Thursday, April 7, 2011

What's that under my chin?

200.2 lbs. Back on the path.

Hey, look! I have a neck! Who knew?
By the way, Seth MacFarlane is a douchebag for all the fat jokes on “Family Guy” and “American Dad.” They’re not especially funny and they’re just plain mean.
As for the 1.6 lb. overnight drop, I attribute it to a combination of fluid flush (LOTS of water and iced tea) and backing waaaaay off the sodium. This may be obvious to some folks, but I’ve never had a problem with high blood pressure (In fact, I was once deferred from donating blood because my pressure was too low. Truly freaked out my mother but good. She was on diuretics to deal with her high blood pressure and it seemed to bug her that I didn’t have the same problem. Guess I had my moments of Zen as a teenager) so no one has ever cautioned me about sodium intake.  
I just took a reading of my pressure with a handy-dandy wrist cuff (by Omron, about  50 bucks) and it was 94/65. Tomorrow morning will be a home cholesterol check.
Despite the current fluctuations under and over the 200 mark (still drives me crazy), I do feel satisfaction from realizing I can get into a pair of size 14 jeans. Granted, they’re made so that once can get into a size smaller, but the previous pair was size 18, so I’m damned happy.
Like I said, I now have a neck. I don’t look in the mirror and have flashbacks to the pictures and my folks telling me I looked like Mama Cass. I even don’t mind (as much) being in a picture. Credit goes where it’s due to Kristy Nicole, my hair stylist (extraordinaire) and friend. She concocted a massage oil for me and gave me exercises to work the muscles. It’s been working.
Okay, if you’ve seen pictures of the Venus of Willendorf of some of those other little big gutted and droopy-breasted figurines carved by cavemen (if not, I’ll wait while you Google it. Go ahead), you have an idea of what I saw when I looked in the mirror. Only bigger, whiter and infinitely uglier. I’m surprised I didn’t have a guy named Ahab following my every move (for all I know, I could have. You know, come to think of it, there was that time a harpoon embedded itself into a Starbucks barista). I still see a big, white belly, but I notice that it’s slowly collapsing and…this is big…SMALLER THAN MY BOOBS! It’s very encouraging. Oh, as for The Girls, they still look lousy, I have not desire for surgery, they don’t appear in public without an underwire chaperone.
The changes in supplements and diet have had other changes. My gums have stopped bleeding (I think it’s the flax seed oil intake. 1 to 3 grams per day). I had accepted this as part of life because Web MD said it was part of being peri-menopausal. “Peri-menopausal” is code for “You broads get yourselves some polyester  and cool those hot flashes while we take our Viagra and go chase twenty year olds.”
My fingernails are getting stronger and this has been an issue for over 25 years. No gelatin (that’s a myth, anyway. Really). I have been sleeping better than I have in at least 15 years WITHOUT the dreaded CPAP machine, uvula surgery or a mouth guard (and those make me gag, anyway). My sinuses are clear, which probably helps with the sleeping. And, despite the old emotional triggers over the past few weeks, I haven’t wanted to stuff myself.  I can look at the case in Starbucks and not want anything in it (except for the Fruit and Cheese Plate, because my Achilles Heel is made of brie. We know this).
But, most of all, I have a neck. I don’t have this big, white expanse of flesh hanging from my chin(s). There is a jawline coming out of hiding (like one of those old Japanese soldiers that kept surfacing in the Phillippines in the 70s. The guys who thought World War II was still going). I can see my windpipe. There are hollows and shape emerging where there was none (and where they’re supposed to be, too).
A 100 lb. loss is no small undertaking. Taking on a demon is no small undertaking, whatever its nature. However, seeing that hint of windpipe and definition helps me get a firmer grip on the sword, lets me hoist the shield again and step back into battle. I can do this.



Tuesday, April 5, 2011

Shame

201.8 lbs. Okay, this one is on me.

