You're Never Too Young...

I’m not even going to pretend I’ve weighed myself lately. As it is, I haven’t been to the gym in 4 days. No excuses, I’ve missed it. I’m heading in as soon as I’m done dashing off this post.

I’m annoyed. Irritated. Frustrated. Ready to bang my head on a wall (not that it’ll do any good) because
“they just don’t get it.”

I subscribe to Vogue, which is the Bible of airbrushed body loathing. (I like the clothes. I like to keep up on what’s in, even if it I can’t afford/fit it. I do have a sense of style, just not one I can indulge). The tip-off that maybe I wouldn’t enjoy this month so much was the Monster of Self-Promotion, She Who is Role Model to the Whoredashians, Jennifer Lopez, graces the April 2012 cover. (There IS a sex tape, but she blocked the release. Or says she blocked the release). I have not and will not read the accompanying article.

Nope, what has aroused my ire is the mixed message contain in the magazine. The hint comes with a teasers on the cover (I don’t work in magazine publishing. I don’t know the technical terms): “Kitchen Controversy: A Mom Fights Childhood Obesity At Home” and “SHAPE 2012 Your Best Body EVER Raise Your Metabolism Get Better Curves Age-Proof Your Skin”* And away we go.

(* This is my asterisk. Low tech, low cost means of age-proofing your skin? Plenty of water, adequate sleep, don’t smoke, minimize alcohol and  use sunblock made for babies (The adult stuff? Even if it's intended for sensitive skin, it gives me a chemical burn. Water Babies or Banana Boat Baby: If it's good enough for a baby's butt, it's good enough for my face). I have people telling me I look like I’m in my twenties. I’m not. AARP is actively hunting for me as we speak. And if Vogue finds out I’m undercutting product promotion, Anna Wintour will have a bounty on my head. You’ll see her wearing my scalp at the front row of Fashion Week in Paris. It makes an unusual pin).

The “Kitchen Controversy” story (Up Front, page 122, right behind the stinky Viktor & Rolf Flowerbomb  perfume sample) is titled “Weight Watcher” about Dara-Lynn Weiss putting her 7 year old daughter on a Weight Watchers style diet. Let’s pause so that sinks in. 7. Second grader. Here’s a hint that maybe there’s a little projection going on : “I had suffered through my own issues with food (DING DING DING). Who was I to teach a little girl how to maintain a healthy weight and body image?” “Bea understands that, just as some kids have asthma, her weight is something she may always have to think about, unfair as it seems.” The story describes a running battle with this child over what she’s eating, including REMOVING FOOD FROM THE KID’S HAND IN PUBLIC AND DUMPING IT. Bea constantly complains about being hungry, gets some exercise (not much) and there are times when Mommy Dearest just lets her have whatever she wants; this woman doesn’t hold the line she has set but expects a young child to do it. Here’s my favorite line: “Incredibly, she has not yet exhibited symptoms of intense psychological damage.”  I believe “yet” is the operative word in that sentence.

Wow. Where do I begin? Not to the degree this broad did it, but I’ve been there. Pictures of me from when I was 9 or 10 (I haven’t seen them in a while, but I remember the class photos) show a slightly heavy girl. I wasn’t the class champ: there was one angry, snotty girl in my grade school class who was very big and I distinctly remember hearing her talk about cellulite at lunch (she was correcting someone else’s pronunciation of the word. Then snarled at me because I was listening. I think she went on to work at the DMV). I believe she was all of 11 (tops). This would have been 1972.

That’s 40 years we’ve been warping young female minds about body image.                   

My parents (who were not willows themselves) went the shame route with me and my grandmother piled on (Loved that woman to death, but she wasn’t slender, either. Neither was my grandfather), but I had free access to all the baked goodies that arrived with Gramp and Gram, not to mention inclusion on trips to Seward’s, the local dairy/ice cream parlor. My mother made “diet” bread for my sandwiches (which tasted like sawdust) and while my siblings were given lunch money, I brown-bagged it every day. Just a sandwich, no extras, maybe desserts sometimes (that were mocked by my classmates). I was shown pictures of fat little girls and asked “You don’t want to look like HER, do you?” I remember crying my eyes out more than once. Hell yeah, I cheated, especially after I’d left home and could make my own decisions about what I ate. BAD decisions, which is why I’m in my current “working hard to work it off” position.

