My date with Gym.

I woke up this morning feeling, well, like a waste of space...and a LOT of space at that. I was fed up with everything. It had been building for days and this morning it all came to a head. I was fed up with being fat, fed up with being single, fed up with being unemfuckingployed, fed up with my living situation...and the list goes on from there. I got on the scale for my weigh in and was kicked in the ovaries with a one pound loss. "Well, fuck you, too." I thought.

My morning progressed along just as blah as it began. Lunch time rolled around and I was still in what most would call pajamas. I kept thinking about the gym. Have been for days. This weeks mini mission for the Boot Camp I'm in charge of is simple enough. Just earn Activity Points as described by Weight Watchers. Do what you want, how ever intense you want, and count those points. I've done virtually nothing. I posted a message on the WW message boards about feeling like a slacker and one of the girls that posted back ended her response with "I wish I could be as motivating as you are." to which I replied, "How the hell is it that I can motivate others, but can't motivate myself?" Seriously! What the hell is my problem? I pondered for a second and then said to myself (upcoming vulgarity warning), "Self," I said, "Shut the fuck up. Stop being such a fucking pussy, get dressed for the love of God, and get your big badunkadunk to the gym!" Harsh? Perhaps. Effective? Very! I got dressed, grabbed my stuff, shouted a hearty "I'm going to the gym." to my Dad in passing, and drove the 15 miles necessary.

I walked in trying to look as though I'm there all the time and not draw too much attention to myself. I've only been to this particular location once before. I went up the stairs hoping that I remembered things correctly and that the cardio machines were up there. There were only about five people up there, four of which were on treadmills by the windows. The TV's in front of the other treadmills were all static so, figuring that's why everyone was over there, I joined them. Four guys and me. Got my music ready, stepped up on the treadmill, started it, looked up and out the window and, huh? The pool is down there. These guys weren't avoiding staring at static for the duration of their cardio fitness, they were staring at T&A 2008 down there at the pool. "Oh, I'm on to you now, pervs. Pssssh! Uh huh, I bet they're watching her. Look at her...skinny bitch in her little black bikini with her perfect tan and her blonde hair. She is skin cancer waiting to happen. Those tits have got to be fake. Oh, what's this? Well, hello Buff Daddy. Ohhhhh yeah, swim to mama." Buff Daddy, aka Sven, was a tall, blonde, tanned, muscular, speedo wearing, testosterone filled addition to the pool. I can't tell you if he was good looking, he was too far away and, really, does it matter? I've never wanted to be a towel so much in my life. He proceeded to swim laps and I proceeded to enjoy my workout.

Fifteen minutes later, shin splints kicked in. I pulled myself away from the view long enough to get in ten minutes on the recumbent bike so that my shin muscles could relax and then it was back to the treadmill. "What's this? Ohhh, the backstroke now. Nice!" Then my concentration was thwarted as Phi Beta Delta Kappa Gamma Ho stepped onto the treadmill next to me. "You have GOT to be kidding me. Does she shop at Baby Gap? Those clothes wouldn't fit a Cabbage Patch Doll for Christ sake. Are you? Is her? Her ass IS totally hanging out the back of those shorts. Daisy Duke wouldn't be caught dead in anything this revealing. Tramp. Oh, look, Sven is getting out of the pool." Fifteen more minutes on the treadmill, shin splints are kicking back in, view is leaving, seems like as good a time as any to stop. I did 40 minutes of resistance training in the women's only area and headed home.

On the way home I obviously stopped at our local crack dealer's house, because I passed my driveway and headed out to my brother's. I snagged my nephew and we started to go for our walk. He's been out of commission lately so it was good to see him feeling better and us picking up where we left off. This time we decided to walk the opposite direction to my aunt and uncle's farm. Once there we walked around a little and then headed back. For your safety I would now ask that you make sure you're seated firmly in your chairs so as not to cause injury. OK? OK. I kept having the urge to, well, RUN! Not only did I have the urge, but i DID run...TWICE! I know, right? It was at this point that I was glad that my nephew was in the habit of carrying around his mom's old cell phone. It doesn't have service, but it is charged and he could have called 911 if I either A. poked an eye out with the twins, or B. had a heart attack. Did I mention that I ran? Just checking.

We got back to the house after 45 minutes and sat at the kitchen table in the air conditioning. He brought me an Otter Pop and we sat eating them, playing Hungry Hungry Hippo (coincidence? I think not), talking and laughing. It was a good day after all.

Mic Check (tap tap tap). Is this thing on?

Check! Check one! Check two! Can you hear me now? I've been asked by a few to provide a recap of events that unfolded during my hiatus. So, now that I have your attention...

November: As you know from my entries, I moved home. My tragic roommate prompted it, but it was also to pay off debt, save for a house, and be able to go to school without Lola never seeing the light of day. It was only a matter of days before my weight loss efforts were completely and totally sabotaged.

February: I lost my job. As stressful as unemployment can be, it was as if a weight had been lifted from my shoulders. I'd spent the last year wondering when it would be my turn. I watched as colleagues...friends...dropped like flies around me. I watched as the company sank further and further into debt. I knew it was only a matter of time. February 7th was my time. Did I mention that I got NO severance pay? Pay me with what?

March: Towards the beginning of March I got a new tattoo. I drew up a pink ribbon in remembrance of my grandma that I lost to breast cancer when I was a freshman in high school. My sister took it to our tattoo artist and had him add the cherry blossoms. She got a smaller version on the top of her foot and I got mine on the outside of my left leg, above my ankle.
And, at the end of March, after about 14 years, I returned to school. College life at 32 and a Community College is a far cry from the drunken binges, parties, and dorm life I might have partaken in at 18 at a University, but the studying is the same. Since I no longer had a job I threw myself wholeheartedly into my grades. I pulled a 4.0 and was taking 14 credits. School life suits me. My brain was screaming for stimulation. It does not, however, suit my eating habits. My evening class schedule threw my dinners into a tailspin. I ate a lot of fast food and drank a lot of Starbucks.

April: My grandma finally lost her battle with Alzheimer's. As I stated when I returned from hiatus, it's easier to just let your loved one go then to watch them battle this disease. You lose a little more of them every single day. She's in a better place now.

June: I turned 32. Whoopdie doo. Spring term ended and I decided to take the summer off to really focus on trying to find a new job since that hadn't been going very well. There just isn't much out there that would pay me enough to ever be able to move out of my parent's house and afford the gas money to get to school. Most required a long commute and that's not cutting it unless they're paying well. I got on the scale to reassess what moving home and going to school had done to me. I gained more than half of my 30ish pounds back. Time to take matters back into my own hands regardless of who is and isn't willing to help me.

