A Miracle Happened Here

188.4 lbs. I shit you not. I read and re-read the scale.  That’s 5 lbs. overnight.

According to My Net Diary (again, cannot recommend this app enough), I burned over 1600 calories yesterday. This was because:

 1) instead of concentrating on either upper or lower body, I worked EVERYTHING to the tune of 1.25 hours of exercise. Per My Net Diary, one hour of weight training burns 571 calories. An hour and a quarter was 791 calories burned.

 2) I took on the Rotating Staircase of Death for 30 minutes. Even as slowly as I do it (about 33 steps per hour), I was drenched in sweat and I had walked up 60 floors (more than halfway up the Empire State Building. They have an annual race up the stairs. It’s by invitation only. I don’t plan on getting invited). This was good for 414 calories burned.

3) I walked/jogged on the treadmill for an hour. I was only going to do a half-hour, but “The Closer” was on and I didn’t want walk away from it. I varied speeds from 3 MPH up to 5 (and yes, I could do that for 2 minutes at a pop without keeling over) then back down. (This was all Torquemada’s idea). This was good for a burn of 553 calories.

Calorie intake was 1443.

Now here’s the funny part: I don’t hurt. Much.  And I went back today for yoga. And more cardio.  My gym clothes have never been so nasty (socks are now drying over the towel rod. I love it.

But here’s the really BIG news out of this overnight miracle:

I AM NO LONGER OBESE.

I was hoping to get down below the dividing line (191.5 lbs.) by next week but, Holy Cow, that’s been shattered. Granted, I’m still overweight but I am not clinically obese.

If someone said to me tomorrow, “C’mon, let’s go for a mule ride in down the Grand Canyon” (which is something I want to do), I CAN DO THAT.

Granted, I’m still overweight but I am not clinically obese.

If someone said to me tomorrow, “C’mon, let’s go for a mule ride in down the Grand Canyon” (which is something I want to do), I CAN DO THAT.

Granted, I’m still overweight but I am not clinically obese.

If someone said to me tomorrow, “C’mon, let’s go for a mule ride in down the Grand Canyon” (which is something I want to do), I CAN DO THAT.

In one great leap, I have put over 11 lbs. between the dreaded 200 mark and me. I felt like crying the first time the scale said 199. Today, I was ready to dance

For years, I have felt helpless against the fat, a prisoner in my own body. I had no confidence in myself as a woman (more on that later), I made an easy target for the casual viciousness of other people and I hated being in my own skin. I hated what I saw in the mirror, I hated having doctors tell me I needed to be on a shopping list of expensive (and I suspect ultimately harmful) medicines, I hated feeling the judgment in the eyes of others 9and I would judge others similar to me or greater in size). Kiss my lily-white ass, Pill Pushers.

No more. I have achieved something significant. I did this. Me.

I looked in the mirror this morning and saw that my belly was smaller and flatter (trust me, the “er” was necessary. I’m happy with my progress, but I’m also a realist). My jawline is getting more defined and I don’t have a linebacker’s neck: straight line from ears to shoulders. The scout for the Pats stopped calling last week. Standing full face on in front of the mirror, I could see that my shape was narrower. I still have a roll of fat, but it’s smaller.

I’m winning.

I can stand to look at my body. When I have asked it to sustain 6 minute bursts of faster legwork on the elliptical, it has done so. When I have finally coaxed my obliques out of their coma and into engaging and working, they have done so. I still can’t do a Pilates roll-up or the vinyasa flow from Plank (I sustained the pose during one whole segment today without needing to drop to the modification) to Cobra to Upward Dog (Yeah, my version is a belly flop), I’m getting closer. My triceps are coming on line and the arm flaps are disappearing. I still can’t do a push-up, but that’ll be coming soon.

That cardio blasting was important: it taught me that I could work harder and faster than I thought I could. I can do this. I can continue to do this. When I think I’m done, there’s still something left in the tank. “Whether you think you can or think you can’t, you’re right.” It sounds trite, but Henry Ford stated it properly. Self-confidence is the key to success. And in other related, startling news, the Earth is round.

I would not be in this position if I hadn’t met Torquemada and Lila.  I am blessed to have worked with these extraordinary ladies. Their style was what I needed: they have provided a spark to the pilot light within me.

From 193.6 to 188.4 lbs. overnight. That’s one giant leap for my ass.