And this was nothing compared to what the writer of that article did to her daughter. Poor little Bea is going to end up as a cutter, even if she’s lost 16 pounds in a year and her mother is proud of her (they’re pictured having afternoon tea, everything Momma DOESN’T want her daughter ingesting. This little girl has long legs like a model. I hope to God she kicks her mother with them). Dara-Lynn Weiss (author of the article) Look, Lady (and I use the term loosely), maybe there’s an issue with what she’s eating. Did you have her checked for food allergies? Celiac (which can begin manifesting as carb cravings)? Metabolic issues?  You talk about the doctor’s warning with weight (high blood pressure, diabetes, cholesterol), but NEVER ONCE indicated whether the kid had been TESTED for these issues. So it’s just an appearance issue, you self-loathing sanctimonious bitch. When the time comes, I hope she puts you in the worst nursing home imaginable.

Let’s jump to page 297 of our hymnals, “Can You Raise Your Metabolism?” The artistic photo is of 5 women in fat suits, clearly trained in classical dance (the poses, the feet). Remember the teaser from the cover, “Raise Your Metabolism”? Yeah, this woman, Ginny Graves, has decided you can only really do it temporarily. “Muscle is the main determinant of differences in metabolic rate – the single biggest reason Serena Williams incinerates calories while the majority of us count them.” This broad describes trying get hold of ephedra, rejecting HCG (yes, I did it. I think one round, otherwise your body says, “Hey, I know this trick. Nope. Not falling for it.”), pretty much every weight loss trick short of crystal meth (part of that weight loss is losing your teeth). Long story short, she works out like hell (Weight training and spinning class. Sounds familiar? Spinning is out for me due to the WRK – Wonky Right Knee. And I don’t like it. Give me an elliptical any day).

Her conclusions: you can only raise it temporarily. Fine: don’t stop moving.

After I’d read these two articles, the phrase that jumped to my mind was “Mixed Signals.” We had the mother with the iron fist trying to get her daughter to lose weight, but periodically giving the kid the okay for a cupcake and a second cupcake. And we had the cover of the magazine telling us “Raise Your Metabolism” (which is code for “Drop pounds”) but the inside story says, “No, not really. Not permanently.

This kind of inconsistency is what sells a lot of anti-anxiety meds.

It took me over 40 years to figure out the right path for me (which will lead to the gym in a few minutes), mostly because I kept asking for directions and the answers I got contradicted each other. (I’d say the same thing happened to the Israelites searching for the Promised Land, but you know the old joke about them being led by men so therefore nobody asked for directions).

Foods made with grains are not my friends. Refined sugar is not my friend. I can make a tastier, healthier meal from scratch than I can with something coming out of a jar or box. Hey, wow, it’s FUN to lift weights and see muscles getting defined. My favorite meal is some kind of meat and a salad or green vegetable and THAT WORKS FOR ME.  Having found these things, I can now tune out the background noise of mixed messages because my internal personal GPS has found the way.

And Bea Weiss? You are a beautiful girl. I’ve seen the pictures. Tell Mommy Headcase to get over herself and deal with her own issues before projecting them onto you (and exploiting it for an article in Vogue). You’re okay, Kid. Let’s hope you stay that way.

Buk Buk Buk

 178.4 lbs. Yeah, yeah, yeah, dynamite, blah, blah, blah, hate plateaus, yada, yada, yada, did a monster burn today, etc., etc., etc. You know the drill. I’m thinking

Still having an inexplicable craving for coconut. And horseradish. Just not together; I mean we’re not talking about an Almond Joy coated in wasabi. I’m wondering what the nutrients are in each substance that are creating these cravings.

