Thanks body... just for once. Thanks.

Yesterday I half completed a blog post about Victoria's Secret. Frankly I was mad. Well not mad so much mad as sad. But I deleted it...

See I went to Vickies yesterday to see what this "perfect" bra business is all about (I don't get the fuss BTW). I have a lot of bras. And by a lot, I mean, more than a few. OK what I really mean is about 20 and that's just from the last couple of months that I had to buy new since the old ones no longer fit. In fact if I had to make a rough estimate I'd say I've probably spent $1000 on bras in the last year (buying them in three different sizes). So I consider myself a bit of an aficionado. In any case, I went and, well... it's swimsuit season so you can see where this is going. Of course it's not like the people going to Vickies are looking for skirted tents but I mean come ON. Get real. These suckers wouldn't cover half my hiney much less any part of my top half. I should preface this by saying that I DID actually buy aswimsuit from Vickies (online though and in the blue dot). It's in my drawer where I suspect it will probably live out it's remaining days. Unless Jillian and her 30DS can perform some kind of swimsuit summer miracle (I'm holding out hope).

Anyway all that aside... I found myself feeling really crappy when I left there. I didn't even buy ONE SINGLE bra. Why you ask? Well frankly I think Victoria's "Secret" is plastic surgery. That's what I think. I don't really believe that any reasonable American woman can expect to look like the women in these swimsuits. OK OK that's an exaggeration. My sister looks like those women. But she hasn't had kids yet so her stomach doesn't look like it's been run over with a tiller and then beat with meat tenderizer AND she can still eat an entire cheesecake over the course of a weekend with no ill effect (ok AND she works out like 3 hours a day but whatever). Soooo yeah yeah there are women that can pull those little numbers off. It's not their fault, and they probably work their butts off to do it, but I want to hate them anyway. It's not right. I know. But still... Why does Heidi Klum need the perfect bra? I need the perfect bra. Heidi Klum could probably never wear a bra again. Anyway. HA HA I deleted the post from yesterday cause it sounded a lot like what I wrote up there ^. Full of loathing. And nothing to be proud of. Only that post had no happy ending.

Yesterday I overlooked the fact that I was walking the mall in size 6 pants. I forgot all about the little incident with the cheesecake that I ate (and didn't gain any weight from.. cause I WORK OUT LIKE A MANIAC). I denied the fact that my Deputy told me he was the luckiest man alive. I neglected to mention that I did 30DS AND yoga. I walked. I ran. I cleaned. I had a good hair day.

And today... well the scale said what it said and I did my shred and then I was hot so I went outside (in my shorty shorts and sports bra... that you would have NEVER caught me dead in before) and I felt sooo great I decided to go for a run. A RUN. And runs are where I have all my greatest epiphanies. And this was the one I had today...

LOVE YOUR BODY. Just for once. LOVE IT and THANK IT. (it's really not that big of an epiphany I realize)

This body.

This body that you packed 40 pounds onto in less than a years time because you ate non-stop to try to keep yourself awake all night to work. All the while abusing it by never sleeping. And yet it kept going. 

This body that couldn't run more than 60 seconds a year ago and can run 9 miles now.

This body that never treated you badly even though you fed it oreos, six at a time, for 10 years.

This body that can pull of that Jillian Michaels 30 day shred (with only a little cursing at the TV)

This body that can stand for 13 hours, welcoming life into the world, and into it's hands, and still come home and make breakfast and take kids to school before collapsing.

This body that can strike a yoga pose fit for magazines covers.

This body that can have a piece of cheesecake (and not alittle one) once a month and NOT change the scale for it.

This body. Yours.

