Happy New Year

My New Year's resolutions aren't terribly creative. For as long as I can remember, the ball would drop and I'd think to myself (because I never openly admit to being a resolution-maker), "Alright, it's January 1st again. I should probably do something about this (at which point I'd clutch my fat rolls)." Honestly, making a New Year's resolution is basically the adult version of making a wish; the kind that I'd always indulge in as a kid but never took seriously. They usually involved blowing out birthday candles, wrestling over a wishbone (which is super gross to me now as a vegetarian), spotting a shooting star, and (to my humiliation) rubbing the rhinestone belly button of a troll doll.
 Because I've been fat since the age of 9, I have all of these vivid memories of wishing for the same thing: to be thin and pretty (because I viewed them as being one and the same). Nowadays, my New Year's resolutions are more like practice runs for the season of Lent in that they involve me "giving up" something unhealthy that I like to eat (i.e. potatoes). My resolutions start out great until around January 2nd, when I realize that my birthday is a month away. And then I play the ever delightful, classic Big Girl/Guy game of "I'm really going to start eating better right after__(Insert holiday/event)____". (This never works out for me for the very simple fact that I celebrate both Jewish and Christian holidays. That basically wipes out like 8 months right there, and I flat out refuse to make latkes out of beets). So I hold out on eating well until after my birthday, which, according to my friend Rachael, warrants a week of no holds barred kind of eating. And this "week" is clearly in Narnia time because by the time Ash Wednesday rolls around, I've put on about 20 lbs of birthday weight (10 lbs for Jesus', 10 lbs for mine).

After 14 months of working towards this big goal of mine, I've decided to end my tradition of resolving to give up _____ and/or to lose weight. Don't get me wrong, I'm still going to keep busting my butt at the gym and watching my food intake. But I think John Lennon put it best when he said, "I don't believe in the Beatles, I just believe in me". The truth is I've never really believed in the Resolutions, but I made a huge mistake in not believing in myself and my ability to change. I don't think that when I started all of this, back in September 2011, that I saw the person that I am now (even with 60 more lbs to go). When you make the decision to tackle weight loss, really and truly tackle it, you never see all the little victories because all you have ever known are the failures. Fourteen months ago, I can assure you that I did not ever see me running four miles in the freezing cold wind and stomping up and down my high school bleachers ten times. I didn't see it because I didn't believe myself capable of doing something like that.

So to my fellow Resolution makers who will say to themselves today "I should probably do something about this". To my kindred people, my Big Girls and Big Guys, who will probably join a gym (http://jerseyfitnesscenter.net/JerseyFitness/index-3.html), start a diet (www.loseit.com), and make a wish for a healthier version of themselves: 1. I think that's amazing and you have my full support and encouragement. 2. Now that you've made this decision, take the necessary actions to fulfill it. After years of blowing out birthday candles and counting down with Dick Clark, I never actually made any changes. I did absolutely nothing and just assumed that change would just happen to me. And in a way it sort of did; I had a panic attack in the bathroom over a blind date (Please refer to "Paul Tales" for this account). But that incident alone didn't warrant the change, it inspired it. For you, your inspiration may come in the shape of your family, the death of a loved one, a super scary physical exam (Like the notes the school nurse used to send home to my parents that said "Your child is obese." That's it.). But change doesn't happen on good intentions alone, but through action.

So please, take the good parking spaces at my gym. Grab a vacant treadmill (especially if it belongs to a regular) or one of the fourteen bikes in the Spin room. Fill up the entire back section of all the gym classes. Dance awkwardly in Zumba class. Do all of these things with my blessing and my support. But don't tell me about your can'ts. I don't say this to sound condescending or unsympathetic. What I am saying, what every single one of these blog posts has been saying, is that you will shock yourself with the things that you are capable of, even when you're 120 lbs overweight, if you give yourself a fighting chance. You will also find that when it comes weight loss, your biggest battles will not be with the scale, but with the limitations you place on yourself from within your own mind. Now, if you're a Big Girl or a Big Guy and you're happy with yourself the way you are, and you don't want to change then don't. I've long since stopped thinking that being fat is synonymous with being ugly. But don't confuse a "can't" with a "don't want to" (For example: Angela doesn't ever want to dance the riverdance/country ho down song in Zumba class vs. Angela can't do the Tootsie Roll because her knees throb in pain every time she tries to turn them out).

As I mentioned earlier, I ran four miles. Yesterday morning when I woke up after 4 hours of sleep, completely dehydrated, and surprised by my menstrual cycle, I was going to play my "Girl" card and do some light lifting (translation: no boob punching). But I somehow found myself running with my fellow Pump & Run-ers, John and Lisa, and I ran to my high school stadium. I charged up and down the bleachers ten times. I ran back to the gym and lifted weights. And I did all of this because I have finally gotten to the point where I want my Big Goal weight more than I want to make excuses. So I've decided that I'm not going to welcome in 2013 by making a New Year's resolution to be thin and pretty. Instead, I'm going to keep busting my butt at the gym with a calm assurance that some day, maybe some time this year, I am going to step on the scale and see my number.

So to 2012, the year that brought me so many firsts and gave me back so much hope, I want to say thank you. Thank you for my milestones, my walls, my community of friends and family, for my instructors that tell us in every single one of our classes that we can do it, and for each new day that brings me closer to my Goal. And to all of you Resolutioners, I leave you with the lines of the song that played when I finished up my fourth mile:

The dog days are over
The dog days are done
The horses are coming
So you better run
Run fast for your mother,
Run fast for your father
Run for your children
For your sisters and brothers

Pimp & Run

The title of today's post is a shout-out to my sister Chrissy who misread one of my facebook statuses and thought I joined an event called "Pimp & Run". I briefly conjured up mental images of my fellow Pump & Run buddies dressed up like pimps and, well, hookers running through the streets of Pennsville. The problem is that thigh-high leather boots just don't allow the feet to breathe; we wouldn't be half a mile out before the blisters set in. Anyway, I found her blunder to be precious and subject line-worthy.

So the blog is now nineteen posts in and you've probably already deduced that I really love my gym. I can assure you that my inner Big Girl cringes every time I say this out loud, though. She has very specific opinions about people who make obnoxious statements like, "I'm addicted to working out" and "I just had a killer run today" out in the open. And yet here I am, 14 months into my gym membership (not just a donation) and every time I walk into Jersey Fitness it's like I can hear the theme from "Cheers" playing in the background. I usually walk in, chat (flirt) with the guys up front, wind my way through the main room while conversing with the same five or six regulars on their preferred machines, and then rush to get dressed in the freezing cold locker room before class. **Side Rant: It's amazing how bonded the regular members become to specific machines. I definitely have a treadmill and a Spin bike that I gravitate towards, but I'm not yet at the point where I start saying things like my bike or my treadmill. I have been on the other end of that, unfortunately. I have been told that I couldn't use a specific bench press because another member used it at that specific time on that specific day every week for the past 12 years. I kind of expected this attitude from the weight room, though (as you'll read about later). What I did not expect was a stare down from a grandmother while I was running on the treadmill instead of attending a class. At first I thought my feet were clopping too loudly on the belt and disturbing her workout. But then the second I hopped off and wiped down the machine, the grandmother threw her magazine down and climbed on, impatiently. I understand that people have their preferences and their routines, especially if they've been members for a number of years. The thing is, I remember how insecure and intimidated I was when I first started going to the gym. I thought everyone was looking at me and silently judging my form and physique. So when I see that "my" Spin bike by the right side of the room, second from the back, is occupied by a doe-eyed new girl who has no idea that Chrissy's 30 minute "Express Ride" is going to be the longest, most intense, crotch numbing half hour of her life, I don't get upset over it; that was all of us at one time. End Rant**
 
Once I'm in the classroom, I have the same conversation with my classmates: that is, we usually complain about the difficulty of the previous night's class and whichever body part happens to be sore from it as a result. I love the ritual of these pre-class conversations. I enjoy the familiarity of standing in a cluster of ladies and collectively assessing the instructor's mood and/or the likelihood of being asked to do burpees/lunges/squats. Despite the fact that we all participate in the classes as individuals with very different levels of fitness, there is an understood camaraderie amongst all of us. It's pretty much the exact opposite of my gym experience in high school (man, do I miss the days of being picked last and having teenage girls jacked up on hormones and aggression yell at me for hitting a volleyball into the net...). In short, Jersey Fitness is kind of a comfortable haven of familiarity for me.

...with the exception of one spot: the weight room. Up until a few weeks ago, I never stepped foot into the free weight room at the gym. I grudgingly walked by the weight room in order to get to my classes or the locker room, but I usually turned my head and avoided direct eye contact with its inhabitants.  I have to be honest here when I say that the guys in that room scare the crap out of me. Perhaps it's because I'm physically attracted to skinny, nerdy men of Asian and/or Jewish extract and I'm genetically wired, as a robust woman of Sicilian descent, to want to nurture (fatten) them. And there's just no nurturing a guy whose neck veins pop whenever he benches. Perhaps it's because every guy in that room looks like the kind of guy that could kill me and make it look like an accident. Perhaps it's because whenever they look me over as I walk in, I feel like I'm being mentally sorted into a weight class. I know that these thoughts are unfair and I'm sure all the weight room guys are teddy bears....with bulging neck veins...and weird, territorial claims on bench presses...

