Phenomenal Woman

176.4 lbs. Lowest it’s been in 20 years.

WOOO FRIGGIN’ HOOOOO!      

Okay, yeah, so I’m back on HCG (Human Chorionic Gonadatropin. In fact, I found it in Chocolate Mint, I kid you not), but it’s working.

I took a good look at myself in the mirror (and there will be photos later. As I write this, my nose is peeling like I’ve had a sunburn – which I haven’t , I’m in my glasses (which are VERY thick), big floppy long-sleeved Buddha t shirt, sweat pants, fluffy socks and no makeup. No picture right now. Part of the HCG drill is no personal hygiene products with oils or creams and that extends to makeup unless it’s the mineral variety, which I don’t own. Well, not the stuff to put color in my cheeks and on my lashes. Seriously, I’m pale. Not Edgar Winter albino, but close) and stopped to look again.

I watch the Westminster Kennel Club Dog Show every year (GO, MINATURE SCHNAUZERS!!!! WIN IT IN MEMORY OF LILY MARLENE III  AND GREEN MOUNTAIN MAXIMILLIAN AKA MIGHTY MAX THE WONDER DOPE!!!!) and there is a saying: “A good groomer can carve a dog out of a pile of hair.” 9 months of cleaning up my diet (except for a couple of rages, but I may have a solution to that problem), 7 months of faithfully exercising and I realized that I have been carving a woman out of fat.

I see the beginnings of a waist. Not the barrel shape between shoulders and hips that was there, not a straight line from shoulders to hips, but the beginnings of an indentation under the bra line. That hasn’t been there since the 20^th century.

I raised my arms and shook them. The upper arm jiggle is noticeably smaller. Huh. Dr. Best got the knots out of my back and shoulders and they are now responding to weight training. And I have collarbones. And a jaw. Not just the shadow of a jawline, I have an actual jawline and my neck looks longer without all the fat hanging around it.

Could it be…

Emboldened, I stood sideways and sucked in my gut. Doing this, it is nearly exactly where I want it to be. I can see where the bottom of my rib cage is (and feel it without pushing in too hard).

This is payoff. This is motivation. This is incentive. I finally feel like I look feminine. I look like the woman that I am (ironic as I am enjoying the beginnings of menopause aka the Hot Flashdance. I don’t need leg warmers, but the torn sweatshirt would be helpful when the internal furnace kicks on) and not some asexual blob with boobs. I’m a phenomenal woman, phenomenally.

I’ve been wearing my size 13 Calvin Klein jeans COMFORTABLY for days. I can pull the size 12 ones up on my ass. I can’t zip them closed, but we’re getting there (they’re boot cut and I really don’t care for boot cut mostly because the makers figure that all plus sizes have fat legs and therefore need boot cut jeans. I’ve been wearing boot cut forever).

If you saw me today, you saw me swinging my hips as I walked. Why? Because I am a woman, goddammit, and that’s just what we do.

I didn’t come to this realization in enough time to pull together a sexy costume for Halloween, but, wow, I can wear a sexy costume for Halloween and not feel ridiculous on some level (I wore sexy in 2003 and was told by someone I no longer trust that I shouldn’t; I was too fat and it was a joke and ridiculous and people were laughing behind my back. Fuck him). But, I can anticipate the next costume party and be sexy-eligible (film themed sexy. I have some time to figure it out).

I left the gym (weight training and elliptical) feeling powerful. Feeling feminine and powerful. This is self-confidence and not just the façade. Attractive guys in my age range (whom I’ve heard gigglingly dismissed as “Silverbacks” by girls who forget they will one day be the same age) are smiling in my direction, giving me a nod. Maybe. Phenomenal woman, phenomenally.

I leave you with Maya Angelou’s poem as this has been running through my head all afternoon.

Phenomenal Woman

Pretty women wonder where my secret lies.
I'm not cute or built to suit a fashion model's size
But when I start to tell them,
They think I'm telling lies.
I say,
It's in the reach of my arms
The span of my hips,
The stride of my step,
The curl of my lips.
I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.

I walk into a room
Just as cool as you please,
And to a man,
The fellows stand or
Fall down on their knees.
Then they swarm around me,
A hive of honey bees.
I say,
It's the fire in my eyes,
And the flash of my teeth,
The swing in my waist,
And the joy in my feet.
I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.

