Motivation...

(Yeah, I’ve been silent for a while. And sick. And out of the gym. BUT I’VE STUCK TO EATING MY VEGETABLES AND IGNORING GRAINS, SUGAR AND PROCESSED FOODS).
You are about to listen in on an internal pep talk.

“Hey, Blondie, you need to get that ass of yours back to the gym.”
“No foolin’.”
“Why haven’t you gone?”
“Sickness, working overtime, working a LOT of overtime.”
“Well, Soldier, we need to realign our priorities a bit. You’re getting soft again and you NEED to be in tip top shape when it hits.”
“When what hits?”
“Zombie apocalypse.”

“That’s bullshit. Zombies? Really?”
“All those earthquakes out of Yorba Linda? It’s Nixon trying to break out. ”

“Oh, please, really?”
“Just go with it.”
“Fine. Zombie apocalypse. What do I need to do?”
“Resistance training. Get those upper body muscles REALLY strong.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re going to be swinging a shovel or a baseball bat to knock the block off of those ugly undead brain munchers. You’re going to be making like Mark McGwire or…”

“Could you please reference someone who WASN’T on steroids?”

“Ted Williams. And you’re going to need to get those legs good and strong, wonky right knee or not.”

“And that’s for…?”

“Climbing up on top of stuff. Zombies can’t climb. Their arms and legs fall off.”

“I’m in no position to argue. Stonger legs for climbing. Check. How come we’re not focusing on preventing it or curing them?”

“Because that won’t get your ass to the gym. You’re going back on 6 days a week of cardio. You’ll need endurance. You’re going to be on the move. Ever seen ‘Walking Dead?’” 

“No, and I don’t intend to. I’ll have nightmares. Zombie Girl Scouts and all – one even showed up at a Halloween party.”

“See? Ass. Gym. Tomorrow.”
“What about vampires?”
“What about them? Ever see ‘Buffy, the Vampire Slayer’?”

“No. I’m not up on pop culture, I admit it. I’m not part of the Whedon-verse. I am a dweeb. But ask me about baseball, jazz, history or Star Wars.”

“Well, Buffy kicked vampire ass. Literally. You can’t do it with tapioca tush or Christmas hams where your upper arms are supposed to be. Now, get going.”

No Slugs Were Harmed During This Post

Nope. Still no numbers.

Today is going to be challenging to hold onto the positivity. Nothing is coming through on the income front (and I’m about to get stiffed again tomorrow on a promised loan repayment. Yeah, I read your Facebook page. You could be an adult and let me know, but no, I have to chase you) and I’m finding nothing but scams on the housing front (Craigslist. I get my final paycheck tomorrow, so I’ll sign up for West Side Rentals) unless it’s “transitional” housing (You just got out of rehab/jail and need a place to live. NO! NO FUCKING WAY! NO!). Given the demise last season plus the lack of good trading off-season plus the bad thumbs of Josh Buckett (I spelled it that way deliberately. If you follow the Red Sox closely, you know he was the ringleader in the fried chicken and beer scandal. Probably hurt his thumb slipping in grease) and Bailey, the closer (pulling his out of his ass, no doubt), the Red Sox aren’t likely to lift my spirits today.

However, I have friends. Friends who send me pictures like this:

And it came with the message, “What I wish for you, my friend...a new home, FULL of money!!!” I keep returning to that picture and post (Facebook) to remind myself that while I don’t have everything I want, I’ve got some damned good stuff.

I got a call from my hair stylist. I haven’t been able to see her in over a year (she’s expensive and worth every cent), but she keeps in touch. I know a couple of people who are genuinely and thoroughly kind and generous of spirit (I am not one of them. I can very kind, but I can also be hell on wheels). Kindness is in short supply in the world. She told me she believes in me and my ability to overcome my issues. If it was possible to reach 90 miles to hug someone, I would have.

With friends like that, you really can’t spend an entire day in Slug Mode (no shower, pajamas all day, in extreme cases, you don’t even brush your teeth).