The first time I went inside the weight room, I was with my friend Jenn and I distinctly hesitated for a full minute outside of its entrance. Jenn who, for lack of a better description, has the ballsiest attitude I've ever encountered in another short girl, strode into the room, threw her stuff next to a bench press, and starting loading weights onto the bar. I, on the other hand, took note of the number of guys in the room, calculated the distance to the nearest exit, and scoped out any potential weapons within an arm's reach. Jenn had a pretty straightforward attitude about lifting and waved off my concerns about the guys in the room. The weight room is pretty no nonsense with its monochromatic color scheme (black, white, and grey). It looks like any other weight room you'd see in any other gym (or prison) and I can see why it's so guy-friendly (as opposed  to the gym classroom, which has a predominantly female population). The classroom space also has weights, balls, mats, and kettlebells but they come in a variety of different colors. The weight room is open to the main floor and crammed with equipment while the classroom is a closed off, almost completely open space, with floor-to-ceiling mirrors everywhere. I mean, the two rooms pretty much scream "Dudes here" and "Chicks there". And I admit it, I like my hot pink 6-lb weights, my aqua blue foam mat, and the mother-of-pearl Pilates ball. I sometimes can't not look away from my reflection in the mirrors whenever my arm fat is rippling steadily during kickboxing class. The free weight room at Jersey Fitness was totally foreign territory to me*, as was the entire process of "pumping".

*I say me because I'd like to point out that there are some guys that work out in the classroom and some girls that lift in the weight room. I'm just emphasizing my being a pansy about it still.

This is where I'm incredibly grateful for the people in my gym community like Jenn. They will simply point me towards a bench press and talk me through it. Which brings us to the subject of bench pressing. Remember when I said that the gym has separate definitions for real words, like with "spinning"? This is also true for "bench pressing". This is actually gym-speak for "boob punching". The bench has it easy, as far as I'm concerned. I had no. freaking. clue how weak I was until I started the boob punching portion of "Pump & Run". For those of you who are unfamiliar with "bench pressing" it's where you lie on your back, on a bench, and you repeatedly lift a heavy, weighted bar just above your chest. During my first bench press my arms were quivering when I lifted the 45 lb bar, right before Jenn asked (very gently), "Should we add 5 more lbs to each end?" She could tell what I really wanted to say. She's been there. 

By our third or fourth session, I was lifting (wobbling) 75 lbs and everything was absolutely fine for the first 15ish hours that followed. I was sore, but it wasn't unbearable. I went to kickboxing and punched and jabbed without a problem. But then came the jacks. Jumping jacks, that is. I have a theory that jumping jacks were invented by a flat chested fitness instructor who somehow wanted to make her well-endowed female students suffer for distracting her line of vision with all their excessive bouncing. At the time of this particular kickboxing class I made the colossal mistake of choosing the "crap-I-need-to-do-laundry-and-this-is-my-in-case-of-an-emergency-go-to" sports bra that doesn't support me all that well. Every time I got jacked I'd close my eyes and open them up, expecting to be dangling from the ceiling and surrounded by little Mexican children swinging bats at my fun bags. By Tuesday's HIIT class I had to actually cross my arms over my chest during the jumpy, stepping segments to limit their movement (much to Chrissy's amusement; she crossed her arms and started Riverdancing).

I'm trying to look at lifting as an investment. Cardio is more like a budget with very clear parameters that I work with. After an hour of _____, I've burned ____ number of calories to be used or saved. With lifting, it's like I have to learn to accept that even though I'm constantly sore, and even though "muscle weighs more than fat and that's why you gained 4 lbs", I have to keep telling myself that I'm investing in my future healthy, toned, and less ripply-armed self. Mostly I still resent lifting, but I'm going to keep at it. My body still resembles a half melted ice cream cone, but I'm starting to get little hints of hope, here and there; the shapes of my quads, the way my knuckles and wrist bones are more pronounced, and these firmer lines just inside my waist. The signs are there, so I'll continue to pump and run, or pimp and run. But I am putting my foot down against the jacks... 

Pump & Run: The Prequel

It's officially Hanukkah/Christmas season for me (cause I rock both). In just a few weeks' time, my siblings will be flying in from Portland and El Salvador to the home base in Jersey. This is always a chaotic, activity-packed season in the Livesay house. There are late night games of rummy, hundreds of half-empty coffee mugs and water glasses scattered all over the place, and more Hallmark made-for-tv Christmas movies on our DVR than you could possibly fathom. And this is probably the oddest time for a person to take on something called "Pump & Run". But first, let me dial this back a year.

Last January, the 20th to be exact, I upgraded my gym membership to take classes, attended my very first Zumba class, and later wrote the following Facebook status about it:

"A Note About Zumba:
-Imagine a wedding reception dance floor, on crack, that consists of a lot of girls from my high school graduating class. Who are now married. And like...moms..
-I spent 80% of the first class laughing hysterically in confusion...especially during moves that required shimmying, gyration, and booty pops
-I discovered that while my inner dance spirit was keeping up with the instructor, most parts of my body were like Montessori children moving at their own pace and often NOT in unison with one another
-Do not Zumba behind the girl who confesses to have eaten a Fiber One Brownie just prior to the class
-Do not underestimate the 50 year-old up front. She will drop it like it's hot and you will...well...hold onto it like a lukewarm cup of decaffeinated tea."
 

I was strictly a Zumba girl until late April (which was kind of surprising to me to find out that I've been attending classes for only sevenish months). I guess it was some time immediately following my annual Good Friday trip to Philly, or more specifically, to Isgro's Bakery, I decided to up the ante on attending classes (mere coincidence). This meant actually looking at the gym class schedule as opposed to breezing by it on my way to the magazine stack. There were some classes on the schedule that I knew I'd probably never be able to take due to my work schedule; morning classes like Pilates, Circuit Training, and whatever the heck "Instructor's Choice" is (to this day I have no idea what 'Intstructor's Choice' means for someone like Chrissy. I have frightening mental pictures of her laughing maniacally as she makes everyone in the class do lunges and burpees to angry, heavy metal music). I vaguely remember seeing Pump & Run on the gym schedule back in January but, as I said before, if it didn't involve dancing, I didn't bother.

Since the last Pump & Run, working out has gone from being "something I try to fit into my week" to being as salient to my life as my vegetarianism. I don't say this lightly, either. I know perfectly well that if a stranger met me at Jersey Fitness right now, they'd probably assume that I was part of the "New Year Weight-Loss Resolution" crowd. I still don't look like my gym buddies, yet, but I know where I started and I know where I'm going. Enter: Pump & Run. One thing I love about my gym is that their names for classes are pretty straightforward; HIIT=High Intensity Interval Training; Cardio Sculpt=Cardio+Weight Training; Step=Stepping. Pump & Run is basically pumping iron and running. Except that whenever Chrissy is involved, a class is never "basically" anything, but intense from start to finish.

Our first meeting was informational. I took that literally and went to the gym in my Sunday clothes and ballet flats (it was probably the first and last time I've ever left Jersey Fitness without having my hair matted in sweat). It was kind of surreal, actually. I was in the same classroom, with the same classmates, same instructor...and yet we were all sitting around...not moving at light speed. Then Chrissy gave us the rundown about what to expect for the next eight Sunday mornings.

-Weigh-ins: It's funny, I can totally say "I lost 60 lbs" on Facebook for everyone to read and comment upon, but the thought of hopping onto a scale and having Chrissy view and then record that number is mildly terrifying. As you might have read in prior posts, I'm usually completely alone (and naked) when I'm weighing in at home. When I have to weigh in at the doctor's office, I sometimes spontaneously burst into tears. I'm hoping that my deep respect and admiration for Chrissy will outweigh (no pun intended) my anxieties regarding this portion of the Pump & Run. Frankly I'd rather not have her see me naked or crying. Like, ever.

-Running: For the first hour, we're running. Chrissy gave us different distances (2, 3, 4, 5 miles, etc.) to pick from. I'm super fortunate that my friend Betsy asked to partner up with me for the running portion. However, come Feb 10th we'll all be running five miles together.

-Pumping: I will be building up to lifting 70% of my body weight. Without getting into specifics, let's just say that my 70% weighs more than Chrissy and her abs put together. To be frank, I'm actually more intimidated by the pumping than the running. While running may not be my favorite form of cardio, it's something that I can understand and even occasionally enjoy. Lifting weights is difficult, it hurts, and it doesn't make sense when you look at the numbers on the scale. But my body needs to lift weights. Every time I catch a glimpse of my reflection when I'm punching, kicking, squatting, or popping in those floor-to-ceiling mirrors at the gym, it's like looking back at a human water bed that doesn't. stop. rippling. Translation: Gotta tighten up. 

