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.

Sound of Sizzling

187.2 lbs. Oh, Jesus P. God! Why, God, why???? 

I worked out hard yesterday, resisted temptation, drank water and Boom! Spike. Mother fucking son of a bitch!

.4 lbs., lousy four tenths, two fifths, not even a mother fucking half of a pound and BLAMMO! All of sudden, my downward progress is using the 2011 Red Sox as a role model. “What? We’re on a win streak! Aaaargh!! Panic!” And then they’ll get embarrassed by Cleveland or the Sisters of the Blessed Shroud Junior Varsity softball team.

Too much joy over the jeans? Too much excitement over being so close to 40 down, it seemed like a done deal? Who the fuck knows?

Incredible Hulk, my ass! HE’S afraid of me when I’m angry. And that includes Lou Ferrigno, Eric Bana AND Ed Norton! And their little CGI alters as well. That goes double for Norton.

So how did I handle this setback? Obviously, not with Christian grace and equanimity. Put it to you this way: by 5:30 AM, my ass was on the lower back press moving 250 lbs. In fact, I moved up in weight on all of the machines.

It’s a good thing that it was too early for Douchebag Nation.

But wait, there’s more.

Torquemada wants me to drip sweat, cardio blast and hit an hour of cardio, she got it. Well, one out of three is .333, which is a very nice batting average. (Please note, four strikeouts by one batter in a baseball game is known as a Golden Sombrero).

I hit the Rotating Staircase of Death for 45 minutes.  And that included time spent listening to Sarah Palin try to spin her ignorance of American History (I’m thinking she was only half paying attention on the Old North Church tour), listening to a financial reporter (alleged expert) discuss foreclosures, underwater mortgages and totally blow the term “Deed In Lieu” (He called it “Deed in Lease.” Idiot, but since Sarah Palin opened for him, the moronic tendencies were less heinous).  So, we’re talking physical and mental stress. Didn’t do much to lessen the anger, but by God, it kept me pushing.

Nixon didn’t sweat this much debating Kennedy.

1404 calorie burn. Suck on it, 187.2.

We’ll see what happens tomorrow (sound of fist being pounded into palm of hand).

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.

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.

Still Pushing

186.6 lbs. Even after that phenomenal dinner at Morton’s (choice, so choice)

I hadn’t thought about the gluten in graham cracker crust on a Key Lime Pie when ordering last night. I woke up this morning with a big honking zit and my nose running like a Kenyan marathoner. Next time: chocolate mousse.

T Shirt of the Day: “When it absolutely, positively has to be destroyed overnight. U.S Marines” Semper Fi and the guy wearing it was pretty nice, too.

OAKLAND is handing Clay Buchholz’s head to him as I type this. It’s  the first inning and they’ve scored 4 runs already. This is why Red Sox fans drink.

I found a way to satisfy a taco salad craving without going off the rails: Jennie O taco seasoned ground turkey (cooked up on a Foreman grill. I stick to about 100 to 150 grams of turkey meat, pre-cooking weight), lettuce mix (romaine or a blend of the dark green stuff, like Spring Mix or romaine and radicchio), onions (optional, but I like ‘em and yellow ones have the same stuff as red wine for cholesterol taming), oregano (a lot just dumped on the salad), granulated garlic (see oregano), 2 tablespoons of  Trader Joe’s fresh salsa or pico de gallo (considerably lower in sodium than the bottled stuff and easy to make, too) and 2 tablespoons of Trader Joe’s Avocado Salsa Verde (has a mild burn). A lot of flavor, most of the calories are in the turkey, so you can vary them by varying that and I don’t miss the cheese or sour cream. The pico and salsa verde serve as salad dressing (I make my salads by putting the ingredients in a reusable tub and shaking it).

I attempted an hour on the Rotating Staircase of Death today. I made it to 40 minutes, somewhat slower clip than usual, but I had climbed the equivalent of 95 flights of stairs (previous record was 78 floors). Give me a couple of months and I’ll get to that hour. Now if I could only pull off that stupid Pilates roll up.

