It's been just over a year now since my last post when I was just shy of weighing 200 lbs, and struggling to stay optimistic and hopeful at a turnaround to my former healthier and happier days. One year and thirty additional pounds later, it's safe to say that I got over this initial shyness and have been living quite garrulously with the 200s. It's been like the good ol' days with my dear middle-aged friend BMI; in no time at all we've been popping the top buttons of our jeans so as to make room for that second fish taco. Don't get me wrong, gaining almost all of my weight back has been truly horrible, but...ohhh....so many good food memories are in each of these rolls...
My weight gain story is pretty standard: I stopped working out regularly (despite having a 2-year membership to 24 Hour Fitness) and have made many, many imprudent food choices. The long and short of it is that my health stopped being a priority and has been compromised as a result. I make no excuses and I have no one else to blame. But just so you don't think that this post is going to be a total Debbie Downer, I can tell you that for the past four weeks, I've been exercising (almost) daily and, for the most part, I'm eating pretty well, too.
As many overweight people can attest, there is a lifelong struggle with obsessing over perfectionism; the "all or nothing" mindset that I really only ever apply towards diet and exercise. I am certainly no exception to this. Making good food choices has never been a simple decision for me, but an agonizing process that involves qualifying food with calories, carbs, points, and/or emotions. Deciding what to eat is like happy hour for my Ghosts of Diet Plans Past and all of their conflicting information. Making the decision to exercise, then, isn't just choosing 30-60 minutes of physical activity, but a numbers game against the food. My 60 minutes of aquatic aerobics this morning might have burnt off the rice cakes and hummus, but if I want the scale to read a different number from last week, I will need to supplement with cardio. And so on and so forth it goes. As you can imagine, it's an exhausting and uninspiring process altogether. When it comes to losing weight and gaining weight, it is first and foremost always a battle of the mind.
There wasn't one major light bulb moment prior to this past month that made me stop and think, "Holy Hannah, what have I done? I need to make a change now!" There are thousands of those moments for me (and everyone else), particularly riiight after a meal or a national holiday. There are a lot of really crappy moments from this past year that I can pull from to motivate me towards the salad and the gym: like when I was all alone in a David's Bridal dressing room, and I had to claw, rip, and eventually sob my way out of a turquoise party dress that was vacuum sealed to my waist. Or when I inhaled The Boy's pint of Haagen-Dazs during a 15-minute episode of Last Week Tonight, and had to race to the grocery store in order to replace the pint before he noticed it was missing. Or when, a week later, I ended up eating the unopened replacement pint o'shame during another 15-minute episode of Last Week Tonight, and had to replace the replacement (For the record, I will never understand the kind of people who can leave whole pints of Haagen-Dazs, unopened, in a freezer for more than eight hours. I suspect that these are the same people who don't feel the need to eat the last three French fries left on their plate. This is the only evidence I've got to support the existence of alien life forms). I've stopped wearing jeans altogether because I'm too lazy to purchase a larger size and I'm too embarrassed to walk around in my old pair because I have to leave the top button and fly undone to make way for my girth. There is a terrible loneliness and shame that accompanies each of these moments. Despite having plenty of friends and family who have similar struggles with their weight, it's my body and my battle. I am grateful that I'm not the only person who has these kinds of "war stories". It's even a little bit comforting knowing that most people who lose any significant amount of weight usually end up gaining it all back after a year or so. But when I wake up in the morning, I am the only person inhabiting this body, I am the only person to blame, I have failed only myself, and it will only be through my efforts that I will begin to (slowly) pull myself up out of this again (and again, and again, and again).
During these first four weeks, I have found myself asking the same question over and over: how on Earth did I do this the first time around? I am so tired and I have no energy. The (unfortunate) answer: gradually. If you, dear reader, find yourself in a similar situation as me, there's no sugar-coating this one. The Beginning is very slow and very awful, with little to no motivation to inspire you to keep going. It does help to know that I am capable of dancing, running, swimming, lifting and biking again, even at my current weight, because I have done it before and the memories are relatively fresh in my mind. It also helps that I truly love going to Zumba and Aquatic Aerobics, and taking walks around the beach. When I go to Zumba class, I can close my eyes, dance, and go to my happy place. Of course, when I open my eyes to face the wall-to-wall mirrors and see my reflection wobbling all around, I know that the struggle is real, friends. My body looks heavy, my movements are sloppy, and natural lighting is pretty much the worst. When I actually look at myself dancing in Zumba, I am reminded of a recent trip to the La Brea Tar Pits. I think about the statue of the female mammoth struggling to free her own heavy limbs from sinking into the pit. OK, the tar pit analogy might be an over-exaggeration, but try lugging around a 50 lb bag of flour from Costco and see how gracefully you can sway your hips. Worst of all, everything hurts more because my body isn't used to moving around this much anymore. My calves scream in pain when I dance, my arms ache in the water from lugging around dumb bells, I have blisters all over my feet when I go for walks, and I will spare you the details of the damage inflicted on me recently by a bike seat. If I spend any kind of time thinking about how hard the last few weeks have been, or how much harder the next few years will be, I might be tempted to throw all of my jeans into a bonfire and start buying Haagen Dazs in bulk because it's definitely, 100% the easier option. Unfortunately, I'm 5'2 and being this heavy does not come without an equally heavy cost. If I could somehow have a Freaky Friday moment and switch metabolisms with The Boy and have his resilient skinny Asian metabolism, I would, but I can't.
This time around, I am doing my best to not overthink everything. I am doing my best not to think of Zumba in the "number of calories expended" but as one of the few non-food related hobbies of mine that I enjoy. I'm really trying not to qualify every piece of food that I put in my mouth. I have to accept that there is no such thing as perfection for me when it comes to eating or exercising because unfortunately French fries will always exist and lunges will always make me fall over. I just have to remember that there is an imperfect healthy person waiting for me at the End of all this, despite this super awful, slow-as-molasses Beginning, and I have every intention of fighting my way to meet her.
Monday, April 25, 2016
Tuesday, April 14, 2015
The Big 3-0
(I'm staring at the scale I've just purchased on Amazon)
Me: Please don't let there be a two. Please don't let there be a two. Please don't let there be a two...
I look down and the three-digit number glaring back at me over my toes does not, thankfully, begin with a two; but it's close. It's multiple-clothing-layers-and-a-very-decent-bowel-movement close. I haven't seen this number in three years and when I did, I was so busy dancing, spinning, lifting, running, and pumping that I was determined it would be merely a one night stand (bad scale pun). But here were are again. I've gained 30 lbs since my last post. I mean, to be fair, that's not the only thing I've gained. In the last year alone, I've acquired a new decade, the state of California, a different older car (RIP Lazarus), a new job, health insurance, a handful of wonderful friends, and (as of May) a new apartment. Each of these things happened a lot more quickly than the weight gain, I assure you.
Weight gain is definitely not some Freaky Friday moment you wake up to one morning. Nah, the signs were there. My jeans were still too tight despite my usual justifications of "I just got over my period ten days ago...so I'm still in the process of losing my 4 lbs of cycle weight" and "It's only been a week since I took these out of the dryer; they still need to be broken in". Then there's the obvious tell: the waterbed that was now my protruding muffin top in said ill-fitting jeans. My poor Spanx tried their darndest to dispel my concern by containing the, er, ripple effect of my stomach; but then came the day when I bent slightly and the stretchy material groaned in defeat and retreated back onto itself in one large, awkwardly placed roll of surrender on my lower back. And when you bust up your Spanx, you know that there's some hard truths you have to stop sugar-coating.
I'll be the first to admit that these 30 lbs and I have had some pretty amazing times. When my Dad and I drove to California, I ate hot beignets in New Orleans, large plates of chilaquiles in Arizona, and gigantic cups of spicy boiled peanuts wherever I could find them. Somewhere in my mind, I turned off the switch to care about things like portion control, calorie intake, and exercise, and I never really turned it back on. I just kicked all balance to the curb and decided to overindulge myself as a perverse reward for all the hard work I put in the past few years.
So why am I writing this now? It's not because of the scary number on the scale, it's not because I want to look good for the Boy, and it's not because I want to avoid the knowing look on my family members' faces as they take in the noticeable changes of my body. My light bulb moment came when I looked at photos of myself on Facebook from two years ago. And I'm not talking about my thinner arms or my smaller waist; I'm talking about the expression on my face. I was so happy. In those pictures, I could barely contain my happiness as I felt myself getting closer to the healthy person I was working so hard to become.
And as with all relationships, be it with your body or with your partner, the moment you stop working at it, the second you take it for granted, it will start to spiral out of your control bit by bit, slowly and surely. What motivates me now is knowing that I can do this because I have done it before. I remind myself that when I was 200 lbs, I ran my first 5k and took HIIT class. I can find my smile again.
So this is me trying to regain control and work my way back, bit by bit, slowly and surely.
Me: Please don't let there be a two. Please don't let there be a two. Please don't let there be a two...
I look down and the three-digit number glaring back at me over my toes does not, thankfully, begin with a two; but it's close. It's multiple-clothing-layers-and-a-very-decent-bowel-movement close. I haven't seen this number in three years and when I did, I was so busy dancing, spinning, lifting, running, and pumping that I was determined it would be merely a one night stand (bad scale pun). But here were are again. I've gained 30 lbs since my last post. I mean, to be fair, that's not the only thing I've gained. In the last year alone, I've acquired a new decade, the state of California, a different older car (RIP Lazarus), a new job, health insurance, a handful of wonderful friends, and (as of May) a new apartment. Each of these things happened a lot more quickly than the weight gain, I assure you.
