Nutcase 101

Dear Today,

Yup, I woke up happy. SYRUPY OVER THE TOP BRIMMING WITH F&ING HAPPINESS!! Why might you ask? Well, let me tell you!
-We’re going to have brunch with a great friend whom my husband is trying to get her a job at his company. This isn’t a bite you in the ass situation because this chick can totally do the work.
-I’m going to get my first facial in ten years!
-My husband was awarded by the CEO of his new ‘old’ employer two tickets to tonight’s major league baseball game, right behind home plate in a luxury suite and a reserved parking pass. We get to be VIPs!

The only downer is my weight and I’m not even going to let me get me down. I’m going to stretch, walk and enjoy my body and how it functions today and make it stronger for tomorrow.

So, if any unhappy thoughts, bad ideas or foul moods want to ruin my sunshine, it’s not going to happen. I’m teflonning my good mood.

Sunshine and puppy dogs,

Jen

Skirt.

Really? I find the perfect, I MEAN PERFECT, A-Line skirt for my pear shape body on-line. (I’m not going to say where because I don’t want to give these people anything – and I’m lazy – probably why I can’t fit into their skirts.) I see it on a normal woman on a popular blog and I click the link. This leads to a PLETHORA of skirts and I’m giddy because this place has A-line skirts that hit right below the knee…it’s skirt heaven. The proportions look right and the materials have a great drape that are can transition from business to a casual Saturday afternoon.

Then I click to see what sizes these perfect skirts come in – Small through X-large. More giddiness abounds. Because right now, I’m extra large. There just happens to be more of me to love, thank you very much. But, I’ve accepted me as of right and I’m working on making me more compact to love but until then I’m going to dress for the right now.

Since it’s a new shopping site, I click on the sizing chart because I can tend to teeter into a large when some places use vanity sizing. No, this place uses the “bitch-slap-back-into-reality-of-how-fat-you-are-and-give-people-serious-eating-problem” sizing. Extra large for this dress maker is a 10-12. Yes, that’s right, a size 10 to 12. If you’re the average American woman and sporting the curves of a size 14, so sorry, they don’t want your business. That means I’m definitely out of the running because my size 16 (14 on a good day) ass is WAY too big and my wallet is not good enough for them to cut their clothes for anyone with waist bigger than 33″.

Yup, this company is telling over half of American women, “You’re too fat to wear our clothes”. Now, if this was a business that was housed out of a foreign country where most of their women are compact and petite, I’d be understanding. But, nope, this is a good ol’ USA company. And, yes, I do know that it’s the company’s prerogative to make clothes up to a certain size but to call a size 12 woman an extra large, that’s just insulting.

BAH! BAH ON YOU STUPID PERFECT SKIRT COMPANY!

Dear Me at Twenty-three,

I’m sorry. You worked really hard to get the weight off of this body and the me from twenty-seven to thirty-one hasn’t been keeping up our end of the bargain. We’ve allowed greasy fast food, cakes with decadent amounts of icing and laziness to take precedence over keeping the fat off that you worked so hard to remove. You would spend an hour or two every day (even on weekends!) at the gym, focusing on cardio and the weight machines. You wouldn’t leave the elliptical machine until you had hit five miles. Now, I get winded after walking one mile.

Thankfully, I didn’t let all eighty pounds come back, just the same thirty pounds that we’ve been fighting with since I got out of grad school. We did manage to get it off for almost nine months in 2007 but then decided a sedentary lifestyle was much more conducive to doing nothing.

And the food issue, we know how wonderful fresh vegetables from the farmer markets taste – the glory of produce that was picked the day before being consumed in it’s natural state, as God intended. But now we don’t allow that type of food in the house, the Oreos needed their place of honor on the counter.

And the soda. It’s a bad addiction that’s going to be hard to break. I realized this morning that I drink almost a two liter of diet soda a day. I can only imagine what I’ve been doing to the body you had dedicated to drinking 100 ounces of water, every day, for two years straight.

But today, I would’ve made you proud. Today, I realized the harm I was doing to my body by trying to hide the food I eat from myself. My distorted thought pattern was that if I hid the food from B, I was hiding it from my body as well. Those calories weren’t going to count because I devoured it in secret where no one could witness my downfall. Also, I stopped the soda, put it down and picked up the water glass instead.

Our next step, on this side of thirty-one, I’m going to cut out sugars. Only natural sugars will prevail on a daily basis with something ‘bad’ on occasion and in moderation.