Men themselves have wondered
What they see in me.
They try so much
But they can't touch
My inner mystery.
When I try to show them
They say they still can't see.
I say,
It's in the arch of my back,
The sun of my smile,
The ride of my breasts,
The grace of my style.
I'm a woman

Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.

Now you understand
Just why my head's not bowed.
I don't shout or jump about
Or have to talk real loud.
When you see me passing
It ought to make you proud.
I say,
It's in the click of my heels,
The bend of my hair,
the palm of my hand,
The need of my care,
'Cause I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.

Maya Angelou

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.

A Long Time Ago on an Ass Not So Far Away

179.8 lbs. YOU KNOW, THIS IS REALLY FUCKING TIRESOME.

For the record, I resent Beatles and Rolling Stones music being used for advertising. “Pictures of Matchstick Men” by Status Quo, okay. They could probably use the money. “Here Comes the Sun” NEVER! It’s Michael Jackson’s GD fault for having bought and then lost control of the Beatles catalog. Sir Paul? Ringo? Yoko? Olivia? Please, please, please pony up to buy it back and prevent the music from being further desecrated. For the record, if they wanted to sell heavy duty (or doody) diapers with Britney Spears’s “Oops, I Did It Again,” that would be poetic justice and such a statement.

I mean, ferchrissakes, I even shifted things around a bit; I did the weight training and cardio yesterday, Saturday, instead of Friday. I overindulged last night (someone had pigs in a blanket. I love a good hot dog. However, they’re loaded with fat and sodium – even Trader Joe’s chicken sausage sets off the alarms on My Net Diary. I only ate two. Three).  Nothing moved. I had wine. No effect.

Frustration is a daily part of my existence: I am not, nor have I ever been, a patient person (except when socializing cats and getting them over behavioral problems. If you have a great purr, I will forgive a lot). I don’t have a “relationship” (which has become a hijacked term to mean an ongoing intimate sexual arrangement with another individual. There are other kinds of relationships, but you have to cast about for other terms to use because that one has been moved. Sort of like “Christian” no longer just refers to an individual who believes that Jesus of Nazareth was the Son of God. It now means a born-again or Evangelical with right-wing political beliefs and zero tolerance for anyone else’s beliefs or opinions. I have not been able to describe myself a Christian since the late 70s when it took on this extremely limited meaning. Not being an Evangelical asshole, I resent this. A lot), so, yes, I have an intimate relationship with a particular kind of frustration. I’ve undergone job droughts and the dry up of cash flow.

This time, though, I am angry and unfortunately, it’s setting off some old, buried reactions to hitting the wall, so to speak. I’ve been having the “If it’s not going to work, why fucking bother?” thoughts. That ain’t good. I have, for the sake of reaching a goal, omitted some pleasures from my diet, such as the aforementioned hot dogs, alcohol (I am not a heavy drinker, but there are times when it’s nice to sit back with a really good glass of wine or a beer (although that’s more or less out for the gluten content, but there are gluten-free beers. Whole Foods, Man),  cheese and Arnold Palmers (half iced tea, half lemonade). We are trained, from a young age, to believe that if you make sacrifices and work hard to achieve a goal, you will be rewarded by reaching that goal. Couldn’t prove that by me this week.

I looked at the medical websites about tightening skin post-weight loss and they were uniform about “Lose 1-2 lbs. per week and the skin will have time to tighten on its own as you go.” Well, given these plateaus, that seems like the average, so maybe this isn’t an issue.

If this story was “Star Wars” (IV, V and VI, the REAL ones, not those crappy prequels. Seriously, George Lucas, the last great screenplay you wrote was  Episode IV, despite some of the dialogue), the part of the Death Star (Original and Version 2.0) would be played by the Great White Belly.  Of course, we know that the Empire started REBUILDING THE FUCKING THING WHILE WE WERE HANGING OUT WITH YODA.  (Yoda being played by the voice in my head keeping me out of the hot dogs, beer and Cheetohs and telling me to get to the gym).

8 days with the same numbers and I am sorely tempted to go over to the Dark Side. Darth Vader doesn’t have a light saber; it’s a cheeseburger from Red Robin with the bottomless steak fries (they have wicked good sweet potato fries, by the way. Limited time, unfortunately, but I’ve emailed them asking that they consider making them a permanent part of the menu).