My buddy Rachel really got me thinking yesterday about my scale issues and she couldn't be more right. I'd be happier if I threw it out. Cause when I really strip away all the issues... my body is amazing. As is each of ours. I spend so much of my time thinking about the person was I WISH I was or I THINK I SHOULD be and so little time rejoicing in how far I've come and where I am. I have come a long long way. A year ago I never would have eaten 7 servings of fruits and veggies a day. A year ago I never would have passed the cookie isle at the store ENTIRELY. A year ago I never would have RUN much less RUN 9 MILES! A year ago I would have been dragging my butt around my house instead of doing yoga for an hour or more. A year ago I never would have almost stopped eating red meat completely and make salmon once or even twice a week. A year ago: I weighed 178 pounds. I was tired. Exhausted. I hated my body. I hated myself for letting myself gain 40 pounds. I hated the people around me just because I hated everything. I didn't exercise. I didn't run. I couldn't chase my kids and I would have rather sat on the couch that do anything else cause I was a slug. A year ago I was not the me I am now.

So for today. I'm thanking my body. Loving it and saying "Hey you're alright." Tomorrow may be a different story but today.... Thanks :)

J. Crew. The First Lady likes you and so do I

I did a bad bad thing. Which I am going to share with you all. Because... frankly I need to tell someone. I went to J.Crew. However going to J. Crew is not the bad thing. I did not go to the J. Crew online. The one where the clothes are safely out of reach. Instead I went to the real actual J. Crew. This is how it happened....

I went to Fresno (a bit of a drive from my house). I don't go to Fresno very often, well frankly cause it's # 1. kind of far (45 minutes) and I don't like driving my HE-UGE car up there. I feel like I have to plant a tree to offset my carbon footprint everytime I go. and # 2. I tend to shop when I am there. There are places to shop. Lots of places. But... my grandfather was having surgery there and I thought I'd have lunch with my dad who lives there as well. So I went.

Oops I got there too early. So... dun dun dun. Shopping. And I have to admit I set myself up to have time to go to J. Crew cause, well frankly, I like it there. So I went. I had 30 minutes and a pair of pants in mind. After much searching I FINALLY I found them in a size 8 (and three shirts to go along). Apparently a size 8 is common here cause there weren't many. I couldn't find the color I wanted so I settled for khaki. In any case I found them. I have bought things from J. Crew many times. Most recently a dress for an occasion. The last time I bought pants from them I bought a size 10 and had to return them because they were too small. Way too small. I didn't even order the size 12 because frankly... I WAS a SIZE 10 in every other maker and I refused to wear a size 12 just cause J. Crew runs small. So you can see how I'd be afraid of the 8.

I went in the dressing room and prayed. It sounded like this:

"Please Dear Lord, let these pants fits. Please. Please. Please. Lord if they are too small I will literally fall to the floor in a mound of tears and hysteria and no one wants to see that. So please, for the sake of the salesperson and myself, Lord, please, let these size 8 pants fit. Amen. PS Bless the starving children and help us have world peace."

And I took my jeans off....

And I put the J. Crew Favorite Fit Everyday Chino in Khaki, $59.50 (on sale today for $10 off) on. With my eyes closed. Just in case. And they fit. Thank you Lord. Thank you. THANK YOU. ANd please don't forget about the children and the world peace.

Uh Oh. They don't fit...

What? They are WAY TOO BIG????? It's a lie. Check the tag. Size 8 regular. Get another pair in another color. Quickly. Uh oh. Still WAY TOO BIG.

Do I dare?

The saleslady bless her heart, she probably thought I was a lunatic. Prancing around the hall holding out the waistband like I was looking for my missing stomach.

Saleslady: "Excuse me ma'am. Would you like me to get you those pants in a smaller size? A 6 perhaps?"

Me: UM... I don't know. Do these shrink?

Saleslady: Well they do. A tad. About 2%. But not enough to fit you in that size. BTW Your butt looks fabulous in those pants (shamelessly trying to complete the sale I realize).

Me: Um... OK I guess I can try a size 6. I'm sure they're going to be waaaay too small though. (I didn't want to tell her I hadn't worn a size 6 since 1994). But please bring the Dark Fog. Grey is so now.

Saleslady: Sure thing. Be right back. Grey is the new color for spring. It's true. (thanks I keep up with my fashion news)

(she returns, pants in hand in 3 colors)

Me: (pants now on, once again prancing in the mirrored area) Uh... Uh... Ok what do you think? (I think these don't possibly fit me).

