Thursday, March 31, 2011

$%#! and @#&^!

202 lbs. You know the scene in “The King’s Speech” that just got cut to make a PG 13 rating? What he said with a “Fuck a doodle doo” thrown in for good measure.
“Kill Bill, Volume 1.”  I have decided that I want my own samurai sword. I like the idea of being a tall (I’m 5’7”, I swear) blonde woman going to town. Yellow motorcycle suit optional.  Seeing today’s weight, even after all the care I had taken to break the plateau and the temporary gain, made me want to grab that sword and call for a meeting with the Crazy 88s. And, if you’ve seen the movie, you know who won that one.
Steak Day didn’t work. It betrayed me. Now what?
Part of the frustration is that today, March 31, 2011 is the first day without a restriction on what I can eat (absent common sense limits and self-restraint). No 500 calories within these parameters, no ban on sugar or starch.  I COULD HAVE strolled into a coffee shop and gotten something loaded with sugar and a scone (410 calories). But I didn’t.  I COULD HAVE gotten a Double Double and fries.  But I didn’t. I was angry enough to gorge myself on Easter candy (normally, by this point in the season, I’ve had at least one Reese’s Peanut Butter Egg and a Cadbury Orange cream egg). I didn’t. I went over on fat, calories and sodium because of a mistaken indulgence in the Panera Chopped Steak and Blue Cheese Salad (Okay, but not worth the 850 calories, 64 g of fat and 1460 g of sodium, even if I did space it out over 2 meals. The execution is lacking).
My Net Diary is a wonderful tool.  This is not sarcasm. It tracks weight, meds (including supplements), water intake, exercise output, food intake and notes about feelings. Not so good for making decisions in advance, I find, but that’s a minor issue.  (Over the past few days, my Notes  have been…well…see the first paragraph). I haven’t been carefully weighing things, carefully choosing what I’m going to eat, denying myself  things that I’d consume without a second thought just to see my weight go in the opposite direction. No, this is not how this is supposed to work. If I had wanted THAT result, I could still be eating as I please without giving it a thought. But no, I have gone without sugar long enough that I don’t want it. I’m planning to eat at Outback Steakhouse before Tuesday (because they have a special menu that supports veterans coming home from the war) and I’m telling myself I need to check the nutritional info on a damned sweet potato before I go (no cinnamon sugar).
I should stop and reflect: I have dropped 2 jeans sizes. My blood pressure is low. My cholesterol is lower. My blood sugar is lower. I can see definition in my chin and throat where I used to see nothing but white skin and a LOT of it. My bras fit better. A ring that I was given as a gift 3 years ago actually fits me now (beautiful lemon citrine in silver). I’m not feeling cravings, so all the crazy brain supplements must be working. Long standing skin issues (like warts) are clearing up. I’ve been sleeping better than I have in 20 years, so maybe the apnea is in retreat. I’m not waking up groggy. I’m actually getting a mental picture of myself after a run. Yes, a run: I have a sports bra, long Reebok EasyTone pants and a ponytail. I have no idea where the ponytail comes because when my hair gets long enough for a ponytail, I make an appointment to GET IT CUT. Anyway, I’m long and lean, breathing hard, hands on hips and contemplating what I just did. When I was a kid, I loved to run. I loved the feeling of my legs muscles extending. I loved finding that little extra bit of speed. I loved feeling like I was flying. If I try to run now, I get a truly nasty bronchial cough and yack up something the consistency of shredded tire rubber. I do believe my body likes to hold onto these little souvenirs of walking pneumonia past just so it can keep me in check. Blackmail to ensure that I don’t overstep. I guess I have to work up to it.
Years ago, I was riding in a car with a friend and her (now ex) husband when we passed a heavy woman who was jogging. The husband made a sneering comment about how ridiculous and awful he thought the woman looked and she should have had the common sense and decency to stay home. My friend told him that he should consider the fact that she was out doing something about her weight. He still made nasty comments about fat people staying behind closed doors.
More on that later.

Wednesday, March 30, 2011

Cheese Is My Kryptonite

202 lbs. Oh, fuck that noise!

Frustration is one emotion that ran through my mind as I saw that hideous 202 on the scale this morning. Disappointment, anger, betrayal and several other shades of the negative emotion rainbow also surfaced at once. “Wow, she’s really pissed.” No, Buckwheat: I am articulate and educated, therefore I have a greater vocabulary than Sarah Palin (and by the way, “refudiate” was not somebody making up a word. “Refudiate” was a swing and a miss for a charismatic ignoramus groping for “repudiate”, coming up short and doing a lame-ass verbal tap dance to cover. Sort of “I meant to do that.” Yeah, right: I’m calling moose shit, Sarah). Pissed off is the emotion equivalent of irritated, annoyed and vexed with a possibility of turning into cranky (whereas irritation and annoyance are fleeting emotions, crankiness is long-term). Nay, good people, we’re going to kick it up a notch to full-on grief and rage, emphasis on the rage.
I have been faithful to the rules for the HCG protocol. I got all oil/cream based cosmetics out of my life. I switched to crystal deodorant (Having no faith in it but ultimately being surprised at its efficacy) and Jason Co Q-10 toothpaste (no artificial sweeteners). I have not had makeup on my face since January. I gorged myself for two days when I started the drops. I had my two meals per day with 100 grams of protein, 1 small approved fruit, 6 bloody Blue Diamond Nut Thins and 2 cups of an approved vegetable. I drank enough water every day to grow oranges in Death Valley (still do). For the past 3 weeks, since I’ve stopped the drops, I have faithfully, FAITHFULLY avoided all sugar in every variety and any and all starch. I gave away 2 bottles of Glenmorangie single malt Scotch because it wasn’t allowed.  I carefully came up with a plan to make the transition from the very strict parameters which I had obeyed to healthy NORMAL calorie intake and exercise. I have resisted every single fucking opportunity to go off the rails by telling myself there was a reward to be seen. I have seen the overnight gain and gotten rid of it with a Steak Day. I know I’d have to have eaten like a sumo about to run a marathon for that gain to be more than fluid retention.
BUT GODDAMMIT, WHY DOES THIS SHIT KEEP HAPPENING WHEN I’M OBEYING THE FUCKING RULES????
Where am I going wrong? It’s not my period because, Gang, the baby factory is, in fact, shutting down. I got a preliminary “your ass is ours now” email from AARP. I was below maximum levels for fat and sodium, which I thought were the culprits. I have been exercising (walking). And yet, after getting back below the 200 mark the other day, we’re back above.
I had a salad at Red Robin yesterday that was extremely grilled chicken, no croutons, no side piece of bread, small amout of olive oil and balsamic vinegar (maybe the sugar in the balsamic did it?) and had some shredded cheese.  That’s got to be it: cheese really is my kryptonite. It has to be the cheese.
“It’s overnight, it’ll go as quickly as it came, you’ve been down this road before, you’ve still lost 25 lbs. Relax.”
You don’t get it. The 200 lb. mark is a key milestone. Women are not supposed to weigh that much. No, it’s not something anyone’s ever said to me, but women (and I am one) are not supposed to weigh 200 lbs. They’re just not (and that’s in MY head). Getting below that mark and STAYING below that mark confirm that I’m on the right track.
When I first went sub 200 on March 16, I was ecstatic. It was like I had awoken with the winning lottery ticket in my hand. I could not have been happier. I was on track and it was going swimmingly.
Then the upward bounces started. And would come down, but not back to that 199.2. When I hit it again on Saturday, I felt such relief. A life sentence to being unacceptable had been overturned. And I was even more careful with what I ate that day. I walked for nearly an hour. And yet, it bounced up to 200.4 and then 202 this morning.
The excess weight has been a shell. While encasing me in loneliness, it kept potential heartache from others away. For twenty years, I’ve felt like I was watching normal social life go on behind a glass. There are undoubtedly other reasons, but my body shape has been my main focus and reason, largely because I have experienced instances of rejection based on my weight.  It seemed like I had gotten a foot in the door and I was going to be able to join the party (I don’t go many of those. I’d like to go to more). And the upturn shattered my confidence. Something telling me that I would never pass for one of the cool kids; it just wasn’t allowed.
How did I react? Another Steak Day. And Trader Joe’s:  I love you, but your Black Angus Ribeye isn’t the greatest (The George Foreman grill had some issues with the thickness. Next time, trim the fat and butterfly it).
I could hear “What does it matter?” playing over and over in my head today. Today is the last day of the 3 week recovery. I was ready to hunt down something with starch or get a sugary drink. But, I refrained and held to Steak Day.
I did, however, spend too much time on Ebay. I have a plan: drop down to a single digit dress size. Get a professional makeup and hair artist, get a photographer and arrange with a high end jewelry store to take pictures of me in a cocktail dress posing with gems (like you see on the red carpet). Talk to me, Harry Winston, tell me all about it.  I got this idea from a photo spread that Michelle Pfeiffer did with some of the stars of the Smithsonian’s Gem collection. Only, at that time, I figured I was going to be a famous actress/writer/something or other and somebody would make this all happen for me so it would turn up in People. At this point, I have the hair and makeup artist lined up. I thought I was on the road to Morocco and by the end of the year, I’d be ready, looking incredible and this would happen. Well, I may have to have a few things set, but the fabulous gems will be from my own collection.
Quite a few of them. Know a jewelry designer?
So, we’ll see what tomorrow morning holds for the weigh-in. I will say, if it’s not down by at least 1 lb., the Almighty will be getting an earful for all eternity.


