When Underwear Attacks

174 lbs. Straight up past the 50 lbs. down mark, no  “close enough” BS.

Part of being a middle class citizen in the United States (besides the sensation that we belong on the Highly Endangered species list along with Whooping Cranes) is the widespread use of undergarments. Bras, boxers, briefs, camisoles and the Victoria’s Secret catalogs that display them (and sometimes usher in puberty as in “Where’s my Victoria’s Secret catalog?” “I saw Trevor take it into the bathroom.” “Uh, never mind.”), most of us in the USA wear undergarments. Jockey is not just a small man on a horse.

Men (and you know you do this) are known to hold onto “lucky underwear”, usually of the pants variety and reduced to perhaps some frayed elastic and a couple of shreds of what used to be white cotton knit. Think Zack Galifianakis in “The Hangover.” It is lucky because the Giants won the Super Bowl the first time the owner wore them (For the record, I am a Pats fan. As such, “Manning” is a dirty word, regardless of the first name, especially after this past Sunday. Given the opportunity, I would knock Peyton and Eli’s heads together like the Three Stooges. I did this once before to two of my siblings and it gets easier each time. But I digress). My mother used to prevent this kind of behavior by my father by taking his ratty T shirts and ripping them up as they came into the laundry room. Our dog, Lily, loved getting them with a series of knots tied in them and knew the phrase “Where’s your rag? Get your rag!” Playing Rag meant tug of war (and when there weren’t rags for her, she’d steal socks, small teddy bears and slippers. My Malibu Barbie looked like a shark had gotten her feet). They were also excellent for polishing furniture (when we didn’t use my sister’s cat, Ira. Oh, stop. He loved it. His fur picked up dust better than a Swiffer. In fact, I Boy may have been the inspiration for the Swiffer).

One may become used to wearing undergarments of a specific size and the indications that one is gaining weight are some of the following: the  leg bands start digging trenches into the area where your thigh joins your torso (blood flow gets cut off), the elastic waistband starts cutting in and/or just giving up entirely (yeah, I’ve had the sensation of my undies rolling down in the back under my skirt. Not pleasant). If you wear panty hose (and this is not gender specific. May I say I hate RuPaul. He makes a better-looking woman than I do), the waistband will start rolling its way down from your waist until it forms a ledge around your hips and you feel the contact of your wool skirt against your butt (Okay, that’s gender specific because I don’t know any drag queens who go to all the trouble of tucking just to wear business dress clothing, even if it does get accessorized with pearls. Dowdy is not in their vocabulary). It’s not pleasant; I’ve done the research.

Another sign of weight gain is limited to the skimpier under garments (I don’t like the word “panties.” It’s kind of like baby talk and just sounds demeaning. It’s like a woman’s  female friends being her “girlfriends.” Tell you menfolk what: until you start referring to that circle of knuckleheads you hang out with as your “boyfriends,” you’d better come up with something else. “Friends” comes to mind). When you really have to dig and tug to remove the thong from The Great Divide, it’s time to go up a size. Butt floss, anyone?

I have reported in this space on the indignities of being required to wear a girdle when 13 years old. It’s a comment on our society (and perhaps male vanity) that I’ve been seeing a lot of ads for the “Insta Slim” being marketed to men.  It’s sort of a twenty first century version of the whalebone corset Lee Marvin was sporting in “Cat Ballou.” They never call it a girdle (It supports the back. Right. The late, great Jane Russell used to advertise the Playtex 18 Hour Back Support), but , Guys, you won’t pass out from trying to “suck in that gut.” There’s some sweet justice in there. I’m waiting for some brainiac to create control top jockey shorts.

The worst wardrobe malfunction, however, comes courtesy of brassieres (In the 1990s, Life magazine marked the 100^th anniversary of its invention with a cover story titled “Hurrah for the Bra. “ No, I’m not kidding. Opus, Steve Dallas and Hodgepodge over on “Outland” wrote to Life demanding a companion piece titled “Hooray for Hooters.” Don’t ask me why I remember these things; I have no clue why my brain chooses to latch on to certain completely useless facts, but freezes up in the face of a clean-shaven Alex Trebek.  SEQUEL, dumbass! The final Jeopardy answer was SEQUEL. You’re so friggin’ movie obsessed and you couldn’t come up with that one????? Third place on June 3,2010. Good for $1,000, a reusable shopping bag and all the pens I could steal). Unless one is a “Seinfeld” savant and remembers Kramer v.  Frank Costanza with the “Bro” or “Manssiere”, depending on which one of them you asked, men and bras do not go together. This particular garment has the power to render any straight man to utter uselessness, particularly when they attempt to remove one engaged in its chosen function: keeping the girls up high and tight. You could have a brain surgeon who moonlights as a concert pianist specializing in Rachmaninoff’s Third Piano Concerto (the “Rach Three”), both occupations which require extremely nimble and capable hands. Yet, present him with hooks and eyes attached to a bra band and he becomes about as effective as the 2009 Detroit Lions offense (they went 0-16 that year). Or defense, for that matter (0-16).