“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.”
“Wait. You’re not Catholic. What the hell are you doing in a confessional? Get out of here.”
“I want to get this off my chest, do you mind? The Unitarian minister just looked confused and offered me pound cake. Rather counter-productive, actually.”
[Annoyed sigh] “Go ahead. I’m tired of listening to 80 year olds confessing to yelling ‘Fuck’ at bingo, anyway.”
“It’s like this, Father: I’ve been following a very strict protocol to burn fat and lose weight. I have not had any sugar or bread or anything starchier than a sweet potato since January.”
“Did you break the rules of this protocol?”
“Not exactly, Father. I mean, the time period to abstain has lapsed…”
“Just in time for Cadbury Eggs, Hershey Eggs and Reese’s Peanut Butter Eggs…”
“Who’s telling this story?”
“Sorry. Go ahead, my child.”
“I have not had a hot dog, white bread  or a piece of sweet or even an alcoholic drink in that time.”
“And?”
“Grand slam, Father. I touched all the bases. And I’m paying for it in weight gain.”
“Were you in a hot dog eating contest?”
“No, Father. Just one.  All beef, steamed with mustard. On a roll. About 300 calories for the meal.”
“You know, it’s Lent.”
[Annoyed sigh] “A) Father, I’m not Catholic and B) it’s not Friday. That’s the beauty of being Protestant: we can eat what we want when we want.”
“If you want absolution, Kid, ditch the sarcasm. Continue.”
“I went for a walk and at the end of it, I went to Starbucks and ordered one of those salted caramel bites. 190 calories.”
“Only one?”
“Yes, Father. Tasty, but very rich.”
“And the wine?”
“Two glasses as I talked to a friend. I figured that I was okay to indulge in these things, you know. The calories were under the limit for the day, I’d been walking and…”
“And you figured you’d been good and could get away with a little deadly sin, right?”
“Lust? Not much going on there.”
“No, Dummy. Try again.”
“ Pride? Not hardly. Definitely not today.”
“How about gluttony? Remember gluttony? Your personal favorite?”
“No need to get bitchy, Father.”
“So you had one hot dog, one small dessert bite and two glasses of wine and you gained…’
“1.2 lbs. overnight, yes.”
“Okay, for starters, you’re not exactly ready for the competitive eating circuit, you know. Joey Chestnut isn’t wetting himself at the sound of your name.”
“Okay, Father.”
“This is biochemistry at work. Sugar is inflammatory. Gluten is inflammatory. You had both for the first time after essentially detoxifying your body.”
“I see, Father.”
“And the hot dog had sodium, I’ll wager. You said the dessert was salted caramel?”
“I see where you’re going, Father.”
“This is temporary. You know that. No need to freak out, but you do anyway.”
“ It just brought up old feelings, though. From having been down this road so many times before, even before  I decided to go to Fab Hot Dogs. You know, I was asking myself if I was going to be able to maintain the discipline or would I find an excuse and go apeshit.”
“Hey! Watch your damn language.”
“Sorry, Father.”
“So, did you binge today?
“No, Father. I had yogurt with fruit and flaxseed for breakfast and I missed lunch..”
“Not a good idea. You should eat at least every 6 hours. You have those Fiberfull bars from Trader Joe’s in your purse…”
“Father, how do you know what’s in my purse?”
“Lucky guess?”
“Yeah, right. Give back my Sephora Rewards card, by the way.”
“What was dinner?”
“8 oz filet mignon, green beans and sweet potato and a LOT of water.”
“Well, the water should help flush out the sodium and its side effects.”
“What’s my penance?”
“You’re penitent enough on your own. However, keep drinking the water. Limit the indulgences or space them out and get walking. Go and sin no more.”






Sunday, April 3, 2011

Your Choices Are A Tent or Elasticized Potato Sack

200.6 lbs. for 3 days in a row. It’s better than 202.