Torquemada wanted me to be “dripping sweat” during my workouts. Today, I obliged, even though she wasn’t there to see it.  It was positively disgusting and I’m proud. The Rotating Staircase of Death practically has a puddle underneath it (I clean up after myself. I’m civilized). My socks are hanging up in the bathroom in hopes they’ll dry out/air out somewhat.

Okay, the Red Sox took back two runs in the bottom of the first inning and just tied up the game in the bottom of the third. Do we get 2009 (bad) Clay Buchholz or 2010 (good. REALLY GOOD) Clay Buchholz? This is why Red Sox fans drink.

In addition to Rotating Staircase of Death (for once, there was an opening and I grabbed the opportunity), it was Weight Training Day (No Denzel Washingtons were harmed during the execution of this exercise). Just for the hell of it, I pegged the leg press to 210 lbs. and…

I could move it. In fact, I was able to complete 3 sets. Surprised the hell out of me. I had a similar increase on the lower back machine and the abdominal and oblique exercises. My legs have never really been an issue for me, either in terms of strength or aesthetics. It’s gratifying to me to feel stronger in my upper body (I’ll get to that pushup  completion soon).

 Until recently, I detested seeing pictures of myself, preferring to be on the other side of the lens. I’m still not thrilled, but I see the changes happening.  I look at myself, I don’t see beauty. Looking in the mirror, I’ll see square hair, excessive eyeshadow and big honking zits, sometimes. The really bad days were the ones where I looked like Linda Tripp. I hold onto the memory when I’m tempted to let my hair grow longer.

Random thought: I want a boxed set of all  of ”The Simpsons”  Sideshow Bob episodes. Make it so.

I sit here, somewhat achy (which will be gone  in the morning), definitely tired and even though I’m stuck an another plateau, I’m pretty damned happy. And that will help break the plateau. Certainly, it’s safer than the Tasmanian Devil diet: dynamite.

Chow Down

186.6 lbs. Given the birthday dinner (filet mignon, tomato with onion and bleu cheese, Brussels sprouts and key lime pie) an upward spike tomorrow is distinctly possible, but BOY, was that dinner worth it! Hoo, Doggies!

Why is it that as I’m putting it on, my nail polish looks great, but when I look again, it looks like I had a 6 year old paint it on? Annoyed sigh. I go through so much nail polish remover, it’s stupid.

Based on the wads (larger than clumps, far, far larger than clumps) of hair I saw in the showers at the gym, I’m surprised I haven’t seen more bald women walking out of the locker room. And they don’t look like weave escapees, either. One of those things is going to walk out and push someone off the treadmill. Scary, Man.

In preparing to head out to dinner tonight, I tried to get into my suit pants. I couldn’t. Not because they were too small, but they were so damned big on me, I didn’t have enough safety pins to hold the bunched fabric in place. Whee! There is such a satisfying thrill to be able to have a pair of pants (or a skirt) fall off your ass that had been too tight only months before. The suit is a size 20. I don’t know how much smaller I am (I’ll find next time I go clothes shopping, I suppose). My good blazer (hey, sometimes, you need professional grade clothing), a size 18, was way too big. This justifies the aching back (upper, mid and lower), the exhausted legs and the hours of frustration in yoga.

Beyond the numbers game I’m playing, there are other, more physical achievement landmarks I’m working towards:

Complete a Pilates roll-up

Complete 5 push-ups and translate that to a Chadaranda push-up into Cobra pose and Upward Dog

Successfully hold Tree Pose, Half Moon Pose, Grab Your Toe and Hold Out Your Leg Then Swing it to the Side Pose

Be able to shift from Downward Dog to properly aligning foot for Warrior or Crescent Pose without my belly or boobs getting in the way (there are three obstacles, the belly, the boobs (okay, maybe four obstacles) and having the flexibility to make the move in the first place

Be able to hold Plank Pose without modification (my shoulders get tired)

Complete an hour on the Rotating Staircase of Death (if one’s available tomorrow, I may give it a shot)

