Broken Ideals

You know, losing weight didn't make me happy.

It sounds weird to say it, and god knows I get shit for it like you wouldn't believe, or maybe you would.

I lost 87 pounds, or thereabouts. And I wanted to think that I didn't have unrealistic expectations. I never thought I'd be hollywoodesque or suddenly beautiful. But I did think, MAYBE, it wasn't a terrible thing to hope I wouldn't hate myself so much.

But I did, and I begin to think, at 40, that's a trick this old dog isn't going to learn. I don't even know that it's possible for me to stop hating myself.

And on top of that, I ended up with problems; unwanted attention.

See, I used to have this neighbor. Bob.

And Bob was a drunken asshole. I don't think I ever saw the man sober. He lived in the apartment diagonal across the hall from us.

One day, I was outside, talking to one of the other neighborhood moms, while we were waiting for our daughters to get home from first grade - they were allowed to walk home from school, but for most of first grade, Darcy wanted me to be outside, waiting for her. Her dad would walk her over to the school sidewalk and let her go the rest of the way on her own. Small independences.

And Debbie was selling something - Pampered Chef stuff, maybe? I don't remember. I was leaning over the picnic table, looking at the brochure she had.

"Hey!" Bob tapped me. I'd like to say he tapped my shoulder, but he didn't. He stabbed me in the lower back/upper ass with his huge, blunt finger. "You look so hot, leanin' over like that, I took a picture." He shows me on his cell phone, this picture of my ass. He's seriously crowding my personal space and this guy is huge - well over six feet tall and probably a good 280 pounds. Like a linebacker who's been drinking too many beers.

"Um... yeah." I straighten up and move a little, trying to get out of his shadow. I don't like people looming over me. It's 2pm and I can already smell cheap beer and sweat.

The phone in his hand rings. "Oh, yeah, hey, yeah, I know, ain't it great... I just came over to tell her. So, you like that ass, huh?" He looks at me. "I texted the pic to my friend."

You did... what? I laugh uncomfortably and move further away; honestly at this point I'm trying to get Debbie between me and him. She's just as uncomfortable.

"Oh, look, she's laughin'," he says. "It's makin' her tits bounce around." He hands me the phone. "He wants to talk to you."

"Yeah, right. You know, I'm waiting for my seven-year-old daughter to get home from first grade." I give Bob a look, but if it impacts him at all, he completely ignores it. I look away from him and start talking to Debbie. Neither of us look at Bob, or the phone, or acknowledge anything else he says. He eventually wanders away.

A few weeks later, my husband goes off to New Jersey for business for a week. And Bob starts rattling the doorknob to my apartment every time he walks by. If the door's unlocked, he opens it.

I start to feel trapped in my own house. I don't like to go out at night to take out the trash and now I NEVER go all the way down to the mailbox after dark.

Thomas gets home, and I tell him what's been going on. A few days later, Debbie asks us if we can take care of her dog for the afternoon, because she's going to be gone all day. "Sure, no problem." It's not. I don't like dogs, but Debbie's isn't too bad.

We're out walking the dog when Bob rides up, drunkenly, on his bicycle.

"That ain't your dog. Did you steal that dog?"

"I don't see that it's any of your concern," Thomas says, handing the leash over to me. "I'd like you to leave my family alone."

"What, asshole?"

"You heard me." I don't know what Bob hears in Thomas's voice, but what I hear is the keys moving from Thomas's pocket to his hand. I look. He's done the Wolverine thing with his keychain; several keys poke out between his fisted knuckles. "You're harassing my wife. Don't talk to us. Don't talk to her."

Bob jumps off his bike and charges him. Thomas stands there, cool and collected. Bob tops him by a good five inches and at least a hundred pounds. I scramble to get my phone out of my pocket.

Bob ended up backing down, no punches thrown. But I thought I was going to be sick.

For this? I lost weight for this? To be treated like this? To garner this sort of attention?

It wasn't the whole reason; I got frustrated by the slow, creeping gains, the constant hunger and irritability.

But Bob scared the hell out of me.

We reported him to the apartment complex - I have serious trust issues with police, too, and I don't... technically being a douche canoe isn't against the law. And I have no faith that a police officer would take me seriously. The manager told him that he wasn't to speak to us, at all, or they'd evict him. One more complaint and he was out - we weren't the only people in the complex who'd complained about him.

I lost weight for this?

Slack? Not Me!

I've been "on vacation" for the last few days. What started as a reunion party for my college's science fiction club has become a full-on yearly summer party. Starting some time around the 4th of July and running full force until about the 12th, it's nothing but people, drinking, food, visitors, food, drinking, reminiscing, getting to tell the same old stories to new people... and hey, did I mention the food?

However, I've been pretty good with the food. Well, except for yesterday... I don't think I ate MUCH yesterday, but what I did eat was almost entirely chips. And salsa. But since I didn't eat the whole bag of chips, I think it was good. Well, not good, but not totally throwing myself down the stairs. When I'm chasing the last few tomatoes around the bottom of the salsa jar with a Popsicle stick, I might need some help.

And I've been working out... not at the gym, but I did walk a LOT, and did some running around in the park.

Despite that, my weight's up a bit. Probably all the salt.

Went to Yoga again today. Oh, I love it! My instructor was very impressed with me. Today's class structure was Abs, butt, and balance.

"Are you sure you're a novice?" she asked me after class. "You had your foot way up there during tree. And your balancing tiger? that was excellent. That's a really hard pose!"

Seriously, I love the gym, I've been enjoying my classes and the workouts... but if I had to pick why I'm staying at the gym, it's yoga class. I was sweating like crazy, but I feel soooooo good afterward.

When Properly Motivated

I can run very, very fast.

Last night, Thomas, Darcy and I were out for our usual Thursday walk (ish about a two-miler.)

One part of our walking path takes us along the "lake". It's not a lake, it's a hole in the ground where water collects. There's a lot of that around here. I do live in a swamp (part of the Great Dismal Swamp, actually...) and there's a lot. LOT. of water around here. (As a further note, I actually live in one of the highest points in the city, 18 feet above sea level. That's NOT very far, really.) Anyway, our view here is to the left side, water, to the right side, the backs of a bunch of condos. We're walking and we see a white and brown spotted dog running around, leash dragging merrily on the ground behind him.

A few minutes later, a woman pushing a jogging stroller trots up, looking furious, and calling for the dog. The dog, being a dog, ignores her completely and continues tearing around, peeing on trees, sniffing bushes, and generally acting dog-like.

Eventually, said dog notices us and comes bounding over, so excited that not only is its tail wagging, but the whole back end of the dog is wagging.

Thomas reaches down and snags the leash.

"Oh, thank you," says the lady. She leaves the stroller where it is and comes over to collect the dog.

Darcy is busy petting the dog, who is now slobbering all over my child and wiggling ecstatically. (Both dog and child. Are wiggling, that is. Darcy gave up slobbering a while ago.)

"He's very excited," the woman comments, taking the leash. She and Thomas talk a bit about the dog. I... don't much like dogs, so I'm trying to dodge the animal and keep an eye on my daughter and occasionally glancing at my watch wondering how long we have to make small talk before we can keep walking. We're supposed to go to Target after our walk and then I need to cook dinner and I'm hoping that things won't run too late because...

I glance over at the stroller to realize it is ROLLING BACKWARDS DOWN THE HILL TOWARDS THE LAKE.

"Jesus," I comment and take off flat running. I probably covered about 20 yards in 3 seconds, grabbed the stroller handle and turned sideways to keep the entire thing from flipping over on the rough ground. The baby, inside, is a red-headed little girl who is... fast asleep.

"Mom's saved the baby!" Darcy yells, jumping up and down and cheering.

"I stole her from a stupid Dikini while he was taking a pee pee," Thomas mutters under his breath.

In Another's Eyes

First off, there's still time to enter and win one of two copies of Lose the Diet by Kathy Balland. Please go here and leave a comment, twitter about this contest, link to it on your blog, whatever! Contest will be open until Friday!!


Well, we all know I have Issues.

I don't see myself as I am, and I certainly don't see myself as other people see me.

We also know that I'm a little too cynical to think the I'm ok, you're ok theory of self-esteem improvement actually works, most of the time. You can tell yourself you are lovable and capable as much as you want (or are forced to!) and it doesn't really help all that much. The best way, I've found, to gain self-esteem is to do those things that you think are worthy.

Sit down, look at those things you find admirable in other people. I'm not necessarily talking about Michael Jordan (don't we all wanna be like Mike?) but about the people in your life that you look up to and admire. Because we can't all be basketball players. (Even if Sulu would like that if we were...)