Cheese Is My Kryptonite

202 lbs. Oh, fuck that noise!

Frustration is one emotion that ran through my mind as I saw that hideous 202 on the scale this morning. Disappointment, anger, betrayal and several other shades of the negative emotion rainbow also surfaced at once. “Wow, she’s really pissed.” No, Buckwheat: I am articulate and educated, therefore I have a greater vocabulary than Sarah Palin (and by the way, “refudiate” was not somebody making up a word. “Refudiate” was a swing and a miss for a charismatic ignoramus groping for “repudiate”, coming up short and doing a lame-ass verbal tap dance to cover. Sort of “I meant to do that.” Yeah, right: I’m calling moose shit, Sarah). Pissed off is the emotion equivalent of irritated, annoyed and vexed with a possibility of turning into cranky (whereas irritation and annoyance are fleeting emotions, crankiness is long-term). Nay, good people, we’re going to kick it up a notch to full-on grief and rage, emphasis on the rage.
I have been faithful to the rules for the HCG protocol. I got all oil/cream based cosmetics out of my life. I switched to crystal deodorant (Having no faith in it but ultimately being surprised at its efficacy) and Jason Co Q-10 toothpaste (no artificial sweeteners). I have not had makeup on my face since January. I gorged myself for two days when I started the drops. I had my two meals per day with 100 grams of protein, 1 small approved fruit, 6 bloody Blue Diamond Nut Thins and 2 cups of an approved vegetable. I drank enough water every day to grow oranges in Death Valley (still do). For the past 3 weeks, since I’ve stopped the drops, I have faithfully, FAITHFULLY avoided all sugar in every variety and any and all starch. I gave away 2 bottles of Glenmorangie single malt Scotch because it wasn’t allowed.  I carefully came up with a plan to make the transition from the very strict parameters which I had obeyed to healthy NORMAL calorie intake and exercise. I have resisted every single fucking opportunity to go off the rails by telling myself there was a reward to be seen. I have seen the overnight gain and gotten rid of it with a Steak Day. I know I’d have to have eaten like a sumo about to run a marathon for that gain to be more than fluid retention.
BUT GODDAMMIT, WHY DOES THIS SHIT KEEP HAPPENING WHEN I’M OBEYING THE FUCKING RULES????
Where am I going wrong? It’s not my period because, Gang, the baby factory is, in fact, shutting down. I got a preliminary “your ass is ours now” email from AARP. I was below maximum levels for fat and sodium, which I thought were the culprits. I have been exercising (walking). And yet, after getting back below the 200 mark the other day, we’re back above.
I had a salad at Red Robin yesterday that was extremely grilled chicken, no croutons, no side piece of bread, small amout of olive oil and balsamic vinegar (maybe the sugar in the balsamic did it?) and had some shredded cheese.  That’s got to be it: cheese really is my kryptonite. It has to be the cheese.
“It’s overnight, it’ll go as quickly as it came, you’ve been down this road before, you’ve still lost 25 lbs. Relax.”
You don’t get it. The 200 lb. mark is a key milestone. Women are not supposed to weigh that much. No, it’s not something anyone’s ever said to me, but women (and I am one) are not supposed to weigh 200 lbs. They’re just not (and that’s in MY head). Getting below that mark and STAYING below that mark confirm that I’m on the right track.
When I first went sub 200 on March 16, I was ecstatic. It was like I had awoken with the winning lottery ticket in my hand. I could not have been happier. I was on track and it was going swimmingly.
Then the upward bounces started. And would come down, but not back to that 199.2. When I hit it again on Saturday, I felt such relief. A life sentence to being unacceptable had been overturned. And I was even more careful with what I ate that day. I walked for nearly an hour. And yet, it bounced up to 200.4 and then 202 this morning.
The excess weight has been a shell. While encasing me in loneliness, it kept potential heartache from others away. For twenty years, I’ve felt like I was watching normal social life go on behind a glass. There are undoubtedly other reasons, but my body shape has been my main focus and reason, largely because I have experienced instances of rejection based on my weight.  It seemed like I had gotten a foot in the door and I was going to be able to join the party (I don’t go many of those. I’d like to go to more). And the upturn shattered my confidence. Something telling me that I would never pass for one of the cool kids; it just wasn’t allowed.
How did I react? Another Steak Day. And Trader Joe’s:  I love you, but your Black Angus Ribeye isn’t the greatest (The George Foreman grill had some issues with the thickness. Next time, trim the fat and butterfly it).
I could hear “What does it matter?” playing over and over in my head today. Today is the last day of the 3 week recovery. I was ready to hunt down something with starch or get a sugary drink. But, I refrained and held to Steak Day.
I did, however, spend too much time on Ebay. I have a plan: drop down to a single digit dress size. Get a professional makeup and hair artist, get a photographer and arrange with a high end jewelry store to take pictures of me in a cocktail dress posing with gems (like you see on the red carpet). Talk to me, Harry Winston, tell me all about it.  I got this idea from a photo spread that Michelle Pfeiffer did with some of the stars of the Smithsonian’s Gem collection. Only, at that time, I figured I was going to be a famous actress/writer/something or other and somebody would make this all happen for me so it would turn up in People. At this point, I have the hair and makeup artist lined up. I thought I was on the road to Morocco and by the end of the year, I’d be ready, looking incredible and this would happen. Well, I may have to have a few things set, but the fabulous gems will be from my own collection.
Quite a few of them. Know a jewelry designer?
So, we’ll see what tomorrow morning holds for the weigh-in. I will say, if it’s not down by at least 1 lb., the Almighty will be getting an earful for all eternity.