July: I just applied for a job with the City that I live in and it would be perfect. Maybe not mind blowing, but perfect for now. Fingers are most definitely crossed. I started another Boot Camp challenge on the Weight Watcher's message boards and am in charge of coordinating weekly missions for about 28 people. I keep track of all their info, award points for the effort they put out, try to keep them motivated and, hopefully, that keeps me on track as well. It ends on Halloween. I've lost about 9 pounds or so since I recommitted. I was at 339 as of Monday morning. 2008 has not been especially kind to me, but I'm here. I'm keeping my head up and taking it one day at a time. I'm trying to take control of my life and make 2009 one most definitely worth remembering.

Fat girls can't jump.

I felt the palms of my hands start to sweat. There was a hint of perspiration on my brow. They were picking teams. At first the teams were decided by where ever you happened to end up when you walked onto the court (read: field). No rhyme or reason to it really. No pressure. No humiliation. Now, after two games had determined one team's suck value as being exponentially greater than the other's, it was decided that we should pick teams. Great. My worst playground nightmare revisited. I hung my head and walked over to the line up.

What you should first understand is that I was camping with my family. After dinner Thursday night various cousins, their friends, and their kids decided it was time for Volleyball. What you should also understand is that my oldest male cousin considers Volleyball to be a sacred sport. All rules should be followed and all pansies should be left behind. I used to play when I was in Junior High, but hadn't gone down that road since. Perhaps all the times I declined playing in the past was the reason I wasn't asked to play this time...or perhaps I'm just a pansy.

I went and got my camera and started taking pictures as they warmed up and called over more people to play. When I heard them say that they needed another player on one side I had an out of body experience when the words "I'll play." came forth from my lips as I put my camera away. Enthusiasm actually rang out, but I'm sure it was quickly deemed overkill after my first few run in's with the ball proved futile. Bumps sent the ball soaring to the left about 4 times in a row. My first set had such incoming spin on it that it went spiraling behind me instead of up or forward. It was all very tragic. The only things I really had going for me were my serves. Though underhanded, they were solid and consistent. We lost the first game and rallied a little for the second, but still ended up defeated. My inner Volleyball Diva gradually appeared, but I didn't feel she was ready to sustain the fatal blow of being left last picked for a team...again.

What had often been the case in my youth was that teams would be formed and if people were unaware of my playing ability, I was strictly assessed by my size. She's fat, she can't possibly play well. What they failed to realize was that when my arm is warmed up and my weight is put behind a softball, I can throw from center field to home with ease and when my lefthandedness and girth were put behind a solidly placed pitch, it didn't really matter how slow I ran because I will have at least hit everyone else home even if I only made it to second or third base. What they failed to realize is that my thigh muscles are huge from carrying around my weight and when put to use in kickball no one really stood a chance. What they failed to realize is that what I may have lacked in speed, I made up for in strength. Regardless, I was often left, well, last girl standing.

So there I stood, lined up in front of my family, resolved to be last again. The obvious first picks, the guys, the power hitters, the one's willing to dive for the ball and show their true appreciation for the game, were called out first. I am not one of those people. I am OK with that. A couple of the girls were picked and it was down to a straggling few. I got called. I almost had to ask them if they were sure. Who? Me? As the games progressed I steadily moved up in rank when they chose new teams. I wasn't last girl standing anymore.

We played for three and a half hours straight on Thursday and another 2 hours yesterday morning before I left. Between games people went off to hydrate, smoke, potty, etc. Yesterday I stayed and decided to see if the old girl still had some overhand serves left in her. Old girl does. I sent 6 in a row blazing over the net. Aforementioned oldest male cousin said, "Why the hell haven't you been serving like that in the games?" I confessed that I was a chicken shit and didn't think I still had it in me. He said I did. I had first serve when the next game started. I opted to break out the overhand serves. Untouchable. They soon realized that what I lacked in speed, I made up for in strength. I soon realized that I can't laugh and overhand serve at the same time. Oh well. Nobody's perfect.

I opted to only spend one night camping with my family because I didn't want to completely sabotage my efforts with the garbage we usually consume while camping. The calories I did eat while there were easily burnt off with all of my time spent playing Volleyball, but I thought it best to end my trip and head for home. It was only about a 20 minute drive home, but that is apparently time enough for my body to feel the effects of five or so hours of Volleyball. I got out of the car and my joints ached. My ankles, my knees, my hips, my wrists. After my shower I laid on the couch and I could not get comfortable. No matter how I seemed to lay, my hips were lecturing me on how 340something pound girls have no business lurching hither and thither at a moment's notice just to hit a silly little ball back and forth. My knees and ankles shook a stern bit of cartilage at me for running after the ball so often (uh huh, I said RUNNING). That my joints and I must first come to an understanding before making any repeated sudden movements. I tried to shut them up with plenty of ibuprofen, but it was too busy trying to console the pinched nerve in my neck that I've had for two weeks (yeah, I still played, even when said nerve gave me a headache throughout all of yesterday's game play). I hurt...and I didn't care.

This morning when I woke up I slowly got out of bed as the realization of what I'd done to my body thoroughly sank in. Every muscle hurt, every joint hurt, every eyelash hurt. Not excruciatingly so, but I hurt nonetheless. Every time I move today I am reminded of what I did...and I'm proud. Fat girls still can't jump, but at least this one got out there and tried.

Exercise, bringing family together.

Yesterday I decided to go for a walk out at my brother's house (formerly known as my grandparent's house). It's in the country and only about 2.5 miles from my house. From the end of their driveway to the end of the street it is exactly one mile. I asked my oldest nephew, who is 7, if he would like to walk with me. He did. There aren't many cars out there at that time, but I told him to stay on the edge of the road and we walked. We walked, and we learned.

He learned that pedestrians walk against traffic and bicyclists ride with traffic. I learned that my shin splints act up at around the quarter mile mark. He learned that cars are supposed to give us plenty of room when we walk, even if that means swerving into the other lane. I learned that at a half mile, I have to turn around and go back or my legs might never get me home. It was at this point, after continuously drifting to the middle of the road, that I felt compelled to teach him another valuable lesson.

I asked him if he remembered the little purple cross at the opposite end of the street. He said he did. I proceeded to tell him that the little girl of the lady that used to babysit him was hit by a car down there and killed. That she was riding her bike with her family and that someone wasn't paying attention and hit her. He looked up at me and I explained that even though cars are supposed to watch out for people walking, that sometimes they aren't paying attention. That it's our job to watch out for them and to make sure we are walking where we're supposed to be walking. As we turned around to head back, he pointed out that I was on the wrong side of the street. Lesson learned.

Tonight I went out there to walk again. I didn't go in the house and get my nephew. I didn't know walking with me meant so much and I brought Lola to work with her on the leash and thought he might be too distracting for her. I had to turn around at the half mile mark again and when I had about a quarter of a mile left to go, my sister-in-law pulled up and my nephew jumped out. He wanted to walk the rest of the way with me. After a while I handed him Lola's leash and told him to hold on tight. He walked on the edge of the road and we talked. Once we were almost there I let him run with Lola (Lord knows I can't) and I met him in the front yard. As I went to leave he asked me when we could walk again. I told him I'd be back tomorrow. So now, if I don't go walk, I'm not just letting myself down, I'm letting my nephew down.