I have brushed my teeth, taken my vitamins, braided my hair (Yoga day. A ponytail gets in the way of mat work. A braid lies flat) and applied deodorant. You can’t be a slug with Lady Speed Stick in the armpits.

And Universe, while I am trusting you to deliver what I want, I remind you that I am willing to employ blows to your gonads to make you drop them.

I'm Still Here. Really

???  I have no friggin’ clue. Didn’t get on the scale this morning. Didn’t put on the blood pressure cuff.  Blew off Pilates. Let’s face it I’m off the reservation for this one.

Dr. Best worked on me Friday and applied ultrasound not only to my cranky right knee (Aw hell, the knee isn’t the only cranky part of me today) but also to the upper back and neck that hasn’t wanted to cooperate with him. I ached like I’d been thoroughly beaten from Friday night to Saturday night (and yes, I have a frame of reference for that feeling). Between the exhaustion and the pain, I mentally wrote myself a doctor’s note excusing me from gym class. Until tomorrow.

 The reason I stayed up WAAAAAAAAAAAY past my bedtime last night attending an exclusive private premier of a wonderful music video called “Go On” by Darci Monet. I got this exclusive invitation because I helped out. I will let you all know when it’s publicly available (if you’re not a fan of Darci’s already. www.darcimonent.com and she has a blog, too. I don’t know offhand if the title is “Magical Musical Messcapades of a Juicy Girl in Los Angeles,” but the phrase is in there somewhere. Google should bring it up). Anyway, I drank too much (more than 1 glass of red wine. Shock. Horror), ate bad for me food yesterday (Jack in the Box. Never a good choice). This morning, I look and feel like death on a cracker. Not hung over, just exhausted. However, I had a blast getting there. I’ll get better. I know this. Keeping that piece of information close helps my healing process. If I know I’m going to heal, I will heal faster.

If you are a regular here, you know that my staple protein is grilled chicken. One of my friends (and verbal sparring partner) is a dab hand with the spices and grill. In fact, he’s so good with the spices, he could pass for a Disney rat in a Paris restaurant. I digress. Earlier in the week, I had queried him about the idea of adding orange to balsamic for dressing/marinade purposes. We batted it around and I figured I’d experiment later. Friday, while out among civilized people, I get a phone call from said sparring partner that essentially told me I was a pain in the ass and he had just put together a marinde featuring orange zest and balsamic. As I was among civilized people (Oh, hell, who am I kidding? It’s Los Angeles  and we’re all on our cell phones whenever, wherever. However, the bank would have refused to do business with me and I had to end the call), I asked him to email the recipe. He did, the email subject line said “Annoyed Sigh” and thus Annoyed Sigh Marinade was born (he call it it whatever the hell he likes in his little fiefdom. In my world, it’s Annoyed Sigh Marinade). Orange zest, honey, garlic, fresh ginger, smoked paprika,  balsamic vinegar, olive oil. I am throwing it in the George Foreman shortly and will report back.

The down side to zesting oranges is the grating process. It is inevitable that manicures/fingernails will get messed up and I have a hard time growing a healthy set in the first place. But, my hands smell fantastic. By the way, it is a DAMNED GOOD marinade. Grill the chicken (boneless skinless breast), slice it up, throw some raspberries (or other berries) onto salad greens and some sliced almonds, add chicken and juices, feast.

I will see about annoying the sparring partner into working with apple cider vinegar and honey on a couple of variations. This particular combo has long been a folk remedy in the Northeast for a lot of ailments and there are even studies backing up the health benefits. More on that later.

Even though I haven’t been reporting in, I have been keeping faith with the exercise program. Still can’t successfully execute a Tree in yoga class, but I can manage a full Lotus, Dolphin (Downward Dog with your forearms flat on the floor. More challenging than Down Dog) and I’m even getting off my knee off the ground in Crescent.  This is evidence of increased strength/health. My right knee, however, has made it clear that cardio is not such a good idea. It will be.

