Health

I found myself having an unexpected conniption fit the other day.

I was talking with a friend about how much better I felt these days. I feel strong, doing push ups. I feel enduring, being able to run or walk or bike for half an hour. My skin feels more supple, looks clearer, is silky to the touch. I can breathe. I can run. I can walk up and down several flights of stairs.

"Guess it's true, what they say," she says. "If you haven't got your health, you haven't got anything."

Cue explosion. Mt. Saint Lynn is blowing her top. Better evacuate.

Obviously, I'm better now, but I've been sick. And not like "oh, I have a cold," sick, but "I am going to die from this" sick.

Go ahead, look up COPD. I'll wait.

Sick. Every day of my life, for the better part of the years between 1992 and 2003. Eleven years. Eleven years where I spent a lot of time in emergency rooms. Wracked up tens of thousands of dollars of hospital bills. Ended up in ICU a few times. One time was so bad, we were pretty convinced that I was never going home again.

I learned not to laugh, because laughing could trigger a bad spell. I barely exercised, if I could possibly manage to avoid it. Cleaning my house was a major exertion, and tended to stir up dust that just aggravated my condition.

I was mildly terrified, all the time. I couldn't be more than 10 feet away from my inhaler or I got nervous, and when I got nervous, my breathing got worse. (As a note, an inhaler is supposed to contain enough doses to last for a month. I rarely lasted ten days before I needed a new one.)

And yet... in all that time; I had good friends. I got married. I had a life. I wrote two novels.

In 2002, I met a man who saved my life. My pulminologist. He took me and my disease seriously. He helped me control it, instead of it controlling me. And he didn't just treat me as an extension of my disease. He treated all parts of my life; everything from job and marriage-related stress to supporting my weight loss efforts to minimizing environmental effects.

I'm better. Healthy. My lung capacity is normal.

Yes, I still have an inhaler, and unfortunately, I still use it (generally when I'm working out) but he believes that will get better in time.

And yet, I still remember, acutely, what being seriously ill is like.

Yes, being ill takes a lot of time. Yes, being ill colors every part of your life.

But it wasn't nothing.

And damn, I hate it when people act like everything that happened during that period was worthless. Because I wasn't healthy.

Yeah, bite me.

(And just for your viewing pleasure, here's one of the best pictures of me I've seen in a long time... Yes, I know it's the back of my head, but still... I really like it.)

It's Just You

Me: "Is it hot in here?"

Other person looks around, as if the temperature is written in mid air in glowing golden letters. Or to see if Lucifer might have opened up a pawn shop in the corner of the room. Or something. I never can figure out what they're looking for.

"Nope. It's just you."

There's nothing quite designed like that phrase to make one feel just a tiny bit on the freakish, outcast side.

It's just you.

It's not really been a great couple of days for me, and my mood is bouncing all over the place like a flamingo with a yo-yo. (Is it just me, or do those guys remind you of the instant aliens, just add water from Bugs Bunny? I know! I know! It's just me.)

Thursday night, cat has a seizure. Friday night, cat has a seizure. Saturday day, air conditioner springs leak. Maintenance looks at it, says "We'll fix it on Monday. Empty out this closet." Saturday night, husband has screaming nightmare. Sunday day. Water still dripping. Clean out the closet. Now I have all my picnic supplies, cookbooks, extra bookshelf, folding chairs and table scattered hither and yon in every available smidge of space left in this apartment. (No, they haven't come over to fix it yet. No, I'm not shocked.) Sunday afternoon, husband finally admits problem with his hair.

Why do they never tell you these things? Thomas has lost 60+ pounds in the last eight months. He's also lost about 10% of his hair. He's not bald, yet, but is decidedly - noticeably, one might say - thinning. The lovely pony-tail he had in the back, which he used to wrap a band around three times, now needs five twists to keep it in place. His hairline is receding.

Him: "Is it just me, or is my hairline thinning."

Me: "No, it's not just you. It definitely is." Of course it's not just him. I haven't wanted to mention it, but I'd noticed it a while ago. Men can be very... weird about things like that and I figured it wasn't a safe conversation topic. Mine's thinning, too, but it's not quite so noticeable. Probably because I had overly thick hair to start with, and now I have "normal". His stylist recommended some product, which I don't know if I hope works or not. I mean, I don't want him to lose his hair, but sheeeeyit, this stuff is not cheap.

Also Sunday afternoon, we went through clothing again. Thomas is down to wearing size 34-32 pants. So, the 40-32s had to go. They just were not doing attractive things to his rear end. When we finished going through his business shirts and pants, he has... 6 shirts and 3 pairs of pants that fit. This is... not enough. Again. So we have to go out and buy some new pants and new shirts, and my god, why didn't anyone warn us that losing weight was going to be so expensive?

I have... two dresses left. One sweater. That's it. Even the medium broomstick skirt I had in college doesn't fit anymore. (Yes, before you ask, this would be the one that I had a Junebug fly up and scare the living hell out of me.) After listening to me bitch for a while about how much better Thomas looks than I do, he made me try on my wedding gown. It doesn't fit. And my god, is it heavy! Did I really walk around all day wearing that thing? There's at least 5 extra inches in the thing.

"Still think you look fat?"

"Yes."

"Well, you're the only one who does."

It's just you.

Several years ago, when I was going to a psychiatrist on a regular basis, I was diagnosed as mild manic-depressive with situational anxiety.

Situational anxiety always sounds incredibly lame to me. Yes, if there's a situation, I'll be anxious about it. Aren't most people?

No, it's just you.

Essentially what it means is that I overreact. A normal situation can get me into serious depression. What a normal person would consider stressful, I can go into non-functional behavior patterns. (Being deep in debt, for instance, has been known to drive me to hiding bills in the trunk of my car. Because, obviously, if I don't pay the bills, I'll have money. Don't ask me, I don't understand it myself, and I live with it.)

The straw that broke the camel's back.

Breaking strain.

It's just you.

Despite that, I'm fairly flexible. Which is how my mood can go from so happy to seriously scraping the barrel is such a short amount of time. I used to be on medication to regulate my mood swings, but I took myself off it. I'd rather feel bad than feel nothing at all. Taking medication was like... walking around with grey sunglasses on, wrapped in a layer of cotton. Nothing really mattered.

Today... I'm mostly okay. A bit tired. Truly batty from water dripping in my apartment. But okay.

So, the only question is; is it hot in here, or is it just me?

It's just you.

Please, Keep Your Excuses (I Have Enough of my Own)

Thomas has always said he hates biology. Unlike math, or chemistry, biology is unpredictable. In chemistry, if you add X element to Y element and add Z amount of energy, you always, always get R. Two plus two always equals four. Every single time.

Biology? Not so much. Sometimes you breed red-eyed fruit flies with white-eyed fruit flies and you get pink-eyed fruit flies. And sometimes you get all red-eyed fruit flies anyway. And from time to time, a brown-eyed fruit fly will show up in the mix. And while there are percentages and trends, you cannot predict. Ever. Exactly what will happen. (For instance, sometimes some idiot might decide to OPEN all the fruit fly tubes during the weekend and infect the entire school with mutant freaking fruit flies so that your English teacher decides to give bonus points on the final exam based on who can kill more of the little bastards. And wrote points up on the board WWI Flying Ace style so you could see who bagged the most fruit flies. Not that that happened, or anything... no, no, of course not. Purely hypothetical.)

I always liked biology, back in high school, because it wasn't predictable. You never quite knew what was going to happen, or why, but you could run experiments and find out.

I find I'm liking it less when I am the experiment. Didn't get in all your waters this week? Are you up, or down? Is it consistent over the weeks? Did you eat all 35 of your flex points? Forget to journal? What's the scale say?

Of course, I'm up again this week. 1.2 pounds, as a further matter of fact, which is the largest gain I've had since starting Weight Watchers. Sigh. I've been journaling though, so I've been pouring over my journal obsessively. The only things I can really see that might be the problem is 1) I ate all of my flex points and most of my activity points, which put me at 38.5 flexies. and 2) it's the week-to-10 days before my time of the month and sometimes I have a gain/small loss/maintain that week.

It never fails, however. As soon as I gain, I get el sticky globules of sympathy, advice, excuses, and theories about why I gained.

"Did you step up your exercise? That might be it."

"Time of the month?"

"You know, that's normal, right?"

I know. The entire point is to make me feel better. And honestly, I do appreciate the sympathy. I don't, however, appreciate the excuses.

I'm perfectly capable of coming up with my own excuses. Trust me, I am the Reigning Queen of Why-it's-Not-My-Fault.

But in all honesty, that's not what I need right now. I do not need to be blasé about my weight loss. I don't want to shrug off a pound with yet another round of how the world is out to get me. I don't want to get complaisant yet.

What I'm most afraid of here is becoming apathetic.

This is the weight my body is comfortable with.

That's the place I don't want to go. If I make too many excuses about why this isn't my fault, why I couldn't do better/try harder/be more vigilant, I'll get back to that place where I was blaming my ballooning weight on steroid pills that I haven't taken in five years.