Emotional eating is rearing its ugly head.

I haven’t been sleeping well lately, either.  I don’t know if it’s a function of having reached a particular stage in life (unconfirmed because I haven’t had the dough or the health insurance to go to a doctor) or something else. When I started seeing the acupuncturist in January, she treated me for sleep issues (I have had sleep apnea) and I was sleeping through the night for 7.5 to 8 hours without a problem. And I felt FANTASTIC. Now I’m wondering if this is related to the plateau. There are a lot of studies that indicate disrupted sleep is involved in weight issues.

Today was supposed to be Pilates class and I slept VERY badly last night. I couldn’t even make it through “Sunday Morning” on CBS and that’s one of the few network shows I watch faithfully. If we are to “honor our bodies” and proceed accordingly, then I did the right thing by rolling over and going back to sleep for a couple of hours. I’m still undecided about heading in later today for a couple of hours of cardio. We’ll see.

I saw a group of friends last night (warm, dear people whom I love) and got a chorus of “You look fantastic!” which is a pat on the head that I needed. Another boost came from what I wore: my somewhat dressy/nice clothes (it was a casual gathering, but these guys deserve better than a ratty Beatles T shirt and shorts falling off my ass) are too big. Remember that I pulled a quartet of jeans from storage a couple of weeks ago? The Levis and the Calvins? Well, where I was unable to zip up when I pulled them, last night I wore the size 13 Calvins (I haven’t tried the size 12s). Yeah and this morning, I could get into the Levi 917s. There’s still flab overflow and it’s like having an iron band around the middle BUT I CAN WEAR THE DAMNED THINGS!!!!! There have been times when I didn’t think that was going to happen.  

Even certain pieces of jewelry fit better: I have a short strand of silver pearls that are Wilma Flintstone sized. They were given to me 3 years ago and didn’t fit. Now they hang a bit like they’re supposed to do.

Okay, these advances are great, but I’d still like to see the weight go down.  There’s circumstantial evidence to prove something and there’s direct evidence, okay? Circumstantial evidence is: “We found a gun in the guy’s apartment, it’s a match to the murder weapon and the victim had an affair with this guy’s wife.” Direct evidence is: “We found the guy standing over the body with the smoking murder weapon in his hand.” The jeans, the pearls, the body reshaping: that’s all circumstantial evidence. The weight? That’s direct evidence. I need the direct evidence to prove my case (to Darth Vader, if you will. I’m kind of blending “Star Wars” with “Law & Order”, but it works for me) to myself that this is working and worth continuing.

That goddamn Death Star isn’t going to blow itself up, you know.

Toot Toot Beep Beep Yeah

179.8 lbs. If you’re a regular here, you know what I’m thinking. And you should wash your brain out with soap!

I love cats and have known my share of Mighty Hunters. However, despite all the tales of mice, bunnies, chipmunks and the occasional hornpout (apparently, when my mom and her siblings were still kids, my aunt’s cat, Peter, would go fishing and my grandmother would fry up his catch for him), I believe I have heard the winner: a friend just told me her cat brought home a turtle the other day and now regards it as his pet. Top that.

 Due to training for a new job (Yea! Work is always Yea! Mama needs new bras and Victoria’s Secret isn’t trying to sign me up as a model. Neither is Lane Bryant, but their stuff is lousy, anyway. We’ve covered this ), I was unable to get to the gym in my usual dark-thirty timeframe  and had to go in the late afternoon.

Let me tell you, I would rather bobsled naked at the Olympics (which, if you really know me, taps into my hatred of being cold and my refusal to be unclothed even for me) than do that again. I’d rather sleep with Rush Limbaugh. I’d rather cheer for the New York… you get the drift.

First, there was the fight for parking spaces in front of (or as close to possible to) the front door. One would think, were one a rational human being, that it might be a good strategy to park upstairs or far away from the door to, I don’t know, get a little bit more workout on the way in and on the way out. After all, that’s why we’re there.

Apparently not.