Monday, March 28, 2011

Maybe your brain is just low a quart

200.8 lbs. After going to 199.8 on Saturday, then BACK UP and sticking. Dear Scale, you are a minion of Satan. I hate you, your precision measuring and everything you stand for. You were probably made by a Yankees fan.

There’s only so much a woman can take before she snaps. Bless me, Jared from Subway, for I have sinned.
 I had a Steak Day on Friday, the scale was under 200 on Saturday (the century marks are huge milestones) and I NUTURED that: I went for a walk (55 minutes around a mall), I FELT GREAT! Then, yesterday morning: one pound up. Okay. Let’s review Saturday to see where I may have gone off the rails. Ah. Chicken sausage.  According to My Net Diary, high sodium (even though the sauce had no added salt, no oil, definitely no sweetener.Tomato puree, tomato paste, basil, onion, GARLIC, oregano, parsley and bay leaves). 
And it still hasn’t moved, despite the care taken. I had some more chicken sausage and let the needle fall where it may tomorrow: I’ll do another Steak Day.
However, there was a bright spot in the day and one worth sharing. The chemistry doctors tout Omega 3 oils as much as Billy Mays used to tout Oxi-Clean ( Just not as loudly and no known coke habit). To them, this is fish oil. Okay: Fish, fish oil is not my thing. If you force feed either of them to me, don’t be wearing your good shoes. I will out-puke Renee Zellweger on her diet plan. (And by the way, I don’t like the word “puke.” I don’t know why, I just don’t, but “barf” wouldn’t quite make the point. It makes me want to Zellweger).
There is flax seed oil, rich in Omega 3s. Now, Dr. Brain Chemistry is very emphatic about fish oil because of the EPA (Eicosapentaenoic acid)  and DHA (Docosahexaenoic acid)contained therein. You know how they’re always saying that fish is brain food? Turns out that the EPA and DHA are essential brain cell building blocks, so yeah, Eat fish, build a brain. No fish and you come in third on Jeopardy (I am truly a cautionary tale).  And a parasite colony and enough mercury to power a thermometer, but don’t let me influence you. Just leave a clear path to the bathroom or change your shoes.   Flax seed oil does not contain either of these amino acids, BUT  I had a conversation with the vitamin specialist at Whole Foods (and yes, the folks who work in that department actually do know what they’re talking about. I haven’t gotten a bum steer yet) about alternative sources for these amino acids. Turns out, the EPA was only in the fish BUT the DHA is derived from algae. You can cut out the middle man, just get the plant-sourced aminos and, if so inclined, feel smug and self-righteous about foiling The Man and his animal protein pushing agenda.  (This is not me. Everything’s better with bacon. Stanley Tucci is the bacon of film – every movie’s better with him in it)
I have been consuming flax seed oil for a few years with no discernable difference. No harm, but nothing that showed me I was benefitting.  Dr.  Brain Chemistry recommends at least 1 to 3 grams of fish oil (or flax seed oil) per day. This is considerably higher than the dosage on the bottle.  Okay, I’ll play. I started downing 10 1000 mg capsules of flax seed oil per day plus a dose of DHA. I started the higher dosage two weeks ago.
An interesting thing has happened in the past fortnight:  my elbows, normally so dry and rough they can be used to refinish furniture, feel like the rest of my skin. Patches of dry skin have disappeared. These are the things I can see.  I’m not setting any home run records, so maybe Barry Bonds wasn’t on flax seed oil after all.
Flax seed oil, so it seems, is also a great friend of the liver. And it’s a lot less expensive than Lipitor.  Lipitor is expensive and hard on the liver. I have only one liver and I’d like to keep my original equipment.  I experience enough rejection in my attempts at a love life that I don’t need an ugly break-up with an internal organ. I have an unproven, untested theory that Lipitor and statin drugs are linked to the Type 2 Diabetes epidemic.  I am not a medical doctor, if anybody DOES have a study that proves this, it will never surface. However, I have observed that a number of people I know who have been diagnosed with Type 2 diabetes were on statin drugs prior to issues with blood sugar and insulin resistance.  So, I’ll just stick with the big doses of flax seed oil.
There have also been studies that show obese people are low in Omega 3s and D3 Vitamin. Since I don't wish to be obese anymore,...
We’ll see what the Scale of Evil has to say for itself in the morning  and whether tomorrow is another Steak Day (Just breaks my heart, but if that’s what breaks the impasse, so be it). I may not see the number between my toes declining every day, but maybe the other changes I’m seeing will compensate.





Friday, March 25, 2011

Better Living Through Brain Chemistry

201.2 lbs. To hell with it: Steak Day.

Admiral James T. Kirk: "Spock, these cadets are yours - how good are they, how will they respond under real pressure?"
 Captain Spock: "As with all living things - each according to his gifts." – Star Trek 2: The Wrath of Khan