When one is “blessed” with large breasts, appropriate support takes the form of an underwire bra. If treated properly (wash gentle cycle, hang out to dry), the bra and wire will last for years. However, all good things must end. With non-wired bras, elastic snaps and things start to sag. A broken down underwire bra, on the other hand, becomes an assassin. If you do not hear/feel the subtle snap from under the left breast (Lucille and Rebecca on the right), that mysterious stabbing pain in your chest is the first indicator of trouble. I experienced this last week, getting stabbed throughout the day. It kept me from falling asleep at work. The bra in question was scheduled for replacement anyway as, due to losing 50 lbs., the cups no longer runneth over. In fact, they were half full (or half empty for you pessimists out there) .

While one mourns the demise of an old friend (Yes, the bras become part of me, especially when they start stabbing), there is always an opportunity: one door closes, another opens, yada, yada, yada. Victoria's Secret (not the Trevor marked catalog), you'd better have some matching sets in leopard print in my size. E Harmony awaits.

I need camouflage yoga pants

We had a substitute in Pilates today for the usual, gentle, sweet, undemanding instructor. Pay attention to the adjectives: they'll be important.

The lady who showed up today had leopard print cat's-eye glasses, curly hair and reminded me of several art teachers I've had going through grade school and high school (the idealists who got over it after a few years of dealing with Vermont kids to whom high art was Leroy Neiman). She announced that the class was going to work each "skeletal group."

She wasn't kidding.

Whereas I thought I was getting a pretty good Sunday working with the usual instructor, I have since changed my mind. Today, we were sweetly (and with a bit of an accent) told a brief history of Pilates (developed after WWI to help injured soldiers rehab) and that the Marines were now using it to condition the grunts. Red flag.

I have never before had the shit kicked out of me in such a pleasant fashion.

The core muscles got worked to the point of screaming (and when mine get overworked, they hold my intestines hostage and threaten a gas attack if I don't knock it the hell off). I learned some things I can do daily to work triceps, etc. (If I can remember them. Menopause BLOWS). There were balance moves (and we know from yoga that balance is not my strong point. I need to get my ears to a doctor; they're constantly full of fluid. No wonder I'm cranky). I began to resent the phrase "Okay, five more!" BITCH, YOU LIE!!!!!

This was at 10 AM. It's almost 7 PM and my arms are still screaming at me. Dear Triceps, you had it coming.

As we were once again working the core muscles while trying to balance (a lost cause for me. Ears), I developed a theory that this woman had been a drill instructor in the Israeli Army and had reduced those soldiers to tears and vomiting.


I survived. Barely.  A couple of the girls from class told me that there was "a lot less of me" than had been there before. The uplift from these comments sustained me through the workout.

To the men who may be reading this and dismissing Pilates as "sissy stuff": I got a chance to talk to her after class and I wasn't too far off the mark. Israeli Army: yes. Drill instructor: No, or so she claims (I have my doubts). She may be have been actually on loan to the USMC at Parris Island or Camp Pendleton and it's just a matter of semantics.

And I double dog dare you to try.

Hello, Old Friends

174.8 lbs. (Beats the snot out of 200)

When women raid each other’s wardrobes, they will calling it “go shopping in your closet” with a cheesy smile that doesn’t quite mask the fact that it’s theft. I say “women” because, let’s be honest, you don’t hear about men sharing clothing. They just don’t. And the “shopping in your closet” implies an unwilling sharing.

Due to the change* in seasons, I needed to hit my storage unit for warmer clothing (and to find my damned purple suede boots.). My working bra had stopped working in that the underwear had broken and was stabbing me daily. (This could be a metaphor for so many things)

Luck was on my side and a ton of self-confidence. I found bras that hadn’t fit since I got them (they now do and they’re high end). I found date clothes (I pulled the trigger on E Harmony) and I found my purple suede boots.

Now for the self-confidence boost:

 

The skirt is size 14. The blazer (silk from Express. SUCK IT, LANE BRYANT!!!!) is size 13. They haven’t fit in at least a decade. I can wear them AND breathe (I wouldn’t conduct an orchestra in the blazer, but I can wear it…) And while "purple suede boots" sounds ridiculous in print, you've got to admit, they're gorgeous.

