Thin is In

For the first time in my life, I have something that is thin. It is slim, sexy, and has the perfect form. I am not referring to an actual body part…just a technological appendage (one that has been magnetically drawn to my hands since I’ve received it Christmas morning). It is my Mac Book Air. After receiving this perfectly skinny little device, I admired the size. However, this admiration soon turned to anxiety.

Is the 11’’ too small? As I wondered silently, then finally spoke up, my husband assured me that it is the most coveted model—he cajoled as if he were on an Apple commercial, “with a full sized keyboard and ultra slim frame, this baby can go anywhere.” Obstinate, I insisted upon trecking to the Apple store to consult the experts. Both the manager and his nerdy side-kick weighed in on the dilemma, pleasing my husband when their answers unequivocally matched his. The 11’’ is an ultra skinny, portably petite—yet powerful—machine; who would ever trade it up for the 13’’?

As I left fully confident that the 11’’ MBA was my new best friend, I began to wonder why I ever questioned my initial desire for this lean, mean typing machine. I’m no shrink, but I have to wonder if it has anything to do with a reluctance to be thin. Am I projecting my fear of thinness onto this poor, innocent, lovely silver tech tool? Now, before you—dear reader—judge my novice psychotherapy skills—you should know that I began thinking this because of an article in Oprah magazine. The article discussed how many people eat to fill other voids—a fact I’ve known for years already from my ongoing relationship with Weight Watchers. So, understanding that I am an emotional eater is a given—but what intrigued me in the Oprah article is the realization that people who do this are often afraid to be thin.

Since reading this article in the pedicure chair over a week ago, the thought of some unknown fear of thindom has loomed in my brain. Am I scared to be slim? Interestingly, this thinking took on new meaning when I began questioning—perhaps metaphorically—my decision on the 11’’ Mac Book Air. As excited as I was about my new machine—I asked myself if it was too thin. I sought approval from all outside sources on the acceptability of this fine piece of machinery before I decided I loved it. And I do love it. Just like I love fitting into a new, smaller pair of jeans. The key difference I hope to work on in the future is this: Unlike my need for reassurance on the teeny weeny laptop, I need nobody’s approval to love myself enough to make changes to my body—the size of which nobody but me is allowed to determine.

"Depend" on Water

Given the fact that I haven’t blogged in a while, I thought it was high time to renew my blogging efforts. My blog today will explore an incident that happened before school was out, back in early June—an incident which I have been too mortified to speak of until this moment. Against my mother’s wishes, and with my friend Katie’s encouragement, I have decided to offer up a bit of my own humiliation for your entertainment; WARNING-this is not for the easily offended, so stop reading now if that’s you.

If you’re still with me, let’s go back in time about a month. My friends and I met a new friend in the neighborhood, Jeremy, and he was playing at the pool with the gang. This particular day was bright and sunny—perfect for sunbathing and attempting to break out of my translucently pale skin. As we all sat merrily around laughing, gabbing, and floating –the topic of working out came up.

“I really should try to go to the gym,” I muse half-heartedly. “I haven’t seen my trainer in weeks.”

Intrigued by this conversation, Jeremy pipes in—chugging the gallon of water bobbing around in his right hand—and asks what sorts of workouts the trainer does. Katie—a fellow member at the YMCA where I work out—offers her take, “He kills people. They look like they are dying. He’s good…” I interrupt her to confirm his greatness, adding that he—like Jeremy—drinks a gallon of water a day. Suddenly, I have a break-through.

Fit people—really, really fit people—drink water. By the gallon. I interrupt my groundbreaking discovery to declare to my friends that I think I should give it a shot. “I am going to stop drinking so much Diet Coke and give Water Gallons a try.” Not stunned by this obviously momentous proclamation, my very closest friends simply continue floating, for they know my addiction to Diet Coke, and I’m sure they see very little prospect in my newfound desire for water. They don’t believe me, but my new friend—Jeremy—who knows little of my lacking willpower—buys in and begins an oratory condoning the powers of distilled water. Eventually ending his oratorical excellence with “Google it. It’s true,” he has nearly REALLY convinced me to try this.

Dripping a ten-foot trail of water behind my voluptuousness, I waddle over to my lounge chair and grab my iPhone. I google it, where I find that much of the research shows some benefit in drinking distilled water for a limited period of time as a sort of detox. “Either way, it has to be better than Diet Coke,” I tell myself. That settles it. I’m giving this a shot.