What are the people you admire like? Are they intelligent, witty, or generous? Be careful, while you examine these people: do you actually admire them, or are you jealous? Make a list of the things you admire in the people you've chosen... honest? Or tactful? Kind-hearted?

Now, sit down with your list of traits you find admirable. I admire people who are even-tempered, good with children, generous, determined, and mostly cheerful, with a good dash of sarcastic.

Here are the items you can work on; I admire people who are even-tempered. I... well, let's just say I won't win any awards for being calm in the face of aggravation.

But I can work on it! It's not possible, perhaps, to be perfect, but we can always, always find ways of improving. I'm learning - slowly, and with a great many set-backs - to calm down. To take a few deep breaths. To ask myself if this really matters in the grand scheme of things.

I admire people who go out of their way to make other people's lives better. I may not be wealthy, but I can give to charity. I'm an organ donor. I give blood regularly. I'm doing a 60-mile, 3-day walk in October to raise money for breast cancer awareness, screenings, research, and hopefully one day to find a cure. My daughter and I take trash bags out with us to the playground about once every 3 months and clean trash up in our neighborhood. I donate my gently used clothing and household items to the Salvation Army. I click here. And here. And here. And here. Every day.

Sometimes it helps to see yourself through someone else's eyes. It's not always easy; there's sometimes the nagging suspicion that someone is telling you what you want to hear... but when you get an honest opinion - or sometimes for me, it's even just seeing a list of my accomplishments; what does it look like to someone else...

Here's what some friends had to say about me recently... and the thing is... nothing here isn't true. It's just... wow, when you put it all together like that, maybe I am, actually, pretty damn nifty...

One of my best friends, Jeanne, sent this email out to her family and friends (who are not also my family and friends, since we do have a load of friends in common) and bcc'd me on it...

My best friend will be participating in the Susan G. Komen 3-Day Walk for the Cure in Washington, DC in October.

That's a 60 mile walk for someone who was a half-a-pack-a-day smoker 12 years ago (until she quit cold turkey). Who was told after her ankle was shattered in a car wreck 8 years ago that she'd never walk again without a cane (today, she can step-run like Rocky Balboa). Who was in the "high-risk pregnancy" category 5 years ago because of weight-related complications and asthma (which she has since controlled). Who was borderline diabetic 2 years ago because of her weight (she joined Weight Watchers in Jan. 2008 and has lost over 80 pounds to date; her husband, who joined to support her, has lost over 90).

She has a beautiful 5-year-old daughter, and a close family history of breast cancer-- both her aunt and her grandmother were survivors. Her mother's breast cancer diagnosis in late 2007 was her personal wake-up call to improve her life and her health, for her own good and that of her family. Now she's done it, and in October, she means to give back in her mother's honor. She's up to walking 18 miles on the weekend, and she's working out extensively during the week to prep for the Walk.

Unfortunately, unlike a standard walk-a-thon where you simply raise as much as you can, the Susan G. Komen Foundation sets a minimum fundraising goal of $2300 that you must meet in order to be allowed to walk in the 3-Day (any donations short of the goal will still be accepted). She is only about halfway to her goal. She's an amazing person, it's a great cause, and she really, really wants to be able to walk.

Please help.

Well.

It does sound sort of impressive, doesn't it? When you lump it all together like that. I tend to see things all microscopic. I have problems - doesn't everyone? - but my problems are like a bunch of tiny rocks. If I hold them in my hand and put them out at arm's length, they look fairly minor. But I don't. I bring them up close to my face and study them. I know them intimately. Try it. Take a small rock, less than an inch across, and hold it up as close to your eye as you can (and still be able to focus on the rock! Don't poke your eye out!) Now, you can see the rock really well, right? But the problem here is that you can't see much aside from the rock. The rest of your life is blurry, out of focus, and blocked off because you're looking too closely at a stupid, little rock.

One of the people I admire (and, I confess, am somewhat jealous of) had this to say to me recently:

I chuckle every time I think what the "college Lynn" would say if she saw you now. It is silly to say that you make me proud as I have nothing to do with any of the things you have done. Yet your hard work has inspired me to work on making things better for me. Good luck on your walk!

How nifty is that? Someone that I admire is admiring me right back... interesting.

I may not be where I want to be, and I may not yet be who I want to be. Neither am I who I was, and neither am I incapable of change.

Perfection and true happiness may be unattainable (and I reserve the right to doubt) but we can always improve, we can always become better, and we can always be happier.

I think these are things worth striving for.

And I think, sometimes, I need to sit down and look over just how far I've come.

Vanity, thy name is Weight Loss

Thursday, I gathered together with a bunch of my girlfriends (all of us are on Weight Watchers... I'm such a trend-setter... Not entirely true, Leigh was doing Weight Watcher's before any of us, but she'd gotten to lifetime, then had a bunch of Real Life fall on her head and she quit, regained some of the weight, etc etc. Anyway... Thomas and I started Weight Watchers in January '08, Jeanne picked it up... April of that year? Carol in October... and I'm not quite sure when Leigh went back, but she's back at her goal weight... in our group of friends, we've relocated something like over 300 pounds...) There I go with those long asides again... sheesh! Anyway, the four of us (me, Jeanne, Carol, and Leigh) went clothes shopping at some of the trendy little shops up in Newtown.

Actually most of the shops there aren't terribly trendy, they just look trendy when behind the brick and class look of Newtown.

Carol's high school reunion is coming up soon and she needed a dress. I was in dire need of a few more pairs of shorts to get me through the summer, because honestly, three pairs wasn't cutting it, particularly when two of those pairs were bright pink and bright blue. There's only so many times I can wear the same clothes in a row before someone notices. Jeanne was short a few pairs of work-pants, and could have used another pair of jeans. I don't know if Leigh needed anything particular (she was a last minute addition because we didn't know earlier if she was going to get the time off from work) but wanted to hang out anyway.

We hit Anne Taylor first, where I immediately pounced on the saleslady. "I need your help," says I. I was wearing those grey-brown and white flowered pants that I got from Old Navy a few weeks back and a black top. The two items of clothing didn't clash, exactly, but it was the only top I had that even remotely went with the pants. "I need a top to go with these."

She took me around the shop and we looked at tops. (As a note, clothing salesladies are almost inevitably thrilled about weight loss... they can smell a commission a mile away and nothing says "new clothes" like 85 pounds gone...) We looked at various neutral shades, most of which were "not quite..." We looked at several different white shirts which they either didn't have my size or were too floofy for me. (I just don't tend to look good - in my opinon - in those 'romantic, feminine' styles. Probably because if I have too much froof on a shirt, I'll end up fidgeting with it. Or I won't iron it.) And then we found the perfect top. It was a white tank with some brown-grey crochet lacing around the collar. The lacing was almost the exact same shade as the background on my pants. Seriously, they looked like they were made to go together, it was that perfect.

After we found the Perfect Shirt, she insisted on showing me a bunch of other shirts, pants, shorts, skirts, dresses... anything she could think of that I might possibly buy (I did mention that salespeople can smell a commission, right?) and I ended up picking up a black and white flowered sundress. I probably wouldn't have gotten it - it looked in danger of falling right off my chest - until Leigh came up behind me and adjusted the straps. I hadn't actually realized the straps were adjustable.

Then we crossed the road to Lane Bryant, where Carol discovered to her glee, they had absolutely nothing that fit her right anymore. Their lowest size is a 14/16 and all the 14/16 dresses were just too big. We found one pantsuit/jumpsuit thing that looked really good on her, but she was going to need like $20 worth of tailoring to make it fit. (The hem of the pants part needed to come up a good 2 inches, and the elastic around the bust was going to need to be replaced with some elastic that actually had a good grip. The top looked great, but was threatening to fall down the instant she took a too-bouncy step.) She did still fit in their jeans from there, so she got a pair of those, and (I think) a wooden chunky bracelet.

Jeane, on the other hand, who hates jeans... tried on a few pairs of the Lane Bryant jeans, and declared them terrible. I'm not sure they are, but they certainly are confusing. The sizes are all wonked - they retooled the sizes so that they start at 1, which is equalish to your size 14 in other stores, and go up from there - and then they come in three color-cuts. Red, blue, and yellow. (Not that the jeans are anything but blue and dark blue, but red is like extra butt and thighs, yellow is for extra tummy, etc.) So, while I think the jeans are quite excellent, you do sort of have to try on a red one, blue two, and yellow three, frequently, before you figure out what your size combo is. If you're not happy wearing jeans in the first place, the style-size-cut thing can be a bit intimidating. When I first bought pairs of the new styles (I only ever actually bought one pair, since I was on my way out of Lane Bryant shops just as the new jeans were coming in) I had a saleslady assist me with what sizes and cut she thought I should be in.