Of course, me being the shallow bitch that I am with respect to my weight loss project, I want to see the number on the bathroom scale go down. I haven’t.. It’s been bobbing around the 180 lb. mark for 2 months and that’s too damned long in my book. My fault, really: I let sugar and starch back into my diet and they have shown that they are not friendly to my body. Plus, I’m finding that once the sugar is in, it creates an addiction cycle in me. One of the toughest things in the world is to break a cycle, especially one that’s on a downward trajectory (gravity isn’t just a theory, unless you ask various politicians). The semi-easy part is recognizing that you’re on such a trajectory. Applying the brakes?  A wee bit tougher.

There is the expression, “Where there’s a will, there’s a way.” (The variation: “Where’s there a will, there’s a dead guy.”) I had PLENTY of will back when I started this project. There was no challenge to resisting temptations. I still have will, but it’s just not to the same level it was and that’s leading to the downward spiral. Not being a fan of getting dizzy, it’s time to stop the spiral.

There is the school of thought that you have to be happy with what you have (or where you are) in order to attract more of what you want. It’s a challenge when you have expectations and they’re not being met. It’s a challenge when you feel you look great or healthier, but you’re not getting external validation (the reflection back from a different kind of mirror).

I guess I need to refocus and be my own mirror. And like the reflection. Hey, my reflection has gotten far more flexible since January. Now, if only it could do a pushup….

Cue Journey

180.8 lbs. and has been…for days.

No, I did not hit the Bollywood cardio dance class last night as I wanted. Something to do with a headache making bedtime not much later than dusk.

“Don’t Stop Believing” by Journey has been getting a lot of attention lately (Some list made it the Best Rock Song of All Time. Or something like that. No, I don’t hate the song. Keep reading). I’ve needed to hear it, I guess.

I’ve been spiking and stalling. Not my favorite thing. Being a responsible adult and working a job has pretty much zapped my workout schedule. To be honest, I knew 2-3 hours 6 days a week wasn’t sustainable with a normal work schedule (C’mon, Lottery). I’ve been skimping on rigorous honesty with respect to My Net Diary and food intake (mostly because it’s been whittling down my caloric intake. If it gets to negative numbers, I don’t know how THAT’S going to work). I want to SUCCEED at this project, dammit. Failure is not an option, goes the line. And “Not on my watch.” Well, the only watch IS mine, so it’s on me if I want to succeed.

Where does “Don’t Stop Believing” fit in? I need to believe I can do this in order to keep plugging away. I need to not view spikes and plateaus as opportunities or, at least, not as setbacks. Or, not as personal attacks by mysterious forces that don’t want me to be thinner. That’s preposterous: Nobody wants me to fail. At least, no one I know. My gang is very supportive (both close by and those off in distant lands like New Hampshire and North Carolina). Hold on to that feeling.

Despite not being back down to 177 (That’ll happen again), I got into my size 13 Calvin Klein jeans tonight. There’s a victory: I have retaken territory.

I got a fresh dose of inspiration: a friendly acquaintance of mine has written a comic book series and tonight was a signing event for the fourth issue (I’ve got ALL the issues and they’re ALL signed). Okay: here’s a guy who had an idea for a comic book series. I have ideas for lots of things but not many of them come to fruition. But Daniel Corey saw “Moriarty: The Dark Chamber” all the way through from concept to reality (it’s really good, too). I don’t know what’s involved in creating, assembling, editing and actually publishing a comic book, but I imagine it’s not simple. And here, someone I know manifested an idea into reality.

Thomas Edison said, “Success is 10% inspiration and 90% perspiration.” In my case that’s literally the truth as I am undertaking a physical fitness improvement program. My favorite actor is George Clooney and he was in a string of failed pilots and VERY short-lived series before he became an “overnight success.” The man started in the business in 1982 and didn’t “hit” until 1994, so unless he was spending the night on Neptune, it wasn’t overnight. He has also spoken of the necessity of persistence to be a success.

