Great moments in weight loss

5:30 a.m.
Skip the morning run to get some housework done before leaving for the office. If that floor isn't mopped this instant, who knows what kinds of tragedy could befall the household?

6:30 a.m.
Contemplate having a piece of the chocolate cake you made the day before. Argue with yourself that Bill Cosby agrees that chocolate cake is a breakfast food. Scowl as your shrinking husband strolls to the kitchen sink. (He's fixing to be called Marathon Man instead of MathMan if he keeps this running business up).

Opt instead to sanctimoniously drink a smoothie made with banana, raw spinach, blueberries, a scoop of cocoa and almond milk.

6:45 a.m.
Congratulate self on choosing unsweetened almond milk and the overall choice of the smoothie. This is your day and you are seizing it!

9:00 a.m.
Arrive at the office pleased with yourself that you drove right on by the Dunkin Donuts, the Steak n Shake and the Martin's Biscuits.

10:15 a.m.
Throw up with surprise because, um, you were feeling fine a few minutes ago

10:20 a.m.
Realize that if you were going to barf up your breakfast, you should have had the damn piece of chocolate cake. How dare you defy Bill Cosby? Fool!

10:30 a.m. - 4:00 p.m.
Chew ice. Ignore that nagging voice in your head reminding you of that cracked tooth that's just waiting to go all snaggled on you.

5:00 p.m.
Pop into supermarket to pick up a prescription, realize that your stomach is growling loudly enough to make the person next to you give you a funny look as he frees a grocery cart from its buddies and strides away.

5:20 p.m.
Pluck the last loaf of 5 O'Clock freshly-baked Italian bread from the grocery cart where the smell of warm bread still hangs in the air like a taunt.

5:30 p.m.
Rip open the bread's paper wrapper before leaving the parking lot.

6:00 p.m. - 11:00 p.m.
Demolish one half of the loaf of bread, drink one Coke from a can and a handful of chocolate. And by handful, I mean enough to make a wrapper ball that you could still palm, but would have been so large as to be considered indecent as an earring.

5:15 a.m.
Step on scale. You've lost 1 lb.!

5:16 a.m.
Contemplate the green smoothie, tear off a chunk of still fresh bread while muttering about possible food poisoning and how sanctimony makes you look fatter anyway.

The Not So Great Depression

It feels like one of the cats got my tongue. I've haven't been able to think of anything to say. I partially blame the medication I'm taking. It makes me feel so even. It's strange. MathMan suggested that perhaps what I'm feeling is actually normal and because my moods have been so rollercoasterish I don't recognize it. Normal.

I thought about that. He could be right. Maybe I've been functioning for a long time with a low grade depression using a patchwork of coping methods to get by. Sometimes stressors made it worse and I would feel a deeper sense of gloom and then things would clear. For several years MathMan has patiently waited for me to accept that I might need some medical intervention. He endured my blues, my acting out, my upswings like a champ. Like a champ who knows how to retreat into work, how to deliver a verbal ass kicking when needed, and how to pick around the psychic minefield that has been a life with me.

I have sometimes asked myself which of us is the sick one. Twenty-four years. That man deserves a certificate and a $20 Applebees gift card for perfect attendance.

The tipping point came when the coping skills no longer worked. Food didn't work nor did writing or a variety of other distractions. I was moving deeper within, becoming fearful and anxious about everything, looking for any excuse to not leave the house or have contact with people, losing sleep and gaining weight. I didn't leave my bedroom unless I absolutely had to, "forgetting" to go to the mailbox to get the mail many days in a row, letting the grocery stockpile sustain us to avoid trips to the store, not answering the phone.

And then came the job interview and I had to get out of my head and push myself. I did it. It felt good to get out of the house and into the city, to talk to adults and to revisit the ways I had actually once been a productive, thriving, successful executive. That I'd once been able to do a vast array of things including running a household.

That was a little like touching fire. I'd spent the last two years not letting myself think too much about the professional life I'd had because having it yanked from me made me angry. Oh sure, I tried to focus that anger, to put that energy to work finding other positions, but with each passing month and a visit to the Department of Labor to sit fidgeting and fretful with the other people who just wanted a job, I became less focused and more dispirited.

Was it time to revisit what I could offer potential employers? Some job searchers have even gone as far as taking online college classes in hopes of updating their skill set and making themselves more competitive in a new industry. On average, a job hunt can last as long as twenty-one weeks. The effects - multiple rejections and the resulting blows to one's self-esteem - can leave a long-lasting impression on the individual.