The 201.2 is a 2 lb. undesirable increase over the 199.2 that has been the lowest point so far. I emphasize the “so far.” Previous attempts at losing weight have derailed when hitting similar speed bumps, sort of like the idea that you can derail a train by putting a penny on the tracks or crash a helicopter by putting a postage stamp on a blade. Yeah, just as reasonable a response.
I have tried various chemical approaches to correcting behavior and controlling appetite: over the counter diet pills (speed), Phen Fen and Prozac. The diet pills really clashed with coffee and Sudafed (I have sinus issues. Had, actually). Phen Fen did nothing but give me the occasional crazy heart beat (even if the Red Sox aren’t on the verge of winning the Series) and Prozac. Dear Prozac aka NumbItAll. I gained weight, but didn’t give a shit.
A craving could undo me in pretty short order, particularly under certain emotional situations or “times of the month” .Or a sudden, inexplicable need for Cheetohs. Even fake cheese can be kryptonite. Declaring open season on food hasn’t worked. Trying cold sweat white-knuckled denial of cravings hasn’t worked (it just made the inevitable binge that much worse).
I have seen a hypnotherapist. I have listened to subliminal tapes and self-hypnosis tapes. I ended up with a refreshing nap and not improvement in attitude or behavior although I do tend to quack when I hear Celine Dion. (I might have done that before anyway). I have consulted a medical intuitive (medical psychic). This is what you do if you don’t have health insurance.
I know “The Secret” by heart. Think positive, visualize yourself as you wish to be. Delays in gratification just mean that your desire is a tall order for the Universe to fill. Fine. And in the meantime, I will see myself eating this Snickers bar and not gaining anything. And that Snickers bar, too.
In addition to actively working on a weight loss plan, I also found myself without a job one week into it. That would be trigger enough for a food shopping and eating binge: previously, the foremost thought I would have was “Oh, my God, I’m going to run out of food!” Being without shelter or money didn’t panic me as much as having nothing to eat. There’s always room for more stress.
The difference this time: I had been working with a therapist to get better coping skills than gorging myself. I had also begun working with an acupuncturist who had included appetite suppression points whilst sticking needles in my (I could have given the guys from “Hellraiser” a run for their money). And now, I have found Better Living Through Brain Chemistry.
One of the side effects of unemployment is exposure to daytime TV. While waiting for the Law & Order afternoon blocks to begin, I surfed my way over to PBS. It was pledge season and the local station wasn’t showing The Three Tenors, Doo Wop ‘Til You Die or that idiot Suze Orman (“You don’t have a good relationship with money because your mother told you it was dirty”. Two cent philosophy for sale in a $180 CD and journal set. There you go, all of your inappropriate spending is solved.). Nope, the local affiliate had turned into Infomercial Central, giving time to diet doctors and selling their books/CDs/DVD sets at the pledge break. Both guys (and I will not name the programs or the doctors) were touting similar approaches to correcting eating behaviors and ending cravings by adjusting brain chemistry. And adjusting the brain chemistry was as simple as adding spices to each meal. Oregano boosts your dopamine and seratonin levels. Who knew?  I can eat more oregano. And garlic. And basil. Bring it on.
The theory is that bad eating habits, such as a lack of portion control or eating too fast or craving certain foods is a direct response to imbalances of dopamine, seratonin, GABA (I don’t know what it means, but it’s important) and acetylcholine. By eating foods (and taking supplements) that enhance these neurotransmitters, the fatty, salty, sweet cravings end. By boosting GABA, you stop eating too fast. By boosting seratonin, you stop craving carbohydrates. Hey, isn’t Prozac supposed to increase seratonin? A bottle of oregano costs a lot less than a bottle of Prozac. And you still have a sex drive. While I wasn’t gullible enough to buy the premise of “The Day After Tomorrow” (Instant ice age, just add Jake Gyllenhall), the arguments these two guys (make that 3, I found a book on Amazon with the same theory) put forward seemed worthy of consideration. 1). It’s adding spices and/or supplements to your diet, something that I do anyway, 2) the changes to food were those I’ve seen recommended by other doctors: choose fats carefully and limit intake to a certain daily percentage, choose lean meats, eat more fruits and vegetables, stay away from sugar and refined carbohydrates (with Easter coming up? Aw, Man). Eat organic food as much as possible. 3) Drink at least 8 glasses of water per day and 4) get off your butt. Oh, yes and meditate. Nothing wacky, everything looks common sense.
I began to incorporate these steps into my daily life. I’ve been adding a teaspoon of cinnamon to my morning yogurt and fruit (with stevia and I need to blend it better. Cinnamon in and of itself is pretty harsh and raw). If I’m making a salad, I dump the parsley, basil and oregano into it. Granulated garlic is a wonderful thing: either I blend it into cottage cheese with oregano, basil and black pepper or if I’m grilling, I hit the meat with it.
I’m also taking a vitamin D3 supplement, 1 gram of flax seed oil per day (capsules. A LOT of capsules) and N acetyl cysteine. Today was a pip: the weight hadn’t gone down (hadn’t gone up, either, but no decline), I’ve been dealing with several ongoing issues (and no, you don’t need to know what they are) and I don’t have a job lined up. Yet.
As Mr. Spock says, “each responds according to their gifts.”
There is food in the kitchen and previous times, I would have started grazing and just kept going. Today, though, I didn’t feel the urge. Not once. I didn’t want to clean out the Easter candy aisle at the store, didn’t want to get fast food or a pizza or clean out the refrigerator. No. I had my Steak Day because, Goddammit, that 201 is dropping (and if it doesn’t move today, tomorrow, we go with apples). I tested my cholesterol (I love home kits. No trip to Quest Labs where strange people with obnoxious kids stare at you). It was 137. And I then went about getting all the various and sundry issues resolved (like getting the bureaucratic SNAFUs cleared that were blocking my receipt of unemployment benefits). I got all the way through the day without sabotaging myself, biting off someone’s head (well, not anyone who didn’t have it coming in the first place) and without feeling anxious, deprived or like I was going through withdrawal.
There may be something to ths.

Wednesday, March 23, 2011

I've Got a Theory

200.4 lbs. Eh, it’s better than 202.8. Word to the wise: beware of  nuts. The delicious little bastards will trip you up. I think the Coffee Bean and Tea Leaf trail mix was behind my recent blip.