That night, I go load up on Distilled Water at the grocery store. I only get enough for the first three days, just to see how I do. I go to bed that night, and eagerly wake the next morning, ready to cart my gallon to school. As I walk into school that day, I have flashbacks to Home Ec. Class, where we had to carry around a bag of flour to show us how hard it would be having a kid. I carry my new baby on my right hip, balancing it with my teaching bag full of graded papers. I arrive in my classroom, out of breath—but ready to begin chugging. I place the graded papers in the appropriate bin, and I open the gallon. As I turn it up and begin gulping, I see a few students arriving. They are looking at me with horror in their faces. Suddenly, I feel a little self-conscious about not bringing a cup or something more lady-like to drink from—I mean, I am drinking right from the gallon. Not exactly refined. But my role models are both men—big, chunky, body builder men...and they drank from the gallon.

I ignore the embarrassment, embrace my inner imbecile, and continue chugging right in front of the growing crowd of students changing classes. One student approaches me with a genuine look of concern and whispers, “Mrs. Z, are you being drug tested or something?” I choke down that gulp of water to avoid spitting it as I laugh. I quickly answer NO and proceed to explain that I’m just trying to slim down a bit. I answer similar questions for the rest of the day, but my gallon was my best friend in the face of these questions. I tipped it back time and time again, until I only had about a third of it left by the time I left school at 3:00.

Proud of my progress, I down the remaining third of a gallon that night at dinner, adding one more glass of water just before bedtime. I lie in bed and relish in my success, thinking this must be how it is done—one healthy change at a time…

And change I did. That night, along with my change in drinking habits, I also changed my pajamas, my sheets, even my mattress pad! Around what must have been 3am, I became aware of a dream. In the dream, I had to pee. I finally made it to the restroom, and relieved, I tried to go. But I couldn’t, or at least I was having trouble. “Push harder,” I remember my subconscious dream-self saying. I did. I pushed and pushed and pushed until I awoke in a puddle the size of Lake Eerie.

“Oh, shit, I’ve pissed the bed,” I realize as I begin fully awakening. Here’s a first. Truly mortified, I looked over at my husband, blissfully sleeping with his sleep apnea mask on. “UGH, I don’t wanna wake him,” I thought, panicking. I run to the bathroom and grab some towels, hoping that perhaps I can just pad the pee until I could change it in the morning without him knowing. No such luck. Quickly, my towels absorbed enough liquid that they were a light ecru instead of bright white. “DAMMIT,” I curse to the cup on my bedstand—which sits with melted ice, laughing at my incontinence. I go ahead and wake my hubby, change the sheets, and drift back to a dry and dreary sleep.

SO, I changed a lot in a day. The next day, I changed my schedule. Like a wee two year old, I was allowed no water after 7pm. Sure would have been helpful if the Water Gallon Club would have let me in on that secret…which is why I find it vital to let all of you in on the same little tidbit: if you drink water—particularly by the gallon—after around 7pm, you will pee your bed—but, hey, at least you’ll be skinny. DEPEND on that (pun intended).

If I'm a Boob, My Friends are the Sports Bra

At some point, we’ve all been supported. Perhaps you have a loving network of friends and family that you unconsciously know is your support group. That has always been true for me. Or, if you haven’t felt support in that way, certainly you’ve experienced support in the form of control-top pantyhose, sports bras, or—for males—jock straps (those are supportive, right?) At any rate, I have been thinking a lot lately about the importance of support.

It all started about two weeks ago when I was asked to go to a workshop, and a dear colleague promised to buy my lunch at European Street…IF I promised to blog about it. For one, this was quite encouraging (I mean, supportive) because it let me know that people other than my best friends (always supportive) are actually reading my blog. I quickly agreed, and each time I saw my colleague after this arrangement, he quipped that he would try to tempt me in every way imaginable: “Perhaps we should attend the buffet at Golden Corral?” or “MMMMM…those cookies look delicious.” Basically, he would try to bring me some good writing material. When the day finally came, though, he wasn’t the demon he promised to be. He was supportive.

Around 8:30 a.m., I noticed that there were bowls of candy on the tables. Everyone around my table had eaten the “good stuff,” so all that was left were Jolly Ranchers and peppermints. No problem. I was offered candy at least three times, and I proudly declined. When my laptop was running out of power, I had to climb under the adjacent empty table and plug it into that outlet since all the outlets at our table were being used. As I emerged from underneath the table and began to tip-toe back to my seat, out of the corner of my eye, I caught a beam of pink light glittering up from the paper bowl atop this vacant table. I could tell by the crinkled aluminum wrapping that it was a perfect little round, miniature Reese’s peanut butter cup. 44 Calories each. I rejected its glimmering flirtations and sat my fat ass back down at our table…

…for FIVE whole minutes. I sat there, feeling the aluminum glare from the chocolate and peanut butter candy behind me. I couldn’t take it anymore. Partly out of boredom and partly out of weakness, I found my chubby little hand leading my chubby little arm over to the table behind me. I snatched the aluminum-wrapped delicacy out of the bowl and hurried to my seat. I sat the Reese’s on the corner of my laptop (to think about if I really wanted it or not). At this point, Scott—my colleague—looks over to notice my new visitor, perched patiently atop my keyboard.