For years, I blamed my size on steroids. It wasn't my fault that I was this big, it was doctors who didn't warn me about the side effects of the medication I was constantly taking. It wasn't my fault I couldn't lose weight, there was no way I could exercise, not with my ankle the way it was. My asthma is bad, I can't even walk a mile, much less enough to do any good! It's not my fault.

It's long past time I owned my own mistakes.

Next time I gain weight, please, please just say "Oh, that sucks. I'm sure you'll do better next week."

I can find my own excuses.

Three Bags Full

Among other things on my vacationing-to-do list (top of the list was to sleep LATE at least one day, and one day was all I managed, but I did sleep til 10:30, and that's pretty good, so I'll take it. On the other hand, I also got 8 pages of scrapbooking done, watched a couple of adult movies, and had lots of spontaneous, middle of the day sex.) was to go through my old, over-sized clothing and pare things down a little.

I don't think I've ever suffered from the delusion that larger t-shirts made me look thin. I mean, how can you think you look thin when you weigh over 200 pounds? You just don't. But they were comfortable, and for a long time I was very unhappy with the idea of my clothing forming itself around my fat rolls. Not that loose clothing hides that you're fat; just the whole idea that one need not display said fat in saran wrap, not going there thankyouverymuch.

So, I always bought my t-shirts on the larger side. XXXLs. And they were huge. But comfortable. And they hung down around my knees most of the time (I am not tall) which meant that unless I was expecting someone over (and I never am... that's the thing about being a Stay at Home Mom. You Stay at Home. And rarely see another adult.) I could just lounge around all day in said t-shirt. So, I did.

Then I discovered the house dress... t-shirt material, calf-length dress. Loved it. Lived in it.

Somewhere... in the losing weight process... larger t-shirts stopped being so comfortable. I honestly couldn't tell ya when, or why. Just found myself plucking at a shirt if it was too big... shuffling the larger tees to the bottom of the drawer and only wearing the newer, smaller ones. Of course, I also dug out several L and XLs that I had saved away over the years... t-shirts that had some emotional reason to keep, even though I couldn't wear them anymore.

Thomas watched me grow this geological wonder of t-shirts, squashed into a drawer that really wasn't meant to hold over forty shirts. "Do you think, maybe, we might consider getting rid of some of those old clothes of yours?"

Thomas, by the way, is not a packrat. He has never been a packrat. He does not generally have emotional investment in things. Unless it's an old computer part, and I have learned my lesson there. I do not nag about his leftover computer parts. I've had my system salvaged until we can afford to get a new part - monitor, power supply, hard-drive, cd-rom, etc. Usually this happens about two weeks after I've said he should do something about the growing pile of salvaged computer parts. If I was of a more suspicious nature...

Anyway, throwing out stuff is not something Thomas has a problem with...

Me, I do. Less than I used to, but still. My mom... well, let's just say that my mom claims to have stayed married to my dad for as long as she did "for my sake." Yeah, great, let's just blame ten years of unhappy on the child, shall we? "Well, I just thought it would be better for you..." Oh, horseshit, woman. You stayed because he had money and you were scared of being poor. And you stayed so long and you were so miserable that by the time you finally left, you were too eager to get away to make a good fight for a divorce settlement. And you've been mad about it ever since, so will you just shut up already? By the time I left for college, things were abysmal around my house. I never went home for vacation if I could possibly find a friend to leach off of. (Thanks, Carol!)

The summer before college, my mom came into my room, looked around at all my stuff and said; "I'm going to use this room while you're gone for a crafting room. Anything you don't take with you, I'm going to throw away." She meant it. The week after I moved out, my mom set up my old bedroom as her bedroom, so she didn't have to share a bed with my dad anymore.

So... my freshman year, I dragged every bit of my shit from my hometown to my college. And then during the summer, I packed it all up, moved it into storage, moved it into a summer-school dorm, changed dorm rooms, moved it back into storage, and then out of storage and into a new dorm, halfway through that year I changed rooms again... I had nowhere else to leave my stuff, and I got obsessively attached to it. I'd gone through so much trouble to keep it, so much emotional pain... I just couldn't get rid of it. Not now. Not after all I'd been through for it.

The last bit of my college career, I actually had the same boyfriend for like, three years. In that time, we'd acquired a lot of community property stuff. And not since moving out of my hometown and knowing anything I left behind was considered trash and tossed, was anything so hard. Two days after he moved out, I had to go through all of "our" things and decide what was his and what was mine. Split up comic book collections, decided which CDs belonged to whom, which movies, which books... I believe (probably incorrectly) that I was fair about it, that I didn't keep anything that wasn't legitimately mine, and that I divided the stuff up as best I could. I never, ever want to do that again.

In further fact, I almost didn't let Thomas move in with me, when we got to that stage of our relationship, because I was so terrified of this intermingling of stuff. Finally, in a fit of desperation, Thomas grabbed a notebook and scrawled out "If I leave you, you can kill me and keep all the stuff. Thomas." and tacked it to my fridge. It stayed there for the two years we lived together in that apartment.

I still have that "contract."


Anyway... Thomas has been watching me, for weeks now, living out of, perhaps, less than one quarter of my entire t-shirt drawers (yes, that's three drawers of shirts. And my new shirts were taking up, maybe half of one drawer...)

"Ok, time to pare down," he says, leaning against the door frame and looking at me over the rim of his glasses.

"I just... don't feel comfortable with it. I mean, what if I get fat again? It's not like I haven't gained all that weight back before."

"So?"

"So, then I'll just have to buy new clothes all over again."

"So?" (Can you see why I love this man?)

"Well, that'll be expensive."

"How much clothes do you think you need?"

"Minimum?" I do some calculations. "Fourteen pairs of socks, fourteen pairs of underwear, three bras, twenty t-shirts, two sweaters or cardigans, four or five pairs of pants, ditto on shorts, and one or two nice dresses."

"And how much will that cost?"

"Maybe $400?"

"So, the smallest storage unit we can rent is $70 a month... I think it'll pay for itself if we have to buy more clothes rather than continuing to store all these things you're not wearing."

"Smart ass."

"I'm willing to take the risk that we'll need to buy new clothes again. I'm not willing to watch you attack your dresser every day with a crowbar trying to shove more shit in there. Pack. It. Up."

So... we did. Everything 2X or larger. My new t-shirts from Jeanne with the Jane Austen quotes? Gone. My lesbian t-shirt ("Sorry I haven't been attending church recently. I've been busy practicing witchcraft and becoming a lesbian.") gone. My Lynchburg Storm t-shirt that was a gift from L.G. for designing his web page? Gone. The tank tops I got last year? Poof. Black dress with cherries on it? Gone. The dress I wore to my cousin's wedding. My house dress. The $180 adorable pink dress that I managed to find on sale at TJ Maxx for $14? Bagged.

I set aside one shirt, a 4X and one pair of pants, size 24, for later pictures when I reach my goal weight. Everything else was bagged up. No, I'm not the only one. Thomas did a similar paring down of his clothing, including several pairs of work khakis that were entirely too big, and a dozen shirts or so.

We filled three large trash bags with our old clothes. And yesterday, we took them, along with our old DVD player, and our old printer, to the Goodwill.

"Thank you, so much," the guy at the Goodwill said, as he was sorting things into bins at the drop off. "This'll really help some people."

"It already has," Thomas said, putting his arm around my shoulders.

One Thing, Everyday, That Scares You

If you haven't heard the "song", you should listen to it. Originally an essay written by Mary Schmidt and published in the Chicago Tribune, it is written as though it were a commencement speech. (How many of those have we had to sit through in our lifetimes, and how many of them were actually worth the time it took to write, practice, and listen? I only vaguely remember the one my high school valedictorian gave, and that's only because I hated her so much that I was listening with the intent to criticize everything she said... there's no one you hate more than the girl who seems to have everything, is there? She was pretty and popular, talented and intelligent, and everyone wanted to be her, or wanted to be friends with her. Or they were like me, and wanted to punch her in the face... ok, so I'm not a nice person, we all knew that already. Moving on...)

I was listening to the song not all that long ago, and - as tends to be the case with bits like this - some of it spoke out to me more, or differently, than it did when I first heard the song back in 1999.

In 1999, I was newly married. I was still holding down an 8:30-5pm job at a Big Insurance Company. My husband worked at the same company, and we got together every day for lunch. We lived in a small city in western Virginia and did the laundry at my mom's house every weekend because our apartment complex's coin-op was terrible.

In 2008, I'm almost 10 years older, and probably more like 20 years wiser. In those ten years, I've lived through corporate layoffs, gotten fired for refusing to tell lies, stood up with my mother at her wedding, been in a life-changing car accident, watched the Twin Tower collapse in fire and smoke live on television, lost my last living grandparent, became a mother...

Do one thing, every day, that scares you.

