Cleared for Take Off...

185.4  lbs. Yeaaaah, I’ll get to that

So, second session with Dr. Best and he has cleared me for take-off! Popped that right kneecap like a champagne cork (right after he had given up on it, bent the knee and BLAMMO! It actually popped. Loudly. Had I been 12 years old and home among my family again, my older sister would have grossed out completely).  I have done weight training twice since last I saw him and started employing his suggestion (lighter weights, more reps). He confirmed that the back muscles have begun to improve. Just a little bit, but noticeably. I am okay to hit the elliptical again or spinning (I should but it’s SO tedious), but no Rotating Staircase of Death (WAH!) and no flat or downhill sloping treadmill. I learned something from him about the treadmill and joints (and I know I don’t have the quote exactly, but I think I can convey the gist of it): going uphill, the effort/strain/work is being done by the muscles. Flat or downline (decline? Maybe), all the effort/strain/work is on the joints/tendons, vulnerable points that he’s having to adjust. The more you know, right?

Huzzah. Now, it’s a matter of finding the time…

He also tried some acupressure on my sinuses (Ralph the Renegade Sinus is taking hostages again and has tried to recruit Larry the Left Sinus to join his evil plot). Dr. Best was pressing on the bone of the upper eye sockets for a couple of minutes and explained that it should drain the upper ones. Except, I don’t have upper sinuses. If you know an ear, nose and throat doctor you want to confuse, bring me in and have him X-ray my head. And those of you waiting for me to say, “Nothing there”, forget it. I have baffled two different otorhinolaryngologists in this fashion. Two of them.  Anyway, I share this piece of information with Dr. Best and he blurts out, “You’re built weird.” Swear to God; that’s what he said. So much for bedside manner. However, he did show me how to press down on the bone on the lower part of the eye socket (next to the nose. It feels kind of flat) and drain the lower, actual sinuses. It works; I just looked like I had two black eyes for a few hours.

And I am the proud winner (earner) of a Presidential Active Lifestyle Award, faux signed by Drew Brees and Dominique Dawes. It may cheapen it a bit to have to print the damned thing yourself, but I earned it. Active for at least 30 minutes a day, 5 days a week and for 6 out of 8 weeks.  

Here ‘tis:

At this time last year, I thought it was a vast improvement over the year before becauseat that time, if I walked up and down a flight of stairs twice a day, I thought I was doing far better than I had before. I improved on that.

I need to hold on to that thought. From the lowest low (so far) of 177 lbs., my progress has done a 180 and, well, you see the header. What’s interesting is that old “tapes” have begun playing again. You know, those habits and criticisms and voices you hear or things you tell yourself and have for years. I thought I had broken and buried those attitudes. Nope. I’ve gotten off the scale, looked at what was in the refrigerator and caught myself saying, “To hell with it. Just eat what you want.” The “Great, once again, I’m failing at this” thoughts have begun to surface. This is the point where, 27, 28 years ago, I began eating sweets and too many of them again.

I have made the mistake of subtly complaining about this setback to friends. I say it’s a mistake because, Folks, let’s be honest: nobody likes a whiner. I’ve said so and I mean it. One friend looked at me and said, “You have to be happy about where you are first.”

There is some truth to this for the simple reason that my emotional eating tendencies have been coming back into play. Boredom and on-the-job frustration are big triggers for me (boredom with waiting for document images to download so that I can review them). On the job frustration? I have to sit in VERY bad chairs for hours at a clip to do this job, I’m putting a ton of pressure on myself to excel and falling somewhat short, and so on and so on.  What I said before about old tapes? This is what I mean; no matter how far I may think I am from those old habits, it is downright scary how quickly they’ll come back and ruin my good work.

There is a concept called “synchronicity” (also the title of an album by The Police, but Sting is not part of this discussion) :

Noun: The simultaneous occurrence of events that appear significantly related but have no discernible causal connection.

Now, the way that I understand this, from a New Age/metaphysical standpoint (and yes, I do follow that stuff. “There are more things on Heaven and Earth, Horatio, than are dreamed of in your philosophy.” (Shakespeare, Hamlet)), it is the Universe or God or whatever Higher Power you may believe in (should you believe in one) trying to get your attention. On two different radio shows (I listen to a lot of NPR during the day. And podcasts. And baseball games), there was a discussion about food; how fast food companies create and exploit eating triggers and studies on eating and weight loss. I was just looking for them online to provide links but I can’t remember what shows they were (could have been local ones). To wit, eating triggers and fast food. We know but we don’t consciously think about what we see in ads for Burger King or McDonalds or Arby’s, etc. That is, until we’re driving by one and see the signs for whatever the special is that they’re promoting. Trigger installed, then pulled. My ancient trigger is “my mind is not fully occupied, better put something in my mouth.” I have been fighting that particular demon for years. And I just brought in an ally: gum. Sugarless teeth-whitening gum in the large economy pack. I’m going through it at a good clip.

The other piece was pretty much a symphony of “Well, duh”: Eating less is not just a matter of fewer calories. WHAT you’re eating is a huge part of the picture as well. In: veggies,fiber, fruit, whole grains, lean protein, monounsaturated  oil. Out: sugar, refined starch, saturated fatty foods. I will try to find links to those interviews.

