Are My Tights and Cape Back from the Cleaners?

183.4 lbs. OH, YOU ARE FUCKING KIDDING ME. 6 LBS. UP IN A WEEK? ALMOST 3 OVERNIGHT????

(If you under 18 and reading this, please stop. While vulgarities are not the best way to express oneself, they are preferable to beating the ever-loving shit out of the first person you come across)

MOTHER FUCKING SON OF A BITCH! What the hell happened? I don’t get it, I do NOT understand this. As my grandmother (who NEVER swore except for once in her life and you are about to hear that) said when something unexpected and absolutely unwanted turned up in her life (namely, my great-grandmother), “Jesus hell shit and damn.”

Was this my fault? Must be: no evidence of ninjas breaking into my home, stuffing a funnel down my pie hole and force-feeding me like a goose (this is how we get foie gras, Kids. Appetizing, isn’t it?). What’s that? “Ninjas don’t leave evidence.” Okay, stop geeking on me and focus.

This is on me: not only because of the highly personal nature of the setback, but also because it is completely on my shoulders to solve. Look, I’ve said this before about victims: they have no power. If you do not take responsibility for your failures and setbacks, you have no right to take credit for your successes. “It’s not my fault because…” gives power to the source you’re blaming. If that or they or he or she (whatever it is outside of you) can control you like that and you allow it to continue, you’re not going to have a wonderful life, especially if that or they or he or she finds out and exploits that weakness. You don’t want to live your life on the end of a chain.

You may have guessed there was an explosion of anger and frustration when I read 183 on the scale (which, yes, is still intact. I’m not killing the messenger on this one). The energy it created could have gone in one of two potential directions, as I see it. I could have 1) screamed “FUCK IT!” and just started stuffing my face. This is a time-honored reaction which has been deployed many, many times in the past and part of the reason I got up to 225 lbs. However, since the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different result, I doubted this would have cleared the decks of the excess tonnage. Option 2) take that energy and put it to good use on the Rotating Staircase of Death. I grabbed my gym bag and hit the road.

As I was entering the last 8 minutes on the RSoD (Rotating Staircase of Death) and watching the sweat drip off of my nose onto the treads and comparing it to the better curveballs thrown in the major leagues (Seriously, without trying, I can get a truly filthy break on a sweat drop and it will land about a foot away from the drop point), I was still puzzling over the “Okay, so what have I done wrong here?” question. I began making plans to order HCG from my former acupuncturist in St. Louis and hitting Round 2, but I wasn’t enthusiastic about that plan. I think noticed that not only had I completed my workout (45 minutes), but had maintained a faster pace than I had ever done.  Oh, I still look like I’m about to keel over, but I survive to tell the tale. I moved over to the elliptical machine (Remember in
“Stripes” how every time Bill Murray shot off his mouth to the Sergeant, the whole platoon got punished? Same principle). When you’ve got forward momentum, use it, Baby, use it.

While on the elliptical, mentally grumbling and snarling (and actually flipping off Alex Rodriguez every time ESPN shows his smug mug. Both hands. I don’t like the guy), the grumbling and snarling included such entries “My sinuses have been congested for over a week” and “Why is my GD face breaking out?” and “How the fuck am I going to get back on track?” as well “Thanks a lot, GOD! Way to pull the string when I’m on the brink of 50 down!” (Okay, so I wasn’t in my “I Am Woman, Hear Me Roar” mode at that moment. Hey, everybody goes to the zoo now and then). The TVs were showing Comic Con coverage and  John Mayer’s cover of “Route 66” (“Cars” soundtrack and a FINE rendition. I highly recommend it for your cardio mix) popped on the headphones. The feet kicked in, the tempo kicked up and I was distracted from the problem to solve…Freeze frame (another good song, but this is not the context): I do the New York Times Sunday crossword puzzle and find that when stuck, if I put the puzzle down and do something else for a while, when I return to the puzzle, suddenly, the answer I seek just pops into my head. This is problem-solving. Okay, back to the machine….So, I am lip-synching Route 66 and pedaling away like crazy on the machine when it hit me…

My old arch-enemy. Sugar. And his evil henchman, Starch.  (I can’t decide if we’re talking tights and capes or more of a black fedora and trench coat, but this is what Comic Con images will do to an oxygen-depleted mind)

Suddenly, it became clear: the inability to eat just a measured amount of wasabi almonds (they contain sugar), the constant, compulsive grazing that was getting worse, the bloated feeling, the sinus congestion (with slightly bloody nose, low grade fever and annoyingly crappy feeling. No, there is no better way to describe not actually sick. You feel CRAPPY). The emotional downturn. Oh yeah. Sugar had invaded my Fortress of Solitude/Bat Cave/League of Justice Headquarters (Comic Con, remember) and had begun to use my tools and weapons against me.