“WHAT IS THAT!!!!!!?????” he nearly announces to the whole room. Startled, I try to whisper that it’s only one little piece, mumbling something akin to “everything in moderation.” I can tell by his eyes that he’s begging me not to do it. Don’t eat it. I wait until he’s looking back at the PowerPoint, and POP…right in the ‘ole mouth. It was good, too. When he looked back over, he saw the remnants of the candy—torn aluminum and paper wrapper, all balled up into a tiny ball. He is far too angelic and polite to comment. At lunch, instead of being the Fiendish Temptor he had initially joked he would be, he commented that the vegetarian fare looked delicious and the grilled chicken salads too. I ordered the salad plate—with chicken, hummus, and tabbouleh. Though he bought two cookies at the end of the meal, he kept them concealed in their gilded package, adding that he always purchases cookies and saves them for later. At the time, I still wasn’t sure how I was going to follow through on my promise to blog about our adventure. I had, after all, eaten fairly well. And he, being supportive, hadn’t tempted all that much.

Later that evening, I came home and decided to go to the gym. I realized that my favorite sports bra was losing a bit of elasticity. I went ahead and pulled it on, topping it with another workout top that features a shelf-bra. As I was bouncing away on the elliptical machine, working on an interval of high speed and high resistance, I decided that I may need a bit more, um, support. After my workout, I headed to Target for that purpose. I was pleased with their selection of colorful Champion sports bras. At only $16 each, I purchased two. I returned home, grateful for my new support.

And that’s when the idea hit me: in any weight loss journey, a person needs varying degrees of support. Sometimes we need emotional support from friends and family. Sometimes we need the support of an amazing trainer to press us beyond the imaginary boundaries we’ve created for ourselves. Sometimes we need support from fitness magazines and shows that give us all sorts of ideas for fashion, time-management, and nutrition. And sometimes, we just need a good sports bra.

This evening, I packed my aqua Under-Armor bag for the gym tomorrow morning—the idea of support still lingering in my head. I looked at what I packed: A new, sturdy sports bra; Hair powder for soaking up sweat from my drenched hairline; Bumble and Bumble Prep spray for wetting my hair enough to blow dry out the kinks from my ponytail holder; and more Bumble and Bumble Does-it-all spray for subtle body and hold. This is my small arsenal of cosmetic support. But these things all bear a striking resemblance to the real support in my life. The hair powder and hair potions are like my trainer. They make me look better. Sure, I could blow-dry my hair without them, but they add a level of polish and ease that I can’t accomplish alone. My favorite metaphor, however, is the sports bra. All my friends, colleagues, and readers are the sports bra. I’m the boob…

Without my little support group to keep me reigned in and uplifted, God only knows where all I would be flailing right now…but something tells me it would be right to a Golden Corral somewhere.

Here's to Last Chances

Have you ever been told, "Ok, now. This is your LAST chance!"? If you have, then you know the rush of emotions involved with these words.

On my go-to show, The Biggest Loser, there is a little thing called the "Last Chance Workout," wherein Bob and Jillian--the trainers--abuse the poor, defenseless contestants until the fatties look like they cannot possibly take another ounce of torture. These trainers are complete sadists. The evil grins that adorn their faces loom over the pitiful, nearly thin (yet still fat) bodies of the contestants. Every week, I think I would really like to be one of the fatties on that show, except on the day when they are spit-screaming in my face LAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAST CHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAANCE WOOOOOOOOORRRRRRRRRKOUT!!!!!! I just couldn't fathom what that would be like, but always had a masochistic curiosity.

Guess what!? My trainer, who until I receive his legal approval to use his name will be referred to as Water-Gallon-Man (see my second blog ever for details)...anyhow, he's getting married this weekend. Young love. So sweet. So fragile. So full of wonder. So exciting. I'm so happy for his fiance and him. And I like to think that's why he smiled my whole workout. He will be gone for the next two weeks celebrating his new nuptials, so he--like the first time I encountered him--wanted to be sure to "show me love". Love was just in the air, and people, love was in the form of the most tortuous "Last Chance" I've ever had...