Sometimes, waking up in the morning, scares me. Walking past my daughter's crib sometimes scared me... the mutant part of my brain that still wonders if some day I'll discover she died in her sleep. I'm pretty sure that's not what Ms. Schmidt had in mind... she meant... be adventurous.

Do one thing every day that scares you.

I don't think she really meant you should - on a daily basis - do something stupidly risky. Jumping out of perfectly good airplanes or take up mountain climbing on a whim, with no equipment or spotting buddy and try to scale up a cliff somewhere. She probably also didn't mean to drive too fast and cut people off just for the adrenaline rush.

I like to think she meant... take risks. Don't live as a prisoner to fear. Don't avoid something that needs to be done just because you're afraid. Tell someone you love them first, rather than waiting to be safe, after they've already said it. Make that doctor's appointment to get that lump checked out. Call your mother. Even if - especially if - you haven't spoken to her in years. Forgive an old enemy, even if they don't care anymore. Try something new, even if you think you'll fail. Especially if you think you'll fail. No one learns anything by succeeding the first time.

Yesterday, I decided to attempt a cartwheel.

I haven't turned a cartwheel in... oh, twenty years. I actually remember the very last time I did one... I was showing off my gymnastic skills to a guy I was sweet on... (In high school, I was pretty agile and could do handsprings and cartwheel off a balance beam and stuff like that...) and I forgot to tuck my shirt in before I flipped over. Or, perhaps subconsciously, I wanted to flash him a peek at my bra...

It was late summer and we had a boombox outside on a hill. Hungry Like the Wolf was playing. The lawn was green and fresh trimmed, and Allen had been blowing dandelion puffs at me. I still had little white seedpods in my hair. We were talking and joking around, and he insisted that I prove I could do a handspring. So I stood up, flipped my hair back, and did a cartwheel and two handsprings in a row before falling over and getting grass stains all over my knees.

Allen was impressed - or at least, he was faking it convincingly - and at some point later that day, he kissed me while we were sitting under a mesh of pine trees. It was one of those awkward, sweet kisses between two people who really have no idea what they're doing, but liking it anyway, the kind that tingles down from lips to navel, filling your stomach up with butterflies and sending spots of light flashing behind closed eyelids.

I haven't turned one since.

Until yesterday.

I was terrified. But I did it anyway. And for just a moment, just the tiniest second, I was that girl again...

Fee to Check Bags

I accept that I have baggage, you know. I don't know a single overweight person who doesn't have some issues... ( I'm sure skinny people have issues too, I just wouldn't know anything about them.)

[My husband would like to pretend he doesn't have issues, but this is the man who wouldn't give me roses for the first seven years of our relationship because when he sent roses to a girl he liked back in college (bad timing for him, as he sent them about two days after she'd gotten together with someone else, but he didn't know that) she never spoke to him again.

One incident, and he decides the ROSES were the problem. So I got carnations. Or tulips. And honestly, it wasn't so much that I have a yen for roses, because I don't. I tend to prefer lilies anyway... but the fact that he wouldn't do it because of some other girl... yeah, I had a problem with it... a problem that was promptly stopped when a girlfriend of mine sent me - ok, technically speaking, her D&D character sent my D&D character - roses... real ones... no, I'm not the only person with issues.]

Wow. I got sidetracked there... why do you people let me run on like that? Don't you know better by now?

Issues.

Obviously, I have them. If I didn't, I probably wouldn't be overweight and constantly ragging on myself, and if I wasn't doing those things, then I probably wouldn't keep a blog. Does anyone keep a blog who doesn't have issues?

One of my biggest issues is with my parents. (It's one of the reasons I'm so scared to death about being a parent myself. I dread the days to come when my child sits down with one of her best friends and cries herself sick about how terrible a parent I am.)

Admittedly, my dad and I get on a lot better than we used to. And he is working to improve the relationship (most of the time) and so am I. I think as long as we're working on the issue, even if things never exactly square between us, that we're pretty much golden.

However, there still comes those awkward moments... those projections of mine, and thoughtlessness of his, that sort of jumble the hell out of a conversation.

He and my step-mom are taking Darcy for a week; August 9th to the 15th I will be CHILD FREE! Huzzah! Anyway, I called him to start tacking down details... and during the conversation, we got onto other topics.

"So, how much weight have you lost?" (It's been a while since we've talked for more than a few minutes.)

"About 45 pounds." (That's close enough for government work, and very likely to be true in fact by the time I see him.)

"Wow."

"And Thomas has lost 52."

"Well, you two are proof that the plan works..."

"... as long as you work the plan," I finish his sentence with him. "Really, any plan would have some results. It's not taking off the weight that is the hard part. It's keeping it off." Honestly, I don't know anything about maintenance, but that's what I'm told... as hard and frustrating and nerve-wracking as losing weight has been, I haven't seen anything yet as far as frustration, pain, and stress goes. Oh. Joi.

"Don't I know it," says my dad. "I should go back to Weight Watchers."

"Oh, what happened?" I say, sarcasm dripping. "Did you forget to get a haircut?"

"I've put on about twenty-five pounds, actually."

"Oh, really?" Ok, I'm a bad person. And I have issues. And god as my witness, I'm such a bitch. I get serious amounts of schadenfreude whenever my father fails. It doesn't happen all that often... which would probably be why I get such searing delight out of it.

"Yep," he says. "And if they can help you take off fifty pounds, then they ought to be able to help me take off twenty-five."

Subtext: If you, slack, lazy, fat, slobby, worthless person, can lose fifty pounds, surely, me in my perfection, could take off merely half that. Because, you know, I don't let a bad thing go on as long as you do before I do something about it. Bet I can do it in half the time, too.

I know. I know. He didn't say that. But that's what I heard.

Yeah. I have baggage. Lots and lots of baggage.

Circumference

I don't drive very often.

Partially, it's lack of need. There's no reason for me to drive, most of the time. Thomas and I tend to do all our chores as a family unit (in direct contrast to every bit of advice both parenting and dieting magazines say, I take both my child and my husband to the grocery store, and we do just fine, thankyouverymuch.) and he usually drives.

Second, it's lack of opportunity. We only own one car, and Thomas takes it to work with him, unless I need it for something specific. I can't remember the last time I had to drive him in to work, and then pick him up later.

Third, it's lack of desire. I was in a bad car accident six years ago; like really bad. I spent three months on the sofa and three months learning to walk again, bad. The worst part about it was that it wasn't my fault. I wasn't speeding, I was following all the traffic laws, and some lady with a patience problem came and stole 6 months of my life. And I didn't have any control over it; it's not like there was a lesson learned there for me. "gee, I ran my car into a tree, maybe I shouldn't go to a Who concert and try to drive four hours home so I can go to work in the morning..." The only thing I learned is that people are stupid, vicious and unremorseful. (Honestly, I'd feel better about the damn accident if she'd ever once said she was sorry. I'd have trouble living with myself if I'd hurt someone that badly. It always upsets me to discover that people can just suck. I keep hoping they'll stop, but they don't.)

So, I'm probably behind the wheel... eh, maybe once a month? Twice if I have a dentist appointment and a girl's night in the same month.

Now, because I'm behind the wheel as rarely as I am, I don't... ok, bear with me, this doesn't entirely make sense... but I don't pay attention to it. The car, the driving... I pay attention to traffic, to where I'm going and make all the right decisions. (Well, except for that thing with the stop sign a few weeks back, but I did apologize to the driver I cut off by accident, but that's beside the point.) But I don't pay attention to the driving... to the physical state of me driving. I know that sounds weird, but I used to love to drive, pre-accident. And I enjoyed the feel of being in the car, and the windows open and pumped up the music. Normal stuff. That most people take for granted.

But I'm not really normal anymore. And I don't enjoy driving, so really, I haven't paid a lot of attention to myself in the car.

I was driving the other day, just down to the drugstore to pick up my script because I needed it and I'd forgotten it until it was past Darcy's bedtime, and someone needed to stay here with her...

Anyway, I got in the car, adjusted the seat, buckled my seatbelt, and started to back out of the space.

And stopped.

I looked down. I hadn't adjusted the steering wheel.

I used to do that, all the time. I had to tip it up to the point where the rim of the wheel obfuscated my view of the speedometer. Because otherwise I couldn't steer the car; the wheel would dig into my stomach.

Thomas has much longer legs than I do, and he likes the steering wheel in the lowest possible tilt.

I was driving with the steering wheel at the same tilt. And there was about four extra inches between my stomach and the wheel.

How amazing.

My Darling Clementine

My freshman year of college was not the things of which nightmares are made.

I know this, because my last two years of college were. (I worked full time in a gas station/convenience store plus attended school full time, plus had a boyfriend who, while a perfectly lovely man, was not the right guy for me.) It's been 12 years since the last time I set foot in that Exxon. I still have nightmares about it. (Usually ones where I am earnestly trying to convince someone that no, I don't actually need to work on my day off, I don't work here anymore, what are you talking about, no, really, I need to leave!) Talk about your post traumatic stress disorder! (Seriously, you'd think someone died in the bathroom and... no, wrong movie. As a note, if you have NOT seen this movie, please do. It's crude, rude, horrible, and side-splittingly funny. And why the hell don't I have a copy of it yet? Jeeeez.)