I recognize the need for movement as part of a health improvement plan. I can walk all day (and have proven this). However, there are a couple of strikes against a daily constitutional: 1) I come in two shades: white and brick red. Red hurts. I am allergic to most sunscreen (except for heavy duty baby sunblock. Anybody who says that the higher range SPF is useless should try spending the day in my skin with one half covered in SPF and half in SPF 55 and then report back) and 2) not a lot of great options for walking around the block in my current neighborhood. There is a high school nearby that was the scene of a nationally covered drive-by shooting a couple of years back. It does tend to put a crimp into focusing on the walk if you’re constantly looking over your shoulder.

Luckily, there is a sizeable mall within easy driving distance (A couple of miles). 2 levels, lots of space to cover.  I just have to leave the credit cards somewhere else. I can maintain a fairly good clip and have to resist the temptation to shove slowpokes and sudden stoppers out of the way. I also have to resist the temptation to reward myself at the food court, but it’s doable.

As my old exercise clothes no longer fit (yippee!), I tried to get some of the new Easy Tone line by Reebok. Use of “tried” will indicate, to those who read between the lines, a lack of complete success. The largest size available is XL. According to most companies, XL should fit a size 16, The jeans I bought a few weeks ago (which are loose) are 16. Other items of clothing that I’ve brought out of retirement are XL and fit. The Reebok web site doesn’t have information on the sizing of its products, nor was I able to get anyone on the phone from customer service (despite a reply email from them telling me I should talk to customer service to ask about sizing when I had contacted them in December. I stopped buying Reebok sneakers because they would fall apart at the seams within 2-3 moths of purchase. Nikes last). Anyway, Dick’s Sporting Goods website had sizing information and it looked like I would fit. The pants are as tight as Spandex on Mariah Carey’s big ass, but they fit. The top, on the other hand, I couldn’t even get it over my head. XL, my ass. And I double-checked the label.  Reebok has a strange notion of who wears extra-large clothing.  Luckily, Fila has a similar, more generous sizing and lower cost. We’ll see if the top I ordered will fit.
You know, people look at the overweight and the obese and judge us harshly. I have written about the parking lot encounter with the woman telling me that her nearly hitting me head-on was because I’m angry at being fat. I remember, after a hot tub soak to ease a nasty muscle pull, as I left the pool area, I heard a teenaged boy refer to me as a “hammer thrower.”  These are total stranger.
I have had relatives (who lack any sense of taste or style for starters) who have lost weight (and it was temporary) force their ugly, lumpy poly-blend wardrobe dregs onto me, usually with a verbal swipe at how I was larger than they were and maybe I think about doing the same thing they were. Oh, and by the way, a few months down the road and they had to shop for replacement lumps in the old sizes.
Buying clothing in larger sizes is no fun, particularly for women. A lot of designers don’t  make clothing over size 12 or size 14 or if they do, it’s as expensive as their main line, but lacks the style , quality or elegance of the smaller clothes. Plus-sizes bathing suits tend to be garish and “cleverly” designed with little skirts or other additional fabric to hide lumps, bumps and bulges. 
If you have a fashion sense, this is hell and Lane Bryant is the ninth level. I don’t think there’s a single thread of natural fiber within 500 yards of the place. The clothing is poorly made (a bra that was supposed to be an answer to the La Mystere available at Nordstroms chafed my skin raw and broke down like a Reebok sneaker. This was even after it had been fitted by a sales lady) and there seems to be more emphasis on signing up new credit card holders than making customers happy. Even the accessories are cheap and over priced.
Buying jeans is a challenge because there’s an assumption that if you have to wear the larger sizes, you have a big stomach (I do) and big hips and thighs (I don’t). The “apple” shaped body presents greater challenges than the pear, besides the greater health risks.  If I buy jeans that fit my waist, there’s room for an extra butt cheek and the thighs of a Budweiser Clydesdale. However, the day 4 years ago I pulled on a pair of Michael Kors jeans and they fit all over, I nearly cried. And when I saw the price tag ($100), I did cry. But I bought them. And when they wore out,  Not Your Daughter’s Jeans, which not only came in my size, but were constructed with a “tummy tuck” panel that minimizes the stomach (you can even go a size smaller in them).
To all the designers (like Giorgio Valente, the first designer jeans guy refused to make larger sizes because he believed “fat people don’t deserve them”) who refuse to make bigger fashionable clothes: Hey, the American size is headed upward, not down and you are cutting yourselves out of a market. Plus, our money spends just as well as the skinny bitches’ does.
There was a time when clothing was designed around the shape of women’s bodies. I think the trend has shifted to women working hard to re-design their bodies to fit the clothes.  We went from corsets and panniers to corsets and hoop skirts to corsets and bustles to bras and Iron Maiden girdles (by the way, my loving mother bought my first girdle for me when I was 12 years old and I was forced to wear it all day to my cousin’s wedding. Not only was I incredibly uncomfortable all day, I was secure in the knowledge that I was the only pre-teen wearing foundation garments, probably on the Eastern Seaboard). Ever since I took charge of what I wear, I have refused girdles (and I’ve had the two generations above me pushing me to make them a daily part of my wardrobe). Control top panty hose practically up to my armpits, yes. A girdle? No. Never. I’ve accepted the fact that I can’t wear the sexy little Band Aids that Victoria’s Secret models wear over their alleged breasts, but I’ll be damned if I go through my day thoroughly miserable so that someone else can feel comfortable about my appearance.  The only time I’ve worn Spanx was when I needed to put together an outfit to look like an Oscar for a costume party (I won a prize, too). It was only a few hours, but it was torturous.
So, tomorrow, I will strap on my Tone Up sneakers (MBTs, not the Skecher knock-offs. Even if I had been considering Skechers, I will not buy them as they have hired a Whoredashian as their face) and work to get my measurements within range of normal.
140 lbs, here I come.

