Back in college, I spent one wild night of studying and birch beer guzzling with friends at Roy Rogers restaurant. Several hours later, I didn't feel so well. Just after reaching my hallway, I passed out. Lots of tests later, I was diagnosed with a textbook case of hypoglycemia.
This sugar roller coaster ride is no fun, and it's really not good for me. Dessert can leave me in a near coma on the couch, and the constant flow of insulin to the brain can cause long-term problems, including Alzheimer's.
This is a difficult diagnosis for a sugar addict. I don't love every kind of sweet, but I am a sucker for cupcakes. The good news is that since I also can't eat gluten (I'm a mess, aren't I?), it's not as easy to just grab cupcakes or cookies. It takes an effort.
A few months ago, I swore off simple sugars for good. We cleaned out the pantry and freezer of any temptations, and I began my two-week detox. It worked for a while, but a busy day at work gave me just the excuse I needed to eat some chocolates that a co-worker generously brought back from a trip. The floodgates opened. I have never had crack, but I can't imagine that it feels better than a yellow cupcake with fudge icing going down my throat.
My family was supportive of my decision. For them, supportive meant not bringing anything I can eat into the house. Of course, they don't get woozy from a cookie, so why should THEY stop eating them?
Last night, my husband felt bad for me (or could it be that he was sick of my whining about how much I wanted the cookies and cupcakes they get to eat...?), so he baked some gluten-free cupcakes with chocolate frosting. I went to bed before they were done, dodging the bullet for at least eight hours. But this morning, they were there--their little, sweet souls begging me to use them as they were intended. So I did. I ate one. Oops, did I say one? I meant two. Or was it three?
That's where I stopped myself. I had to leave for a meeting, and I knew I would be a coma-ey mess if I didn't cease my scarfing. I called my daughter from the car and asked her to please take all of the other cupcakes to her friends before I got back home. She promised she would. Whew!
Did I mention that she's a teenager? Yeah, those cupcakes were still there when I got back this afternoon. They were totally winning. I was no match for them, even after I finished a healthy, veggie laden meal. As I sipped my sugar-free lemonade, I imagined the perfect pairing--a teensy, weensy, harmless cupcake. Into the battle arena Fatniss went. The fight lasted long enough to remove the cupcake wrapper. Four.
These battles, while frustrating, are the true test of a weight-loss warrior. I would not, could not, let them defeat me. I ventured back out to the kitchen. I kicked the garbage can open with my left leg, while grabbing the cupcake tray swiftly with my right arm. Bang! In to the trash! I watched the lid close with a mixture of sadness and relief. At least that particular battle is over. The most important part is that I know I am certain to live to fight another day.
Monday, June 23, 2014
Wednesday, June 18, 2014
Never too young; never too old
Over the past couple of months, I've written several blogs--in my head. A tough work schedule, family priorities, and a new puppy have all gotten in the way of posting them. I promise, they were brilliant.
Today, unexpected news awakened me from my blog slumber.
Back in January, when my daughter and I scouted the new LA Fitness across the street to see if it would be a good fit for us, we were cheerily greeted at the front desk by Art, the gym's beautiful, well-built manager. I knew immediately he was meant to be the cheese to this overweight mouse.
Didn't matter. I totally took the bait. He was warm and funny with just one flaw; he was a massive Ravens fan. Seriously? I was about to dismiss him for poor judgement, but Art's charm bridged the gap between a stolen Cleveland Browns supporter and a Steel Curtain devotee.
I'm sure we were two of a dozen new members he lured in that day, but looking back, I realize that his positive, supportive attitude set me on a whole new life path. In the past six months, I've dropped three sizes, run my first 5K and signed up for another, and become a Zumba disciple. I weigh less than I have in at least 15 years, and I feel confident and strong.
While I have kept up my workout routine, even during the busiest weeks, my attitude has taken a steady decline. I have to give myself a 15 minute pep talk and drag my butt to the car for class or training. Today, for the first time in a while, I looked forward to a great Zumba workout, and I even arrived early for the session. I walked up to the desk and handed them my key card. While I waited, I noticed a flier advertising a wake. Assuming it was for a fellow member, I checked the name.