So, I didn’t need Steak Day after all. Dammit.
One of the things strictly forbidden on the HCG Reduced Calorie Phase is cheese other than cottage. Cheese is my kryptonite.  I haven’t had alcohol since January or chocolate or potato pancakes and those are all big favorites, but the lack of cheese hurt. I was beginning to hallucinate wedges of Jarlsberg tapping at the window and begging to be let in.  My inner conspiracy theorist saw Kraft out to get me with increased ads for their Deluxe  Macaroni and Cheese (which is pretty much rubber cement flavored like salt) and Cheez Its and even cat food with cheese. But I remained strong until the day when I could indulge my taste for aged curd. (“Someone cue the Staple Singers. What? ‘O, Happy Day,’ DUH! Whadda mean, that wasn’t the Staple Singers? Whatever, just play the damned song!”). Today being a rainy and cool day in L.A. (If you’re old enough to remember Albert Hammond and “It Never Rains in Southern California”, 1972 I believe, you kind of have to feel bad for the guy because you hear that phrase over and over again during this weather, more allusions to the song and the guy doesn’t get dime one in royalties because the song isn’t actually getting played)., I got out the crock pot and assembled spaghetti sauce.  For those about to say, “Wait, you’re on no sugar, no starch,” I have this to say about pasta: its main purpose in life is a sauce and cheese delivery system. Screw the noodles. 
And today, for the first time since January, I had spaghetti sauce (gravy, if you’re from East Boston). And, for the first time since January, Parmesan cheese.  Ah. And tomato sauce. Cooked tomatoes are rich in lycopene, so this was very healthy. That’s what I’m telling myself.
In efforts to make positive, small changes to my food intake without doing a lot of big stuff, I have tried soy cheese and I have tried almond cheese. The polite way to describe them is “not my thing, really.” The more direct way I’d describe them is “tastes like recycled vomit. Are you trying to kill me?” Soy products, particularly tofu and soy cheese are actually crucial parts of a long-term plan by extra-terrestrials to poison human beings. Yeah, they’re not going to break out the big alien tanks and battle wagons to take us down; they’re going to be smart and do it gradually. If Glenn Beck was here with his magic bulletin board, he’d have lines and arrows from a picture of tofu to a picture of Charlton Heston while repeating, “Soy, Soylent, why do you think the first syllable of Soylent Green is  ‘soy’?” And then he’d blame it on health care reform. Actually, ol’ Glenn could stand to run a couple of laps.  Which brings us to today’s topic of “Crackpot Theories and Why I Fall For Them.”
Back in 1998, when Atkins was the rage (and my mother had subjected the family to Atkins when he first proposed his diet back in the early 70s. Let me tell you, some serious disgustingness came out of that experiment), I found a paperback called “Protein Power” written by two Arkansas internists.  It was the same idea: drastically cut carbohydrates, reasonable amounts of proteins and fats and you could lose weight and clean up blood chemistry. I bought the theory that by cutting waaaaay back on sugar and starch intake, your body got the chance to re-sensitize itself to insulin and bought Hood’s Black Pepper and Herb cottage cheese, since week 1, you were allowed 27 grams of carbohydrate per day. I don’t know the numbers, because I refused to allow a bathroom scale in my house (and would borrow a gun to shoot it if one did appear.), but my clothes got loose and I wasn’t getting ravenous by lunch time (something that happened when eating yogurt).AND I COULD EAT ALL THE CHEESE I WANTED!!! I don’t remember when or why I fell off the wagon with this one (it might have had something to do with the ban on eating tomatoes because of their carb content), but suffice to say, I did. Even if I didn’t stick to a particular plan, I did take something away from each one. From this, I became more aware of my carbohydrate intake and how it made me feel. And I would quash any rising guilt by saying, “Fuck it” and eat the pizza anyway. A lot of pizza. I have issues with portion control and eating too fast, but that’s for another time.
Back in the early 90s, Susan Powter was touting “Eat, Breathe, Move” which featured pictures of fat people doing reasonable exercises, claimed the author had once been a fat person (as well as a former stripper. One preceded the other) and had a fear of fat infiltrating the diet like a Joe McCarthy witch hunt. You could have rice cakes with jelly, if you wanted, but no peanut butter because fat was the enemy. Would anyone be surprised to hear that I gained weight on this diet? If you are, go directly to Jenny Craig. Do not pass “Go” and be prepared to fork over more than $200 to them.
I have attended an Overeaters Anonymous meeting. One. Let me clarify: the idea of the mutual support and the 12 Step Method is not a crackpot one, but these meetings do tend to attract an off-kilter clientele. The first clue was the more senior members of the group announcing that they had too much going on in their lives and they wouldn’t be sponsoring any “babies,” then the sickly smile that always comes with an insincere “I’m sorry.” I could have gotten past that, but not a single person there had only eating issues. One woman who spoke about how miserable her week was, rattled off a list of at least 10 substance and behavioral addictions before actually getting to her story. I’m not a fan of support groups.  I do believe there must be a 12 step group addiction.
I sought help from a doctor who handed me sign-up sheet for a weight loss support group conducted by his hospital (and oh, curiously enough, there was a charge for this group) that he told me to go to because “Well, you’re not doing very well on your own.” He also told me I was too old and too top heavy to be thinking about roller blades. I told him if he didn’t sweeten up, I’d step on his foot. We fired each other as doctor and patient. It was better than being on trial for assaulting him with a speculum.
In the meantime, airline seats were beginning to pinch and get smaller (I had trouble bending over to pick up something from an airline seat that was on the floor. That was not only due to an excess of belly, but also it was also somewhat rigid). I was sized out of the Misses sections of stores and into “Plus sized” stores.
I have one more week of “zero sugar, zero starch” left with this latest crackpot theory, The difference this time has been that I’ve seen the program all the way through (although I would incorporate more exercise into it. Misunderstanding on my part, but we’ll have a post-mortem later) and it has delivered. 
Next post: “Better Living Through Brain Chemistry.”


Monday, March 21, 2011

Okay, This is Getting Old

201.8 lbs. Dear Body, Let me explain the concept of weight “loss”…

Okay, in case you were wondering, the Steak Day worked: I went from 202.8 down to 200.4, stayed there for a day, then this morning, bobbed up to 201.8. This is the sort of action that, in the past, would have had me yell, “Screw it. This isn’t working” and I would have headed for something off-limits.  And how did that work out? Yeah, we’ll try something different. "Stay the course" comes to mind.
The increase could be due to the corned beef I had or the two non-fat sugar free (or maybe they weren’t and the Coffee Bean and Tea Leaf baristas are not only big fat liars, but sadists) or the bag of nut-heavy trail mix (it had dried fruit that may have had sugar added). According to the rules of HCG, no sugar or starches for 3 weeks and I’m about to enter the third week.  If tomorrow isn’t to my liking, it’s another steak day. Imagine my disappointment, having a  lovely ribeye in the fridge ready to go (Trader Joe’s). If I don’t need Steak Day, I’ll cut it into thirds and spread it out over 3 days…
When I was a little kid, I saw my brother get approval for eating a lot. He was over six feet tall and, in a chenille robe, could have been mistaken for a large pipe cleaner (Not any more). My grandmother was a kitchen champion. Visits from my grandparents or to their house involved things like cheese pie, at least 2 or 3 different kinds of cookies, maybe pot roast or stuffed cabbage and other delights.  Entrees involved a fair amount of salt, usually sour cream or heavy cream, definitely butter. Food was love.
Except around the time I turned 9. The high school pictures show a chunky looking kid. I remember my parents singling me out by showing me a newspaper article about how unhappy overweight kids were. I remember sitting there sobbing as they told me they were doing this because they wanted me to be happy. My mother started making a special kind of bread just for me and I had to take my lunches where my siblings were given lunch money. The bread tasted kind of weird and the other kids would make fun of my lunch (Hunts made desserts in a can and one of my classmates told me it looked like panther piss. This story, from over 40 years ago, still amuses my family and reminds me of the humiliation). My grandmother jumped on the “Susan is fat” bandwagon and felt free to criticize my eating habits while still pushing all the stuff she had me (“Just one. It’s only egg whites and air.” And sugar. And butter. And flour).  It hurt, it all hurt, but since they were doing this for my own good, well then, I should just let it continue, shouldn’t I? 
There was a day, while I was in seventh or eighth grade, where my brother was experimenting with his new camera and took some close-up pictures of my face (I had pigtails and glasses at that point). I remember my parents showing me the developed pictures and telling me I looked like Mama Cass.  I shouldn’t want to look like Mama Cass (it was after this story, which is a true story, that my excellent therapist told me I should consider EMDR treatment for post-traumatic stress disorder).
In the meantime, I think it was the summer of 1980, when I made the infamous push with Dietac and Figurines. I can sit here, 30 years later and remember vividly the afternoon I so badly wanted to eat that I had to lie down on my bed for at least an hour to keep from giving in to the urge. I was SHAKING with the effort of stopping myself from eating.  I don’t remember if I lived on Figurines, but they were a major part of my diet (fortified with vitamins and minerals, so they must have been all I needed).  I probably weighed about 130 to 140 lbs. when I started. And I’m 5’ 7” and was at that point, but this effort to slim down really made my mother happy and God knows, there didn’t  seem to be a whole helluva lot about me that she liked. I was doing 200 situps per day (and this was before the Crunch was invented, so we’re talking feet under a piece of furniture and form that would make Jillian Michaels burst into tears. That would please me. I’d love to knock that permanent sneer off that self-important bitch’s face but it would probably be like punching a brick wall). My clothes got looser and I remember that I had a pair of shorts that started off a little tight, but by the end of the diet, I could pull them off without unzipping them (actually, I can do that now with size 16 and size 14 jeans I just bought 3 weeks ago. Yea!).  I know I’ve told you the next part, just sit tight: the day the scale hit 123 lbs., I raced out to the living room to tell my mother and her response was “Five more pounds and you’ll be perfect.”
And that was a failure right there.
So, here I am today, 31 years later and I am the only audience I need to please. Or displease. That took until I was in my forties to learn. I’ve had well-meaning friends who take their physical fitness very seriously offer “help” and “encouragement”, but they misunderstood and got overbearing. I belonged to a Planet Fitness and took one friend as a guest one day. Rather than doing the workout she had planned, she spent her time yelling at me about my form on the treadmill. She doesn’t know how close I came to back-handing her and I love my friends (even most of the ex ones).
I don’t know at what point I snarled enough at my family that they stopped talking at me and lecturing me about my weight, but I remember an incident some years back: I was in my thirties, had been following the Protein Power plan (we’ll get to that) and was talking to my older sister about something. I brought up the subject of my weight and what I was doing. I saw her take this big sigh of relief and then she opened up and proceeded to tell exactly what I was doing wrong, why I should be doing as she did (and by the way, she doesn’t weigh nearly what I do, but she’s got her share of chins) and it went on for at least 15 minutes. That was the last time I offered to confide in any family member or asked an opinion about the subject, so they’ve resorted to sniper tactics ever since. Understand, these are not happy people. Their refrigerators are stocked with things like Smart Beat “spread” (which tastes like crap), Equal sweetener (major bladder irritant), lower sodium “salt” (which tastes as good as the Smart Beat) and non-fat sour cream, salad dressing, creamer, milk (crap, glue, glue, a desperate cry for help). There is no pleasure to be taken in any of these foods. Smart Beat would gladden the hearts of the Puritans, who so hated pleasure and enjoyment, they shut down Christmas. Swear to God; they succeeded where the Grinch failed.  Anything that is billed as a fat-free alternative uses some form of gum (like guar gum or agar. You know what agar is? Remember the sticky stuff in petri dishes for growing bacteria? Same thing! Yum!)  to replace the consistency of the fat and I can taste it. It tastes gluey and disgusting.  I have seen emails that include the entire family circle that talk of new exercise and diet programs (yoga, 10,000 steps, Weight Watchers) and get the sought-after approval from one generation up (and the occasional back-handed swipe at me), then go silent after about 2-3 weeks of glowing reports on how well the program is going. Yet, when I’ve seen the folks after the fact, they didn’t look any different.
So, I’ve taken to not telling anybody when I’ve changed my diet and exercise habits unless it’s necessary (For instance, “What the hell are you eating THAT for?”).
So here I sit, with an unwanted uptick on the scale (I may feel great over my lower blood pressure, pant size, cholesterol, ass width: what mainly matters is the number between my toes). Tomorrow, we’ll see if this is a blip or if it’s time to get a big bottle of whiskey, a scalpel and a Hoover vacuum cleaner with an edger attachment (although nothing outsucks Electrolux). That’s what liposuction is, isn’t it?