Weight gain is definitely not some Freaky Friday moment you wake up to one morning. Nah, the signs were there. My jeans were still too tight despite my usual justifications of "I just got over my period ten days ago...so I'm still in the process of losing my 4 lbs of cycle weight" and "It's only been a week since I took these out of the dryer; they still need to be broken in". Then there's the obvious tell: the waterbed that was now my protruding muffin top in said ill-fitting jeans. My poor Spanx tried their darndest to dispel my concern by containing the, er, ripple effect of my stomach; but then came the day when I bent slightly and the stretchy material groaned in defeat and retreated back onto itself in one large, awkwardly placed roll of surrender on my lower back. And when you bust up your Spanx, you know that there's some hard truths you have to stop sugar-coating.
I'll be the first to admit that these 30 lbs and I have had some pretty amazing times. When my Dad and I drove to California, I ate hot beignets in New Orleans, large plates of chilaquiles in Arizona, and gigantic cups of spicy boiled peanuts wherever I could find them. Somewhere in my mind, I turned off the switch to care about things like portion control, calorie intake, and exercise, and I never really turned it back on. I just kicked all balance to the curb and decided to overindulge myself as a perverse reward for all the hard work I put in the past few years.
So why am I writing this now? It's not because of the scary number on the scale, it's not because I want to look good for the Boy, and it's not because I want to avoid the knowing look on my family members' faces as they take in the noticeable changes of my body. My light bulb moment came when I looked at photos of myself on Facebook from two years ago. And I'm not talking about my thinner arms or my smaller waist; I'm talking about the expression on my face. I was so happy. In those pictures, I could barely contain my happiness as I felt myself getting closer to the healthy person I was working so hard to become.
And as with all relationships, be it with your body or with your partner, the moment you stop working at it, the second you take it for granted, it will start to spiral out of your control bit by bit, slowly and surely. What motivates me now is knowing that I can do this because I have done it before. I remind myself that when I was 200 lbs, I ran my first 5k and took HIIT class. I can find my smile again.
So this is me trying to regain control and work my way back, bit by bit, slowly and surely.
Wednesday, September 11, 2013
The (stationary) Wagon
Welcome back dear perusers! Let me begin this well overdue entry
with an equally overdue apology. It has now been six months since my last
post. It was not my intention to go quite so long without writing, and I make no
excuses for my propensity to procrastinate; however, the past six months have
been both busy and stationary (as the title suggests). Since my March post I
celebrated Easter with my family (which is always a big cannoli-filled to-do in our house), I
traveled to the West Coast twice (I'm about to go again in a week), I went on two separate beach vacations with
friends, and I acquired a boyfriend (whom I will simply refer to as the Boy).
I've also acquired +7 lbs which, considering how close I am to the -100 lb mark, is pretty frustrating. This is very difficult for me to write because I feel that not only have I disappointed myself, but all of you as well. I mean, what do you say when you're so close to the end of your journey (cringe) and then everything sort of stalls and goes backwards a bit? What do you say when you continue to work out, but your digestive system is still in vacation mode? What do you say when you're moving around in a class or on a machine and you've got these stomach roll reminders that you're still a long ways away?
I wish that this post which officially marks the two year anniversary of my weight loss journey (cringe) also marked my -100 lb victory. I wish that this process would get easier towards the end rather than harder. I wish that I felt different (in my heart) from that sobbing mess of a girl that I was two years ago. But I'm still sad, still disappointed, and still hoping that I can have another chance at improving my health.
Not long after I first started working out in 2011 and was "in the zone" as my sister Chrissy would say, I attended a class at another gym with my friend Heather. Heather pointed out the girl working the front desk and told me that she had lost 100 lbs. Excited at the prospect of meeting someone that I, myself, was aspiring to become, I went up to the girl and asked her all the obvious questions, such as: "How did you do it?" "How long did it take?" "Was it really hard?" (the rookie question), etc. When I told front desk girl that I, too, was in the process of losing weight she said to me, "Just remember to keep at it because there will come a time when you'll just want to stop altogether". I wasn't expecting her to tell me this. I was clearly "in the zone" and there was no way that I would ever want to "stop altogether" and go back to my miserable pre-gym existence. I left the gym feeling slightly annoyed by her less than encouraging words of advice and determined to zip through to my -100 lbs.
Now, two years later, I think back to that conversation with a little bit more clarity and here's what I think: I think it was a bit naiive of me to assume that I would maintain the high level of energy and enthusiasm that I had when I first started working out. As anyone who has ever started working out and/or eating well knows, the pounds practically evaporate off of your body in those early days. I used to skip merrily over to my scale on weigh-in days (now it's more like a stand-off). Over time, however, your body starts to adapt to the new lifestyle changes and you're forced to up the ante on your eating/exercise routine. But when you're two years into working out consistently 5-6 times a week, and mostly eating well, you get to a point when you glare pointedly at the grandmotherly folds that still envelope your underarms, and you start to go to a very dark place. And eventually when the number on the scale doesn't change or, worse, it starts going up, you think to yourself: This is it. I've hit the unclimbable wall. This is no going forward from here.
If I could be happy at this weight then perhaps I would be okay with this particular wall; I would still be able to say that I've come a long way from where I started and I'm content with this number. There are thousands of women who are able to be at this weight and be totally happy, I just happen to not be one of them. In my mind and in my heart, I still remember what my sister Kimberly told me two years ago when I, no doubt, called her up sobbing over my weight issues. She said, "Angie, there is happy, healthy girl inside of you that is waiting to meet you on the other side" I want to meet that girl. I want my instructors to meet that girl so that they can see the difference they make in other people's lives. I would like to leave this dark, low point that I'm in right now and come out a stronger, healthier person who is grateful for all the peaks and valleys I've endured to get to that final Big Goal.
For right now, I'll end this post on a high note (it was such a Debbie Downer): Despite all the setbacks, I have no wish to "stop altogether". And although my gym attendance during my trips/vacations was spotty (and my 5AM Spin attendance has been pretty much non-existent), I still "keep at it" and go to my classes. Even though the honeymoon phase of my gym membership is over, I'm still committed to this relationship and seeing it through to the end. Whenever that may be. And I will be grateful for where I am now and for where I started.
Now, two years later, I think back to that conversation with a little bit more clarity and here's what I think: I think it was a bit naiive of me to assume that I would maintain the high level of energy and enthusiasm that I had when I first started working out. As anyone who has ever started working out and/or eating well knows, the pounds practically evaporate off of your body in those early days. I used to skip merrily over to my scale on weigh-in days (now it's more like a stand-off). Over time, however, your body starts to adapt to the new lifestyle changes and you're forced to up the ante on your eating/exercise routine. But when you're two years into working out consistently 5-6 times a week, and mostly eating well, you get to a point when you glare pointedly at the grandmotherly folds that still envelope your underarms, and you start to go to a very dark place. And eventually when the number on the scale doesn't change or, worse, it starts going up, you think to yourself: This is it. I've hit the unclimbable wall. This is no going forward from here.
If I could be happy at this weight then perhaps I would be okay with this particular wall; I would still be able to say that I've come a long way from where I started and I'm content with this number. There are thousands of women who are able to be at this weight and be totally happy, I just happen to not be one of them. In my mind and in my heart, I still remember what my sister Kimberly told me two years ago when I, no doubt, called her up sobbing over my weight issues. She said, "Angie, there is happy, healthy girl inside of you that is waiting to meet you on the other side" I want to meet that girl. I want my instructors to meet that girl so that they can see the difference they make in other people's lives. I would like to leave this dark, low point that I'm in right now and come out a stronger, healthier person who is grateful for all the peaks and valleys I've endured to get to that final Big Goal.
For right now, I'll end this post on a high note (it was such a Debbie Downer): Despite all the setbacks, I have no wish to "stop altogether". And although my gym attendance during my trips/vacations was spotty (and my 5AM Spin attendance has been pretty much non-existent), I still "keep at it" and go to my classes. Even though the honeymoon phase of my gym membership is over, I'm still committed to this relationship and seeing it through to the end. Whenever that may be. And I will be grateful for where I am now and for where I started.
Happy Two Year Anniversary!
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| May 2011 |
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| June 2013 |
Tuesday, March 26, 2013
Wherever you go, there you are
(Lying on an operating table at St. Francis Hospital waiting for the anesthesia to knock me out for my lap-band surgery)
"I look....I look like Jesus right now with my arms out like this (flaps hands). But if this doesn't end well, I don't think I get to resurrect from the deaaaaa-"
Just recently, I read this article about a woman's journey with weight-loss surgery: http://shine.yahoo.com/healthy-living/losing-180-pounds-really-does-body-8212-160-163900419.html It was very well-written and it got me all sentimental-like about my own weight-loss surgery experience seven years ago. I wanted to share it with you all for a couple of reasons:
1. My lap band is still in there (and will be until I re-acquire health insurance) and continues to make an impact in my life
2. My experience with attempting to lose weight via surgery vs. my current weight loss "journey" (cringe) are two dramatically different experiences
3. If you're a Big Girl or Big Guy who is considering weight-loss surgery and you're reading this blog, it's important to see both sides of the coin from another person's perspective
So here's my account, for better and for worse...and then for good:
In 2006 I was a junior in college, I weighed about 250ish lbs, and I was sitting in a therapy session with an on-campus counselor (FYI: I'm really wishing all my weight loss journeys didn't start with a meltdown). The counselor herself wasn't so great; she kept looking at the clock above my head every three minutes (which isn't the best non-verbal gesture you want to receive from a counselor...during a therapy session). And even though the conversation started out with me addressing my communication issues with my roommate, it somehow morphed into a discussion about weight-loss surgery. I suppose when you're a 250 lb, 20 year-old college girl who's an emotional wreck, it all circles back to the elephant in the room (yeah, pun intended): weight issues. And for whatever reason, the moment this counselor said the words "weight loss surgery" it was like the clouds began to part. Even though I was a totally mixed bag of issues and sadness, I just knew that weight loss surgery was going to save me from living a miserable existence (because fat is synonymous with sad and ugly right?). One minute I'm bawling my eyes out on a paisley couch and the next I'm making a dozen phone calls to schedule doctors appointments. As any of my friends will tell you, I have a very laid back, sloppy, Type B attitude about every aspect of my life (except cooking); however, when I decided to get weight-loss surgery, I was single-minded in my determination to make it happen as quickly and efficiently as was humanly possible.
