The Fitness Disease

A little over four years ago, I weighed about 130 pounds.  Most of my adult life I had spent hovering between 120 and 130.  I wasn't in the greatest athletic shape, but I was skinny.  I had a flat stomach.  My legs were strong.  I would walk for miles, run a little bit, do endless crunches if I wanted to.  I didn't do much to stay in shape, but I never had to worry about it much.  Whatever calories I put in got burned because my metabolism was high, and I was relatively healthy.  Body maintenance was the furthest thing from my mind for the entirety of my life because I was one of those lucky people that didn't have to focus on it.  I was one of those people that I now absolutely despise and want to punch in their stupid faces every time I see them. 

When I see those people, I always think to myself "your day will come..." but, maybe it won't.  Because 4 years ago, I also gave birth to a cute little baby boy who hadn't learned how to talk back or run away or color all over his face with marker yet, and while I wouldn't trade him for anything, I seem to have completely lost my body's identity in the process.  For some ridiculous reason, I expected to go pretty much back to my original shape, other than maybe larger hips, after childbirth.  I didn't gain much while pregnant.  He wasn't underweight, but wasn't a large child.  I didn't even get any stretch marks.  Not a one! (Sorry ladies.)  I knew that for a little while after birth, my stomach wouldn't be quite in its original glory, but I had this completely unfounded belief that it would eventually just go back to exactly the way it was before and I could go on about my life.  

What the fuck was wrong with me?

The thing about pregnancy and childbirth is that it does a whole lot more to your body than just make it slightly larger, and create a small whiny thing that frequently hangs off your hip.  It slows your metabolism.  It changes your hormones FOR LIFE.  It can right a lot of wrongs, but it can definitely wrong a lot of rights, too.  Gone were the days of eating an entire bag of Doritos with absolutely nothing to show for it.  It took me about 365 days to catch on to this fact, and then the real struggle ensued.  

Now I know that weight loss is a hard thing in general, no matter who you are, male or female or 15 or 50, mom or non-mom (wtf is that?)...but this journey for me has been probably the most frustrating, long, drawn out processes of my entire life.  Maybe you can identify, maybe you can't, but I feel I need to take a stand for all the people facing the "what's your excuse?" question on a daily basis, as if they have to explain themselves to society for being overweight or out of shape.  You need to put that out of your mind, because you don't have to explain yourself to anybody but yourself.  There are a million things standing in the way of one person and their healthy weight.  There is nothing but a couple of pizzas ordered over a month's time standing in the way of one person becoming something they really don't want to be.  And with weight problems comes a whole lot more than just feeling unattractive.  It comes with a stigma.  It comes with joint and bone problems.  It comes with pain and a neverending cycle of reasons to stay the heck away from physical activity - not due to laziness but due to how excruciating it can be, and downright dangerous in some situations.  It comes with more than just feeling sad about not being your best, but rather a deep self loathing that manifests in all kinds of self destructive ways.  It comes with fear.  And the struggle really never ends for anybody.  I'll share mine with you all and you may feel free to take what you like from it, and share yours as well.

Once it dawned on me that my extra weight wasn't going away by itself, I went the traditional route.  I got some workout DVDs and I ate a little better.  I put myself on a daily regimen of Jillian Michaels, and I felt good.  I felt accomplished, I had more energy, I woke up in the morning feeling less groggy and less achy.  I gained some muscle.  But I never lost any weight.  My midsection never changed even after months of busting my ass every day.  I still enjoyed it, so I planned to stick with it, but then I went on vacation.  I fell out of the groove, ate greasy southern food, came back home and got horribly depressed about it.  I could not take the routine I'd built for myself at home with me to another place and keep it going.  I clearly did not break through the barrier from daily routine addition to complete lifestyle change.  I did a lot of crying.