Overall, I'm pretty excited about Pump & Run. Every time I try out a new class, I'm hit with the same butterflies in my stomach, the same waves of fear and insecurity. But then I give it a shot, acquaint myself with it, and months later I find myself getting up at 4AM, or doing a handstand against the wall, or doing a 'mambo mambo' around a step. Now I can honestly say that I truly love all of my classes, even the ones in which I struggle the most. When I finish one and I'm driving home, I literally could not care less if I ever see 120 on a scale; I don't care about pant sizes or arm fat or muffin tops. All I know is that what I'm doing makes me insanely happy, like all the time. So yeah, right at this moment, the thought of running five miles and lifting a Chrissy is a bit unnerving. But I'm going to take this thing one week at a time and enjoy every minor victory and wall for what it is: a step in the right direction. But first, I will have to apologize to my fellow Sharptown UMC-ers in advance. Normally I make real efforts to look decent for church; unfortunately, from now until February I will be arriving to church as one big, sweaty, shlubby mess in hoodies and sneaks. And you're just gonna have to love me anyway because Jesus says so.

:-) 

Everything Was Beautiful And Nothing Hurt

The title of today's blog is a quote from Slaughterhouse Five. I'm not even going to pretend like I've read anything from Kurt Vonnegut except for maybe a couple of short stories. The only reason I know this quote at all is because my brother Beriah has it tattooed on his arm. I think (and Beriah may or may not cringe at this) it's an ironic statement about war. For whatever reason, as I was running the fields and wooded area of the Turkey Trot Run this morning, I kept hearing this quote whenever I asked myself, "How do I feel right now?" Everything was beautiful and nothing hurt. And there was absolutely nothing ironic about this statement at all.

I had pretty much no desire to do the run today. I'll be perfectly honest and say that I haven't yet actually looked forward to any of the 5Ks that I've done. I'm glad I participate in them, happy to contribute to such worthy causes, and I'm always ecstatic to cross the finish line; however, getting there is always this mental battle between willpower and personal desire. The fact is, running and I just aren't besties yet. We hang out with the same crowd of friends but we've never really hit it off. To make matters worse, the weather this morning was particularly windy and cold. I walked out of the house, got smacked in the face by a gust of ice, and thought to myself, "Dear God in Heaven, I really don't want to do this at all". Had Jensen been there, I would have handed over a dollar for speaking such a negative thought out loud. But for whatever reason, I got in the Buick and made my way over to Warner Rd.

When I arrived at the DiGregorio farm I was comforted by the sight of the familiar faces of my friends from the gym and some from church.When I spotted my cousin Kelly I joked with her that it wasn't too late for us to skip out and grab breakfast instead. And by 'joke' I mean that I would have seriously sprinted to my Buick and booked it to the Woodstown Diner had she said yes. Unfortunately (or fortunately) Kelly's willpower happens to be in a much better, stronger place than mine was and I felt mildly ashamed for having made the suggestion. Needless to say, I stayed put and tried not to dwell on the sound of the wind howling around us.

Me and my cousin Kelly

I will give two pieces of pre-run advice to any potential 5Kers. First, don't arrive too early to your race. I arrived an hour early to my very first 5K and it was too much time for my brain and emotions to dwell on every potential problem that could arise during the run. Today, I arrived at the Turkey Trot Run about 20 minutes before it began and found that to be the perfect amount of time to get registered, pin my number on, and warm up a bit.  Secondly, I don't recommend looking at the Google map of your 5K trail before your race. The map of today's 5K was printed out on four different pages (as opposed to the one page printout of the stroller trail) with, like, forested areas and bodies of water. For a brief moment I thought I had signed onto the Oregon Trail.

Me and Kristen (slightly bitter that she has a Jersey Fitness shirt)

I was very fortunate that my friend Renee decided to jog this 5K with me. When the race got started and everyone took off, Renee and I kept this perfect little clip from start to finish. We didn't really converse much, but we somehow managed to maintain the same pace. The trail, by the way, was unlike anything I've ever experienced before. I've run on treadmills, I've run around Marlton Park and it's adjoining neighborhood, and I've run the big loop around around Riverview Beach Park. I have never run up and down hills, across fields, and down steep bends through the woods. The Google map trail didn't exactly convey all of this pertinent information. I didn't know how my body was going to cope with all of this newness, either. It's been about 3 or 4 weeks since my last 5K at the Riverview. Since that run I've been focusing all of my energy on attending gym classes and have all but neglected running. But here's the crazy thing: my body just kind of went with it. I wouldn't say I experienced the mythical runner's high during this 5K, but I definitely had a moment there where I actually enjoyed myself. The wind was still blowing, the hills were still steep, and there was no Chrissy running ahead in the distance and waving back at me. But in my mind, where the true race lies, all I could think was, "How do I feel right now?....Hmm. Everything is beautiful and nothing hurts".

Me and Renee, my awesome running partner

I think that what sets running apart from all other exercise for me is the fact that I can actually track how much I have progressed. It's harder to tell with the classes because...well...my instructor is Chrissy. Her classes are challenging regardless of whether you're 100 lbs overweight or training for a marathon. I mean, I'm sure I'm in a better place than where I was 10 months ago but because everything happens so gradually, it's hard to pinpoint the exact changes unless I consult Chrissy (practically nothing escapes her attention). Running, however, is a completely different situation. I can re-read my post from August, when I just started the Couch to 5K program and was running three and five minute intervals. Two months ago, almost to the day, I took this picture (see below) of the moment when I ran for 20 minutes in a row for the first time in my life. And now, even after slacking off for nearly a month, I am still capable of running up and down hills and through fields and forests.

As bizarre as this is for me to admit on here, I've had the same recurring skinny girl fantasy since high school. For some Big Girls it's walking out onto the beach in a bikini or showing up to their high school reunion in a smokin' hot dress. Mine is this: A leaner, healthy version of myself running along the rural back roads of Salem County. Whenever I drive past all the long stretches of grassy farmland, I can see that figure running along, sometimes in the fields, and sometimes to "Sweetness" by Jimmy Eat World.  And for the longest time, I never understood why that kept popping up in my head. I mean, it made no sense to me in high school when I had nothing but disdain for running and it makes no sense to me now when I'd much rather use my good health for booty popping. But, for better or worse, today I was that image (the heavier, slower, frazzled version that clopped along to "Gasolina"). And I can't help but wonder if she wasn't waiting for me to catch up to her the whole time.

Gym Peeps

Clothes Encounters

My relationship with clothing has been a rocky one fairly early on in my existence. When I was little, about 3 or 4, the only way for me to adequately express my rage would be to rip the clothes off of my body and throw a naked temper tantrum. There are whole segments of the "Racite Family Fourth of July-1988" VHS where I am streaking angrily across my Aunt Debbie's yard and away from my mother (and her fantastic mullet), to the amusement of all my Racite relatives. I don't actually remember these incidents (thank God) but I guess I must have known, intuitively, that clothing and I had some tough times ahead of us.

I was kind of a pistol...

Fast forward to when I was about 11 years old. My mother just forced a bowl cut onto me and I was wearing tapered corduroy pants with an elastic waist band for my first day of middle school. Up until this point I really, truly wanted to believe that I wasn't a fat kid. My peers had long since been teasing me for my weight, but in my tragically naive, adolescent heart I clung to the hope that once they got to know me as a person, they'd soon forget that I was both fat and awkward. Unfortunately, having a bowl cut, gigantic wire rimmed glasses, buck teeth, and tapered pants with an elastic band is, uh, pretty unforgettable. I was quickly assured in no uncertain terms that I was, indeed, fat. Being fat then became the lens through which I began to view myself. And with this new bit of knowledge I quickly learned to hide my offending larger body beneath even larger clothing.