Friday, March 18, 2011

Well, Ain't That a Kick In The Head?

202.8 lbs.  WTF?

I have followed this plan faithfully, measured food before I put it in my mouth and hauled myself up Fryman Canyon (there are skinny bitches and bastards who run up the canyon, ride bikes or run with a bike strapped to their backs. I am not one of them. This is a tough day hike for me and my ass muscles have yet to forgive me. I must say, though, I saw a lot of dogs. In baby slings. We’re worried that the juvenile human population of the US doesn’t get enough exercise – we have yapsters who need Mommy to carry them. Ay yi yi). Perhaps the cobb salad at Jerry’s Deli (No eggs and only  olive oil and vinegar dressing, which I broke down over two meals, pickles, too. Jerry’s makes superb pickles) Or corned beef and cabbage yesterday (no potatoes, only 200 grams of corned beef, and over 2 cups of vegetables). Lot of sodium, more fat than I’ve had in months, maybe that’s what did it. However, I was displeased to go from 199.2 to 202 to 202.8 in the space of 2 days. HOWEVER, the HCG protocol has an answer to it called “Steak Day.” We’ll get to that.
There are 3 types of fat in your body: Structural (keeps your internal organs from sloshing around), protective (keeps your kidneys from freezing and if you are emotionally scarred, excessive fat will, so I have been told, protect you from unwanted advances) and abnormal or adipose, yellow fat. If we were chickens, and Jewish, this would be called “schmaltz.” The problem with the adipose tissue is that it tends to go deep and hang around with important internal organs and irritate (inflame) them. Like my younger sister who would not take a hint and go away, she would irritate (inflame me) until I did something stupid and then got into trouble. Inflamed organs, like the pancreas and the liver, don’t function as well as they should. This is where the high cholesterol, high blood pressure, diabetes, etc., come in. Sugar is inflammatory. Tastes great, more filling.
Around the time I started working with the trainer, back in ’05, I also consulted with a plastic surgeon about liposuction. He told me I was not a good candidate, not because of the anesthesia risk  (although that was a consideration), but because the fat I was carrying was not subcutaneous, it was visceral (naturally, I always do things the hardest way possible). He demonstrated this by poking me in the abdomen and showing me how firm my belly was. If the fat was subcutaneous, he could have made a pretty big indentation without much pressure. Think Poppin’ Fresh, the Pillsbury Doughboy.  No quick fix in that direction. So, I have visceral fat and all attempts to make it leave home have not succeeded, despite mounting pressure to “do something.”
HCG: Human chorionic gonadotropin. It’s a hormone secreted by pregnant women .A Dr. Simeon developed a diet plan where, for a set period of days, from 23 to 40, the dieter would take 30 drops (or get shots. I opted for drops) of HCG. According to his theory, while the HCG is coursing through your veins, your hypothalamus is instructing your body to burn adipose tissue, something on the order of 1500 to 4000 calories per day. For the record, I didn’t feel hungry, faint or light-headed until the end of the protocol when your body starts to realize it’s been duped and you do not have a bun in the oven. You could also produce a positive home pregnancy test while taking this drug. Guys, I double dog dare you to try it, especially for April Fool’s Day).