My nephew is rail thin and by no means in NEED of additional exercise, but it left me wondering...where would I be if one of the relatives that I looked up to would have let me walk with them? Would have gotten me to exercise without making it clear that I was fat and needed to lose weight. Where would I be if, when I was 7, someone said, "Hey Kel, I'm going for a walk. Would you like to come with me?" Instead of "Go run up and down the stairs, you're fat and you need to lose weight." What if someone would have cared more about how I felt than how I looked? What if...

As promised, I did weigh in this morning. I lost 5 pounds this week. Total of 16.5.

Do they make waders in my size?

I'm chugging water as if my water bottle were fashioned from a rubber tube and a funnel. I hear hundreds of college students yelling "Chug! Chug! Chug!" as I down it as fast as possible. It's not to score the admiration of a twenty something jock, though, it's to offset the MSG and whatever other ancient Chinese secrets I subjected myself to at dinner last night...and, well, lunch today. Our favorite local Chinese joint would have to close it's doors my first week back on track. What was I supposed to do? They've got the best crab puffs EVER! I had to say goodbye. Wait while I chug...

Don't get me wrong. I didn't just tear into the brightly colored take out containers and eat whatever was put in front of me. I looked everything up beforehand and ordered what seemed to be a more realistic meal. I got Beef with Broccoli and the ever so delicious Crab Puffs and tracked every last point. When it came time to eat the fortune cookie, it was stale (lucky Lola). What was funny is that mine said "Eat your vegetables. They are good for your health." Giggle. It's not the choices I made at dinner that stress me out right now, it's the water retention Chinese food brings that has me worried. Must...fill...water...bottle.

Enter today stage right. I'M SO HUNGRY! All week I don't think I've felt one real hunger pang and today I'm hungry the second I get done eating (reason number two for currently chugging water). It makes me feel anxious. Like I'm going to lose control. I know I won't. I know that even if I did find comfort in the refrigerator that it's OK. I know that tomorrow is another day and that each day, each meal, is a fresh start, but it's too soon. The rest of the week was too easy. Tomorrow is weigh in day. I have to fight it. I have to be strong. I have to pee.

Make room for my big badonkadonk

cuz I'm here to stay!

I took new "before" pictures yesterday. I originally intended to at least do my hair and makeup for them to alleviate some of the trauma, but I'm sick and I really didn't feel like it. Besides, you can put lipstick on a pig and call her Sally, but...oh, nevermind. So, after my shower I pulled my short hair back into a tragic little ponytail and put on clothes that are tight enough to show all my fat rolls without the threat of blindness that being naked would provide. I set up my tripod and my new fancy Nikon D60 camera and proceeded to break off a few timer shots. To be honest, I expected my camera to sprout little arms to unscrew itself from the tripod and wee little legs to walk itself over to the window and throw itself spiraling to the ground. I now have shots from various frightening angles over on the sidebar slideshow that are to eventually prove me to be the incredible shrinking woman.

(waiting while you look, cringe, and nod agreeably with my spot on evaluation. Tolja so!)

Are we all clear on why I'm here now? Good, because I need unanimous and unequivocal understanding of the obstacle before me. Have you read all the entries and taken note of how many times I've recommitted, said I was back, talked about how badly I need to beat the beast that is my weight? Have you noticed all the things I had hoped to do and goals I wanted to meet? Rewards I intended to give myself? Have I been to Italy? No. Tahiti? No. Been on Oprah? No. Have I gotten off diabetes medication, gotten under 300 even once, or made jaws drop with how fierce I am? No.

Am I a quitter? No. I'm still here aren't I? Am I a failure? No. I may be taking my sweet time, but I'm only a failure if I stop trying. I took those pictures and when I looked at them, though hard to see, I didn't cry. I didn't binge. I didn't sit and stare at them as if I had no idea I was that big. I looked, cringed slightly, posted them, and said, "OK, so now we change it." Will I lose the 200 pounds I mentioned when I started this? Maybe not, and that's fine with me. Will I get under 300? You bet your sweet ass I will. Under 200? Who knows. For now we are no longer focusing on anything that far in the future. Right now we are focusing on things more attainable...things like seeing 299 on the scale again. Right now we're focused on today. Anything beyond this weekend is more than I care to think about. No one knows what tomorrow holds.

I'm 5 days into my reattempt at this home improvement project and you might as well bring me another board cuz THIS ONE...is nailed! 100% on track and no inkling of deviation. I can't even say that the reason it's been easy is because I'm sick and haven't had an appetite. Since when has not having an appetite stopped THIS girl from eating? Exactly! I'm just not thinking about food. I'm eating, don't get me wrong. I'm just not consumed by it. I'm not watching the clock and counting down to when I can justify eating again. I'm not making my food choices wishing it were something better. I'm just giving my body nourishment and then going about my day. You know, like skinny people do. I'm not depriving myself and I'm not going overboard. I've had points left most nights and sometimes I had a bowl of ice cream and sometimes I just had a diet ice cream bar instead. Tonight we were going to have pizza. Fine. I got the Papa Murphy's Delite pizza for me. I counted all my points. I'm fine.

Thank you for the praise, for the pats on the back, and for the words of encouragement. You'll be hearing from me often.

Hi. Remember me?

I'm that girl that used to have her eye on the weight loss prize. The girl that always seemed to have the end goal in mind even if she did slip off track on occasion. The girl that would go on and on about how she got off track and the reasons behind it and how she wants to change and undo whatever damage she did to whatever progress she had made. She'd sit here eagerly typing away with a renewed sense of self, an uplifted spirit, and the fire of recommitment burning to her very core. She would probably have just spent countless hours planning her attack, marking her calendar with the days she would be working out and her routines, setting up check points and deadlines for what she should weigh and when. She would have had positivity coursing through her veins. She would have had hope. She would have had good intentions. She would have felt fierce.

Today, however, I sit here, today I write this entry, defeated. I won't make excuses. I won't blame the cards I've been dealt recently or my schedule. I won't blame my living arrangement or saboteurs. I will blame me. I'm responsible for my bad food choices through times of crisis and times of hardship. I'm responsible for my lack of motivation and lack of commitment to me. I'm responsible for my complete disregard for my health, for my life, for my happiness. I'm responsible for me.

I'm responsible for swallowing my pride, venturing back here to those that might still be reading this. I'm responsible for at least trying, again, to beat this demon. I am responsible for the exercise I got yesterday and the few days before that. I'm responsible for the ice cream I didn't eat last night and the new shoes I bought so that I can go to the gym. I'm responsible for me.

I've learned a lot while I've been away: losing your job is less stressful than being in a job that makes you miserable; losing your grandmother to Alzheimer's is less painful than watching her live with it; if you're not sure who your real friends are, find yourself in a time of crisis and everything becomes clear; you can not only go back to school after fourteen years, but you can get straight A's; finding yourself is far more important than finding a man; and regardless of how often people tell you that you need to lose weight, they sure as heck aren't going to help you do it.