I needed to hear these things today. I needed to be reminded of the stuff that I’ve learned that got me as far as I have. And you know, even though I’ve put on 8 unwanted pounds, I’ve come a long way from where I started. Hey, even with the weight gain, I am no longer obese.

My Net Diary, however, is not helping. Because I gave it a weight (125 lbs.) and a goal date (01/10/12), it calculates a recommended calorie intake. Reality check is not part of the programming: today it told me I should eat 875 calories total. To put this in perspective, the Nazis calculated they could feed the concentration camp inmates 800 calories a day and still get a full day’s worth of work out of them. Dr. Best said that if you eat less than about 1200 calories per day, your metabolism slows down as a defense mechanism. This is not the first time I have heard this.

So, this is what we’re going to do:

1.    Take the end date out of My Net Diary for now.

2.    The sugar that has crept into the diet has to be leached out again. I just don’t buy the damned stuff (Hey, look: if our country decided to turn our sugar beet and half the sugar cane output into ethanol, it would be a good thing. As delicious as they are, we really don’t need cheap Snickers bars).

3.    Get back to the strict account keeping of what I’m eating. That kept me honest and on target.

4.    Short term goal: lose 11 lbs. Reward: a trip to the RobB salon in Studio City for a mani/pedi. That place is amazingly clean, it’s an OPI Concept Salon and it’s the best place in LA for mani/pedi. Never mind the place further up Ventura Blvd that has a reality show. I will not use a foot basin that once held Snooki’s feet. No.

5.    Coffee okay (Dunkin Donuts Cinnamon Spice flavored. I have gone to the dark side and voluntarily drink foo foo coffee). Creamer, not okay.

6.    Get back on the big water intake program. It was flushing out my system pretty nicely.

7.    6 to 8 hours sleep per night. Even if I’m not inflicting myself on co-workers, cranky is no way to go through the day; it triggers more emotional eating.

8.    Keep up with the 30 minutes a day, 5 days a week activity level. Just because I got the certificate, doesn’t mean it’s time to give up.

9.    When I get cleared by Dr. Best, get a jump rope. $6 for a good one.

10.  Just relax; who we really are is shown in how we deal with setbacks. I don’t like being a quitting candy-ass. That’s for other women. Ones who, say, don’t know basic American history or pretend their family’s completely normal or like to eat moose nose jerky (Frankly, I think noses are better ON the moose).

It’s almost 9, so about those 6 to 8 hours…

If a Volkswagen Leaves LA Driving East....

183.2 lbs. This simply will not do.

However, the skin and sinuses are clearing up, the mindless grazing has gone the way of the dodo, so I’m thinking the sugar that upset the chemical balance is leaching out of the system and the weight will come off. I have a goal of 125 by Dec. 31, 2011. Two weeks ago, it was easily do-able as I was proceeding. 6 lbs. up and sticking? Causin’ problems. I programmed My Net Diary (or, if you could get cheese over the internet, My Net Dairy) with the goal (although I made a mistake and input Jan 10, 2012 instead of Jan 01, 2012. It’s a happy accident). MND analyzes your goal, where you are, the time difference and gives you a recommended calorie intake. It has cut mine DRASTICALLY over the past few days.

Since I am doing everything I can to get things back on track (Well, let me clarify: everything within reason. I’m not about to quit my job so I can get back to the old gym schedule. I’ve done some wrong-headed and misguided things in my life. That would be one of them), the best thing I can do is focus on my job and keep on keepin’ on, as the saying goes, with respect to diet and exercise. Sugar has been exorcised from the kitchen (“OUT DEMON HYDROCARBON!!!! THE POWER OF SPLENDA COMPELS YOU!!!!”). Lacking the financial means to hire Richard Simmons for this purpose, I did it myself.

I ain’t happy, of course. I figure if I’ve got a little software program telling me “if you lose this number of calories per day, you will  lose that number of ounces” and I have complied with the little software program, then I expect to see the number of ounces promised deducted from the daily weigh-in. I view it as a contract; I am holding up my end. Or so I think.

And, of course, the Red Sox are not helping distract me at the moment. Kansas City just hit back to back home runs and Terry Francona  is not listening to me yell, “Pull him, Tito!” with respect to the pitcher. Of course, the man is 3,000 miles away, but I am nothing if not loud (or so I’ve been told. Many times. Like it’s a bad thing). (NB. Pitching change. Maybe he heard me).

This will pass. I know it. Do I have to adjust my expectations? Maybe. Probably. What bothers me about the new schedule is that Torquemada told me (and she is a personal trainer, so I listen) that in order to hit my goal, I would have to weight train 3 times a week, yoga and Pilates 3 times a week and at least an hour of cardio 6 days a week. I am absolutely willing to put in that kind of effort. Unfortunately, I can’t do that and get my work done before midnight every night. I will have to sign up for more training and see what she says.