Today being a holiday (paid for me. Yea!), I was able to hit the gym fairly early and put in one of my Monster Burns (1600 calories or more). Today was an hour and a quarter of weight machines (Dear Trapezius Muscles: the more you pull this “we’re going to lock up and make you miserable” shit just for me sitting at a desk and working, the more machines designed to work you I’m going to hit. EVERY TIME. I figure you do it because you need to be stronger and what better way to improve your strength? You might want to rethink your position), an hour on the elliptical and an hour on the treadmill (the Rotating Staircases of Death were all claimed). Just give me a “Law and Order” marathon and I’m good to go. Yesterday, while I was on the Rotating Staircase of Death prior to Pilates class, VH 1 was showing “The Blues Brothers.” You give me Jake and Elwood to distract me and the time positively flies. Naturally, during the concert at the Palace Hotel Ballroom, my feet were trying to move along with Jake and Elwood. Yeah, not such a good idea or easy task. I’ve done the legwork. There was a delightful lady on the next RSoD who was working just as hard as I was. We fist-bumped over our hard work and she told me she was putting in an hour (you go, Girl) in preparation for eating ribs later. Mmmm, ribs…

Nope. Must...resist… keep eyes on the prize, even if it means eating chicken so often, I’m ready to cluck. By the way, the George Foreman grill is a healthy eater’s best friend. AND, if you have a Cost Plus World Market nearby, you’re in luck: they have a selection of hard to find spices at great prices (forgive me). I just grilled a chicken breast that I’d treated with granulated garlic, smoked paprika (I’d use it sparingly. The flavor can overwhelm the other ones you use, but it’s wonderful), salt (sea salt for lower sodium content) and black pepper. If you’re avoiding sugar, beware of flavored salts. I was disappointed to find that the garlic salt, bacon salt and other flavored salts I looked at contained sugar. Very tough stuff to avoid.

I got several “gifts” on Saturday at a Fourth of July party (yeah, two days early). A couple of people, remarking on my weight loss, said to me, “You know, I never thought you were fat.” Casting directors did and one sketch comedy show director who was trying to discourage me from losing weight because “Roseanne lost her power when she lost weight.” (I respectfully disagree. Roseanne lost her power when she married Tom Arnold and began aligning herself with every non-violent mental disorder that came down the pike). I chose keeping all of my toes and avoiding Lipitor addiction (by the way, an announcement came out last week stating that Lipitor created a “slightly increased” risk of Type II diabetes in users. I was right). It doesn’t matter anymore because now, by Hollywood’s standards, I am a beached whale that’s been dead for years. Even John Goodman and Drew Carey have reduced significantly for health reasons. I don’t see anyone telling them “You’ll lose your power.” America: Land of the Free, Home of the Double Standard. What so proudly I hail.

Be that as it may, I’m much happier with what I see in the mirror than I was at this time last year. And that’s what matters. Except for yesterday’s nap attack (I took that from an old, old, old Garfield. So old, my mother applied the term to our dog, Max and he died in 1984), I’ve had more energy lately than I have in years. And my legs look fabulous. Just ask my yoga classmates.

I figure I’ve reached a tipping point where the weight will not come off as easily because I’ve burned the easily accessible stuff already (Again, no medical degree) and from here on out, I won’t see the rapid progress I have up to now (unless I do a second round of HCG and that is not off the table). Here’s where the mental/emotional challenge comes in. If I’m not seeing the forward progress that I’ve been getting, how do I keep myself motivated to keep going? And exactly what do I have to change up in order to bring about progress? Adjust the diet? Add more exercise (time wise, not really feasible with the new job)? We’ll see. I’m looking forward to figuring this out.

In the meantime, neither rain nor snow nor fucktards at the gym will stay this sojourner from her appointed task.

Fat Apartheid

178.4 lbs. Well, hello old friend. I see the sugar-free Jell-O shots didn’t disturb you. (Yes, I was doing Jell-O shots at a party yesterday. I’m 50, not dead).

By the way, I saw the Fucktard, star of yesterday’s blog, at the gym this morning as I was waiting for Pilates class. (He does NOT have a mustache. He also does NOT have any idea of how to dress). I was extremely surprised to see him simultaneously walking and chewing gum. He stopped and stared for a moment, then continued on his way, wherever the hell that may be. That was the extent. He’s still a sorry-ass motherfucker.