So, I'm back??? It may not be with the fierceness of my previous attempts. It may not be chalk full of positivity and hope, but I'm back.

Are you living with intention?

I walked into a theater today griping about how much it costs to see a movie in this day and age and left wanting to turn around and pay it all over again. This movie, this experience, has left me...changed. It was a chick flick to it's ever lovin' core and it is my new favorite movie. The title isn't especially important. What matters is that it struck more than one chord with me. It made me want to live. I don't mean live in the get up every day and go through the motions sort of way, but in the way I've clamored on about throughout this entire blog if not the last decade. In it there is a girl who is so focused on what she doesn't have and what she hasn't done that she forgets the value of everything that is right in front of her until it's too late. She spends the rest of the movie reliving memories and being made aware of what great things she had. It takes a great loss in her life to really bring her to her senses and start living with intention.

Why are we so inclined, why am I so inclined, to come to realizations far beyond their expiration dates? Why do I give up on myself so quickly? Why have I never followed through and completed anything in my entire life? Why do I feel that everything is beyond my reach and my life, this life, is as good as it's going to get for me? What am I so afraid of?

It is minutes away from New Year's Eve. Resolutions will be made and broken before most clocks have finished striking midnight tomorrow. I have many things I want to accomplish this year, weight loss being only one of them. I think my biggest, and most important, commitments this year can be summed up best by Mary Anne Radmacher "Live with intention. Walk to the edge. Listen hard. Practice Wellness. Play with abandon. Laugh. Choose with no regret. Continue to learn. Appreciate your friends. Do what you love. Live as if this is all there is." That's what the year has in store for me. What will you be doing in 2008?

A little less conversation, a little more action

I started this writing experience three years ago this month. I've had much to say and little to show in that time. In those three years I've had very few triumphs, but quite a long list of failures. I have proclaimed numerous attempts at recommitment only to quickly step into the proverbial confession booth to ask for forgiveness. I have lost and gained the same 15 or 20 pounds over and over rarely accomplishing much more than frustration and a desire to give up all together.

In those three years I have learned a lot about myself as well as what reasons there may be behind my weight and the ways that I choose to eat. I've developed far more good habits than bad and even though I may not be the perfectly healthy eater, I am far more successful on a daily basis then I ever was in the past.

In those three years I have acquired many weight related injuries and diagnosis: Shin Splints, Plantar fasciitis, PreDiabetes, and now...Diabetes. Yes, you read that right. My attempts at putting off the inevitable just weren't good enough. I pretty much resolved myself to the fact that I would get diabetes because I'm genetically predisposed to this little gem, but because I didn't try hard enough...soon enough...I brought about this diagnosis a good 20 years before I should have. I don't have a lot to say about my diagnosis just yet. It's a fresh wound. I meet with a dietician just after the new year and I'm sure I'll have a lot more untapped feelings to face at that time.

I have lost over 30 pounds, but am currently facing the struggle of living back at home. Thanks to my troglodyte of a roommate, I had to find new living arrangements. I figured giving my money to mom and dad instead of another landlord was a wiser monetary decision, but it may well prove to be the biggest challenge to date for my attempts at weight loss. There is food everywhere and most of it isn't healthy. Meals are usually lacking any sign of vegetation and, because they are pretty much cooked by the time I get home from work, I have little say in the choice of ingredients. I follow in the footsteps of my mother in our love for ice cream, but whereas I tried to keep it out of the house, she tries to keep it in the house. Almost every evening is ended with a small bowl of ice cream. I've purchased my own diet ice cream bars to have at that time, but more often than not, I just have what they have.

It's very difficult to find yourself back in the very environment where you learned all of your bad habits. It takes more willpower than I've been able to muster to stay out of the pantry, cupboard, and refrigerator I found such comfort in when I was young. And similar to when I was young, I find myself trying to hide half the bad stuff I'm eating. I'm finding myself eating what they eat because I feel overcome with a sense of unfairness. If they're eating it, why can't I? Why do I have to be the only one left bellied up to a bowl of shredded wheat while they eat biscuits and gravy for breakfast. I'm slowly reverting back to my 10 year old self.

If ever there were a time for my say:do ratio to even out, it's now. I have to stop talking about what I need to do or what I'm going to do and just flat out, no excuses, go for broke, do it!! I'm going to go to the gym whether I feel like it or not. I don't have to accomplish much of anything, I just need to go and get in the habit of being there. I need to make getting there part of my routine. If I'm only there for 10 minutes, so be it. At least I got through the door and that's far more than I can claim for the last couple months. The excuse of using moving as my exercise is long gone. No more excuses.

The undeniable truth is that I have a choice. I can say that I'll do it after the New Year and be 5 pounds heavier, or I can choose to take action now and be 5 or 10 pounds lighter. I can choose to be achy and stiff because it's easier to sit on the couch watching TV and reading a book or I can choose to feel better and more limber by reading the same book at the gym. I can choose to live a life that will have me on diabetes medication and testing my blood sugar twice a day for the rest of my life or I can choose to live a life that is medication free because I took action and can control my diabetes with diet and exercise. I can choose to focus on how my life would be if I were thin and consider all the things I haven't done or can't do because of my weight or I can choose to lose the weight and live the life I've only dreamed of. The CHOICE is mine. I choose to live.

What's that Lassie? Timmy's in the well?

I've witnessed filth the likes of which I have never seen. I haven't just witnessed it, but I've allowed it to move in. As you're aware I got myself a roommate. Well, not so much a roommate as a walking, talking reason for rubber gloves and bleach. To say that he is disgusting would be the understatement of the century, if not the millennium.

I try, with all my might, not to be made witness to his slovenly behavior, but sometimes I'm left with no alternative. For example, I opened his bathroom door to put a note on his mirror and was overcome with the most foul odor imaginable. He's got a bouquet all his own, that one. Let's see if I can describe it...sweaty shoes, dirty clothes, Irish Spring, old books, the natural funk of a gross boy, and the grime of not having cleaned that bathroom the entire time he's lived there. Voila! After I threw up in my mouth a little bit, I turned on the light. I peered in. Yeah, I'm NOT settin' foot in there. His sink, counter, and mirror were covered with shaving gel, toothpaste, garbage, toiletries, and blood. EW! I left the note on the outside of his door.



Then I had to go into his room. I've opened the door and tossed something in a time or two, but never went in because of all the clothes and garbage and whatever that is all over his floor. You quite literally can't see carpet. Well, he has recently decided that turning his alarm off if he's not going to be home isn't anything he has to do so 3 or 4 times now it has gone off without him there to turn it off. I listen to the beeping and try to gauge just how annoying it is. It gets progressively louder in case the owner of the clock is in a coma and didn't hear it for the first 15 seconds. It just kept beeping, and beeping, and beeping. Someone make it STOP!