Oh, I still want to hit that 125 lbs. goal, not so much for the number, but for the “I set a goal, I kept my eyes on the prize and I made it” feeling. That’s genuine accomplishment. And then the weight loss project becomes the weight maintenance project. The goal is not the end of the road so much as it is the road map. It’s a landmark, I guess. I’m losing you. Okay: let’s put this in terms of travel, since I brought up journey and landmark language. We’ll call the goal the Empire State Building (and I have been to the top of that, for the record. Macy’s was doing their annual mass tap dancing gathering; they try to break the record every year and it was a blast to see it from that perspective). Okay, so here’s the question and this gets us thinking about what our real priorities are: We know that the Empire State Building is in New York City, so we know where we’re going. But, are we going to just  visit the building and then immediately leave New York because we got what we came to do? Or are we more interested in incorporating that into more time spent in New York? I see a parallel in the weight loss journey (and since I’m committing this to the permanent record, I am soooooo sick of the use of “journey” for every process we undertake as human beings including living. In the future, please limit it to actual travel or the band that sings “Don’t Stop Believing.”)Yeah, I’d like to get to New York and go up in the Empire State Building (the last time I was there, the view south was dominated by a pair of Twin Towers down in the Battery), but I’d like to stay in that area for as long as I feasibly can. The ESB got me there, but the locale keeps me there.

So, 125 lbs. makes a focus point for me; something to aim at. Okay, it sits in the middle of some attractive territory for me: smaller dress sizes, more defined, stronger body, an actual body image that conforms to the picture I have in my mind of what I want to be. I’m not going to hit the number , put on a party hat, take a picture of the scale (although I just might. No confetti, though. I weigh myself naked and you never know where that stuff will lodge) and then close up shop and go back to what I was doing (or not doing) food and exercise wise back in January. This is the decision making I was doing when I came to the end of the HCG protocol (which I’ve decided I WILL do again. You will have a front row seat); I knew if I wanted to maintain my progress and build on it some more, I was going to have to change the way I did things. Gluten is out, exercise and enough water to float a yacht is in. I eat enough chicken that I should be clucking. Beef is a once a month treat.  Sugar and starch are now on the blacklist (I can live without noodles and bread and rice, but this boots potatoes, too. Rats). Chard is in (Good stuff, too. I would have refused it as a kid, but I guess your taste buds change as you age and the bitter or astringent things you didn’t like when younger get more tolerable as you get older. It’s got a great, earthy taste, sautés quickly to tenderness and loves a good dash of garlic and apple cider vinegar) . Bourbon, formerly enjoyed with a good ribeye, is now on the shelf. This is all on the road to 125 or the Empire State Building. This (stupid, effing, lousy, rotten, ding-blasted) spike and plateau that I’m experiencing is the equivalent of a traffic jam (Carmageddon, maybe. Or one of those classic million member herd of buffalo crossing the road ahead of my car) or snowstorm forcing me off the road (I hate winter). Now, I could choose to turn around and go home because of the delay. I am not going to do that. I will not get to see the Empire State Building (unless I’m watching “Sleepless in Seattle”) if I turn around. I will not get to experience the other delights of New York (they exist, they’re just not in the Bronx wearing pinstripes) if I turn around. I ain’t turning around.

I will not be denied.

Buk Buk Buk

 178.4 lbs. Yeah, yeah, yeah, dynamite, blah, blah, blah, hate plateaus, yada, yada, yada, did a monster burn today, etc., etc., etc. You know the drill. I’m thinking

Still having an inexplicable craving for coconut. And horseradish. Just not together; I mean we’re not talking about an Almond Joy coated in wasabi. I’m wondering what the nutrients are in each substance that are creating these cravings.

Today being a holiday (paid for me. Yea!), I was able to hit the gym fairly early and put in one of my Monster Burns (1600 calories or more). Today was an hour and a quarter of weight machines (Dear Trapezius Muscles: the more you pull this “we’re going to lock up and make you miserable” shit just for me sitting at a desk and working, the more machines designed to work you I’m going to hit. EVERY TIME. I figure you do it because you need to be stronger and what better way to improve your strength? You might want to rethink your position), an hour on the elliptical and an hour on the treadmill (the Rotating Staircases of Death were all claimed). Just give me a “Law and Order” marathon and I’m good to go. Yesterday, while I was on the Rotating Staircase of Death prior to Pilates class, VH 1 was showing “The Blues Brothers.” You give me Jake and Elwood to distract me and the time positively flies. Naturally, during the concert at the Palace Hotel Ballroom, my feet were trying to move along with Jake and Elwood. Yeah, not such a good idea or easy task. I’ve done the legwork. There was a delightful lady on the next RSoD who was working just as hard as I was. We fist-bumped over our hard work and she told me she was putting in an hour (you go, Girl) in preparation for eating ribs later. Mmmm, ribs…

Nope. Must...resist… keep eyes on the prize, even if it means eating chicken so often, I’m ready to cluck. By the way, the George Foreman grill is a healthy eater’s best friend. AND, if you have a Cost Plus World Market nearby, you’re in luck: they have a selection of hard to find spices at great prices (forgive me). I just grilled a chicken breast that I’d treated with granulated garlic, smoked paprika (I’d use it sparingly. The flavor can overwhelm the other ones you use, but it’s wonderful), salt (sea salt for lower sodium content) and black pepper. If you’re avoiding sugar, beware of flavored salts. I was disappointed to find that the garlic salt, bacon salt and other flavored salts I looked at contained sugar. Very tough stuff to avoid.