Step Right Up, Watch the Fat Lady Dive Into the Piranha Pool

193.4 lbs. I believe the scale is just toying with me. It knows that only 2 lbs. stand between me and leaving obesity in the rear view mirror. Scales are evil. You heard it here first.

I had a “hubba hubba” moment at the gym. The guy on the machine next to me looked like Antonio Banderas. We exchanged a smile, but since Melanie Griffith didn’t materialize to hang on him, I’m thinking it wasn’t Antonio.

After the encounter with the enthusiastic spinning teacher yesterday (and I say that with a smile. He seemed like a decent guy), I got to thinking about…men. There’s a heavily loaded minefield for you.

I have dated. While not exactly a Parade of Horribles, there was only one guy who wanted to go out more than once and that was because he was trying to convince me to blow him in a public place. I never heard from him after I made it clear that it wasn’t going to happen. There were the men looking to cheat on their wives. I firmly believe that what goes around comes around and if your significant other cheated on someone else with you, he will eventually cheat on you, too.

In graduate school, one friend (on my behalf and with my permission) asked another classmate if he’d be interested in dating a “woman of size” (I was told my name was left out of it). This guy was also big. His reply (and this is verbatim): “One of us in this relationship needs to be thin.”

I swear on a stack of Red Sox autographs this high (including a picture signed by both Fred Lynn and Jim Rice) that I speak the truth.

There was a guy at a previous place of employment. We were on great terms, a lot of similar interests and both single. I took the plunge, asked him if he’d like to go out some time and he shot me down cold. I have no idea why, but when I saw him later and he made a point of telling me about a trip to Hawaii he’d just taken with his girlfriend (whom he wasn’t dating when we worked together). I don’t know if it was the weight or something else, but I’d put my money on the double chins.

Self-image: My belief was that RuPaul made a more attractive woman than I do.

As mentioned, when people seek to really wound me, the insults start with “fat…” and build from there. And those come thick and fast, like the oysters in “The Walrus and the Carpenter.” This tells me of the depth and breadth of prejudice against me. Not me as who I am, but my appearance. It does tend to make one cautious.

I have formed close, solid friendships with men I have worked with, gone to school with, but it never went any further. They all had active relationships, but our connection never went any further than really good friend. It should be noted in the interests of accuracy that they are (or were. At least one past tense here) married. I get along with the wives, too.

There is one man I had a crush on in graduate school. He’s currently unattached and I had occasion to run into him last year. Not a date. He talked what he wanted in a woman: it turned out to be a combination of Marie Curie, Martha Stewart and Gisele Bundchen. I’ve got the brains (well, not as far as physics are concerned) and the housekeeping/cooking skills, but I ain’t got the lingerie model body.

I had a guy who was in his fifties, going bald but with a ponytail halfway down his back, bulbous eyes, a paunch that looked like he was carrying triplets, more body hair than an orangutan, not much of a job and living with his mother (really) tell me that my desire for an attractive, educated and well-employed was never going to happen because “you always want what you can’t have.” He was dating a slender blonde in her forties and constantly hitting on girls in their twenties. I was younger than his girlfriend, but a complete non-entity in his eyes. Not that I wanted to be hit on by him, but the fact that someone pretty much at the bottom end of the dating pool rejected me out of hand pretty much confirmed that I was better off on my own and that was going to be my lot in life.  I never really surrendered to it, though.

So, I’ve sat out a bunch of Valentine’s Days and New Year’s Eves. In order to deal with bitchy co-workers, I have sent flowers to myself a couple of times (I have great taste and know exactly what I like. And it did silence the bitchy co-workers).

I am doing this body improvement for me. While I appreciate the expressions of support, I am doing this to be at home in my own skin (please God, let the lysine and garlic do their collagen building thing and not leave me with excess skin). If I am at ease and can take pleasure in my own company, chances are, somebody else will, too. I hope that person has 1) brains, 2) heart, 3) sense of humor, 4) a good job and 5) a penis.

                               

Ramblings of a Tired Brain

193.4 lbs. Plateau busted. Even more distance between 200 lbs. and me. And my tushie’s tighter.

I found it necessary to spray Dr. Schulze’s Air Detox in my gym sneakers. They’re going to need a second dose.