That counseling session was in November. By May, I filled out a thousand pieces of paperwork for my insurance company and received pre-surgical medical clearances from my primary care physician, a psychologist, a cardiologist, a nutritionist and the actual surgeon. This was in addition to having blood work done, receiving chest x-rays, and getting an upper GI swallow (basically a camera that is snaked down your throat and used to check out the condition of your stomach lining. I'm shocked they didn't see any castaway potatoes bobbing around down there). There's a couple of things that stood out to me during all those appointments. The first is that I kept hearing what "an ideal candidate" I was for weight-loss surgery. I know they meant physically-speaking (although it was nice to have a psych evaluation confirm my mentally sound...ness, too): I was young (21), I didn't have any health risk factors other than...you know..morbid obesity, and I was unlikely to die during the surgery itself. You know what else stood out to me in those appointments? I was not an uninformed idiot. I researched the crap out of weight-loss surgery (which led me to choose the less-invasive lap-band route) and when I met with all of those doctors to get my medical clearances, I gave them (and my parents) the impression that I knew the full weight (no pun intended that time) of the decision I was about to make. So in late May of 2006, I had a silicone band lassoed around the upper portion of my stomach which restricted my food intake to about 1/2 cup (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lap_band_surgery). For the first four weeks after the surgery, I was on a liquids-only diet (a lot of smoothies and protein shakes) followed by four weeks of soft, mushy foods. After that, I was on my own and it was all trial and error, but mostly a lot of error.
Here's the crazy thing about my post-surgery life: I remember, in the beginning, seeing the numbers go down on the scale (which will happen when you eat liquid and mush for two months) and thinking, "This is it! It's really happening for me now!" But I have zero recollection of actually feeling physically different, like in my body. I definitely remember how I felt (and still occasionally feel) the first time I ate scrambled eggs and how they got stuck as they attempted to travel through the lassoed up portion of my stomach (eggs, rice, and untoasted bread are very hard on the lap-band if they are not chewed into nothingness). It literally felt (feels) like my stomach was choking and I had no choice but to...er...remove the obstruction via regurgitation. This happened (and still happens) a lot, to the point where my friend Jenn would look at me and say, "Angie, you've got the Death Face again, babe. Something get caught?" These are the moments that I remember about my post-surgery body. I don't remember sizing out of clothes, I have no recollection of seeing my collar bone protruding beneath my neck; I remember learning how to discreetly leave a table and go throw up. There were no physical signs of a future, healthier body (as there are now in this process) because I wasn't different. Correction: I now had a silicone lasso around my stomach. Other than the lasso (whose side-effect of spontaneous regurgitation was not a great party trick) I was still the same, sedentary Angela with bad eating habits and over time, I gained back every pound.
Please don't think for a second that I am suggesting that lap-band surgery, or any weight loss surgery for that matter, does not work. It does work and there are thousands of success stories out there about people who had the surgery and completely reversed their obesity and its myriad associated health risks. Let me be very clear that my weight loss surgery story was not a success story because of me and my unwillingness to change. Finance guru Dave Ramsey says that spending money wisely is "20% head knowledge and 80% behavior modification". You could apply this same logic to living a healthy life. The reason my lap-band surgery "failed" was not because I didn't know that I was supposed to use the band as a tool and not a cure to change my life. As I said before, I spent months researching the crap out of this stuff. I saw a lot of doctors that warned me what would happen if I didn't do the work. The problem is that knowing how to change and actually changing are two very different situations. If you met ten overweight people on the street, my guess is that nine of them could give you detailed summaries of at least a dozen different diet regimens. I, myself, still have a vague recollection of how many "points" are allotted to most foods. Anyone can read a diet book or a nutrition label (and by all means please do, and with discernment); implementing that information into a healthy sustainable lifestyle is a whole different kettle of fish. I had lap-band surgery and then proceeded to live as though I never did, all while erroneously assuming that weight loss would just happen to me (let me just state right here and now: successful, healthy weight loss never just happens. It takes a lot of work).
When I found myself staring back at the face of 253 lbs again, only a few years after having had the surgery, all I saw was shame and failure. I was so sure that this was my last and only chance to attain a skinny body, and therefore happiness. Unlike Jen (from the article posted above) I didn't lose the 100+ lbs really quickly and go through the physical and psychological process of coming to terms with who I was as a skinny girl. I...just...failed, like, right out of the gate. And not only did I fail, but I had random, weekly bouts of regurgitation reminders to boot! When I came to the realization that I just blew my last chance to ever be healthy, I decided to stop caring and I began to eat...a lot. You can only imagine how happy I am, and how grateful I am to God, that the story didn't end there; how blessed I feel to have been given another chance at living a healthy life. Because even though I would never wish those feelings of failure and humiliation upon my worst enemy, I am thankful for the experience. I am thankful for all the diets I've tried, for my brief flirtations with gym membership (donations), for the stomach lasso that continues to make breakfast time oh so adventurous, and for all the successes and failures I've had with every one of them. They have all, in part, brought me to where I am right here and right now.
So if you're a Big Girl or Guy considering weight loss surgery and you want my two cents, here goes. First, do not underestimate the things you and your body are capable of, even if you have to lose a lot of weight; I cannot say this enough. I know how scary it is to think about losing a three-digit number, but it will not just go away on its own, not even if you have your stomach lassoed or stitched up. Weight loss will not just happen to you, no matter how many dreams you have of waking up one morning and being thin. You have to do the work, you have to make the changes, regardless of whether you choose surgery or if you choose the ol' fashioned way. You will probably start making a mental checklist of a hundred different "Can't" reasons for not choosing the ol' fashioned way. Let me just say, Big Person to Big Person, most, if not all, of those reasons are actually "Won'ts" and not "Can'ts" . Two years ago I would have said I "can't" Run, Spin, Kickbox, Yoga, HIIT, Step, Pump, or even Zumba. At the end of the day, I started doing every single one of those things when I weighed over 200 lbs. Do not underestimate the things you and your body are capable of. It's really hard but I promise that all the little victories that come along the way are worth every drop of sweat.
Another thing I've learned about losing weight by eating well and exercising regularly is that while it is ridiculously difficult and it takes forever, you will adapt and become a stronger person. I don't mean just physically stronger, either. You see, unlike Jen Larsen, I'm not really struggling with a loss of identity. Do I still have a skewed perception of my body that's different from what my family and friends see? Absolutely. Do I still wonder who the heck people are talking to when they refer to me as 'Skinny"? All the time. But one of the upsides to the ungodly slow pace of this process is that I am gradually becoming reacquainted with this body and the person who's inhabiting it. When I was heavier, I didn't bother making an effort to dress up or look nice because in my mind fat=ugly and I believed that nobody was capable of seeing me as a woman. But now, as ridiculous as this is to type out, I'm actually acknowledging that I'm not just a personality/sense of humor/food maker that happens to have a body, but I am in fact a woman in a woman's body. And while this does not mean that I will be purchasing a mini skirt, ever, it also means that I will not make extra efforts to hide my body, either.
Finally, my fellow Big Sister or Big Brother reading this, let me tell you what my actual brother, Beriah, tells me: wherever you go, there you are. Translation: skinny does not automatically mean happiness. You will take your issues with you to Skinny Land, you can't cash them in. Happiness, like weight loss, does not just happen to you. It's something you create, define, redefine, work for, embrace and sustain. As Jen said in her article, there is no magic number, no perfect, happy size. It's different for everyone. I have been really lucky to have had almost daily support and encouragement from my family, my friends, my church, and my gym community. With every passing victory, pound, pant size, and milestone I've had this collective voice of people cheering me along and forcing me(happily) to take and appreciate each day of this journey (cringe) as it comes. So when you read one of my numerous Facebook posts, or blog entries, or emails, where I am gushing about something or someone related to this process, you really have to understand the dark and dismal place from whence I came. And despite everything, my only regret in this lifelong diet/exercise history of mine is that I did not truly believe what my faith has taught me since the day I was born: that I, body, mind, and soul, am an image-bearer of God, and worth loving. And so are you, whatever size you may be.
And that's my two cents.
"I look....I look like Jesus right now with my arms out like this (flaps hands). But if this doesn't end well, I don't think I get to resurrect from the deaaaaa-"
Just recently, I read this article about a woman's journey with weight-loss surgery: http://shine.yahoo.com/healthy-living/losing-180-pounds-really-does-body-8212-160-163900419.html It was very well-written and it got me all sentimental-like about my own weight-loss surgery experience seven years ago. I wanted to share it with you all for a couple of reasons:
1. My lap band is still in there (and will be until I re-acquire health insurance) and continues to make an impact in my life
2. My experience with attempting to lose weight via surgery vs. my current weight loss "journey" (cringe) are two dramatically different experiences
3. If you're a Big Girl or Big Guy who is considering weight-loss surgery and you're reading this blog, it's important to see both sides of the coin from another person's perspective
So here's my account, for better and for worse...and then for good:
In 2006 I was a junior in college, I weighed about 250ish lbs, and I was sitting in a therapy session with an on-campus counselor (FYI: I'm really wishing all my weight loss journeys didn't start with a meltdown). The counselor herself wasn't so great; she kept looking at the clock above my head every three minutes (which isn't the best non-verbal gesture you want to receive from a counselor...during a therapy session). And even though the conversation started out with me addressing my communication issues with my roommate, it somehow morphed into a discussion about weight-loss surgery. I suppose when you're a 250 lb, 20 year-old college girl who's an emotional wreck, it all circles back to the elephant in the room (yeah, pun intended): weight issues. And for whatever reason, the moment this counselor said the words "weight loss surgery" it was like the clouds began to part. Even though I was a totally mixed bag of issues and sadness, I just knew that weight loss surgery was going to save me from living a miserable existence (because fat is synonymous with sad and ugly right?). One minute I'm bawling my eyes out on a paisley couch and the next I'm making a dozen phone calls to schedule doctors appointments. As any of my friends will tell you, I have a very laid back, sloppy, Type B attitude about every aspect of my life (except cooking); however, when I decided to get weight-loss surgery, I was single-minded in my determination to make it happen as quickly and efficiently as was humanly possible.