I got several “gifts” on Saturday at a Fourth of July party (yeah, two days early). A couple of people, remarking on my weight loss, said to me, “You know, I never thought you were fat.” Casting directors did and one sketch comedy show director who was trying to discourage me from losing weight because “Roseanne lost her power when she lost weight.” (I respectfully disagree. Roseanne lost her power when she married Tom Arnold and began aligning herself with every non-violent mental disorder that came down the pike). I chose keeping all of my toes and avoiding Lipitor addiction (by the way, an announcement came out last week stating that Lipitor created a “slightly increased” risk of Type II diabetes in users. I was right). It doesn’t matter anymore because now, by Hollywood’s standards, I am a beached whale that’s been dead for years. Even John Goodman and Drew Carey have reduced significantly for health reasons. I don’t see anyone telling them “You’ll lose your power.” America: Land of the Free, Home of the Double Standard. What so proudly I hail.

Be that as it may, I’m much happier with what I see in the mirror than I was at this time last year. And that’s what matters. Except for yesterday’s nap attack (I took that from an old, old, old Garfield. So old, my mother applied the term to our dog, Max and he died in 1984), I’ve had more energy lately than I have in years. And my legs look fabulous. Just ask my yoga classmates.

I figure I’ve reached a tipping point where the weight will not come off as easily because I’ve burned the easily accessible stuff already (Again, no medical degree) and from here on out, I won’t see the rapid progress I have up to now (unless I do a second round of HCG and that is not off the table). Here’s where the mental/emotional challenge comes in. If I’m not seeing the forward progress that I’ve been getting, how do I keep myself motivated to keep going? And exactly what do I have to change up in order to bring about progress? Adjust the diet? Add more exercise (time wise, not really feasible with the new job)? We’ll see. I’m looking forward to figuring this out.

In the meantime, neither rain nor snow nor fucktards at the gym will stay this sojourner from her appointed task.

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.

Once More Unto the Priest

179.8 lbs. GAH!!!!!

Dear Axe Body Spray: I think it is shameful how you lie to young, desperate, zitty men about your product, particularly since your product causes my nostrils to sting and eyes to water worse than Ron Burgundy’s “Sex Panther” cologne* (*Yes, I know it was really Paul Rudd’s character. Spare me the correction emails). Angels do not fall from the sky, young women do not pull off their bikini tops for horny nerds unless considerable amounts of Red Bull and vodka are involved. I should report your ass to the FTC for false advertising.

“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.”

“Oh, for the love of God: don’t you understand what a RESTRAINING ORDER means?”

“Since this is supposed to be anonymous, how can you possibly prove I am that person for whom you got a restraining order. You’re not even supposed to know my name. What are you, a Peeker Cheater?”

“Oh, Jesus Christ.”

“Don’t bring your boss into this.”

“So your Red Sox lost to the PIRATES??? HA!”

“And the soon-to-be former owner bent your Dodgers over a chair like the Monsignor and…”

“HEY! Don’t go there!”

“You started it.”

“So, what’s the big sin today? Evil thoughts about people who stick gum on the elliptical? Pride over your accomplishment? By the way, I notice your progress.”

“I thought you weren’t supposed to be able to see me through the screen.”

“You didn’t sa “OOF!” as you got into the confessional. I figured it wasn’t such a tight squeeze anymore.”

“It’s not, Father, and thank you. But I am angry.”

“What, another plateau?”

“Yes, how did you know?”

“I read your blog. And yes, I click on the ads, hoping the income will make you go away. And yet, here you are. AH CHOOO!”

“ Bless you, Father.”

“That’s my line. So tell me about the anger.”

“So, I’ve been VERY careful about what I put in my mouth, I have done at least one Monster Burn this week and I’ve been stuck at the same god damned…”

“HEY!”

“Sorry, Father. The same LOUSY weight for days. You know, I’ve got that My Net Diary and it ASSURES me that between what’s gone in the mouth and what’s been sweated off the butt should result in a loss of x number of ounces per day. However, the numbers don’t change.”

“Are you cheating?”

“On whom? I’m single.”

“(Annoyed sigh). You know what I mean.”

“Well, I am today, Father.”

“Oooh, let me guess, you did less than 5 hours at the gym and ate 3 bean sprouts instead of 2. You naughty girl. There’s a special place in hell for you.”

“Hey, leave the sarcasm to the professionals, Father.”

“You know there are people who are 1) actually Catholic, 2) truly wish to unburden their souls and 3) actually want absolution and will do penance. You are preventing me from ministering to my flock.”

“Your flock is at the beach. It’s just you and me. So about the cheating…”

“Go ahead, but be advised, I’m gonna lay such a penance on you…”

“Whatever. I started a new job this week and that makes it necessary to shuffle my schedule, not to mention there’s a huge amount of stress because I want to do this RIGHT. Employment is good. Unemployment, not so much, especially when the benefits run out. I was doubly anxious because I was frustrated with myself for not being better at the job and because I wasn’t on my usual gym schedule. I just hit the emotional wall yesterday and…”

“Let me guess, TWO chocolate almond horns?”

“You got it.”

“I can understand that. Those things are really, really, really good. What else?”

“Wine, Father.”

“Oh, please.”

“No, Torquemada said ‘Once a month’ and I had a glass on my birthday. She said it slows down the metabolism and since I’m working towards a goal, yada yada yada, eyes on the prize…”

“How much?”

“One coffee mug. I don’t have wine glasses.”

