Hang in There, Baby

176.4 lbs. I’m  1.8 lbs. away from being 50 lbs. down. You bet what’s left of my ass I’m happy.

I just signed up for HEALTH INSURANCE again! Frabjous joy (? From “The Jabberwock” by Lewis Carroll) It’s group health so, unfortunately, I didn’t get to test my new BMI vs. the health insurance company algorithms to see who would win, but hey, now I can get my blood chemistry tested without a) having to do it myself because b) I don’t want some dopey doctor just looking at me and prescribing Lipitor. Fuck Big Pharma. And before I start hearing about “well, they do this and they do that” [imagine sound of air horn]: They are in the business of selling pills and will do whatever it takes to make you a customer and a lifelong one at that. You know those ads for a “Drug Free America”? Did you ever notice that they never address prescription drug abuse? Chew on that.

“Bless me, Father for I have sinned.”

“Go talk to Richard Simmons or Oprah or Doctor Oz. Leave me alone.”

“Oh, you’re just crabby because Andre Ethier’s talking about going to the Red Sox.”

“He is?”

“Yes and I would welcome him. JD Drew is just a little too fragile. When he’s good, he’s great, but when he’s not, as thunder follows the lightning, he’s going to be on the DL list.”

“You didn’t come here to talk baseball. Spill it. I have to listen to Mrs. Mulroney every week talk about impure thoughts about Tom Jones. She’s been having those thoughts for 50 years.”

“Hey, he’s still got it, but that’s not why I’m here. I cheated.”

“You’re not married.”

“Not that kind of cheating, Father. I broke my discipline on exercise and eating this week.”

“You know, maybe if you got yourself a boyfriend, you’d leave me out of it.”

“You’re encouraging fornication?”

“I’m encouraging ‘leave me the hell alone-ication.”

“I’ve not maintained my schedule, Father.”

“And why not? Have you been fornicating? That’s lust, one of the Big Seven.”

“No, Father. You know better.”

“Have you been sleeping until noon? That’s sloth, another one of the Big Seven.”
“No, Father. In fact, I’ve been getting up early to work every day.”

“You got a job? That’s good. Earned income is a beautiful thing. So have you been stuffing yourself? That’s gluttony. Big Seven.”

“And my particular favorite for years, but only tonight, Father.”

“Why is this night different from all other nights?”

“Is that a Jewish joke, Father?”

“Huh? Oh, right. Passover questions. Rabbi Greenberg thinks he’s George Carlin. No. Let me rephrase: why did you break your discipline tonight?”

“I was at a gathering with friends to watch the last three Harry Potter movies and I indulged in a bunch of things I’ve been able to resist eating for quite some time.”

“For example?”

“I had two Mimosas and an English muffin with light butter.”

“Well, I don’t think the alcohol will hurt you too much, but we’ll wait and see what the gluten does to you. That’s penance enough. Was that it?”

“No, Father, I had some pizza, too.”

“Oh, great, more gluten And sodium and saturated fat and all that stuff that puts you in a panic when My Net Diary gives you the thumbs down on intake.”

“See, I cheated there, too, Father. I didn’t input all that stuff.”

“Well, you’re going to feel like crap. What did you weigh this morning?”

“176.4.”

“So you won’t be shocked at a spike, right?”

“No, Father and I figure the gluten intake should do it.”

“This close to 50 and you had a field day. Sabotage?”

“I don’t think so. There was fresh melon there and I stuck mostly to that.”

“Well, that’s not a big deal. But the pizza…and you said you’d been breaking your gym schedule. Hmm. Okay, this is not good. Tell me, are you keeping up with your brain chemistry supplements.”

“Yes and no. I just ran out of a bunch of them.”

“For how long?”

“A few days.”

“You know you’re crediting that stuff with controlling your eating habits and helping you stick to the exercise routine.”

“Yes, Father, but money has been tight lately. That’s $210 for a three month supply right there.”

“Right, but you’re working again and you’ll buy things as you need them and rebuild. Get the N aceytil cysteine, alpha lipoic acid and L tyrosine first. Keep your dopamine and serotonin levels up or get them back up.”

“What did you do, rifle my purse?”

“That thing? Honestly, I don’t know why you feel you need to lift weights with that thing. What do you have in there, bricks? The thing’s a lethal weapon!”

“Back on track, Father.”