I also learned that clothes shopping for a fat adolescent girl is right up there with teeth pulling and eye stabbing in terms of sheer enjoyment. When we weren't arguing over our differing fashion tastes, I would be standing half naked in a fitting room while my mother roamed the store for different sizes and styles of plus-sized pants that might fit me (options were limited in the 90s). She almost always engaged a salesperson into what seemed like our entire life story and could never understand why I got upset every time she would shout out pant sizes or bra measurements across the store. But that wasn't even the worst part. The worst part was coming home and having my father inspect the waistband of said pants; he'd tug on the band to check for snugness and inspect the sturdiness of my zipper and button. When you're an insecure, overweight adolescent girl, this kind of examination from your father is a whole new tier of humiliation. As if this wasn't enough, my grandmother would then have to come over and hem the pants ('cause I'm a shawty), which meant measuring tape, pins, and other assorted torture devices. Needless to say that by the end of a shopping trip day, I wanted nothing more than to rock back and forth in a dark corner.**

**I assure you that now, at age 27, I appreciate the efforts made by my parents and grandmother. I would never ever wish the task of outfitting such an angry, ungrateful brat upon even my worst enemies.**

With time and a driver's license, my shopping trips became less traumatic, but not by much. I have stormed out of dressing rooms, cursed the full-length mirrors that surrounded me on three sides (like anyone ever wants to see that much of their backside), broken down into quiet sobs of disappointment over sizes that were dirty rotten liars, and have fallen prey to the worst shopping experience of all for a Big Girl: Having a too-small dress seal itself to your waist when you try to get it over your head and off of your body. In this particular situation, I must confess that I totally spazz out in a sheer claustrophobic panic. (This qualifies as one of those experiences that Skinny Girls really don't understand.) Clawing your way out of a dress that is permanently fused to your upper body is like being in labor, except that you are the baby in this scenario. When this happens to me, I never leave the dressing room or cry out for help (out of sheer stupidity and stubbornness). I usually end up tilted on my side, flailing about, dripping with sweat, and desperately trying to reach behind me for deliverance from my zipper. This move is almost always a bust because my arms feel like they weigh about 200 lbs and the zipper I'm hunting for is about an entire centimeter of metal. After 30 seconds of what is essentially Stage 2 labor, I stop fighting against the spasms in my arm and the slow suffocation of the dress' birth canal, and I just flop uselessly against the wall, panting, like a deer who just put up a good fight and is now waiting to be put out of its misery. After about 2 minutes of this, around the time when the sweating stops, my breathing slows, and my body is no longer swelling in panic, I am able to yank the dress up and off of me in one swift movement. I usually leave the dressing room feeling as though I have won the battle but lost the war. Because of situations like this, I can sum up my wardrobe from ages 13-27 with one word: baggy.

Not that I haven't made efforts to be presentable, though. I have tried to wear pretty dresses and flattering jeans. However, when one of your clothing store options has the word "barn" in its title, you begin to wonder if "plus sized fashion" is an oxymoron. On one trip into said store with my dear friend JennEds, I took one look at the shapeless dresses hanging on the walls and sputtered, "That is it, Jenn! Why on earth would I wear a square sack with zebra print!? Isn't it bad enough that I'm shopping in a "barn"? Now they're going to dress us like actual animals too?! They hate us! DRESS BARN HATES FAT PEOPLE!" I may have kicked one of the dress dummies as I stormed out. Then there's Lane Bryant. Lane Bryant, the holy Mecca of plus-sized clothing, at least acknowledges that not every Big Girl is auditioning for the Lion King. Their clothing line is mostly clean and professional-looking, perfect for the working Big Girl. And work you must if you plan on being a long-term Lane Bryant customer. I've long since accepted that I must pay $29.95 for a blouse because it is my unspoken punishment for being overweight and wanting to look nice. I would like to say that since I've lost 60 lbs, my clothing situation has gotten significantly easier. It hasn't, at least not yet. I'm currently in that weird in-between world of sizes, a clothing limbo if you will. The "regular size" stores are still trying to figure out if they want to let me in, but clearly we have differing opinions over the definition of "extra large" (I have sports bras that don't hold me in as tightly as most Gap XL shirts). One thing is for certain: I am currently in jeans hell. When you're short, fat, and apple shaped, finding a flattering pair of jeans is harder than finding a good man. I currently lack the time, patience, and finances for a jeans upgrade and I know that in a few weeks this pair will most likely meet their end in one of three ways: 1. I'll size out of them, 2. I'll fall out of them (as I did with the last pair), or 3. My thick thighs will chafe the crap out of them. I have no idea what my options will be once this happens, but I do know that I will not resort to wearing tights as an alternative to pants. You have my word.

My most recent weight loss clothing conundrum came last Thursday night, just as I was getting ready to go to the Twilight movie premier with my girlfriends. I was freshly showered, dressed, and riding my endorphin high from a successful Step class when I came upstairs and greeted Rachael. She took one look at my chest and said "What...is going on there...?" I looked down to find that the sides of my chest were caved in. "Crap! I think my boobs lost weight.." She unsuccessfully attempted to adjust my straps for me, but that just made the craters even bigger. Because I didn't have any smaller bras (and I just threw out all of my old ones), I had only one alternative left: Kleenex. That's right, last Thursday I was a 27 year-old woman stuffing my bra before my big night out to go see Twilight. Just in case you were wondering, it takes approximately half a box of Kleenex to fill two D-cups. It will take me approximately half a lifetime to live this story down at the Bill house. Because I can't very well stuff my bra on a daily basis, I had to get re-sized. When the salesperson handed me my new size, I kind of stared at it for a few minutes. It was smaller, obviously. But this was a new kind of small for me. I couldn't reconcile my body parts with the piece of fabric in my hand. And yet, this was me. It was kind of a surreal moment.

 When I look at these pictures of my younger self, two thoughts come to mind: First, "Wow...I've had some serious hair". But the second thing I think is that I look like a girl who didn't care about a whole lot. She didn't care about what she wore and she certainly didn't care about her health. And I admit, it was much easier to not care. But in not caring, I think I sacrificed some happiness as well. I don't look very happy...and I don't think I felt happy. I'm not saying that clothes=happiness or that being thin=happiness. What I am saying is that when I was unhealthy, I was unhappy, and I clearly expressed this in how I presented myself. I don't know what this whole process holds for me in the future, but I hope that even if I still dress like a shlub, I hope that I'm at least a happy shlub, and more importantly, I hope that I'm a nice, happy shlub. I hope that I am the kind of happy shlub that makes it a point of being encouraging and decent towards others on a daily basis. Because despite it all, I'm still that 11 year old kid that believes that when you take the time and effort to get to know someone, you will forget to care about what they look like.

A Work in Progress

I should probably write this post in another two weeks, closer to the holiday dedicated to giving actual thanks but...I'm not. Besides, I really don't get why we ever decided to allot single days for celebrating thankfulness or love or even groundhogs. These things should be in the forefront of our minds year-round (perhaps Groundhog's Day is pushing it, but it also happens to be my birthday)! I'm not saying this to sound boastful or smug, but I can honestly say that when I leave the gym after a workout, for better or worse, I experience an endorphin wave of gratitude for getting it done. In my last post I wrote about struggling through a plateau and having to make an executive decision to bust through it by eating low carb. After the first week, I entered "One-derland" and left the 200s behind. At week three, not only am I 60 lbs down, but I'm almost out of the 90s as well. Happy Thanksgiving! I'm toying with the idea of posting epic decade-appropriate rock ballads on Facebook for every 10 lb loss. I'm hoping the Foo Fighters will make a debut before Thanksgiving for "Leaving the 90s" week.

I lost 61 lbs, or an Isaac's worth of weight

With all recorded weight loss (and I've been quite vocal about mine) comes the commentary. Almost every day someone comments on my weight loss; my family members, my gym buddies, my instructors, church folk, the security guy in my office building, friends, etc. In the beginning, as my fellow big girls/boys can attest, you wonder if people tell you that you've lost weight only because you've recently said, "I'm going on a diet" or "I've just started working out". You wonder if they actually see a difference or if they're just throwing you a small bone of encouragement to carry on. But then, perhaps after 30 lbs into it, you go through the phase where you desperately hope that some random acquaintance will see you and ask, "Have you been losing some weight? I can really tell!" Now, at 60 lbs, people are actually starting to use the word "skinny" and I honestly have no idea what to do with that. My automatic response has been "Ah well...you know...I'm still a work in progress...". To be fair, I am a pretty lousy compliment receptacle when it comes to my physical appearance. I feel like when someone gives me a compliment on my looks, it's like I'm being given a big plate of homemade brownies. It's completely unexpected and I immediately want to give them a compliment of equal worth and kindheartedness in return, but that's not exactly something that springs out of spontaneity. Despite all the blogs, pictures, and Facebook posts, in real, actual, third dimensional world I try not to draw any attention to my physical appearance. For this reason, I will stubbornly cling to my hoodies and my current pair of saggy jeans until I accidentally trip over the cuffs and fall out of them like I did with the last pair. My lovely, perfectly accessorized, friend JennEds once summed my appearance up perfectly, "Angie baby, you do not dress like a shlub (my words). You dress like a person who does not wish to draw any attention to herself". So to all of you lovely, encouraging friends and family, I am truly sorry if I look like I've just been poked in the face instead of being paid of compliment on my weight loss. I'm much less confident in the three dimensional world outside of Facebook and Blogger...