That counseling session was in November. By May, I filled out a thousand pieces of paperwork for my insurance company and received pre-surgical medical clearances from my primary care physician, a psychologist, a cardiologist, a nutritionist and the actual surgeon. This was in addition to having blood work done, receiving chest x-rays, and getting an upper GI swallow (basically a camera that is snaked down your throat and used to check out the condition of your stomach lining. I'm shocked they didn't see any castaway potatoes bobbing around down there). There's a couple of things that stood out to me during all those appointments. The first is that I kept hearing what "an ideal candidate" I was for weight-loss surgery. I know they meant physically-speaking (although it was nice to have a psych evaluation confirm my mentally sound...ness, too): I was young (21), I didn't have any health risk factors other than...you know..morbid obesity, and I was unlikely to die during the surgery itself. You know what else stood out to me in those appointments? I was not an uninformed idiot. I researched the crap out of weight-loss surgery (which led me to choose the less-invasive lap-band route) and when I met with all of those doctors to get my medical clearances, I gave them (and my parents) the impression that I knew the full weight (no pun intended that time) of the decision I was about to make. So in late May of 2006, I had a silicone band lassoed around the upper portion of my stomach which restricted my food intake to about 1/2 cup (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lap_band_surgery). For the first four weeks after the surgery, I was on a liquids-only diet (a lot of smoothies and protein shakes) followed by four weeks of soft, mushy foods. After that, I was on my own and it was all trial and error, but mostly a lot of error.
Here's the crazy thing about my post-surgery life: I remember, in the beginning, seeing the numbers go down on the scale (which will happen when you eat liquid and mush for two months) and thinking, "This is it! It's really happening for me now!" But I have zero recollection of actually feeling physically different, like in my body. I definitely remember how I felt (and still occasionally feel) the first time I ate scrambled eggs and how they got stuck as they attempted to travel through the lassoed up portion of my stomach (eggs, rice, and untoasted bread are very hard on the lap-band if they are not chewed into nothingness). It literally felt (feels) like my stomach was choking and I had no choice but to...er...remove the obstruction via regurgitation. This happened (and still happens) a lot, to the point where my friend Jenn would look at me and say, "Angie, you've got the Death Face again, babe. Something get caught?" These are the moments that I remember about my post-surgery body. I don't remember sizing out of clothes, I have no recollection of seeing my collar bone protruding beneath my neck; I remember learning how to discreetly leave a table and go throw up. There were no physical signs of a future, healthier body (as there are now in this process) because I wasn't different. Correction: I now had a silicone lasso around my stomach. Other than the lasso (whose side-effect of spontaneous regurgitation was not a great party trick) I was still the same, sedentary Angela with bad eating habits and over time, I gained back every pound.
Please don't think for a second that I am suggesting that lap-band surgery, or any weight loss surgery for that matter, does not work. It does work and there are thousands of success stories out there about people who had the surgery and completely reversed their obesity and its myriad associated health risks. Let me be very clear that my weight loss surgery story was not a success story because of me and my unwillingness to change. Finance guru Dave Ramsey says that spending money wisely is "20% head knowledge and 80% behavior modification". You could apply this same logic to living a healthy life. The reason my lap-band surgery "failed" was not because I didn't know that I was supposed to use the band as a tool and not a cure to change my life. As I said before, I spent months researching the crap out of this stuff. I saw a lot of doctors that warned me what would happen if I didn't do the work. The problem is that knowing how to change and actually changing are two very different situations. If you met ten overweight people on the street, my guess is that nine of them could give you detailed summaries of at least a dozen different diet regimens. I, myself, still have a vague recollection of how many "points" are allotted to most foods. Anyone can read a diet book or a nutrition label (and by all means please do, and with discernment); implementing that information into a healthy sustainable lifestyle is a whole different kettle of fish. I had lap-band surgery and then proceeded to live as though I never did, all while erroneously assuming that weight loss would just happen to me (let me just state right here and now: successful, healthy weight loss never just happens. It takes a lot of work).
When I found myself staring back at the face of 253 lbs again, only a few years after having had the surgery, all I saw was shame and failure. I was so sure that this was my last and only chance to attain a skinny body, and therefore happiness. Unlike Jen (from the article posted above) I didn't lose the 100+ lbs really quickly and go through the physical and psychological process of coming to terms with who I was as a skinny girl. I...just...failed, like, right out of the gate. And not only did I fail, but I had random, weekly bouts of regurgitation reminders to boot! When I came to the realization that I just blew my last chance to ever be healthy, I decided to stop caring and I began to eat...a lot. You can only imagine how happy I am, and how grateful I am to God, that the story didn't end there; how blessed I feel to have been given another chance at living a healthy life. Because even though I would never wish those feelings of failure and humiliation upon my worst enemy, I am thankful for the experience. I am thankful for all the diets I've tried, for my brief flirtations with gym membership (donations), for the stomach lasso that continues to make breakfast time oh so adventurous, and for all the successes and failures I've had with every one of them. They have all, in part, brought me to where I am right here and right now.
So if you're a Big Girl or Guy considering weight loss surgery and you want my two cents, here goes. First, do not underestimate the things you and your body are capable of, even if you have to lose a lot of weight; I cannot say this enough. I know how scary it is to think about losing a three-digit number, but it will not just go away on its own, not even if you have your stomach lassoed or stitched up. Weight loss will not just happen to you, no matter how many dreams you have of waking up one morning and being thin. You have to do the work, you have to make the changes, regardless of whether you choose surgery or if you choose the ol' fashioned way. You will probably start making a mental checklist of a hundred different "Can't" reasons for not choosing the ol' fashioned way. Let me just say, Big Person to Big Person, most, if not all, of those reasons are actually "Won'ts" and not "Can'ts" . Two years ago I would have said I "can't" Run, Spin, Kickbox, Yoga, HIIT, Step, Pump, or even Zumba. At the end of the day, I started doing every single one of those things when I weighed over 200 lbs. Do not underestimate the things you and your body are capable of. It's really hard but I promise that all the little victories that come along the way are worth every drop of sweat.
Another thing I've learned about losing weight by eating well and exercising regularly is that while it is ridiculously difficult and it takes forever, you will adapt and become a stronger person. I don't mean just physically stronger, either. You see, unlike Jen Larsen, I'm not really struggling with a loss of identity. Do I still have a skewed perception of my body that's different from what my family and friends see? Absolutely. Do I still wonder who the heck people are talking to when they refer to me as 'Skinny"? All the time. But one of the upsides to the ungodly slow pace of this process is that I am gradually becoming reacquainted with this body and the person who's inhabiting it. When I was heavier, I didn't bother making an effort to dress up or look nice because in my mind fat=ugly and I believed that nobody was capable of seeing me as a woman. But now, as ridiculous as this is to type out, I'm actually acknowledging that I'm not just a personality/sense of humor/food maker that happens to have a body, but I am in fact a woman in a woman's body. And while this does not mean that I will be purchasing a mini skirt, ever, it also means that I will not make extra efforts to hide my body, either.
Finally, my fellow Big Sister or Big Brother reading this, let me tell you what my actual brother, Beriah, tells me: wherever you go, there you are. Translation: skinny does not automatically mean happiness. You will take your issues with you to Skinny Land, you can't cash them in. Happiness, like weight loss, does not just happen to you. It's something you create, define, redefine, work for, embrace and sustain. As Jen said in her article, there is no magic number, no perfect, happy size. It's different for everyone. I have been really lucky to have had almost daily support and encouragement from my family, my friends, my church, and my gym community. With every passing victory, pound, pant size, and milestone I've had this collective voice of people cheering me along and forcing me(happily) to take and appreciate each day of this journey (cringe) as it comes. So when you read one of my numerous Facebook posts, or blog entries, or emails, where I am gushing about something or someone related to this process, you really have to understand the dark and dismal place from whence I came. And despite everything, my only regret in this lifelong diet/exercise history of mine is that I did not truly believe what my faith has taught me since the day I was born: that I, body, mind, and soul, am an image-bearer of God, and worth loving. And so are you, whatever size you may be.
And that's my two cents.