“Okay, here’s the deal: you slipped. And yes, I know about the flourless chocolate cake. And before you jump on that. I know because I was in Whole Foods when you bought it. The only time I’ve seen anyone with a more crazed look in her eyes was Mrs. Mulroney at bingo when the prize was an all expenses paid weekend in Vegas with a Tom Jones show thrown in. I thought she was going to strangle Mrs. Whitehead when she won it.”

“Your point?”

“And yes, I have one: You’re back on duty as of right now. Re-establish your focus, get your eyes back on the prize. Speaking of which, what is the prize?”

“Feeling better?”

“You don’t have a more material reward in mind?”

“Depends. Do you have George Clooney’s phone number?”

“No and I’m not about to go get it for you, either. Why don’t you come up with a non-food reward for your next milestone. That’s the 50, right?”

“Yes, Father.”

“Something moderate, like going to get your nails done. I know you have that salon you like. And figure out something for hitting the big jackpot. I want you to come up with rewards that you can picture. In fact, cut pictures out of magazines and make a vision board, you know? For each reward, write the weight on the picture that’s the point where you’ll reward yourself. And start putting away money for it. We live in a day and age where every kid gets a trophy just for showing up. Well this is more than just showing up and you are earning the recognition. If an annual sales trip to Hawaii makes people sell cars or insurance, then why can’t you have mark your milestones?”

“When I hit the 125, I could go to Vegas.”

“Only if you take Mrs. Mulroney with you.”

What to Do?

178.2 lbs. Hoo Wah! And has remained so for two days.

Loss despite ingesting flourless chocolate cake. However, since I finished said cake today, it’s anybody’s guess whether or not it’s loss, spike or plateau. Place your bets!

In an act of supreme sacrifice, I finished off the flourless chocolate cake because I didn’t want it distracting me from my goal. Not exactly throwing myself on a hand grenade, but it had to die.

It was supposed to be weight training and cardio today, but I didn’t have it in me. For starters, I got to the gym too late and it was crowded, jittery and I could smell 5 different kinds of body odor, each funkier than the last one (Guys: soap, water and deodorant do not make you a girlie man. And, surprise, surprise, washing your gym clothes has not yet proven to be lethal).

I lasted about 20 minutes. The legs got worked. The miasma of body odor, Axe, Aqua Net and Calvin Klein Schizophrenia was too much, as were the vultures waiting for each machine.

I also have a nasty blister on my heel. That was from my cheap sneakers going zombie and snacking on my heel/ankle (hankle?). This will not stop me. This is why God invented Band Aids.

Just to be sure, I called the front desk today to make sure Lila was actually going to be conducting yoga. I was told I was the third call asking the same question. AND I wasn’t the one who told her that we didn’t care much for the vinyasa class. The little devil (she is on the petite side) said, “I think I’ll teach vinyasa next Tuesday.”

Oh, HELL no.

However, one of the secrets of success is learning to adapt. We have the above case in which someone has put a bug in the ear of the yoga teacher and now, Tuesdays and Thursdays are going to get far more interesting if she carries through on the vinyasa threat. It’ll force me to get better.

My Net Diary has started reducing my recommended maximum calorie intake and giving me a smaller calorie burn for the exercise I do. Little electronic bastard. So now, I have to work harder and eat less to get the same results. More adapting.

And I’m working, which is excellent, but it also means I don’t have the same free time during the day to allow marathon workouts (hour plus of weights and at least another hour of cardio). So, we have the big question: do I change the time I go in or change the amount I work out and when? I found out last night that I don’t like the 8 PM weeknight crowd. Emphasis on crowd. And I’m not really enthusiastic at the prospect of getting up at 3:30 AM to get in a workout before I sit down in front of the computer. And giving up Lila’s class isn’t s great prospect either; it’s been hugely beneficial. Reducing the amount of time I spend working out isn’t a happy prospect either; I’m afraid that if I cut back, I’ll lose ground and the plateaus will be even worse. And you know how well I handle those.

 I’ll have to figure this out. Anybody got a Magic 8 Ball?

Tibetan Twister

179.6 lbs. I DID EVERYTHING RIGHT YESTERDAY, GODDAMMIT!!!               AND YOU HAVE THE NERVE TO SPIKE????

FUCK!

