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.

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.

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.

Meet Fatniss

I come from a rural district in Pennsylvania. It's no District 12. We never starved. The food there was awesome. Pizza in a table-sized tray. Sub sandwiches with pepperoni and mayo. Pierogies--little balls of dough and potatoes and butter fit for a proper farm girl.

I didn't live on a farm. 

I did ride my bike everywhere from the time I was in fourth grade. I'm pretty sure that's what kept me from turning into a Weeble until I left for college. I struggled with weight throughout adolescence, though I really should have loved that girl back then, because today's girl is in way worse shape. 

Airplanes and subway seats intimidate me. I can fit in them, but I'm pretty sure people don't like to sit next to me. That profile photo over there? It's the only one you'll see of me. I use it for Facebook, Twitter, anything public. It's a bit ridiculous, I realize, since most of my friends see me often enough to know I'm not a model. I am, however, a photographer. I really enjoy it. It also makes a great excuse for never appearing in a photo. Like a good mom, I make sure I take a few with my daughter "in case something happens," but those never make it off of my computer.

Now I'm on a quest--a quest to make it through middle age stronger and healthier than I've been in my life. I call it a quest, because the bigger journey began a long, long time ago. I'm not sure what makes this particular quest different than the others, except that, apparently, I'm telling the world about my Fatniss. They knew. I'm the only one who couldn't say it out loud. 

This blog seems like good therapy for now. I know putting it out there makes me a bit accountable, though I have no illusions that anyone but those who feel obligated will read it. Writing everything down also forces me to admit some of the hurt that has kept me on this unhealthy path for so long. I've always felt like I had something to prove--fat girls are smart and capable, so there!

I have hundreds of battles ahead of me. Right now, writing this is my weapon against the bag of pretzel sticks that I bought yesterday because I was sure I could eat just 20 at a time. 

I really don't know where I'm headed yet, but I can tell you that this is already a new path for me.