Friday, March 22, 2013
Around the Bend
Let's play a lovely game of high-low, and I'll go first (you can mentally chime in with me after you read this):
Low: I haven't been a very disciplined (non-Catholic) Catholic girl during this season of Lent. To be perfectly honest, if I wasn't so blatantly smitten with Yogi Jim's country charm and wholesome colloquialisms during class, I probably wouldn't even bother doing yoga on Tuesday/Thursday nights at the gym. I'd definitely lift and then go on the elliptical, but I would not opt to invest an hour of my body's energy in doing yoga (to all my yoga-loving readers, and especially those in PDX, this is simply an opinion about my personal preference, not a proclamation about the value of yoga as exercise) . My body, by the way, is in a weird, middle place right now (not to be confused with a plateau, which is another, more evil, type of weird, middle place). When you maintain an 18-month habit of exercising regularly, it becomes very difficult to choose to do nothing (I'll go on four mile walks on my day off out of sheer restlessness). When 90% of your workouts are fast-paced, cardio-intense gym classes, it is even more difficult to just do anything, even an hour of yoga with the amazing bending Jims. A year ago, back in my non-sports bra-wearing, over 220-lbs, and completely uncoordinated days, I would leave those yoga classes drenched in sweat and feeling thoroughly spent; my body needed that calmer form of intensity and it was a great work out for where I was then. But for where I am right now, my workout schedule can be summed up by Goose and Maverick: I feel the need, the need for speed.
I really wanted to be able to tell you all that I followed through with my yoga promise, but I didn't. And I'm OK with that because during this process I learned that I really just don't have an emotional connection with yoga. If you exercise at all, chances are there is some activity/sport/class that you tend to favor above all others. In my family, my sister Kim loves running and bikram yoga, Christina loves doing anything that involves the outdoors and kickboxing, and I, not surprisingly, love Zumba (with Cardio Sculpt and kickboxing tied for second place in my heart). If you were to compare my exercise preferences to a balanced meal, Zumba would be my big portion of greens, kickboxing and Cardio Sculpt would be my smaller portions of (complex) carbohydrates and (vegetable) protein, and a class like yoga would be the occasional late-night snack, like popcorn. I just couldn't eat popcorn every night for forty days*. Sorry, dedicated Lent-ers! By the way, just in case you're wondering what I'd consider to be dessert, a rare treat of perfectly indulgent happiness: Zumbathons.
*In hindsight, I really wish I had actually set out to practice Zumba every day of Lent, but when it's Ash Wednesday and you're sitting in Catholic church, and a stern-faced nun smears the Cross on your forehead, you're not really thinking, "Lord, in honor of your impending Resurrection from the Cross, I'm going work extra hard on my pelvic thrusts during Beanie Man's 'Gimme, Gimme, Gimme'. This is my sacrifice to your glory. Amen". Yoga seemed the more Lent-appropriate exercise option.
High: I've hit the -80lb mark. That means I'm 20 lbs away from the next big milestone of a 100 lb weight-loss and 40 lbs away from The Big Goal (insert trumpet playing). At this point, I'm hoping that after reading the -80 lb news, you sort of got over your disappointment in me for being a lousy (non-Catholic) Catholic. If you're not over said disappointment in my apparent lack of religious tradition, let me remind you that Passover is in four days and we can discuss your feelings at some point during the seder when I'm not singing the blessings. In Hebrew (I'm a non-Jewish Jew, too).
*Medium-High: I texted Chrissy about my weight-loss milestone (I also told her, in the most respectful of ways, that there had better be some kind of Zumba party scheduled for when I hit -100lbs because that kind of thing doesn't just happen every day, you know...). She figured that at the rate I was going (-1lb a week), it looked like I would meet that goal around late July. I was pretty excited about that very real, very not-so-far-off date for a whole 20 seconds before I read the part of her text message that said "And you know these next 20 lbs are going to be hard". That's the thing about Chrissy: she will not, under any circumstances, bull-crap you and especially not when it comes to her field of expertise. I'll never forget the time she began HIIT class by saying, "Guys, I'm gonna tell you all right now that tonight's class...it's going be hard". Sure enough, at some point during that class I actually put my sweaty forehead on the gym carpet and thought, "This is it. This is the moment when everything is going to explode out of both ends, and then I will never come back to the gym and I'll go back to being 253 pounds" (Thankfully, I did not explode). Needless to say, when I re-read that text, I actually said out loud, "Oh God...these next 20 lbs are going to be hard..."
Of course, I didn't actually get why the next 20 lbs had to be so hard. Please understand that I am still new at this 'being healthy' stuff. I am up to my ears in women's health magazines, journal abstracts, and assorted books to learn about why the human body is a lying, water-retaining jerk face that specializes in playing mind games (nothing conclusive yet). It is my feeling that in a just world, a person who works out regularly should be able to eat without ever having to think about calories. In a just world, there would be no skinny people that could eat anything and everything, and never once gain a pound. And in a just world, when I burn 3,500 calories a week, even if it's a week when I'm a pissy, menstruating wreck, I. should. lose. a. pound. I don't buy this whole "your body thinks its going into starvation mode, so it's slowing down your weight loss progress" crap. I want to send my body a note that says, "Dear Body, do you not recall that short Italian lady that pushed you out 28 years ago, the one whose love language is cooking? Starvation mode?...Really?..."
Nevertheless I really really want to hit that -100 lb mark by July. As cheesy as this sounds, there's a kind of symbolic awesomeness to celebrating my liberation from obesity within a few weeks of Independence Day. Finally, and this is a bit hard to explain, but it means something to me to have someone like Chrissy say (and I paraphrase) "It looks like you might be -100lbs by July and it's going to be hard". It reminds me of my very first 5K, actually. I ran alone and it was very difficult for me (I had only ever run for 20 minutes at a time up until that point). But what I remember most about that race, other than the shock of actually finishing, was that every time I'd round the bend, Chrissy, who was running way ahead of me in the distance, would turn to check where I was and wave back at me. I didn't get all choked up over it or anything, but it did make me think, "She just..assumes I'll be around the bend...running..." Like I was a runner. And then it hit me that I actually was a runner at that moment. That's the other thing about Chrissy; she never sees me as "fat" and she certainly doesn't allow me to use it as an excuse to take it easy in her classes. She expects me, and everyone else, to keep going and push myself forward. And because she expects this kind of effort from me, I, in turn, do my best to meet her expectations. But even though I'm slower and my form is lousy, I never once think of myself as fat when I'm in those classes. I only ever think "I can and I will do this."
So regardless of whether or not I meet the July goal, here are three truths about it:
1. I will lose these next 20 pounds, regardless of the hows and whens.
2. It will be very difficult and seemingly endless.
3. At some point I will stop seeing myself as fat outside of the gym classroom.
Low: I haven't been a very disciplined (non-Catholic) Catholic girl during this season of Lent. To be perfectly honest, if I wasn't so blatantly smitten with Yogi Jim's country charm and wholesome colloquialisms during class, I probably wouldn't even bother doing yoga on Tuesday/Thursday nights at the gym. I'd definitely lift and then go on the elliptical, but I would not opt to invest an hour of my body's energy in doing yoga (to all my yoga-loving readers, and especially those in PDX, this is simply an opinion about my personal preference, not a proclamation about the value of yoga as exercise) . My body, by the way, is in a weird, middle place right now (not to be confused with a plateau, which is another, more evil, type of weird, middle place). When you maintain an 18-month habit of exercising regularly, it becomes very difficult to choose to do nothing (I'll go on four mile walks on my day off out of sheer restlessness). When 90% of your workouts are fast-paced, cardio-intense gym classes, it is even more difficult to just do anything, even an hour of yoga with the amazing bending Jims. A year ago, back in my non-sports bra-wearing, over 220-lbs, and completely uncoordinated days, I would leave those yoga classes drenched in sweat and feeling thoroughly spent; my body needed that calmer form of intensity and it was a great work out for where I was then. But for where I am right now, my workout schedule can be summed up by Goose and Maverick: I feel the need, the need for speed.
I really wanted to be able to tell you all that I followed through with my yoga promise, but I didn't. And I'm OK with that because during this process I learned that I really just don't have an emotional connection with yoga. If you exercise at all, chances are there is some activity/sport/class that you tend to favor above all others. In my family, my sister Kim loves running and bikram yoga, Christina loves doing anything that involves the outdoors and kickboxing, and I, not surprisingly, love Zumba (with Cardio Sculpt and kickboxing tied for second place in my heart). If you were to compare my exercise preferences to a balanced meal, Zumba would be my big portion of greens, kickboxing and Cardio Sculpt would be my smaller portions of (complex) carbohydrates and (vegetable) protein, and a class like yoga would be the occasional late-night snack, like popcorn. I just couldn't eat popcorn every night for forty days*. Sorry, dedicated Lent-ers! By the way, just in case you're wondering what I'd consider to be dessert, a rare treat of perfectly indulgent happiness: Zumbathons.
*In hindsight, I really wish I had actually set out to practice Zumba every day of Lent, but when it's Ash Wednesday and you're sitting in Catholic church, and a stern-faced nun smears the Cross on your forehead, you're not really thinking, "Lord, in honor of your impending Resurrection from the Cross, I'm going work extra hard on my pelvic thrusts during Beanie Man's 'Gimme, Gimme, Gimme'. This is my sacrifice to your glory. Amen". Yoga seemed the more Lent-appropriate exercise option.
High: I've hit the -80lb mark. That means I'm 20 lbs away from the next big milestone of a 100 lb weight-loss and 40 lbs away from The Big Goal (insert trumpet playing). At this point, I'm hoping that after reading the -80 lb news, you sort of got over your disappointment in me for being a lousy (non-Catholic) Catholic. If you're not over said disappointment in my apparent lack of religious tradition, let me remind you that Passover is in four days and we can discuss your feelings at some point during the seder when I'm not singing the blessings. In Hebrew (I'm a non-Jewish Jew, too).