When you're looking for a job, you start with what you know. Then you expand. You look in other fields, other cities. Then you lower your expectations. And lower them some more. Then you look for seasonal work. And in case you believe the fallacy about unemployment being a deterrent to people finding work, know this - at least in the State of Georgia, you have to show that you're seeking work. You must report to the Department of Labor monthly and show a list of the jobs for which you have applied and they have to be jobs within reason. I couldn't say that I was applying for jobs to be a nuclear engineer, for example.

When nothing came of the interview and then the holidays were looming and my unemployment insurance was running out and the job listings dwindled, I went into full retreat. How were we going to manage on MathMan's salary alone? What do I have to do to get a job? What can we sell? Do we find somewhere less expensive to live? How can we even afford to move? What the hell, you mean we can't take all the money out of the 401k? It's MathMan's money for fuck's sake. All of it. No matching. We'll pay the taxes and penalties, just let us have the money because we can at least pay our rent for the next few months. Shit.

 My high tolerance for pain evaporated and I cried uncle.

The doctor gave me two prescriptions - an appetite suppressant which I've taken before, and an anti-depressant. The rationale being that although the anti-d is supposed to be weight-neutral, Cute Dr. J. didn't want me to gain. He knows me well enough to know I'm going to feel better if I'm more fit.

Here's how I know the anti-d is working. In the past, when I've taken this appetite suppressant, the kids have called it the angry pill. For good reason. Without it, I can be a bit, um, mercurial. With it I was like Bobby Knight with a lit firecracker stuck up his butt. I might have even thrown a chair or two.

But not this time. I'm like some Zen master of serenity. I've heard the kids talking about it when they think I can't hear them.

"Oh, man. When is she finally going to blow?"
"I don't know, but I hope I'm not home when it happens."
"She should have gone crazy when saw the mess in Sophie's room. Look at her. She's just lying there on her bed watching TV. No screaming, no raging around, no throwing things in the garbage. It's kind of freaky."
"Oh, yeah, well she didn't even say fuck once when Mitt Romney was lying about the President in his speech."
"Not once?"
"Nope."
"Has anyone talked to Daddy about this?"
"Hey, you guys. I can hear you!"

One of them appeared at the door. "Are you mad?"
"No."
"Okay. We --"
"It's fine. I know."

If this is normal, it's going to take some getting used to and I  don't mean that in a negative way. At my last doctor's visit, he doubled the dosage. It's taken me a week to feel less foggy. Writing is difficult. Much of the time, I feel passionless, dulled. I lose minutes staring out the window.The political discourse that would have once had me in a frenzied lather results in a minor froth. I'm the flat beer on the emotional spectrum.

And oh my word, I finally had to ask MathMan to use a taser on my G-spot because either this medication has moved my orgasmic cheese out of my ever-lovin' reach or I'm a guy suffering from Low T or Low Testosterone. Which obviously, I'm not because when I begged him to tase me, bro, MathMan didn't have to move any junk to get at it.

I may have just wandered way off track.

The point is I'm having to relearn normal. The upside is that I've already shed fifteen pounds. That feels good. Working out feels good. Sleeping well feels good. Not running on adrenaline all the damn time feels good. Not losing my shit over little things feels good. And that taser? Well.... mustn't grumble. Too much.

Looking back at this post, I guess it's Lisa - 1; Cats - 0. Please don't tell the cats. They're sore losers with sharp claws.

xoxo

It's the New Splenda Lady Come to Call

MathMan and I are attempting a low carb lifestyle. Attempting is, of course, the operative word. Goodness knows the world is dark place of hidden sugars and sweet sabotage.

We're on day three and we've already, both of us, fallen off the turnip truck. Wait - are turnips considered safe foundation vegetables with Atkins? My brain is too busy coping with DTs to suss it out so let's do this - we've both tumbled belly fat first from the meat wagon. I licked my way to nirvana with a lemon custard ice cream cone and MathMan succumbed to the Blackberry Mountain Pie singing its siren song from the kitchen counter.

I ask you though, can you blame him?

This is so easy to make. And delicious.