Saleslady: Those look PERFECT. Those 8's were waaaaay too big. I love those pants on you. They look fantastic. (again I know, trying to sell the pants). In fact I have those pants myself and I love them. (again with the selling)

Me: Thanks (sheepishly). I'll take them. All.

And now my friends, you know why I spent $249 at J. Crew today.

beauty and size is indeed in the eye of the beholder...

OK So I must preface this blog post with 2 things: 1. last night was easily top 5 worst nights ever at work, at least as far as busy-ness was concerned, and 2. I have PMS. Also I'm already home and ready for bed with my shades drawn tight and my earplugs snugly in place which in essence means I can't hear or see myself typing which I imagine must look pretty foolish. I might also add that I have already take 5 mg of Ambien which generally speaking can be expected to take full effect in about oh, say 5 minutes after you take it, which incidentally was about 7 minutes ago.

However, despite the sheer exhaustion and the utter despair that I feel at this moment, I will blog for the sake of sharing this information with those whom might glean some benefit from it. I have PMS. I discussed this the other day. PMS makes me moody. It makes me gain weight both real and imagined and it makes me feel like I should burn my skinny pants and given my bikini to my sister and just resign myself to wearing a potato sack. Perhaps with accessories. In any case. I'm pretty tough on myself about my fitness and training routine, my diet, my weight, the size of my R calf, my L bicep, my waist at the widest point and the smallest and of course my hips. I guess it would be fair to suggest that I'm pretty tough on myself about pretty much anything. Weighing 140.4 on Thursday and then 146 yesterday was discouraging to put it mildly. Partly "bad carb" weight as I refer to it, also water weight and PMS pounds. Whatever sounds most plausible. OK No more typing for now... Ambien working and soon Joni not making sense...

OK returned post nap and ready to finish. I won't go as far as to say well rested but I will say rested in any case. So where was I? Hard on myself. PMS. Crappy night at work. Around mid shift I admitted the wife of a friend of mine who was having their first baby. OK I haven't seen this person in a couple of years, which is to say, I have not seen this person since nursing school, which is to say I have not seen this person since I weighed less than 170 pounds. The reaction, was, I'll admit, not what I had expected. It isn't uncommon for people to not recognize me these days, or at least not people I haven't seen in a while. I didn't think I was that big but I guess I was. And secondarily, I still feel like I need to lose about another toddler before I'll be "skinny". Which brings me to my point. My friend, an African gentleman from Nigeria, did not say "wow you look great." He did not exclaim "holy cow where did you go?!?" Instead he just approached me and said, jaw open, "What happened to you?" As if to imply I had lost my hand in an unfortunate smelting accident or my hair from chemo. That was the inflection. Not, you look fantastic, inflection, but instead, holy cow what did you do to YOURSELF inflection. Later he asked me where my butt went (one of my more pronounced former  assests so to speak). This may sound in appropriate but You'd have to know the gentleman to know it is not. Instead it is just honest. Later still he told me he couldn't understand why I'd want to be "so skinny". He like how I looked before, like a "womanly woman" (hands forming an hourglass curve). Even later still he told me my thighs looked like rocks (hands forming fists like boulders). He spent a bit more of the night worrying about "where I went" than I cared to hear about. But I felt very privileged to be part of the birth of his baby.

So while I hesitate on any given to day to even willingly ACCEPT my body as it is, this person sees it as less that perfect, in the opposing direction. And this got me feeling pretty philosophical about size and how we as women so easily start to focus on a size or a number (I just want to be a 6 or 8 or 2 or I just want to weight 140 or 120 or 110) rather than seeing the inherent beauty that exists in our features as they are now. The hips and butt that so readily annoyed me 35 pounds ago, were exactly what this fellow found most lovely about my shape. 