*Medium-High: I texted Chrissy about my weight-loss milestone (I also told her, in the most respectful of ways, that there had better be some kind of Zumba party scheduled for when I hit -100lbs because that kind of thing doesn't just happen every day, you know...). She figured that at the rate I was going (-1lb a week), it looked like I would meet that goal around late July. I was pretty excited about that very real, very not-so-far-off date for a whole 20 seconds before I read the part of her text message that said "And you know these next 20 lbs are going to be hard". That's the thing about Chrissy: she will not, under any circumstances, bull-crap you and especially not when it comes to her field of expertise. I'll never forget the time she began HIIT class by saying, "Guys, I'm gonna tell you all right now that tonight's class...it's going be hard". Sure enough, at some point during that class I actually put my sweaty forehead on the gym carpet and thought, "This is it. This is the moment when everything is going to explode out of both ends, and then I will never come back to the gym and I'll go back to being 253 pounds" (Thankfully, I did not explode). Needless to say, when I re-read that text, I actually said out loud, "Oh God...these next 20 lbs are going to be hard..."
Of course, I didn't actually get why the next 20 lbs had to be so hard. Please understand that I am still new at this 'being healthy' stuff. I am up to my ears in women's health magazines, journal abstracts, and assorted books to learn about why the human body is a lying, water-retaining jerk face that specializes in playing mind games (nothing conclusive yet). It is my feeling that in a just world, a person who works out regularly should be able to eat without ever having to think about calories. In a just world, there would be no skinny people that could eat anything and everything, and never once gain a pound. And in a just world, when I burn 3,500 calories a week, even if it's a week when I'm a pissy, menstruating wreck, I. should. lose. a. pound. I don't buy this whole "your body thinks its going into starvation mode, so it's slowing down your weight loss progress" crap. I want to send my body a note that says, "Dear Body, do you not recall that short Italian lady that pushed you out 28 years ago, the one whose love language is cooking? Starvation mode?...Really?..."
Nevertheless I really really want to hit that -100 lb mark by July. As cheesy as this sounds, there's a kind of symbolic awesomeness to celebrating my liberation from obesity within a few weeks of Independence Day. Finally, and this is a bit hard to explain, but it means something to me to have someone like Chrissy say (and I paraphrase) "It looks like you might be -100lbs by July and it's going to be hard". It reminds me of my very first 5K, actually. I ran alone and it was very difficult for me (I had only ever run for 20 minutes at a time up until that point). But what I remember most about that race, other than the shock of actually finishing, was that every time I'd round the bend, Chrissy, who was running way ahead of me in the distance, would turn to check where I was and wave back at me. I didn't get all choked up over it or anything, but it did make me think, "She just..assumes I'll be around the bend...running..." Like I was a runner. And then it hit me that I actually was a runner at that moment. That's the other thing about Chrissy; she never sees me as "fat" and she certainly doesn't allow me to use it as an excuse to take it easy in her classes. She expects me, and everyone else, to keep going and push myself forward. And because she expects this kind of effort from me, I, in turn, do my best to meet her expectations. But even though I'm slower and my form is lousy, I never once think of myself as fat when I'm in those classes. I only ever think "I can and I will do this."
So regardless of whether or not I meet the July goal, here are three truths about it:
1. I will lose these next 20 pounds, regardless of the hows and whens.
2. It will be very difficult and seemingly endless.
3. At some point I will stop seeing myself as fat outside of the gym classroom.
Tuesday, February 26, 2013
Yoga: The Sequel
(It's Tuesday night Yoga with Jim and I'm in the Triangle pose)
Jim: As we Triangle, we're strengthenin' our backs. You do this oft' 'nough, yer gon' have a nice strong back to take witchu' to the beach this summer. You'll be runnin' in the sand like the Captain over there, witch'ur nice stroooooong back in a bathin' suit. (pauses) What a stretch.
Let me stop right there. If you have absolutely no idea what I'm talking about when I reference Jim or the Captain, please go back and re-read the post I wrote entitled "Yoga: A History". I would not be doing either of these men any justice if I were to just write some blurb of a description before transitioning to the rest of this post. Go grab a cup of coffee or a glass of wine, take about ten-ish minutes to read that first yoga post, and then pow-wow back to this second installment.
Minor Confession (an appropriate course of action during the season of Lent): I haven't been getting up in the morning to do yoga. I was barely one week (day) into Lent before I totally compromised my decision to discipline my body and spirit through the daily practice of yoga (sidenote: my lunges still suck). In my pathetic defense, let me explain: Last week, I did ten gym classes. You know who else did ten gym classes in six days? Chrissy (our levels of intensity differ somewhat, though...). This is in addition to daily strength training and some miscellaneous pre-class cardio sessions (I usually get to the gym about an hour before my classes actually start, so I fill the time with some kind of "warm up"). You might be thinking I'm overdoing it. You might be wondering if I'm doubling, or tripling, up on classes as a way of jarring my body into dropping these last 50 lbs quickly. The God's honest truth is that I really just enjoy the classes. I want to get to my goal weight and that is still really important to me, but frankly, when I miss one of my classes due to a scheduling conflict or, recently, because of knee issues, I actually miss it. Last Tuesday, when I opted to take Spin and Yoga instead of HIIT, I envied my friends who left HIIT class all red-faced and exhausted.
Just an FYI, when you typically spend your Tuesday nights participating in a "High Intensity Interval Training" class, making the switch to yoga is both surreal and difficult. You see, in HIIT class Chrissy has us doing something different every single minute and at a very fast pace (hence the name of the class). This leaves you with no time to take deep breaths, look back at the clock (unless you're a seasoned pro who can hold out until Chrissy's distracted by her ipod shuffle, thereby avoiding getting caught and being sentenced to extra burpees or squats), or to even think, "Why do I keep doing this to myself every week!?" Yoga with Jim is essentially the complete antithesis of HIIT with Chrissy.
Because the gym is still buzzing with New Year's resolution-makers, Tuesday's yoga class was packed. Last time I went, I was with my friend Tanya and we were basically surrounded by a handful of limber, middle-aged men. There were a few willowy females as well, but the attendance was still pretty light. This time I felt like I was bobbing around in a sea of flexible limbs and yoga mats. Fortunately the structure of the class itself didn't change much in its essentials. Jim was still looking quite snug in his spandex bike shorts. He still sounded like he was saying "breasts" whenever he said "breaths" (which was quite often. And I still giggled like a second grader every time he did). Most importantly, Jim still qualified each and every yoga position with a simile, "Now we're in a cat's pose. And if you do this here stretch right, you should feel as good as a cat stretchin' out in a sunny win-da. What a stretch." After each series of stretches, Jim always says "What a stretch". This phrase in and of itself wouldn't be noteworthy if Jim actually said it with enthusiasm like, "Feel that burn!" or "There ya go!" Instead, Jim repeats "What a stretch" in a monotone voice, as if he is reading off of a cue card with a list of "Things Yoga Instructors Should Say to Break the Awkward Pauses Between Poses". Whenever he says "What a stretch", I am reminded of the great differences between Jim and Chrissy. If Chrissy was somehow forced into taking over a yoga class for Jim, she would probably just make it a "slower" paced HIIT class. She definitely wouldn't be able to handle the long periods of silence and calm, so she would attempt to break this by spontaneously dancing around the room or she'd remain up front and have a one-sided conversation about how serious everyone looks during their stretches. And at some point she would probably burst out with a "HOW WE DOIN'? ALRIGHT?! ...alright...(mumbling) everyone looks so grumpy today...it's only Tuesday..."
And the thing is, after having, like, at least six classes a week with Chrissy for nearly a year, I've noticed that I'm not quite as zen as I once was during Jim's yoga class (which, frankly, wasn't all that much to begin with). In fact, I'm downright impatient. Now, I admit that I'm a fidgety girl by nature; I'm pretty sure God is going to hold me accountable for a lot of Sunday mornings when I've written thank you notes or compiled grocery lists instead of actually listening to sermons. But when it comes to the gym classes, I am actually getting to a point where I expect a certain level of crazy, spontaneous energy and noise. I wasn't even 10 minutes into Jim's class before I started feeling restless. I wanted to move, I wanted to listen to angry music, and I admit it, I wanted Jim to yell "HOW WE DOIN?!" And because God has a wonderful sense of humor, it was right about this time that Chrissy actually crept into the class to retrieve her bag. And by creep, I mean she attempted to "blend in" by downward dogging her way from the classroom door to her messenger bag. So there I was on my mat, hips opened at a very uncomfortable angle, trying hard not to pull anything all while shaking in laughter at her sincere efforts to be incognito. Meanwhile, Jim was both fully lotus and fully unaware of anything happening beyond his mat. As you can imagine, I really couldn't regain my focus after that and I ended up leaving class a bit early and a bit discouraged with change of gym classes.
I didn't have any intention of returning to yoga on Thursday. Then again, I had no intention of doing 5AM Spin or Step that day either, and yet I did both (I may have a problem...). Fortunately, Tanya was there with me for this particular yoga class and I had some much-needed accountability. I'm not sure if I was worn out by the two previous classes or just in a much more mature place (my money's on exhaustion), but I was definitely calmer this second time 'round with yoga. Because I had already pedaled and stepped out all the energy from my body, I was pretty content to follow Jim's lead and move slowly while focusing on my breasts....er, breaths (although I think I went a little overboard by dozing off during the corpse pose).
At some point during his yoga classes, Jim has us stand in mountain pose and think about our intention for the class. The intention could be a word, a feeling, a wish, etc. The point is, we're meant to go through the class with a purpose. I would like to tell you that I chose to focus on words like love, peace, balance, or even God. But I have the same intention for Jim's yoga class that I have for every single one of my gym classes, and it is this simple phrase: Dear God, please let me see this through to the end. Mind you, this intention comes out a bit more frantically before Chrissy's classes, but it's the same nonetheless. It also happens to be the same intention I have for this weight-loss process as a whole: Please, God, let me see this through to the end. You see, to be honest, I kind of half-expected this Lenten yoga resolution of mine to bust. I know that's a terribly defeatist attitude to have, but some old habits die hard. And perhaps if I wasn't already entering my second year of working towards my Big Goal, I might wonder if this Lenten snag wasn't some kind of ominous sign. But here's the thing, my dear New Year's/Lent resolution-makers: I continue to progress toward that Big Goal because my intention is to see it through to the end. I get up every single day knowing that I have to accept the hard and unpleasant truth that this end will only come with time and discipline. A lot of time and discipline.