Art Gamble.
What? I looked again, assuming that there must be another person with that name associated with the gym. I quickly checked the obituary on my phone, and there it was. That beautiful face. That warm, wonderful soul. Arthur Gamble, IV, was 29 years old. He unexpectedly passed away on Father's Day, leaving behind a loving family, including a son.
I continued, stunned, into the dance studio. Frank, our instructor, began the session with a simple message--live every day to its fullest. I spent the hour dancing as fiercely as I ever have. I felt so sad for Art's family and so grateful that he helped me on the path to a long, healthy life of my own.
This journey we're on comes with no guarantees. You are never too young to start embracing every day as if it's your last. And you are never too old to change your life for the better.
And no matter what your age, never stop dancing.
Today, unexpected news awakened me from my blog slumber.
Back in January, when my daughter and I scouted the new LA Fitness across the street to see if it would be a good fit for us, we were cheerily greeted at the front desk by Art, the gym's beautiful, well-built manager. I knew immediately he was meant to be the cheese to this overweight mouse.
Didn't matter. I totally took the bait. He was warm and funny with just one flaw; he was a massive Ravens fan. Seriously? I was about to dismiss him for poor judgement, but Art's charm bridged the gap between a stolen Cleveland Browns supporter and a Steel Curtain devotee.
I'm sure we were two of a dozen new members he lured in that day, but looking back, I realize that his positive, supportive attitude set me on a whole new life path. In the past six months, I've dropped three sizes, run my first 5K and signed up for another, and become a Zumba disciple. I weigh less than I have in at least 15 years, and I feel confident and strong.
While I have kept up my workout routine, even during the busiest weeks, my attitude has taken a steady decline. I have to give myself a 15 minute pep talk and drag my butt to the car for class or training. Today, for the first time in a while, I looked forward to a great Zumba workout, and I even arrived early for the session. I walked up to the desk and handed them my key card. While I waited, I noticed a flier advertising a wake. Assuming it was for a fellow member, I checked the name.
Art Gamble.
What? I looked again, assuming that there must be another person with that name associated with the gym. I quickly checked the obituary on my phone, and there it was. That beautiful face. That warm, wonderful soul. Arthur Gamble, IV, was 29 years old. He unexpectedly passed away on Father's Day, leaving behind a loving family, including a son.
I continued, stunned, into the dance studio. Frank, our instructor, began the session with a simple message--live every day to its fullest. I spent the hour dancing as fiercely as I ever have. I felt so sad for Art's family and so grateful that he helped me on the path to a long, healthy life of my own.
This journey we're on comes with no guarantees. You are never too young to start embracing every day as if it's your last. And you are never too old to change your life for the better.
And no matter what your age, never stop dancing.
Thursday, March 27, 2014
I'm a loser, baby.
A couple of weeks ago, I went all ninja on my closet and tossed out just about everything. Many of the items didn't really fit or had permanent stains. Some were just ridiculous choices to begin with. In fact, I have a new rule. If it looks really good on the hanger, but it's on the clearance rack for five bucks, it's probably not going to be a wardrobe staple. Hello awkward hats and flower jeans, I'm talking to you!
When I finished, I was down to a half a rack of basic sweaters and tops, and a half a rack of pants, including jeans. That's good, because I needed the room for my growing collection of workout clothes. For some reason, I can only take workouts seriously when I'm in a uniform beyond the usual t-shirt and sweats. Anyhow, what is left in my closet are clothes that fit well at this point or barely fit. "Aspirational outfits" is how I describe them. My thinking was that I would live with this very limited--and a bit disjointed--selection until I truly move into a new size (hope, hope, hope) later in the spring.
This morning, I attempted to cobble together a spring-like outfit from my tiny collection. I chose some pants, a cami, and a white spring sweater that was in the barely fit category. I figured I would cover the tightness with a scarf. I put everything on and realized...the sweater was TOO BIG! Whoo hoo! I still needed a scarf, but now it was to disguise the volume. Yay!