“Anything good?”

“Mosby Vinyards Sangiovese.”

“Ah,that’s good stuff. Did you at least have it with a filet mignon?”

“No, Father, veggie burgers. And they SUCK.”

“You’re killing me. That’s a crime against humanity.”

“You’re telling me.”

“So, for the first time since you started this odyssey, you indulged in a little rebellion. Big friggin’ whoop. Come back when you’ve committed something interesting, like lust.”

“I lust in my heart.”

“Unless you’re Jimmy Carter, it doesn’t count. And frankly, if you got laid once a while…”

“Father!”

“You wouldn’t bother me so much. What else?”

“The cheating continued in to today. I had more wine.”

“Did you record it?”

“Well, if your weight goes up tomorrow, it’s your own damn fault.”

“It would be something different on the scale.”

“Yeah, but as bad as you are on a plateau, I don’t want to be within 10 miles of you when you spike. Are you sure you’re not on the rag?”

“NO!”

“Jeez! Relax, Francis! Just asking.”

“’Relax, Francis?’ Have you been watching ‘Stripes’ on your IPod?”

“Yeah. Love that movie.”

“So, what’s my penance?”

“If I let the punishment fit the crime, I’d be busting into your sanctum sanctorum on a regular basis and driving you nuts. And you know, since you’re not actually Catholic, I could probably step outside the 10 Hail Marys and Stations of the Cross boundaries and give you something really creative, like a 20 mile hike. HOWEVER, you and I both know that there is a Bible passage to address your plateau concerns.”

“Which one?”

“This, too, shall pass. Just chill, keep on keeping on and tell me a six letter synonym for ‘hemorrhoid’.”

“P-R-I-E-S-T.”

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.

No, Mr. Belly, I Expect You to Collapse (Read. You'll Get It)

179.8 lbs. About GD time. Mind over matter.

I have this movie scene playing out in my mind, something out of James Bond (probably because USA Network has been playing James Bond movies every day. Yesterday was “Goldfinger,” THE James Bond movie, I don’t care how dated. But, as usual, I digress). My body (especially the Great White Belly) is the villain in this piece and looks like Gert Frobe (Goldfinger. He was not an attractive man in my opinion) and my brain is Bond tied down to the table with the laser beam headed for his favorite parts (Sigh. Sean Connery. I had a thing for Timothy Dalton for years, but Connery is The Man. Even if Daniel Craig in a bathing suit makes me go stupid. By the way, that takes a lot). There’s that immortal exchange, “Do you expect me to talk, Goldfinger?”

“No, Mr. Bond, I expect you to die.”

Without the zingy John Barry score, my brain managed to escape from the death trap and force the body into giving back 1.4 lbs. of the 2.4 it was hoarding. I didn’t have James Bond’s nifty swell gadgets, either. Nope. Because the scale read 181.2 on Friday, I push it into a Monster Burn: one and a quarter hours on weight training, 45 minutes on the Rotating Staircase of Death and an hour on the elliptical, pushing it. This was good for 1962 calories and I was on the first weight machine at 5:15 AM.

And yet, despite all that work, the scale did not move yesterday. Ask me if I was angry (pissed off is just high level annoyance. I prefer to be annoyed in those cases). Go on.

Yeah. Oh, yeah. So, given the body’s intransigence, I socked it with a cardio session at 8:30 PM. Rotating Staircase of Death, Baby.

Goldfinger sucked out of the plane. However, not being gay, I will not sleep with Pussy Galore.

Today was Pilates day and (brace yourselves), not only did I complete a Pilates Roll-up, but I DID ALL OF THE ONES REQUIRED IN CLASS. LEVEL 2!!! AND LEVEL 3!!!! Huzzah! AND I was able to perform most of the other exercises at the intermediate level!

There was one low point (my fault): we were doing a squat series of exercises and my back and my butt were both complaining loudly to me. The instructor (the usual sweet, kind lady, not the JMPD from last week) told us to “push our tushies” down a bit more. I said, “My tushy hates you right now.” Fortunately, she forgave me, but this is not the first time the ass had an exercise opinion.

I used to live in Concord, New Hampshire and had started walking daily with one of my friends. We’ll call her Sally (she looks like she could be named Sally). Concord (pronounced “CONkerd.” Martin Sheen never quite got it right on “West Wing” and he was supposed to be FROM there) is hilly. We got to the worst on the walk (I cannot remember the street name, but it ran up by the hospital) and she was way ahead of me. She was ahead of me because I had to stop, bend over and not barf while puffing and panting. Sally turned to call back and see if I was okay. I told her, “My ass hates you and so do I.” Fortunately, she did not take offense and we are still friends. Of course, we haven’t really seen each other in a few years.

With success (sustained success, even) at the Pilates Roll-up, this only leaves sustained jogging and the Push-up as the remaining activities to be conquered. I discovered during class today that my right side (from the hip down) is not as strong as my left side and I’m pretty sure it’s because of the knee (and I do admit to babying it). That may present an obstacle to running/jogging, we’ll see.

I was talking to another friend last night, Annie, who just had surgery to repair the meniscus in her left knee. She had expected to get off the operating table and a day later, be able to get into her high heels and life would go on as before. It’s been quite a rude shock to her that she must now undergo physical therapy and it’s challenging. I was telling her about Pilates and my challenges and now, the gauntlet has been thrown down: I am now to work on mastering the “Man” push-up while she sticks with her PT and doesn’t expect to jump up and run. And believe me, there will be monitoring.