Lola and I stood at the ready outside the door. I looked down at her and said, "I'm going in." She looked up as if equally fearful. I opened the door and looked in. Oh the agony of it all. I flipped on the light switch. Nothing. His lamp is apparently not plugged into the light switch. It was across the room. Since my night vision goggles were in the shop, I had to go in blind. I went in, hoping that Lola was in tune to her inner Lassie and that if I didn't make it back out she'd scratch her way out of the apartment and get help. She stood at the entrance of the room as I accomplished the mission, but I could just tell she was ready to provide backup.

Then there's just this last Sunday. I accidentally opened his kitchen cupboard because I'm used to my coffee grinder being in there. I go to close it in realization of my error and catch a glimpse of something unusual. Dishes. My dishes. In his cupboard. DIRTY! What the? Who does that? I put them in the sink and promptly wrote a note that pointed out his disgusting nature and told him to get out by the end of the month. Oh yeah, I did. He replied with a note saying that I would owe him $400 for moving costs if that was the case and said I needed to be more flexible and have I ever lived with anyone before as if his behavior is normal and I'm just unreasonable. I wrote back stating that I owe him nothing and he'll be moving by the end of the month or I would and he could finish out our lease on his own. Nothing else has been said.

I started to think maybe it was me. Maybe I'm just being impatient and making a big deal out of nothing. I decided I needed photographical evidence of which I speak so I can gauge my pettiness by other's reactions. I put Lola in her kennel. An innocent puppy need not be subjected to this. I got my camera and my rubber gloves. I said a prayer and I opened the door. Oh, sweet Jesus. I just snapped pictures left and right and got out as soon as I could. I loaded them on my computer and started to look at them. I felt dirty. I felt sick. I felt like crying. I emailed them to a friend. I emailed them to work. Today when I got to work I emailed them to more friends, to family, and almost to a priest so I could inquire about an exorcism. Apparently, I hadn't been clear when I said he was disgusting because everyone almost relived their breakfast.



I'm not sure which part was more disturbing. Could it be the small soap box on his counter that he's collecting his dirty Q-tips in? The blood on the counter that's mixed in with all the other dirt and grime? The toilet that I opened that revealed pink mold and stains and a smell that would make small children run crying to their mommies. No, I think it was the tub and the fact that the loofah he washes his body with every day sits by the drain in mold and funk.



This is another fine mess I've gotten myself into. My skin crawls at the mere sight of him so I've pretty much been hold up in my room anytime I'm home just so that I don't have to see him come through the door. Usually, though, he doesn't get home until I'm already in bed. Thank God for small miracles. Between this fiasco and family health issues, I've been a wee bit stressed. I didn't eat so very well this week, but fear not, I still managed a loss and am now at 29 pounds down. I refuse to let this freak of nature ruin what I've accomplished. I refuse to let him turn me into an eating machine again. He must go, or I must go, there's no alternative.

We interrupt this blog for important breaking news

This just in...

Fat girls can't play guitar. Well, they can, but it's gonna be one hell of a struggle. I mean, if your big belly and ginormous tatas aren't in the way making reaching the damn thing virtually impossible, then your fat frickin' fingers will make things like an E Major Triad a God damn circus act. How do I know? Because last week I got a guitar.

When I first broke out what seemed like an innocent string instrument from the bag with which it came I was naive to it's true colors. I knew nothing about the beast within and sat down to introduce myself and get to know each other. As I plucked at the strings and got a feel for things I quickly discovered that Mary had brought her little lamb and we put it away in a manger. I deemed myself a natural talent...a daggum prodigy. Five minutes in and I have 2 classics in my pocket. That night I put in the DVD that came with it and learned a couple chords. I'll be playing flamenco in no time.

My friends that play had warned me that my fingers would hurt until I built up "calluses." I was pickin' up what they were puttin' down. I was feelin' a little tenderness...a little numbness, but all was good. I was gettin' it. Holy fires of HELL did I underestimate the power of the E Major Triad. I couldn't do it. My DVD introduced it to me a half hour into my practice time tonight (I wanted to recap what I had already learned first) and it was at this very moment that I knew...Fender is just a code name for Beelzebub. Essentially, this chord requires you to have your second and third fingers on the 5th and 4th strings and your first finger on the 3rd string. My first finger couldn't keep it's girth off the second string and the fat on my palm was curling over hitting the first string. I didn't ONCE get it to sound right so I deemed guitar fat girl inappropriate and put it away.

I watched TV for about an hour and the more I thought about it the more it devastated me. Not only because I just spent money on a guitar I might never be able to play, but because I've been dying to play an instrument my entire life. My predominantly Dutch genes gave me more than freakishly large hands good for milking cows, it gave me an unparalleled stubbornness the likes you've never seen. I looked at my fingertips and said, "You're not bleeding so you must still have some fight left" and took the guitar back out. I got my fingers into position and pressed down. I plucked each string individually, blocking out the pain as I contorted myself as necessary to make that one string sound right. I got to the point where each string was in tune and not muted, took one good strum of Beelzebub and then held my fingers in place, pressing down hard, praying that God and muscle memory would be on my side the next time I tried to play it. I took my cramped hand from the neck of the guitar and tried to straighten my fingers. I decided it was no use and just let my lifeless digits fall to the side to rest. Once, at least I got it ONCE. A few minutes later I tried it again and got it once more. Then I tried the A Major Triad and got it a time or two. It was at this point that I determined that, though not bloody, my fingers had nothing left to give.

B.B. King has Lucille and I've got Beelzebub. I got that thing with the intention of not allowing myself to get lessons until I reached my 10%. Because I'm so close to that, I changed it and I am now planning to get lessons when my scale says 299. I haven't been 299 since my 27th birthday. I'll play it every day and ache to be better. I'll have my friends play it or go see bands play to stay motivated. I will reach 299 and I will get my lessons. Stiff, numb, and what I'm sure will be permanently indented by the strings, my fingers have taken one for the team to prove to me that, though difficult, this fat girl will play guitar. You might as well get my autograph now.

We now return you to your regularly scheduled blog.

Sometimes life just gets in the way

I hope the plethora of posts you were pummeled with was enough to hold you over for a while. It would appear that life got in the way of the freakishly up-to-date posting habit I had going on for a while. So, here I am to make you abreast of any noteworthy situations.

I am now a brunette. Tis true. I decided I was in need of a change from the light brown with blonde highlights I was sporting. In an attempt to pinch pennies I somehow got it in my head that color was something I could now do myself. After work one day I went to the grocery store, went to the appropriate aisle, and just stared at all the options before me. Now, other than feeling like switching things up entirely by going dark, I only had 3 real pressing bits of criteria. 1. I do NOT want my hair to be any shade of orange, 2. I do not want my hair to fall out, and 3. I do not want my scalp to burn like the fires of hell. I think it helps when venturing into this sort of thing not to have especially high hopes so, high hopes I had none. Here's where I got REAL brave. I got permanent color. Seriously!