I know that these promises have been made many times to our self but today feels different. Today, I realized what you did and accomplished – how hard it was to work for that goal and I appreciate what you did, reminds me that it is possible to go back to that body. I know it’s going to be harder because we’re no longer in our early-twenties but it’s not insurmountable.

Thank you for being there twenty-three. Now, it’s time to embrace thirty-one.

Love,

Jen

If you’re awake and reading this post, you’re probably aware that 2009 has passed us by and 2010 is now what we’ll be writing on checks (if you still write checks).

This year, I do have resolutions and by putting them in writing and allowing public scrutiny, maybe I will actually execute said resolutions. Let the resolution games begin!!

- Organize the boxes of stuff in the my closet and guestroom closet. These boxes belong to both B and I pre-relationship and they (in my case) have not been opened in YEARS – at least four. A lot of the stuff either needs to be given away, sold or thrown away. Obviously we don’t need most of the items because we haven’t cared enough to pry off the lid.

- Exercise once a week. Just once a week, really how much ass power will that take me? I could say three times a week and be sorely disappointed with myself but once a week will wet my whistle for exercise and possibly cause me to go to the gym more. Because I know me, that once I get into the pattern/habit/addiction of exercising, I’ll want to go and will miss it when I don’t.

- Cook dinner at home twice a week. I’ve been incredibly slack in the area of cooking for B and I, relying on fast food, quick dinner restaurants to be our source of nourishment. This has caused both of our waste lines to expand in ways that make us sad puppies. Also, all my pots and pans are threatening to leave because of the neglect.

- Only buy yarn or fabric once every two months and the purchase amount has to be less than $25. I need to take pictures (once the closets are organized) of my yarn and fabric stashes. I think I have enough fabric to make 10 king size quilts and enough yarn to make all friends and extended family a nice warm scarf or a pair of socks. It’s ridiculous.

Four is a nice even number and none of the resolutions are overwhelming by any means – completely doable. And hopefully, I’ll do them. Let 2010 begin.

Today I did three things: walked over two miles, found out that I’m REALLY out of shape and got to people watch at the local walking park.

A friend of mine has been walking regularly after work for the last few weeks and I wiggled my way into a walk invite. She’s worked herself up to walking three miles and I’ve been going to the apartment exercise facility on a semi-regular basis. Okay, so that’s a big fat lie – once every two weeks. In a good month.

And it was air conditioned.

Which boils down to when we hit a little over mile marker two, I was ready to curl up in the fetal position on the ground and allow my racing heart to break out of my ribcage and flop out onto the burning Texas soil. Instead, my fat ass ended up on a nearby bench where I people watched.

There was an older gentleman in a plaid shirt where the top two buttons were buttoned and the bottom was flapping in the breeze with blue shorts to his knees with socks that said, “Hello” to the hemline. He wandered around with a hand held radio blaring and writing down random notes while meandering near the trees. I have no clue what he was writing but he was arguing with the voice blaring out of this noise box.

Of course, there were the perfect hard bodies, women with boobs that looked like they were going to hit them in chin as they run by. Really, how they not have bruises on their necks? Then, there were the fur coats – those guys that are so hairy, you don’t know where the body actually resides under all that body cover.

Almost everyone that walked my body breakdown spot was named and I made up a small background story of interest. And every person who I saw that was fighting the good fight against fat, I was there secret cheerleader, coaching them on to keep on walking.

And, some day soon, I’ll make it all the way around the park. It just wasn’t today.

Every time I walk into the bathroom I’m faced with it. Sitting on the floor, making my brain send messages (depending on my mood), “It’s okay, just step on it. Maybe this time it’ll be kind to you. Or, at least you’ll know the damage you did you to yourself. ” Or “You fat cow, you need to know. You ate everything in site. If you don’t step on it, you’ll keep shoveling it in.”

I’m sure you’ve deduced what ‘it’ is: the scale.

I have a purely hate relationship with the scale because even when it’s given me good news, I still think that I should be doing better. That I should never have weighed the number that’s displayed at me and how dare I let myself get that way. Even a smaller number displayed will most certainly be a gain because I’m going to let it myself gorge on my ability to lose.

And up until the last few months, even as I was constantly gaining, I would still weigh myself four to five times a day. I’ve gotten the number down to one or two but I mental association with the scale is still a very negative one. It can still take me down, way down, emotionally to the point where I don’t want to talk to others or I mentally berate myself for hours.