Anyway, we realize we're on a collision course with reality. We either rid this house of all white products and listen to the wailing from the battlements when our children discover that there's not one speck of milk chocolate, nary a crumb of cupcake, not a single Cheez-It left behind OR we accept the fact that we're doing a modified Atkins which includes some whole grains, some dairy and wine for Lisa. A mash up of Atkins, low-glycemic, Weight Watchers and South Beach. Save us, Dan Marino! Won't you help us, Valerie Bertinelli? Have mercy on our fatty deposits, Marie Osmond. Rescue us from ourselves, Nutri-system and Jenny Craig! (for free)

Atkins. How very unsustainable. It's one thing to require me to stop propping up the refined sugar industry each time I drink a cup of coffee. It's altogether cruel to expect me to forgo some half and half or cream, too.

Our discussions focus around what we're eating, how much we're working out and the effect it's all having on our slap and tickle. One reason we've decided to take this route (again) is because MathMan doesn't find my admonition to not come into contact with my fat tummy much of an aphrodisiac.

We're competitive, comparing what we weigh and how much we've lost or gained. For the first time in memory, we're both in need of lifestyle changes at the same time. So often one of us has lost weight while the other has gained. It's very frustrating.

Even as we're in the battle together, we irritate the other. He's trying to undermine me so that I stress eat and I'm jealous of his ability to do pull ups and to make slight modifications in his diet and lose fast and his lack of hormonal issues like PMS that make sticking to Atkins especially tricky.

Yesterday, he was doing pull ups on the contraption that fits over the door frame and I walked by chewing on a celery stalk. "Now there's a sight," he huffed. "You don't even like celery."

"Shut up. This isn't celery. This is a Marathon Bar."

"They don't even make those anymore."

"You realize you're in a rather vulnerable position hanging there, don't you?"

I know the low carb thing makes me moody. I'm an addict, after all. My love of sugary things is inherited and began when I was quite young. I learned to count to ten putting teaspoons of sugar on my Puffed Wheat and Cheerios. There was always more jelly than peanut butter on my PBandJs. When I made the ice tea for my mom, she'd remind me to add some tea to the sugar. My dad, the guy whose daily breakfast was a tall glass of 2% milk with a quarter of the can of Hershey's syrup, used Brach's Malted Milk Balls and gallons of Meadow Gold Ice Cream to show his love and taught us to put milk and sugar on our cherry Jello. Imagine - sugar on...sugar. I'd say blech, but it would be a lie. I'd still eat my Jello like that if I could do it in private.

So here I am again, trying to change my ways without killing someone during a sugar-free rage. If only I could be dealt with like a heroin addict. Lock me in a room with nothing but black decaf, water, and three pounds of beef jerky and I'd get beyond the rough part. I don't even care if I hallucinate babies crawling across the ceiling, just release me from the gritty clutches of sugar, please.

Also, what was I thinking to begin this lifestyle caper over a holiday weekend while I'm experiencing those aforementioned hormonal issues? Madness. The kids aren't helping either. Chloe made owl cupcakes to take to a birthday party and the leftovers are in the fridge mocking me with their owl eyes.

So, listen, if you see me out there on the internets bumping into walls or showing my butt, as we say down here, please take no offense. It's a phase. Just shove an Oreo in my direction and get away fast before I say or do anything else obnoxious.

All of this is good for me, I know. When I'm seventy-two and not taking ten different prescriptions I can't afford, I'll look at MathMan, still fit and trim MathMan, over our 9 Lives entrees and be glad for every day we did better than worse when it came to moving more and eating better - more vegetables, more lean protein and less processed junk except for those fabulous Atkins high protein, low-carb bars which I can, given enough vodka in my system, convince myself taste just like Baby Ruth bars.

In the meantime, I think my brother said it best - if vegetables tasted like Ho Hos, I'd be a vegetarian.

What's your poison? Points to anyone who gets the title reference. I'll send you some sugar. Or rather "sugar."

There's a devil on my shoulder, baby

Source

Dear Lisa,

Just because the Starbucks Hot Chocolate ice cream is buy one get one free at Publix and just because you had a dollar off coupon making that pint cost only $1.07 and just because you ate right out of the container while standing at the kitchen counter does not make that creamy, delicious treat calorie and fat free.

See the elliptical there behind you?

Giddyup, sister.

What little lies do you tell yourself?

The tax man's taken all my dough

This Monday is escaping with its life, I see. For a day that began with a feeling of smug satisfaction as I ran intervals on the elliptical, I've done a 180. I'll probably lick the plate after this piece of chocolate chess pie is gone. True there hasn't been much consumed between this morning's non-fat Greek yogurt and the pie, but let's hope this pastry eating at 10:15 p.m. isn't a harbinger of midnight banana splits to come.