Right now, the short term goal is to get back down to the lowest weight I’ve been so far, 177 lbs. Achieving that will be its own reward. Of course, I need some bras (are the cups half empty or half full? They no longer runneth over. It’s a free market. Maybe I could rent out the extra space).

Today, I didn’t make it to the gym (but I have completed 4 of the 6 weeks of activity needed for the President’s Active Lifestyle Achievement Certificate). That’s okay: I didn’t mindlessly graze all day, so there’s a victory. And tomorrow, maybe I can pull back together with my old zeal (well, 6 month old zeal).

Dear Fitness Gods: Look I’m not asking to wake up smokin’ hot tomorrow. I’m 50 and realistic. Give me the strength to resist temptation, the will to do what I must and show me in some way, that I’m making progress every day. Let me see it or feel. Thank you.

“Every day’s a new deal, you know?” – Harvey Pekar

Doldrums

180.6 lbs. Since Monday, the 18^th. Want to play Mad Libs? “Given the weight spike and subsequent plateau, Susan has been feeling ___________ (emotion).”  If you’re accurate, this game gets a PG-13 or R rating.

“The Doldrums”: Certainly, you’ve heard of the Doldrums. Let’s have a little education session here. It originated as a nautical term meaning  “the area encircling the earth near the equator where winds originating in the northern and southern hemispheres come together.” (Thank you, Wikipedia). How does that translate into a term that has come to mean “the blahs”?  Back to Wikipedia: “Early sailors named this belt of calm the doldrums because of the inactivity and stagnation they found themselves in after days of no wind. To find oneself becalmed in this region in a hot and muggy climate could mean death in an era when wind was the only effective way to propel ships across the ocean.”

So, a sailing term that refers to an area where forward motion is slowed considerably, even stopped, is probably the most accurate term to describe the current state of 50 lbs. to normal BMI. I am becalmed at 180.6 lbs. and it can be deadly.

Not deadly in the literal, physical Monty Python parrot sketch sense. No. These doldrums sap the forward motion and the will to stay strong and stay on the program. In other words, they have the potential to kill the whole project and that scares the bejesus out of me.

Whereas I could have food in the house and not be tempted, I find myself emotionally eating (bored grazing). I’m still trying to figure out the raging coconut obsession (and yes, that’s getting fed). The slippage of control has me substantially worried.

Yes, I have a job that permits me to work from home HOWEVER, right now, it’s time consuming and I miss the freedom of being able to hit the gym when I wanted and avoid crowds and weirdos. Unfortunately, I’ve been hitting both this week and my routine has suffered. I tried going to yoga on Monday night (Lila’s class at a different facility) and that didn’t work too well. Smaller space, bigger crowd and I was next to the wall getting a good look at my flesh slide downwards and gather under my right cheek as I was in Triangle Pose. Not attractive. I just left the gym for tonight (got there at 9:30 PM) hoping to avoid crowds. Crowds, no. Zombies and vampires, yes. There was the woman who was tweeting or texting between sets (Sweetie, no. I’m the secret sauce reporting on the gym, not you), dark lipstick, black fingernails, spider web tattoo on the shoulder. Five’ll get you ten she’s Team Edward and jonesing for the next Twilight movie. There was the group of big, buff guys who weren’t working out so much as clustering around a machine and chattering like magpies (and you thought women were the big gossips. Please. I was in a co-ed by alternate rooms dorm in college. The walls were thin. Not intentionally, I got to hear the list of every woman in the dorm who gave blow jobs and their relative skills at same). There was the woman whose workout consisted mostly of staring into space. Now, she could have just received news that was jolting and shocking and caused her to go catatonic. I’m not unsympathetic unless…I have completed three sets on two different machines in the amount of time you’ve sat on your dead ass just staring into space on the one machine, THE ONE MACHINE, that I need to finish my lower body workout. Up the dosage, Honey. Zombie.

The net effect of these inconveniences is that I’m finding my motivation greatly lessened. Again, a point of substantial worry. I’m already out of the Calvin Kleins and 501s that I was able to fit into again and back into the Not Your Daughter’s Jeans that preceded them.