Normally, an hour spent in yoga with Lila would have restored my nonchalance (“HA! YEAH, RIGHT!!!! YOU HANDLE THESE WEIGHT SPIKES ABOUT AS GRACEFULLY AS THE FIRST ROUND AMERICAN IDOL CONTESTANTS HANDLE GETTING ZOTZED!!!! WE READ THE BLOG, REMEMBER??”).

So, in anticipation of a calm, stress-relieving yoga session emphasizing breathing to activate the para-sympathetic nerve (or something like that. Look, usually, I ‘m upside down looking at the view between my thighs when we’re told about this breathing. You want I should be taking dictation?) which calms and centers the breather. That and the gentle stretching that goes on (not pushing too hard because there’s a difference between stretching and tearing and boy Howdy, you can feel it instantly) were what I needed.

Did I get them? Not so much.

No Lila. The Universe, as it is demonstrating today, has a particularly cruel sense of humor. The rise of Sarah Palin is proof.

NO, instead we had the Yoga Nazi (not to be confused with Col. Hans Landa. THAT instructor would have been infinitely preferable).

The music was the first hint that something was amiss. It wasn’t the usual quiet, meditative background sounds. In fact, I found it was damned annoying, but it raised a red flag.

First of all she started off with “I trained the trainer, so I know what I’m doing.” RED ALERT!!!! DANGER, DANGER WILL ROBINSON!!!! SHIELDS UP!!!! (Thereby referencing two 1960s science fiction shows to make my point) When the instructor starts off by giving you her credentials, you are in for a world of hurting because her ego is in the driver’s seat.

Then, we hear “I teach a multi-level class.” Oh yeah, right, I just bet. “But you should really push yourself to advance.” Loose translation: “I’m used to teaching advanced and I am not about to change my ways for a bunch of newbie losers like you. I’m only here to pick up an extra paycheck.”

We (the usual suspects. Actually, the class was like a great paint job: NO DRIPS!!) were expecting our usual session of hatha yoga (combine breathing and pose/movement). Nope, Ilsa the Yoga Nazi hit us with vinyasa, in which you are constantly moving. Don’t get me wrong: vinyasa is fine and a great workout, but it’s like attending a concert expecting Yo Yo Ma and getting The Sex Pistols instead (with a live Sid Vicious).

First of all, Ms. “I Trained the Trainer” didn’t have the Sanskrit terms for what we were doing (Lila always does) and she was hitting us with “Sunflower” and “Crocodile.” WTF??? We’ve never heard of these terms. Crocodile was her term for the low end of a Chadaranda push-up right before pushing up into Upward Dog. It took us a minute or two to figure that one out. Since Lila has told us several times that she  was trained in the Sanskrit terms, the sub’s credentials just got questionable.

She hit us with push-ups. Two times it was “Give me 10.” Lady, would you like to know where I want to put your 10 push-ups?  I did them to the best of my ability, mindful that back East, my friend Annie has thrown down the gauntlet for me to complete push-ups as she believes this is a key way to strengthen. I suck at them, Annie, okay? I can do a ton of other stuff, but so far, the push-up just plumb evades me.

And, and, Ilsa had the gall to refer to a couple of the poses (when we were allowed to stop) as “yummy.” UUUUUUUUUGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!! PEOPLE OF AMERICA:  The ONLY time it is appropriate to use the term “yummy” is when you are trying to con a six year old into eating broccoli. It is a kid’s word (so is “tummy”). Can those of us over the age of, oh, I don’t know, TWELVE, de-infantilize our speech? Jesus, people, no wonder there are so many rug rats over the age of 2 with pacifiers clamped in their jaws. GROW THE FUCK UP.

But I digress. When you are dripping so much sweat that your footing on the yoga mat becomes precarious, NOTHING is yummy unless someone’s waving a Tanqueray and tonic in your face. Not that we got to stay in those positions for so long, mind you.

How do I know this woman was a bad fit for the class? The “big” guys, the young men of carefully built muscles who have the strength to pull off the more challenging moves off the bat, were FALLING OVER. Trust me, when they hit the ground, you hear it. I got a peek behind me in Downward Dog and they weren’t happy. I know, fellas, I know.