No, of course not. I like it when my pants are falling off me even when I'm sober.

The pie is Sophie's fault. It was not a planned pie. After my threats involving holding the door open so the cats could escape, she stopped texting me about her stabby sore throat and toughed it out at school. She came home, swallowed the Advil I handed her when she walked in the door, thanked me, flopped on the sofa and announced that she had a craving for pie dough.

She looked so pitiful, what was I supposed to do?

There's a pie dough law that says if you marry flour, Crisco, salt and water, you are obligated to take the pastry cutter to it and finish by rolling it out.  Sophie got the trimmings to satisfy her craving, the rest of us got a pie that should have a blue ribbon hanging off it.

As I was tossing the dough with the fork, I thought about a piece of writing I'm working on and it occurred to me that the pie could make a great metaphor for that, as well. Not that I'm going to use it, but let's just say that MathMan did the taxes this weekend and figured out how much our income had dropped from 2009.

Our financial pie shrunk from a nine incher to the size of one of those frou frou tarts with the kiwi. I'm sorry, but kiwi? On a little pie? Please just hand me one of those lemon tarts, please. All the glaze in the world isn't going to hide the fact that that is a kiwi hiding under that bulbous strawberry. I'll leave that for someone who can truly appreciate it. I prefer my kiwis in the raw.

A quick look at my old patterns would suggest that the late night pie is stress eating. Perhaps, but I'm not going to stress about it now. I'm not going to follow the old patterns either. Instead, I'm  going to pop in my teeth bleaching tray that looks like a mouth protector and put a dead stop to any more snacking. And if I'm doing that anyway, maybe I'll see if MathMan wants to play the Wrestling Game. I think our tights are clean......

Pie?

There's a Little Less of Me to Love

I used to sneak-eat my mom's Ayds candies.  Explains a lot.

My Weighty Battles Continue

I broke down and went back to taking the appetite suppressant Phentermine aka the "mean pill" under the supervision of my real doctor.  Not a weight loss clinics.  The upside is that it's a slightly higher dosage meaning Boy, does it work!  and it's mostly covered by insurance because it's considered prevention for that dreaded word obesity.  The downside is Boy, does it work!  Let me 'splain.

The medication makes me not hungry.  Not just not hungry, but not cravey.  As in I'm not sitting around plotting my next hit of sugar. I'm not hiding pints of Ben & Jerry's Phish Food behind a stack of frozen vegetable bags.  I'm not stowing plain M&Ms in my underwear drawer like a deranged, chocolate-craving squirrel nor am I hoarding baguettes and croissants like tomorrow all the wheat in the world will disappear forever.

For someone toting around way too many pounds, this is a good thing this not being hungry or craving junk.  I promised my self this time that I would do this the right way.  That means I must train my taste buds to appreciate or at least not be repulsed by the things that are good for me.  So far, it's working.  Mostly. I'm eating more of what I should be eating, less of what I shouldn't. And I'm exercising.  With regularity.

The result is a loss of 15 pounds so far. I weigh less than I have in four years.  I'm wearing clothes I haven't worn in three years.  I'm not sure how that math works, but I guess my body shape has changed.  Or maybe I looked like a stuffed sausage three years ago as I crammed my body into the clothes that now fit me nicely. I'm too afraid to look at my flickr account to confirm this.

I've become obnoxious about the weight loss.  Thank goodness I don't have any friends around here.  They'd be shunning me by now and saying ugly things about me behind my back in Facebook chats.  Lucky MathMan gets the pleasure of my company and is treated to my hourly fitness updates.  That's why he gets paid the big bucks.

I wake up in the morning and run my hand over my tummy.  "Dude!  Feel this.  There's less there!"

He reaches over to feel because 1. He's a nice guy who is encouraging me all the way on this new lifestyle and 2. If he gets his hand on my tummy, it might just make its way to the neighbors up north or the neighbor down south.

I squirm away just as his hand makes contact because I'm ticklish.  "Wait!  I'll show you!"  I jump out of bed and give him the full frontal.  Juggle my shrinking boobs and then make a muscle to show how my batwings are toning up.

I turn around.  Do a Vanna White hand sweep along my less dimpled thighs.  "Does my butt look smaller?  And how about this?" I squeeze my shrinking love handles.  "And look!  If I put on a bra, you can't see so much back fat!"  I point over my shoulder showing where the dreaded back fat would be.