A few months later I joined a gym.  I even paid for the first month with a trainer.  It was nice to get out of the house every day and pound away on the treadmill or the elliptical, yoga classes, weight training, all that good stuff.  I never fancied myself a gym-going person.  I hate people.  I hate working out in front of people.  I am not "frighteningly passionate about spinach salads" (i.e. The Oatmeal) - although I DO like spinach salads in their own right, but not for health reasons, just because I like them.  But once I got there and realized that every single person in there was in the same boat.  Nobody watched you.  Everybody probably felt the same way.  We all just kept our eyes on the silent TV monitors while we sweated, and that was good.  The problem?  Childcare.  There was an in-house daycare, but it cost too much.  Not only did it cost more than I had, but you had to pre-pay a week in advance for your child to get in there.  Once my membership expired, I had at least $20 floating for childcare that I had not used, nor would I.  Needless to say, I didn't go back.  The results from the experience, other than the short 45 minute break I got from life, were less than stellar.  I lost no pounds.  45 minutes to an hour of constant workout 6 days a week for over three months - not one pound.

I had my thyroid checked.  Normal.  

I quit workouts for a while.  I became a spokesperson for not giving a shit for a while, actually.  Don't tell me I can't eat that cake.  I'm gonna eat that goddamn cake because fuck you and your standards.  My (now) husband swore he didn't have a problem with my body.  I did, but I was ignoring it.  Who else was there to impress?  

Then two things happened...one: I started feeling like crap again.  Every day.  Backaches and headaches and exhaustion and a general blah feeling that never went away.  I was okay with a totally sedentary lifestyle.  My job is in front of a computer.  My son was only just walking, and spent a lot of time in one spot.  I didn't even really have to chase him around.  I watched a lot of television and spent most of my days from morning to night in a big comfy chair.  And from night to morning, I'd be in bed.  Any shape I'd gained was lost.  Any weight I'd lost was gained.  And then I realized that I did have somebody to impress, besides myself and my husband - my kid.  I did not want to sit there and get fatter and more unhealthy by the day, and drive him to school in 1st grade and be that gross mom that couldn't even walk him up the steps without wheezing.  I saw my future, and saw how he would look at me, and I didn't like it.  

So the awful cycle of motivate-success-deterrent-discourage-debilitate-motivate etc....began again.

I started with a stricter diet.  Raw food and gluten free diets made me feel great, but I couldn't afford them.  

I did Weight Watchers for a while, which I did think was helpful, but during the long stint of depression and self sabotaging behavior, I had developed a pretty big addiction to wine - among other alcoholic beverages, but mostly wine.  Next to beer, pretty much the worst drink for somebody trying to get in shape.  I tried to stop drinking it, but about a week or two into the WW program, a friend brought over some wine and I was completely unable to limit myself to the one allotted glass.  We killed the whole bottle.

And then we ordered a pizza.

Now, seeing as I'd worsened my weight problem among other health problems and also picked up alcoholism as a fun pastime, you'd think I'd give up and quit right there, but no, this actually motivated me to pick up the physical activity again, and step up my game even harder.  I was doing several workout DVDs a day, pretty much killing myself, likely as penance for ruining my body in the first place, and I wound up with shin splints within a week.  

Anybody who has ever had shin splints can tell you that they are most unpleasant.  No, more than unpleasant.  Hardcore workouts are unpleasant.  Shin splints are debilitating.  You cannot walk.  I had to hop around with ace bandages on both my legs for weeks.  I had to go to my doctor's office where everybody who works there takes stupid pills before they show up to work each day.  I was out of commission.  To add insult to injury, as soon as the shin splints started getting better, I broke my toe.  Badly.  Then not only was I unable to run and jump, but I was unable to hobble or hop.  I was on crutches.  Working out was out of the question.  

THEN the next bout of hopelessness set in.  But by then, we were getting ready to move.  I got my exercise by packing and moving boxes, and the fridge and cupboards were bare.  We ate what we could to get rid of stuff, and all thoughts of my physique went out the window for the time being.  I made myself a promise I'd leave all my bad habits behind when we moved.  

That didn't happen.  