These are issues that need to be addressed forthwith. I have a plan of attack, but it costs money and that, while the flow has been re-established, it is not a flood of money. I think another round with Torquemada is in order, more acupuncture (deal with sleep, appetite, sinus congestion coming on again and metabolism boost). I have restored my supplies of n acetyl cysteine, tyrosine and alpha lipoic acid to get those neurotransmitters fed and happy again. That SHOULD address the grazing/overeating issues. And I have not ruled out going back to HCG for Round 2. I had great success with it the first time and frankly, I’d be a lot happier dealing with the plateaus and spikes at a far lower set point.

I have also come up with a list of benchmarks and rewards for hitting those benchmarks. Carrot and stick philosophy, but given my behavior lately, I’m more likely to eat the carrot and beat someone with the stick.

I DID accomplish something this week on the Rotating Staircase of Death: in a fit of pique, I hit the button for a faster rate than I had done before. I didn’t make it to 45 minutes (I felt like I was going to pass out), but I did sustain the greater pace for over a half-hour. Okay, so I can still do this. I can still push and feel good about it. There’s hope.

Now, if I could only figure out the coconut obsession…

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.

Too Sexy for My Jeans (Well, Not Quite)

186.6 lbs. You would think burning 1200 calories in one day would get you somewhere. I’m suspecting sugar intake (sweetened non-fat yogurt and sweetened gluten-free granola). Sugar is inflammatory to the pancreas and the liver. I have emailed Trader Joe’s asking them to come up with a gluten free granola with a lower sugar content. They said they’d look into it. I believe them. Trader Joe’s listens to its customers.

New rules for Presidential candidates: You must appear on “Are You Smarter Than a Fifth Grader” and win, emphasis on American History, Civics and Geography. I will not name names, but the leading Charismatic Idiot punted the football on a point of American history so basic, it’s practically encoded in our DNA. You know, Idaho (the CI’s place of birth) and Alaska (the CI’s current safe haven and proclaimed beloved homeland although she now has a home in Arizona. John McCain must be ready to hang himself) are awfully close to Canada. Can SHE produce a birth certificate? That isn’t Canadian? I have my doubts. Okay, to be fair (who am I kidding?): She did say “warn the British” but finished with something like “that they couldn’t take away our liberty (or guns?).” That kind of fumble tongue is what causes international incidents. She then went on to say that Paul Revere had rung the bells in the Old North Church. Ain’t nobody ringing no damned bells that night because that would have, in fact, WARNED THE BRITISH (the HMS Somerset was at anchor not too far away. Part of the team that carried out the warning TO THE COLONISTS (who were technically British, I suppose) had to row past the Somerset to carry out their end of the mission; I’m thinking it was Revere. I’d have to go CHECK THE FACTS. (One thing I keep forgetting to look up is whether the Boston Marathon route is linked to Revere’s ride. It is a Patriot’s Day tradition and Revere (and the Minute Men) kicked that off in 1775).

The sad thing is that there are probably good, capable people in the Republican Party who could ably lead the country, but we’re never going to hear about them because they’re getting shouted down and crowded out by the spotlight-hogging fucktards (you heard me) who have shown themselves to lack character and courage, but by God, they sell a ton of books. People of America, we deserve better and it’s about goddamn time we demanded it. We are not a nation of dumb, easily dazzled and misled sheep.

But I digress.

14^th inning for the Red Sox and Oakland As. This is why Red Sox fans drink.

I had a bit of a cheat with sweet potato fries at Red Robin today (turkey burger, no bun, tomato slices, lettuce and a very little swipe of the chipotle sauce). I may pay for it tomorrow on the scale, but that would make a change from 186.6. I may have to do another Monster Monday workout.

But that’s not the biggest deal of the day. Or maybe I should say “not so big” deal.