"That's great, honey," he yawns and puts on his glasses.

I dash away to the bathroom to go wee and do my morning weigh in before anything, not even a drop of water, passes my lips. I glanced at myself in the mirror. I still flinch when I see myself wearing nothing but panties, but I'm happy to note that my waist now goes in instead of out.  For every muffin I've given up, my muffin top has shrunk by one tenth of one centimeter.

It's a definite improvement.

I track my meals and exercise in Sparkpeople so I am aware of how many calories are going in and out.  I'm paying attention to fiber, protein, fat, and carb counts.  I repeat meals because I get tired of putting the foods into the database system.  So what if I eat steel cut oats every morning?

I still have moments when I want something made mostly of refined sugar.  It's not the all consuming madness it used to be, but there are moments of sweets weakness.  I give in if there's something available.  However, a handful of M&Ms results in way fewer cellulite dimples than a giant bag of M&Ms does.  Sometimes when I feel the need to indulge in some emotional eating, I try to use positive reinforcement to redirect my thoughts.  I look in the mirror to see if my excess chinnery is shrinking or I'll take a peak at my thighs and marvel at how they've gotten less onerous.

It's a journey.  I have to remind myself.  As much as I want to be sipping green tea in Skinnyville right now, I'm pleased to at least be on the right road.  Now I need the birds to come along and snap up the breadcrumbs that lead back to Fat and Bad Habitsburg. I don't want to go back there.  As much as I want to blame heredity, I have to admit that nurture plays a large part, too.  People, you do not grow up with parents who put sugar and milk on top of Jello, and swan out into the world with healthy eating habits.

Exercise is another positive change.  I've been working out off and on for a while, but seeing few results.  Now I've ramped up my intensity to the point where I'm feeling it the next day.  I'm a litany of aches and pains.  I've even stepped out of my comfort zone.  Yesterday as MathMan and I entered the gym where I planned to do a few minutes on the elliptical before working my upper body with free weights, the trainer popper her head out of the classroom and suggested in a manner that meant no would not be an option, that I join the step aerobics class that was just getting under way.  I shot MathMan a pleading look and he just shrugged, the sadist.  Turns out, I really like step aerobics.

Like so many things in life, it's about balance.  Or rather about tipping the balance in favor of what's good for you and away from destructive behaviors.  As I sat in the doctor's office today and soaked in the praise for my progress during my first month on the plan, I realized that even though yesterday ended up being kind of a food FAIL, the Mounds bar and cup of black coffee I had for supper were not the end of the world.  Nor would they be my excuse for swinging by the grocery store for cat food and a box of Krispy Kremes like I might have done a month ago.

I came home, teased the cats by putting their food in the cabinet in slow motion then made myself some steel cut oats.

So what are you doing for yourself these days?

The Pursuit of Happiness

"You smile a lot."

"Do I?"

"Yeah, it makes it hard to tell what you're really feeling."

Sometimes the way my fourteen year old son is able to just say things - astute things - blows me away.

"That's an interesting observation.  You know, I'm reading a book about women and happiness and the author goes into how Americans, especially American women, are programmed to be cheerful."

"I didn't say you were cheerful.  You just smile alot.  Like at that intersection.  You smiled at that guy and he smiled back."

"Did that bother you?"

"No.  I just realized you do that a lot. Doesn't matter if it's a man or woman driving the other car.  You just smile."

"So when I smile, it doesn't necessarily mean I'm happy."

"'zactly."

He's right.   My smile has no connection to what's going on inside.  I haven't shared this with you guys, but I'm back on the appetite suppressant, aka The Mean Pill.  When I'm taking it, it works.  I lose weight (8lbs gone!).  But I also become a bit of a powder keg with a short fuse.  My mean mouth, otherwise held back on oh so many occasions, is given free reign and instead of just letting things slide, I become hell-bent on pointing out all the petty grievances I have with my family. 

I become yelly. Chloe, who coined the phrase The Mean Pill, also had another way to describe my behavior when I'm taking this drug.  Raging around.  Lovely, right? There she goes, raging around like an angry elephant.  A pack of hyenas.  A wild-haired woman brandishing a jug of bleach and a toilet brush.

Then I hear myself and I stop.  Take a breath.  I come through with quick apologies. Remind myself that next time - filter, filter, filter!