I did, however, start a new workout regimen once we got settled.  This time it was stopped by chest pains.  I have a rare heart condition.  I was born with it.  It was fixed in a surgery, but likely only temporarily.  It came with a complication of being in an area that was a tricky fix.  There was no guarantee it wouldn't recur, and if it did, it could be deadly.  Needless to say, chest pains are not my idea of a good time.  Strenuous workouts were out.  They're still out.  I needed a booster. 

Then came the pills.  You name it I've been on it.  Herbal supplements.  Caffeine supplements.  Energy boosters.  Vitamins.  Thyroid boosters.  Stupid diet pills that guarantee to make you skinny while you sit on your lazy ass watching television.  Do I even have to say how these products worked?  Good. 

Finally, today, with my wedding approaching, and being no better off for all the work I've done and all the psychological trauma I've been through over the last three years, I decided on the one diet that I know for a FACT works - I just had avoided it because it is not the healthiest way to lose weight.  It is, however, the fastest.  Atkins.  

Many people I know have had great successes with this diet.  The results have been proven time and time again and the studies show that its not dangerous to force your body into a state of controlled ketosis via a high protein diet.  Being allowed up to 20 grams of carbohydrates a day, four days in, I'm down three pounds.  And this morning when the ketosis fully hit me, I lost all my motor functions.  Apparently there haven't been any studies on the effects of self induced ketosis on patients with chronically low blood sugar, and if they'd pay for my lipo in order to be a study subject, I'd be much obliged.  Unfortunately there was only me.  Me and lots of tears when I literally crawled to the kitchen, ate a handful of raspberries and a half a slice of bread while sitting on my kitchen floor, sobbing over what a failure I was.  It wasn't that I couldn't stick to it.  It wasn't even that hard.  It was just that every single thing I've ever tried to do has come with some setback that has been out of my control, and made it impossible to continue long enough to be successful.  I mean look at my history!  I enjoy working out - insurmountable and/or dangerous physical obstacles.  I enjoy eating healthy foods - way too expensive.  I'm okay with eating almost nothing but protein for two weeks - fucking ketosis.  I'm okay with taking a couple of herbal capsules every day - absolute worthless bullshit.  Where's the answer? 

I guess there isn't one.  I don't have a happy conclusion to this entry.  This isn't a success story.  This isn't a tale of how my struggles all ended up paying off in the end.  This is however something I'd be willing to bet money that millions of people worldwide have experienced.  I know that there ARE success stories, but if you're beating yourself up over your weight problems, you need to realize that in order for things to work out the way you want them to, a whole lot of circumstances have to align perfectly.  It doesn't mean that you should give up.  I'm not quitting either.  My next plan of attack is low impact exercises with very little cardio, continuing to cut carbs but not as much as I'd been previously, eating my veggies (that's never been a problem) taking occasional walks, and all while trying whatever newfangled whoblada extract comes out next in capsule form.  I'll get healthy or die trying.  But more important than any of that is that in the meantime, I've got to put a whole lot more focus on seeing my goals, my progress, and my strengths.  The battle with our own bodies is never won.  

Our results directly mirror how we see ourselves, and unfortunately I've spent the majority of the last three years seeing myself as a horrible blob that fails at every attempt at health and fitness.  I've spent it all looking in the mirror and wondering what the hell happened to that skinny girl that never had to give a second thought to diet or exercise, never counted a calorie, never mapped the length of a walk.  Worrying that it will get worse with the other children that we plan to have, or if I'll finally succeed just in time to ruin it all with another pregnancy.  Wishing I could just lay down and die and not be fat anymore.  

The only saving grace about this epic battle of me vs. myself is that while I (probably) can't just take a magic pill and be old-skinny-me overnight, I can change the way I think about the me that I'm stuck with.  And maybe if I can gain control of my mind, I'll be able to finally take control of the rest of it.  Self worth should not be defined by the number you see on your bathroom scale.  But I'm not gonna tell you that you're alone for defining it that way.  Almost everybody does, on some level.  Its a very hard thing to break, but maybe it should be the first thing we break, before we break ourselves.

Interestingly enough, since I have no idea how to work technology, and my new Android based phone is linked to all things Google, in order for me to get cool wallpapers of my own photos, etc on my phone, I have to upload them here.  Pay no attention to me whilst I dump my recent pictures onto this blog post.