I've only colored my hair at home once before and my sister did it. That's how I know that I'd rather my hair not be any shade of orange. Once I got it all done, rinsed, conditioned and wrapped up in a towel I kinda postponed actually looking at it. Not so much out of fear, but more so just the plain excitement of looking different for a change. I've looked the same way, with the exception of hair length, for so long that this was very cool to me and I wanted it to last.


I eventually stepped back into the bathroom and took the towel off my head. I looked in the mirror and I'm pretty sure my jaw hit the floor. It's like I'm a completely different person. My hair is always dark when it's wet so I quickly broke out the hair drier. It barely phased it. I now have dark hair and when the light shines on it there's even a hint of red. I dig it. I also cut it (not myself, I’m not a crazy person). It was to the middle of my back and is now resting nicely on my shoulders. It’s flippy and layered and I have a hint of bangs now. We’ll try it out for a while, but I might be growing it back out.


I got a tattoo. I know. That's about the speed at which I ripped that bandaide off for my mom, too. It's less painful that way. I don't know your opinion on tattoos, but I love them and this was my first. It was my reward for losing 25 pounds. My parents are anti-tat, but my sister forced them to warm up to the idea when she started getting them years ago. She first got a little daisy on her ankle. When I asked mom what she thought of it she sternly said, "Tattoos are for sailors and whores." I said, "Well, mom, she's not a sailor."


When choosing my first tattoo I opted to get something that would pay tribute to my Dutch heritage as well as my grandpa that passed away all the while lessening any whorish labels from my mother. I got (down by my ankle on the outside of my leg) a wooden shoe, tulip, and the word "pake" (which means grandpa in Friese). When I reach the 50 pound mark I will be adding another tulip and a windmill. When I told mom about it she actually laughed and when she told dad he laughed, too. I think I managed to elude whore status.

I have a roommate. This is far more painful than the tattoo, I assure you. Oh, how to describe him. Imagine if you will the perfect roommate. Clean, responsible, considerate, quiet, mature. Someone you can actually be friends with and hang out with. Someone you thank God for every day. Now picture that roommate's complete polar opposite and you have my roommate. At this point, all I'm really thanking God for is that he hasn't yet killed me in my sleep.

He has even caused me to consider never getting married because I fear that his slobbish and inconsiderate nature isn't a random occurance, but more so a specific gene typically present in the male species. I can't live with a slob. I've only lived with this tool for a month and it is no longer a question of IF I'll ask him to get out, but WHEN. Every time I think I can hang on for a couple more months he does something else (like slamming Lola's head in the door last night) that makes me want to kick him in the nuts and shove him out the door screaming "Once I fumigate and have disease control give the all clear, I'll send you your things."

The thought of getting a DIFFERENT roommate has crossed my mind as this is all to try and get a house, but I don't think I can cope. I don't think Lola can cope. As a first step to cutting back on my spending I cut off my home phone (I'll just use my cell) and dropped my cable down to the bare minimum. Now, that in and of itself doesn't sound so bad, but dropping my cable down meant I had to give my DVR back. Any of you that have DVR or Tivo or the like know how that pained me. I almost offered to give my first born or my left tata in it's stead. I've come to rely on my DVR far too much. Every time Lola needs out (which averages about every 20 minutes in the summer) I just hit pause and come back to my show gaining the ability to fast forward through the commercials. Two shows on at the same time? No problem. I could watch one while the other recorded. Oh the agony of it all. Don't ANYONE call when my shows are on. I can no longer pause live tv. WAHHHHHHH!

So there you have it. The latest on multiple fronts. Nothing too exciting. I'm just a tattoo'd brunette whore with a roommate I can't kill cuz it might interfere with my shows. Over and out.

Tiny made me his bitch

I'm awe struck. I'm almost scared to type the next sentence for fear it will jinx me, but it must be said. My relationship to food has changed (knocking on wood, or is it Formica dressed up like wood?). For the last few weeks I have had the stress level of a homophobic man in prison and this weekend, well, let's just say Tiny made me his bitch. My stomach was in knots most of the weekend and by Saturday evening I was about to lose it. Lola could tell things weren't kosher and when I came into the room she was just sitting on the couch shaking. I sat next to her, scored a snuggle, and cried.

The reasons for my stress aren't important to this entry. What is important is that I didn't binge. I didn't turn to food for comfort. Normally, Taco Bell and I would have spent all weekend together having a freakishly unhealthy affair and I probably would have had another threesome with Ben & Jerry. I did not deviate from the plan, people. The most I did was go to McDonald's and have a small vanilla cone (one on Friday and one on Saturday), but they are only 3 of my WW points and I had the budget for them. This isn't just huge, it's ginormous.

I don't know what brought about this change in me, but bravo to whatever it was. Even in the past, in the beginning of this journal when I was doing well, I wasn't this in control. I still had unplanned binges brought about by stress or emotions. I still struggled often to keep things in check. It's like I now have my very own Jason Bourne whispering in my ear saying "Stay to the left. Ok, there's a Taco Bell 20 meters ahead on the right, take a left here. OK, duck through this door, now wait. The ice cream truck is passing. Wait. Wait." and when I suggest that I know what I'm doing and want to make a break for it he puts me in check by screaming "STOP!!! It's not safe! That burrito will go straight to your ass!" (you HAVE to see Bourne Ultimatum...you'll know what I'm talking about) I really hope this is a lasting change and not just a fluke. I hope that my very own Jason Bourne keeps me on the straight and narrow, although, it would be nice if he occasionally pointed out how hot I look too.

School is back in session

Today I'm trading in my witty writer hat and busting out the old school marm garb. My glasses are on, the bun is sufficiently tight...let's get educated. What's the lesson you might inquire? PLATEAUS!

It happens to almost everyone, no matter the weight loss program you choose, and it has happened to me in the past. This time I'll be prepared to trudge on and break through to the other side by having listed, right here, everything I've learned. Will it work? I don't know. Even if these suggestions don't work for me, there's a chance they'll work for someone else so I shall proceed as planned.

Note: I am not a nutrition expert; I don't even play one on TV. These are just my thoughts and advice from personal experiences or conversations with others...carry on.

Here is what I've learned to be true from both my numerous attempts at WW and from what my trainer has told me. YOU HAVE TO EAT. That's why the new points system WW has, though scary to most, still makes sense to me. It's allowing us to eat more than it has in the past and people are having a tough time comprehending how you can lose weight and eat MORE. Your body only shows losses for so long when you start cutting back its food. After a while it's going to slow your metabolism and hang on to the food you give it. The body is phenomenal and it adapts. You have to keep it guessing and never let it get too comfortable. You have to feed it so that it never feels like you are starving and that it needs to kick into survival mode. After a few weeks, maybe months, your body is going to be a well oiled machine and it is going to efficiently use every nutritious thing you give it. It will even more effectively use the NON-nutritious things you give it. Anyone that's been eating healthy for a while knows, eat crap and you'll feel sick. You're body has re-learned what isn't good for it and it tries to purge it from your system.