...And I've had a LOT of last chances. Like the time I spray painted our rival school-Lincoln High School-with curse words and paw prints my senior year; I was busted by the police, so I naturally cried "Please don't arrest me; my dad is the preacher at First Baptist Church and I'll be KILLLLLED!!!!" The officer gave me one last chance. I scrubbed paint with paint thinner until my acrylic nails were dripping from my fingers. That was a good last chance. I'll remember that last chance.

Today, I had a "last chance" to get in a heart-pumping, pool-of-sweat-inducing, body numbing workout before my trainer vacations for two weeks. I did five sets of weighted jump squats and lunge series, followed by three dead lift and inverse butt/back/hamstring/everywhere lift sets (these last sets call for their own individual blog, which I don't have time for now). The cherry on top, though, would have to be the three sets of weighted calve raises. Have you ever woken up at night with a pesky cramp in your calve? That's what it felt like, only I couldn't get it to go away. Stretching hurt, sitting hurt, walking hurt...I could find no relief. Desperately looking up at my trainer, I moan "Is this EVER going to go away???" He smiled his sadist grin, pleased at the amount of sweat and sheer pain he'd inflicted.

My muscles have recouped (for now), and I'm sure that tomorrow morning when I wake up and put my dainty little size 10 foot on the floor, my entire lower body will most definitely feel the warmth and pain of Water-Gallon's love...a love that only comes from One Last Chance.

Be sure your sins will find you out...

Tonight, my best friend nudged me to go ahead and write a blog by posting the simple prompt, "Blog?" on my Facebook page. I had been contemplating it, but it's one of those nights where what I have to say is downright shameful--thus downright difficult to post.

All week, I've been writing an incredibly difficult--though rewarding--research paper on the writer Aphra Behn's play, The Rover. For the past five days, I've spent the greater part of my free time at the computer. We're talking HOURS here. Last night, I became so enthralled in my research that I kept reading and digging and reading and digging for information to prove my thesis--when suddenly I realized it was 4:00 (A.M.). This past week, I've cancelled two appointments with my trainer and did not attend any of his boot camp classes (which I usually attend at 5:15 a.m. on Tuesdays and Thursdays). Ignoring that my brain may need the valuable oxygen that comes from a good cardiovascular cram session, I plugged through book after article after book of interesting facts pertaining to my research. The good news here? I have a reasonably decent thesis for my paper. The bad news? This has wreaked havoc on my normal routine.

In an effort to reunite myself with the world, I went to a local restaurant with my husband for dinner. Following my brother's soon-to-be-doctorly advice, I ordered: the Greek salad with grilled chicken (no red meat); More carbs than brother would like (given the bread and olive oil dip), and an unsweetened ice tea (followed with the diet coke that I couldn't resist). Though I did fairly well on my choices, one thing stood in my way from feeling great about being healthy: Le Desert case.

It is strategically placed just to the right of the counter where you order. Like one of the brothels in the red district of Amsterdam, it houses all sorts of illicit, sinful, flirtatious desserts that call out to me--begging me to indulge myself. Okay, so maybe prostitution is the wrong comparison, but the point here is that these desserts look SO delicious that I felt guilty the moment my eyes grazed their smooth, velvety chocolate frosted curves. I feel dirty just writing about them.

At any rate, I walked away from the case of sin, mostly with the assistance of my husband--who doesn't understand because he doesn't particularly like dessert. If it were a case of chicken wings, he'd be feeling my pain. I make it the whole 45 minutes, enduring my salad and then rushing to the door to avoid eye contact with the dessert case.

We get home, and one would think I was in the safe zone. Except...I just couldn't get that dessert case off my mind. I had to have something sweet. A Fiber One bar or 100-calorie pack of Craisins wasn't going to do the trick. I had to find a way to get out and get something chocolate. Something really, truly sinful. I grab my keys, tell my husband that I'm going to Panera to read, and think about whether to get a cookie or cake from Panera. I pull up to Panera, go in, and realize they've taken most of the desserts out of the case. It was like the police had raided this brothel. There was nothing really left but a few sad bagels, some very dried-up-looking loaves of bread, and trays with doilies showing where the delicious desserts previously reclined.

I turn and head for the door, thinking about where I can now get my chocolate fix. My best guess is Starbucks up the street. I go in, and they have nothing truly chocolate, so I turn and leave again. I head to Publix. I park shockingly close to the front of the store and sulk into the bakery area. I always feel so guilty perusing this area--like a drug junkie seeking a high. I peek at the drug--I mean, dessert--case. I see cheesecake, packs of brownies, cupcakes, and finally...Chocolate Overload Cake. Just to be sure, I look behind me at the other case where there are petit fours, cheesecake, and mini-birthday cakes. I walk back and forth between the two cases twice before the two ladies in the bakery try to help me: "Were you looking for something particular?" they smile. I feel incriminated, and mumble, "What? Oh, me? Naw, I'm good." I go back for the Chocolate Overload cake. Quickly as possible, I snatch it from the case and in one fluid move swagger over to the register, hoping that no one is seeing me make this exchange. I get to the Express Line, and the clerk perkily observes, "OH, MMMM...Chocolate Overload." My head jerks up from looking down at my wallet, and I want to tell her "SHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH...not so loud, someone might hear you." Instead, I smile and pay cash. Then I do the first running I've done all week, right out the door.