Here’s the thing with sugar and me: it starts and perpetuates an eating cycle. The more I have, the more I want. Sound like an addiction? It does to me.

I had allowed some sugar back into the diet, isolated intake, but not made it a part of the everyday meal. The coconut I had been craving: all of it was sweetened and I had started eating it regularly about the same time my metabolism had been thrown into reverse. And the zits had started. And the eating had gotten out of control. And those jeans I’d worked so damned hard to get back into didn’t fit. And I was feeling crappy because SUGAR IS INFLAMMATORY TO YOUR ORGANS. Bastard tricked me again.

Upon returning home, I rounded up all of the coconut products I had left as well as any brown rice or granola (even the gluten-free stuff. Gluten free, yes. Starch free, no) and gave them to some friends who think I’m somewhat nuts, but they also like pina coladas, so it’s win win.

We’ll see what the scale says tomorrow morning and for a few days after that (I don’t know how long it’ll take for it to work its way out of my system). 6 lbs., I’ll give it 2 weeks to self-correct, sticking to protein, vegetables, fruits and nuts in the interim.

And in the meantime, Sugar and Starch have jumped into their evil motorcycle and sidecar (with a sugar molecule painted on the side) and driven off in search of an actual victim.

Take that, you little molecular mother fuckers. You won’t destroy MY world.

               

Ten HUT!

180.4 lbs. Extended commentary to follow          

Dear Whatever Parts of the Body Feel the Need to Shelter Excess Weight,

Okay, so potato chips were consumed, as were Jello shots (SUGAR FREE or so I was told) and Mandicakes (DAMN THE GIRL! KEEBLER ELVES SHOULD BAKE SO WELL!). There were days without hitting the gym because of the low level sinus bullshit going on and trying to get up to speed on work. You made your point.

However,

This is not wartime Amsterdam and that adipose tissue is not the Frank family. You have been to the gym every day since Saturday. The water intake has gone back to where it belongs, as had the sugar consumption. You’ve been getting as close to 8 hours a night as possible and yet, no. You decided to gain and hold. This is NOT an option. Either you can release the additional pounds or we’re going to consider some other options, such as intermittent fasting (Meaning no eating outside of a 5 hour window) or we’re going to play HCG Round 2. 500 calories a day for 3 weeks? 40 days? Want to play that game again? Purge the sugar, starch and oils from the diet and the system? I can do it standing on my head, which means you get to play, too.

Your choice, Body. You can play nice with the 6 days per week of exercise and 1200 calorie intake and get me past the 174.6 lbs. (aka 50 down) mark within the next 14 days OR we can contact Dr. Fit back in St. Louis and get some more HCG and do it that way. Oh and in case you’re considering protesting, I have a memo from Alberto Gonzalez that says I can pursue any of these options, God bless America.

You wanted coconut, I’ve given you coconut (curried chicken salad dressing: ¼ cup non fat Greek yogurt, 1 tablespoon Coco Lopez, 1 teaspoon curry powder. Stir together, refrigerate overnight and allow flavors to get to know each other. 200 grams of grilled chicken, cut or torn into bite sized pieces, ½ cup shredded coconut, ½ cup raisins and 1 apple cut into bite sized pieces. Makes 3-4 servings). Ralph the Renegade Sinus is holding the right inner ear hostage and demanded wasabi for ransom: I ponied up with wasabi almonds. You wanted chicken, chicken, chicken after tonight’s workout; what did I just give you? Did I exceed the recommended caloric intake to satisfy you? Yes. The least you can do in return is to turn EVERYTHING that’s been given to you into muscle and energy  and healthy organs.

So, here’s what we’re going to do: starting tomorrow, we’re back on the N acetyl cysteine, alpha lipoic acid and tyrosine to get the cravings back under control (While I am willing to indulge you up to a point, macaroons are not allowed. Sorry) and get the motivation geared up again. We’re going to figure out a way to make a wasabi/yogurt dressing for more chicken salad adventures (what else would go in such a salad? Cucumbers, definitely. Sort of like a kappa maki roll without the rice. Avocado? Maybe). What’s that? No. No mayonnaise, even it if endangers our street cred as a white Protestant. Mayonnaise is only good as edible mortar: all it does is bind the more interesting ingredients together. And that includes a tomato sandwich.