Nothing to see here...

Life Is An Ashtray, But Sometimes Tomatoes Happen.

I managed to snare about 25 whole minutes to myself on a day that had become so chemically induced dreary that I found myself comparing my life matter of factly to the rain soaked and blackened cigarette butts in the outdoor ashtray, and I used it to go grocery shopping.  It really seemed like nothing could make me feel normal, from the moment I woke up, and continuing on even into the words I'm typing, and that's fairly normal in itself for me.  I refuse to call it mental illness because I'm not drooling on myself or throwing cats at the neighborhood children, but its certainly something, a Whatever it is, capital W, that I've had lurking throughout my life.  Its not depression.  And contrary to the catch-all phrase I've used most of the time in order to convince doctors to give me the drugs that worked, its really not anxiety either.  I haven't had a true anxiety attack in years, and many years before that, and so on.  I don't particularly enjoy the company of other human beings but I wouldn't call it social anxiety so much as disliking the pressure of having to remain interesting longer than my fleeting potentially interesting thoughts.  And the energy it takes to put those thoughts into words and then say them out loud to other people?  Not typically worth it.  My particular Whatever it is likes to specialize in rage and self depreciating paranoia, to a degree that makes for some entertaining thoughts once I'm done UN-convincing myself that bizarre imagined events are not, in fact, actually happening.  I don't know if there's a good med for that, but I do know that if there is, I don't want it. In fact, I've been un-medicated for almost two months now and even though it brought the percentage of days per month where I was a fully functioning member of society down about 50%, I'd say that's pretty marginal compared to the reward I feel when I manage to logic myself out of a bout of pending bat-shit-crazy-insanity, all on my own.

Before leaving for my blessed 25 minutes of kid free store time, I was out on the deck smoking a cigarette inside of what is probably one of the sunniest days I've seen all summer, with a sky way bluer than I've seen in my entire life, bluer than photoshop, and I was wondering if it was not some kind of ominous omen of horrible things to come.  And I stopped on the way in to dump the aforementioned water soaked and blackened ashtray and my head involuntarily said to me "that ashtray is like your life."  It amused me, because I knew it couldn't be true, that my life was actually pretty good, but there's a part of my brain that says things it knows it shouldn't say but says them anyway just to piss me off.  When I came back in, I saw Vincent laying on the floor playing with his toys and his eyes were reflecting a fairly similar blue to the photoshop blue, and I thought this is when any functioning person would think to themselves "..and then I saw my beautiful child's beautiful blue eyes and everything was just alright again," but that didn't really happen.   I love my child the very most, like mothers are supposed to do, but despite how pretty his little blue eyes are, more often than not, his loud trumps my quiet, and there's not any serenity to be obtained in looking at him.  So instead, that stupid brainvoice that's usually louder than logic, laughs at me and says "yeah, but you still suck."  

I got myself into the car, and Frank started playing.  Usually Sinatra is a pretty good bet when it comes to cheering up, but like I said, I'm not depressed.  I wasn't sad, I was just Whatever (the capitalized kind), and while my ears were perfectly happy to hear my CD start up, most of the pleasure I get that's derived from music is the act of singing along with it and reassuring myself that I can indeed still sing in tune despite about ten years of being a cigarette smoker.  And I really didn't feel like singing.

I did, though, park open windowed next to an elderly woman putting her groceries into her car, and turn up The Girl from Ipanema so that she could possibly be reminded of her childhood.  Maybe its a stereotype to think that old ladies all like Frank Sinatra, sort of like all black people like fried chicken, but I happen to like both Frank Sinatra and fried chicken (and I'm neither old nor black), and if those are the gifts I have to give, it doesn't hurt anybody to try and offer them.