We left there and headed over to Old Navy, where I managed to score a sale or two. Technically, just one sale, but since I bought two pairs of shorts... I have figured out the 4/6 thing. Some of my shorts are 6s and some are 4s, and I couldn't figure out for a while WHY I could wear a 4 in some styles and not in others. It turns out that it's where the waist lays. If it's a high-waisted piece (ie, the snap fastens over or around my navel) I can wear a size 4. If the snap goes 1 inch below my navel (mid-waist) or around my hips (low waist) then I need a 6. It's not that I can't fasten a size four at a mid or lower, but I muffin-top over them. Yuck. I'm still working on tightening up my abs, but I may never get any better than this.

Carol and Jeane were both very excited to realize that they could, actually, shop at Old Navy. (Unlike me, where I spent a while in the Lane Bryant sort of nostaligically fondling the clothing that was never going to fit me again... I know a lot of prior fat girls bid a cheerful fair-the-well to Lane Bryant, but I always felt... comfortable there. For me, being in a fancy boutique is intimidating. Lane Bryant feels like home...) Jeane found a few pairs of pants, Carol got a very cute top and some tanks, and some very nice water bottles. (Which reminds me, YOU got a DEAL, girlfriend. I saw those exact same water bottles in Target on Friday for $17 a piece!!)

After that (we did shop til we dropped!) we headed down the street to J Jills, which was going out of buiness. Prices were marked down, down, down, and then 70% off after that!

Which meant I picked up a pair of silk pants ($6), a linen jacket ($9) and a really nice wool-cotten blend sweater ($11). If I'd bought them not on sale... the three items would have run me over $300. Nice.

We were all so enabling each other to spend money...

Seriously.

"Oh, that looks SO CUTE! You MUST buy it!"

I'm quite sure the saleswomen in the various shops were delighted to see us. I know I spent at least $100 total, the others similiar amounts or more...

You know, when I used to go shopping, it was this rapid, horrible event.

Run into the store, pick one or two things that weren't horribly colored. Often I didn't even try them on in the shop. Honestly. I would rather deal with the hassle of taking something back for an exchange than risk crying myself sick in the dressing room. (Also, I hated taking off my clothes in front of three mirrors. I mean, seriously. With bad lightening. So not like I ever looked good, but did we really need to go through all that?)

Now I go into the dressing room with anywhere between 8 and 10 items, try on a bunch of stuff, come out of the dressing room to look at it, solicit opinions, feel how it moves when I move, etc. We spent all afternoon trying on clothes.

And honestly, I couldn't have imagined a better afternoon.

Sushi. Shopping. Chocolate.

Fantastic.

(As a note, despite not tracking and massively eating out all week while Jeane was in town, I apparently managed to get in enough activity points - the children's museam especially was a LOT of activity!! - I managed to drop weight this week... down 1.6. I'm back to less than 5 pounds til goal...)

For your Viewing Pleasure

First off, the obligatory "fat pants" picture...


These are my "before" pants that Thomas and I both fit into. Size 24s. Can you believe it? I was astonished about 2 weeks ago when I was doing my measurements... my waist is now only 1.5 inches larger than my THIGH used to be. (Starting right thigh measurement was... 27 inches. My waist is now clocking in at 28 1/2).

And now... the "can I get away with this yet?" picture...


Also, just so y'all know, I think I've turned a significant corner in my getting fit journey.

I am no longer freaking out about a gain. (Yes, smart ass, that means I had a gain this week. 1.6 pounds, as a matter of fact.)

Not publicly. Not privately.

I am really... no longer fazed by a weight gain. This astonishes me. I never thought I'd get to a point where I was "whatever" about it. I don't... care.

Which is not to say I'm grabbing the chips bag and going to town with it. Just that I know the weight came on and I know I have the skills and patience to take it back off.

For me, this is a great, wonderful thing.

Moments

When I was a child, like no older than nine, I developed a massive crush on my dad's best friend, Tip.

Tippy was sweet and didn't talk to me like I was an idiot. He was good looking, tall and thin, with a ready smile. I always looked forward to seeing him, and generally held him in my mind as one of the ideals of manhood. I think I gave up hope of getting him to notice me as a woman... oh, when I was like 27. Like. At my wedding.

I saw him this weekend, for the first time in like 2 years. (Last year, as you might recall, we decided to skip my dad's annual 4th of July BBQ because we weren't ready to face buffet-style eating...)

So, you know, the last time Tip saw me, I weighed in at over 200 pounds.

When he saw me, he gave me a big hug and kiss and said in my ear, "My god, you look fantastic!"

And when he went to leave, he picked me up and spun me around a few times. "You know I love you, right, kid?"

Watch out, Thomas... your competition is back.

Almost Famous

I had a first yesterday.

I went in (again, I still don't understand what is up with my Wii Fit, which told me I was down about a pound for the week...) and weighed in. Up .8 pounds.

I was completely unfazed.

There were a ton (pardon the pun) of excuses for it; I just started my period, I ate high fat and salt content food the night before, and I had skipped my Long Walk for the weekend because of an annoying on and off coughing thing I have going on. Bwjenn, if you gave me your cold over the internet... well... I'll just have to figure out how you did that, because I'd really like to transport other things over the web...) But I didn't bother to state them. Obviously, I knew them, but it was like, not important.

The weight is coming off.

I feel good.

I'm getting, a bit, to feel like I look good. (Next time you see me, real-life, remind me to show off my arm. My word, I have muscles! /Flex)

So, you know, that's cool.

Also, some other cool stuff - blog related - has happened recently... I'm going to be hosting a virtual book tour for Kathy Balland's book Lose the Diet; Transform your body by connecting with your soul. I'll even have an extra signed copy for some lucky reader, so keep your eyes on this spot. I'm not sure of the exact date, but I'll let ya know!

And this article came out on MSNBC. That's me in that first paragraph there. (Yes, Kellylyn is my "real" first name. Isn't it AWFUL? Somebody should slap my mom. Really.)

Finally, I puffyheart my friend Geoff. I don't know why my head can know something, and even my husband/best friend/weight loss leader can know and tell me things, and I just DON'T LISTEN. Here's your stupid sign, seriously. But I've been following Geoff's food plan for almost three weeks now, and I feel SO MUCH better it's just unbelievable.

So, I'm going to leave you all on this note (again with the puns!)

This ain't a song for the brokenhearted
No silent prayer for the faith departed
And I ain't gonna be just a face in the crowd
You're gonna hear my voice when I shout it out loud

It's my life
It's now or never
I ain't gonna live forever
I just wanna live while I'm alive
- It's My Life, Bon Jovi

Get Rich Quick (Count Your Blessings)

I got 99 problems but a bitch ain't one
- Jay-Z

I spend a lot of time complaining, I know. So I thought I'd spend a little while reiterating the things in my life that I'm happy about.

- I don't have more debt than I can pay down.

- I don't have more house than I can afford.

- I don't have a retirement investment account that's lost a great deal of value over the last few years. (We just started ours recently, so while I don't think we're all that prepared for retirement, we haven't had the stress of watching our money being thrown into a hole...)

- My child is mostly a joy. (She has her days, don't we all? But mostly she's good-natured and quiet - quiet is really, really important to me!)

- I get along with my parents. Mostly.

- No one in my immediate family is sick.

- I have a frequent, fulfilling and satisfying sex life. (I've been learning recently among women my age, this is a rarity and I should treasure it. And believe me, I do.)

- I am confident that my husband loves me.

- I am confident that my child loves me.

- My husband is a wonderful father.

- Most of the time, I don't feel like a bad parent.

- I have not ever been ashamed to show off my arms in public. (Michelle Obama aside, I don't think my arms are unattractive, and it's never occurred to me not to wear tank tops.)

- I love my cell phone. (It's a silly thing to be grateful for, I know, but I really can't tell you how much joy I get out of playing with my little high-tech toys...)

- My husband no longer works 12 hour shifts, weekend nights.

- I have lots of friends, and I honestly love all of them.

- I'm not yet 40. I'm not still 22.

- I still enjoy stupid action flicks and disney/pixar movies.

- I have 7,368 songs stored on my computer. I love music.

- I will never wear that stupid housedress again.

- I never have to go to high school, and no one expects me to attend a high school reunion.

- I still love all the artwork in my house.

- I own more than 400 movies, tv shows, and other dvds. I love having a great variety of movies to watch.

- I love my new silk sheets; even if my husband doesn't like the color. (they're sort of melted caramel colored. He thinks they don't go with our blue comforter.)

- I never have to iron a shirt. (My husband does his own ironing. It is one household task that I refuse to absorb and refuse to feel guilty about.)

- Putting a guildmate on Ignore has greatly improved my quality of raiding.

- I have confidence in my own intelligence.

- I am a great cribbage player.