Right now, I’m wearing a pair of size 14 Not Your Daughter’s Jeans with Tummy Tuck Technology. The Triple T allows you to wear a size smaller than you would normally. As previously mentioned in earlier posts, they’re made in the USA. Pricey, but you can find them at Nordstrom Rack for a discount (I don’t know about Marshalls, Ross or TJ Maxx, but I imagine it’s worth investigating).  These are high-waisted “mom” jeans (such a dumbass term), but they are excellent quality garments and worth their cost.

Mine are loose. And I just washed them.

If you are a regular reader, you know that among my Holy Grail garments are two pairs of Levi 501 jeans. These are buried in my storage unit, probably next to the crate containing the Ark of the Covenant (which explains the persistent humming sound). They are, without a doubt, the most flattering jeans I’ve ever pulled up.(from the butt downward. Nothing makes the Great White Belly look good).

Emboldened by the loose (ish) waistband of my current size 14 jeans, I undertook a reconnaissance mission at the Levi’s Store today. I encountered a helpful, very friendly (and kind) salesman named Michael who had no problem with my trying but not buying. He brought a pair of 501s and another pair of “boyfriend cut” (I think they were 511s). Drumroll, please.

The 501s (max waist 30, I think. Size 13), I could pull up but not button. Not a downer though: I COULD PULL THEM UP OVER MY HIPS. This is good, this is progress.

Okay, the 511s. Waist 31, inseam 32: PULLED UP, ZIPPED AND I COULD BREATHE!!!!!! These are lower rise jeans than the NYDJs, so the Great White Belly has to go down even more before I’d wear them (Not muffin tops, FLABALANCHE). They’re skinnier cut through the legs than usual (Look, if you’re plus sized, everything is boot cut unless you’re in jeggings) and they flatter my legs AND BUTT.  (Admit it, Ladies, that’s the biggest priority when we’re shopping for jeans. Why don’t men care as much about their asses? Is it because of the fart lighting obsession?). But I could wear them now , if I want to, that’s the biggest point! Even after sweet potato fries! Oh, Motivation, you move in mysterious ways!

I am going to bust this lousy plateau. One of the things I mentally chant to myself to keep going on the Rotating Staircase of Death or push through the cardio burst (greater speed and resistance on the elliptical, jogging on the treadmill) is this: “Eyes on the prize. Keep your eyes on the prize.”

The prize is still off in the distance, but if I don’t need the binoculars to see it anymore. Every step on the RSoD or elliptical is a step closer to it.

Who Could Ask for Anything More?

186.6 lbs. Third day. Look, I’ve been stuck in place for years by inaction on my part. Okay, I am actioning (see how dumb business-speak is?) and I want fluid, dynamic movement, dammit.

For the record, I think “Magnum” ice cream should change its name. A premium ice cream treat having the same name as large condoms has truly ugly mix ups written all over it

Today was weight training day at the gym and due to my focus point generally being on the floor (or a bolt or a nut 6 inches above same), I get to see a lot of sneakers. Lately, there have been more of the ones that look like actual feet (Fila calls theirs “Skele-Toes” and Vibram’s are called Five Fingered, which is a stupid name unless you plan to hand-walk the Boston Marathon), but on the more conventional footwear front, I have been seeing striking purples, reds  and yellows and sparkly shoelaces. And those are the guys! Today I was staring at a pair of Nike Something Or Others that have the big clear bubbles in the soles. That seems like wasted space. Why should 6 year olds be the only ones eligible for light up shoes? I think it would make a workout much more interesting (especially if you’re in a Zumba or dance class). Or Nike could put small rubber ducks or plastic goldfish in those bubbles.  We are always being told to “get in touch with our inner child” and I think light up sneakers make for a good start. Of course, the Eagles said they’d “like to find your inner child and kick its little ass.” (“Get Over It”, Hell Freezes Over, 1994) Given that statement, I don’t think Don Henley would want a pair.