Now I've finally started my period so the PMS can stop. I can stop inhaling all food within my grasp. I can stop feeling the size of a bus and I can stop obsessing about the scale number again. But I'm going to remember last night the next time I nitpick my behind or my thighs. I'm going to try to remember that the beauty of you thighs is more in your eyes than you think...

Yoga to live. Live to yoga.

I might have to change the name of this blog because if I keep running I'm probably going to injure all the parts that are required for running and thus be unable to run. Yesterday morning I did 3.5 on the elliptical which is safe but not really much like running. Last night I did 2.5 ish on the treadmill which I hate. Essentially I spend whatever length of time I am on said treadmill cursing silently and praying that I do not die. I realize I'd pass out and fall off before I'd die but still with my luck I'd probably hit my head on the way down and the paper would read something like this: Local Woman Dies in Tragic Treadmill Accident Because She INSISTS on Running Despite Warnings to the Contrary ... OK it wouldn't say that because that is waaay too long but in any case, in this little town it would probably be front page. Then people would feel bad, but inside they'd be laughing because of how ridiculous it is to run yourself to death. 

Anyway, I've found that I really love yoga. I'm a quick mover and a busy all around gal and yoga, in the right setting, puts me in touch with myself and the earth which I enjoy. I might preface this by saying, I tried to dance as a kid. I took all the classes that were feasibly taken. Ballet. Jazz. Tap. New age blah blah something. And... I sucked. I sucked at all of them. Or maybe I just felt like I sucked but either way I didn't stay in the classes, probably because my mother was too drunk to drive me. Come to think of it, she might have been the one who told me I sucked so that she could drink INSTEAD of drive me. Well, it's all tequila under the bridge. But I didn't stick with it as it were and I always wished I had. It's my one adult regret. I want to be a ballerina. Mostly cause I like leotards and little skirts. But I'm too short, because I think a height of 5'8" minimum is required to even TRY to dance much less succeed. And I'm kind of clumsy. Like fall UP the stairs clumsy. That makes yoga a good choice. Well not Bikram so much but Vinyasa for sure. If you move slow enough you probably won't hurt yourself. Plus the clothes for yoga are comfortable and it's a good excuse to not wear a bra.

Losing and losing

Weight. My Mind. Not necessarily in that order. I promised the dep that I would take a week off of "weight bearing" training. My plantar fascitis is almost completely pain free. I hesitate to say gone for fear it will return but it's 95% of normal I'd say. Yesterday was a gorgeous day here. 72 degrees. How could I stay inside? I just COULD NOT. So I opted for a walk, which of course became a jog, which naturally turned into run. A little teeny tiny one but still. Running no less. I just HATE not running. It makes me just feel like a total blob. YUCK. So I did it. Against my better judgement. But only two miles and NO PAIN! And my plan was just to neglect to mention it to the dep when he got home. You know, not lie, just not bring it up ;) Little stinker. He knows me too well. He wasn't home 5 minutes before he said "TELL ME you didn't run today."

Me: I didn't run today (whisper... much)
Dep: You DID NOT RUN TODAY.
Me: No. I did not run (very much).
Dep; You said you wouldn't run and you did. You broke your promise
Me: EXCUSE EXCUSE EXCUSE (it was sunny. It didn't hurt. I walked more than ran I promise)
Dep: You are a retard.
Me: I know you are but what am I.
Dep: Fine you ran. You choose dinner. If you break your other leg I'm going to laugh at you.

Anyway that was the extent of it. I told him I wouldn't push it. He shook his head disapprovingly and we moved on. Today I'm going to swim and lift, not because my foot hurts, but because I feel guilty.

On the scale front.. you know. I'm up. I'm down. I want to lose 10 more. I don't give a flying fetch what I weigh. I'm weight bipolar. But I'm at 142 today. Last week I was 144 ish so I'm inching off some pounds without point counting or strict calorie guidelines. I'm pretty resolved to shoot for about 135 or so which would put my body fat somewhere in the vicinity of 20% I think. But I'm in no rush to get there at this point. My big beef is with my stomach and I'm doing lots of ab work so there is plenty of muscle there, just also plenty of fat to cover it.