- My house is mostly clean, and certainly is cleaner more regularly than it's ever been before in my adult life.

- I don't have to work in corporate America. I have three friends that remind me on a regular basis that this is SUCH a good thing.

- Three days later, I love my new haircut.

- I can wear high heels. And do.

- I no longer feel squashed getting into a restaurant booth.

- I take for granted that I can accomplish 30 minutes on an elliptical. (In fact, the other day, I did 65 minutes on the cross-trainer.)

- I take for granted that I can leave the house without my inhaler.

- Let me repeat those. I TAKE FOR GRANTED that I can accomplish 30 minutes on an elliptical. I TAKE FOR GRANTED that I can leave the house without my inhaler.

- I can run down stairs.

- I have made up with aunts and cousins that I've been estranged with for more than seventeen years.

- I no longer loathe summer. (I do recognize that it's hot. But this is no longer a problem for me. I don't mind sweating. I don't feel oppressed by the heat.)

- I have accepted responsibility for those problems that are my own problems. I am gradually letting go of those things which are not my responsibility.

- I love Flylady. I love my control journal (That's what SHE said!)

- We live less than 5 miles from everything we need; grocery store, husband's work, hospital, mall, movie theater.

- Our apartment complex has a fitness center.

- We're locked into our rent-rate for the next two years.

- I have a turtle and she is healthy and well-adapted to being in a terrarium. She does a few simple tricks (eats out of my hand and follows my finger around)

- I may not always love my neighbors, but at least I've never seen the police covering each other before changing into an apartment, guns drawn (this happened at the last place I lived.)

- We have not had a particularly bad hurricane in about six years.

- It's been over 16 years since the last time I had an affair outside my relationship; I don't miss the lying, cheating, worrying, and generally feeling like scum about it.

- I've finished taking care of my dental problems.

I do not want what I have not got
- Sinead O'Conner

The Ballet

So, Thomas took me to the ballet this weekend; it was sort of combination birthday/mother's day gift.

I haven't been to the ballet in a long time; not since my best friend in high school died. (She fell asleep at the wheel graduation night and drove her car off an overpass. She hadn't been drinking or anything, she was just worn out. And as she was a brilliant, witty, friendly, pretty and talented sort, the whole event went to cement my opinion of the general completely unfair nature of the universe...) Anyway, Tracy used to be a ballet dancer and we (my mother and I) went from time to time to see her in various performances...

A few weeks ago, I was paging through the paper - have I mentioned I subscribed to the paper in an attempt to start being more frugal by clipping coupons? Thus far, it's been a good investment. In three weeks (the paper costs me $10 a month) I've clipped over $18 worth of coupons; and not coupons that I have to stretch to use, either, but ones that are stuff I would have bought anyway - (Ok, that was a very long aside...) Anyway, I was thumbing through the paper and there was an advert for Prokofiev's Romeo and Juliet.

Further investigation (Small bit of trivia about me; I am a russophile. I love all things Russian - well, except politics - decorations, art, music, history, culture. Love it. I minored in Russian History in college sort of by accident. I was just taking classes that I was interested in and my advisor pointed out that all I needed was one speciality history class in a field aside from Russian Studies and I'd have a history minor already completed. My primary professor who taught most of my Russian Studies classes was enomoured of me, said he'd seldom met someone who understood Russian culture as well as I did, and I was the only student in the last decade to whom he'd awarded an A+ on a term paper. This did not, I might add, endear me to my classmates.) yielded the information that this would be one of the first performances of Prokofiev's intended ballet.

"Living people can dance; the dead cannot." This was the rather utilitarian explation offered by the freat 20th centure composer Sergei Prokofiev as to what possed him to alter the fate of literature's most celbrated loves, Romeo and Juliet.¹

Simon Morrison, a professor at Princeton University and famed musicologist, discovered in 2003 that Prokofiev's original score included different music and a surprisingly happy ending. Stalin-era censors edited out twenty minutes of music, thickened the orchestration and restored the tragic ending, resulting in a performance that was almost unrecognizable from Prokofiev's opus.

The Virginia Arts Festival is one of the few openings for this new ballet; a master's dream restored. In fact, the performance we saw actually preceeds the ballet opening in New York. For me, this was a once in a lifetime opportunity...

So, I asked Thomas, "If I wanted to go see the ballet, what might you say?"

Thomas frowned for a moment, then shrugged. "I've not been to a ballet since I was in high school, when my sister used to dance. I've no idea if I like it or not. Sure, we can go."

So, we went.

As I'm not a professional reviewer or familiar enough with the ballet to accurately describe the performance, I won't. I'll simply say I enjoyed it immensely, and Thomas's comment was "It wasn't the worst thing I've ever done, and the music was good." That's hopeful enough that I might be able to persuade him to do this once or twice a year.

Also, I got to dress up, and that was good.

This is my new dress; a size 6!! My shoes, while they do match the dress nicely, were unfortunately, a half-size too large, and made walking a bit dicey... why did no one tell me that losing 80 pounds would make it so that I lost two complete shoe sizes? I'm now wearing a seven, and all my old shoes are 9s. (Fortunately, I wasn't much into shoes when I couldn't wear heels, so I didn't have to replace too many pairs... in fact, I own more shoes NOW than I did a year ago...)

In any case, I had a good night... I felt pretty and thin for the entire evening, even after the dancers came on stage. And we were very, very close to the stage, so I got a very good look at how thin they were, and while they might be more muscular than I am, I don't really think that Juliet was all that much smaller than I am.

I found myself playing the Fattest Woman in the Room game again, but it was oddly different. I wasn't the fattest, nor was I the thinnest. And strangely enough, it didn't matter. I felt pretty, I looked pretty, and that was all that was important to me.



1. Leona Baker, Romeo and Juliet, Alive and Dancing

Giving Myself the Mad-Props

A few months ago, I wrote a short article for a truly inspiring and fun blogger, Scott "Q." Marcus, for his new, independent magazine, Two Words. While my submission was good, unfortunately print-costs and prior agreements ended up pushing my entry out in last minute cuts, but Mr. Marcus was gracious enough - and I certainly hope impressed enough - to ask me to join him in a side-endeavor for promoting the magazine and writers who were interested in the project.

I am, of course, happy to do so.

I don't usually spend a lot of time here talking about other bloggers; I figure you're all perfectly capable of glancing at my list of favorites on the side bar (which doesn't even begin to cover all the blogs I actually read; I'm RSS-subscribed to any number of other blogs which I haven't gotten around to adding to my blogroll...) and either reading or not.

Allow me a moment to do so, as it regards Scott "Q." Marcus. This man is beyond fascinating and beyond funny. He's real, in a way that often success stories don't always strike me as genuine. Sometimes, seeing the slim, neat, magazine-perfect "after" pictures don't always do anything for me. The walked around the block to defeat a cookie craving... while I understand how hard it is to sum up sucess in a pithy phrase or three, it also... well, those pithy phrases can really wear you down...

Changing your life, dieting, whatever you want to call it... that's hard bloody work. And Scott acknowledges the work, even after the "After" picture is taken. In his picture, he looks quite handsome, slim and witty, and in his writing, he's sometimes crazy, sometimes lazy, sometimes dry, and always, very, very human. When I was first getting started with my lifestyle change, Scott's blog was there for me. And even now, 75 pounds later, he's still there for me.

Being able to contribute to his cause, write for his magazine, or post on his group effort blog... that's a great honor to me, and one I hope fervently that he recognizes... On the one hand, he's done nothing for me but be who he is... and on the other hand, his example, his wit, and his gods-honest hope and faith in the perserverence and dedication in humanity in general... has helped me to do everything.

If you're interested, this is my article that didn't quite make the cut for the premier issue... I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it.

Wax On, Wax Off

Waxing Lady: So this is your first time getting body wax?
Andy Stitzer: Yes. Yes it is.
Waxing Lady: Take off your shirt.
Andy Stitzer: Ok.
[Takes off his shirt revealing a very hairy torso]
Waxing Lady: [to whoever's outside] Oh, we gonna need more wax.
Cal: I'm staying. This is gonna be good.
Waxing Lady: and clear all my appointments in the afternoon.

40 Year Old Virgin

There are some days when I look around and I have no idea who these people are in my life. I'm not talking about friends; I'm talking about the woman who's wearing the size 8 jeans and who spends 15 minutes in the evening doing facial masks and the guy who is waxing his back.

Seriously.

When, really, did we become so vain?

My evening routine gets longer, it seems, every month. Right now I have a peach scrub facial wash, followed by a moisturizer. Once a week I do a 10-minute mask. I have moisturizer especially for my eyes. (That costs like $25 for this tiny little jar...) I have a lip mask and a lip balm that I use twice a day.