Friday, April 1, 2011

Let's Give it Up for Dopamine and Seratonin!

200.6 lbs. I have no freakin’ idea what changed it.

Alli, the “wonder drug” now available over the counter to help in the Battle of the Bulge.  Manufactured by Roche Pharmaceuticals originally as Xenical,, a prescription drug. The effect of the drug was to block the absorption of some fats by the human body and help with weight loss. Let’s look at the side effects:
·         Abdominal pain (stomach pain) -- in up to 20.1 percent of people
·         Fecal urgency (an urgent but controlled need to have a bowel movement) -- up to 18.8 percent
·         Gas -- up to 18.6 percent
·         Oily spotting (uncontrolled anal oil seepage) -- up to 17.7 percent
·         Gas with a small amount of oil or stool -- up to 17.2 percent
·         Fatty or oily stool -- up to 17.2 percent
·         Diarrhea -- up to 11.9 percent
·         Oily evacuation (bowel movements of just oil, without stool) -- up to 11.6 percent
·         Sinus infection -- up to 10.6 percent
·         Soft stool -- up to 10.1 percent.

Other common side effects of Alli (occurring in 3 to 10 percent of people) included:

·         Increased frequency of bowel movements
·         Uncontrolled, spontaneous bowel movements (known as fecal incontinence)
·         Back pain.