This past Sunday I went to Catholic church for the first time ever (I only ever went for Ash Wednesday services) and Father Rene (with the fantastic Spanish accent) said, quite poignantly, "I wahnder how many of j'ou have kept j'our Lenten promeeses, ah? Eef j'ou deedn't keep them DON' GEEV UP an' stop altogether! After all, Easter ees steel coming, right? Eef j'ou stopped, start eet back up again! But don'. jus'. geev. up. J'ou steel have time!" When I heard him say that, my heart started pounding in response to truth of that statement. And so I say unto you, my fellow Big Girl/Big Guy: DON' GEEV UP! (I don't have quite the same charisma as Father Rene) You still have time. We still have time. Don't wait until you lose _____lbs to join the gym or to take up (insert exercise activity). All of my blog posts about trying Zumba, Spin, Kickboxing, Running, HIIT, Piloxing, Yoga, Cardio Sculpt, and Step for the first time happened while I weighed over 200 lbs. Yes, I was (am) insecure about being the heaviest, slowest, and least graceful person in the room. But I walked (walk) into that classroom asking (begging) God to to give me the strength to see that workout to the end. God did not respond by giving me super-human strength. He responded by giving me amazing instructors and comrades who took me into this gym community with sensitivity and encouragement on a daily basis. But that's not to say that I don't still give in to my fears, insecurities, and the weight of my situation (no pun inte-...okay, yes, it was intended). I still hit my (symbolic) walls and this Lenten resolution might not be executed perfectly. But despite all of that crap, I, with God's help, will see this through to the end.
So don' geev up! There's steel time.
Jim: As we Triangle, we're strengthenin' our backs. You do this oft' 'nough, yer gon' have a nice strong back to take witchu' to the beach this summer. You'll be runnin' in the sand like the Captain over there, witch'ur nice stroooooong back in a bathin' suit. (pauses) What a stretch.
Let me stop right there. If you have absolutely no idea what I'm talking about when I reference Jim or the Captain, please go back and re-read the post I wrote entitled "Yoga: A History". I would not be doing either of these men any justice if I were to just write some blurb of a description before transitioning to the rest of this post. Go grab a cup of coffee or a glass of wine, take about ten-ish minutes to read that first yoga post, and then pow-wow back to this second installment.
Minor Confession (an appropriate course of action during the season of Lent): I haven't been getting up in the morning to do yoga. I was barely one week (day) into Lent before I totally compromised my decision to discipline my body and spirit through the daily practice of yoga (sidenote: my lunges still suck). In my pathetic defense, let me explain: Last week, I did ten gym classes. You know who else did ten gym classes in six days? Chrissy (our levels of intensity differ somewhat, though...). This is in addition to daily strength training and some miscellaneous pre-class cardio sessions (I usually get to the gym about an hour before my classes actually start, so I fill the time with some kind of "warm up"). You might be thinking I'm overdoing it. You might be wondering if I'm doubling, or tripling, up on classes as a way of jarring my body into dropping these last 50 lbs quickly. The God's honest truth is that I really just enjoy the classes. I want to get to my goal weight and that is still really important to me, but frankly, when I miss one of my classes due to a scheduling conflict or, recently, because of knee issues, I actually miss it. Last Tuesday, when I opted to take Spin and Yoga instead of HIIT, I envied my friends who left HIIT class all red-faced and exhausted.
Just an FYI, when you typically spend your Tuesday nights participating in a "High Intensity Interval Training" class, making the switch to yoga is both surreal and difficult. You see, in HIIT class Chrissy has us doing something different every single minute and at a very fast pace (hence the name of the class). This leaves you with no time to take deep breaths, look back at the clock (unless you're a seasoned pro who can hold out until Chrissy's distracted by her ipod shuffle, thereby avoiding getting caught and being sentenced to extra burpees or squats), or to even think, "Why do I keep doing this to myself every week!?" Yoga with Jim is essentially the complete antithesis of HIIT with Chrissy.
Because the gym is still buzzing with New Year's resolution-makers, Tuesday's yoga class was packed. Last time I went, I was with my friend Tanya and we were basically surrounded by a handful of limber, middle-aged men. There were a few willowy females as well, but the attendance was still pretty light. This time I felt like I was bobbing around in a sea of flexible limbs and yoga mats. Fortunately the structure of the class itself didn't change much in its essentials. Jim was still looking quite snug in his spandex bike shorts. He still sounded like he was saying "breasts" whenever he said "breaths" (which was quite often. And I still giggled like a second grader every time he did). Most importantly, Jim still qualified each and every yoga position with a simile, "Now we're in a cat's pose. And if you do this here stretch right, you should feel as good as a cat stretchin' out in a sunny win-da. What a stretch." After each series of stretches, Jim always says "What a stretch". This phrase in and of itself wouldn't be noteworthy if Jim actually said it with enthusiasm like, "Feel that burn!" or "There ya go!" Instead, Jim repeats "What a stretch" in a monotone voice, as if he is reading off of a cue card with a list of "Things Yoga Instructors Should Say to Break the Awkward Pauses Between Poses". Whenever he says "What a stretch", I am reminded of the great differences between Jim and Chrissy. If Chrissy was somehow forced into taking over a yoga class for Jim, she would probably just make it a "slower" paced HIIT class. She definitely wouldn't be able to handle the long periods of silence and calm, so she would attempt to break this by spontaneously dancing around the room or she'd remain up front and have a one-sided conversation about how serious everyone looks during their stretches. And at some point she would probably burst out with a "HOW WE DOIN'? ALRIGHT?! ...alright...(mumbling) everyone looks so grumpy today...it's only Tuesday..."
And the thing is, after having, like, at least six classes a week with Chrissy for nearly a year, I've noticed that I'm not quite as zen as I once was during Jim's yoga class (which, frankly, wasn't all that much to begin with). In fact, I'm downright impatient. Now, I admit that I'm a fidgety girl by nature; I'm pretty sure God is going to hold me accountable for a lot of Sunday mornings when I've written thank you notes or compiled grocery lists instead of actually listening to sermons. But when it comes to the gym classes, I am actually getting to a point where I expect a certain level of crazy, spontaneous energy and noise. I wasn't even 10 minutes into Jim's class before I started feeling restless. I wanted to move, I wanted to listen to angry music, and I admit it, I wanted Jim to yell "HOW WE DOIN?!" And because God has a wonderful sense of humor, it was right about this time that Chrissy actually crept into the class to retrieve her bag. And by creep, I mean she attempted to "blend in" by downward dogging her way from the classroom door to her messenger bag. So there I was on my mat, hips opened at a very uncomfortable angle, trying hard not to pull anything all while shaking in laughter at her sincere efforts to be incognito. Meanwhile, Jim was both fully lotus and fully unaware of anything happening beyond his mat. As you can imagine, I really couldn't regain my focus after that and I ended up leaving class a bit early and a bit discouraged with change of gym classes.
I didn't have any intention of returning to yoga on Thursday. Then again, I had no intention of doing 5AM Spin or Step that day either, and yet I did both (I may have a problem...). Fortunately, Tanya was there with me for this particular yoga class and I had some much-needed accountability. I'm not sure if I was worn out by the two previous classes or just in a much more mature place (my money's on exhaustion), but I was definitely calmer this second time 'round with yoga. Because I had already pedaled and stepped out all the energy from my body, I was pretty content to follow Jim's lead and move slowly while focusing on my breasts....er, breaths (although I think I went a little overboard by dozing off during the corpse pose).
At some point during his yoga classes, Jim has us stand in mountain pose and think about our intention for the class. The intention could be a word, a feeling, a wish, etc. The point is, we're meant to go through the class with a purpose. I would like to tell you that I chose to focus on words like love, peace, balance, or even God. But I have the same intention for Jim's yoga class that I have for every single one of my gym classes, and it is this simple phrase: Dear God, please let me see this through to the end. Mind you, this intention comes out a bit more frantically before Chrissy's classes, but it's the same nonetheless. It also happens to be the same intention I have for this weight-loss process as a whole: Please, God, let me see this through to the end. You see, to be honest, I kind of half-expected this Lenten yoga resolution of mine to bust. I know that's a terribly defeatist attitude to have, but some old habits die hard. And perhaps if I wasn't already entering my second year of working towards my Big Goal, I might wonder if this Lenten snag wasn't some kind of ominous sign. But here's the thing, my dear New Year's/Lent resolution-makers: I continue to progress toward that Big Goal because my intention is to see it through to the end. I get up every single day knowing that I have to accept the hard and unpleasant truth that this end will only come with time and discipline. A lot of time and discipline.