After I've been on the meds for a bit, it smooths out, but in the transition, I become the pill.  I guess you could say that, even if you can't tell when I'm happy, you certainly won't have any trouble knowing when I'm angry.  I broadcast it loudly and colorfully.  My mother would die of shame if she could hear me.  Heck, I die a little of shame right before I apologize to the most recent victim of my verbal assaults. 

I suppose the best thing you can say about this is that at least I don't fake smile while I'm shredding my loved ones.  The remedy for now is for me to stay locked in the basement or to keep the duct tape over my mouth when everyone is around.  Because no matter how many times I do tell them what sends me over the edge, they still do and don't do the things that turn push that rage button.

"So what do you think, Nate?  Should I stop smiling when I'm not happy?"

"Nah.  I don't think it's a bad thing."

"But the book suggests that maybe it is.  It keeps us from being more aware of our emotions."

"Mom?  We're Americans.  We don't have emotions."

"That's what the book says!"

"Okay, now be quiet.  We've reached our talking limit.  Here listen to this."

So what about you?  Do you wear your emotions on your sleeve?  Cram it all down until it's an unrecognizable nugget?  Okay, who besides me are the phony smilers?  And are there any other rageaholics or is it just me?

Will Be Seeking Other Protection

My fat and I have not become friends.  Even after all this time, I cannot warm to it.  In fact, I recently suggested to this spare 4x4 tire around my middle that I'd like to test that whole absence makes the heart grow fonder theory.

The stubborn fat did not take the hint.

I spend time wavering between the knowledge that I've come by this chunkification honestly and cursing it as I try and try and try again to delete it from my life.

First - the reasons for it, as repeated to myself:  Listen, it's been a rough couple of years.  Job loss, moving, rape, an affair, a near-miss divorce, long commutes, the oldest child leaving the nest, financial difficulties, a bankruptcy, loss of a house and car to the repo men.  So you stress ate your way through it?  Big deal. 

It's all excuses, I respond to myself.  You are fat because you eat too much and don't move enough, you big, fat baby.  Seriously, who do you think you're fooling?  I've seen you eat ice cream.  It's not pretty.

So then I try all the formerly effective methods.  A few years ago, these things worked for me.  I have photographic evidence.

Starvation, speed from a certified dealer, exercise, Body for Life, The Belly Fat Cure, sensible eating of vegetables, fruits, lean meats and whole grains, limiting my sugar intake.  Low carb.  Low calorie.  The beer diet.  The wine and cheese diet.  The oh what the hell, it doesn't matter as long as I run five miles a day and lift weights regime.

My weight resembles the flag tied to the middle of a tug-of-war rope.  An inch this way, an inch that.  And my fat ass?  Usually ends up in the mud in the middle.

I despaired, but didn't give up.  I can feel my muscles shaping up in my legs, my upper arms.  My abs, however, are mush.  Even on days when I nearly starve myself of everything but olives and vodka, I feel bloated.  I take off a few pounds and they come back again and what I'm doing physically and what I'm consuming doesn't seem to matter much.

You're getting old.  All those years of living on speed have wrecked your thyroid or your metabolism.  You are doomed to a life as a fatty.  Go buy some caftans, make that your signature look, pop a colorful turban on your head and move on.  There's a new bakery in town, you know.  My internal conversations become more deadly, more resigned and self-shaming.

Then someone sent me an email suggesting that my IUD might be causing some of my weight and depression issues.  My Mirena IUD has hormones in it, you see.  At first I dismissed the idea because this is the second Mirena I've had.  The first one lasted five years and, although I battled my weight then, too, I simply chalked that up to the stress eating from job change, a move to Georgia, more money problems and my indomitable sweet tooth.  What depressions and mood swings I experienced, I assumed they were the result of those life issues, as well.  I'd always bore a sweet tooth.  It was simply more.  Law of diminishing returns or addiction, you know what I'm talking about.  It took more sugar to get that same feeling of satisfaction.  Before the guilt set in, of course.

What didn't occur to me was the fact that all that stress eating, the cravings, mood swings and depression might be exacerbated by hormones in the IUD.

Then I googled Mirena weight gain and found forums and message boards populated with messages from lots of women experiencing the exact same symptoms I've been having.

Today I'm calling my ob-gyn to have this thing yanked.  I realize that after that, I'll have to deal with the fact that if I remain fat and depressed, it's my own damn fault and will finally have to go in for that lobotomy/liposuction treatment at the boutique medical facility/spa.  I'm prepared for the worst.