The unofficial count since the end of January when I began taking this seriously is 12 pounds and at least 9 inches, with a total of 36 pounds overall. I have a long way to go, but for now I'm enjoying being a loser.
Now off to do some shopping!
When I finished, I was down to a half a rack of basic sweaters and tops, and a half a rack of pants, including jeans. That's good, because I needed the room for my growing collection of workout clothes. For some reason, I can only take workouts seriously when I'm in a uniform beyond the usual t-shirt and sweats. Anyhow, what is left in my closet are clothes that fit well at this point or barely fit. "Aspirational outfits" is how I describe them. My thinking was that I would live with this very limited--and a bit disjointed--selection until I truly move into a new size (hope, hope, hope) later in the spring.
This morning, I attempted to cobble together a spring-like outfit from my tiny collection. I chose some pants, a cami, and a white spring sweater that was in the barely fit category. I figured I would cover the tightness with a scarf. I put everything on and realized...the sweater was TOO BIG! Whoo hoo! I still needed a scarf, but now it was to disguise the volume. Yay!
The unofficial count since the end of January when I began taking this seriously is 12 pounds and at least 9 inches, with a total of 36 pounds overall. I have a long way to go, but for now I'm enjoying being a loser.
Now off to do some shopping!
Wednesday, March 19, 2014
It doesn't look like that in the picture
It's gym day!
Leave work earlier than usual.
Count every extra minute spent in traffic.
Run from the car to the bedroom shedding clothes while searching for a workout outfit.
Put on workout outfit while yelling to husband to fill water bottle and find car keys.
Run to car.
Run back to kitchen to get water bottle.
Run back to car.
Circle gym parking lot looking for a space.
Look for gym pass in usual area of purse.
Realize purse is still on the kitchen counter at home.
Make up today's story about why you don't have a gym pass.
Run back to car to get water bottle.
Run to locker room to drop stuff.
Run to fitness room and squeeze into a space as class starts.
Work out.
Go home and collapse.
Repeat at least 3X per week.
Count every extra minute spent in traffic.
Run from the car to the bedroom shedding clothes while searching for a workout outfit.
Put on workout outfit while yelling to husband to fill water bottle and find car keys.
Run to car.
Run back to kitchen to get water bottle.
Run back to car.
Circle gym parking lot looking for a space.
Look for gym pass in usual area of purse.
Realize purse is still on the kitchen counter at home.
Make up today's story about why you don't have a gym pass.
Run back to car to get water bottle.
Run to locker room to drop stuff.
Run to fitness room and squeeze into a space as class starts.
Work out.
Go home and collapse.
Repeat at least 3X per week.
One of the biggest barriers to exercise for everyone is lack of available time. That's been my number one excuse for years. When I made the decision to change my life, I knew it would mean giving up time that I normally reserve for catching up at work, doing laundry, buying groceries and generally organizing my life. In an attempt to fit everything in, I've read all the hints about how to change your schedule and habits to achieve a healthier lifestyle:
- Get up a half hour early to make your lunch and pack snacks for work. I just can't force my head off the pillow at 5 a.m.
- Use a half hour at night to perform above activities. I get home from the gym at 8:30, check email and catch up on work to make up for leaving a little early. I eat dinner. I check in with the husband and kid for 5-10 minutes. Now it's 10:30. I'm exhausted.
- Spend Sunday preparing food. Or, after a morning workout, spend Sunday catching up on work, cleaning the bathroom, running errands and buying groceries.
- Always put your gym card in the same place. This assumes that you always put your purse in the same place.
My vision of making the gym a habit included a naturally together persona I've always associated with "the gym people." My reality is that I'm more disorganized and stretched than ever.
In the big picture, I know the trade offs are worth it. I give up a few hours a week to get a few extra golden years. I get that. For now, I ask for a bit of patience as I drag my frazzled butt to the gym, dropping keys and forgetting appointments along the way.
Also, please give me a heads up if you happen to notice that I have absentmindedly left the house without pants.
Sunday, March 2, 2014
Fatniss Goes to Costco
For the past several weeks, I've avoided the mother of all temptations--Costco. Now, it was time. I had a print to pick up at the photo center, so of course my husband and I grabbed a cart to look around.