I intercepted a cart being returned by a very regular looking middle aged suburban mom type looking woman, and was absolutely shocked at the happiness and volume that came out of my mouth when I smiled and said "I'll take that!"  And then I proceeded to follow the funeral procession through the doors, around the bend, and into the store, both ahead of and behind other people with the same shopping cart, entering and exiting just like every other person on any other day, and I was just taking notice of the organic mustards and garlic marinade stand that was strategically placed so that barbecuers alike could grab them on the way in, wondering to myself if I had yet become the organic mustard and garlic marinade type of person, when I saw Them.

Them with a capital T - and They were right in front of my path to the mediocre and boring items on my shopping list, like chicken and cereal bars and milk and eggs and prepackaged salad mix because I was too lazy to pay ten times less for a head of lettuce and break it apart myself - Them.  They.  Those.  

Tomatoes.  Not just any tomatoes though.  They were locally grown, by real people, without steroids and pesticides and shiny fruit spray.  They were organic.  They were a little bit more expensive.  And I didn't care.

I'm not some new age hippie that gives a shit about organic food.  Sorry, but I refuse to raise a stink about GMO foods when I know that sometime this month I'll order a garbage plate and eat it with six beers or a big cup of Mountain Dew.  All of the unhealthy processed food products I've consumed in my lifetime have spoken for me on that issue, and I don't have any judgement to dole out to companies that want to ease the cost and tediousness of food production so that assholes like me can walk the funeral procession into the grocery store and bring home way more food than necessary for their overweight families.  I'm not judging, because I'm not different.

But tomatoes...they are quite possibly my favorite food item ever.  And yet I almost never eat them because its nearly impossible to grow, or locate, a tomato as it should be.  The crap I usually see passing by in the store is not only full of all the stuff that the organic hippies are lobbying against, but they are underripe, overripe, the skin is slightly wrinkled, there's a bruise, they smell wrong, and when you get them home, they taste like they're made out of wax.  

These were not only real tomatoes grown locally by real human beings without pesticides or hormones or bells or whistles, but they looked perfect.  The perfect tomatoes.  Flawless tomatoes.  No wrinkles, no dents.  The color was uniform.  The sign said they were picked and delivered that day.  Off a vine, a real honest to goodness vine.  That grew out of some dirt.  Even my expert gardener father-turned-farmer couldn't grow tomatoes this pretty.  The first thing I did was pick one up and sniff it.  It smelled like a tomato. 

Then, I filled a bag with them, ever so gently, because throwing caution to the wind and buying too many  of the more expensive tomatoes with wild abandon is about as adventurous as I get these days.  I didn't even want to put them into the cart, for fear of dinging one of them and ruining the whole thing.  I found myself wishing they made special tomato pillows for the cart seats, satin and velvet lined with tassels coated in solid gold, something that would protect the only real tomatoes I'd seen since last year's yield of my dad's garden from any bumps or bruises or unhappiness they may experience on my trip through the store.  I was thinking that I might not even eat them, I might just look at them until they went bad, and I wouldn't even take pictures because I didn't want to share them with anyone the way I would share Frank and fried chicken.  The voice, though, knew better, and reminded me that of course I was going to eat them.  And then I smiled.

Cleaning out the Closet

So, I recently joined a book club.  I have no idea why, because if you asked me if I was a book-club-joining type person I would have laughed and given a resounding "hell no," - but it seemed like an idea that was too good to pass up.  What can be better than being given an assignment of a book recommended by a group of people to read every couple of months, and then meeting together to drink wine and talk about your own personal take on the book you all just read?  It gives me the always-coveted opportunity to voice my own opinions to a group of other human beings who have to listen.  I know I'm selfish like that, but it also makes me a fabulous public speaker that has never experienced even the slightest bit of stage fright when addressing as many people as can fit in an area.

It also gives me the opportunity to push my own agenda, another useful flaw of mine, when it is my turn to pick a book that I love - and everybody else has to read it.  I am certainly a glutton for power, but I do try to use my powers for good.

I kind of knew that any book I was assigned that I had yet to hear about was destined to change my life.  Not because of some crazy spiritual link with fate or god or dharma or karma or whatever other gobblety gook people subscribe to, but because *everything* I come across tends to change my life.  I find meaning in the strangest of places, I make small inconsequential concepts rise to profound heights of enlightenment, because I'm damn good at that, and then I head out into the world and throw up my newfound enthusiasm into whatever brains I can find that are willing to absorb it.  And I like it that way.