Ay yi yi.

Memo from Brain to Body

181.2 lbs. Again. Yeah.

Dear Body,

You were given fair warning yesterday as to what would happen if you declined to shed even part of the 2.2 lbs. spike in which you saw fit to indulge. I told you in person and I put it in writing through this medium.  You cannot claim to have been blindsided.

You have been getting fed very carefully, both in terms of what and how much. Unless you’re indulging in sleep eating (which I, the Brain, doubt as we are neither on Ambien nor named Jethro Beaudean), there is no good acceptable explanation for this behavior. Suspected problem foods have been eliminated, yet you persist in defying me.

Body, you know how important success is in this project. In fact, you are recipient of the benefit; I, the brain am merely guiding the actions. We did what you wanted for 20 years and look where it got us: 224 lbs., weak, on the verge of serious chronic health issues and completely miserable and alone. You put me, the brain, in charge and we’re actually achieving something.

You’ve been happy with the changes. Frankly, I’m delighted to look better in our clothes, everything is tickety boo and we’re on track, but…

You decide to act up. You decide that, despite agreeing to do things my way which, according to My Net Diary, should have us losing nearly a pound a day, you’re going to retain a lot of material and throw the program into reverse.

I’ve got news: I will not be deterred, merely delayed.

The 4:30 wake up call? That’s on you, Pal.

Hour and a quarter of weight training? To the point where your muscles were trembling and screaming from lactic acid burn? All you.

45 minutes on the Rotating Staircase of Death? After the weight training? Wouldn’t have happened if you’d seen fit to give back even part of the gain. Did you enjoy the swampy socks? The river of sweat down the back of your neck? You thought the muscles were screaming during weight training, they were singing an octave higher by the time we got to the 30 minute mark. You were BEGGING to stop. Should have thought of that yesterday. You knew today was weights and cardio, yet you chose to ignore the warning.

Just to make sure you got the message, we hit the elliptical for an hour. More sweat, more damp clothes, more groans and protests from the muscles. And yeah: when it’s “Should I Stay or Should I Go?” or “Humans Being”, the command is “push it.” You know the drill: if the tempo is driving, we’re going to hit it harder. Same goes for “Nutrocker” and “Tessie.” We must show proper respect for the national anthems of the Bruins and Red Sox. Funny how most of the shuffle songs today were in the “push it” command playlist.

And now you feel exhausted from the hips down. Oh, by the way: nice try on trying to get the rhomboids and trapezius muscles to knot up and go on strike. If you noticed, they got some extra attention today. You’re welcome.

So, Body, since you chose not to part with your water or fat hoard (we are not part of a camel, even though that came up in yoga yesterday. As did the Beatles from Abbey Road), there were consequences. And those consequences entailed 1962 calories burned, according to My Net Diary.

By the way, Body, if today’s little adventure does not cause you to give up, there’s always tomorrow. I’m thinking 2 or 3 hours of cardio.

Fair warning.

Pauses That Refresh

188 lbs.  Un fucking believable. If I was a cat, my tail would be swishing a mile a minute right now.

Making my way to an open Rotating Staircase of Death, I came across a woman in a harness attempting to run across the length of the gym while tied to another woman who was leaning back and dragging her feet (clearly, she did not want to follow her friend).  My first thought was that it was lucky that both women were about the same size or else it would have been Snoopy running like hell with Linus’s blanket in his mouth and Linus flying like a kite at the other end of the blanket.

I will paraphrase my Facebook update ((yes, I am that narcissistic and obsessed over this. Deal with it): Just because the extra 3 lbs. followed the body home from the gym (or wherever. It sure as hell wasn’t all you can eat buffet), my body cannot keep it. Either it goes overnight (for which there is precedent) or I will deploy the nuclear option and go grilled chicken, brown rice and broccoli, all of which have been purchased . Consider this Def Con 3. Def Con 4 involves a liquid diet.

As I did on Monday, I channeled my anger and frustration into my weight training today (even at 5:15 AM, the Grunt Brothers were all over the Juice Bar, which is the weight and cable set up that resembles monkey bars. Given the bulk, acne and generally obnoxious behavior observed, there was a reasonable suspicion of steroids , therefore  Juice Bar). I was able to increase weights on everything, including the Prone Leg Curl. (And I’ve figured out why it’s more difficult than Seated. With Prone, you’re lifting the weight up, so you’re battling gravity unlike Seated. All I know is, it’s a bitch. I’ve increased the amount on the stack, but it’s still a bitch).

Even though I’ve gone up on weights (and yeah, ha ha, weight under the belt, too), my legs are no longer trembling by the time I get to the end of my circuit (I go through legs, then upper body, then abdominals). Perhaps that’s an indicator that I’ve outgrown the machines.  Maybe I should throw a Paypal gadget on this blog to pay for more training sessions with Torquemada.  And a new wardrobe. And broccoli.  

Sox are leading the Forces of Darkness and the Bruins just took a 3 nothing lead on the Vancouver Cheap Shot Artists. (Bite me, Burrows)  It may end up as a good night to be a Boston fan. (It did indeed turn into a good night for Boston fans).