We started with our usual discussion about whether an 80-inch TV is a need or a want. I still come out on the "want" side of the argument, but he is making headway.
Then we headed to movies and games. That's where I spotted Zumba for Xbox 360. I have become a Zumba devotee--the live version--so I picked it up to try out in our basement. Score one good choice for Fatniss!
We moved along rather quickly, passing all of my old temptations. Cheese. Fancy cheese. Cheese spread. The samplers were out in full force. I was tempted by some yummy looking tuna salad, but I quickly calculated how much it would cost me in Weight Watchers points for the day and kept walking. You go, girl.
We grabbed a large bag of popcorn to have around for a snack, then looked one more time to be sure we hadn't missed any must-haves. We got in line with our nearly empty cart, proud of ourselves for our restraint. To us, Costco is simply known as the $300 Store, so this sparse haul was a victory.
Then I spotted THEM. A woman two customers in front of us was paying for two large jars of Jelly Belly jelly beans. I am not a jelly bean fiend by a long shot, but something came over me, and I just had to have them. I asked my husband if I had time to look a few rows back in the candy aisles. He kind of nodded, and I was off. A quick scan did not reveal the beans. I was becoming desperate.
The lady with the Jelly Belly duo of goodness was nearly done paying. I feared my chance to obtain 49 wonderful flavors was fading quickly. I jumped in front of the next customer with a worried "excuse me!" and reached over and tapped the lady at the register.
In a desperate voice, I pleaded with her to tell me where she found the Jelly Belly jars. With a pitying look, she informed me that they were way in the back by the wine.
The customer in front of us had moved into position. Opportunity was fading. I looked at my husband to see if I had his support in this mission. He shrugged. Good enough for me. I started running to the back of the store. Did you read that? I started RUNNING! And it was easy, too.
I made my way back past the movies, through the wine, and over the baked goods. That's when I spotted their colorful goodness, neatly packed in a jar.
I grabbed the beans, tucked them under my arm, and started running back. I heard them shaking in the container like maracas as I moved my feet. Suddenly I envisioned the viral video that was going to result from Fatniss clutching bulk jelly beans, running through the store like a madwoman.
I slowed down to a fast walk and rushed toward the register. I could see my husband talking to the cashier. Wanting him to know
that I had acquired the beans, I yelled and held them over my head triumphantly. Again, look for that photo on Twitter somewhere.
We paid, and I proudly carried my candy trophy to the car, looking up Jelly Belly recipes on the way. I had already calculated that 10 beans was about one WW point. On the way home, I enjoyed a blueberry muffin (two blueberry beans mixed with a popcorn), a s'more (a chocolate, two marshmallow, and a caramel corn), and French toast (cinnamon, popcorn, and caramel corn).
And I had plenty of points left for dinner.
We started with our usual discussion about whether an 80-inch TV is a need or a want. I still come out on the "want" side of the argument, but he is making headway.
Then we headed to movies and games. That's where I spotted Zumba for Xbox 360. I have become a Zumba devotee--the live version--so I picked it up to try out in our basement. Score one good choice for Fatniss!
We moved along rather quickly, passing all of my old temptations. Cheese. Fancy cheese. Cheese spread. The samplers were out in full force. I was tempted by some yummy looking tuna salad, but I quickly calculated how much it would cost me in Weight Watchers points for the day and kept walking. You go, girl.
We grabbed a large bag of popcorn to have around for a snack, then looked one more time to be sure we hadn't missed any must-haves. We got in line with our nearly empty cart, proud of ourselves for our restraint. To us, Costco is simply known as the $300 Store, so this sparse haul was a victory.
Then I spotted THEM. A woman two customers in front of us was paying for two large jars of Jelly Belly jelly beans. I am not a jelly bean fiend by a long shot, but something came over me, and I just had to have them. I asked my husband if I had time to look a few rows back in the candy aisles. He kind of nodded, and I was off. A quick scan did not reveal the beans. I was becoming desperate.