In an effort to confuse my muscles, I tried the spinning program on one of the fancier new stationary bikes. Rather than just cues from a dashboard, this had an actual video of a spinning instructor. Cute guy, dressed like he was taking on Lance Armstrong, thighs like medium pizzas. Very helpful setup: shows you where to put your hands and when to stand. Of course, being me, there was a lot of sitting involved. What I didn’t like about it was the constant adjusting and readjusting of tension on the wheel; I’d rather focus on the exercise itself. However, my muscles are successfully confused: my thighs want to know what the hell just happened.

As I waited for Pilates class, I encountered a real live spinning instructor who is either VERY enthusiastic about his sport or had 3 quadruple espressos before hitting the gym. I got an earnest pitch for his class, which, darn the luck, was at the same time as Pilates. Given how tough the half-hour on the video program was for me, I doubt I’d survive 10 minutes with this guy. But it would be fun. I told him I told him I needed a few weeks. If I wake up one morning, sore, covered in dried sweat and disoriented, it’s likely he gave me roofies and put me in the class. Did I mention this guy’s enthusiastic? Was he hitting on me? Nah. Men don’t hit on me. Maybe?

After the spinning, then the Pilates (How can such small movements hurt so much? Instead of water boarding Khalid Sheik Mohammed, they should have made him work his core muscles. We’d have found Bin Laden years ago), I didn’t have it in me for a session with the Rotating Staircase of Death, although I had promised myself a half hour. Besides, the one open machine was being used as a water jug rest by the woman on the next machine. Apparently, douchebags hit in waves; yesterday was just the peak.

As the number drops on the bathroom scale, I’m looking forward to reuniting with some old friends: a black silk blazer I got from Limited Express way back in 1991; it’s a beautiful thing. I’ve never tried on any of the “label” jeans like 7 for Humanity or True Religion (mostly because they don’t make them in my size), but I am looking forward to wearing Levis 501s again. I have dress-up dresses (work dress up) and suits. There’s a black leather skirt I haven’t seen in ages. I may burst into tears when I get back into these garments; some of my other favorites were stolen when my car was broken into. Somewhere in Portland, there’s a homeless drag queen asking “Does this make me look fat?”

It’s going to take some work, though. Quite a lot, actually. But…

In order to get the jump start or the rev up or whatever term you choose to describe the intense physical training I’ve undertaken over the past 4 weeks (Wow. Time flies), several factors needed to come together: money to pay for memberships, training sessions, etc., time to really dig in and work as hard as I needed to do and meeting up with the right instructors/trainers. I’ve wanted to get back to a regular workout routine, wanted to take yoga and Pilates classes (not just try to follow along on a video), wanted to really make things work this time. Through a combination of good luck and bad luck, I’ve come up with the money and the time to spend 2 + hours at the gym (I realize this is not necessarily sustainable, but like the HCG, it’s a jumpstart). Just because I wanted a facility with a steam room (despite the assholes who want to treat it as their own), I found Torquemada and Lila who have been such blessings for me (Yes, Torquemada the Pushy Peanut is a fantastic trainer, despite her mean streak).

One of the facets of my health/self-image improvement program is gratitude. I recognized the other day that I had been given the means to do this now, following a period where I had been given the means to work with a great therapist. She referred me to a chiropractor/acupuncturist (something I’d wanted to try for years) who got me started on the HCG and things flowed from there. You bet your bippy I’m grateful for this chain of events. I’m grateful for the means to get newer smaller clothes (and, as previously stated, get back into some classics), to buy and prepare better, more nutritious food, for having the strength to resist temptation. Whether it’s God, guardian angels, the Universe or the Flying Spaghetti Monster, I am grateful for these blessings coming to me. And I thank them for continuing those blessings: the means of continuing the exercise program (including more sessions with Torquemada), to continue eating better, seeing the Great White Belly shrink (and believe me, the first time I successfully complete a Pilates roll-up, you’ll hear the whoops of joy) and shedding at least 1/3 of my body weight.  

Of the pictures that I posted, my favorite is my college graduation portrait (1983). Granted, it’s not realistic to expect to look like that again, but I’d be happy to get at least to the 1989 picture: Jawline (I’m even starting to like what my neck looks like. Second least favorite part after the Great White Belly), significantly smaller breasts (they were still defying gravity at that point. Now, well, they’ve not only surrendered, but they’re actively collaborating in order to make my back hurt). Of course, according to the woman standing next to me in the picture, I was too heavy. At 20, my mother was slender and gorgeous. As she gained weight and lost her youth, she started projecting that dislike of self onto others. I pity her because she cannot get away from herself.