Woah, side track!

You should stop me before I wander into the woods somewhere and don't come back.

Freshman year. Back up... back up...

My freshman year was not a nightmare. Not really. But I didn't know any better yet, and I felt accordingly sorry for myself.

I had two roommates, that for the sake of them not Googling for themselves and suing me, I will call Thing One and Thing Two.

Thing Two wasn't too bad. She was a study-a-holic and a runner, and she was always doing some stupid sort of exercises in our dorm room. I cannot tell you the number of times I would open the door and nearly knock her over because she was jumping up and down in front of the door, trying to touch her fingertips to the wall just over the door frame. What that was all about, I've no idea. She was also completely traumatized after her first test, when she got a B-. You see, I went to a really good college, and the problem with concentrating a bunch of fairly smart people in the same place and then giving them all grades? Someone has to make up the middle and the bottom. What was once so easy (grades) becomes this horrible struggle. We were used to being the smartest people in the room, and now... not so much. We were used to sleeping (or daydreaming) through class and getting straight A's. I took this in stride and made it out of college with a low B average (some C's, a few D's and yes, I failed a few classes). Some people... not so much. Thing Two... was a not so much. She never actually flunked out of school... but she did drive herself nuts trying to maintain a B average. But this did mean, as a roommate, she was mostly ideal. I never saw her (except for the aforementioned boinging around in front of the door.) She was always in the library.

Thing One... oh, the stories I could tell you about Thing One...

Firstly, she wasn't originally scheduled to be our roommate at all. We had someone else on the original card sent out... who was a boy....

Ooops.

I discovered this, because we were given roomie contact information at the end of the summer, called both potential roommates to try and coordinate who was going to bring a microwave, who was going to have a fridge. You know... planning sort of stuff. (This did not go over well with either Thing Two, or with the BOY's mother who was wondering how her son got stuck in a girl's dorm. Needless to say, I ended up bringing both microwave and fridge, and NO, I didn't share my appliances with the Things.)

Anyway, I never got any contact information for Thing One. She showed up on Move In day with a frilly broomstick skirt and a huge attitude.

She owned exactly two cassette tapes. A-Ha, Hunting High and Low, and A-Ha, Scoundrel Days. She played them. Constantly. Back to back to back to back to back, and god help anyone who wanted to listen to something else. Anything else. Cats being squashed to death in an ironworks, perhaps.

Thing One never did her laundry.

The.

Whole.

Year.

She owned about 15 of those boomstick dresses and a variety of loose-fitting tops. She would get undressed at night, spritz the clothing with perfume, and hang them back up. (I won't even go into her bathing habits, or the fact that her toothbrush was pristine by year's end. You're welcome.)

When her parents came to help her move out at the end of the year, her sheets were so stiff and nasty they practically stood up by themselves.

Everything in the room reeked of sweat and her cheap perfume. I slept with the window open year round.

(On the plus side, she shared the bunk bed with Thing Two, and I had a loft on the other side of the room. About three weeks into our freshman year, I curtained off my part of the room. It didn't help the smell. Or the horrible music. But it did mean at least I wasn't expected to be social.)

My freshman hall had a virgins club. Out of the 21 young ladies who lived on that hall, only me and one other girl had already had sex. Ok, I'm not knocking virginity. I'm sure there's some value in it, somewhere. For someone. I guess. Really, as far as I see it, it's just what it is. There's nothing mystic about it, and I certainly don't believe in saving yourself for marriage. (Of course, I personally think that everyone who's considering marriage ought to live together for 6 months or so beforehand, because living with someone is never as easy as you might think... and divorce is a pain in the butt.) But these girls were not only proud of their status as "untouched", they were freaking obnoxious about it. They had little signs on their doors... One of the girls drew up little caricatures of the members and labeled them. Sister Thing One of the "Diet Coke Machine" or Sister Thing-Two of "the woo-woo curls".

Me and Jenn? Not. Popular. On our freshman hall. We were evil. And sinful. Jenn eventually got accepted into the virgins club by promising to abstain until marriage. She was saved. Oh, my fucking god.

My boyfriend came down to visit me a few times. I spooned my roommates out once... when he and I were done and I grabbed my bathrobe to go clean up in the ladies room, I stepped out of the room to find the entire. freaking. hall. sitting on the floor outside my room, listening.

On a Friday night. My god, ladies, don't you have something better to do? No, I would guess not. Sorry, I forgot.

(I suppose I'm lucky someone didn't decide to record it... )

Shortly after that, I made friends with someone else in a different dorm, who's roommate was seldom actually in their room, since she usually slept over at her boyfriend's place. I didn't entirely move in with Connie, but from time to time, when Thing One was being particularly obnoxious (or smelly, or that tape was just more than I could handle... I swear, if I ever, ever hear Take on Me again... I will hurt someone) I would sack out in Haldis's bed. (For those of you to whom that name looks familiar, yes, I stole it. And yes, the real Haldis was German, blonde, and busty. And occasionally scary.)

As my freshman year went on, my food choices - which started out as "Ick" and "what happened to the food they served on the parent's day thingie?" - got steadily worse. The vague attempts of the school to make and present healthy options were vile. I mean, boiling broccoli down into its component atoms does not make it appealing. I lived on bagels, cream cheese, pizza, soda, and the occasional pasta dish. If they hadn't overcooked the noodles too much. Grilled cheese sandwiches.

There were two places to get food on campus; the Market Place and the Caf. (Flush hard, it's a long way to the Caf, was common bathroom graffiti.) The Caf was all you could eat (but why would you want to) of various cooked foods, but you had to stay in the Caf. You couldn't take food with you. (again, why would you want to?) On weekends, for breakfast/brunch, it wasn't too bad. Waffles and pancakes and dry cereal and scrambled eggs and toast and bacon and sausage.

The rest of the time, I ate at the Market Place, which had a "dollar amount" system. You got like $3.75 for breakfast, $4 for lunch, and $5 for dinner. I don't remember the exacts. The food was slightly less than vile, and if you "went over" you could pay for extra. And you could take your food with you.

God only knows how much weight I'd put on, eating badly... I didn't weigh in at all my freshman year. I do know that I went from a jeans-size of 8 or 10 to a 12.

One day, towards the end of February, I walked into the Market Place for breakfast. I was struck by the smell of oranges... I don't usually like oranges, mind you. But they smelled wonderful.

There was a huge pile of clementines. The printed sign next to them read ".25 cents each/5 for $1." I packed a bag with 18 tiny oranges.

I took an extra bag with me for peels and ate them during class. I had an 8am, and a 9:30... then I went back to the Market Place for lunch and got another bagful.

Over the next few days, I got at least 5 more every time I had a meal and at the end of the week, I used all my "overage" money and brought three bags of the things back to my dorm room. It was probably the healthiest I'd eaten in months.

Yesterday, I wrote out a grocery list. We went to the store and just inside the produce display, there were some stacks of clementines in tiny crates. Each crate holds probably two dozen fruits. For $8.99.

Thomas hates citrus fruits.

I eyed the crate. I eyed the price.

I wondered how many clementines I might be able to eat before they went bad. I dithered around the produce section, getting bananas, apples, corn on the cob, avocados, onions, bagged lettuce, gem potatoes... and found myself back at the clementine display.

"I'm not going to help you eat those," Thomas said.

"I know." I dithered some more. I hate spending money on food that rots. I've taken great pride, recently, in the fact that I've cut our grocery bills down to about $180 a week, and we're wasting a lot less food than we used to.

Eventually, of course, I bought them.

I've eaten five already.

Not everything about my freshman year was bad.

Running on Empty

This week would not be what one might describe as "On Plan."

In fact, Not Even Remotely might be a good descriptor.

Can we take a minute to discuss my loathing of the phrase "I cheated on my diet..."

Cheating, to me, implies breaking the rules with the intent of winning through unfair means.

[Complete and total digression here.... my father has a comic strip magnetted to his refrigerator. It's of a baseball game. The first frame has the pitch. The second frame has the umpire yelling "Foul! There's a foreign matter on this ball!" The pitcher says "What's foreign?" The last frame has the umpire yelling "Foreign is Sushi!" That comic has been on my father's fridge for 20+ years now. I didn't get it when he first put it up. I don't get it now. But it does sort of pop into my head from time to time to puzzle me exceedingly.]

Forgive me, I've been (and still am) sick. Digressions become more frequent with me the less restful sleep I've been getting.

Back to cheating... When you cheat at cards, what are you doing? Trying to win a game when the rules of the game say that you should lose. I had a friend in high school who loved to cheat at cards - particularly solitaire. She flipped cards 1... 2... 3... the way you normally would, the first time she ran through the stack... when she started running low on cards, she did an alternate shuffle that moved the cards into her hand 2.... 1 behind the 2.... 3.... she still lost from time to time. But she won more games than she lost. She was really quite defensive when I pointed out to her that she was cheating.