I am going to get retro and preachy in this space. I found something I’d written in 2007 and it ties into yesterday’s “fatty” encounter. (Look it’s a holiday weekend and nothing extraordinary happened today in the weight department, nobody cut the cheese in Pilates class although I was clenched the whole time – all the core work seems to get the intestines stimulated and the most interesting thing today was that I woke up from nodding off with an intense craving for coconut. Not worth a lot of blog space).

I give you “Fat Apartheid” (from November 2007)

I just got my nails done which, if you don't speak Vietnamese (and I think I'm learning "My God, this woman has big feet! Make sure you charge by the acre!"), you spend your time leafing through old and new magazines, mostly of the gossip/celebrity news variety, with the occasional Time or Newsweek from 6 months ago. A letter to the People editor regarding Queen Latifah caught my eye. After two other letters that praised her for accepting her body as is and showing "the cardboard cutouts" of Hollywood that you don't need to be size 0 to be successful, the third letter said that with obesity being epidemic in America, it was Latifah's duty as a role model to promote "a healthy body" - shorthand for "lose weight."

A short essay in Time was devoted to "inter-facial marriage," that is marriage between one homely spouse and one "hot" spouse (what makes someone hot? Nobody has the rules). Whereas, it stated that an unattractive man marries a gorgeous woman, it is likely he's rich or a rock star. If an unattractive woman marries a handsome man, though, the whisper is that he must be gay or have some terrible deformity hidden by clothing. I read Vogue. After the Jennifer Hudson cover (which surprised me because I had doubted Anna Wintour would put someone on the cover who isn't built like her), among the letters lauding Vogue for putting a plus-sized woman on the cover, there was one complaining about it.

In a previous blog, I related an incident where another Myspacer didn't like what I posted and referred to me as a "fat fucking whore." What I find interesting about that particular insult is that it goes to the body type first; one would presume because the first cut should be the deepest. Also, I have related the Trader Joe’s parking lot incident where, after a woman nearly hit me head on in the parking lot of Trader Joe's in Studio City (the one on Riverside) and I did my Boston "Lean On the Horn" thing to express dissatisfaction, she told me that I was excessively angry because I was "big and always would be." Direct quote. Granted, this came out of the mouth of someone whose voice sounded like a stereotype for a dumb, self-absorbed woman.

We live in a society that hyphenates race and ethnicity (African-American, Italian-American. Can't we just be Americans together?). Various states have statutes punishing hate crimes (with which I don't agree. Very un-American to attempt to regulate thought). Within the past 2 years, various Hollywood figures have been pilloried for using racial and homophobic slurs. Yet there are not repercussions for taunting or abusing someone who's overweight. Fat is not a protected class.

And yet, most Americans are overweight by scientific body mass index standards, damned near none of us can fit into designer clothes (let alone afford them) and we criticize (including me) Britney Spears for wearing an outfit to the VMAs that showed a soft (but not convex) belly. "Curvy" in Hollywood terms means a 5' 9" woman who weighs 125 lbs. One of the pictures I’ve shown here is me with George Clooney. One of my first thoughts on meeting him was "My God, he needs a good meal." And when I displayed the picture at work, a thimbo asked me "How come you got your picture taken with the handsome man?" (I kid you not) We have been trained to worship sticks with bumps; big head/slender body for men, big head/slender body/relatively big boobs for women.

Most of us don't look like that. Go to a clothing store like Old Navy and head for the jeans/slacks section. Okay, you'll see that there are far more 2s and 4s hanging or folded than the 14s, 16s and 18s. Why? There are more double-digit people buying clothes than low single-digit.