On the note of "keep your body guessing," here are my suggestions:

Don't do the same exercises week after week. If you've been riding the bike for a few weeks, switch and do treadmill or elliptical (if you can, I can't). If you've been casually walking on the treadmill then up the speed, up the incline, make it harder. If you've been lifting weights then change machines, lift differently.

Don't eat the same foods all the time. It's easy to get in the routine of eating the same things every day because you know the points/calories and it's easy, but you're body can get entirely too used to that too. If you do the same job every day, don't you just start going through the motions? If you drive the same route every day, haven't you ever ended up at your destination and not remembered half the trip? Toss in a new task to your day or an extra errand on that route and you have to think and act differently. Eat something different and your body has to do the same thing.

If you are exercising more you should be drinking more. 64 oz of water is the minimum for an average adult at rest. When you exercise ESPECIALLY IN THE SUMMER you need far more water than that. My trainer wants me drinking at least 100oz a day...working out or not.

Have a cheat day! I'm not saying eat whatever you want all day long, one meal perhaps. There was a lady at one of my past meeting locations who had lost over 100 pounds and had kept it off for 5 or so years (I've referenced her in another post). When they asked her how she'd break plateaus she said she'd eat fat. She'd have a big ol' burger or whatever she was missing and shake things up.

So there you have it. Not very entertaining as far as posts go, but hopefully I scored points for informative.

It's a daggum tragedy

I am wearing my favorite jeans today and it makes me sad (you know, the jeans that miraculously fit me a few entries ago). How is that a tragedy? Because now they're too BIG for me. I'm in no way giving up on them just yet, but it won't be long. I can't even buy time with a belt because they have no belt loops and I'm pretty sure I can't pull off the suspenders look (nor should anyone try save for hot men in suits where it might be considered appropriate) so, their days are numbered. I can, if motivated, pull them down without unbuttoning or unzipping them and they are dragging on the ground because as you lose weight your clothes get longer from not having been stuffed to the gills.

They're super cozy, but I'm left pulling them up all the time. What's worse is, when I climb the stairs with my hands full, I feel them slipping ever so slightly lower with each step. I'm left at a veritable crossroads at this point because only part of me hopes they'll stay up long enough for me to free my hands of clutter. The other part? Oh come on, how awesome would that be to have your jeans just fall right off due to weight loss. Sure, they'll laugh, they'll stare, they might even ridicule you, but I'm pretty sure you'll be over it pretty quickly and be basking in the glory of your super huge jeans. It's at this moment, though, that your mother's sage advice of making sure your undies are in check would come into play. Oh, and the Europeanesque legs probably would NOT be too kosher in most circles, so lets keep things tidy ladies, shall we?

Sadly, this isn't the only pair of pants I'm struggling with. I had a pair of black jeans that were made of a stretchy demin and, alas, they were worn well past their expiration date. I finally had to cut the legs off and make tug toys for Lola. Even worse, a brand new pair of capris that didn't fit before are on the verge of falling down now. Good thing it's summer. I can wear the heck out of them for another couple months and then make my peace with their departure.

Woes me, that frickin' ROCKS! Are you kidding me? I'm 24 pounds down as of today (based on the home scale anyway) and do NOT consider this complaining. It's just sad to blaze through clothes that have been there for you through the fat times. Through all the ice cream, gelato, and Taco Bell runs. Through all the friction caused by my thighs rubbing together.

Tonight, after my WW meeting, I will reintroduce myself to various other members of my wardrobe that I've not spent much time with lately. I will hopefully find a few old friends willing to rekindle what we once had. If not, it's ok. I will just give them a few weeks and reapproach. I won't give up. Not this time.

Side order of perspective, please!

I'm convinced that Nicole Richie weighs an estimated 80 pounds. That, of course, being when she's chalk full of bling, lathered in tanning oil, sporting sunglasses that cover her entire upper cranium, and carrying the latest in kick dog fashion. Do I have any desire to look like her? H, to the E, to the HELL NO! Looking like I'm fresh out of Auschwitz might score me a primo seat in Hollywood, but it's just a hint of creepy in my opinion.

I will, however, use her to help you gain perspective on what I'm trying to accomplish. The aforementioned weight estimate being true, I have to lose 2.5 Nicole Richies to even be in the same neighborhood as a healthy weight range. Two and a half people, albeit, abnormally small people, but two and a half people nonetheless. That being said, bitch better pack her bags. I'm 2 weeks into makin' a strong come back and have 3 primo motivators for following through.

1. I'm getting a roommate. Thus far it looks as though it will be a guy. Like I'm really gonna belly up to a pint of Ben & Jerry's with a guy sitting there watching me. I will probably hit the gym all the time to impress him, regardless of whether or not I even like him, just because I don't want to be the fat girl chillin' on the couch. He has actually suggested going to the gym with me. Sweet! A work out buddy.

2. My clothes are starting to fit better and I'm starting to get rid of old stuff that I have no business wearing anymore. That, and I have hand me downs that others shrank out of that I've never worn and need to make room by throwing away obese girl clothes.

3. Probably the most important motivator on the list. My friend has a time share in Tahiti, or her parent's do rather, and we are planning to go in about a year. She's mentioned it before and I deemed it impossible in a hurry. Me, in Tahiti? Me, on a tropical beach? Are you kidding me? Well, I'm gonna do it!

Now, said friend dives. So does said potential roommate. I have told him that he has 1 year to turn me into a diver so that I can experience the total package when I'm playing island girl. Latest poles would suggest that big girls don't dive. I must remedy the situation by no longer being a big girl. I must lose a ritchie and a half before the trip.

There's gold in them there hills

In this case, gold equals cheesecake and hills equals kitchen. Mmmmm Cheesecake. I won't cave! I musn't cave! I'm going to probably weigh in this afternoon because I can't make my meeting tomorrow. I can't go get on a scale after eating cheesecake for crying out loud.

I'm being confronted by one diet conflict after another. Did George W. just win presidency over my weight loss attempt because it's just one battle after another. It's WAR...but so far I'm winning. My first week back on the WW bus had me battling a cocktail party and a company picnic. The second week offered bagels and cake in the lunch room, brunch and gelato with my sister, and now frickin' cheesecake. What's in store for the third week? Girl's Night Out at a mexican restaurant and a surprise birthday party for my cousin. There's also the possibility of lunch with a potential roommate. Yowza!

Fast forwarding to post meeting weigh in.

I chugged a LOT of water this morning. I was floatin' boats all mornin' long. I decided to go to a 12:15 meeting instead of catching one after work. I thought I sufficiently handled the water issue before driving over, but I had to go again by the time I got there. Alas, I didn't have time. I took my chances and got on that scale anyway. Result? Down 3 more pounds. That's 8 in the last two weeks. Cheesecake be damned!