What happened to brushing my teeth and going to sleep?

My husband is wearing $70 designer jeans.

Huh?

He's also waxing his back.

Or, more exactly, I am waxing his back FOR HIM.

Now, the fact that my husband has hair on his back and chest has never particularly bothered me. It is what it is, and I don't worry about it... he's not furry enough to have that tuft that sticks out at the collar of his t-shirt, and really, that's all that's been important to me.

But, apparently, in addition to 1) not being able to swim very well, 2) not being able to see while swimming because my husband's eyesight is something scarily blind like 20/1000 and 3) being overweight, my husband has a phobia of the swimming pool brought about by the fact that he looks like he's got ursine ancestry.

So... we bought a wax kit and I have been learning the fine art of ripping someone's hair out by the roots.

Fun, fun.

Things to remember, if you try this at home:

- Pull the paper-strips off in the OPPOSITE direction of the hair growth. Otherwise, the hair (and wax) doesn't actually come off. And it's very painful.
- Do Not touch the wax. It's very, very sticky.
- The "after waxing lotion" doesn't do anything. Use mineral oil to remove excess wax.
- Be very careful where you put the lid. In addition to being sticky, wax... oozes. Everywhere.

All jokes aside, the results have been... very nice.

I'm just finding it weird how... image conscious Thomas and I have become.

I used to get up in the morning, and if I bothered to get dressed at all, I'd throw on my house dress. But usually, I just pulled on an extra long t-shirt and schlepped around the house in that, until shortly before Thomas would get home from work, at which point I'd toss on a bra, pair of shorts, use deodorant, and rake a comb through my hair. (Sometimes. Sometimes I skipped the hair-combing bit.)

My wardrobe consisted of a few dozen 3X t-shirts, whatever jeans I could find that fit, and step-in shoes. (Seriously, until last year, I didn't own more than three or four pairs of socks...)

These days, I have tops and coordinating sweaters. I have a pair of tights that are the same color as one of my shirts and a blue sweater dress. I have earrings and chunky bracelets that were bought specifically to match one of my outfits. I have three pairs of high heels that I wear regularly, very expensive running shoes, and a pair of step-ins that I often forget I have, since I'm too busy wearing my high-heeled boots.

My whole life has changed in ways that didn't seem important at the time, but lately have become noticeable as to how much has changed. Instead of leveling three alts to 80, I spent 3 hours at the gym per week. Instead of watching movies all day on Sunday, I walk seven miles. I went to the gym this morning at 6:30am because I won't be able to get in later today, and instead of resenting being awake that early, I more resented the fact that I could only spend 25 minutes in the gym, instead of my usual 90.

Strange.

(Now, if only all these changes were adding up... my weight loss has been stagnant for the last three weeks. gained .2, maintained, lost .2. Gyah!)

Attack of the Killer Tomatoes?

Attack of the killer tomatoes! Attack of the killer tomatoes!
They'll beat you, bash you, squish you, mash you
Chew you up for brunch and finish you off for dinner or lunch!
They're marching down the halls - They're crawling up the walls
They're gooey, gushy, squishy, mushy - Rotten to the core
They're standing outside your door!

Remember Herman Farbage while taking out his garbage
He turned around and he did see tomatoes hiding in his tree
Now he's just a memory!
I know I'm going to miss her - a tomato ate my sister
Sacramento fell today - They're marching in San Jose
Tomatoes are on their way!

Why is it, you think, that people don't binge on tomatoes?

This might be the answer!

We're afraid our vegetables will come back to haunt us, whereas a brownie... nice, safe, chocolate-y, gooey thing... would never appear in a bad movie to suck our brains out.

Or maybe it's just that the tomatoes are more obvious about their evil intent. I mean, don't you see them there, nestled in their little clear plastic box from the grocers, sniggering with sinister maliciousness? Ever notice how you slice them up for a salad and they lay there, wedges with smug, bloody grins?

And they have this nasty tendency to revolt in the crisper drawer, turn obviously evil and black with murderous intent...

Whereas the brownies, even when they get a little old, are just that much better? A little chewier around the outside edges, but still gooey and lovely in the middle. And if they're too stale, you can toss them in the microwave, wrapped in a moistened paper towel and POOF! They're back to their young and carefree selves. (I keep being tempted to wrap myself in a wet paper towel and microzot myself back into my twenties... don't you?)

But maybe that's part of their evil plot to take over the world. The brownies, I mean. They just... look good. And deep down, where it counts, they are even more dangerous than tomatoes, even slightly anthropomorphic ones.

If you're thinking I fell sway to the siren's call of brownies yesterday...

Well, you just might be right.

Watch out. Maybe I'll get YOU when you're taking out your garbage!

Because, you know, we can't all aspire to be Brownies. Some of us have to be tomatoes.

Now, pass me the salad dressing... I have some making up to do...

Talking the Walk

Update: I lost 2.4 pounds this week at my weigh in. Of course, my darling husband (I swear, I need to let maintenance be HIS problem and stop trying to fix him because it's killing my losses...) lost 4 pounds this week, so he's back to being 6 pounds UNDER his damn goal... exercise has been good this week, and if I could just figure out why I'm so angry all the time, everything would be peachy...

_________________________

So... tomorrow starts week three of my experimental "Can Lynn finally kick this freaking soda habit?"

Let's be clear, here. My objection to soda isn't the caffeine, or the chemicals or whatever it is that everyone seems to think is so horrible about soda.

My problem is how expensive it's gotten recently.

When the grocery stores are offering 2 for $11 as the SALE price, that's too much. Especially when, given a choice between pouring myself a bottle of water, mixing in a flavor packet, and drinking it or grabbing a soda, I'll grab the soda every time.

If it's in the house, I will drink it.

Even if it's Root Beer or Dr. Pepper or something else vile that I don't really like.

Keeping in mind that I'm still a caffiend and I like coffee, I've switched over to that as a source to keep my headaches from blinding me. The thing is, while I'll drink soda all day long, I generally WON'T make more than one pot of coffee (we have a small coffee pot. One pot is actually only 2 cups) in a single day.

I'm not hard-core giving up soda, will never have soda again... but I won't have it in the house.

So far, I'm doing good.

In the last two weeks, I had one Diet Coke when we were out to lunch with my dad, one when we were out dancing/playing pool with friends, and one and a half with pizza.

Four sodas in 2 weeks.

When my normal soda intake is more along the lines of... erm... five or six a day

I'm fairly impressed with myself; I'm not usually very good (or gracious) about going without my precious carbonation...

And bonus points: While I was at the gym today, I got to feel mildly smug about the girl who came in to work out... and put a diet coke in the drink holder on the elliptical...

So Sorry...

I read an interesting blog post on Doublechinned the other day in which she talks about the constant need to apologize:

But throughout this whole ordeal, I kept apologizing.

For what? I'm not sure.

Maybe for being a bother to the waitress and manager? That makes no sense, because it wasn't like I was making outrageous demands. These were simple requests that were not out of the ordinary because they were right (the coupon and the ticket).

It was like I was apologizing for my existence. Why say you're sorry when you're not the one at fault? Unless you're just used to apologizing all the time.

Which I am.

I do this, too. I'm constantly saying, "Oh, I'm sorry." Had a bad day? I'm sorry. You didn't get that promotion you wanted? So sorry. You made a mistake, and I'm the one who's sorry. We have a joke with some friends that everything is always Chris's fault, but Ed will apologize.

Maybe it's just because, through the years of being fat, I've come to always apologize simple for existing, for getting in the way, for causing any sort of problem.

Yeah, I know that feeling. Anyway, in her comments, I talked about some of my favorite books, The Liaden series by Sharon Lee and Steve Miller. I'd mangled my way around one of the things someone says, trying to explain my point. Unfortunately, I both misremembered the quote, and actually mashed together two separate conversations, so I'll repeat them here for your benefit.

"I'll never live it down." [Priscilla] sighed. "Will it help if I say I'm sorry?"

"Are you sorry? You might ask me to forgive it, if you think I'm offended. But Liadens don't in general say that they're sorry. It's an admission of guilt, you see. Asking forgiveness acknowledges the other person's right to feel slighted, hurt, or offended without endagering your right to act as you find necessary."

Conflict of Honors, Sharon Lee & Steve Miller

"... Liadens are very formal. Very--structured. There are six ways to ask forgiveness--six different postures, six distinct phrases, and six seperate bows--and none of the six are what a Terran would call an apology. Apologies are--very rare."