I make it home safe and sound, ready to dive into my ecstasy of CHOCOLATE OVERLOAD, when I realize my husband hasn't left for the office yet like he said he was going to. I'm so busted. I make the walk of shame in to my house, casually place my purse and my purchase on the counter--and respond to his surprised remark that I'm home faster than he expected. Without making eye contact, I go get a fork. I can tell he's looking at the Publix bag. When he sees me unveil the chocolate sin, he immediately chastises me for my poor choice. I yell. He yells. I yell again. I retreat to the office to write this blog, which I already know is going to be about my transgressions. He comes to kiss me before he leaves for his late-night session with Lady Law, and I settle in with French music playing in the background.

My menag a trois with Chocolate cake and Diet Coke ensues. It's sin. Truly.

Not Your Normal 80's Song

When the going gets tough, the tough get…EATING. Up until about a month ago, this would have been my motto. As many of you have already observed, it’s a bastardization of the age-old aphorism so many of us have heard growing up. Forget Billy Ocean. My grandfather, Daddy Doug, practically authored this proverbial nugget. He could be heard offering this sage advice in a variety of situations:

You don’t want to wake up?
“When the going gets tough, the tough get going.”

You don’t like your sales for the week?
“When the going gets tough, the tough get going.”

You have a tummy ache?
“When the going gets tough, the tough get going.”

Your homework is just a little too hard?
“When the going gets tough, the tough get going.”

Today, my Daddy Doug smiled down on me from Heaven and reminded me of this morsel of wisdom.

It all started when I arrived home from a field trip. The drive home was religious: the sun was smiling, trees were waving in the breeze, and humidity had hidden his ugly head. Having been in the presence of writers and environmentalists (on the field trip), I was feeling particularly one with the Earth. So—though I had my gym bag already loaded in my car—I chose to take a quick detour home to change there and take my dogs on a quick walk so that they could enjoy the day with me. My two dogs and I do a tango from the kitchen out to the yard, all dancing with the enjoyment of our reunion. I step outside and spot her…Our New Neighbor (whose name I’ve now forgotten because of the ensuing spectacle).

I spot her just as my dog is relishing in his massive bowel movement. Mid-poop, HE spots her and springs forth with the voracity of a mountain lion—and the velocity of a Mack truck. My sweet little 120-pound puppy morphs into a monster. Writhing his body into contortions that he believes will free him to go into attack mode, he pounces, prods, and roars in circular, psychedelic motions around our front yard. The neighbor looks on at the spectacle of Woman vs. Nature, as I struggle to appease him and avoid getting trampled. She reluctantly heads our way, and I attempt to introduce myself by saying, “Hi. Don’t come any closer…he’s still a puppy, so he’s a little afraid of strangers.” How’s that for a warm, neighborly welcome?

Thankfully, my husband and other neighbor, alerted by the barking, come out to help. When all is settled, I am able to offer my usual hospitable response and shake my new neighbor’s hand, welcoming her to the neighborhood. Just when I’m sure she’s second-guessing her purchase of a home on Cujo’s block, someone looks down and says, “Umm…I think he got your foot.” My head drops forward, and my eyes immediately go to the blood trickling down the side of my foot, pooling in my gold flip-flop. Indeed, in the struggle, his toenails—long overdue for a trimming—had scratched my skin. I offer a desperate giggle and side-smile, then I realize I’ve almost forgotten my appointment with my trainer. I excuse myself from the block party and head inside. I get cleaned up, put on a bandage, and rush out the door.

On my way to the gym, all I can think about is how mad I am that my dog can’t behave as gently with others as he does with us when we are alone. A wave of desperate devastation floods me, and I almost want to cancel my training appointment. Since I’m already almost there, I follow through and go in for my thirty minutes of bodily torture. My workout involved suicides (aptly named), shuffle relays, a tree and a resistance band, and the three most God-awful weight machines ever created: Benchpress, Row, and Pull-Ups. Until today, I’ve always been a little snarky towards people who grunt, squeal, and huff sounds like “WHOO” and “YEEEE” and “UUUUGH” and “AAAAA” when they lift weights…It always seemed just a little dramatic to me, like they wanted an Emmy for their exertion. I mean, how much can it really help to let everyone around you know that you are struggling to do that last rep? Today, I realized that those people don’t grunt to impress others. They do it because they are working damn hard.