I tried to mentally change gears to go with the (vinyasa) flow because, after all, it’s yoga and it’s good for me and it’s something new, maybe I’ll like it. I should have applied the mindset I have for things like eating frog’s legs and snails: I don’t have to try it to know I don’t like it. However, as the class progressed, I was so stressed and wound up that if she’d laid a hand on me to adjust, I would have snarled at her at the least. As it was, I was actively plotting her death.  Untraceable to me, of course, but prefererably something  where she was found tied in a inexplicable knot lying in a pool of her own sweat and a sign saying, “So is THIS yummy?”

However, I am not a savage.

I overcame my urge (several of them, in fact) to roll up my mat and leave. I was there for an hour and by the Great Horn Spoon (no, I don’t know what it means, either), I wasn’t going to wimp out.

The hour ended with Shivasana (the Corpse Pose. You have to earn it) and then, the usual sitting up and hands to heart center, she thanked us and “Namaste” (Yeah, I’ve got your Namaste right here, Bitch), then blew out of there like her ass was on fire.

Lest you think I am a minority of one and just plain bitter, there was no small amount of satisfaction in hearing the other Usual Suspects voice their dissatisfaction with the class and instructor, among other things, the class was not meditative (If I’m getting increasingly pissed off during class, then no, it’s not meditative).

However, it was an hour, it’s over and everybody survived. Should her body turn up somewhere twisted into a pretzel, you didn’t hear it from me.

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

About an Asshole

178.4 lbs. Okay, fourth day in a row. Not thrilled, but that’s not the big deal of the day. Monday, I can do a Monster Burn to my heart’s content.

Yesterday, I didn’t hit the gym for weight training as usual. Number 1, my trapezius muscles have decided to turn to cement over the course of the day (they paid for the rebellion today, trust me) and Number2, I figured if maybe I lulled them into a false sense of security, hitting them with weight training today would so shock them, they’d burn up a lot of fat through whilst holding little muscle group therapy sessions asking each other, “What the hell just happened?” (No, I don’t have a medical degree. Somehow, I don’t think this is much of a surprise.)

Normally, I avoid the gym on Saturday mornings due to the excessive douchebag quotient. The Weekend Warriors are out in force (and Guys, if you’re an investment banker with a baseball cap on backwards and/or tattoos, you’re a double bagger. Investment bankers ARE the establishment and the ones who just crashed the economy. You have no right to wear emblems of rebellion) and the energy in the gym changes subtly from one of people focused on their workouts to one with that is jittery and edgy. However, it is a holiday weekend, there weren’t many folks on the floor when I headed for the weight machines and I figured I’d been given a reprieve from the douchebags.

Nope.

There are two leg press machines in this gym. One was occupied right before I got there and the other had a sweatshirt, towels and a water bottle next to it. No problem, I thought. I’ll just start with the back press machine. By the time I had completed my sets on the back machine, the one guy was still on his machine and the owner of the detritus next to the other machine hadn’t returned. Since (to me) this behavior is just short of peeing a circle around it to claim it, I picked up said items and moved them to the window sill.

Halfway through my first set, the owner of the stuff came chugging over. I had seen him on the other side of the room talking to someone, so I wasn’t kindly disposed towards this individual. I was focused on what I was doing (Form is everything) and he proceeded to hover like a vulture. I paused for a minute, ignoring the buzz cut buzzard (and he was not doing anything to change my attitude towards him), then proceeded on to my second set. By the time, I finished that one, I had to take my feet off the pads for a minute to let the blood flow back into my legs. He stuck his face in mine (still not helping) and asked to “work in” (if you’re unfamiliar with the term, it’s sharing a machine, swapping off between sets). Had he not been a machine hog, I would have acquiesced. However, I was not about to give the Roid Boy what he wanted (BIG upper body, some acne, buzz cut, bad, unfinished tattoos, legs not as developed and I’m thinking nuts the size of Skittles) and told him that “No. You had your chance to complete your workout when you left your stuff to do something else. No.”

His face turned a dark shade of purple and he started screaming, “I had to go get something!”

(No he didn’t)

I said, “You have no right to treat this place as your own personal gym. You can have the machine when I’m done.”

And that’s when he started off with, “Fucking fatty.”

I kid you not.

My response, “Is that the best you’ve got?”

His face turned even darker. Meanwhile, I’m working on my third set of leg presses (and since the muscles were screaming in between sets, I do believe I got their attention). “NO! You’re fat!”

Oh. Local anchorman giving me the news.