"I'm only playing myself," she said. "How can I cheat myself? What possible difference does it make?"

"Well, I know you're a liar," I said. "And so do you. Don't you think your self-respect is worth more than that?"

So... if cheating is a way to win by breaking the rules, it is, therefore, impossible to cheat on a diet. Since, you know, cheating on your diet actually prevents you from winning. (Or losing, as the case may be!) Eating foods that are off plan, or in amounts that are off plan isn't cheating. It's just eating... and it's not going to help you lose weight. I'm not even willing to say that Gastric Bypass or lipo are cheating... since those procedures have different risks and temptations and expenses that make losing weight through those methods just as fraught with peril, temptation, and self-remorse/self-disgust as any other options.

There is no cheat; there is only lie.

Now lying... that's something I understand.

I try not to lie to other people too much - it's too freaking hard to keep track of. You have to remember what you told, and more importantly, to whom. And then you have to worry about whether person A who thinks one thing will talk to Person B who knows something else entirely... You end up having to be involved in conversations that you have no interest in, so that you're there to turn a conversation aside from a topic that you don't want them wandering into... it's a lot of work, and in the end, it's not worth it at all. Trust me. (Oh, sweet irony, how I love you!) But I lie to myself all the time. I've been lying to myself for years. "Oh, I don't look that bad..."

The biggest lie I've told myself, though, was this. "As a chronic asthmatic, I'm not going to live very long. I may as well enjoy eating, since I'm living on borrowed time anyway."

I'm 36 years old.

I was never expecting to live past 35.

I was certainly never expecting to live without my inhaler inches from my fingertips. Without the near consistent trips to the hospital every 6 weeks. Without waking in the night, gasping for breath. Without pausing in the middle of marital activities to grope lovingly for my nebulizer saying, "Hold that thought, would you, Thomas?" Not being able to laugh freely, for fear of sending myself into an asthma attack. I vividly remember a trip to watch fireworks with some friends, and we had to walk about a mile from where we parked to where we could see, and I had to stop every quarter mile to rest and use my inhaler. By the time we got there, I was shaking from the effects of too much albuterol. I vaguely remember my husband and my best friend joking about something to do with biting, but that's all... I can't remember the fireworks, I can't remember any conversation... just this nagging, low grade fear, nearly buried in the back of my brain while the front tried to keep on breathing. I am going to die like this.

Jeez, was that a digression worthy of a politician or what?

All of this boils down to nothing more than a long self-defense of my eating habits for the last - is it Friday already? Shit! - six days.

I have NOT been eating On Plan this week. I have NOT been exercising. I have NOT been drinking water. Almost a whole week at this point, and there's the snarky side of myself that wants to say "Well, shit, you've been Off Plan most of the week, may as well just finish the week off, right?" The sick part of me says, "Plan whatever you want, I'm having nothing to do with any of you, so just shut up and go away."

On the plus side (bah, I want to get OUT of the plus sized clothing, thanks awfully!) it's not that I've been over-indulging. It's that I simply have not been eating. If I'm lucky, I've been getting in ~800 calories a day. Maybe 2 waters, but mostly soda. (For some reason, swallowing water makes my throat hurt worse, and as I currently feel like I swallowed a bookcase. Sideways! I'm just not up to water. Soda. Or hot tea/coffee.) I haven't been eating my veggies either - partially because my tooth still hurts a bit (that's at least finally getting better!) and partially because I just DON'T WANT TO. So there!

Yesterday was the closest to On Plan that I've been since Saturday. And I'm still off by 3 waters and an oil.

You know the worst thing about all this? I'm sick. That's not an "excuse", that's not a "justification", I'm not "rationalizing" or "in denial." It's a freaking FACT. I'm sick.

So why the hell am I feeling guilty about my eating? (or lack thereof) Jeeeeeeeeez!

I did my measurements today. It's been about a month since the last time.

Upper Arm: 12 inches. (stayed the same)
Waist: 38 inches (down 1 1/2 inches)
Hips: 43 1/2 inches (down 2 1/2 inches)
Thigh: 23 (down 3/4 inch)

So, that's 4 3/4 inches lost this month. And adding up all my losses, I've lost 6.8 pounds in April.


Time to get philosophical about it. I've been saying it to other people for a while now, so it's time to take my own damn advise.

Scratch dirt over that day, it's done. Start again today.

(I'll try. But I'm still sick, so I may have to scratch dirt over today, too... I'd better get better soon, though, because I'm seriously running on empty right now.)

32 Flavors (and then some)

Squint your eyes and look closer
I'm not between you and your ambition
I am a poster girl with no poster
I am 32 flavors and then some
And I'm beyond your peripheral vision so you might want to turn your head
'Cause someday you're going to get hungry and eat all of the words that you just said
I am what I am, I am 32 flavors and then some
God help you if you are an ugly
Course too pretty is also your doom
'Cause everyone harbors a secret hatred for the prettiest girl in the room
God help you if you are a phoenix and you dare to rise up from ash
A thousand eyes will smolder with jealousy while you are just flying past
I am what i am, I am 32 flavors and then some
I'm taking my chances as they come
I am 32 flavors and then some
I'm nobody but I am someone, someone...
I'd never try to give my life meaning by demeaning you
And I would like to state for the record...
I did everything that I could do
I am beyond your peripheral vision so you might want to turn your head
'Cause someday you're going to be starving and eating al the words that you just said
That you said
I am what I am, I am what I am
I am 32 flavors and then some
I'm taking my chances as they come
I am 32 flavors and then some
I'm looking for truth and there is none

Forgive me, I just got back from my second C25K run and I'm sure I'm going to be a little rambley. Today's run was a little easier, although that 7th interval seems to be defeating me. I'm not sure what it is; I can do the last one fine, and most of the rest of them I can do, even if they aren't really comfortable. (For the record, I'm considering doing Week 1 for another week, since I'm still having struggling with Week 1. We'll see, I guess, when Wednesday next comes around...)

Today on my run, I saw: a flock of seagulls (not that flock of seagulls!) three rabbits, several geese, one absolutely adorable fluffy gosling, the same little girl that I saw on Wednesday - who waved to me again. I waved back - one police officer looking in his citation book while he banged on a door, two teenaged girls who were also running (they nodded to me as we passed each other) and one homeboy with his shirt unbuttoned to his navel to show off his chest and his pants hanging around his hips and threatening to go lower. (Didn't that go out of fashion yet? That was the stupid-in-thing when I was in college!)

I got a little further on my run-marker, maybe another 40 feet or so up the trail before turning around and heading back. That means I ran a little faster this time, so that's good.

Does anyone else find themselves composing blog entries while they're working out? Taking note of things you thought so you can try to remember to write them down later? Or is it just me?

I found myself on a number of occasions remembering Mike's advice: Resize your rings as soon as they get loose. I'm on my third wedding band, and my wife's threatening to divorce me if I lose another one.

I also found myself thinking about the first time that I realized that I might be fat. I was about nine years old. My cousin and I were over at our grandmother's house (my dad's mom) and having breakfast. We ate Special K, which is all my grandmother had in the way of cereal. Can you pinch more than an inch? was the advertisement on the back of the box. Adult cereal is always so BORING, I swear. My cousin (who was eleven) and I both could pinch an inch. At least.

I'm dealing with some strange issues recently. You know, guilt isn't a four letter word, but maybe it ought to be. I've had a number of people tell me recently that I'm 'inspiring'. I swear, the phrase coming out of my mouth recently most often is, "Yes, but..."

I don't feel the least bit inspiring, honestly. I feel annoying. Or like a poseur. A big fake. A big FAT fake, while we're at it. Which is weird, and I'm sure it's completely counterproductive. It's just... what right do I have to be inspiring to anyone? Every time someone says to me that I'm inspiring to them, I feel this surge of weird resentment and discomfort, followed closely by guilt (usually for feeling weird and resentful...)

"Lynn~At least you did it, [the Couch to 5 K run] which is more than I can say I did. So proud of you, that is great. I can't wait to see what you are doing a month from now. The fact that you are getting out when it's cold.....way to go. Everytime you post, you were just out and/or busy doing something or cleaning or enjoying your weight loss by stepping it up another notch. ...it's very inspiring!!!!;) " - Angelia

And as soon as I see something like that, my brain goes off on a twist. That's not me, it's ridiculous to think that, if she knew how many of my workouts I've skipped, she wouldn't think that, and I'm not doing anything special, just what needs to be done, and my god does Thomas resent it because he spent the whole walk the other day telling me how he can't possibly find any more time to workout and he's a slacker and I don't want him to feel like I'm pressuring him because I'm really not, but jeez, why is he mad at me about it and you know I completely forgot to get the kitchen floor mopped yesterday and I need like four things from the grocery store, and I'm not doing very well on keeping my list updated because this is like the fifth week in a row that I've forgotten to pick up any vitamins and do you think you're neglecting the Thieves' Guild emails here, slack GM that you are, and you know how Jeanne is, I'm sure she's biting her nails which she shouldn't do anyway, and have you even THOUGHT about calling your mom recently? you should do that, you know! Do you know what all these people are going to think about you when you quit, because you know you can't keep this up, you're running full tilt out here and you're going to fall, and it's going to hurt so much, maybe you should just slow down now, and gradually wean yourself out of it because you know you never do anything you set out to do, there's this huge list of failures in your life, your failure as a daughter, as a girlfriend, as a friend, as a wife, as a mother, and you just suck, you know that, so why the hell is anyone looking up to you and thinking you're inspirational, because you know damn well that you're NOT.