I can finally see the progress I’ve made and not just in playing the numbers game with the scale and with clothing sizes. I need to get myself in to a doctor for a regular check up and a trip to Quest Diagnostics for blood chemistry tests, but I know I’m in a lot better shape than I was in January. And the winter clothing I was wearing in January (I was freezing my ass off in St. Louis)? Too big. However, the archaeological dig turned up goodies I haven’t seen/worn in years. Next trip, I’m going after my Ann Taylor knitted silk turtlenecks.

Shopping in my storage unit was a great deal. I wouldn’t say I got a new wardrobe, but I got clothing I needed and all it cost me was the gas to get there (and some Starbucks to drink on the way).

Now, if you’re a reader, please do me a favor: The comments section is pretty dusty. I’ve had people tell me in email (or over the phone) that I have inspired them. If this blog has inspired you (or irritated or amused), please leave me comments.

*It’s Southern California. The term is relative.

How Larry Miller Made My Day and Week

174.8 lbs. And has been for 7 days. Could be worse…

The gym has begun flashing health tips on their LCD displays that also give class schedules, time (always 10 minutes slow) and the weather forecast, as well as advertising sale items in the pro shop (such as it is). One of the tips I saw today (while working through 2, count ‘em, 2 hours of elliptical cross trainer) was about a positive attitude (and body image) being a boost to health and weight loss. Cool. Towards that end, I got a huge boost today (it helped me ignore the guy on the treadmill next to me who decided to give me a lecture on how, if I worked harder on the elliptical, I could lose weight. I refrained from telling him how, if he kept his mouth shut, people wouldn’t think he was an ass. He was also given to ostentatious yawns. That’s right, I said ostentatious and MEANT it.).

I subscribe to the “This Week With Larry Miller” podcast (www.acelarrymiller.com). It is one of the reasons I look forward to Wednesdays (I have a couple of podcast subscriptions that update on Wednesdays). Larry Miller, if you don’t recognize the name, is a stand up and actor. You probably know his voice or his face (He’s part of the troupe that Garry Marshall likes to use. He was the store manager who let Julia Roberts shop in “Pretty Woman” and the crazy hairdresser in the “Princess Diary” movies. Yeah, that guy. No, not Hector Elizondo).

Mr. Miller starts his podcasts with a piece of music that sounds like a college fight song and segues into the meat of the podcast by saying “That was the  _______ Orchestra and the ______ Dancers and boy tenor ________ asks the musical question, “___________?” (For those of you born during the Reagan administration, this is a throwback to the 1940s and live broadcasts of big bands on Saturday night). He changes the names every week giving a shout out to members of his staff or his friends or the guy who sold him the new hamper. The musical question is something different each week, too. Silly stuff and a lot of fun. This podcast puts me in a good mood every Wednesday.

The podcast is funny and silly and covers important topics such as replacing a laundry hamper that had seen better days and the subtle art of mashing soap scraps into a Frankenstein creation of a bar (made from parts from others). He has successfully melded four bars together, yet had an attempt at a “five-fecta” fall apart. The quest for the five-fecta is something he has compared to the building of The Tower of Babel (it’s in your Bibles, folks) and perhaps he was overreaching through pride and arrogance. He has mentioned this comparison several times.

As I listened last week with the discussion of the quest for the five-fecta and whether it was a Tower of Babel, I got an idea and posted on the Facebook page for the show: “Wouldn’t the five fecta be known as the Tower of Bubble?” One of my friends hit it with a “Like” and I thought that might be the end of it. Except that someone from the show commented: “Oooh, that’s a good one. I like that.”

It was Larry. Miller.  Oh, cool. “But that was last week,” you ask, “Why would it impact today?”

A ha.

Today’s podcast, titled “The Game’s Over and You’ve Won” (November 2, 2011) , the dancers were the SUSAN THATCHER Dancers and the musical question was “Wouldn’t the Five Fecta be known as the Tower of Bubble?”

HOLY HERD OF COWS STAMPEDING FROM MUMBAI TO BANGALORE!!!!

Not only did I get the shout out in this fashion, but he discussed it for a couple of minutes and RETURNED TO IT. Oh. My. God.