The first two days are “loading” days. The dieter starts taking the drops and chows down on all the protein, fat and fried food possible (Note: if you elect to do some of this at Fuddrucker’s, don’t bother with the fried mozzarella. They’re excellent with the burgers, fries and onion rings, really fall down with the fried mozz). Seriously, cram yourself sick. The more fat you shove in your pie hole over this period, the better the results when the real work starts. Important: when I started this protocol, I was working with a doctor.  Days 3 to Day 23 (or 40. My doctor looked at me and said, “You can go 40 days, no question.” Nice lady), you eat a 500 calorie per day diet consisting of 2 meals broken down as follows: 100 grams of protein (lean beef, chicken, turkey, veal, bison, cottage cheese, certain fish), 2 cups of a single kind of vegetable (tomatoes, cucumbers, spinach, chard, kale, green beans, and a few select others), fruit (medium apple or orange, half a grapefruit, 6 to 8 strawberries, e.g.) and limited starch: 1 to 2 grissini breadsticks, 2 or 3 Melba toasts (I did that once. Once) or 4-6 Nut Thins by Blue Diamond. Since the Nut Thins are gluten free, I went with those (cleared up the eczema on my hands pretty nicely). 
No sugar during this time. I made friends with stevia a plant-derived sugar substitute. Stevia, if you’re curious, is sweeter than a high school cheerleader out to steal your boyfriend.  I not only got the packets, I also got the flavored liquid variety for coffee purposes. The last time I made a habit of drinking black, unsweetened coffee, I actually did develop a chest hair.  You can use any seasonings that don’t include sugar or oil. I have become a big fan of apple cider vinegar and Bragg’s Liquid Amino Acids (a soy sauce alternative. Soy sauce has sugar. And gluten. Bet you didn’t know that).  And you don’t need oil to make salad dressing.
You are also not allowed to use oil containing body products. No Oil of Olay, massage oil (there goes foreplay), non-crystal deodorant, make sure you rinse that conditioner out of your hair toute suite and make sure your toothpaste’s sweetner isn’t artificial (Jason works). This George Foreman grill and a postage scale (yep, postage scale) become your boon companions.
An essential component of tracking on this program is my old arch enemy, the bathroom scale. Daily weigh-ins first thing in the morning.  I will not lie about my age, my actual hair color or how I really feel about religion, politics or American Idol. I will, however, tell enough lies to get elected to Congress when it comes to how much I weigh. I have instructed nurses to take my weight and not tell me the number when it comes to a physical. The bitches do it anyway. I don’t care if I feel awake and alive, if my pants are falling off my ass, if I’ve kept discipline with diet and exercise, for me, it’s that number. It’s the Shiva of any diet plan, Creator and Destroyer in one. However, Dr. Fit told me, “Yes, you have to weigh yourself.” You know, I had really liked her up to that moment.
 I refrained from telling a lot of people what I was doing because I knew what the reaction would be: It’s a fad diet / that’s only instant gratification/ you have to change your lifestyle/ it won’t last/ you’re going to make yourself sick / nobody can sustain that, blah blah blah. In the back of my head, I could hear the Greek chorus tuning up to sing its disapproval in 4 part harmony worthy of the Robert Shaw Chorale. Excuse me a minute while I go grab my soapbox.
Here’s the great paradox that has ruled my adult life, influenced my self image and my estimation of self-worth.  In order to gain approval from the members of the Greek chorus (family, certain friends, doctors  and members of the opposite sex from whom approval is required in order to form  a relationship. As I am not gay, it is necessary to appear attractive to men.  So far, no dice) and to move out of the group that is the last safe target for bigotry and prejudice (there is not constitutionally recognized protection for overweight people. You can’t tell fag jokes, but have at it with the fat jokes. And  I only used that hateful f-g word to make a point. If offense was taken, I  do apologize).   I must lose weight. The approved method is eating fewer calories, spaced into smaller meals and exercising. IT DID NOT WORK. I would get “well, at some point, it’ll just take off and go” or “don’t expect it to come off all at once” or “Well, muscle weighs more than fat, you know” as if, while I slept, the Muscle Fairy would materialize in my room, jab my ass like with her magic wand/tazer and X cubic centimeters of fat would transform into X cubic centimeters of muscle.  It didn’t happen. Lose weight means fewer pounds. The reward for exorcising demon sugar from your system  and exercising your Gluteus Maximus  is to push your gravitational response to the minimus that is healthy (and if you work in Hollywood, even lower than that. It’s all about the camera, Darling).  You get rewards: if not actual voiced approval from the Greek chorus, then they at least SHUT THE HELL UP about your weight and appearance (it’s like pounding your head on a wall – feels so good when it stops). You can actually buy health insurance.  People don’t snicker behind your back unless you have a piece of toilet paper stuck to your shoe and even then, they are more likely to say, “Hey, you’ve got toilet paper on your shoe” than wait until they think you can’t hear (which you always can) and say, “Did you see that fat bitch with the toilet paper on her shoe? What kind of a lazy slob is she?” Ah yes, there is the freedom from that automatic judgment: at 224.6 lbs., the automatic assumptions are things like self-loathing, depression, lack of education, lack of intelligence, poor personal hygiene, probably on some kind of hand-out, lazy, Jerry Springer fan, the house is probably a mess, too. Before anyone protests, I have been subjected to these assumptions.  All of them.
Okay, I have a goal. I have a desire to reach that goal. I have tried the normal approved path and it didn’t work.  Let’s try a different path. The disapproval for going an alternative route is even stronger than the disapproval  for not trying. “You can’t do it that way!”  And you, me, the frustrated dieter, simply cannot fucking win. Even if you go through Hell, high water, a lot of money and/or pain in search of a solution, even if you ultimately succeed, there will always be a stigma attached to your success because you 1) had surgery or 2) checked yourself into an expensive spa (if you can afford such things) or 3) succeeded on something like Zone, Atkins, South Beach, Pineapples, Peas and Papayas because you did not follow the accepted path. To those presently warming up their pipes to criticize and demean what I have managed to do in 40 days, I say this:
 Kiss my lily-white ass.  
Dr. Fit told me this was not a permanent program. Going in, after I read praise and criticism online for HCG (and Google is groaning with web pages dedicated to this protocol), I knew that its best use for me was as a jump-start: once the 40 days were over, I would have to have a plan in place for afterwards when the food rules were not as rigid, when I would be experiencing hunger again and when I was going to have to choose what and how much I ate.  I knew that once I stopped with the drops, there would be 3 days of the Reduced Calorie Diet, then 18 days of normal calorie intake (1450 for me, if you’re curious) with NO sugar and NO starch. After that, if I wanted sugar and starch, I could have them, but it would be pretty stupid because I’d basically been in sugar detox since Jan 31 and it wouldn’t sit well.
Which is what brings me to the Steak Day. I was dismayed to get on the scale yesterday morning and see 202 instead of 199.2 (so much for complaining about plateaus. Careful what you wish for) and 202.8 this morning. Fortunately, there is a plan for a gain of 3 lbs. or more during the Phase 3 (Or Phase 2, depending on who you ask). You limit yourself to one meal that day and it is a 12 to 14 oz. steak (over a 1,000 calories, in case you’re wondering. My Net Diary nearly keeled over) and a side of tomato or apple. As a dedicated carnivore (Black Angus stampede at the sound of my name), my response is “Where do I sign up?”
We will see tomorrow AM whether or not this works. I will certainly not be throwing up my hands, declaring failure and proceeding accordingly. Hell no. I want that sub-200 lb. feeling again. I am sick and tired of being “obese” and 190 lbs. is the next milestone. Not one step backward.


Wednesday, March 16, 2011

It's Deja Vu All Over Again

199.2 lbs. For the fourth day in a row. Annoyed sigh.
Look, I know plateaus come with the territory, but 4 days? Granted, I started at 224.6 lbs. on January 31 of this year and it’s a pretty solid accomplishment to have lost 10 % of my body weight.