The lady with the Jelly Belly duo of goodness was nearly done paying. I feared my chance to obtain 49 wonderful flavors was fading quickly. I jumped in front of the next customer with a worried "excuse me!" and reached over and tapped the lady at the register.
In a desperate voice, I pleaded with her to tell me where she found the Jelly Belly jars. With a pitying look, she informed me that they were way in the back by the wine.
The customer in front of us had moved into position. Opportunity was fading. I looked at my husband to see if I had his support in this mission. He shrugged. Good enough for me. I started running to the back of the store. Did you read that? I started RUNNING! And it was easy, too.
I made my way back past the movies, through the wine, and over the baked goods. That's when I spotted their colorful goodness, neatly packed in a jar.
I grabbed the beans, tucked them under my arm, and started running back. I heard them shaking in the container like maracas as I moved my feet. Suddenly I envisioned the viral video that was going to result from Fatniss clutching bulk jelly beans, running through the store like a madwoman.
I slowed down to a fast walk and rushed toward the register. I could see my husband talking to the cashier. Wanting him to know
that I had acquired the beans, I yelled and held them over my head triumphantly. Again, look for that photo on Twitter somewhere.
We paid, and I proudly carried my candy trophy to the car, looking up Jelly Belly recipes on the way. I had already calculated that 10 beans was about one WW point. On the way home, I enjoyed a blueberry muffin (two blueberry beans mixed with a popcorn), a s'more (a chocolate, two marshmallow, and a caramel corn), and French toast (cinnamon, popcorn, and caramel corn).
And I had plenty of points left for dinner.
 |
| My sweet, sweet trophy |
Wednesday, February 19, 2014
Pushing the shopping cart with one hand
In weighing my obsession with tech against my love for food, Geekniss beats Fatniss. That's why I'm the perfect audience for a fitness tracker or two...or three.
I started with the Fitbit a couple of years ago. It attached to my pants and counted steps. Whatever else it did was lost on me--literally--because it was so small that I lost it every time I took it off. Next up was ActiveLink from Weight Watchers. This little gizmo spends a long period of time gauging your normal fitness level, then challenges you to beat it. The problem is that I spent my test time power walking all over Disney World, so I could never beat the base. NEVER.
For Christmas, I asked for and received the Fitbit Force, which is more like a watch and records steps and calories. It fell off of my wrist constantly. Coincidentally, I happened to be in NYC at the Nike Store when it fell off my wrist again. That was just the excuse I needed to roll that one down and put on a sleek, new, hot pink Nike+ FuelBand SE. A month later--an eternity in the digital world--I'm still in love.
I like the FuelBand for a lot of dumb reasons, most of which boil down to my being the most competitive person on the planet. It uses a mysterious algorithm to calculate how much "fuel" you burn on a given day, measured in "fuel points." You also can sign up to be part of a group of friends who track points together, which only feeds my competitive spirit. These points have been known to keep me up at night--mostly because I haven't made my goal for the day, and I'm furiously running around shaking my arm trying to do it. Not sure the exercise benefit of this, but I know it entertains my husband.
On Zumba days, I shred my arbitrary goal. I'm rewarded with trophies, graphics, prizes and a ticker tape parade. At least that's how it feels. On personal training days--coincidentally the days I also swear like a trucker--I never make it. That only contributes to the cursing. I am pushing myself to my physical limit, and I can't break 1000 points.
Then I discovered a way to game the system. It's the arms. The FuelBand is way less sensitive to cheating than a pedometer, but arm movement is definitely key. Now a reasonable person might think that means working harder on things like jumping jacks and bicep curls. I have a different approach--one that melds my two obsessions. As I push my shopping cart through the food aisles, I use just one hand, allowing the other to swing ever so slightly back and forth as I walk. Tick, tick, tick. I can feel the points burn.
I started with the Fitbit a couple of years ago. It attached to my pants and counted steps. Whatever else it did was lost on me--literally--because it was so small that I lost it every time I took it off. Next up was ActiveLink from Weight Watchers. This little gizmo spends a long period of time gauging your normal fitness level, then challenges you to beat it. The problem is that I spent my test time power walking all over Disney World, so I could never beat the base. NEVER.