Look, I have been a fan of Larry Miller since the 1980s (I remember seeing his stand up on HBO) and every time I’ve seen him since, be it in “Pretty Woman” or on “Law & Order” (2 episodes where he played a truly despicable character named Michael Dobson and then one where he played a comedian named Larry Miller. Typecasting on the third time), I’ve tuned in a little more closely. And here I’ve made a connection to someone whose work I like a LOT and not only that, been able to give a little something back to HIM in terms of a goofy play on words (He says on the podcast that he loves puns). What goes around comes around in action. (We also like Fab Hot Dogs in Reseda. If you are a fan of the tube steak, you owe yourself a visit)

I recommend to anybody and everybody reading this post that he or she go to www.acelarrymiller.com or ITunes (or Zune. I am a Zunatic and proud of it) and subscribe to this podcast, including listening to some of the older episodes. Larry Miller will put you in a good frame of mind, lift the corners of your mouth and make the day/week a little bit better talking about soap and laundry hampers (and the Larry Miller Drinking Society). The elevated frame of mind is a springboard towards achieving goals and/or bringing better things into our lives (I’ve been told and choose to believe). Hey, if Larry Miller helps me get there, that’s fine by me.

You know what? Yeah, I’ve been stalled at 174.8 lbs. for 7 days, but that’s still 50 lbs. down (okay, okay 49.8. Jeez). And “If you were able to walk out of bed, had a job to go to, a home to come back to and somebody waiting there who cares about you, game over, you’ve won,” I’m batting .750 which is even better than Ted Williams did in his heyday.

And that’s the truest thing I know. Thank you, Mr. Miller.

Phenomenal Woman

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

WOOO FRIGGIN’ HOOOOO!      

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

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

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

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

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

Could it be…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Phenomenal Woman

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

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

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

Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.

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

Maya Angelou

How Do You Like Them Apples?

179.4 lbs.* Yeah, we’ve been in this neighborhood before. Didn’t stay nearly long enough.

So, It is Day 7 of HGC** Phase 2 aka Reduced Calorie Phase and it IS WORKING.

Hey, like I said, I tried it the “approved” way and weight loss didn’t happen. I do this, I lose weight. I’m sitting here in my Levi’s 501 jeans. Again.  

One of the goals is to be size eligible for the “it” brands of jeans like Lucky or Seven. (Nordstrom Rack). Lucky’s largest women’s size is 12. Yes, it’s superficial, but it’s my landmark. Besides, I took a good look, thought about it and I have a cute ass. A cute ass should have high end jeans.

Unlike the first round of HCG  for me (Jan 31 – Mar 13), I am exercising regularly and eating less beef (I have my diary from the first time). I have expectations of losing more weight this time than I did on the first round (26 lbs.). I’m also planning to revisit the length of time I’m doing this when I get to Day 21 (October 31). If the loss is satisfactory at that point, I’ll shift to Phase 3. If not, I’ll go to 40 days. Since the comments section on this blog has dust on it, I take it that none of my regular readers has an opinion one or the other as to my chosen methodology. (Type now or forever hold your peace. Not that it’s going to change my mind one way or another). I know, I know; the suspense is killer.

One of the features of the HCG protocol is something called “Apple Day.” When weight gets stuck (or one day in 7. I opted for 1 day in 7.), instead of the standard 100 grams of protein, 2 cups of vegetables, 1 fruit and measured Nut Thins, one eats 6 big ass apples over 24 hours and only 6 big ass apples over 24 hours.

Yeah, it’s gimmicky and nowhere near as much fun as a “Steak Day” (those are in the 3 weeks afterwards. 12-14 oz steak and sliced tomatoes. My kind of a diet.), but it works. It’s how I got the jump start for this project.

I am still hitting the gym (not as hard) and while putting in time on the elliptical cross-trainer the other day, one of the ladies from my yoga class got on the machine next to me. I don’t know her name, but she’s a sweet, friendly person and wanted to take a spin on the elliptical for the first time. We worked through figuring out her rhythm (Look, we’re human beings, we dig rhythm in all things and once we figure out a good groove, we stay there. Think about it) and how to program the machine. She hung in there for 20 minutes and then stopped. The next thing she said absolutely floored me: “I stayed on that long because you were doing it, too.”

Me? A role model? For EXERCISE? Am I in a parallel universe? This is the same person that gets all the pontificating from family members, draws the fat comments from shitheaded strangers and I’m a role model? An inspiration? I’m on a protocol that people either love or hate (the acupuncturist and therapist I trust – love. Dr. Oz – hate) and  still people look to me. That’s heady stuff.

Well, my yoga friend, because you stepped up onto the machine and out of your comfort zone, I’ve kept faith with my exercise regimen, even though with HCG, I could skip it altogether (I don’t want to lose ground, so I’ll keep going). Plus, it’s a tough crowd in yoga class: you miss one class and you get grilled by the other students when you return (practically need a doctor’s note. NOT Dr. Oz).