Plan B, Sharon Lee & Steve Miller

Sometimes I wish we had a High Liaden (the formal speach, used for speaking with all but the closest of friends and relatives) and a Low Liaden. High Liaden has several different modes (Adult to Adult, Pilot to Pilot, Younger Sibling to Elder, to a Delm Not One's Own, and even such obscurities as Parents of One's Most Valued Mentor...) which allows people to express themselves in relation to the status of the other speaker, to give honor where honor is due, and of course, to very subtly insult someone. (Sticking to Low Liaden when someone else is speaking High is considered VERY rude. But some people can get away with it.)

In any case, the comments that Allison made on her blog reminded me very much of these scenes. Do we (fat women) apologize too much, because we think we are at fault? That our existence is causing a problem for someone else?

Is is also a little bit of self-martyrdom. By apologizing - for the lousy day - am I taking on a burden that isn't mine, for the purposes of making the other person acknowledge me?

"God, it's been a tough day at work today."

"I'm sorry."

"You didn't do anything! You're fine. Perfect, even. It's just..."

Am I secretly asking to be reassured that it's not my fault? That I'm not the reason the other person is upset or angry?

It's a little reminder to myself. I don't need to apologize for being here. I don't need to apologize for taking up space, for being human, or for the weather. I can express sympathy without accepting, or offering, any blame.

Apologies should be rare.

43 Things (Bucket List)

Again, my horrible memory... I think I found the idea of 43 things here, but I'm not positive.

(as a note, the happiness project web site is some really great reading, if you're looking at ways to make your life better... not that I agree with everything Gretchen says, obviously, but the general attitude. What works for her might not work for me, or for you. Nothing is ever as easy as a step-by-step instruction book might make it seem... the important thing, in weight loss, in happiness, in life, is to find what works best for YOU!)

So, this is a list in progress (I'm working on some site redesign too, and I'll have a tab at the top of the page with things like a FAQ and About Me and My Progress Pics and stuff in easy to find links... so if you have a question I can use on my FAQ, please ask me! Otherwise I have to make up some questions, and wow, that's just silly!!) and may be updated or not, as I have time and inclination...

43 Things I'd like to Do in my Life (in no particular order)

1. Publish a novel
2. Sign a book for a fan
3. Visit England, specifically Oxford, Hampshire, and Somerset
4. Visit Italy, specifically Pompeii
5. Make a souffle
6. Do one-handed push-ups
7. Run in a 5k, even if I come in last.
8. Take a dance class
9. Learn to play backgammon
10. Go skiing, even if I spend most of the trip in the lodge
11. Be able to make a high enough donation to a charity of my choice to get on a special list
12. Meet a politician
13. Visit the San Diego zoo
14. Learn Latin
15. Learn Japanese
16. Learn to knit, even if I hate it and never, ever do it again
17. Actually spend an entire day in bed (without being sick) including having someone else bring me meals...
18. Go to the Smithsonian and not spend the entire time I'm there mooning over the Hope Diamond.
19. Look at other planets through a powerful enough telescope so that they look like something else other than stars
20. Go para sailing or hang gliding
    
21. Go scuba-diving
22. Visit the pyramids in Egypt
23. Watch several movies that I've always "meant" to see (including 2001, Dr. Zhivago, Dr. Strangelove, The Maltese Falcon, The Godfather, Citizen Kane, Frantic, The Manchurian Candidate, Schindler's List, Les Miserables, and Way of the Dragon... this is not a comprehensive list, just the ones off the top of my head...)
24. Apologize to Erin Gray.*
25. See an actual martial arts tournament so that I can get ideas of Karate Kid and Kung Fu Panda out of my head.
26. Discover a convincing answer to the question, "Why?"
27. Come up with a clever retort to the answer, "Because I said so."
28. For no other reason than because I want to, smash an entire box of china plates.**
29. Squeeze all the toothpaste out of a tube in one go.
30. Take an art class.
31. Have a water-balloon fight.
32. Surrender my regrets.
33. Walk on a battle-site with someone who knows all about the war and who fought where and not listen to a word they're saying.
34. Actually go to a Mardi Gras parade. Earn beads.
    
35. Go to a Weird Al concert.
36. Be a heckler for a dunking booth. What fun! Get to yell insults at people for charity! (Obviously, this will be more fun in the summer... )
37. Get a raincoat (never owned one) and rainboots (never had a pair) and go jump in puddles. (I never did this as a child; I've always been a little wonky about personal cleanliness...)
38. Paint something enormous. (When I was younger, I really, really wanted to paint billboards... I saw a special on it once, I think on Sesame Street? Anyway, they don't do that now that printers are capable of large-scale production, so I'd have to paint something like an advertisement on the side of a barn, or something. Once, in college, I painted the Lorax on the wall in my dorm, which covered the wall where the elevator used to be, and that was loads of fun. Like that. Only bigger.)
39. Take a tour of a submarine, aircraft carrier, and/or battleship. (My dad used to be a submariner... he has a little saying, "Any day above ground is a good day." I used to think he was being profound about life and death, and then I remembered he spent several years of his life under water... "Any day of not being in the Navy is a good day.")
40. Ride an elephant.
41. Make a piece of Machinima.
42. Be carried across a threshold. (involves weighing a little less than 20 pounds less than my husband, I rather expect...)
43. Go on an extended road trip.
    

Finally! I had, for a while, considered labeling one of these things as "Finish this list." It's kinda strange, sitting down, to think about things you'd like to do, with no consideration towards money or probability. I did try to keep things somewhat realistic, since otherwise, there'd be one up there labeled "Visit outer space." I used to think, when I was growing up, that there would be a colony on the moon by now. The likelihood of space being an affordable tourist location is... well, it's not looking so good. But if it ever becomes so, I will certainly be there.

I also tried to avoid things that seemed a money-only problem. Like owning my own home. (And then, subsequently, redecorating my own home.) I would, actually, really like that. But I do believe that's something I will do, not just something I want to do. We just need to get out from under some inherited family debt, and wait until this market crash thing stops happening. It'll happen, eventually.

I was talking the other day with a friend of mine about this list and she said "I can't imagine doing something like that, I mean formalizing it and all." I don't really think of it as a "formal" list. I'm not making a project plan, or setting a time schedule or anything. I don't think of it as a to-do list, but more like a small slice of my personality on display. You can tell a lot about a person by looking at the sorts of things they think are they'd like to do...

Anyway, hope you like the list.

*My Evil Twin asked me, "And I'm dying to know why you need to apologize to Erin Gray?" I was actually sort of hoping someone would ask, because it's a funny story and I wanted to tell it, but doing so in the actual body of the list seemed rather distracting.

Ok, I love Buck Rogers. Just so you know that. I. Love. It. I don't actually own the series on DVD because I'm afraid of what would happen if I could just watch it whenever I wanted to. I might never get off the sofa again. When I was a kid, I was desperately, desperately in love with Buck. (Ok, I still am...) Even today, if the sci-fi channel is showing Buck Rogers' reruns, I end up being unable to do anything else but stare at the screen. Especially that episode where Buck's running around in the tight black leather pants and vest. With those lovely biceps and... ok, stopping now...

Anyway, several years ago, Thomas and I took a trip out to California for a Babylon 5 convention. We spent three days in L.A. and got to meet most of the cast and crew of the show. (Billy Mumy, very nice guy. With the super-power "look at camera and smile." No, seriously. I don't have a single picture of him where he's NOT looking at my camera. Even if there was no possible way that he could have known I was pointing the camera at him. Walter Koenig? Not so nice. Rather rude, actually.) Anyway, we were doing the lines for autographs on Saturday, making our way down the table. Towards the further end of the tables were people who were either in bit parts, or from other science fiction shows altogether. Some Star Wars extras. A few Star Trek people (bit parts, not like Spock or Kirk.)

I wasn't even looking ahead, so I didn't expect this at all, but suddenly, I looked up where we were in the line.

And there was Gil Gerard. I mean, GIL GERARD! (Ok, so he actually looked more like this when I met him, but it didn't matter...)

I turned into a complete, blithering idiot.

Fan. Girl.

I babbled.

I stammered.

I blushed, gushed, and generally acted like I would immediately fall to the floor, become his slave, and happily spend the rest of my life serving his needs.

I also got his autograph. It's one of my prized possessions. If my apartment is burning down, I'm rescueing that autograph!

And, much, much later, my husband informed me that Erin Grey was sitting beside him the whole time.

I never even saw her. Years later, and I cannot remember seeing her. I didn't get her autograph. I didn't express any admiration for her. I didn't even notice her.

Which really sucks, because in addition to thinking that Buck Rogers was a paragon of all things masculine and cool, I thought Wilma Deering was a great role model. She was pretty. She was brave. She was intelligent. She didn't get all melty about Buck Rogers. She didn't generally need to be rescued. She did her fair share of saving the day. She never shrieked like the idiot love-interest in so many sci-fi movies and tv shows. I wanted to grow up to be Wilma Deering. Even if I would have gotten all melty about Buck Rogers.