I especially don't know what to do with being called 'skinny'. For one thing, I'm just not skinny. I'm a good 70 lbs from the goal weight and even that's not technically skinny (I swear the BMI was devised by evil twigs. Or the French). For another, I'm still indulging in the ever-delightful Big Girl activities that Skinny Girls could never fathom...like having to fold your underwear twice before putting it away (granted, I'm down from folding it three times). Or the epic Battle of the Rolling Spanx; that's always fun, too. Spanx are a gift from God for all women, but they can be saucy minxes for sizes 18+. When you first put them on, after you've readjusted your gigantic underwear a thousand times and tucked in all of your fat rolls, you have this euphoric moment of sheer happiness at the possibility of a gen-u-ine waistline. And in the next second, when you bend over to put on your pants, you hear this resounding THWAAAAP, and you look up to find a small inner tube protruding from under your blouse. These are not things that the Skinny Girl can understand! She has never been winded from wiping her own backside, she doesn't wear over-sized t-shirts when she goes to the beach, she never settles for just one plate at a buffet, and she has never secretly named her larger stomach roll 'Jude' because every time she looks down it is staring up at her saying "Heeeeeey"!!! No, I'm a loooong ways away from being a Skinny Girl, but I am starting to leave my Big...behind (no pun intended). I still see a Big Girl whenever I look in the mirror (Refer to the former post about the mirror situation) but I also see some of the little changes, too. My legs are starting to look like the kind of legs that are no strangers to squats and the godforsaken lunges. I've also had to move my ring to my middle finger because it keeps sliding off. These are the little things that remind me of what is yet to come.

But the truth is that being Skinny or being Big is really just a state of mind. There are some Skinny Girls who still think like Big Girls and some Big Girls that think like Skinny Girls (especially when it comes to clothing selection). In all the realms of my life I'm a Big Girl that thinks like a Big Girl; except when it comes to my gym classes. When I go to a class, I don't want to be the Big Girl...especially when I am literally the only Big Girl. I don't want to "do what I can" because my size implies a slower pace and a harder time. I want to be on par with all of my friends, but I'm still just not there yet. I can't just disconnect my my mind and my body from my insecurities during classes, either. I take each class very personally. Twice now I've allowed my insecurities and frustrations get the better of me, and I've walked out of a class. I hate that I've done it, especially since I feel like it's an incredibly rude gesture to my instructor. Unfortunately, when I get angry like that, I have two options: leave or throw something. Considering the number of kettlebells and free weights within an arm's distance, I think it's probably best that I left when I did. After the second (and most recent) time, I started bawling on my way home. Halfway through my meltdown I was like, "W-w-what is wrong w-w-with me?! I'm crying over exercise!" But as you may have already gleaned by now, my classes stopped being just "exercise" a long time ago. They're part of my life, part of what makes me happy. When I'm in that gym classroom I want to be what I'm not: a Skinny Girl. I want to be like my classmates right now. I don't want to be this pouty, whiny, insecure girl who over-thinks all of her gym classes.

I got a little perspective handed to me in church this morning. My friend and pastor Mike was giving a sermon about "the least shall become first" and he made this comment that hit home pretty hard for me (and I paraphrase) "When I have finished last, I was much more teachable than when I've finished first. When I was first, or the best, it was easier for me to believe that I was beyond improvement, that I didn't need to change. But when I was last, when I lost, or when I was the weakest on a team, I was most open to change, I was willing to see where I could make improvements, and I was ready to listen." This blog has a lot of "first" and "last" moments for me. In fact, I began this post with a "first" moment and I'm ending it with a "last". So what has my most recent "last" moment taught me? Quit whining and suck it up, cupcake. If I want to be on par with my gym buddies then I need to get over myself and work hard like they do. That's it. Just take it one Step (class) at a time.

And smile.

You say potato, I say plateau

I have a routine for weigh in-days. This is probably not an uncommon thing for people who weigh themselves on a regular basis (like me) or for the obsessive compulsive.  On the night before a weigh-in, I drink at least 32 ounces of water before I go to bed, knowing full well that at 2:47AM I'll be awakened by my bladder. By 8AM, however, all of the water will have worked its way out and I like to pretend that I've washed out about 7 or 8 pounds off of my scale weight. I'm very fortunate to have access to a nice, quiet, no-nonsense digital scale in our house. It's a much less traumatic experience than when I have to hear the resounding CLANG of the 1940s throwback scale at my doctor's office. In fact, for me, the worst part of weigh-in days at home is the stripping down to your skivvies bit, especially since our scale is located right next to the full-length mirror. In Dr. Oz's book "You On A Diet", he strongly encourages the reader to be intentional about standing before a full-length mirror, completely naked, in order to zero in on the areas where the fat has settled on your body. I don't need to gaze at myself in a mirror to know where the fat has "settled". As far as I'm concerned my entire body is the Oregon Trail. I try to be objective about it but even now, despite the progress, whenever I take in my body's changing form, only one thing comes to mind: a half melted, soft serve cone. Nevertheless, when it comes to weigh-in days, I am a firm believer that any and all clothing can cost you 1 or 2 lbs, so off it goes.

The October weigh-ins have been excruciating. I've been 1 or 2 lbs away from the Big Goal, when I am officially out of the 200s, for the entire month. Going through the pre-weigh in process is frustrating in and of itself. Anxiously awaiting that split second for when the scale would tell me my destiny, like some teenage girl with a pregnancy test, is obnoxious. But seeing that I was still a measly pound away from my moment in the weight loss sun was painful. To me it was like the scale read "EPIC FAILURE" each time I stepped up. By the third weigh-in disappointment, I realized I was going through a plateau.

To plateau in the diet/exercise world is to have your weight loss progress come to a complete stand still. The word itself has a French origin, so when I hear plateau I envision the character Bomb Voyage from "The Incredibles" laughing maliciously every time I step off the scale and saying,"MUAHAHAHAHHAH! Ze fat girl wheel 'ave to work a leetle 'arder zis month!" while clutching a glass of wine in one hand and a block of cheese in the other. I actually googled 'Weight Loss Plateau" and read a bunch of articles on how to effectively break through them. This is what I found:

You can overcome a plateau in two ways:

1. Increase your work out routine by at least 30 minutes: I probably could work out more. I currently exercise six days a week, an hour or more each day (a hodgepodge collection of running, Spinning, strength training, kickboxing, zumba, Step, and HIIT). I could become the kind of person that gets up at 5 or 6, hits the gym, and then returns for the evening classes; however, on the days when I get up at 4 to get to 5AM Spin, I feel as though I've already gone through an entire day by 10AM. Perhaps, in time, my addiction to working out will spill over into the early morning hours. For now, I cherish my sleep. Another reason this option is difficult is that the classes I take are difficult for me. To say they're difficult in general is unfair to my instructors and to my classmates. They're obviously in different states of health (I try not to shoot daggers at Chrissy every time she says "C'mon guys! This is easy stuff!" I remember that 90% of the class probably does find the routine easy even if I'm a hot mess). For me, the thought of doing 30 minutes of anything before or after HIIT class is a rather frightening prospect. So while I'm not ruling this option out for the future, I cannot wrap my mind around it right now with my current schedule.

2. Lower your calorie intake by at least 200 calories a day: After my third disappointing step off with the scale, I realized that once again food was part of the problem. I thought about what I ate during the course of a day and decided I needed to kick the carbs. But the fact of the matter is that I'm not a stupid carb consumer. I say I love potatoes, but I rarely indulge in them. Since June I've cut refined sugar, dairy, and refined wheat products. My current carbs come in the form of Ezekiel bread, brown rice, fruit, and popcorn. These are not bad in and of themselves. The problem is that I'm just genetically a carb sensitive kind of gal. And I have issues with portions. I wish that I could be like my brother (in law) Beriah and eat 1/3 of a manicotti and not gain a pound. Unfortunately, I gain weight by walking by the manicotti. But on the day I decided to forsake the holy potato, I came to the conclusion that leaving the 200s behind was more important.

You may think that being a low carb vegetarian is next to impossible. It's more annoying than impossible, really. Because food is such a relational thing for me, it really bugs me when I have to explain to someone why I won't be indulging in their "best" recipe for pound cake that evening so that I can chomp on some cucumbers instead. To me, refusing is almost insulting; but if I don't start saying "no" to food at church functions, I'm going to regain the 53 lbs before Advent.Case in point: every Sunday for the past 10 years, the same group of friends have come over for a communal, themed meal. Now that I'm low carb, I'm sort of out of luck on "Casserole" night. This Sunday is "Comfort Foods". None of my friends find baked tofu very comforting. The good news is that in the five years since I became vegetarian, they have been more than accommodating about making their dishes "Angie-friendly". I'm sure that if I were to keep the low carb thing up long enough, this new, annoying change will some day become normative and they'll throw me a bone. And by bone, I mean kale chip.

What makes the transition to low carb smoother this time around is the fact that I cooked for a vegetarian, Waldorf pre-school in Portland for nearly two years and have familiarized myself with any and all forms of vegetable protein. I'm not just existing on eggs and beans, but have expanded to tofu, tempeh, seitan, TVP (textured vegetable protein) and vital wheat gluten. It comes in handy around week 2 when I start getting antsy for different foods. Nevertheless, I expected the typical South Beach withdrawal symptoms during my first week. In the past whenever I went the low carb route, I was very moody those first few days away from my bread and potatoes. I'd have killer headaches, gut-wrenching cravings, and detailed dreams involving cakes and potato chips. In short, I was a hot mess. I expected to go through all this and more, especially since it takes a lot of discipline to exercise regularly and restrict your food intake. I really didn't think I had any discipline to spare after exercising all week. But then the strangest thing happened: nothing. I wasn't pissed, I didn't freak out when Rachael baked Isaac's birthday cake and cupcakes, and I haven't had many strong cravings. I feel...good. I feel like I might actually be able to do this. I don't know if the endorphin high is leveling out the withdrawal, but I actually feel like I'm finally on the right track now that my eating is in balance with my exercising.