The first book was the Happiness Project.  Now I'll admit I'm more of a free spirit than my husband, but even I have my moments of cynicism and the part of me that identifies with Stefan on a fundamental basis went *scoff*, okay, lets read this hippie shit.  Then I'll make some noodle salad and smoke a bong and sing some John Lennon.

But no, this book is a very practical and scientific guide to de-stressifying (I made that word up!) yourself, and basically tackling anything that stands in the way of feeling fulfilled, and thus, happy.  No, I take it back.  Its not a guide.  Its just the way this one lady did it, and that's pretty cool, because everybody's different.  But she and I are luckily a lot alike, which cuts down on the amount of imagination I need to figure out how to make this stuff work in my favor.

I'm not saying I'm gonna turn this barely used blog into my own Happiness Project, or even go balls to the wall trying to change my life.  (I'm also not saying that I won't.)  But, I can't deny the fact that I could be a hell of a lot happier in general.  Nothing in my life is particularly bad, I have every reason to be happy and grateful, and overall, I am.  But much like the author of this book, I am frequently tired, overwhelmed, I complain too often, I get snarky with my kid, my husband, my parents, and even the cat, and I figure I could use a condensed version of all of the scientific studies, spiritual ideals, philosophies, and simple solutions since the dawn of time that have helped people feel less shitty, and more, well, Happy.

Its pretty cool.

I don't quite know what I'm gonna do with my newfound enthusiasum yet, and these things tend to fade from me once I completely overload myself with any idea, so I'm not jumping the gun just yet.  But I can tell you two things that are going to make today different from the rest.  One: on the whiteboard on my refrigerator  it is written "Do what needs to be done."  (With a big ol' smiley face, so Stefan doesn't come home from work and think the voices are telling him to kill us all.)  And Two: pretty soon here, I'm cleaning out all of the clutter in the upstairs rooms.  Clothes, toys, papers, junk that doesn't get used.... I've never had a problem being a packrat, I am keen to throw out as much as possible at all times.  But that doesn't stop the junk from appearing.  This time, I'll throw out what can't be used, and donate the rest.  The goodwill dropoff center is literally within walking distance of my house, and laziness is not an attractive quality.

Catch you on the flipside.

Decent pictures of mah spiders

Aphonopelma sp. New River adult female - "Lilu"

Cyclosternum fasciatum (tiger rump) juvie female 

Euathlus sp. Red (Chilean flame) adult female "Sarah"

Avicularia avicularia (common pink toe) penultimate male - "Moses"

Psalmopoeus pulcher unsexed sling

Kochiana brunnipes unsexed sling/juvie - "Littlest One"

Cyriopagopus sp. Sulawesi Black unsexed sling - "Vader"

Paraphysa parvula unsexed sling "Vermelha"

Holothele incei unsexed sling

Iridopelma hirsutum unsexed sling - "Algol"

Poecilotheria subfusca lowland (Bara), unsexed juvie - "Argyle"

Psalmopoeus cambridgei (Trinidad chevron) juvenile female - "Lightning"

Nhandu coloratovillosus adult female - "Persephone"

Nhandu tripepii unsexed sling, mid-molt - "Hedwig"

Psalmopoeus cambridgei unsexed sling - "Mojo"

Ephebopus cyanognathus unsexed sling - "Lucky"

Aphonopelma waconum adult female - "Mustache"

Grammostola rosea adult female - "Daisy"

Aphonopelma punzoi adult female - "Lucinda"

Aphonopelma hualapai adult female - "Tank"

Ami amazonica (sp. Columbia) unsexed juvie - "Pebbles"

Hapalopus formosus Pumpkin Patch sp. small unsexed sling - "Valentine"

Thrixopelma pruriens unsexed juvie

Bonnetina cyaneifemur juvenile female

Ceratogyrus darlingi unsexed sling - "Beezel"