It bothers me that I completely ignored her in favor of Gil Gerard.

Although, I must admit, it makes a hell of a funny story.

** Thanks to a kind reader who asked not to be named for pointing me at that web site. Guess I need to add "Visit California" to my list...

7 Things and 43 Other Things

Argh! Someone tagged me for a 7 things about me blog meme, and I can't remember who it was to link back to them, so if you're reading this and it was you, just post in the comments and I'll update with the links.

Seven things that people don't really know about me

1. I always claim to hate my middle name, but I don't. As a matter of fact, if I could figure out a way to ditch the nickname that everyone currently calls me, I would swap it out for my middle name. As it is, I've been called Lynn since 5th grade and my parents still call me by my first name (No, I won't tell you what it is...) My middle name is a boy's name. To be specific, my grandfather's name, and his grandfather's name and his, etc etc until you get back to my first ancestor in the states' surname. He was lynched in Jamaica for being a religious zealot and his sister (who survived by marrying a ship's captain) named her son after her idiot brother. It also happens to be my least favorite cousin's first name and my second least favorite cousin's middle name. However, I think it would be cool to be called Chandler, and I do like it. (Lynn is the second half of my first name, which is one of those annoyingly southern compound names like Betty-Rae, Nina-Fay, and Nancy-Hope. Yes, I really know all those people. No, I won't tell you what the first half of my stupid compound name is.)

2. I am naturally left-handed, but was aversion-trained into being right-handed in kindergarten. As such, I have a really, really hard time with rights and lefts. For years, the only way I could tell right from left is that I have a freckle on my left index finger. After a bad sunburn in college, the freckle went away. Now, in order to clue my brain in, I only wear jewelry on my left hand. I partially reverted to left-handedness after breaking my right arm in a traffic accident and being in a cast for 3 months. I use a mouse left-handed and actually cannot function with a right-handed mouse. (My daughter is left-handed, and so is my husband. I am prepared to KILL anyone who tries to aversion-train Darcy into being right-handed.)

3. I never remember the date of my dad's birthday. I always have to call my mother and ask her. My parents have been divorced for 16 years. My mother always remembers.

4. I hate the feeling of water on my face. Whether it's in the shower, being splashed in a pool, being squirted with a water-gun, or whatever. I can manage it in certain situations where I'm in complete control of the water (such as swimming underwater, although I always want to dry my face off the INSTANT I come up for air) but I'm not the kind of person who can wash my face by cupping water in my hands. It just completely freaks me out. I have no idea why.

5. The first boy I ever kissed was Johnny Rayburn. I was thirteen and we ended up kissing under a pine tree across the street from my house, halfway down the hill. I remember the smell of pine needles and the look of his face in the moonlight. The first girl I ever kissed was Jonni Reynolds. We kissed near a cedar tree, walking back from seeing Thelma and Louis. Something about the symetry there pleases me.

6. Three people in my life have written me poetry. The first was my high school sweetheart, whose poetry was sincere, and sincerely awful... reminiscent of New Kids on the Block lyrics without the catchy backbeat... the third was a girl I loved very much in college, but was possessive, paranoid, and a man-hater, to the point where she didn't like me to have guy friends... the second one, however, touched me the most. I barely knew the guy. His name was Nathan Burbank and he was in one of my Gifted classes with me, despite being two years my senior. Nice guy, kinda quiet. Kinda cute in a - what would later be called - "emo" sort of way. Moody. That he harbored anything for me, I never knew until after he died. His sister Rhonda brought me a packet of letters about a month after he died from a drug-overdose... it was a collection of poetry and sketches he'd done, of and about, me. I still have them.

7. I have a thing about death. I've known entirely too many people who've died, and I don't like - and won't attend - funerals. While I understand the purpose of a funeral and accept that they are helpful to other people, I can't... what ends up happening to me at a funeral is that the emotions are so strong that I can't let go. I end up remembering the funeral much more clearly than I remember the person who died. I know it's supposed to be a show of respect to attend, and I further know and understand that I have massively offended several living relations and not less than a few friends by refusing to attend funerals, but I cannot bring myself to do it again. I'd much rather remember Richard stealing pennies from me while we're playing penny-ante poker, or my grandfather complaining about the rabbits in his garden than everyone crying and trying to "be strong" and long eulogies delivered by people I don't like, misrepresenting the lives of people I did... Sorry. Funerals suck. And I won't go. Ever. Again. This is horrifically compounded by the fact that I have an absolute screaming phobia about dead things. And unfortuantely, once a person crosses into the land of "dead thing" for me, I just... yergh. It's bad, and I won't do that to myself or to anyone I love.

So, those are my 7 things that most people don't know... I'm also working on another list... 43 things I'd like to do before I die... but I sort of ran out of time today, so I didn't get to that. Maybe tomorrow. I expect that'll take me more than an hour or so to write, anyway...

As with all memes, I'm supposed to tag other people for it, but... pfft. If you want to do this, do it, and if not, don't feel obligated. You can let me know in the comments and I'll go look at your list...

Skinny does not Equal Fit

(Or the further adventures of our Heroine in the Gym, observing FM and SB....)

I confess, I'm not looking forward to the Fitness Center being more utilized by our residents... right now, there's not usually more than one or two people in the Center, which has meant no waiting...

There are a couple people, however, that I've seen more than once.

The first one, and I've seen him three out of the four times I've been there, is this huge African-American guy. HUGE. Six and a half feet tall. With bronky, muscle-builder arms and slabs of steel instead of legs. He uses the full amount of weight on the lifting machine (which I think is 200 pounds, but I'm not positive) and runs for about 40 minutes on the elliptical. And by running, I mean running. Flat out, sprinting like a lion was after him, running. It's scary to watch and highly impressive.

And here's the real kicker, at least to me.

He's fat.

Seriously.

Fat. Muscular around the arms and legs, but he has this enormous belly hanging out in front of him.

I'm astonished how he can run like that and still be fat. I wonder if he started out a lot more fat than I'm currently seeing him. I wonder if he used to be an athlete, and sort of went to seed. I wonder if he drinks entirely too much beer. And I wonder if he'd actually slap me if I voiced any of those things. So I just watch him out of the corner of my eye and am secretly impressed.

I think of him as FM, or sometimes, FbM. (Fat Man, or Fat, but Muscular.) I wish I knew his name. Thinking of him as FM seems a little rude, somehow.

The other person I've also seen three times. Once she was arriving as I was leaving, once she came in mid-way during my workout, and this last time I saw her, she brought her husband, and her two homeschooled kids in when I was nearing the end of my HIIT walk.

The first time I saw her (and I admit, I probably imagined this) she gave me that look. You know the one... the "YOU are going to work out? Aren't you a little FAT to be thinking about being in a gym where actual serious people work out? I bet you won't be around in three weeks..."

She is tiny. She has no hips or breasts to speak of, and her waist is somewhat moving on towards barbie proportions. She's blonde with a chic haircut that frames her tiny, perfect face, and she looks as if she's never even thought about eating a cookie.

Of course, I immediately dub her SB (Skinny Bitch).

I spend a while berating myself for doing that, too. I mean, I have no idea where she started in her fitness program. Maybe she's always been thin. Maybe she has to work out every day for three hours a day to support her Ding-Dong habit. Maybe she was once 80 pounds overweight and now she looks and feels great in her body. I can't tell that, just from looking at her in her red and white workout clothes.

She has, however, no endurance whatsoever. I discovered this yesterday at my workout. I was doing my HIIT when she walked in... she gave me a slight, cheery smile and I worked on revising my opinion of her. (Thus leading me to wonder if I imagined that LOOK she gave me last time...) She did some stretches, got her kids organized in the corner with some workbooks, then got on the elliptical. I'm chugging along at a good clip on the treadmill, 3.5 miles an hour on a 3 incline, sweating and bouncing along...

She gets off the eliptical in six. minutes. Sweating and gasping for breath.

She goes back to doing stretches while her husband lifts weights and she stops stretching from time to time to spot for him.

I continue my walking. The biking was lots harder, but I'm still getting a heck of a workout on the treadmill... and then, near the end of my 35 minutes, I was starting to feel really tired, in that warm, achy sort of tired... and then suddenly... I just didn't.

It was amazing.... like that gentle downglide after an orgasm... my breathing stopped being so ragged and my back suddenly stopped hurting and... I felt absurdly happy. Like I could walk a million miles... like I was on top of the world.

I'd always thought Runner's High was one of those... crystal twinkie lies. Like "I conquored a cookie craving with a walk around the block." Like "After a while, those high fatty desserts just didn't taste as good."

I was absurdly disappointed when my cooldown cycle started, but went ahead and got off the treadmill and started my stretching.