That said, after Day 3, I wanted to see some results on the scale. Feeling great is fine and all, but if I'm giving up mashed potatoes and continuing to plateau, I might start making some desperate moves (I momentarily considered eating fish). On Sunday, I stripped down and hopped on the scale and there it was; I finally saw my 1. My friend Michelle told me that on Biggest Loser the contestants call this "One-derland". I don't know how to really describe the exact moment except to say that I cried (of course. I'm such a sissy) and I bear hugged Rachael in the hallway. She didn't understand why I kept screaming, "I saw the 1! I saw the 1!" I think she probably assumed I was watching Korean dramas again and was overly exuberant about my attraction to Asian men.

Even though this was one of those blindingly happy moments of my life, I stand by what I wrote in an earlier post. I am scared about what it will mean when I am finally at my "healthy weight" on the other end of this 1. There's a lot of vulnerability to being a thinner girl. I feel like I need to somehow toughen up before I get to that point. The other thing, which is difficult for me to admit out loud, is that I'm still kind of waiting to fail. This is just a small, doubtful voice of past failed experiences in health that dwells in the back of my mind. I usually ignore it, especially when I have amazing moments like I did on Sunday.  But I'm still used to being on the other side of 200, the side that I know. At the end of the day, though, what keeps me pushing forward can be summed up by something that my cousin Jodie recently said to me at a baby shower. She said that from what she reads on Facebook and from the past few times that she has seen me in person, I seem like a happier person. And that's just it, I guess. I am happy. I will never ever say something as foolhardy as "There's nothing that tastes as good as skinny feels". Clearly the quote is not from an Italian person. I will say that I am much happier now that food isn't my sole identity. I can still cook, but it's not all that I am. I am a person that is capable of losing 53 lbs, of walking 10 miles in Relay for Life, of running 5Ks, of being the kind of person that I really never thought I could ever be; of being like the people in my gym classes, really.

When I stepped off of the scale on Sunday, I saw this next year as one fulled with infinite possibilities.

So with that said, on to Round 2 (ding!)

Addiction & Subtraction

I know that it's been about two weeks since I last posted, so let me begin with an apology for the delay. Sorry, readers!

There are two moderately acceptable reasons for the gap between posts. The first is simply this: I have no time. I'm not sure if I've mentioned this, but lately I've been doubling up on gym classes. Don't sound the alarms or stage an intervention, I'm not doing any form of crash exercising/dieting (Potatoes 4Life). The plain truth of the matter is that I just love the classes. I can't even say that this is a sudden epiphany because the feeling has been growing for months now. I love my exercise classes and when I have to miss one I get very mopey about it. If I have to miss Zumba, I go from mopey to straight up pissed off. I'm trying to maintain a healthy (no pun intended) balance between my gym life and my social life but the lines are blurred at present. I was on the phone with my friend Sperry a few weeks ago and he, much like my other non-gym friends, asked me why I'm so busy. When I explained my workout schedule for the week his response was, "You're like addicted to working out now, aren't you?" I laughed this statement off. I am not that person. I'm the person that silently judges people who dare to say "Working out is addictive" out loud in my presence. I could wrap my mind around having a potato addiction, but exercising? Sore muscles, smelly tank tops, stretchy pants, and buckets of sweat? That's no addiction, that's a Jedi mind trick.

But then I thought about what Sperry said all week long and I came to the conclusion that he's absolutely right about me. I have officially crossed over from "It's only an hour. Just get through it and then it's over" to "Why do they only have one class on Sundays?!" Like all addictions, this one definitely has its downsides. For one thing, when I come home from the gym, my only goal is to acquire as much sleep as is humanly possible. It's not that I'm over-doing it in class; I work hard, but I'm a far cry from Chrissy intensity. It's more like my body finally accepted that I am no longer in sedentary blob mode; I need to rest and prepare for tomorrow's classes. After I've showered, I practically frolic to bed at 9PM with two ibuprofen in my system and totally reeking of Icy/Hot. Another downside of this addiction: I have very little time to do anything beyond eating, sleeping, showering, and working out. I have no idea how the moms in my classes manage to fit gym time in, but they're the true, unsung heroes. I am beholden to no one and I still struggle with scheduling classes into my life. Despite the few kinks in the system, I am almost unnaturally happy, like, all the time. I'm definitely sore and exhausted, but I am also supremely grateful to wake up every morning and have the opportunity to improve my health. If I am an addict, then I am glad that for once it's not because of food.

Onward to reason #2 for the delay in blog posting: I've been hoping that my next post would include "Happy 50th to me" in the title. Here's the mildly frustrating truth: I already have lost 50 lbs. I weighed in at about 252 when I was at the doctor's office about a year ago. This should be celebration enough, right? But what I really want is to see the number 1 as the first number on the scale. I haven't seen a 1 in that spot since I was sixteen years old. I know that I told you all not to obsess over the numbers on the scale because they don't define who you are; however, the moment I see that 1 will be, for me, like climbing over my first huge wall and knowing that there this is another side after all. I think that this is a moment that only my fellow bigger sisters/brothers can truly understand. All weight loss is equally awesome, but when you've known what it's like to have your weight begin with a 2 or a 3, you know how big a deal it is when that first number changes, too. It's an experience that is loaded with mixed emotions for me. You see, I've been (technically) obese for the majority of my life. Fat is who I am and what I know; it's a state of mind and body that is reflected in how I relate to other people, how I express my humor, and how I understand the world around me. Fat protects me on a physical and emotional level, as well; when I see that 1, I will be so happy and so scared for the person that awaits me on the healthier end of it. And yes, I'll even admit that a part of me wishes to stay Fat forever. But I can't keep using my weight as an emotional crutch for the rest of my life. So I'm going to wait for this, my first big moment, and keep moving forward.

My moment on the scale wasn't going to happen this week, though. When you're a woman, there's this whole fantastic week each month where you'll crave sweet potato fries non-stop, diligently avoid them whilst working out religiously, and still gain 3 lbs. I thought that because I was only 1 lb away, I'd be able to catch a break this time the ol' cycle came around. Fat chance. Literally. I gained. Clearly, the fruit of my womb was watermelons this month...

Today's post will have to suffice until I muster up the courage to weigh in again, post-watermelon. I'm sorry to end this one all cliff-hangery, but that's kind of how this process goes. I'd love to have my pounds come off in nice, quick, predictable increments but that's just not gonna happen and I'm not about to start sugarcoatin'

 Oh yeah, Reason #3 for the delay: I ran my second 5K last weekend. My buddy Brian Cowan ran the whole thing with me and it was pretty awesome. I decided to celebrate by not running at all this week (extra classes instead)!

Step Family

There's a bit of a running (or stepping, I should say) joke at the Bill house. Apparently, whenever I walk upstairs from the basement (where I live), I either let out a long anguished groan or I shout something like, "Oh my thiiiighs!" I didn't realize I did this a lot until last week, when I noisily thumped upstairs and found Mike and Rachael cracking up as I walked into the living room. Rachael finds it hilarious that even though I work out every day and come home all smiles from classes, the second I hit the thirteen steps leading to the main floor, it sounds like I'm being tortured. This is one of those strange moments that I think of whenever anyone asks me if I feel like I've got lots of energy now that I'm working out regularly. I think that a person's energy is a lot like money in that you will make it readily available for the things that you want, but find that it's in short supply for what you need. Case in point: My two favorite classes are Zumba and Cardio Sculpt and when they occur on the same day, I will somehow make them both happen. Of course, I'll wake up the next morning and the staircase will turn into Everest.

So you can imagine my joy when my friends Dar, Sue, and Sam encouraged me to go to Step class with them on Thursday. It's the only evening class of Chrissy's that I have not yet tried. And I'm going be perfectly frank with you about this one: I really didn't see much appeal to Step. Of course, I really didn't think much of Spin when I first started, either (again, sorry Lucas). The difference with Spin, though, is that while the bike may be stationary, there's still that sentimental "E.T." association whenever I wrap my pudgy digits around the handlebars; when I'm pedaling really hard, or double-timing, I sometimes like to pretend I'm escaping the evil government officials that are trying to steal my alien pet.