I am sitting on one machine, and I have just completed my second set of repetitions. I’m lamenting the next two sets ahead. Out of the corner of my eye, I see my trainer, Water Gallon Guy, attempt to sneak another five pounds on top of the weight that I already considered to be too hard. I don’t even say anything, because even my mouth is tired from working so hard. I know that I only have about a ten second break, and I begin struggling to summon my strength for the next set. I might cry. All of a sudden, Daddy Doug’s voice whispers in my head “When the going gets tough…the tough get going.” I grip the handles, and begin pulling back in a rowing motion. 12—I can do this. 11—Be tough. 10—Think of that damn dog. 9—This really hurts. 8—Water Gallon Guy just said my form is good. 7—Ouch. 6—Damn dog. 5—GRUUUUUUUUNT. 4—Oh My Gosh. I just grunted. 3—It feels kinda better when I do that. 2—UUUUUUGH. 1—AAAAAAAAK. I did it! I did the unthinkable third set. Elated, I muscle through the fourth set, grunting and bellowing the whole way. The going got tough. I got going.

Today, instead of quitting, instead of eating, instead of crying, I just got going. And it felt really amazing. So amazing, in fact, that I tried out another little ritual I think of when I think of body builders: I kissed my bicep. That didn't do it for me...but at least I've got the grunting. When the going gets tough, the tough get grunting.

If you'd like to get motivated, click the link to BILLY OCEAN. Do a few jumping jacks. Do some push ups. Grunt while you do them. You'll like it.

Da Stairs

Da-dum. Da-dum. Da-dum. Da-dum. My heart palpitations are nearly visible through my shirt. I feel my heartbeat from my chest all the way down to my stomach. I sit down in an attempt to recover my breath, which is now so heavy that people are glancing over to make sure I’m okay. When I sit down, I feel my blood throbbing through my body, in unison with my thumping heart. I consciously try to slow my breathing, inhaling and exhaling as deeply and as quietly as possible. You must be thinking, “WOW! What a workout!” Well, it was…but it was not my usual workout. I just took the stairs.

We’ve all read somewhere, in some health magazine, that people really should consider taking the stairs. Easy enough…or is it? Every Wednesday, I travel to UNF’s campus to attend my graduate class—which meets in the Library. Last week, per my usual routine, I headed straight for the elevator. I scurried in, pressed “2”, and turned to face one lone passenger. He was about eighteen years old with caramel skin and sun-bleached hair (a surfer, no doubt). Now that I’d observed him, I awkwardly squeaked out some small talk. With my normal blonde eloquence, I noticed aloud, “Fourth floor, huh?” Immediately, he grinned back and in a semi-stoner voice proclaimed, “Yeah, I figured I’d take the elevator…not like I’m going to the second floor or anything.” Burn. At that moment, I suppose he noticed that, in fact, I was going to the second floor. He quickly followed, “Not that I’m judging.” BING! The elevator opened, and I jumped out—eager to escape any more awkward conversation with this adolescent. I resolved to take the stairs at UNF’s library from then on.

Today, I arrive at the library hours before my class to complete a bit of research. I head towards the elevator, but then I remember last week’s resolution. I stop in the middle of the foyer…stairs on my left, elevator on my right. The guy at the circulation desk stares in a befuddled manner, since I’ve apparently lost where I was going. My outer fat body tempts me to consider that TODAY is not like normal—I am not just going to the second floor this time; I am embarking upon the FOURTH floor, the floor that even surfers use the elevator for. Within a minute, my inner thin woman took over and guided my legs towards the stairs. Up. Up. Up. Up. Up. Up. I get to the first landing, and I regret the choice to bring my laptop—since it makes my book bag about five pounds heavier. I could easily go back down, but then I would really look crazy. I climb the next set of steps to the second floor. I peer around at this floor. The elevator gleams and giggles, urging me to give up and take a ride for the next two floors.

I turn around, ignoring the elevator’s invitation, and bound up the next flight. I realize that the higher I go, the more I dislike the architect who designed these stairs. They are quite scary. I realize that I can see through them to the floor below me, which truly taunts my equilibrium. I decide to just look up and keep climbing.