Clean up on aisle 6

cuz I could pee myself I'm so stoked. Aisle 6 just happens to be at my front door. Confused yet? Good, I'll explain. I just got my first online grocery delivery. Oh yeah, I'm hooked. It's easy like Sunday morning, Baby, and I just might never go back. I'll save my grocery ventures for the hip and happenin' joints like Trader Joes, Whole Foods & Wild Oats.

I'd been wanting to try this rumored online grocery shopping experience and investigated the services of the grocery store I do most of my shopping at. Delivery prices seemed beyond reasonable (first delivery was even free) and when you account for my time and gas money, I almost feel like I should pay them more. I'm not doing this out of laziness if that's what you're thinking, although, it did save me like 4 trips up and down those stairs.

When I go grocery shopping 3 things usually happen. I wander back and forth looking for things and wasting lots of my time, I grab things I wouldn't have thought to get simply because I see it thus resulting in spending WAY more money than anticipated, and I often lose the battle when trying to stay away from the ice cream isle or an equally daunting distant cousin.

Here's the best part. I was just minding my own business, cleaning and reorganizing, when the thunk thunk thunk of a dolly making it's way down my stairs rang in my ears. I ran to the door, opened it, and there he was. My cute delivery boy, er, man. After signing and watching him bring in all my groceries, all that was left for me to do was to check to make sure I had everything and put it away. I pulled all of the stuff out of the bags and layed it on the counter. Mounds and mounds of produce and healthy goodness. Nothing I didn't plan on getting and nothing I would feel guilty for eating later. I grinned ear to ear as I put it away. It took me, what, 10 minutes? I have very little joy in my life people, you're gonna have to give me this one. When I'm thin and rich and wondering what to do with all my free time don't come crying to me for the website info. I'm going to go bask in the glory of my effortlessly well-stocked fridge now.

Missing link

Paper links to be exact. Once upon a diet I started a paper chain and added a link for every pound lost. It helped me really see the progress I was making. For some reason I just can't get a grasp on it without visual aides. I've carried around something that weighed the amount of weight I'd lost and that helps, but for a quick visual aid you just can't go wrong with a paper chain. That diet was sabotaged long ago and the links since thrown away, but a few months ago I had started another one. When all of my yo-yoing started I stopped paying much attention to said chain.

This evening I was working on reorganizing to make room for a roommate and noticed the sad and neglected paper chain hanging on the wall. I had stopped at 10 links and never bothered to update as I struggled with every pound. I wasn't wholly confident that I wouldn't just be taking links off again. I use colorful scrapbook paper cut into little 6 x 1/2 inch strips and staple them together to let the length speak volumes for my progress. When you only have a couple links it all seems kind of silly.

I pulled that little chain from the wall to move it to my bedroom, right next to my closet, so that every morning when I go to get dressed I am reminded of what it is I'm to accomplish for the day. Before hanging it up I decided it was time to update it. I should be down over 20 pounds by my next weigh in so I optimistically added another 10 links. After adding the last link, I picked it up off the desk and held it up. Wow. 20 pounds IS so much more impressive than 10. I hung it up and stepped back to look at it.

1 pound in the grand scheme of things seems like nothing. 1 pound is not going to get me to my goal fast enough. I always strive for the 3 or 4 pound losses because in my head THAT is progress. That is me getting to my end result. But look at that chain. It's riddled with 1 pound loss after 1 pound loss. Just a link at a time and now it's a couple feet, if not three feet, long. I have to stop fixating on the length of the journey and simply focus on the journey itself. If I can just take it one day at a time, one pound at a time, one meal at a time...I will get there.

Oops, I did it again

It's no secret that I haven't lost anymore weight. I've been back and forth between a 16 and 18 pound loss more than Paris Hilton has been in and out of jail. I haven't been going crazy, but I definitely haven't paid enough attention to what I've been eating. Let's discuss why...shall we?

I am financially challenged. By the time I pay bills, I don't have much left for grocery money. I have proven time and time again that I do my best at this when I have a fridge chalk full of options and options I've been a lackin' lately. So how do I plan to remedy this? A roommate (God, help me). I signed up for this online roomie findin' service and don't have anyone YET, but hopefully will soon. That will give me oodles of extra money for groceries...just less room in my fridge. I was looking for a McJob to do on evenings and weekends, but I really don't think that's gonna work for me. I have a dog that would never see the light of day and a home business I'd never have time for. Just when would I hit the gym and prepare healthy meals if I was working a good 70 hours a week? When would I have fun? When would I go to my Weight Watchers meetings?

That's right, I've done it again. Last night I attended my first (part, like, six) Weight Watchers meeting. I'm giving it yet another go. In the past I have typically quit because of those very same financial reasons. Not only would said roomie help me find the money for my meetings, but WW also has different payment plans now. A once a month payment option that makes the meetings cheaper per meeting as well as removing the hassle of having to pay every week. I didn't always HAVE the money by the time the next meeting roled around.

The hour before the meeting I had butterflies. I don't know why. I'd been through the joining process entirely too many times. I know the program. I was still nervous. Then I got on the scale and realized why. I must have subconsciously known that I would suddenly be 11 pounds heavier. ELEVEN people. That GOD DAMN (sorry) scale weighs me ELEVEN pounds heavier than the one at home. That's just asanine. I expected a pound or two difference, but I was NOT ready for that. I had even intentionally eaten a huge lunch, drank a bunch of water on the way over, left my shoes on, and put my keys and cell phone in my pocket to try and get my starting weight with them as close to where I had REALLY started so it would be a true reflection of how far I've come. Well, at this place you can't see the number when you step on the scale. Had I seen it I'd have been like, "Woah, Nelly, lemme take my shoes off and OOPS my keys and cell seem to still be in my pocket. Oh, and let me go to the bathroom first." It had me weighing in at 365.2. I know!! That's 5.2 heavier than when i restarted.

I had a moment of "Holy Shit." when I sat down and read what she had written. I knew I had eaten a lot. I knew I was bloated. I knew all the things that could have contributed to the number, but not THAT number. That was painful. When I got home I got on my scale wearing and carrying all the same things. I had multiple thoughts race through my head. 1. Wow, that number was a lot lower this morning when I was naked and had an empty belly. 2. OK, thank God there is a drastic difference and I haven't really gained that much weight and then 3. What the F$%@? 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, what the, 6, 7, 8, you gotta be, 9, 10, ELEVEN? Ouch!

I don't know what I'm going to do about the scale differences, but I do know that I have to make a go of it this time. I don't think I've ever lasted long enough to get ALL of the information they pass out to you. I think it's the first 10 weeks that they give you new program info at every weigh in. I think I've made it to 9. How sad is that? I could be mistaken, but it's not likely. I know for a fact I've never made it to the 16 week mark when you get a lil recognition charm. I'm lame. Maybe I have commitment issues. Either that or a fear of success. With my luck, it's probably both. So, while I figure out which weight I'm going by, route for my success at not being a WW drop out again.