Advance to intermediate then Advanced levels in Pilates (requires much stronger core muscles)

Be able to get into and out of the Fila Tone Up top without it feeling like Houdini’s last, unsuccessful escape (the one that killed him, in case you were wondering)

With leg folded up behind, be able to directly grab my ankle rather than snatch a handful of workout pants and work my way to it

Be able to run for at least 5 minutes on the treadmill

And achieve lasting peace in the Middle East

One of these is improbable at best and I know you can pick out which one: Running is probably going to be one of the last ones to fall. Among other things, my right knee, generally a well-behaved joint not given to throwing tantrums or making a scene, has begun to clear its throat, so to speak, when asked to run for more than a minute and a half. Elliptical? No problem: the right foot isn’t continually hitting a surface and transferring the shock up the leg (so long as the foot stays on the pedal).

I will say, one day last week, I managed to get a few long strides in on the treadmill and for a few seconds, I actually reconnected to the wonderful feeling of running full out that I’d had at 10 years old. I’m not looking to run a marathon (no need to prove nuttin’ to nobody), but it would be nice to maybe contemplate a 10k or 5k. Or to outrun all of my screaming fans and the paparazzi. I could have screaming fans. “The Secret” says I can have, be and do anything I want.

The US Department of Agriculture has revamped its eating guidelines again. Where we started with a cube, then went to a pyramid (the percentages of which kept shifting), we now have My Plate:

Because we’re too dumb to understand the other systems. They need to come up with a separate diagram for models consisting of cigarettes, Red Bull and Tic Tacs with a trash can off to one side for purging.

The USDA has created these guidelines to suggest the proportions in which we should be eating various food groups. On the surface, it appears that a department within the Executive Branch of the US Government is trying to help us be healthier.  They keep an eye on the American food system to make sure We the People get clean, safe food.

The USDA has other purposes, too. Namely, PROMOTING AMERICAN AGRICULTURE. This means getting people to buy American agricultural products. Food. They want us to buy and consume more food.

Here’s a dirty little secret about the food cube/pyramid/plate/Mobius strip: it comes with an agenda. Lobbyists for the various aspects of American agriculture, like the Egg Board, Dairy Council, Archer Daniels Midland and ConAgra have a say in what ends up in the final diagram and how much of THEIR clients’ product is represented. This not terribly helpful in a nation that is, figuratively, sitting back and scratching its privates wondering how the hell it got so fat. Humans haven’t evolved so much in 40 years that our nutritional needs have changed. The tweaks are to sell more food.

Eat a rainbow: tomatoes, sweet potatoes,  Swiss chard (sautéed with garlic and a dash of vinegar), blueberries, citrus, strawberries, green beans, peas, zucchini (you may have my share) and apples, for examples.

Eat reasonable amounts of food: Claim Jumper is great, but you could feed a Ukrainian village for a week on the calories in one entrée salad. Plan to share your meal, doggie bag it or run a marathon after leaving the table.

Choose your calories wisely: this is fuel and cellular repair and cleaning services on the hoof. Soda, Twinkies, Twizzlers and Doritos just can’t do the job. You need vitamins, minerals, fiber, protein, certain fats and sugars to make the machinery run. Lettuce on a Whopper doesn’t count: iceberg lettuce has been so overbred that you get more nutrition from eating a dinner napkin. And contrary to what the Reagan Administration said, ketchup is not a vegetable. (Their agenda? Big cuts in food stamps and school lunch programs.) Think of achieving the appropriate balance within a reasonable caloric intake as a game of Tetris: defined space, you’ve got to make them all fit and you want them to give back some benefit. Empty calories take up space and give back nothing. Actually, that’s not true; they give back heartburn, flab, tooth decay and zits. Lots of zits.

So, I’m not getting excited over this latest piece of “guidance” from Washington. Just remember: this is a consumer-driven economy and someone is always (always) trying to sell you something.

Since I need to start financing a new wardrobe (Yea), I have this bridge in Brooklyn I’d like to sell you…

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.