Tomorrow, it’s weight training and I will probably hit the Rotating Staircase of Death just because I don’t want muscles getting complacent and I didn’t do it today.

I’m sore and I had to wash my gym clothes (and it wasn’t laundry day) but I’m damned glad for it.

National Douchebg Day

194.6 lbs. Okay, I’m ready to make like the Tasmanian Devil and swallow dynamite.

Today’s blog post is dedicated to the denizens of L.A. and those who indulge their utter self-absorption even in shared spaces. CROWDED shared spaces.

Let me explain the concept of a “license”, especially as it concerns property law, and in this instance, gym memberships (which are licenses): “The permission granted by competent authority to exercise a certain privilege that, without such authorization, would constitute an illegal act.”  

So, Campers, this is not ownership. This is permission to use something.

We’re on a roll, let’s get another definition. Say, “courtesy”: “The showing of politeness in one's attitude and behavior toward others.”

What the hell, 3’s a magic number (School House Rock told me so). Totally at random, I’ll take, hmmm, how about “respect”:  “3 a: high or special regard : esteem b: the quality or state of being esteemed cplural: expressions of high or special regard or deference <paid our respects.”

Suffice to say, I experienced use (and abuse) of the premises above and beyond the license granted, a notable absence of courtesy and certainly a dearth of respect for others.

Nobody told me that today was Day of the Douchebag at the gym. I guess a female douchebag would be a hose bag and I encountered one of them, too.

I’m not even talking about the odorous, sweating Grunt Brothers, although they were out in force. For the record, Boys, no damage is done to your manhood by applying soap, water and deodorant. In fact, the girls you’re trying to hit on, would probably not run away with eyes watering if you should do so. New rule: if your belly is bigger than your chest and shoulders, you are ineligible for wife beaters with tiny little straps. This is not an episode of “Cops.” And Guys, dropping the weights is not manly. It’s selfish and bone-headed, particularly since they’re NOT YOUR WEIGHTS!!!! You want to damage your own property and treat it like crap, buy a set, take ‘em home and have at it. However, the contents of the gym belong to the proprietors of the gym (or the finance company, in some cases). Other people use the weights, machines, towels, assorted mats and equipment, too. And, according to TWO damned good personal trainers, if you’re dropping or clunking the weights, you are not in control of them and are in danger of harming yourself with the excess weight. If you’re not Vasiliy Alexeyev with 190 kg (Legendary super heavy weight lifter of the Soviet Union’s Olympic Team. Gold medals in 1972 and 1976 Summer Olympics and a pantsload at other competitions. 80 world records), dropping the weight is not acceptable.

Douchebag #1 hopped onto the elliptical next to me and gave me the “Fat Bitch” stink eye when he hopped off, 5 minutes later. Dear Person Who Presumably Has Male Genitalia Although Your Actions Are Hardly Those of an Adult Male (notice I didn’t say “mature”): that 5 minutes of Level 10 resistance pounding you think made you so superior to me was something I did 5 times during the course of my 1 hour workout that was set to equal resistance. And I hit the weight machines afterwards. If you feel you need to best a middle-aged woman to feel good about yourself, you should probably see a therapist about that self-esteem issue. I’m only competing with my previous hour on the elliptical and yes, I outdid Wednesday’s workout. I am building endurance.

Douchebag #2, enter and sign in, please: I don’t think it comes as a news flash to anyone that Saturday morning at a gym, particularly a national franchise, is very busy.  One guy was dividing his time between two of the more popular machines (there aren’t duplicates or similar machines: obliques and low back) and while he was doing a set on one, he had a towel draped over the other to “reserve” it. I don’t have kids. If I did, they’d be about this guy’s age. I have to question a lot of the parents of my generation: why in hell didn’t you teach your kids how to share? Or to be courteous or polite? Was it because your parents hammered the point home so hard that you decided “I’m not doing that to my kids.” My parents were so focused on teaching sharing, honesty and courtesy that the most memorable beating I ever took was over a bag of potato chips that I didn’t want to share. My parents had a different view on the subject, hence the ferocious backhand to my face that bounced me off the refrigerator. I got the point. My father was fond of calling me a “dog in the manger” (read your Aesop’s) when I didn’t want to share. Without Scotty and  a Heisenberg Compensator, you cannot be in two places at once and it is RUDE to hog equipment in a shared facility.