“You look like 20 pounds of shit in a 5 pound sack.”

I laughed at him. “Is that supposed to hurt?”

After that, I more or less tuned him out and, in a piece of timing worthy of the movies, my Zune started playing “Battle Without Honor or Humanity.” (Kill Bill, Volume 1. GREAT piece of music). He stood there and kept up a steady stream of (largely unheard) abuse. I heard “fat piece of shit” “ugly the dog wouldn’t play” (Oh, he was recycling “Yo Momma” jokes I haven’t told since I was 12) and something about “hammer.” (You got me).

When I finished my third set (and the leg muscles were still wondering what had just happened to them), I got off the machine and said to him, “You are one sorry ass mother fucker if you hate yourself so much you have to resort to playground taunts to make yourself feel better.”

Needless to say, this did not go over well and I don’t remember any of the rest of his blather, but given what had gone before, it was Variations on a Theme (Projectile Vomiting of Self Loathing) and not the classic “Variations on a Theme by Paganini” (Rachmaninoff). There may have been an offer to “go” out in the garage. Another indicator of possible steroid use.

I continued my workout, to the sound of clanging weight stacks (Again, a piece of evidence arguing towards steroid involvement in the altercation) that he was dropping.

He huffed his way off the floor about 10 minutes later, face still set and purple and, confirmation, the girl he’d been talking to on the other side of the gym went with him.

And I continued with what I was doing because I have bigger fish to fry than some insecure musclehead throwing a tantrum like a thwarted two year old.

By the way, if it was a matter of keeping score, I won. I won because I didn’t let this fucktard and HIS projectile of self-loathing derail me. He was still upset and angry afterwards. I wasn’t. I mean, yeah, I’m reporting it here, but I’m not angry, upset or sad. I think it’s funny as hell (and a comment on American society) that in order to inflict damage, the first thing (without even thinking about it) he went for was the weight. Nothing about what I was wearing, form good or bad, wimpy weights (they weren’t. I leg press over 180 lbs.). Nope. Fucktard stuck with body image.

I could have told him, “You know, I’ve lost over 40 lbs. since January” but I didn’t. Two reasons: 1) that’s none of his damned business and (This is the biggie. Make a note) 2) I didn’t feel the need to defend myself. He was attempting to break me verbally, hurt me, harm me, make me stop what I was doing  and he failed. Among other things (thoughts move fast, People), I was thinking “Asshole, I’m here in the gym and working out. Do you really think I’m at a point where you can shame me over my weight?”

If you think of your emotional self, your self-regard, as a tower, consider this: A strong structure will withstand nearly any assault without crumbling. If the tower is not strong, a light wind will knock it down. As this idiot was blathering (while I was counting repetitions because I wasn’t going to overstay my time on the leg machine), I remembered a scene from “Music of the Heart” (Meryl Streep. Movie bacon): Roberta the teacher is showing her students how to stand while playing the violin and talks about “standing strong.” She pushes against one student who is not in correct position. He’s off balance and has to take a quick step. When she realigns his feet to the correct stance and pushes again, he doesn’t move.

I am willing to bet that he’ll be telling his side of this story today, tonight and for a while (probably with alcohol involved. In that case, my weight will balloon up in the telling) and be just as angry as he was this morning.

Yeah, I’m telling the story, but I’m not angry or hurt. I know I have friends among my readers who would say, “I’m so sorry you had to go through that” but I don’t need to be comforted.

I’m telling the story because, if I can believe the stats on my blog, by the end of the week, Roid Boy (He’s about 5’10”, Caucasian, buzz cut sandy hair, mustache (I think), hard face, smallish wire-framed glasses, big upper body, not so big in the legs, looks to be in his mid to late 30s. I pass along this information if you ever visit the same gym I do. It’s in the San Fernando Valley, open all the time, epicenter of the 1994 earthquake) will have an actual worldwide reputation as a muscleheaded asshole.

NEVER screw with a woman who blogs.

My Advice? You Want MY Advice?

178.4 lbs. Two days ago, it was a big WHOO HOOO! Today, it’s old hat.

Due to learning/mastering a new job, I have been off-line. Anybody going through withdrawal symptoms, sorry about that. However, I need to earn money for gym fees and Trader Joe’s runs.