I really wish I could shut that voice the HELL UP. I can do these things. I am doing these things. I get into these long internal arguments where I say something like this. "Yes, but I quit smoking." "Yeah, but while we're at it, you never finished writing that novel you were working on, and you know, Carol was counting on you for that." "Well, that's true, but why do I have to be perfect?" "What, you think I thought you could be? Pah, you can't even be average."

I'm so tired of it. Why can't I just focus on what I've done and what I've accomplished and make that annoyingly superior voice in my head go his own way. I mean, what right does he have to carp and criticize? He's just a voice in my HEAD. I haven't seen HIM running any couch to 5K!

Our House (In the Middle of Our Street)

Our House

Felicia, over at Life Happens, is doing this photo challenge thing, and I thought I'd add to it...

This is my apartment... Darcy came outside to run around while I was taking pictures, and she's discovered the joy of playing in spring grass with no shoes on. I checked the yard quick-like, before she came out, to make sure there wasn't any nice doggy surprises. (Leash and pet-litter laws aren't enforced with any sort of regularity... as a matter of fact, along one particular section of our walk, there's a dog pile exactly at leash length from the sidewalk, every 2 feet or so, in various states of decay...)

We've lived in this particular apartment for four years now, which is the longest I've lived in any particular place previous. Our old apartment - which I miss dreadfully on some days - was the second longest, clocking in at three years.

It's a fairly nice neighborhood... for the most part. We've got a couple of vandals who come by once in a while to spray white spray paint over the cars in the lot (usually around Halloween) but whatever they use just wipes off with a little bit of Windex. Annoying, but not criminally so. And a few times, someone's set the trashcans in the laundry room on fire. Couple of months back, someone went through the parking lot and stole everything out of everyone's cars that was of value and not locked up. (They opened the doors on our car, but didn't bother to steal any of the clutter we have in the car... our locks don't work so well, so we don't use them. But we don't leave anything in the car of value, except for the carseat, and I seriously doubt any teenage thief is going to cart away an Alpha Omega.

This is our walk... I really love it, actually. The whole circuit is fairly nice, and except for a bit of a stretch along the main road, rather peaceful.

Well, except for yesterday, when a whole passel of idiot-children decided it would be loads of fun to harass a pair of nesting Canadian geese. I don't know why they thought this was a good plan... Canadian geese are NOT small birds, and they will attack you; especially if you're too close to their eggs.

Also, in Virginia, it's against the law to hurt these animals. I don't actually have any documented evidence of that, just anecdotal, usually stories about how a pair of nesting geese put their eggs someplace inconvenient (like in front of the door at Thomas's work) and Animal Control said it was illegal to move the eggs or kill the birds, despite the fact that the geese were charging workers and actually pecked one lady rather hard...)

What I'm working on

This is the route we walk three times a week, and the plan (for me) is to start running it three times a week.

I want to start running the Couch to 5K program as soon as my iPod comes in - I'm not very good at judging distances, so I thought I'd listen to the running music that has the times in it as a way to get started.

My friend, with whom I was discussing this plan, says I'm crazy. She'll be as supportive as she can be... from the car.

I don't know if I'll like running.

I may not.

However, six years ago, I woke up from surgery to my doctor telling me, "Mrs. C., it's very possible that you may never walk again. I want you to be extra careful while you're in a cast. No weight on that ankle. Ever. At all. If we're really careful, we may be able to recover some minimal movement, enough for you to walk with a limp. But you'll probably be in pain for the rest of your life."

I was careful. I was so careful, I barely got off the sofa at all for the better part of six months. I worked very hard at my physical therapy and eventually I was able to walk without a crutch or cane. But I was in pain, for quite a long time. And I couldn't take stairs normally.

I thought that was as good as it was going to get.

Just recently, I've found out that he was wrong. I'm not in pain; not most of the time. I can walk down stairs normally. I can run.

I can do it.

And in the few short runs I've done so far, I've discovered something amazing.

The simple fact that I can do it means I want to.

I can.

You Know What the President Can Go Do, Right?

I never got one of these.

I never even got close.

Twice a year, our gym teacher would force us to run a mile, do sit ups to a stop watch, do push ups to that very same stop watch, count pull ups, do standing broad jumps, and run relays.

We never got any training on these things. We didn't practice sit ups or pull ups or do any running training. Mostly gym class was slightly more organized recess.

We put on our gym clothes (Entirely too freaking short shorts, and a cotton t-shirt both in the horrible school colors with little lions printed on them that flaked off and left yellow plastic shreds all over your legs) and were forced to do some basic stretches (toe touches. Lots of them. With our male gym teacher walking around behind us. Subtle? NOT!) and then were turned loose in the school gym where we had our choices. We could 'run laps' or play basketball or play badminton. Or volleyball, I think, was allowed. No one ever played it, though, so I can't be sure of that. Mostly the guys would play basketball (shirts vs skins; with all the girls pointing out that D____ needed to be on the shirts team, and T____ and H___ needed to be on the skins team) and the girls walked around the gym in small groups, talking about whatever it is that high school girls talk about. My gym partner and I played badminton.

Every once in a blue moon, someone would be inspecting the Coach's class, in which case we were dragged outdoors and made to play kickball (ug.) or softball (more ug) or run laps around the track. (See above about girls strolling in smallish groups.)

When class was almost over, we'd be herded back into the locker rooms to change, and Coach would "have something he needed to talk about" with the female coach and head to her office. Her office, I might add, was INSIDE the girl's locker room. In a fishbowl-type office. So, we'd all grab our clothes from our lockers and then either squeeze into the very back of the locker room (generally with other girls forming a 'body line' between us and the office windows) or take turns in the toilet stalls. No one. Ever. Showered. No matter what.

So, twice a year, we took these Presidential Academic Fitness Award tests. As far as I know, no one from my high school EVER earned one. My gym partner and I used to joke about it, wondering if Ronald Regan was doing sit ups in the Oval Office. He probably wasn't much better at it than we were.

I don't know about anyone else, but I never even bothered to try, after maybe the second year that we started doing them. I walked a mile. I'd touch my fingers to the pull up bar and stand there until Coach made me "stop". Sit ups? Pfffft. I might do three. In a minute. Push ups? Bah! Standing broad jump? Oh, maybe four inches.

There wasn't any point, really. Even when I was trying as best I could, I wasn't making even the 50% marker.

And it didn't make any difference. What we did in PE for the rest of the year wasn't based on our performances. Coach didn't expect us to succeed, and the fact that he never assisted us with any training or conditioning... well, what was he supposed to do? It's not like his JOB was getting us fit. He was the track and field coach and the only thing that mattered to the school was how the track team did. I mean, really.

I'd have loved to have math class the way we had PE. "Oh, well, you can do addition if you want to, and over here, you can work on fractions, and maybe if you feel up to it, I have some algebra. And there's a test, twice a year, on calculus, but I don't really care how you do. And neither does anyone else. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go coach the chess team."

Nothing Tastes as Good...

You've all heard that line, I expect.

Nothing tastes as good as being thin feels.

It's supposed to be motivating.

Yeah.

Right.

Let's start off with a few simple comments... Nothing tastes as good as being thin feels. I don't know what being thin feels like. Back when I was thin (or, thinner, at any rate) was in high school, or the first few years of college, I didn't pay attention to it. I still thought I was fat. I have some photos of me, when I was thirteen or so, standing in a bathing suit, in the back yard, with my friend, Anne. Anne's got her arms crossed over her chest (or lack of chest). Even at that age, she was self-conscious about being a girl. We grew apart as she got into track and field sports and spent all her time running. Last time I talked to her, she was 19 years old, as thin as a rail, and still hadn't started a regular period yet because she was too thin.

In the picture, I'm standing next to her, my arms are out in a little "ooooh" sort of gesture. And you can see my belly. I have this nice, perfectly round belly, like half a basketball glued over my navel. I hated that picture. I have flared hips (perfect for giving birth, not so perfect for being attractive) and I'm short waisted, so that belly roll seems to start right underneath my already swelling bosom. I'm probably not the only woman who was wearing a C cup by the time she was sixteen (and at least in my high school, I was never a member of the IBTC - that's itty bitty titty committee, for those of you not in the know... girls are mean, had you ever noticed that? I mean, really, really mean.) but wow, I felt... awkward. And of course, guys are not entirely nice either. I can't tell you how often I had a freaking black and blue mark right in the center of my back from having my bra snapped.