Finally, today’s big winner, Douchebag #3, or more accurately, Hosebag #1: After I was done with the tough stuff. I figured I had earned a session in the steam room. I had no sooner gotten in and settled in a corner than the Hosebag came in and dumped a bottle of peppermint oil on the steam mechanism. Why is this a douche move? Simple: THIS IS A SHARED SPACE, NOT YOUR HOME. NOT EVERYBODY IN A SHARED SPACE WANTS OR CAN TOLERATE A ROOMFUL OF OIL-INFUSED STEAM. My eyes were burning. Had she elected to dump lavender oil rather than peppermint, I would have been in trouble because I have a lavender allergy (as do a lot of people, according to various sources). I called her on it and got a “Whatever, it’s only peppermint oil. Don’t you tell me what to do.” What does she care? Somebody slips in the oil and injures himself, it’s on the club. The steam mechanism is damaged and the room is unavailable for days, the club pays for the repairs. Where, oh where is the mechanism in this broad’s head that says, “You know, this isn’t a good idea”? Why didn’t the wolves who raised her teach her  what is and what is not acceptable behavior? She challenged me to tell the manager and I did. I didn’t even have to tell them the issue because they could smell the peppermint oil on me.

And afterwards, I had another run-in with the quasi-picketers outside of Fresh & Easy.  They were alternating between harassing shoppers and yakking about some bar they’d been to the night before. As one approached, I held up a hand and barked, “DON’T!” He backed off and called me a bitch (I heard a lot of that today, actually).

You know, I’m a kind person on the whole. I have learned to work and play well with others. Along with the nosedive that spelling, grammar and intellectual curiosity have taken over the past few years, courtesy and respect have been added to the endangered species list as well. The international borders aren’t the only ones in need of reinforcement; the personal boundaries that make for a calm, well-ordered society have been ground practically out of existence by the self-absorbed and inappropriately competitive. The generation above mine raised us with notions of fair play, personal responsibility and awareness and respect (until proven unearned) to those around us as well as respect of self (well, there were some gaps in my upbringing). There were just certain things you didn’t do. With few exceptions, this degree of personal restraint and appropriate community behavior has gone by the wayside.

You know, up until the Hosebag in the steam room, it had been a great day. Like I said, I had an endurance breakthrough with “cardio blasting”: I was able to sustain a faster pace for 6 minutes (high resistance) on the elliptical and repeated this at least twice during the hour workout (During each segment of 10 minutes, I would perform one of these blasts. Last week, they were one and one half to two minutes. Today, the shortest was three and a half). With the weights, I was able to focus and truly isolate the muscles I wanted to work, including the abdominals and obliques which are my weakest muscles. I even made THEM work and contract at my will. There was a guy walking around with a great T shirt that said, “Billionaire in Training” and another guy with a T shirt of Calvin and Hobbes as Han Solo and Chewbacca.

Here endeth the lesson.

Photo HIstory

A brief history of me through the years and the pounds.

From 1979 (My high school graduation photo) to 1983 (My UVM graduation photo) to a 1989 candid shot with my mother. Notice that I didn't look like a beached whale. As far as I can tell, things went wrong somewhere around 1992 to 1993. The fourth shot was taken June 28, 2000 (If someone recognizes that guy, let me know) and the final picture was taken July 4, 2010 at Marie Pettit (that's her in the picture) and Chris Gregson's Fourth of July party. Not only do I look bloated, but I also look ill.

Picture Number 6, is dated May 13, 2011.

THe point being, despite getting feedback to the contrary, I have not been overweight all my life.

Body and Soul-less

194.6 lbs. Okay, so removing sugar from the diet doesn’t work overnight (if it does work to bust the plateau).