I nearly got kicked in the face during yoga class yesterday. No, the Drip Sisters didn’t return. It was another young woman with the runway poker face (supermodel wannabe). The room was wide open, but she had to set up within “smell my feet” range of my mat (which was already there because I got to class on time). The next non-Susan foot that comes near my face is getting yanked or slapped. I don’t care if it creates a ruckus in class. And yes, we were breathing and stretching to reggae, Pearl Jam and George Harrison again. Anything Beatles makes me smile (unless it’s Cirque du Soleil: I find it creepy and too European. Plus, I don’t pay beaucoup mega big bucks to see anything French Canadian unless it’s wearing black and gold and skating for the Bruins).

I have several friends who are also working on their fitness (and I’ll bet anybody reading this who isn’t working actively to improve fitness has at least 1 friend who is). One was telling me about hitting a plateau and asked me for suggestions for breaking it. Even though this person is a HUGE Looney Tunes fan, I didn’t recommend the Dynamite Diet that I threaten under the circumstances. Rather, I suggested that he vary his exercise routine with something like swimming. I find it amusing that people are asking me what they should do about diet and exercise. To the dipshit in the parking lot who told me I was angry because I was overweight and the discussion board jerkoff who called me a “fat fucking whore” because I could write better than he does: kiss my lily-white ass, you gomers. I’ll bet you’re both still miserable human beings.

Oh, and no, I won’t go swimming myself. It completely undoes my nail polish and I work HARD to put that on and get it right. Even the steam room erodes it. If OPI (What so proudly I hail. Best  nail polish and products in the business) comes up with a waterproof nail polish, I volunteer as a test subject.

The inner thigh flaps are rapidly shrinking. When in Forward Fold (Utinatasana?), I noticed I can see slivers of daylight between my  thighs. This makes me eligible to wear corduroy without risk of starting a fire.

The waist that I thought I saw a few weeks ago is becoming a reality. It’s very shy: I only get a glimpse of it from time to time. However, unlike Bigfoot or the Loch Ness Monster, I WILL prove that it exists.

The arm flaps are slowly tightening up. I blame myself for the slow progress: I should be working my triceps harder than I do. I’m supposed to be developing my push-up ability, which depends on good triceps and chest muscles. Clearly, if I’m referencing this as “supposed to be”, I’m not doing it. Yeah, I know: I said doing a push up was a goal. Annoyed sigh. I’ll work on it; stop nagging.

When I get to the 50 lbs. down mark (174.6 lbs, or 3.8 lbs. from where I am now), I will get measured again. Until, then, I’ll just keeping trying on those size 12 jeans to see if I’m getting closer to successfully zipping them.

Another aspect I’m really enjoying with respect to this is watching my BMI drop.  It has gone from 35.4 to 27.9. Granted, I will be eligible for group medical insurance through my job, but if I have to buy my own insurance, I know from ugly experience that the first thing a company asks you is how much you weigh and your activity level. And then, the computer turns you down if it doesn’t like the answer. Who needs an actual exam and a blood chemistry panel when you have an algorithm? Suck it, United Health Care, Blue Cross and Aetna.

The necessity to measure and record everything I put in my mouth has had a couple of unintended benefits: 1) it does make me more mindful of what and how much I’m eating. My Net Diary essentially imposes a budget of calories and although exercises allows it to be stretched, it’s not a blank check. I’m striving to hit certain nutritional markers (daily recommendations of fiber, calcium, fats, protein, etc.) and there’s not much room for things like ice cream or a cheeseburger. 2) Cravings for things like chocolate and cheeseburgers have largely died. Partly because I’ve corrected whatever part of my brain demanded them and partly because I don’t want to blow out my calorie budget for the day with one snack (Whoever at McDonalds or Burger King thought to market their products as “snacks” is probably some evil little skinny vegetarian marketing drone (which makes him evil anyway) who, like a scientist in a bad 1950s sci fi movie, has vowed to destroy humanity) and 3) I’ve been cash strapped lately and being mindful about what I’m eating and how much has allowed me to stretch out my food supply rather than the panicked gobbling I used to do when faced with a money/food shortage.

I’m heading into this holiday weekend with reason to celebrate. I doubt I’ll wake up nearly 4 pounds lighter tomorrow morning (but that would be SWEET!), but I’m in a lot better shape than I was on the Fourth last year. And I’ll be taking the pictures to prove it.