Today is my 50^th birthday and I must say, having seen a picture from my 40^th birthday, I’m in considerably better shape now than I was 10 years ago. (At that point, I think “denial” might have described my condition. Hmm. The dyslexic version of Denial is Denali. Do you think maybe whoever named the mountain thought he/she was in Egypt? Just a thought. The blood flow to working muscles deprives the brain of oxygen and weird thoughts seem to fill the void).

Once again, the Rotating Staircases of Death were not only full, but had a waiting line you usually see for “Pirates of the Caribbean” at Disney (Land, World. Doesn’t matter. And since they’ve added Johnny Depp, it’s mostly filled with giggling, middle-aged broads like me. I’m afraid, one of these days, decorum will not rule the day and the animatronic Jack Sparrow will be draped in flung brassieres. I made do with an hour on the elliptical. One hour of a “vigorous” workout burns over 700 calories. It’s also easier on my knees than the treadmill.

In fiddling with My Net Diary (available through the Android Market, presumably IPhone and www.mynetdiary.com) , I discovered that I made an error: the dividing line between overweight BMI and normal BMI is not 140 lbs. as previously believed. It is actually 159.6 lbs.  I started this blog at 199.2 lbs. and named it accordingly, believing I had 50 lbs. to the border (no passport required). “39.9 lbs. to Normal” makes for a less compelling, more geeky and nit-picking title so we’ll keep things as is, although there is a motivational boost in knowing that I have only 27 lbs. to make normal BMI (It makes me smile just to type that) v. 46.6 lbs. to normal. Now that I look at the numbers, my math was completely off since it was more like 60 lbs.  Tough. I’m still not changing the blog’s name.

I would like to announce that I have nearly eradicated the plagues known as “back boobs” and “saddlebags” (I never really had a problem with outer thigh fat, but the past few years, it’s been threatening). The back boobs, though, have been an issue. Overflow from The Great White Belly. My weight training has included all major muscle groups three times per week (Instead of breaking it into upper body and lower body).  My hamstrings actually look somewhat athletic. Whoa.  The arm flaps aren’t as flappy. This is good, this is motivating.

My playlist titled “Workout Tuneage” (I know: it’s frat boy tool language, but I did it. I feel shame) contains 154 songs, over 10 hours of music. Yet, even on shuffle, it keeps pulling up “I Will Survive.” I suspect my Zune (aka Zune Resurrection. Don’t ask, don’t ask, don’t ask) may be monitoring my heart rate as I get to the end of a set or getting off the elliptical. I think it has a Van Halen fixation as well, but it’ll mix it up between David Lee Roth and Sammy Hagar (I am firmly in the Diamond Dave camp, but “Humans Being” is audio caffeine. That is also the name of another playlist and the trademark is pending). Shuffle brings up the Grateful Dead all the time, too, especially “Truckin’.” I also hear Bob Marley and Matisyahu a lot (Yes, those guys AND Tom Jones AND Public Enemy AND the Stones, Beatles and Zombies. What’s your point?). I’m wondering if Zune Resurrection was constructed by a Chinese Rastafarian.

I highly recommend adding “Battle Without Honor or Humanity” by Tomoyasu Hotei.  “Kill Bill. Vol. 1,” just add a plane flying into Narita, samurai sword and a yellow motorcycle outfit. It’ll get you pumped. Trust me.

You have probably never heard of “The A La Menthe” by a French group called “La Caution.” You don’t know the title, but if you saw “Ocean’s Twelve” and the best part of the movie was Vincent Cassel dancing through the lasers (that was a great sequence), then you know the music. One of the few times accordians are actually cool, but these guys ruin it with some superfluous (and truly annoying) synthesizer. I maintain that the only nations that “get” rock are the US, Britain (all of it, including Ireland and Scotland) and Australia. Canada? Not until they disown Rush.

 I have Queen, but I will not add “Bohemian Rhapsody” to the mix. It starts off too slow, takes too long and when the temp actually does pick up, I want head bang like Wayne and Garth. Suitable for the car, not so much for the Rotating Staircase of Death. Focus, focus, focus.