We are not a nation of simple dumbasses: if that was the case, “Jeopardy” would have been canceled years ago. While changing from street clothes to workout clothes today, the ladies’ locker room TV (set always to E! Network) was showing an ad for some crap called “Quick Trim” starring Kim Whoredashian. This snake oil guarantees you will lose 20 lbs. in one week. Okay, America: The Whoredashian family is to American pop culture what derivatives are to Wall Street investment bankers: selling you nothing for something.  They offer no talents to entertain us and have laid traps to part total strangers from their money:  First, it was the Fun Kard, a prepaid debit card that ate up the user’s money in excessive fees and now this. As they are behaving like whores in all but name, I think it is their duty to administer blow jobs to everyone whose money they’ve taken.

Although the weight is on a plateau right now, I will say the recovery time and intensity from all the exercise I’m doing has shortened. So, something good is going on under the skin. And the bra is not quite as full (Do I hear groans of disappointment from my male readers? Thanks, Fellas!)

I have researched plateaus and the Mayo Clinic’s website offered the following “wisdom”: “If you're at a plateau, you may have lost all of the weight you will given the number of calories you're eating each day and the time you spend exercising.”

Oh, HELL no.

Burning 1100-1200 calories per day exercising (yes, you heard me) and consuming about 1200 calories per day isn’t good enough? According to all the charts and experts, 1800 calories per day will maintain your weight if you’re just sitting on your ass. I have witnesses to attest that I am not.

The Great White Belly continues to deflate, but it has taken my abdominal muscles hostage (excuse me, core muscles. The Pilates terminology has spread throughout all forms of exercise). Those puppies get worked through yoga, weight training and Pilates and they’re not responding as quickly as the legs (Yes, my feet and legs are my favorite parts. They do as they’re told, they respond very quickly to exercise and they don’t give me any trouble). Even the butt is shaping up. And everybody knows how independent butts are. Ever tried to get one into a pair of Spanx? They don’t go without a fight.

I can stand taller for longer and sit tall for longer. You need abdominals for that. Today’s game of Tantric Twister with Lila had us doing the Boat pose (balance on your “sitz” bones, legs up and extended, hands extended towards legs. Big “vee” shape, actually). My Boat capsized. Repeatedly.

I’m getting better with the Chair pose (aka The Torpedo Tube of Methane) and that uses legs, abs and glutes. The vinyasa from Plank (top of a pushup. Absolutely brutal on my wrists) through a Chadaranda Pushup to Cobra to Up Dog? No. Lila tells me to just go for Downward Dog and hang there. (It’s a lot easier on the wrists than Plank. If there is such a thing as a porno flick based on yoga, there’s a lot of Downward Doggie Style going on). And I broke a fingernail.

There are moves that require one folding in half lengthwise. The Great White Belly prevents complete execution of this instruction. If it was one of those stress-reducing toys, it would just kind of squish around to the back. Scare the hell out of everybody around me, but I’d be able to complete the move.

The chest (aka the White Mountains) is also an obstacle, in the above-mentioned forward fold and also poses on the side such as Triangle and Pyramid. It kind of drags the torso along with it and I get that sweetly-voiced, quiet instruction to modify. Dammit. I don’t want to remain on the yoga equivalent of the bunny slope. Of course, when I got off the bunny slope in skiing, I went off a mogul, my left ski came off in mid-air and I landed on that nice, pointy tip right into the left boob. The hematoma was spectacular and the scar tissue has been giving mammogram technicians fits for over 30 years. Maybe I’ll stick with the modified poses for a while.

My arms are also a source of irritation (and there are so, so many). I work them hard in weight training, there are biceps emerging, the flaps are lessening under the triceps, but holding them straight out or up for an extended period is tiring (any of the Warrior series).  It’s why I don’t hitchhike. Well, that and it’s pretty damned dangerous. There was one pose called Eagle where you kind of make a caduceus of your arms and squat (Yes, you do). The stretch to the back muscles (rhomboids, lats and dlets, om my. See what I did there? It’s a little yoga joke) was almost orgasmic. One more series and I would have needed a cigarette.

Do you see why the legs are the favorites?

Patience is a virtue, but it’s not one of mine.

Today's Post Written By Mr. Wizard

194.6 lbs.  While I am not a fan of the lazier forms of coal mining (strip, mountaintop removal), I’ve decided that maybe I should consult with Massey Energy about busting this plateau.

Such a variety pack of idiots this morning: the woman who took up two lockers (the same broad who had taken up a whole corner of the locker room giving herself a pedicure), the other woman who was generous to share her music with the entire room (BAD hip hop) and the guy who gave me the “fat bitch” stink eye while leaving such a thick pall of cigarette smell in his wake, I nearly choked.