We’re back to pounding down at least 10 – 12 glasses of water per day. We are no longer going to eat unless there is an actual physical sensation that needs to be addressed and I am pretty sure reinstituting the amino acid regimen will reinforce this.

No alcohol. Water or tea or black coffee, that’s it until and unless you get with the program.

Chocolate almond horns? Not so much. Clearly, sugar is not your friend. You want sweet? Have some stevia.

So, Body, either you show me that you’re back on board with the weight loss project or the floggings will continue until morale improves.

Dismissed.

Grow a set

199.2 lbs.  This officially blows.

I may be a spoiled American, but when I work hard at something, I expect a GD payoff, you know? Right now, I’m sitting here in that kind of spacey, woofy, state you feel after a workout. 1 hour on the treadmill, 3 MPH, 1% incline. 300 + calories burned. I’d better see a drop in the scale tomorrow or Somebody (I’m not naming names, but He wants us in His house every Sabbath) will be listening to me bitch for all eternity. I am sick to death of this over-under-on 200 lbs. shit. Seriously. Cut way the hell back on fat; no difference (and you do need certain types of dietary fat. It’s just avocado v. bacon. Olive oil v. butter). I go over on sodium (My Net Diary tracks intake and recommends amounts) and I’m up 2.4 lbs. over 2 days. Not on the rag: that was a fluke and it’s over. I’ve been drinking enough water to float an aircraft carrier, down 1 lb. and hold. Do a half-hour on the elliptical then a half-hour on a treadmill again drinking so much water  you can hear me slosh as I walk and NOT A GOD DAMNED BIT OF DIFFERENCE. “Oh, well those temporary spikes are just because your body hasn’t used up the food you’ve taken in.”  Well, I’ve given it damned good reasons to start burning hard, fast and bright.

I will…

Meditate and give thanks for the progress I’ve made.  Visualize myself  as I want to be.

I will…

Go back to work with a personal trainer. In fact, I had a conversation with the gym today about that very subject. Last time I did, I enjoyed it AND I learned good enough weight training form that I was getting compliments from gym rats. Gay gym rats. Gay Latino gym rats.

I will…

Stay the course.  Not gonna change now, wouldn’t be prudent. Besides, I suspect that if I did start consuming sugar and gluten again, I’d feel sick.

I will…

Be hitting the HCG again starting June 5 (I’m planning my birthday party for the 4^th. Mark your calendars. Details later).  Party Day is part of the 2 day load, the 500 calories per day begins on the 5^th. Another 40 days, if necessary. It worked the last time, it’ll work better this time. I can do it on my head (and that’s because I’ve started the yoga classes).

I have not had anything fried in months. I have weighed and noted everything that goes into my mouth (which gets tedious) and over the past couple of days, the calorie count is staying at or near 1000. Anybody who wants to argue with “Oh, but you need to be eating at least blah blah blah,” I DID THAT AND IT DIDN’T WORK.  I’m not eating later than 7 PM. Breakfast is fiber a go-go.

If you’re familiar with “Fiddler On the Roof” or at least know the lyrics to “If I Were a Rich Man” by heart, you know that the last line of that song goes, “Lord who made the lion and the lamb, You decreed I should be what I am, but would it spoil some vast eternal plan if I were a wealthy man?”  The sentiment applies and in addition to a leaner body, I want $2 billion and ownership of the Red Sox. John Henry is wasting too much money on other pursuits. (And don’t get me started on the guy sitting stone-faced during Game 4 of the 2007 Series when the Sox were inches away from winning). However, I digress.

I do not buy this “Your body has a set point in weight where it wants to be and it’ll keep going back to that point.” That is bullshit, victim-think cop out.  It is nothing but a justification for breaking discipline and wallowing.  Here’s the thing: you want to be a victim? Knock yourself out but know this: victims have no power because they have given it away. Blame it on set points, genetics, your horoscope or the incessant advertising. But if you go that route and shift the blame, you then yield your bitching rights.

On the other hand, if you’re working hard at it and hitting these bumps, then bitch away.  You’ve earned the right.