We the people are being dominated and controlled by an underweight minority and it's a very small minority. We the people have been trained to feel inferior for our size, that we have no compensating factors for excess weight. I write, I have a law degree, I've always been able to get and keep work "from the neck up" and earn a good living. I'm known for my wit, my intelligence and (usually) my kindness. I have naturally blonde hair, blue eyes and a nice, even smile, but I've had blind dates turn and leave me at a restaurant because I was overweight (even though I'd been honest about it). Luckily, my grandmother is gone because I got sick of hearing "You have such a pretty face, you need to lose..." coupled with a sigh. I've had a long-term membership at 24 Hour Fitness and gone 4-5 times a week (when I could. Travelling job makes it difficult), toning up legs, arms, strengthening my back, but the belly never moved (turns out I have a thyroid in need of a swift kick. It's getting it). I'm part of the majority and yet, we're barraged with ads for weight-loss programs, the only "plus sized" woman on TV was Roseanne and she was portrayed as borderline white trash paired with John Goodman as a husband (John, you kept me tuned in, but they didn't pair Rosie up with Jimmy Smits or the aforementioned Clooney). And neither of the characters had college degrees or white-collar jobs. There's no problem with spongy blue-collar guys having hot wives on TV (Jim Belushi, Kevin James, Jackie Gleason, even), but we don't see the reverse. Where are the large lawyers and doctors? We know they exist in the real world.

"Shallow Hal" dealt with seeing past a person's exterior but coming from the Farrelly brothers, the message was mostly lost. Thin people are beautiful (doesn't matter what the face looks like) and beautiful people are automatically good. Anybody remember Ted Bundy? Dead serial killer? He was able to lure in his victims because he was considered "handsome." OJ Simpson? Considered a handsome, attractive man until he was accused of murdering two people. And let us not forget: Angelina Jolie, the blood-wearing, brother-sucking, home-wrecking tattooed freak show. Skinny body, big boobs, she's hot and nothing else matters (the humanitarian work came after the blood-wearing and brother-sucking, probably at the behest of her desperate publicist).

Interspersed with the weight-loss programs and pills are ads for deals on extra-large pizza, carbohydrate-laden snacks and instant family-togetherness dinners that consist of fats, sodium and starch (That's you, KFC, Hamburger Helper and Betty Crocker). Not a green vegetable within a mile. High-fructose corn syrup permeates processed foods, damned near everything from ketchup to soda, Doritos, Wheat Thins and soup (Campbell's). Read "Fast Food Nation," folks, especially the part about the companies in New Jersey that manufacture flavoring. This is how the skinny minority maintains oppression over the heavier majority, by lulling us into carbohydrate-induced energy crashes. And, oh yeah, there's a pill for that. Or a Red Bull.

It's not youth we're obsessed with, it's appearance. The high-school dropout with the hot body stands a better chance of landing a successful man than the size 12 Harvard summa cum laude.

I have an idea for a TV show that will probably never fly: it's called "What Does He See in Her?" about a hot-looking guy, local TV anchor, married to a not-as-attractive college professor/successful author. The laughs come from bimbettes mistaking hubby's lumpy best friend for the college professor's spouse and people refusing to believe that two such people could have a happy/successful marriage.

As long as fat apartheid continues, it'll never be aired

Ch Ch Ch Ch Changes

196.4 lbs. And the eczema is clearing up, so I’m thinking oatmeal omission is a good thing.

I was watching “Las Vegas” while working out today and was hit by a huge epiphany: JILLIAN MICHAELS IS LARA FLYNN BOYLE AFTER A GOOD MEAL AND SOME STEROIDS!! We haven’t seen Ms. Boyle in years, but there’s Jillian’s smug mug all over the place. I’ve never seen a picture of the two of them together, so they must be the same person (see Clark Kent/Superman evidence, also Peter Parker/Spiderman). This kind of makes me sad, because I never wanted to break Lara Flynn Boyle’s nose. Up next, Al Pacino and Dustin Hoffman are the same guy.

There is a woman working out on the treadmills wearing a blue plastic sauna suit by Everlast. I looked up the customer reviews for this thing and there were a lot of positive comments (except that it seems to be a bit fragile, ripping after a couple of uses). Nobody complains about looking like Violet Beauregard AFTER she chewed the gum, though. And yes, this lady does, but if the suit does what she wants it to do, good luck and may the Force be with you (or May the Fourth be with you).

Normally, I don’t pay much attention to my reflection except to check that my hair looks okay and I haven’t put on too much eye shadow (there are days). However, while washing my face today, something caused me to stop and look. I leaned in and peered hard at…

Cheekbones. We’re not talking Lauren Hutton. The better analogy is the mosquito bites of early puberty (and that phase didn’t last long with me. 44DDs don’t come overnight without a surgeon’s help). Very small, you need a microscope, but they are there. They really do exist.