My mental relationship with the scale is one I don’t know how to balance.

I have a surly case of pink eye.

Yeah, that viral infection that you’re only supposed to get when you’re under four feet tall and you don’t mind poking someone in the eyeball.

I’m 5′6″ and there was no poking. I would’ve enjoyed some good eyeball poking.

So here:

I’m keeping the picture due to small because I’m wearing no makeup, there are zits showing and children could be scared.

So, I got kicked out of work from the EYE on Thursday and the meds, well, they have an interesting side effect. It makes my vision blurry even with my glasses on. It’s not myopic blurriness but more like a Barbara Walters Special. You know what I’m talking about. that fabulous dream sequence effect that Barbara has to have on her shows so that know will know that she’s shoveling her grave right behind Walter Cronkite.

(Yes, I know Walt passed on. I love him but he was old and time for him to go. He will be missed.)

And because of this fabulous EYE I can’t wear contacts until next Thursday. That means showering practically blind, because people, without corrective lenses I am legally blind. Thankfully, shampoo is orange bottle and conditioner is white. But so is the body wash. And my face wash. So my face will be well conditioned and my hair will be moisturized. It also explains why my forehead has zits.

Final bad news, I’m home bound until Sunday. I can’t go anywhere or scare small children. Just my husband and my cats are traumatized.

Now, I’m off to re-Lysol the apartment. Again. And wash the sheets and towels. Again.

(Jocelyn and anyone with fashion taste, I recommend you leave now. Or feel free to mock me in the comments.)

Here in Texas there is this big ball in the sky that appears in the morning and goes away at night. It’s bright and you can’t look right at it or you’ll cause your eyeballs to revolt out of your head.

You may have heard about it, it’s called THE SUN!

I know, after thirty years on this planet, I’ve just discovered this great big ball of gas. And it’s all the sun’s fault that I did what I had to do. See, that sun thing causes heat. A FUCKING AMOUNT OF HEAT. And I am delicate. A precious flower of modern livingness and I can’t get hot because I start to sweat and get icky without my permission. Now, if I sweat due to working out, that’s fine. It’s sweat with a purpose.

Sweating against my will due it simply being daytime and FUCKING HOT (that’s the only true way to describe the heat here), me no likey. Yes, I’m a big whiny baby.

Anyway.

So, I’m driven to being indoors where I can layer up the clothes if the air conditioning is too cold. Only there is a problem. At one of my work locations, our home, the A/C regulates everything beautifully. Except for one spot.

My desk.

Unfortunately, the AC vent, which refuses to relocate itself, blows directly on me. Now because I can’t move my PC and all the plugs, wires and the leasing office won’t let me knock down a wall, there isn’t another place I can move my electronic mecca. Now, when the air is not running, I’m great. Fine. Hunky Dory.

But, when it blows…oh baby, you’d think that Old Man Winter moved in and decided that I needed to be the Queen of his icicle world. So, I bought it.

I’ve tried throws, that get thrown off but my upper body remains behind to suffer. I’ve even put my robe on backwards but the arm holes aren’t the right way. It’s the irony people. I get away from the heat for the cold and then the A/C freeze out occurs. I can’t win.

Now, if you need me. I’ll be the person looking like I’m about to join a cult and drink some kool aid. But I’ll be warm (but not FUCKING HOT!).

For the last couple of weeks I’ve been hitting the apartment complex exercise center almost every other day.

Why did you people not tell me that this exercise shit could become addicting? Whilst (I love the proper British version) I’m working, I’ll think about my lovely recumbent bike and wondering how fast I’m going to be able to peddle. And if the asshole (I don’t know his name and would refuse to learn it so not to humanize him) will come in and turn off the T.V. again while I’m watching it so he can listen to canned pop music on the radio.

I hate having to yell at him. Ok, I don’t. But then he glares at me while he’s jumping on his rope because he needs rythym to get his counts right. Wah!

Anyway.

Now my plea to the public: What is a good book that will tell me what’s the best way to utilize the gym? My workout facility is pretty top notch, just no trainers on duty.

And, I don’t want to have to join a gym, when our ridiculous rent already covers a great work out area.

Not a long post because of things going on in life that I will spare you from.

But, I started seriously working out this week. And then I started to have some serious medical issues. Which equated to no change in my weight.

I’ll take that.

And the workouts, I like them. I look forward to them. I actually think about doing my three miles and if I should increase it (a combo of ellipitical and bike.)