I have to admit it. I have a love/hate relationship with my scale. It's not good. If I get on it and she rewards me with evidence of a loss, I'm HAPPY. I'f I get on it and she curses me with a gain, I'm GROUCHY. I knew this and I know this about myself. Yesterday I was feeling pretty positive. Blogging and thinking. I was actually thinking about throwing her in the trash. Complete with a funeral. Flowers, maybe lilies. Music, like amazing grace on the organ. A choir perhaps. I'd wear a black dress and a veil and then as soon as she hit the bottom of the can I'd cue up the Solid Gold Dancers. Or cheerleaders. Or step team. Maybe those tall flag girls from the high school football games. One of those. This idea arose primarily out of the notion that maybe, just maybe, I was putting just a teeny tiny little bit too much emphasis on the number on the scale. Just a teensy weensy bit. It was actually the Dep's idea but that is probably primarily because he is sick and tired of hearing me obsess about my "weight", that is to say, the actual number. I mean it's irrelevant anyway right? Hm.

But here's what happened. I've weighed 146 ish for a couple of weeks. It seems like I can get to 143 and then I have a long run or work out hard and whammo! 146. So maybe I ought to just quit paying attention to the number entirely? Right? I mean Ashley Tisdale doesn't even own a scale right? I know this cause she said so. She said it in Shape magazine, where she also referred to herself as "curvy". So you know she never lies. Cause she is SO "curvy". You know, in places where "curvy" is defined by weighing more than 110 pounds. Places like Hollywood. I was there last week at a concert. It was a fun time with my sister and we glammed up a little bit for the show. Or at least I was feeling pretty glam until I saw the other "glam" gals and suddenly felt not just 34 but about 74 with every wrinkle magnified to the same power it takes to see an atom. Anyway Ashley likes her body how it is and she doesn't even own a scale. And since I like to model my life after people who start in musicals about high school. Viola. There you go. I'm going to like mine too?

But then the unthinkable happened. I got on the scale yesterday and... dun dun dun. I weighed 143 again. Well sheesh. How can I hate her when she is being so kind to me. Forget that I'm dealing with fluctuation from bloat and ignore the fact that I had a little more than a little gin the night before (and you know alcohol dehydrates you, handy if you're trying to lose lose PMS pounds). So I love her again. She's my BFF and we're going out to lunch. But I mean were only going to have like three pieces of lettuce and some carrots. Then we're going shopping for skinny jeans. Really skinny ones. I agree to let her stay. PLUS I paid like some astronomical amount of money for that scale (even though it still says my body fat is like 45%) and I'm not one to literally throw cash in the trash so again. There you go.

Then today... I did my usual routine of the morning. Stretch Pee. Weigh. 147? What? Oops I forgot I was wearing my nightgown. Strip down. Weigh. 147!!! WHAT? I hate you scale. Maybe I didn't finish peeing. Nope I'm pretty sure I did. You evil evil liar. I'm not even going to throw you away I hate you so much. First I'm going to beat you with a hammer (and not a little one either). Then I'm going to douse you in bleach (cause it's the most harmful chemical I have in the house). Then I'm going to let the dog pee on you. She's always looking for a place to pee anyway so there! Now she has you. Then when that's all done. I'm going to pretend to throw you away, just so you'll think the torture is over but NO. I'm going to pull you out of the trash and weigh myself 17 times and every time I see the number I'm going to call you a nasty name. Like jerk. Or butthead. Or accurate.

Sigh.... the fact is it's the number. It shouldn't be but today proves that it is. Yesterday at 143 I was feeling encouraged and happy. Today... I'm the same person. My ultra low rise pants still fit (yeah I bought those by accident, people who have had three kids I don't think are necessarily meant for ultra low rise). The scale says 147. Maybe I weigh 147 or 143 or 145. But the fact is that the number is just that. A number. So for today I'll let her stay. But if she thinks we're going out to lunch she can just forget about it. I'm taking the kids for Mexican food and I'm going to eat a burrito cause I ran like 100 miles this week and I can calorically afford a stinkin burrito. So there you go.

do chickens have feelings?