My legs, which have never really been a problem area, have sharpened up. They respond VERY quickly to any kind of exercise program (which, if I remembered it, would be sufficient inducement to keep me going). I have long, lean muscles in my thighs (Torquemada said something about “pretend you’re cracking nuts” while I was working today. While I get the image, that does nothing for my sex life. There are those who already consider me a nutcracker). There are still a few pockets that put me on the Beverly Hills Most Wanted list, but on the whole, not bad. And that’s pretty good.

The appearance of my neck has improved to the point that I don’t want to burst into tears when I see it. There are going to be jowl issues but that comes under the category best described by Janeane Garafalo in “Romy & Michelle’s High School Reunion.” They are “the genetic betrayal that is my legacy.” That and skin that turns red and blisters if you mention the word “sun.”

I will not be winning an arms race, however. While sweating and stretching in Pilates class on Sunday, I caught sight of tricep region flapping. Damn those exercise room mirrors. This is not so dismaying as it would be to say, look down at the legs and see flaps or bulges where there weren’t any.

I have a job interview in the morning and I have a respectable Elie Tahari suit (side note: those top ranked designers that WILL make clothes for larger women? Bless you and I will be patronizing you all the way down). It may be practically falling off my butt. Not that this is a bad thing. Maybe if it looks like I’ve been hungry for a while, they’ll take pity and give me the job. Right and George Clooney is going to declare his undying love for me. However, I believe it’s against any company’s HR policy to drop your pants on their property.  

I haven’t been measured in a couple of weeks, except for the weight and blood pressure (I got this great wrist cuff at the drug store. About 50 bucks, wicked easy to use and it even saves the information. For the purposes of seeing the benefits of your weight loss program, I highly recommend getting one).   

The personal trainer (aka Torquemada aka The Pushy Peanut) let me win a debate today (eyebrows arched). She had one of their training stools for step on/ step off exercises. I balked at it because I could see myself tumbling off of it (the top isn’t very large if you’re paying more attention to keeping your shoulders in the right position and less on where your feet go). She was going to build a platform out of big weights when I suggested moving into the vacant exercise room and using an aerobic step (with the platforms to elevate them). Because I was not so concerned about missing the step and falling (and according to the Law of Attraction, if you see it in your mind, it’s going to happen in reality), I was able to do the workouts the little sadist wanted me to perform (Step up, step down, weights in hand. Tricep dips, although it was necessary to spread a towel over the step to prevent the tread from digging trenches in my hands, and squat/stand/bicep curl).

She had me perform walking lunges as well, which have been extremely difficult for me (balance issues and the right knee does not like them. At all). While I will still fall out of a Warrior Pose (especially if the hour before yoga was spent really pushing on the elliptical machine and the treadmill), these weren’t too bad.

So, there’s progress being made. I’d rather see it on the scale. One is judged by weight and clothing size, especially around LA. There is truth in “The Devil Wears Prada.” Of course, it should be noted that these starlets who wear the size 0 and size 2 clothing are tiny little women. Princess Diana wore a size 10 (5’10” and 165 lbs. That’s a tall, thin woman. She had 3 inches on me. I have 30 lbs. on her and I wear bigger rings. I think I could have taken her).  I’ve worked as an extra and I’ve been paid to be in an audience (some of the lesser sitcoms, including “Two and a Half Men”). Christina Applegate is tiny (and was a dedicated smoker back in 2003). The woman who played Barbara Jean on “Reba” looked like a horse only because Reba McIntyre is a whole lot of talent packed tightly into a whole lot of tiny. These women look tall because they’re wearing platform stilettos (that’s just asking for a sprained ankle). They’re not built like the average American woman. Christina Aguilera could fit comfortably in a carry-on suitcase (of course, Homeland Security might have some tough questions for you). Cameron Diaz is a very tall, very thin woman (and a pretty decent bowler. I’ve seen her in action). People are cruel to the overweight and obese, but according to Ms. Diaz, she was called “Skeletor’ in high school. I don’t have guys staring at my legs (yet) or asking for my number, but maybe soon.

By the way, I could do with a date to my birthday party, so if you know George Clooney…