As mentioned, I got up at dark thirty this morning. While I’d prefer to be asleep for at least two more hours, I admit I love the stillness of the wee small hours. In a very crowded city, it’s a way to find some elbow room, even if it’s only for an hour.

I first moved to this area in 2002 and fell in love with the Topanga Canyon area. There is Topanga Canyon State Park with trails that will lead from Topanga Canyon over the Santa Monica Mountains to Sunset Boulevard, an 8 mile hike. (It’s not the Eagle Rock Loop Trail) Not having a ride waiting at the other end and being mindful of snakes, I set out early one Sunday morning on this trail to go as far as I could and still return (about halfway).  

It was early and misty. I was the only person on the trail and I enjoyed the soundtrack provided by nature including quiet. I detest winter, but I love the silence that comes with a snowfall. Sometimes, you need just that to reboot your soul. If you’re performing an activity in the middle of it where you can maintain a rhythm, there’s a meditative quality to it. I was walking at a steady rate so I had that going. A hawk soared past my head at one point and I could hear the air moving through its feathers. Since I was wearing a red sweatshirt, a hummingbird buzzed me.

The trail I was on hugged some steep cliffs and I couldn’t see around the corners. As I approached one especially sharp curve, I heard running coming from the other side. I moved to the side of the trail closest to the hill (I’m not a big fan of drop-offs, so I stayed away from the edge) and prepared to smile and wave at the runners coming around the corner.

Except that they weren’t runners.

As I came around the corner, I found myself face to face with three deer. I froze. They studied me for a couple of minutes, then scrambled up the embankment. Five minutes later, a group of bicyclists rode by and as I returned to my car, groups of chattering hikers started to hit the trail. The spell was completely broken, but I had witnessed something that they wouldn’t. You need to be silent for those moments.

For the moments when you’re pushing 248 lbs. on the leg press, you need AC/DC.

Amazingly Enough, My Scale is Still In One Piece

187.2 lbs. God, it is rumored that You have created Man in Your own image. Is this Your way of telling me You have a fat ass? Or are You jealous of me getting into those 501 jeans? Huh?

As a “fuck you” gesture to the 2.2 lbs. of water weight stowing away on my body, I just ate a Chocolate Almond Horn. This still has me with a 1602 calorie loss for the day, so no apologies.

Patience may be a virtue, but it’s not one of mine. Insert annoyed sigh. Torquemada just shrugged and said, "That's the name of the game." Oh, really? You mean, if I do this the way everyone says I should, it's reasonable for it NOT to work? Is that what you're saying? Fuck that noise.

Yoganesia (yo-GUH-neezha): (noun) The syndrome in which the yoga instructor completes a series of poses for one side of the body and completely forgets the other side of the body.

Despite yesterday’s post about being angry at the 2.2 lbs. (which I still am because the little fuckers haven’t left), I am not hormonal. It is not “that time of the month,” nor am I 1)with child, 2) freshly dumped or 3) recently insulted by a cheerleader. Sometimes, a chocolate almond horn is just a chocolate almond horn.

The only thing mitigating my anger at the moment is the Red Sox are winning. Against the Yankees (aka The Forces of Darkness).  However, as the great Yogi Berra (the only NY Yankee I ever liked. We are not discussing members of the local Tee Ball team here) said, “It ain’t over til it’s over.”

1400 calorie burn yesterday was not enough to budge things downward. Fine. Plan B is another big burn tomorrow (I would have done an hour of elliptical today, but I took too long to get to the gym before yoga class) BUT tomorrow’s food is going to be mostly protein. We’ll see if replacing more meals with the protein shake makes a difference.

It would be nice to wake up to a lower number on the scale tomorrow. Yes, I feel entitled. I’ve put the work in on it. And while we’re at it, a winning Mega Millions ticket and George Clooney’s phone number would also be nice. As Yul Brynner said (seemingly every 10 minutes in “The Ten Commandments”), “So let it be written, so let it be done.”

In a shocking development today, just before the start of yoga, I was describing Pilates class to a well-built young gentleman (yoga regular and damned good at it, too) and especially the dreaded Pilates roll up which, as of Sunday, was still beyond my abilities, I don’t care how you modify the fucking thing. He didn’t know what I was talking about so I demonstrated it for him…

And completed the Pilates roll up. How the hell did that happen? I tried it couple of more times and did it pretty easily. I began to hear the “Twilight Zone” theme.

I held a Tree Pose for more than a nanosecond today. On each side. It was an out of body experience because CLEARLY this was not my body doing these things. You know, when the aliens abduct you and do their experiments, you never remember it. Somebody swapped my body with that of a much fitter person. Who is probably pissed off. My body is probably running from Marvin the Martian right now, holding the Illudium Q 37 Exploding Space Modulator  (Bugs Bunny stole the Q 36 version. Steven Jobs is hinting that the IQ 38 may be introduced in time for Black Monday Christmas shopping. Or it may be delayed, something to do with an unstable supply of instant Martians).