"You look like you had a good workout," SB said, grinning at me.

"Yeah, yeah, I did," I said.

"I wish I had that kind of endurance," she said, wistful. "You're in great shape."

I blinked. "Thank you. I've worked pretty hard at it..."

"I can tell."

Gym Bunny

Our apartment complex, after years of being completely lame, and last year the pool didn't even open (much to my disgust, which was seconded only by the guy who had been hired to be the lifeguard. They wouldn't let him out of his contract, so he ended up spending the summer sweeping the sidewalks, and brushing cobwebs off the sides of the buildings...) decided to open a Fitness Center.

This makes me happy, since both me and Thomas (Can't believe I wrote something that grammatical horrendous!) Thomas and I want to further our health and wellness goals to include getting into some other shape besides flabby. Thomas has lost 80 pounds, and while I'm sure we all hate him for that, he's still... well, flabby. But thin! And quite good looking! On the other hand, while today will be his last paid meeting at Weight Watchers (unless, of course, he falls off the wagon!), I still have another 30 pounds to lose before we'll stop paying for that... and gym memberships are Not Cheap.

So, the Fitness Center really could not have come at a better time for our finances. A Gym Membership for family is like $75 a month, and that's just not feasible at this time. I don't care how many salsa classes they offer.

My Fitness Center key is attached to my Shiny New Australia keychain and has a green star "Bravo!" sticker attached to it. Since getting my key, I've been to the gym three times.

The first time I went, I did 15 minutes on the stationary bike and 15 minutes of walking, as well as some weights and some stretches. Nothing big, I was just familiarizing myself with the equipment and trying out a few things. The bike seems a little odd to me, since the pedals are in a seated, flat leg position, rather than what I think of as being an actual biking-position, which is to say 'standing, with an uncomfortable seat under your butt." That was Tuesday, last week.

Then I went again on Friday because it was cold and rainy and I didn't want to drag Darcy on the long walk... not to mention not really wanting to be outside in the cold and wet myself. That time, I did an hour on the treadmill and some crunches and weights. I really like the treadmill... I slowly increased the speed and incline of the machine and worked my way up to a really good sweat.

And I went again yesterday (Sunday)... got in 30 minutes of biking and 30 minutes of walking. Used the sit-up bench to do crunches, did bicep curls and tricep lifts, stretched, and then walked home. While I was there, another resident came in to the gym. By that time, I'd been working out for a good 40 minutes, so I was hot, sweaty, and probably looked a bit like a gym bunny if you don't have much experience with gyms or gym bunnies. He looked at me. Then he crossed the room to the weights. And looked at me. And fiddled with the settings. And looked at me. And did a few half-hearted bicep curls. And looked at me. And then he left.

I'm not sure if he was afraid of me watching him try to figure out what he was doing with the weights, or if he didn't want to groan and strain in front of me, or what. It was certainly odd. I never thought I'd be the sort of person to intimidate someone else with my fitness prowess.

A few hours later, Thomas and I did our short family walk (the 2.2 mile walk, as opposed to the 3.5 mile walk).

"I wonder how long I'll keep being enthusiastic about the gym," I chirped. I was in a fairly good mood, felt productive and if not exactly in the peak of fitness, certainly fitter than I have been in the past.

"Oh, probably until your next weigh-in," Thomas said.

"Eh?" That certainly wasn't what I expected.

"You've kicked your workups up at least 100% over what you normally do," he said. "I doubt that's going to have a good effect on tomorrow's weigh-in. At which point you'll get discouraged..."

"Woah," I said. "What boat did I get on? Let me be the cynic around here, I'm much better at it than you are."

I need a Push Up Bra

Or, Oh Say, can you C, Part II.

I'm doing the 100 push up challenge, starting Monday. Except, you know me, and I can't start anything that I don't start Right Now.

So, while I was supposed to do my Initial Test yesterday and start the actual Challenge on Monday, I actually did my initial test three or four days ago.

I can do three good-form, regular push ups, before collapsing onto my carpet and shaking my arms.

Not so grand, really.

On the other hand, giving myself a 30 minute rest, I then tried again, doing my push ups from the knees instead. With knee pushups, I managed 12 knee push ups.

Neither total is particularly impressive, but hey, there's nowhere to go but up, right?

And I can't really decide if I want to start with the knee push ups and the second column, or the full push ups and the first column.

So, today I decided I'd do the first column push ups (for if you've done 0 - 5 push ups on your initial test) as a half-and-half. I did two full push ups, rested for about a minute, did three knee push ups, rested for about a minute, did two full, rested a minute, did two knee push ups, rested for about three minutes (if by "rested", I mean got to my knees and helped the child-thing tear a tag off her new t-shirt and get dressed... ) and then did 1 more full push up and six knee push ups.

My notes, after doing all of this, were threefold.

Point the first: Remember to take my rings off before starting any push ups. Especially since, given that I have some weird thing wrong with my right wrist (as a result of having broken the damn thing several times, I have this... bone spur, for the lack of a more official diagnosis, because you know, I hate doctors, and I don't really want to deal with having something Expensive wrong with my wrist, I haven't had it looked at.) and doing a push up on a bent wrist is excruciatingly painful. Pressing my ring directly into the floor (even through carpeting) is not comfortable.

Point the second: Switching out for kinds of push ups is a real pain in the butt. (also, the knees, back, and toes) So, I need to decide if I'm going to go easy on myself and do the knee push ups, in the second column (which means nearly doubling the amount of push ups...) or if I want to be Bubbles Hard Core and do full push ups, but from the first column. Both options seem to be about equal amounts of effort, when examined fully...

Point the third: They invented sports bras for a reason... and this would be one of them. The bra I have that currently fits is a 38C t-shirt plunge bra... and it's not at all designed to hold the girls in place when gravity is coming at them from such an odd direction.

In other news (that's another blog-trick for doing awkward transitions... maybe next time I'd put some effort into finding a separator bar...) I've been working on my self-esteem for about five days now, so I thought I'd give you a status update on my plans, and my... well, status. (ug, must find more caffiene...)

I've started keeping a cute little notebook. My goal for this notebook are to list things in it, on a daily basis, that I like about myself, or that I've "done good" that day. And then, every day when I start my day, I flip back through my booklet and read a few days worth of positive, self-affirming things. It doesn't matter how small, or how fleeting those things are, if they happen, I write it down.

Part of my issue has been that I can't seem to hold on to good feelings. I'll catch a glimpse of my slimmer self in the mirror and think, for just an instant "wow, I look good..." And then I stop, and look in the mirror more fully, and begin this list of all the other things that are wrong with me. My grey hairs (and, after years of telling my husband that there's nothing WRONG with grey hairs, I have to restrain myself from pulling out my own. Especially with my hair thinning as dangerously as it is, I need all the hairs I can get, grey or otherwise...) or the saggy way my skin looks, or my puffy fish eyes... so, I start out feeling good about myself, and end feeling thoroughly depressed and wonder (for the seven hundred millionth time) how anyone can possibly say I look good.

But I don't want to focus on that. I don't need to make a laundry list of what I don't like... I need to focus more on what I do like.

It's helping. A little bit. I don't expect miracles. I don't expect to love myself overnight, or to wake up and everything is all covered with unicorn spit. But I'd like to take those tiny moments and live in them. To be aware that they exist.

You know, it's evolution, really, the way we focus on the negative. It's how we learn. Our memories of failure, pain, humiliation, are so much more powerful than our ability to recall - accurately - good times. When we were all living in caves with names like Og, Lurg, and Jondalar, and something bad happened to us - like a saber-toothed tiger was living nearby and we stupidly stuck our heads into their caves - and we LIVED through it, we would have very vivid memories of the event. To keep us from doing something that stupid EVER again.

Much like the fight or flight instinct, this doesn't do much good in terms of attending board meetings and figuring out tax credits... It's not socially acceptable to run screaming from the room at a company meeting, nor is it at all good for your social life to beat the tar out of the H&R Block rep... from repressing our instincts in these situations, we get Stress... similiarly, we don't need to learn lessons about keeping an eye out for cave bear spoor, and so, instead, we develop low self-esteem.

Stupid evolutionary traits need to adapt faster.

In the meanwhile... I'll keep on keeping this notebook, and working hard at remembering that I, too, am a worthwhile human being.

Who has an amazingly good hairdo... too bad it was not a planned hairdo. I mean, is that unfair or what? I go to the gym, I speed-walk on an incline of 5, am sweating up a storm and absently chatting with the guy on the elliptical, and decide that I need to get my hair up off my back. While still walking, I upfasten my hair-clip, twist my hair up into a knot, and pin it to my head with the clip.

After my workout, while washing my face, I notice that my hair has never, actually looked better. Ever.