How many different ways can you say “explosive diarrhea”? The side effects are like something out of “South Park.”  And according to anecdotal evidence, the benefits aren’t all that spectacular. Look, if I’m going to risk poo pants, I’d better be dropping 5 lbs. per day without fail.  ALWAYS do the cost/benefits analysis.
The minimum weight-loss requirement for the Lap Band has been dropped from 100 lbs. to be lost down to 50 lbs. to be lost, thereby opening up the potential  market  and they take insurance (Totally unrelated note on Health Care Reform side effect: a guy with the Health Savings Account was bitching that he couldn’t use the money from that account to buy his Tylenol anymore. Hey, Asshole, go $3 out of pocket like the rest of us. Thank you. I had to say that). A diagram of the band in place (and slipping out of place and poking through your skin is one of the potential side effects. Like infection, excessive drooling, dehydration, diarrhea and Zellweger).
Yeah, no thanks. If I was into those activities, I wouldn’t get a flu shot.
Trim Spa seems to have disappeared since their spokeswoman, Anna Nicole Smith, died of a drug overdose. For her , pill popping was a way of life. So was popping Hostess chocolate doughnuts (I watched her reality show).
Nutrisystem: I was okay with Marie Osmond saying, “Hey, look at all the weight I lost” and I considered the program. Then they brought in “Robin” a “real person” who said the following, “I believe if you’re over 40 and overweight, there’s no hope for you.” No hope for you as what, Bitch? Prima ballerina with the Kirov? A Nobel Prize winner? Are you saying that I should off myself because, according to your standards, my life is just going to suck for however long it lasts after this point? By the way, compared to her “before” picture, this woman looks sickly and that has carried through the 2 or 3 ads she’s done. Her skin is saggy and lifeless looking, she has huge dark circles under her eyes like she was part of John Belushi’s last bender. Zombies look healthier than this broad.
Then there’s Jenny Craig. While the spokeswomen over the past few years have been cute and appealing, way back in 1999 (or 2000), the first celebrity spokeswoman they hired was Monica Lewinsky. I kid you not. I have no intention of forgiving them. Or buying their stuff.
What all these various approaches have in common  (as I see it) is an element of avoiding personal responsibility for resolving this issue (should you wish to resolve it. I know folks who are large and content with themselves. Not me). The meal plans may be balanced and healthy, but once you stop, then what? Lean Cuisine for life (and those meals aren’t much “lighter” or “leaner” than their Stouffer’s counterparts). Alli is not intended for long-term use, even if you do lay in a long-term supply of Depends.  And the surgery just increases the nastiness of the consequences if you screw up.
Look, this is a recovering compulsive/impulsive overeater  talking. Eat too much, too fast and not willing to make choices, eat more than one of ____. And I considered each and every one of those options I just listed (except the Jenny Craig). I wanted the quick fix. I wanted the minimal sacrifice, minimal effort solution.
Yesterday, with the bounce upward in weight and the fact that my usual method to break the plateau hadn’t worked, I was angry. I hear the old tapes in my head of people whom I (used to) trust chiding me over my weight, ridiculing me to get me to change my behavior and I heard them loud and clear yesterday. I’m a late bloomer in a lot of things and one of them is adolescent rebellion. Great, I’m on the AARP hit list and I’m doing the “you’re not the boss of me” routine. There was a thought to go buy Easter candy. I remember thinking: “I can if I want to. I’m an adult.”  I’ve been known to eat a big bag of candy at one or two sittings. I don’t order pizzas because I feel (or felt) compelled to finish a medium once the box was opened (and loathed myself for it, but kept repeating the behavior).  But, I didn’t. I didn’t even feel the urge to eat as strongly as I have in the past.  I think the “go and stuff yourself” thought came up because emotional toxicity has a longer half-life than uranium.