Before I know it, I am on the last landing—looking up at the glorious fourth floor. At this point, I realize I am huffing and puffing so hard that one would think I not only took the stairs, but also sprinted from my car. Knowing the fourth floor is the “Quiet Zone” I decide to stop on this landing and commemorate my first climb up Mount Staircase. I grab my iPhone, snap a picture, and crawl my way up the last ten steps. Since I’m still panting from my excursion, I look for the first place to sit and gain my composure (i.e. my breath). I pull out my laptop, place my hands on the keyboard, and feel the blood still drumming through my veins. As I type my blog about this momentous occasion, I hear the elevator’s ding-dong. I look over to my right to see who gets off. As I watch a girl in her twenties emerge from the cavernous elevator, I don’t judge her. But I do feel slightly superior, since—after all—I took the stairs.

Off the Wagon...And Back On Again.

To say that I “fell off the wagon” would be the wrong metaphor. If “falling off the wagon” is the term we generally equate with alcoholics or drug addicts messing up—even once—I would say my “falling off the wagon” was more like taking an airplane to 130,000 feet, realizing I have no parachute gear, and purposefully taking a big ‘ole leap anyhow. No, I didn’t just fall off the wagon…

Friday, February 26, 11:21 a.m.—Lunch.
The bell rings and my mouth salivates like Pavlov’s dogs. I quickly rush my students out the door, and I elbow my way through the herd of students heading to the cafeteria. I run to my car (the only running I’ll do that day), crank ‘er up, and begin driving without a plan. And by driving without a plan, I mean thinking about something completely opposite from driving…and zoning out so much that my car nearly has to drive itself and my body depends on muscle memory to steer the car in the right direction. Usually, my car guides itself right to Subway—since it’s the closest restaurant to the school and I only have 30 minutes. Today, mystically, it glides right through the intersection where I usually turn. “Oh snap!” I say out loud, not realizing I’ve passed the intersection until I’m too far for a U-Turn. I look left then right. Left—McDonald’s. Right—Wendy’s. Before I have time to decide, I realize my car has decided for me…I’m in the left turn lane. Oh. Okay. I go ahead and allow my car to maneuver right through the drive-thru. There’s a line. So I have time to think about my decision (or lack thereof). I even have time to snap a picture from my iPhone, thinking "people can make good choices at McDonald’s…maybe this will make a good blog". Well, I’m blogging—but it’s not good. I ordered a double cheeseburger and medium fries from the lady on the intercom. I pull around. It’s not a lady; it’s a 450-pound man (not exaggerating—I never inflate people’s weights). I watch his chub-laden arm struggle to reach out and hand me my change. I regret my decision to eat McDonald’s before I’ve even eaten it. But that doesn’t stop me…I rip, chew, and snarl my way through the entire contents of the bag before I’m even back at school.

Friday, February 26, 6:30 p.m. –Choosing a Dining Establishment
Derailed from today’s earlier debauch, I tell my husband I really don’t care where we go because I’ve already screwed up my diet. I follow up by suggesting the one place where I KNOW I can’t control myself: (Which my Legal Counsel has advised should remain nameless)—But this restaurant boasts the BEST RIBS in Jacksonville (it says so right on the menu). When we arrive, the waitress tells us to sit wherever—and we clump on over to the table in the back where we usually sit. I begin perusing the menu, knowing damn well I’m getting the ribs (but offering up the illusion that I might get a salad). I look up from the menu and see a man, sitting at the picnic table just behind my husband. I try to ignore the fact that he, like the McDonald’s server, is gargantuan. I try to converse with my husband, but I can’t ignore the fact that the 500-pound man’s underwear is peeking out from his britches, revealing a rotund three inches of ass crack. Out of curiosity, I peek around his incredible girth to see what he’s eating: Ribs, of course. I look at his family—his wife is big, but his son is tall and thin. As if I had room to judge, I wonder how someone could get that big. Just then, the perky waitress comes over, her curly ponytail swinging behind her. I look right into her eyes, ignore her advice that the salads are "decent," and I order the Ribs.

As I gnaw through my sweet, spicy, sauce-laden drug of choice, I get it. I get how someone creeps to a 500-pound weight. It’s the same way that I’ve gotten to be eighty pounds overweight. The same way that someone who’s a mere twenty pounds overweight has gotten to their weight. We know the right thing to do—the healthy thing to do—but we ignore it. That’s how we get overweight. Now, what we do when these mistakes happen is what dictates our true success or failure. As for me, I’m going to hobble back over to the healthy wagon, lick my wounds, and get right back on.

Tricksy-Poo!