Horns, fingers, obscenities and the idiot who parked a Jeep Compass over two spaces. Dude, it’s a fucking Jeep Compass aka Piece of Shit That Caused Chrysler to Ask for a Bailout and Hire Eminem to Make an Ad For Them in a Desperate Hail Mary for Sales. I’ve driven one. Rosie the Elephant couldn’t make a bigger pile of …yeah, I know; too many vulgarities already (important language note: “shit” and “fuck” are vulgarities. “Jesus Christ”, “hell” and “damn” are considered blasphemies. Next week: the difference between “can” and “may”). However, I stand by my review.

Then, there was the gang of girls catching up with each other JUST inside the doors and blocking traffic in both directions. I waited a moment, thinking they’d finish and head off in separate directions. Nope. I had to escalate the “Excuse me” until I almost sounded like Gilbert Gottfried. I got a “tsk” and snotty “Excuse US!” as they moved.

Crowded? Oh yes. Did this cause people to behave more courteously? Naooooooo. The machine hogs were out and about, the “exercise buddies” who took up machines side by side and spent 2 minutes doing the exercises and 10 minutes chattering in between (Note: lots of places tell you to work out with a friend so you can keep each other motivated. Bullshit. I haven’t seen it work yet). And there were those who had to check email, Twitter, texts and tell their friends about all the assholes at the gym in between reps. Sadly, they neglected to mention themselves in the report.

I managed to work in my weight training routine (although I was so frustrated with myself over the new job skills I’m trying to master that I could have tossed a Rotating Staircase of Death across the room. I keep telling you: you wouldn’t like me when I’m angry. I’ve been known to get sarcastic). Luckily, there were a couple of kind, hunky guys who let me work in on the machines they were using. One even stopped me when I tried to reset the machine to his settings, telling me it was easier for each of us to remember our own settings, but it was kind of me to offer. I needed that little pat on the head.

My routine is to get in an hour of cardio after the weight training. Unfortunately, the Thundering Herd was in the house and all of the functioning cardio machines, regardless of breed, were occupied. Besides, I wanted to just get the hell out of the gym (pretty sure I saw Peppermint Bitch on my way up, so steam room was out of the question). So, Friday, I’ll double down, especially if this lousy plateau doesn’t break. Monster burn? Oh, yeah. GODZILLA burn. Tokyo doesn’t stand a chance. Neither does The Great White Belly.

Even though I’m stuck on yet another plateau (and a friend assured me that a plateau is the body’s way of preparing to drop more pounds. I’ll believe it when I see it between the toes), I can see things that keep me going. I don’t have to squint to see my collarbones. Those nasty inner thigh flap for which no one has come up with an insulting term (like “muffin top,” “cankle” or “ turkey wattle”) have SHRUNK. Wow. Those suckers haven’t changed in years and my legs have never been a problem area. Ladies, those two thigh machines that are like a trip to the gynecologist without the stirrups? They really, really work! Throw in a few leg presses, too.

My butt is changing shape. Again, not really a big problem area (everything’s a piece of cake compared to the Great White Belly), but it’s getting some definition. And the GWB is still collapsing. I can suck in my gut to the point where it almost looks flat. I do not expect six pack or washboard abs out of this, but it’s heartening to know that I can potentially make all the flab go away and the Truly Nasty Overhang with it. When it comes to clothing, I’m a fan of tailored, clean lines, no ruffles or flourishes and I guess I’d like to see that in my body lines, too.

When the job gets rolling, one of the things to be considered will be (gulp) dating. I say “when the job gets rolling” because I’m thinking of Eharmony (or Match.com. I have a friend who met her husband on there). Despite one week after turning 50, Mother Nature decided to turn on the surprise sweat machine (bitch) and randomly cut the switch to brain cells in charge of memory (short term stuff like “Okay, how many sets have I done so far?” and a particular actor whose face I recognize: I know him from “Chicago Hope”, he’s been on “ER” and “Aw and Order” and has a three-part name but I’ll be damned if I can remember it. He’s not Rocky Carroll or Obbe Babatunde. DAMMIT. The fact that my father has dementia makes these kinds of lapses even more unsettling), I am an optimist. There are 6 billion plus people on this planet, slightly less than half that are men ( and no, I don’t know what the gay percentage is) and they can’t ALL be assholes.

And I hear George Clooney broke up with his girlfriend. You know, it’s got to be my turn sooner or later.