I need to prove 50 isn’t fatal. You are never too old to achieve (although the hot flashes are telling me that kids are out of the question. I’ve long considered adopting a 30 year old the best course of action; you miss diapers, teething, terrible twos, puberty and the cost of a college education). Hefner isn’t going to put me in Playboy, but I may turn a few heads yet (once I get rolling on E Harmony. Those bastards want the entire fee UP FRONT. I should put a Paypal donation link on here). Somewhere out there is a little black dress and a lucky man with my name on them.

*It’s 3 days after I started this post and it’s still 179.4. Annoyed sigh.

**Human chronironic (or something like that) gonadatropin

Back in the HCG Saddle

183 lbs. Order is being restored.

Okay, so some folks will not like what I’m doing.

Oh, well. I told you guys I had decided I would do another round of HCG and nobody commented, objected, sent email, called, Facebook message, nada.

I do not like myself obese. I do not like myself overweight. I do not like working my ass off (or literally trying to) and not getting anywhere. As my father once memorably told me, when something I was trying to do was not to his liking despite my sweating bullets to get it finished, “Results get rewarded, not efforts.”

Words I live by.

I’m back on the HCG protocol and it is Day 3 of the Reduced Calorie Phase. This means I take the drops, eat 500 calories (well, more on that. And no, I’m not cheating) and go about my life. To me, this is boot camp to re-establish the discipline that got nearly 50 lbs. off of my body (and some of it back, but that’s been served with an eviction notice).

No personal hygiene products containing oil. Alba moisturizer and crystal deodorant. If you’re rinsing the shampoo out of your hair, it’s not a problem (that’s what the doctor who supervised me the first time told me).

The first 2 days of the protocol are the “Glutton Days”.  You stuff yourself with anything and everything high fat (and protein) and caloric. Over the weekend, I got a lot of cravings out of my system: Carl’s Jr. Bacon Avocado (well, not a craving, but I figured it would be high fat) combo, Ben & Jerry’s Coconut Seven Layer in a brownie sundae, Denny’s (there’s one down the street. I figured I owed it to the gluttony), Five Guys (YES! 920 calories for a regular sized bacon cheeseburger), Fab Hot Dogs (Victory and Tampa in Reseda. I’ll stand them next to Pink’s. Wicked good.), Starbucks foo-foo drinks (which were probably part of the reason I was stalling, gaining, stalling. It wasn’t lack of exercise), Chocolate Coconut Haystacks…

Not as much fun as you might think. My system said to me, “Dude, we don’t eat like this.” (Had I thrown up, it would have been “Bitch, we don’t eat like this.” If I’m not pushing the hard line, it’s friendlier). I felt uncomfortable and bloated. However, these are the rules.

Starting on Monday the 10^th and for 21 to 40 days (after 21, we’ll see), it’s the Reduced Calorie Phase: 2 meals per day consisting of 100 grams of approved protein (chicken, turkey, lean beef, veal, buffalo (I feel guilty), low-fat cottage cheese and the ones I won’t touch: lobster, crab, eggs).Meats are grilled, broiled or boiled. 2 cups of a single vegetable: tomatoes(veggies on this plan), cucumbers, string beans, spinach, chard, onions, radishes, Brussels Sprouts to name a few. If you cook them up, no oil, no butter, no sweetening, no bacon (no Brussels Sprouts). Go ahead and dump oregano, granulated garlic, vinegar, salt and pepper. Fruit: apple, half a grapefruit, an orange, 6-8 strawberries, 12 raspberries (Whoever heard of eating just 12 raspberries? That’s preposterous) and a “starch”, your choices being Grissini breadsticks (2-3), Melba toast (2) or 4-6 Blue Diamond Nut Thins, if you wish to dodge gluten (and I do).

Over the past 2 days, I have adhered to this “One From Column A” sort of set up, but exceeded the caloric intake. Today, I’ll work on sticking within the 500 calorie framework and report back.

This “no oil” protocol means no flaxseed oil during this time. The only supplements one is allowed are B Complex, Vitamin C, potassium and magnesium (which is good for your connective tissues). You can have up to 1 tablespoon of milk per day and the juice of one lemon. I’ve begun starting my day with hot water and lemon (lemon juice is a wonderful thing for your liver, your skin, your gums). (I’m pimping a Simon Cowell routine. Who’d a thunk it?).

I’ve cut back on exercise in the senses that while I’m lifting weights, the amount isn’t as much and I’m keeping the cardio down to one hour per day. Still doing yoga twice a week and Pilates once a week.

After the Reduced Calorie protocol, it’s 3 weeks without sugar or starch, but I can increase my caloric intake.

I’ll report back.