Is that what being thin feels like?

I was probably officially thin, then. I weighed... 119 when I graduated from high school. I wore a size 10.

I had acne, I was overly chesty for a girl my age, I was too smart, I was too cynical, even then. Sarcasm was my first line of defense. My mother spent all her time telling me that my interests were stupid, that I needed to be prettier, funnier (but not too funny), more polite, a better cook. Rich Japanese men existed to buy me pizza. That was the motto I went off to college with. Find some nice rich boy and wrap him around your finger. That was all that was important. Not what I wanted to learn, or what I wanted to be. My destiny was to be a rich man's wife, and as ugly as I was, it wasn't looking too good.

Is that what being thin feels like?

My first few years at college, I was a slut. I admit it. I'm not proud of it, but it is the truth. I used men and sex as a way to feel good about myself, without really realizing what I was doing. I'd snare a guy, lead him around for a while, and eventually (not long) I'd notice I have very little in common with him, or all he wanted was sex, and I'd lose interest. Or he'd lose interest. And then I'd be depressed and feel guilty and horrible, and the cure was... You guessed it! Find another guy. This went on for longer than I really want to confess to.

Is that what being thin feels like?

Despite my over-sized carry-on baggage, I'm mostly happy with my life. I love my husband. I love my child. I mostly love my life. (Although sometimes it would be nice to have adult conversations more than once a month... and more money. Who doesn't need more money?)

I don't know what being thin feels like. I never thought I was, when I was, so I didn't take note of it...

I do, however, know what a double chocolate fudge cheesecake tastes like.

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Question:

I don't really like the way Weight Watchers calculates Activity Points. Especially as I'm a heavy sweater. So I've been using Daily Plate as a way to track and calculate my exercise.

I enter the activity I did and how long I did it for, and it tells me about how many calories I burned, based on my weight (apparently you burn more calories when you're heavy because you have to move that many pounds around... I did not know that...) and then I took that number and rounded down, and divided by 50 (a point is ~50 - 70 calories, depending on fat and fiber content) and then subtracted one, just to be safe.

For instance: 20 minutes of high intensity aerobic exercise burns 287 calories in 20 minutes.

So 287 rounded down is 250. 250/5o is 5. So I would write this down as 4 Activity Points. And then I would only eat half of my Activity Points. So on a day when I did 20 minutes of cardio, I'd eat 2 APs.

Just recently, I discovered that Weight Watchers calculates its activity points on not the 50 calorie point for food, but on a 100 calories burned scale.

Ooops.

My problem is this: What I've been doing is working for me. I write it down as 4, I eat 2. When technically, burning 287 calories should have been 2.5 points. Should I change my journaling to reflect reality and admit that I'm eating all or most of my activity points? Or should I go on the theory that if it ain't broke, don't fix it.

Opinions? Anyone?

Eleven-is Anytwo?

What began as a simple suggestion of mine ("Hey, maybe we could play tennis sometime? There's a court at the apartment complex after all...") turned into a monumental struggle.

First, we had to get rackets and balls... which was harder than it sounds. We went to Play It Again Sports, but they only had Very Expensive Rackets. (Sorry, I'm not playing pre-beginners tennis with a $75 racket, no.) We discussed going to Dick's Sporting Goods a few times, but never quite got around to it. Tuesday, we finally went to Target and bought el-cheapo rackets (since I needed to get a yoga mat anyway...)

We also got a sack of tennis balls (I argued for the bright pink breast cancer awareness balls, but Thomas said he was not NOT NOT looking like a complete ass on the court with bright pink balls. Yes, you can take that any way you like. You know I did.) and Darcy decided she had to have a racket, too, so she's got a spongebob racket.

Ok, we have rackets. We have balls. We... need to find out what the rules are for the apartment complex's court.

I called them today. The girl at the office (it's a new girl again, I swear the turnover rate in that office is HUGE. I have rarely seen the same person for more than 6 months and we've been here for four years now.) said she'd have to make some calls, that she didn't know anything about it... (they never do. know anything, that is.) I called back in an hour or so.

"Well, ma'am... we've had some vandalism problems with the court, and apparently someone set the net on fire a few months ago, and we don't have a new net yet, but there's supposed to be one in around mid-April, and there's a contractor who's going to be fixing the rest of the damage, and then maybe we'll be releasing keys to the residents if anyone wants them..."

Ooooookay.

"But, you might try the park..." she added, helpfully. "My dad and I play there all the time."

So, I called Parks and Services and found out where the tennis courts were (they're less than a mile away, and maybe when the days are a bit longer, we'll walk to the court, play, and come back... if the apartment complex doesn't fix our court - which I highly suspect they won't. Because you know, they just sort of suck that way.)

We drove out and then we had to wait for a while, because all the courts were in use - guess this is more popular than I might have thought. We watched a tennis lesson - twin girls probably a year or two older than Darcy were stretching when we first got there, and then their instructor was gently lobbing balls to them. They looked like they were having fun, so we may consider that for Darcy later, if she's interested. Finally one of the courts cleared (we talked to the couple as they were gathering up their balls, they do it for the exercise, too, and they were very friendly...) and we started to play.

I use the word play very very dubiously.

Neither of us has held a tennis racket since we were in our teens, and that was painfully obvious. Most of the time, we couldn't hit the ball more than twice over the net. Darcy thought this was enormously amusing, and loved running after the stray balls. Despite having her own racket, she wouldn't even try to hit the ball...

Towards the end, we were starting to get a little better, hitting the ball back and forth three, four... sometimes even five times.

And I discovered something.

I can run.

Not fast. Not gracefully. But it was, nonetheless, running.

Several years ago, I was in a bad car accident. If I hadn't been wearing a seatbelt, I would have been killed. As it was, I spent three months on the sofa in a cast on both arm and leg, and then the next six months learning how to walk again. I have enough titanium in my ankle to set off metal detectors. I carry a card in my wallet for going through airline security. (I haven't been on a plane since before this happened, and I've been told that airline security does not care about my little doctor's card, but I haven't had the opportunity to try it out.)

I used to think it was a miracle that I could walk, and that I'd just have to live with the fact that I was in regular pain. Not constant, but regular. Exertion, weather, cold, all made my ankle ache. I've been on Vicodaine for years. I was careful not to take them unless I needed it, but I'd probably take at least three or four in a month's time. More if I was doing much, or the weather was particularly stormy. I couldn't walk down stairs like a normal person. I had to go one step at a time, and hold on to the railing. Running was out of the question. Jumping was Right Out.

But... maybe... just maybe... I haven't been testing myself. I accepted my limitations and they became mine.

I ran, tonight. Not far. Not fast. Not gracefully.

But it was running.

And that is a miracle.

The Outerbanks (On less than 30 points per day!)

On February 21, 1998, Thomas and I got married. We celebrated 10 years together by spending a few days on the outerbanks region of North Carolina. Rather than getting a hotel, we decided to rent a room at one of the local bed and breakfasts; it being the off-season, the rates were entirely reasonable, and the room was (as you can see here) quite lovely. And comfortable.

The room had a king sized bed and a jacuzzi tub in the bathroom big enough for two...

Before we left, Thomas and I had given ourselves leave to eat our 35 weekly flex points if we wanted/needed to, but we were determined that we could (and would) spend the weekend ON PLAN.

We'd taken Darcy up to her grandparents on Wednesday and Thursday afternoon (after some in town shopping), we headed down to North Carolina. We had no particular plans for what we were going to do, or where we were going once we checked into our room. Despite that, I came armed with our Complete Food Companion and the Dining Out Companion. (As a note, if I had something to complain about on these two books it is these two things: A completely and totally incomprehensible organizational structure. I'm talking Heroes Unlimited Players' Guide levels of (dis)organizational structure. - ok, someone out there thought that was funny, and the rest of you are just blinking at me... but trust me, it's a condemnation - and that the books assume that if they don't think you should eat something - like most desserts! - it's not in there. Let's be perfectly serious here... I'm on bloody vacation, yes I'm going to EAT DESSERT! At least once. I'd like to KNOW how many points there are in a peanut butter and chocolate pie, because I'm going to eat a slice. Ok, this has gotten overly parenthetical and if I had the grammar sense of a gnat, I'd move it to it's own paragraph.)

We got into North Carolina a little sooner than expected, so we wandered around for a bit, checking out a few of the local shops that were open (if we'd wanted more to do, we should have waited until March, as a lot of things were closed for 'the off season'). Thomas was a saint all weekend, as he followed me around a bunch of kitsch shops without complaint. Finally, after wandering all over a massive shop called the Cotton Gin, it was late enough to go check in.