I had no such sentiment towards Step. When I told the ladies I would go to the class with them, I decided to do a little reconnaissance. Mainly, Jensen and I stood outside the classroom door and peered in at a Step class in progress. By the way, when I reference the steps themselves, just refer to the picture below. They're basically long rectangular hunks of plastic that sit upon square plastic risers. Anyway, I watched as about fifteen women moved in unison around the steps as Chrissy called out moves or numbers. It kind of reminded me of square dancing, except that there were no partners or dosey-do's. Jensen and I exchanged skeptical looks and walked on by. I tried to not think too much about my impending Step class, but I was pretty intimidated. It's one thing to dance around on a level floor for a Zumba class, but when you start adding rectangular obstacles that you have to climb, hop, or skip around, things start getting tricky. That said, I was still determined to keep my commitment and go to Step the following Thursday night. Sometimes you just have to look at exercise as you would an arranged marriage; it may not appear a desirable situation on the outset, but perhaps with time and a positive attitude, love will follow.

Wednesday's Cardio Sculpt class definitely gave me a false sense of security, though. When I walked into the class, there were steps arranged in a large circle. I was both happy and relieved by this sight. All week I kept wondering why there wasn't an introductory level step class for the coordinationally-challenged such as myself. When I saw that Cardio Sculpt that week was going to be like a baby Step class, I shook my head at God's sense of comedic timing. On the downside, that particular Cardio Sculpt class was seriously painful; it was very lunge/squat intensive and my thighs were about to burst into flame. I left that class feeling exhausted, sore, but sort of ready to take on Super Step the next day.

Super Step class was almost nothing like Cardio Sculpt class (which my friend Sam gently informed me right before SS started).  Both classes definitely favored the squats and lunges, but Super Step is all about maintaining a rhythm through footwork. Before the class began, I set up my step in the back behind my friend, and experienced stepper, Sue. It was actually kind of cute, really, because there were about five of my gym buddies all clustered together behind the punching bags; it looked like they were protecting my inexperienced steps from Chrissy's line of vision. This might have worked if there hadn't been about 50 feet of empty space surrounding us (and if Chrissy didn't have hawk eyes that notice everything). Chrissy, uh, gently, requested that we spread out more, which we did, and then the music started. That first class was not unlike my first Zumba class, all things said. I did my best to follow what was going on, I looked at Chrissy's fast paced moves with bewildered awe, and I spent most of the class totally lost in the blur of synchronised movements. Also, I could not stop cracking up at my sad attempts to memorize the steps (God only knows what Chrissy was thinking). The ladies surrounding me were stepping, turning, and jumping in a perfect, albeit complicated harmony. I just kept thinking, "Don't fall. Don't fall. Don't fall. Don't fall. Don't fall." When a girl across the room actually did fall over her step I had this unChrist-like moment where I thought, "YES!!! IT WASN'T ME! Oh thanks to be God, someone else fell first." I know that's a terrible thing to think, but that girl was skinny and an experienced Stepper; there is absolutely no graceful way for a fat girl to fall over, and I have a terrible habit of cackling loudly at myself in awkward moments. After that, I had a smidge more confidence and I managed to see the class through to the end. And you know what? I actually liked it! When it was all over, Chrissy congratulated me on my first Step class and then the whole classed clapped and cheered me on. They even took a picture (see below) to commemorate the occasion.

Lidia, Sam, Sue, Lisa, Me, Dar, Chrissy, Chrissy's Step
This picture was to commemorate Angela's First Step, which is like Baby's First Step, only more awesome

I feel like I sound like a broken record whenever I gush about my classes, my gym family, and my instructors. Maybe I am. You just really need to understand that up until a year ago, every memory that I ever had involving gym classes, and even steps for that matter, has been negative. I actually once had a gym teacher make fun of the way my body fat moved when I did jumping jacks, for God's sake. I don't say these things to invoke your pity or your sympathy, I just want you to understand where I am now. I feel as though this past year has been one of redemption; redeeming the views I once had about "gym" people but, most importantly, the views I once had about my body. I joined Jersey Fitness accepting the possibility that I might be judged and possibly alienated by the other members. I did not expect these people, who have only known me less than a year, to be like a second family to me. When I look at all these photos that I post on this blog, I am most proud of the ones where I'm part of a group. I look at those pictures and know that in that particular moment of documented victory, I was encouraged 100% of the way.

Super Step Review:

I started out thinking like this: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rDmkhhJWKU8

Now, it's almost as awesome as this:  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ay6GjmiJTPM



 

Goodbye Couch, Hello 5K!

One of the best aspects of my Couch to 5K training program was that, up until yesterday, it was all done on the easily controlled environment of a treadmill. I can totally wrap my mind around a treadmill. With this one machine I have the elements of time, speed, and incline at my fingertips. Even the Couch to 5K program itself is set up in nice, adaptable increments for my convenience. All of this was totally working for me for the last six weeks. The problem is that when you're training for a 5K, at some point you actually have to do the 5K. I decided a few weeks ago that my first 5K was going to be the Miles for Miracles Memory Walk (http://miracleformateo.kintera.org/faf/home/default.asp?ievent=1032957). The thought of actually running outside has been dwelling in back of my mind. It's one thing to run on a conveyor belt in an air-conditioned gym with a timer and an emergency STOP button available; it's a whooooole other story to run the trail in Riverview Beach Park. Riverview Beach Park may be beautiful and historic, but its walking trail is totally unpredictable and unpaved. There are parts of the path that are sandy, parts that have uneven chunks of concrete jutting out, and then there's the large population of geese to contend with. I don't know about you, but when I see a mafia of geese milling around and obstructing my path, I have zero desire to run, at full speed, towards them. Maybe I've seen Alfred Hitchcock's "The Birds" too many times, but I just have these scary mental images of wings and beaks beating me into a bloody pulp before they finally kick me into the nearby pond with their webbed feet. I know that this is a completely ridiculous and unlikely scenario; however, my fears and concerns kept me running contentedly on the treadmill for six weeks.

Until I met Jensen. Jensen is a high school sophomore that Chrissy is training. I started seeing her trailing around Chrissy in the gym, but we didn't start chatting until we were both in Lucas' Intro to Spin class. When I spotted Jensen glaring at the bike seat, I couldn't help but befriend her. She told me about her training and how she was going to run a 5K in Marlton Park. As the weeks went by, I felt comfortable enough to give her little encouragements, or, as the situation would require, mild corrections (I'm a youth group leader at church, so I feel pretty comfortable doling out words of wisdom/experience to teenagers). I'd tell her honestly if I thought her form sucked on the bike or if she wasn't pushing herself hard enough. Exercise isn't something you can mess around with; if you don't take your workout or form seriously, you can really hurt yourself. To Jensen's credit, she takes my comments in stride and jokingly refers to me as Chrissy Jr. When Jensen brought up the fact that her 5K was only a week away, I knew that I would be at Marlton Park cheering her on. I don't mention this to sound smug; my gym community has been such a blessing to me, I am more than happy to be there for one of them in return.

The week before the 5K in Marlton Park, I ran for 20 minutes in a row on the treadmill. I'm not sure if the after-effects of that endorphin high were still lingering around in my system, but on the day before the 5K I decided I was going to run. I didn't want to make a big deal out of it, though, because this wasn't my run; it was Jensen's and she worked her butt off for it. My plan was to run for exactly 25 minutes, as my Couch to 5K schedule required, and walk the rest. I reasoned that I would have to start running outdoors anyway because my 5K at Riverview Beach Park was only three weeks away. So the plan was to run for 25 minutes, walk the rest, and give Jensen a big bear hug at the finish line. At some point between Friday night and the morning of the race, my plan changed (except for the hugging Jensen part). As I mentioned in the prior post, I have been working on breaking through my walls. When I went to Marlton Park on Saturday, I thought that this run might be a wall that I needed to climb over.

Me, post-run, with coffee in hand

The nice thing about the Marlton Park run was that a handful of my gym buddies signed up to do it. I knew that because of my slower pace I would be running alone, but their presence was comforting nonetheless. We all lined up on the grass to begin the race and I immediately played "The Distance" by Cake on my ipod. Those first fifteen minutes of running were the most difficult for me. I wanted to keep up with the high intensity energy level of the pack when they all took off; however, I am not quite there yet and it took me a good fifteen minutes to get back into my normal running rhythm. We were to run one loop around the track, follow the marked route in the adjacent neighborhood, and then circle back for a final loop around the park track. When Jensen first told me about her 5K at the park, I thought everyone would just run the track. Chrissy then explained that the course went off of the park trail and I was mildly concerned by this fact. This was definitely beyond the realm of my personal control and far outside of my comfort zone.