I believe the N-acetyl cysteine and L Tyrosine are working  and that’s why the overpowering urge wasn’t there. The triggers were there and firing, but I could put the brakes on the self-destructive behavior. It makes sense to me:  Look, we are humans, we’re marvelous beings, we’re made in God’s image, all of that, all of that. We’ve created great art and left the planet to explore (and invented spray on food. American’s great scientific legacy: Cheez Whiz and Reddi Whip). However, we are also a series of chemical reactions and very delicately balanced at that. Not enough Vitamin C and your gums bleed, you ache and your immune system falters. Contact with certain agents (pet dander, mold or a contact allergy) will cause a series of reactions (sneezing, rash, burning, watery eyes) that are essentially chemical responses because that agent throws off your bio-chemical balance.
(And, again, going back to the Brain Chemistry doctors) Cravings are the brain doing a McGyver impression: if the proper tools are not at hand to complete a task, it will find and use other substances (like those chocolate covered pretzels or that 24 oz. prime rib and baked potato) to complete that task. By providing the building blocks for the neuro-transmitters, I blocked the cravings (and I can tell you, it would have been for sugar, for salty and for fatty. So, a trip to In N Out that would be a Double Double Animal style with fries (well done) and a chocolate shake. (Don’t ever bother with the Animal Style fries. They’re expensive and gross). However, even if that satisfied the brain’s demand, the extra baggage being carried around in those foods (saturated fat, sodium, sugar) would have caused other chemical reactions that wouldn’t be so pleasant, including the sugar high then crash. Been there, done that. Not doing it again.
I chose not to give in to that weak call to break discipline. I took responsibility for that. If anybody was going to be shoving food in my mouth, it would be me. I recognized that. I still heard the voices calling me fat, screaming at me because I was a big eater, telling me that no man would ever want me. I didn’t let them dictate my actions; I didn’t try to bury them under a big meal. These same voices that nag and torment me will also say, “Well, it’s only once. You can eat that and just go back to eating the healthy stuff tomorrow. Go ahead. You’ve been good.”
I had a small epiphany: The voices lie. The voices want me to be weak and dependent on them. For 40 years, the voices have been telling me that they have my best interests at heart, that all they want is what’s best for me and they say awful, hurtful things because they love me. It’s a lie.
One of the voices came from an encounter in the parking lot of the Trader Joe’s on Coldwater Canyon in Studio City. I was driving down the aisle of the parking lot on the right side when a woman coming in the other direction nearly hit me head on because she was drifting over from the other half of the aisle. Having gone to driving finishing school in Boston (I am perfectly comfortable driving in Boston, Los Angeles and St. Louis. Do not fuck with me), I leaned on my horn. She swerved back to her side and I heard myself yelling, “Are you completely unfamiliar with standard American traffic patterns?” (My spur of the moment trash talk is articulate). As our cars passed, I thought I heard, “Fat” coming from her. Since there was background noise, I just dismissed it and found my spot. As I walked into the store, I got confirmation that I had heard her correctly. She yelled (and in a goofy, dumb sounding voice that is identical to one I use when I’m portraying a dumb bimbo), “You’re just angry because you’re fat and you always will be.” Yep. She went there. She continued in this vein until I yelled back, “Go ahead, keep projecting your issues onto others. At least I know how to drive.”  She shut up. Like I said, my improvised trash talk is articulate.
Dawn broke over Marblehead: the actual sources of the voices (most of them are family) are very unhappy people. They won’t admit it, but they don’t like themselves very much, if at all. If you look at pictures of me up until I was about 8 or 9 years old, 99% of the pictures show a happy kid. The smile is broad and genuine (I don’t care if I look goofy in a bathing suit, sunglasses, Expo 67 souvenir hat and holding a purse) and “Life is good” radiates from the picture. After that age, the smiles aren’t as frequent or they’re forced. The old saying is that misery loves company. Depressed, angry people will seek to pull a content, happy person down in order to seek equilibrium. They cannot stand the sight of someone with similar issues to theirs (be it financial, emotional, physical, etc.) but on a higher, more optimistic, more positive level: “ Yes, I don’t have a job, but I have the skills and experience to get a good one” instead of “I don’t have a job. Oh my God, Oh my God, oh my God! What am I going to do? This is terrible! This is a crisis!”
I realized that my voices were old tapes of people whose own body image issues affected the filter through which they saw the world and seeing someone who wasn’t in a continuous negative emotional spiral made them feel even worse. It’s my pet theory on vampires: they may have eternal life and all that, but they’re actually miserable and self-loathing and cannot stand to see humans still enjoying life. They bite us so they’ll have someone to bitch to for eternity.
I believe the supplements (readily available at Vitamin Shoppe and/or Whole Foods) allowed me to realize I had control over my actions, the old tapes did not. I believe they allowed me to make the right choice (not to binge) because my brain wasn’t demanding certain foods or vast amounts of food. And I think, because I have this reinforcement, I’m going to win this war.

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.