For Christmas, I asked for and received the Fitbit Force, which is more like a watch and records steps and calories. It fell off of my wrist constantly. Coincidentally, I happened to be in NYC at the Nike Store when it fell off my wrist again. That was just the excuse I needed to roll that one down and put on a sleek, new, hot pink Nike+ FuelBand SE. A month later--an eternity in the digital world--I'm still in love.
I like the FuelBand for a lot of dumb reasons, most of which boil down to my being the most competitive person on the planet. It uses a mysterious algorithm to calculate how much "fuel" you burn on a given day, measured in "fuel points." You also can sign up to be part of a group of friends who track points together, which only feeds my competitive spirit. These points have been known to keep me up at night--mostly because I haven't made my goal for the day, and I'm furiously running around shaking my arm trying to do it. Not sure the exercise benefit of this, but I know it entertains my husband.
On Zumba days, I shred my arbitrary goal. I'm rewarded with trophies, graphics, prizes and a ticker tape parade. At least that's how it feels. On personal training days--coincidentally the days I also swear like a trucker--I never make it. That only contributes to the cursing. I am pushing myself to my physical limit, and I can't break 1000 points.
 |
| Fuel Point happiness, courtesy of Franklin, my Zumba instructor |
Then I discovered a way to game the system. It's the arms. The FuelBand is way less sensitive to cheating than a pedometer, but arm movement is definitely key. Now a reasonable person might think that means working harder on things like jumping jacks and bicep curls. I have a different approach--one that melds my two obsessions. As I push my shopping cart through the food aisles, I use just one hand, allowing the other to swing ever so slightly back and forth as I walk. Tick, tick, tick. I can feel the points burn.
Thursday, February 13, 2014
Bruises
"Your uniform looks really bad from the back."--high school cheerleading coach.
"Are you a camper or a counselor?"--fellow 6th grade camper.
"Hey Chubbo--didn't you get enough food at lunch?"--sign in my high school locker accompanied by a bag of Oreo cookies.
"Mom, can you come get me? My pants just split."--me calling from the bathroom of the skating rink.
"Chubbo! Chubbo! Chubbo!"--former friends banging on the tables in the lunchroom as I arrived.
"You have such a pretty face."--Everyone ever who wanted to get the rest of me pretty.
"You only lost 4 pounds this week. I'm disappointed."--weight loss adviser who promoted eating only plain chicken, protein shakes and bran wafers, taking me from a size 16 to an 8 in one summer.
"Wow--we make those paper gowns big, but I guess we don't make them that big!"--first physician I visited after I moved to Washington (a female).
Making this decision to take my health and future seriously has uncovered some very old wounds. Just yesterday, thinking about them brought on uncontrollable tears. Those tears were the first vulnerability I have allowed on the subject of my weight in a very long time. Until now, I hadn't recognized that my refusal to succumb to a successful weight-loss strategy has everything to do with not wanting my torturers to win.
I have spent my entire adulthood trying to prove that I am a smart, strategic, capable leader who can accomplish anything. I have had the opportunity to work with political and cultural icons on some of the most high-profile campaigns in the country. I became a school board member and chair. I graduated with a Masters of Public Administration in my early 40s while working a full-time job, being a wife and mother, and serving on the school board.
I accomplished all of that as Fatniss. Ha! Ha! Ha! Take that bullies! I WILL NOT lose weight just because you say I should!
These bruises are real, and they are just now beginning to fade. I have been giving every other critical person in my life more power than I have given myself. Yet, none of them are here now cheering me on.
Over a lifetime of paying lip service to getting healthy, I have amassed an arsenal of really good tools to be successful on this quest. I know how to eat. I know how to exercise. That has never been enough. The armor of bruises has always kept me from actually making it work.
Today, I'm finally letting the bruises go. My hope is that writing them down gets them off of my mind and into the past where they belong. I also want these words to get the attention of those who think that the Fatnisses of the world brought on their own fate and therefore deserve criticism, teasing or even unsolicited advice. I promise you, it doesn't make them comply. In fact, it makes them stronger.
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