By the time I finished my first loop and started running the marked route, my mind started buzzing with a million doubts over my ability to run the whole 3.1 miles. Fortunately, it was at this time that my Jersey Fitness buddies (who are all seasoned runners) were already heading back to the park for their final loop. Just as I was about to convince myself to settle for my 25 minute goal, one of them would jog past me shouting "YOU GOT THIS ANG!", "YOU CAN DO IT!" or "KEEP GOING!" So I kept going. I'm not going to say that their encouragements made the actual running portion of the race easier. My legs felt like lead, my lungs were throbbing, and I could feel every single one of my excess pounds in each step. But in my mind and in my heart, I was going to finish the race. I mean, that's all running is at the end of the day; the age-old race between the mind vs. the body. By the final loop, to be honest, I really really wanted my mind to lose this race. But every time I seriously thought about stopping, I would look up and see Jensen and Chrissy turn the corner ahead of me in the distance. This detail in and of itself is not all that significant. If all I saw was just the back of their forms running in the distance, I probably would have decided to walk the last bit as I had planned. But every time they turned a bend, Chrissy would crane her neck back to check where I was. I would give her a thumb's up, she'd wave, and I'd keep on running. I know that this detail may not seem like a big deal and it might even be just an occupational habit of Chrissy's to gauge how everyone's progressing during a workout; however,
after 9 months of attending her classes, I know that Chrissy goes above and beyond the role of the average fitness instructor. She genuinely cares about the people she works with. I may have run that 5K by myself but I was far from being alone.

Me and Johnna after the race

I didn't think I would run the whole thing. When your history with diet and exercise resembles mine, you get into the bad habit of accepting failure as the only possible outcome. But then, after what felt like forever, the finish line was in sight and it was all over.  I didn't have a meltdown like I did last week when I ran for 20 minutes in a row. I just hugged Jensen and my gym buddies and made my way back to the pavilion for coffee and water. Some time later they announced times and awards but honestly, I could have cared less. Don't get me wrong, I cheered on my gym buddies (I think they all won some kind of award) but I was still in a post-run stupor over the fact that I actually finished the race. I certainly didn't need a ribbon to tell me what I accomplished. I didn't even care about my time, really. Do you know the last time I ran 3 miles? Never. When Chrissy told me my time was 39 minutes, I didn't really dwell on what that meant. All I knew was that I ran a 5K.

I've been asked how it felt to run/finish the race. I hope this post is doing a decent job of conveying all that. Just in case it didn't, here are the 3 biggies:

1. Still in shock/doubt that I did it
2. So proud of Jensen and Kristen for doing it
3. So blessed by the group of ladies that also ran the race. They literally encouraged me from start to finish.

Also, I was kind of surprised by some of the physical side-effects of running my first 5K:

1. My nose freaking hurt after the race. Breathing in all that cold air made me feel like a coke head for all the soreness I experienced in my nasal cavity.
2. I didn't have to go to the bathroom during the race (thank God) but about 20 seconds after I got into my car, my entire system decided to go haywire. It was a rather inconvenient time for one to get caught in Woodstown's Fall Festival traffic.
3. My fat rolls decided they were not ready for a 5K. All the back fat roll friction created two rather painful rashes along the sides of my waist.
4. My thighs hate me.

I'm looking at this picture below and I still can't believe I'm in it. These girls would post pictures of their runs on Facebook and I used to think "Seriously. These people run for actual enjoyment and not because they're being chased by murderers?" And now I'm just so proud to have stood with them in this photo. I could not have asked for a better experience. Thank you, from the bottom of my heart.

Jensen, Lidia, Ceal, Jessie, Lisa, (no idea, lol), Dana, Jen, Me, Bailey, Cooper, Chrissy, and Johnna

Hitting a Wall

I should preface this post by saying that I didn't literally hit a wall. That is, unless you count using my legs to climb up the mirrored wall for a handstand in last week's Cardio Sculpt. Or if you count the times I slam my fist against the treadmill whenever I finish a running segment of my Couch to 5K program. The subject of this post, however, is strictly a metaphorical wall.


Last November, in the meager beginning of my exercise epiphany, I flew to Portland, Oregon for Thanksgiving. My sister Kim took advantage of my new found zeal for healthy living and suggested we go for a quick run downtown. I took one look at my sad excuse for exercise attire (this was definitely in the pre-sports bra and pre-spandexy gym pants days) and then took another look at the rain/leaf covered pavement, and grimaced. But Kim is very difficult to say no to. Not unlike my gym instructor, Kim has her own kind of infectious energy that you sometimes find yourself swept up in. We started running and I was fine for a good forty seconds before I felt like my lungs were about to cave in. I slowed down, ready to stop, when Kim bellowed out "That pain you're feeling, it's all the fear leaving your body. Just keep going, Angie. Let the fear out!" When you're 100 pounds overweight and you're running on wet pavement with heavy legs and unpredictably wobbly ankles, and then you hear a petite, athletic chick say that kind of Biggest Loser psycho babble sentence, your eyes will start to zero in on all the rocks within arm's reach.

Now, nearly a year later, I've been thinking about that quote a lot lately. It does have some element of truth to it; although I could never say it to someone while keeping a straight face. I have become much more aware of the moments in class when I choose to rest, or stop when I feel my muscles screaming out in pain. Something will happen, like I'll try to catch my breath in a dance, or my thighs will start burning while I'm running on the bike, or everything will just be too much all at once. So I will stop, or I'll slow down, or lower the resistance. The relief from these moments is temporary before I become frustrated by chumping out instead of conquering the moment.

This was definitely the case last night in Kardio Karate. Kardio Karate is pretty much exactly how it sounds. It's a series of punches and kicks (and squats) that move at a fast enough pace to keep your heart rate up for an hour of cardiovascular exercise (ten minutes into class I looked up at the clock and was like, "SERIOUSLY!? THAT'S ALL YOU GOT FOR ME!?"). I actually think that this class was much more physically challenging than HIIT (although I am certain that I will be eating my words in the near future). For one thing, I spent the majority of this class completely confused by the fast paced routine (even though Chrissy repeated it at least 100 times). I always assumed that because I'm pretty good at following the instructions of a recipe, I'd probably be alright following the instructions of a Chrissy. This is not so, or at least not for now. Secondly, I am not a terribly coordinated person. I know that this is a strange admission from someone who loves Zumba as much as I do; however, Kardio Karate is definitely not a Zumba class. There's no personal rhythm that you can add to a jab and you can't improvise a hook. The movements are structured, swift, and powerful. My movements are soft, wobbly, and unbalanced. At one point in the class we did Karate Kid kicks (so named by my friend Mary) and each time I jumped and kicked, I would land and wobble a bit before regrouping. It felt like every one of my lackluster punches or kicks were hitting invisible walls of my own making.

 Throughout the class I would check out my reflection in the mirror, and even more so when I stripped off my top shirt and finished the class in my tank top. Because I have serious issues with my arms (and about half of my female readers just nodded in agreement), I do not strip down lightly. It is a sign that my physical exertion has won the battle against my physical insecurity. Last night's class was the first time I ever stripped down to a tank in the main class room, though. It's a very scary thing to look over at your bared body parts moving around in wall to wall mirrors. What I saw was the physical embodiment of my internal struggle. As much as I want to be like the Karate Kid in this class, my body still resembles Kung Fu Panda. I think that what bothers me the most about the times when I have to stop, slow down, catch my breath, or lower the resistance is that I feel like there's this healthier version of myself trying to bust out and keep up with the Chrissys, the Kims, the Jessies, and Marys in my life. When I hit my walls, I feel like the current unhealthy version of myself is saying, "That's OK. Just stay here with me, it's what you know".  And there's a part of me that would love to just stop right now and be content with the weight that I've lost. This blog could just be about a Fat Girl's experience with working out. The Fat Girl would not have to actually change, per se, but just tell a story about the interesting characters and awkward moments that happen in a gym.

The problem with this is that on Sunday afternoon I actually climbed over my first wall (figuratively). As I mentioned in an earlier post, I've been doing the Couch to 5K running program. I've been progressing quite well because the running segments were only 3, 5, and then 8 minutes at a time. On Sunday, I was supposed to run for 20 minutes in a row. I have never ever run for 20 minutes in a row, not even when I was at a healthy weight (at like, age 7). In my mind I kept hearing "Can't. Can't. Can't" and then "Must. Must. Must". I went to the gym, climbed onto the treadmill, and put one foot in front of the other. I had already figured out that 20 minutes running=five songs on the ipod. After each song I told myself, "OK, one down _____ to go". But at some point I stopped reminding myself to just keep going. I was going. And when "Shake it Out" came on, I could see the end just ahead of me. And I started to cry. Again, let me just say that I do not recommend crying while running. The noises that escaped my throat were borderline Wookie-ish. Finishing that 20 minute run was amazing and awful all at once. It was awful because absolutely no one was there to see what I had done. I wanted to hug the first familiar face I could find but it was 1 o'clock on a Sunday, so the gym was pretty much dead. In retrospect, I think it's better that it happened this way. My accomplishments are mine, after all. Just as my walls are mine, too ( I relished in my post-run glow for a good thirty minutes before I had to plaster it all over Facebook).

In light of my 20 minute run, I have to start pushing myself more in the other classes. I am at the point in this journey ( blech, journey's bad enough so I'll refrain from using the word 'crossroads') where I need to just start climbing the damn walls, already. So yeah, in the end I guess Kim was right about "just letting the fear leave my body" because this is definitely a 'mind over matter' matter. I'm just really glad that none of the instructors say that kind of cheesy crap, though. They keep their encouragements simple, straightforward, and usually summed up in these four words: You can do this.