Not only do these songs set a snappy rhythm for the body to follow, they serve as an adequate distraction from sweat dripping down the back of my neck, lactic acid build up in the gluteus maximus (talk about hot cross buns) and the idiots surrounding me yapping away on their cell phones. Look, if your job required that much attention and availability, you’d be working out at 5 AM (which I have done. Not my thing) and actually at your desk or in meetings at 11 AM. I’m not impressed; I have a snazzier phone than yours. I digress.

I just heard a great line on “Mike & Molly”: Mother and overweight daughter discussing mother’s dream that daughter would have grown up to be a ballerina. I forget Molly’s rejection (something to do with being 140 lbs. in the 7^th grade, I think) but I love her mom’s response: “Swans come in all sizes.”

Right now, I’m an XL swan.

Between a rock and a hard place

197.8 lbs. I can’t move.

And I thought the yoga teacher did a number on me…

I attended the first of eight training sessions today and someone knee-high to Christina Aguilera (or Lisbeth Salander. I’ve been reading the Steig Larsson books) kicked my ass. Well, not literally, because then, I would have had to stuff her into a locker. Or my purse. She’ll fit.

Way back in 2005, when I was working out regularly, I belonged to the same gym chain and back then, they had the big stair machines aka The Rotating Staircase of Death. (I could never work the stupid pedal ones satisfactorily). My trainer at that time, The King, would periodically goad me into getting on one. I would threaten some kind of violence to his family jewels and we’d let the matter drop. I could go forever on a treadmill and would keep up with The Clash and “Should I Stay or Should I Go?” on the elliptical, but those things looked big and intimidating, especially when you saw little blonde toothpicks running up them like it was nothing. Bitches.

One day, when The King was not in the building, I decided “why the hell not” and gave it a try. After 30 minutes and 88 floors of stairs (the Empire State Building has 86. Neener, neener), I looked and felt like death on a cracker, but I had hung on and completed my task. The next hour or so is kind of fuzzy. I have vague memories of oxygen tanks, paramedics and questions about my insurance, but nothing solid.

Emboldened, I would switch things up a bit and voluntarily hit the Rotating Staircase of Death, ignoring the little blonde bunnies hopping up its slopes or the grunting buffalos trying to impress the little blonde bunnies. And even after training and working out, I still looked and felt like death on a cracker at the end of 30 minutes.

One Saturday afternoon, after I’d been climbing for 15 minutes and hit the usual Brain Death Zone, I noticed the guy on the RSoD kitty corner from me. What follows – and this is as close to verbatim as I can get – is the actual conversation that was going on in my head:

“I can do this, I can do this, I can do this. Geez, that’s a big guy on that machine.”

“He’s very fit. And he’s going up like this thing is nothing. I could get there. Maybe.”

“He keeps looking back here. No, Sir, if I appear to be staring, honest, I’m very unfocused over here.’

“That’s a big guy. Looks kind of Polynesian. Hey, this is Los Angeles. Everybody from everywhere is here. Big ol’ melting pot.”

“He keeps looking back. Smile, wave. Like that, yeah. No, Sir, don’t worry. I only look like I’m going to die, I promise.”

“He could be some kind of pro athlete. Very fit guy.”

“How much longer on here? Oh God, it’s another 10 minutes. I can do this. Did I say that out loud? He’s looking back here like I said it out loud. Sir, it’s okay, not directed at you.”

“Look at that tattoo he’s got. Big one. Does EVERYBODY have tattoos out here? Not me. Not even a big red pair of lips on my ass. That would be a good one, though. That’s kind of a tribal tattoo he’s got there…Fucking Lakers. Die Kobe Bryant! I can do this.”

“I’ve seen a tat like that. National Geographic or something. It IS Polynesian. Wonder what it mean? Will I live long enough to find out?”

“ He’s getting down. Smile and wave again, just try not to look like you’re going to barf on him as he passes. The Rock has a tattoo like that…”

“OH! MY! GOD! That was The Rock! I had The Rock worried about me. Maybe.”

And if you need motivation to go to the gym, there you go.