weeks that I may have gained) 39 pounds. I've dropped two pant sizes. I have jeans that were a size smaller than I was wearing when I first started Weight Watchers that are now literally falling off of me. I still have a long journey ahead of me, but I'm getting there. Every day is a new challenge and a new opportunity to move forward.

It's not easy, though. I'm not going to pretty it up. There are still times when I fall off the wagon and land face first in a cheese pizza. There are times when I stare longingly into the bakery display at the grocery store and have explicit fantasies about the cakes contained within. There are days that my emotions take me over, and I turn into a monster who must feed on fried, high fat foods in order to survive.

I decided to start this blog as a way to chronicle my weight loss journey. But, at the same time, I want it to be a blog that anyone else who is struggling with weight loss can read and relate to. I want to discuss what happens along the way: both good and bad. I want the people who are reading this blog to say, "Oh, no, she did not go there!"

Now you know my story, and we're all caught up. Welcome to Confessions of a Fat Girl!