Have I reached critical mass, though? Has the Great White Belly shrunk enough to permit (duhn duhn duhn) PAINTING MY OWN TOENAILS????? Between the yoga and the shrinking belly, could be. God knows, I think I’ve learned the Vietnamese for “Okay, I think I have the winner in today’s biggest feet pool!” (Size 9.5 or 10, depending on the shoe) and “Have you ever seen such weird toes?” (I have Roman toes, meaning the second toe is longer than the big toe. Marilyn Monroe had Roman toes. We also share June 1 as our birthday) or “I bet she can pick up a dime with these toes!” (No, I can’t. But I did win a contest with my younger sister one time by picking up car keys, an emery board, a quarter and a nickel. It was her idea)

I had that day last month where I dropped 5 lbs. overnight. That was a great day. I’d like to have another one. Every day or week is too much, but I don’t see a problem with once a month. Well, how about that; it’s a new month!  What are the odds?

Despite the most recent setback, I’m feeling good enough that I would hit on Hugh Jackman. I have a short list of men from whose wives I would fully accept an ass-kicking in exchange for knowing their men in the Biblical sense. Mrs. Jackman is Number One on the list, mostly because there is no Mrs. George Clooney. I would accept a gang beatdown by the wives and girlfriends of the men from “300” (chick flick) provided the men were whipped back into cape and loincloth shape.

But I digress. Pardon me while I wipe some drool from the corner of my mouth.

This gain plus plateau is getting busted, one way or another, and getting busted to my liking. I am getting my ass into those jeans, dammit.

Going, Going, Gone

185 lbs. Plateau broken! Woo and Hoo! You can’t see it, but I’m dancing like Snoopy. Elation may help you lose weight.

.4 lbs. stand between being down 40 lbs. and me. Those four tenths of a pound should watch their ass; it’s in my sights.

Douchebags in the steam room (what else is new): Right under the sign that says, “Don’t pour water on the thermostat,” he was pouring water on the thermostat. Doesn’t give a shit if it’s shut down for days because of his actions. The other douchebags left their towels lying behind. I called out to one “Hey, you forgot your towel” and got “That’s okay.” I don’t understand how grown adults, not in their own homes, feel no sense of responsibility for cleaning up after themselves. I can understand and forgive a forgotten water bottle or towel, but sticking your gum to the underside of a piece of workout gear (not yours) is unsanitary and childish. Leaving weights in a heap away from the racks is inexcusable.

I get a chuckle out of the competition for parking spaces in front of the doors. This includes seemingly healthy and sound bodies (body builders, even) emerging from cars with handicapped parking hang tags. Just can’t take those extra steps ore else it’s too much exercise.

I ran out of the Air Detox that I had been using on my sneakers. I had shifted to the Whole Foods answer to Febreze. The problem is that the more natural stuff is vetiver scented (look it up). Effective, yes, but my feet smelled like incense, which doesn’t quite jive with a gung ho effort to move and be active. I’m going with the real deal. This may not be earth shattering, but stinky sneakers are no joke. I could have won the annual Rotten Sneaker contest put on by Odor Eaters.

I’m still jazzed from yesterday’s encounter with the smaller jeans and with the plateau break this morning, I’m, well, I’m dancing like Snoopy (The Christmas special). Normally, when I embark on a big project or journey (like moving across country), I know I’m on the right track if I ask myself “What the hell am I doing?” I’ll make an exception for the weight loss project and the blog. For once, I’m finding the validation within myself. I can look in the mirror and see that I’m doing a good job. I’m hesitant to say I’m proud of myself or I love myself, although that’s essentially self-esteem. There’s a fine line between having a healthy self-image or self-confidence and being a narcissist or egomaniac. The former is essential to taking proper care of oneself and functioning effectively in the world. The latter is usually a cover for low self-esteem. There’s also a fine line between being excited over an accomplishment and sharing that excitement and talking about yourself exclusively.

An interesting development from Pilates class today. If you’re squeamish, this is your exit. Now, in Yoga class, there is a move to stretch the spine: you’re on your back, you spread your arms out . Now bend one knee and lower it across your other leg ( It’s still stretched out and keep your shoulders on the mat) so that you’re twisted in the midriff. When I used to do this move with Denise Austin, my cats would jump off the couch to roll and stretch on the floor with me. Lila the yoga instructor tells us that this move massages the internal organs.

Apparently, the Pilates 100 move will do the same thing. Okay, a Pilates 100 is where you’re on your back, legs in the air (knees bent in Level 1, legs straight up in the air in Level 2 and legs held at an angle in Level 3) and while you’re lying in this pose, you beat (gently) your arms up and down at your sides, inhaling on a five count and exhaling on a five count. You do this twenty times, hence the name of the exercise. Oh yes, and your “core must be engaged” meaning you’re sucking in your gut. Abdominal muscles that have been on an extended vacation hate Pilates. I have proof.

Today, while performing Pilates 100 (and the other two exercises that accompany it), in addition to “feeling the burn,” I also felt my stomach growling and gurgling like I hadn’t eaten in three days and just got a whiff of good barbecue. I was getting nauseated (Not nauseous. If you’re nauseous, you make other people sick. Look it up) and it cut into the effectiveness of my workout. (Here’s the gross part) When I got home, I couldn’t get to the bathroom fast enough and I think anything that had been hanging out in my colon for the past 5 years made like Elvis and left the building. Right now, I feel as cleaned out as Filene’s Basement after a bridal gown sale.

I still can’t execute a damned Pilates roll-up, though.

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.