This past Sunday I went to Catholic church for the first time ever (I only ever went for Ash Wednesday services) and Father Rene (with the fantastic Spanish accent) said, quite poignantly, "I wahnder how many of j'ou have kept j'our Lenten promeeses, ah? Eef j'ou deedn't keep them DON' GEEV UP an' stop altogether! After all, Easter ees steel coming, right? Eef j'ou stopped, start eet back up again! But don'. jus'. geev. up. J'ou steel have time!" When I heard him say that, my heart started pounding in response to truth of that statement. And so I say unto you, my fellow Big Girl/Big Guy: DON' GEEV UP! (I don't have quite the same charisma as Father Rene) You still have time. We still have time. Don't wait until you lose _____lbs to join the gym or to take up (insert exercise activity). All of my blog posts about trying Zumba, Spin, Kickboxing, Running, HIIT, Piloxing, Yoga, Cardio Sculpt, and Step for the first time happened while I weighed over 200 lbs. Yes, I was (am) insecure about being the heaviest, slowest, and least graceful person in the room. But I walked (walk) into that classroom asking (begging) God to to give me the strength to see that workout to the end. God did not respond by giving me super-human strength. He responded by giving me amazing instructors and comrades who took me into this gym community with sensitivity and encouragement on a daily basis. But that's not to say that I don't still give in to my fears, insecurities, and the weight of my situation (no pun inte-...okay, yes, it was intended). I still hit my (symbolic) walls and this Lenten resolution might not be executed perfectly. But despite all of that crap, I, with God's help, will see this through to the end.
So don' geev up! There's steel time.
Wednesday, February 13, 2013
Ash and You Shall Receive
It's the most wonderful tiiiiiime of the year....
OK, well I get that Ash Wednesday is definitely not as hyped up a holiday as Christmas is, but I actually look forward to this day more than Christmas if you can believe that (probably not). Where the Christmas story is on a sugar high induced by reindeer, glitter, and twinkle lights, Ash Wednesday is very simple, totally straight-forward and with absolutely no bells and whistles whatsoever. In fact, in my opinion Ash Wednesday is basically the holiday equivalent of a smack in the face...or...smudge on the forehead. It is the day that kicks off the season of Lent, a time which is often translated as being: The 40 day New Year's Resolution in which most people "give up" some kind of carbohydrate but mostly just end up giving up on giving something up. Last year I didn't buy food or eat at restaurants for the entire season of Lent (I even created a blog called "The Lent(il) Project" to chronicle that experience, which you can feel free to read). I ate only from my fridge, freezer, and pantry for 40 days. I didn't actually get around to finishing that blog, but I did learn how to make my own yogurt and get incredibly inventive with beans.
This year's Ash Wednesday started out very differently from the previous year. For one thing, I was up at 4AM struggling to throw on gym clothes (which is quite the challenge when you're working off of six hours of sleep) so that I could attend 5AM Spin. For another, I may or may not have engaged in a heated conversation with the lady at the front desk before said 5AM Spin class. I won't hash out the details but suffice it to say that never in my entire life did I ever think that some day I would vehemently dialogue with another person over a sign-in sheet for a 5AM Spin Class... Anyway, I went to class with quite a bit more un-Christ-like aggression to burn than is normal for me. Once Spin ended, I had to book it back home in order to clean up before mass started.
In the Lent(il) Project, I describe, in great detail, my history with Ash Wednesday services. I started going to them because I needed chapel credit for college but ended up really enjoying the liturgy (especially in the reverend's Irish accent which, let's face it, could make a reading from my car's owner's manual sound sexy). When I moved back to NJ after school, I actually attended two masses on Ash Wednesday: one from the Catholic church and one from the Episcopalian church near Jersey Fitness. I wish that I could tell you I did this out of some deeper yearning for greater spiritual truth. But the fact is, I went to the Episcopalian service because when I was calling around for Ash Wednesday service times, the church secretary said, "The homily is at 9:30 and there will be a coffee and hot cross bun reception once the service is over". Needless to say, she had me at "hot cross bun reception". Once the Catholic service ended, I booked it across town to St. Peter's quicker than you can say a Hail Mary. I have no doubt that while I wiped off my Catholic ashes, a little piece of my dignity went with them. This year, my eyes are definitely on the prize of getting to my goal weight, but there is a non-negotiable Hot Cross Bun/Good Friday Cannoli Clause built into my weight-loss contract. This clause allows for the consumption of baked goods for religious purposes (I'm sure it's in the Bible somewhere). Had cannoli been around in the time of King David, I have no doubt there would be a whole slew of psalms devoted to thanking God for them.
This year's Ash Wednesday service was everything I'd hoped it would be. Thankfully I was not bawled out by one of the parishioners (who looks exactly like my Aunt Lori) for accidentally not eating the Communion wafer in front of the Crucifix (a mistake you do not repeat twice in the Catholic Church). I also managed to avoid getting the squeaky knee rest (unlike my across-the-pew neighbor. Rookie mistake, succccckkkkaaa!). Also, the priest had a fantastically thick Spanish accent in addition to a quirky sense of humor. I found it quite charming to be asked, "How many of j'ou gonna geev up the con-dees and thee shoo-gar for Lent, ah? Do j'ou theenk God wants the con-dees...or...(long dramatic pause) j'our heaaaart?" I'm serious, accents just make the mass for me. The priest asked us to really think about what we intended to give up for Lent. It made me pause to consider something my friend Heidi said about not necessarily losing something for Lent (because at this point I've already lost two happy knee caps, weight, a social life, and 90% of my clothing to Jersey Fitness alone) but perhaps adding something; for example, adding a special time to pray, have devotions, quiet time, etc. I thought this was a very thoughtful and brilliant idea, actually.
For whatever reason, I really feel like adding yoga to my morning routine for the forty days of Lent. I should probably point out that I am not a morning person. That I go to 5AM Spin at all says more about Chrissy's teaching abilities than my self-discipline. I love to sleep more than I love eating, dancing in Zumba, watching Korean dramas, riding on hayrides, and shopping at farmer's markets...combined. Also, I'm not really a yoga person, either. If you re-read my post entitled "Yoga: A History" you will learn that I am not terribly coordinated and will more than likely tip over. A lot. It is because of my propensity to fall that makes me give Chrissy the stink eye whenever she has us "warm up" in kickboxing by balancing our bodies over one foot. In short, I really have zero desire whatsoever to get up early in the morning and do yoga. And yet, it is because this practice is outside of my comfort zone that I am drawn to pursue it. My life is fairly busy and I don't often get the opportunity to concentrate on the understated value of just breathing. For me, this is not about losing weight, it's not about pushing the limits of my body, it's about acquiring balance both spiritually and physically (I better rock at lunges by Easter Sunday). Now, so as to not totally wipe myself out, on the Tuesdays and Thursdays that I might attend 5AM Spin, I will opt to do yoga at night with the super amazing, indescribable, spandex-clad, foot tatted, Jim. I cannot wait to hear him say hip op'ner for the first time...it will be magical, I know it.
Happy Ash Wednesday, everyone!
 |
| last year's cross |
 |
| The contents of my pantry from last year's Lent(il) Project, which includes 10 lbs of beans |
This year's Ash Wednesday started out very differently from the previous year. For one thing, I was up at 4AM struggling to throw on gym clothes (which is quite the challenge when you're working off of six hours of sleep) so that I could attend 5AM Spin. For another, I may or may not have engaged in a heated conversation with the lady at the front desk before said 5AM Spin class. I won't hash out the details but suffice it to say that never in my entire life did I ever think that some day I would vehemently dialogue with another person over a sign-in sheet for a 5AM Spin Class... Anyway, I went to class with quite a bit more un-Christ-like aggression to burn than is normal for me. Once Spin ended, I had to book it back home in order to clean up before mass started.
In the Lent(il) Project, I describe, in great detail, my history with Ash Wednesday services. I started going to them because I needed chapel credit for college but ended up really enjoying the liturgy (especially in the reverend's Irish accent which, let's face it, could make a reading from my car's owner's manual sound sexy). When I moved back to NJ after school, I actually attended two masses on Ash Wednesday: one from the Catholic church and one from the Episcopalian church near Jersey Fitness. I wish that I could tell you I did this out of some deeper yearning for greater spiritual truth. But the fact is, I went to the Episcopalian service because when I was calling around for Ash Wednesday service times, the church secretary said, "The homily is at 9:30 and there will be a coffee and hot cross bun reception once the service is over". Needless to say, she had me at "hot cross bun reception". Once the Catholic service ended, I booked it across town to St. Peter's quicker than you can say a Hail Mary. I have no doubt that while I wiped off my Catholic ashes, a little piece of my dignity went with them. This year, my eyes are definitely on the prize of getting to my goal weight, but there is a non-negotiable Hot Cross Bun/Good Friday Cannoli Clause built into my weight-loss contract. This clause allows for the consumption of baked goods for religious purposes (I'm sure it's in the Bible somewhere). Had cannoli been around in the time of King David, I have no doubt there would be a whole slew of psalms devoted to thanking God for them.
 |
| a very religious experience... |
For whatever reason, I really feel like adding yoga to my morning routine for the forty days of Lent. I should probably point out that I am not a morning person. That I go to 5AM Spin at all says more about Chrissy's teaching abilities than my self-discipline. I love to sleep more than I love eating, dancing in Zumba, watching Korean dramas, riding on hayrides, and shopping at farmer's markets...combined. Also, I'm not really a yoga person, either. If you re-read my post entitled "Yoga: A History" you will learn that I am not terribly coordinated and will more than likely tip over. A lot. It is because of my propensity to fall that makes me give Chrissy the stink eye whenever she has us "warm up" in kickboxing by balancing our bodies over one foot. In short, I really have zero desire whatsoever to get up early in the morning and do yoga. And yet, it is because this practice is outside of my comfort zone that I am drawn to pursue it. My life is fairly busy and I don't often get the opportunity to concentrate on the understated value of just breathing. For me, this is not about losing weight, it's not about pushing the limits of my body, it's about acquiring balance both spiritually and physically (I better rock at lunges by Easter Sunday). Now, so as to not totally wipe myself out, on the Tuesdays and Thursdays that I might attend 5AM Spin, I will opt to do yoga at night with the super amazing, indescribable, spandex-clad, foot tatted, Jim. I cannot wait to hear him say hip op'ner for the first time...it will be magical, I know it.
Happy Ash Wednesday, everyone!
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