When I am working as hard as I am (according to My Net Diary, my caloric output is 1100-1200 per day, following the instructions of Torquemada), I expect results besides being drenched in sweat. The right music is essential (not to be shared with the rest of the room), especially for the “cardio blast” portions. Tom Jones helps. Yes, THAT Tom Jones, the one your mother (or grandmother. If you’re young enough for your grandmother to have been a big fan, go away, just go away) was in love with back in the 60s. The guy may be older than Sean Connery, but he’s still got it. Of course, these days, it’s not panties and room keys being thrown at him but Depends and Medic Alert bracelets. I also have Public Enemy, Van Halen, Eminem, the Beatles and Donna Summer. Whatever gets the feet moving.

I have added CLA (Conju-something or other Lineolic Acid) a half-hour prior to working out (Torquemada recommended it as a thermogenic). I had added but then dropped the sublingual B12 as it is the “cyano” variety. Why yes, that does sound like cyanide. For a good reason: it turns to cyanide in the brain.  Why do you think I dropped it? There is a different variety, I don’t remember the type but simple rule: if the B 12 has “cyano” in the name, don’t use it.  Write that down.

I was working extremely hard yesterday (cardio blast on the elliptical) and got threatened by a yoga teacher (Lila. I made the mistake of telling her that Rochelle had tried to kill us. As she was making her way around the room adjusting people, she very quietly told me, “I’ve got dozens of ways to kill you.” Yikes!

However, the scale has been stuck where it is since Saturday. While, yes, I am seeing (and Torquemada was seeing) muscle development, I started this enterprise to lose gross tonnage. Plateaus defeat this purpose. After the last upward spike + plateau + other symptoms, I got a Navy Seal team to go in and eliminate gluten, which worked, but gluten apparently has other buddies working to undermine me.

I have been examining the clues and reviewing the security tapes (well, the contents of the fridge and My Net Diary) and I can now reveal the name of the loss killer.

Sugar.

No, I am not scarfing Snickers bars or ice cream or cookies. Except…

I bought a couple of gluten-free items from Trader Joe’s: granola and chocolate almond horns. Okay, yeah, the chocolate almond horns are cookies and sweet, but they’re 190 calories each, dark chocolate is actually good for you and I ate my protein and vegetables before I had ONE per day. Plus, like I’ve said, I’ve been working at burning the calories. And they’re gluten-free and really, really, really good.

As for the granola, it is loaded with several kinds of natural sugars (honey, raisin syrup, Yes, I said, “raisin syrup.” Who knew the little buggers had it in them?). Like those ads trying to convince us that high fructose corn syrup is actually harmless (Corn “sugar” by any other name. Yeah right and I’m the real Queen of England), sugar is sugar. For months, I have been using stevia as a sweetener or blue agave nectar at most. The only other sugars I’ve taken in were those that naturally occur in fruit and vegetables.

I’ve never had occasion to compare myself to a finely-tuned instrument, but apparently, that is the case, as least as far as my metabolism. Athletic performance? Not so much.

Whereas, yes, I am burning the calories, there are other side effects of sugar that make me think it’s the culprit. Sugar is inflammatory to the pancreas, the liver and other internal organs. I may have the numbers right, it’s a question of the biochemical effects of what goes in.

I actually watched “The Biggest Loser” last night (Am I the only person whose immediate gut reaction to Jillian Michaels is an overwhelming desire to just punch her in the face? Every time I see her). One of the participants said, “When you’re on a low calorie diet, you have to make every bite count.” He’s right (he’s also out).

Food is fuel. And we are complicated machines that need certain amounts of particular nutrients to keep all systems working. It’s a delicate balance. We are walking chemistry experiments (maybe that’s why guys try to light their farts; they think they’re Bunsen burners) and the introduction of excess carbon (think of a marshmallow that’s been on fire) gums up the works. (I  was going to say “sugar in a gas tank,” but according to Snopes, that’s a myth. I will be alerting Adam Savage and Jamie Hyneman. Maybe they can blow up something).

So, today, the calorie count will remain the same, but the sugar will be eliminated. We will see the results tomorrow. If I’m right, I should see a drop in poundage. And that 109 lbs. of sugar the average American eats in a year? Use mine to make alternative fuel.