I’ve done the diet and weight loss thing before. And in an equally surprising revelation, the sky is blue. The first attempt I undertook on my own, I used Dietac. It was diet pills made by the Contac people (cold pills) and the ads starred Bill Bixby. He went on to make “The Incredible HULK” so maybe that should have been my first clue. I restricted my caloric intake. Another helper: Figurines. Never heard of them? The were the pre-cursor for Zone bars, Atkins bars, 100 calorie packs and Slim Fast bars. Understand, this particular effort was undertaken before anyone had ever heard of Oprah. I did 200 sit-ups per day. The diet pills were, of course, speed by any other name. I got a little cranky. Er. I snapped at my younger sister over something (she was a master of pushing buttons just for the sake of me getting into trouble. Sibling rivalry by Sun Tzu) and my father made a big scene by dramatically crashing into my room and demanding  “Give me those pills.” (Had I had a death wish, I would have asked if he planned to use them himself. Neither of my parents would have gone unmolested by Richard Simmons at that point) One day, I stepped on the scale (present height) and it read 123 lbs. I was extremely excited and told my mother. Her response, “Five more pounds and you’ll be perfect.” (To my smart ass cousins who were asking me this week  what perfect was, it’s 118 lbs. on a 5’7” frame, according to a formerly reliable source).  The concept of support groups wasn’t really that much in vogue at that point, either.

Two days later, I was gobbling down my grandmother’s date cookies.  And I never did get to that 118 lbs.

In case you were wondering, the familial nagging never did let up. I made it clear that I was not interested in hearing about it from any of them, especially those with the same issues who had not successfully resolved them (My father lost weight after he had a triple bypass. My mother, after she was diagnosed diabetic. There is no greater zealot than the convert. Neither had made a serious attempt at a healthy lifestyle before these events, but they felt free to instruct me on what I should be doing.
I made several informal attempts at losing weight: eating less fat and sugar, walking a lot, Denise Austin videos. Some loss, then some more gain. The last time I can say for certain that I was not overweight was 1991. I can date this because of a picture from my sister’s college graduation with the four kids.  Not a lot of photo evidence – I prefer to be on the other side of the lens, mostly because of the way I look on camera.
The most recent, “work at it” attempt was in 2005. I don’t remember what my starting weight was, but it wasn’t far off the 224 mark. I joined a gym and signed up for working with a personal trainer. Actually, that was a lot of fun – he and I had a lot of laughs. I worked HARD: I was weight training twice per week and aerobic training 5-6 times per week, including The Rotating Staircase of Death (those big ass Stair Steppers that are actually rotating staircases. I’ll tell you about how I encountered The Rock on this later on).  I ate six meals per day, carefully measured. Had I drunk any more water, I would sprouted gills. My pants got loose, my face got thinner, I developed muscle definition (!), but the number on the damned scale went down very little.  Sorry. That’s the point of the game: that number goes LOWER. A potential personal trainer at another gym in the same chain measured me (arms, neck, waist, chest) and the BMI hadn’t dropped much.  Young kid; he made some crack about how clearly my plan wasn’t working and I needed to work with someone again. I almost dropped the little turd where he stood. I settled for, “Well, it ain’t gonna be done by you, Junior” and headed over to the nearest elliptical machine.
In the meantime, for the most part, I haven’t been eating like a maniac, although there are times. My monthly PMS treatment was a trip to a steakhouse (usually Claim Jumper or Outback) for a steak, some sort of chocolate and a Maker’s Mark Manhattan.  Meanwhile, I would be getting links to recipes from Hungry Girl (whatever the hell that is) with these reduced-calorie recipes. My brother would see fit to lecture me about my weight, including touching my abdomen in a most inappropriate manner and assuring me that at my size, I was surely unattractive to all men. This from a guy who ate TWO complete dinners and half a pitcher of beer at a Santa Monica restaurant. What? Yes, he’s diabetic and was diagnosed as such prior to this memorable meal. Why do you ask?
Let’s jump forward to 2011. I’m working in St. Louis, Missouri. Home of the Arch, the Cardinals, gooey butter cake, toasted ravioli and excellent beef.  I’m at a job that is extremely stressful, not so much for the nature of it but for the pressure to succeed and keep it. I was self-medicating with Snickers bars and double-dosing on Cheetohs. I was having issues with chronic sinus congestion, eczema, sleep apnea and feeling fuzzy-headed all the time. Prior to this, I had been working as an independent contractor and couldn’t procure health insurance on my own, based on a 2005 physical (the last one I had had. I had left Countrywide shortly after starting the gym program. My health insurance went bye-bye). Now I had health insurance and was using the mental health benefit to deal with my work-related stress. The therapist referred me to a chiropractor/acupuncturist for alternative healing on the sleep/weight issues.  I have tried CPAP and have a scar across the bridge of my nose from it. I refuse to take Lipitor because I suspect it is linked to Type II diabetes.  I tried Phen-Phen when it was legal (for about 3 weeks. It didn’t do anything).
Long story short (too late, perhaps), this tiny little Jewish acupuncturist (there has to be a joke in there somewhere) told me about the HCG diet.
But, that’s for next time.




Monday, March 14, 2011

This is the start

Okay, so my weight loss blog and the actual starting point are out of sync. I began on January 31, 2011 at 224.6 lbs. Today (March 14), I'm at 199.2 lbs. That's 10 % of my body weight gone.

I will explore the hows and the whys and all that jazz as we go along. The title derives from my BMI (Body Mass Index for you skinny bitches who can eat a whole pizza and not even belch. There is a special place in hell reserved for you - it's an eternal "Sweatin' To The Oldies" class taught by Richard Simmons). At 5'7" and 224, this nifty little app on my Android phone tells me I'm obese. I hate that fucking word. Overweight is bad enough, but obese is the magic word for discrimination. I've been denied health insurance because of it. I've had people, total strangers, feel free to yell cruel comments at me because of it. I've had directors of dating services tell me it makes me almost impossible to match (I could do better if I smoked, had kids and was into crack).I know there are women larger than I am who are in happy relationships, but I've believed for my adutl life that I was unworthy of having a good man in my life because of my size. At least, none of the ones in whom I've shown interest have reciprocated. Don't get me started on "chubby chasers." I HAVE given a few of them a chance and each one gave me a severe case of the creeps. I've been stood up in restaurants: in fact, my favorite was actually WATCHING the guy turn around and leave when he saw me.

I have a friend whom I love dearly, but when she wants to lash out at me, she immediately goes for the weight. I haven't talked to her in a while.

 I subscribe to Vogue - luckily, they don't ask for a picture and doctor's certificate when you subscribe but the clothing wouldn't fit me. The $hoe$ and handbag$ (belts? No way), but that's about it. Clothes shopping is not  a lot of fun unless I'm willing to dig very deeply into my pocket. Otherwise, it's poor quality, cheap materials and high prices. Can you say, "Lane Bryant"?

The average dress size in the US is 14. Yet, that size and upward goes by the name 'Plus." If 14 is the average, how about calling everything below it "Minus"?

Back to "obese." Like I said, I have this nifty little app on my phone called "My Net Diary." According to it, I am still obese but at 190 lbs, I'm merely "overweight". At 140 lbs, I become "Normal." Okay, fine. Let's see what normal feels like.