I was at the grocery store today trying to shop for healthy fare. Since I've been a little sick lately, I was in the Gatorade aisle--land of high fructose corn syrup. I was waddling along, minding my own business-- when I hear the most shrill, ear-piecing, bone curdling "WHYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYY?!". Of course, this breaks my intense label research (I was deciding between Gatorade and G2). I peer behind me, readying my "Get-your-kid-under-control glare," and I see a little girl. She is mid-yelp; you know, right at that moment when she's taking the lamaze-style inhalations, the ones right before she lets out another big siren cry. She's got snot, tears, bottom lip out for miles...I follow her little demonic finger to see what it's pointing at: Fruit Roll Ups. Her mother, frantic to get Little Lucy-fer away from the intraveneous sugar aisle, simply ignores her. Just then, the little spawn of Satan seemed more like a fallen angel. Something in me sympathized...What is childhood for if not Fruit Roll Ups?

My outer fat lady picked up on my moment of weakness, and--just like the wee little demon girl--she would not shut up about yesterday's denial of Zaxby's, so the inner thin chick decided to try a little tricksy-poo:

It's Shake-and-Bake, reduced calorie coleslaw, and baked fries. Less than 500 calories. And it tasted--shockingly--much better than Zaxby's. And, for now, the fat lady is appeased. For dessert? Anyone's guess, but I'm sure it won't be Fruit Roll Ups.

Towanda Denies Zaxby's

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Shorts and Skirts and Cycles, Oh My!

I hang up the phone and ponder what my friend just chirped: “It’s great outside! I am wearing a t-shirt and shorts!” Immediately, a pang of bittersweet regret comes over me; I almost wish the weather were sub-zero temperatures so that I can continue in my jeans-and-long-sleeve-shirt tradition that has grounded my whole existence for as long as I can remember. Great. It’s 70 degrees and perfect—only a slight breeze to refresh the near-stickiness of early Spring in Florida.

I’ve now spent 10 minutes lamenting and damning the weather—10 minutes with which I could have already been over at my friends’ apartment complex. So now I’m late. Fat, and late. Since I have rarely seen many people sit by the pool (on a perfectly warm day) in winter wear, I decide to buck up and find an outfit that celebrates the emerging warmth outside. The t-shirt and shorts solution my friend so brightly offered earlier is out of the question. I haven’t owned shorts since eighth grade, and even then I hated wearing them because of their malicious sneakiness—creeping and crawling up my thighs, restricting the circulation of both ligaments. Nope, not shorts. I plunder through my dresser, now aware that I’m almost 15 minutes late. I find an old swimsuit cover up—black, that is, since it naturally slims. It’s strapless, so I’ll look prepared for warm weather in a way that mimics those gargantuan (and bold, fearless) women who wear mumu-like bathing suits, strolling around the beach as if they had not a care in the world. You know—the Big, Beautiful Women who are (or pretend to be) so confident in themselves that no one around them is even phased anymore; they just become another part of the scenery at the beach. I decide that this cover up is the way to go. After squeezing into my snazzy little strapless sundress, I pluck a pair of earrings from my jewelry box—taking just enough time to ensure that they are huge and colorful enough to detract from my huge, not-so-colored thighs.

Lofting downstairs with the agility of a Greyhound bus, I grab my keys and head to the garage. It’s in my jumbled mess of a garage where I have a breakthrough: their apartment is less than a mile away…maybe I’ll ride my new bike there. Now 20 minutes late, I decide that a few extra minutes won’t be such a big deal. I slowly navigate my turquoise and silver, two-wheeled torture machine through the maze in my garage—past the grill and over a broken lawn chair. Finally, I climb on the bike and begin pedaling.

I’m not even out of my neighborhood before I am winded. Am I in the wrong speed? Perhaps this speed is too low. I try moving from second to third gear. It seems harder, but at least I’m moving faster. As I reach a stretch of sidewalk that is straight, I pick up even more speed. When I do this, I remember that the cover up has a slit on the left side, extending up just above the thigh—one whose function is generally to open and reveal a ravishing swimsuit underneath—only, this time, there’s no swimsuit.

Here I am, biking full speed ahead, wind billowing through my hair…and up blows my dress—revealing two shy rolls of belly fat. While trying to maintain control of the bike, I grope helplessly at the cover-up that, in its most blatant act of defiance, is cooperating with the wind to expose my imperfections to the world. I carry on this circus act for a few yards. Then I surrender.

I look down to see one thigh—the one on the side of the slit—gaining courage. I watch it push the pedal down, up, down, up. As it works, I see the ghost of its quadriceps begging to emerge from a lifetime of being buried alive under the strangling blanket of fat. Suddenly, underneath the embarrassment of my unsightly body jiggling from the exertion, I feel a small glimmer of hope: Maybe this choice to bike instead of drive will be the start of a new lifestyle, and this transformation—this rewrite of my history with my body—will make a great story.