We checked into our bed and breakfast - our lovely hostess, Laura, is trying to sell the place and made me feel mildly uncomfortable every time we talked to her because she was constantly stressing how she did not want to do this anymore... eyeroll!! so I felt like a massive inconvenience for her, which I resented a little bit because hey, I was paying her $75 a night - and spread our stuff out over the room. After that, we tested both the jacuzzi and the bed - it was our anniversary, after all! I could really, really get into having a jacuzzi, in case you hadn't figured that out yet. It was quite lovely.

Our hostess recommended Coinjock Marina as the 'best restaurant in town'. The directions we got were very southern, rather confusing, and completely accurate. It constantly amazes me how that happens. ("The road sort of bends real sharp-like and then it's just a skip down a ways.")

Thomas and I had eaten lunch at Olive Garden (Soup, salad and breadsticks plus the sugar free chocolate cake split between us for 10 points) and by the time we got out to dinner, I had 13 points left to spend, plus I'd done my workout earlier that morning, so I had some activity points to spare. We got the fish special, tarragon salmon and ate half of it (honestly, we should have split the damn thing) for 3 points, a side salad with raspberry vinaigrette dressing (1 point), 2 hush puppies (4 points) and split a slice of peanut butter and chocolate pie (~6 points each). That put me at - 1 point for the day, easily cleared by my APs. The salmon was quite good; the hush puppies were tasty, just enough to satisfy my desire for them and not too many to tempt me unduly; and the salad was a little less than impressive...

What is is about restaurant salads, anyway? You get one of two kinds, I've noticed: the kind with a few wilted lettuce leaves which are not cut well for bite sized bits (anyone who cuts lettuce for salads ought to be forced to eat it in public!) 2 onion rings, three halves of cherry tomatoes, and a slice of cucumber or the kind that's loaded with croûtons, olives, cheese, and ham bits and costs as many points as your damn entree. There are other vegetables in the world, people... Would it be so painful to make a side salad with lettuce, tomato, onion and bell peppers, carrots, broccoli or cauliflower bites? Seriously... it's annoying.

Anyway... one of the things I keep reading in all the inspirational success stories goes along these lines: "After a few months, I found that a sugary dessert just didn't taste as good, and I'd rather have a nice piece of ripe fruit." I keep wondering if that's going to happen to me. It hasn't happened with cheeseburgers, or fried foods, or peanut butter and chocolate pies. Oh, it was just orgasmic... We split the pie to bring its ~500 calories and lord knows how many grams of fat into some sort of reasonable line. I estimated 12 points for the entire slice, but it might have been as many as 16. That's ok, I had the APs and WPA to spare.

The next morning, we were up early (well, early for Thomas, who makes sleeping late on weekends an Olympic sport) and headed out to do some touristy things.

We drove down to Kill Devil and visited the Wright Brothers National Monument for a few hours. It was rainy and a little bit cold, but most of the displays are inside. We got there just in time to catch a film about the 1901 gliders and the 1903 engine driven plane. The film had a brief lecture in it about trigonometry, one of the few areas of math that I'd ever particularly enjoyed, and I found it very interesting to discover that yes, there are things in real life where math is useful. I'll have to remember that when Darcy gets old enough to complain about algebra...

After the film, we walked over to the other building and listened to a lecture from the park ranger. By the time that was over, the rain had cleared up enough that we felt reasonable certain that we could tour the camp site and go up to see the monument. And boy, did we walk... we walked out to the replica cabins where they stayed while testing their gliders and planes, and then we walked all the way down to the end of Test Flight Four (852 feet, 59 seconds). Did you know, after this test flight, the brothers and their crew were so excited, talking, on the way back, that they didn't secure the plane immediately, and a gust of wind flipped the whole thing upside down and tore it to pieces? Can you imagine what that must have been like? They flew almost three times the distance they had planned for (their goal for the engine-driven plane was 300 feet) and just after they'd made such a monumental success, the wind destroyed their plane.

Of course, having walked all the way out there, we were then obligated to walk back... and then decided to climb the last remaining hill to see the monument. That was a bit more difficult, as the hill is fairly high, and the walkway is pretty steep. (When the government was trying to build the monument, they had to constantly reinforce the hill, since it wasn't a real hill at all, but a sand dune, and they don't take kindly to being solidified) I was a little winded, and had to stop from time to time to catch my breath. Still, four months ago, I wouldn't even have made the attempt. Thomas would either have gone up by himself, or restrained himself and stayed with me.

... the sand fairly blinds us. It blows across the ground in clouds. We certainly can't complain of the place. We came down here for wind and sand, and we got them."

Letters from Orville to Katherine Wright, October 18, 1900

Up at the top of the hill, the view was just spectacular, despite the rain. Some of the local color wasn't quite so; for whatever reason, Thomas and I seem to have invisible tattoos on our foreheads that say "weirdos please talk to us" or something. A local couple was up at the top of the monument and insisted on babbling at us for a good ten minutes or so. Telling us about their recent wedding and they live just down there, and they met at the centennial celebration back in 2003 and they came up here all the time, and wow, those are some really nice coats you have, where did you get them... blah blah blah. I'm happy for you, could you shut up and let me take my pictures?

We walked back down the hill, and then went to grab some lunch. There were loads of restaurants, but a lot of places were closed for the season, didn't open until 4:30pm, or were things like Applebee's and Outback. Not that there's anything wrong with those places, but honestly, we're on vacation. I don't want to eat someplace that's just down the street from where we live!

I spotted a small place called Front Porch Cafe, but unfortunately, that was just a coffee shop and bakery, and while I'm sure the muffins were delightful, I didn't want to spend the points on them. The barista, however, was kind enough to direct us to a local restaurant, Chili Peppers.

It had a very local feel - quite cozy, tacky decorations, waitresses who chew gum and call everyone "hon" and greet at least half the patrons by name.

Thomas got a fish sandwich and fries and I got a tuna bamboo steamer with Parmesan cheese and vegetables. The meal comes to the table inside the steamer, vegetables on the first tray in, the fish on the second. The cheese and butter were in small dishes, which gave me excellent portion control. For vegetables, I had broccoli, zucchini, cauliflower, carrots, and onions, flavorful and in generous portions. I added a little of their restaurant brand hot salt and went sparingly on the melted butter. The fish was delicious, and although slightly more than a portion size, I didn't feel too bad about leaving some of it on the plate. Lunch for me? Five points (and included one milk serving, and two vegetables).


We got out of lunch around 2:30 and headed further south to Roanoke Island to the aquarium. The lady at the ticket desk attempted to sell us season passes, on the theory that our passes for their aquarium could get us into the Norfolk Zoo and other attractions in our area. Thanks lady, but if I'm going to spend money improving a local aquarium, it's going to be for OUR local aquarium.

That being said, their aquarium was quite a bit smaller than the one we usually patronize, but it was quite nice and we wandered around for almost two hours before finishing our tour. They had a really great exhibit called Aquarium Confidential which showed some of the work behind the displays... you could see some of the newer members of the zoo (baby alligator!) and a mock vet's office, plus educational information about the aquariums themselves; the feed and care of sharks, octopuses, and river otters; and other insider looks at the operation of such a facility. You could use a computer simulation program to design your own habitat and see a representation of your design. Quite fun.

We headed out just before the aquarium closed for the day and headed back to our bed and breakfast. We stopped to shop at once of the hundreds of Wings shops (ok, I'm exaggerating a little bit. There are only 9 Wings in the Outerbanks area. But we drove past every single one of them!) and bought some t-shirts. It's mandatory, you know... you must buy a t-shirt. Or two. I mooned over some tie-dyed hoodies for a while, but they didn't have any that were in my size that were in a color I'd be caught dead in. (I will not, under any circumstances whatsoever, wear a pink and black shirt. Just say No!)

After we took note of the proliferation of the Wings shops, we noted that there were several chains like that, Wings, Forbes Taffy, Sunsations, and North Carolina Hammock... we passed one of those shops every block or so, most of the way from Roanoke Island all the way up to Ocracoke. Just in case we decided we needed more t-shirts! There were also several mini-golf adventure places (closed until the season) and we made preliminary plans to come down again later and do at least one of them... they looked fun!

We got back to the bed and breakfast and I took a nice long soak in the jacuzzi while Thomas watched TV, and then we went out for dinner. The Currituck BBQ was right down the street from where we were staying, and I'm a huge fan of pulled pork. Thomas had half of a half slab of ribs, and I had a pulled pork sandwich with a little coleslaw on top (9 points for the sandwich... a little steep, but we had gotten in a load of APs for all that walking around).

The original plan had been that we'd go see a lighthouse before we headed out on Saturday, but it was raining harder than ever and the temperature had dropped from the fifties (in which rain is not entirely intolerable) to the high thirties (tooooo friggin' cold). Also, my legs were complaining drastically about all the walking, so we ate our breakfast (English muffin, little cream cheese, orange juice, coffee, half a melon and some strawberries - 6 points) and headed home.

We had a lovely vacation, did some cool things, and ate well, but sensibly... ten years is just the beginning of our marriage. Two months, just the beginning of our healthy lifestyle...