I think they might. Today I drove past a truck full of hens, en route to certain death I've no doubt, and they were staring at me. I mean into the depth of my soul staring. I think one of them telepathically told me to rescue her. I wanted to scream from the window of my *as big as a 747* SUV... "LET HER OUT", but that would have looked kind of hypocritical. The environmentalist animal lover... driving the biggest car known to mankind. OK not the biggest, but still you could fit a whole other car inside my car, so big enough to look gluttonous. Anyway, I've toyed with the idea of being a vegetarian before, both for conscience and health, but when it comes down to it, if I'm not staring the chicken in the eye, she tastes pretty good. When I don't have to look at the cow standing in a pile of her own manure, she tastes al-dang-right. So that is kind of that, so to speak. But today, I swear for about 1 hour and a half I was totally committed to never placing about piece of chicken or beef in my mouth. Totally. For an hour and a half. Then I went to Panera and had a turkey bacon bravo sandwich. But I felt bad eating it. Really bad. I mean it was delicious. But I still felt bad for those chickens. I didn't have a chicken salad sandwich though so that counts for something right? Nah probably not.  

In an attempt to cure my guilt though I'm going to plant 2 trees. One for the chicken and one to offset the carbon footprint left by my giant SUV driving 40 miles to Trader Joe's to buy organic food. Huh? Did that makes sense? I don't think that makes sense. Drive to buy organic? Spend more money and harm the environment to eat more healthy. Something is wrong with this picture... Well it so happens Victoria's Secret is having a semi-annual sale so at least the trip was multi-purpose. If I keep running I'll just ramp up my mileage until I can run the 40 miles. Well anyway. 

So I woke up today and could hardly get my wedding ring off. It's been falling off for months, apparently my fingers had fat in them too. I mean I was considering tying it to myself to keep from dropping it in the sink and now it won't come OFF? Well I didn't do bad with water yesterday but I didn't do great either and I knew it was water weight. So much so that I actually just decided that I would skip weighing this morning because I knew I'd be up and I knew it would be a scale lie. But then, coincidentally enough about an hour and a half later, I weighed myself anyway. Hm. It seems like an hour and a half is my willpower maximum today. But I weighed myself then got mad at the scale and said to it "you're a liar". It's not lying probably it doesn't know how to lie but it's not humanly possible to gain 3 pounds in one day. It's just not. So I'm just going to pretend I didn't see that number and I'm going to drink 2 gallons of water and a cup of the worlds tastiest diuretic, coffee  

I went to the gym, operating at about 60% of capacity I think. I ran on the treadmill. Yay cause that's my FAV! (not) My left heel hurt. My right knee hurt. My head hurt from thinking about my right knee and my left heel. The good news is that the broken leg doesn't hurt, I mean not where it was broken. Everywhere else, but not on the break. Hey I'll take what I can get. So I ran. That hurt. So I walked. That didn't hurt but that also doesn't burn calories like running. That would like comparing an oreo cookie to a piece of Cheesecake Factory cheesecake. So I upped the incline to 10. That hurt again. SO back down to .5 and back to running. That hurt. Back to walking. That didn't hurt. Back to running. And so on and so on. Until 35 minutes had passed and I was frustrated enough that I just stopped. Uh oh it appears that in some circumstances my willpower threshold isn't even an hour and a half. Now I just feel crappy. I've said before, with enthusiasm I might add, that there is nothing that running won't at least improve if not solve. Guess what running does not improve? Feeling like crap. Well technically it improves feeling crappy temporarily. Like an hour and a half. But then endorphins, auf wiedersehen, and welcome back to the pre-run misery with the new added bonus of muscle soreness. I hate to admit it but I might need a break. I might have finally reached the point where my body is saying "hey stooopid why don't you take a rest for pities sake?" OK. OK. Alright already. I'll rest. Sheesh.  

But just an hour and a half.