Mind you, contraception is not something to be taken lightly.  I knew I'd have to discuss this with MathMan.  I told him what I'd found out - how other women had experienced the weight gain, the mood swings and cravings, the bloated feeling, the boob rash and acne.  I told him what I planned to do.  He listened in his typical fashion - supportive with a hint of skepticism.  I'm pretty used to that.

"Oh and hey, the info I've found suggests that after a few weeks without this thing, I'll get my sex drive back."

I love it when he jumps up and clicks his heels like that.

Or Maybe It's Because I Just Have One of Those Faces

So the nurse came and...........................................went yesterday.  She was a very chatty lass who was all about the testifying.

Chloe, who is now home from college and has a new job waitressing at the local barbecue joint (yay!) was here, too.  To be more specific, she was working on her butt-groove in the loveseat just like she does everything else.  Driven.  Goal-oriented.  Successfully.  Let's just say if she could have a G.P.A. for butt-groove wear, she'd have a 4.0.  Her butt groove would qualify her for high honors.  Is that cum laude or the other one.  Anyway, now this just sounds like a dirty post which it is not.

So there I was trying not to make eye contact with the scales Nurse Chatty had placed without comment on my kitchen floor (good thing I mopped ten minutes before she got there or those scales may have become a permanent fixture on that sticky mess) and Nurse Chatty was opening sterile plastic packages of medical supplies with her teeth and talking to me about her ex-cheating-husband and the three guys she's met on Plenty o' Fish and Chloe was in the next room fusing with the loveseat when Nurse Chatty tells me that upon her husband's last escapade of illicit sex and such, GOD spoke to her and told her what to say to him and what to do.

I tried to maintain an air of complete ....um.........believability?  not-about-to-run-screaming-from-the-room-ility?  Criminy, is there even a word for that demeanor one tries to maintain when confronted with something just short of shocking and not exactly not amusing?  What does incredulous mean, anyway?

Okay, yes, yes, I live in the Bible Belt and should be used to this religious-speak by now, but it wasn't so much the testifying, but Nurse Chatty's complete lack of self-consciousness when talking to a stranger about intimate details of her life and then dragging her god and his voice into it.  I was knocked back a little on my heels, I suppose.  I mean, I'd apologized to her because the house still smelled of bacon from that morning's breakfast.  (Honestly, I was relieved the bacon smell masked the eau de cat)  I'd been concerned about an overpowering bacon/cat smell and she was telling me about how her husband's new woman had spurned her attempts to pray for her.

For the record, she didn't mind the bacon scent at all.  "Oh don't you worry about that.  You wouldn't believe the smells in some of the houses I go into.  It's enough to make you cry for the people who live there."  I hoped she couldn't smell those cat undertones.  Or even if she did, she certainly was gracious about it.

So anyway, there we were, her personal stuff out there for discussion, me still fretting about my little white weight lie and Chloe becoming one with the leather.

I smiled and tried to keep my blood pressure from betraying my sense of anxiety on both our behalfs.  And then Chloe got up to switch out the dvd she was watching.  I glanced at her as she walked across the living room.  Yes, you guessed it - we made eye contact.  And I sucked in my lips trying not to laugh and that's when Nurse Chatty looked right at me.  Quick!  What does one do?

I did what anyone who's been living here as long as we have would do.  I smiled, "Well, bless your heart."

It's the only proper thing one can do in that situation, of course.  And she smiled.  "Thank you for listening to me.  I haven't told anyone this stuff.  Except for my pastor."

I swear, when I was finishing college and took that What Color Is Your Parachute Test (okay, I know, that was bad timing, maybe taking that test before spending all the time and money on a degree would have made more sense) the results announced that I should be a minister, rabbi, writer (ahem), teacher, psychologist or some kind of therapist.

Silly me.  I thought it was a joke, that test, because it never did tell me what color my parachute was.

I Hear Audrey Hepburn Had a Thing for Red Velvet

Because it's been brought to my attention that I could keel over or get hit by a monster truck or attacked by a pack of rabid raccoons at any time, I recently applied for a life insurance policy.  I suppose MathMan is right when he tells me that leaving him alone to raise these children would be inconsiderate enough, but to leave him broke and alone?  Unforgivable.   (Please take note:  MathMan is the beneficiary.  I'm counting on you to watch my back.)

Besides, saying that I'm worth more dead than alive and meaning it, knowing it's true strikes just the proper morbid tone I need to help color "those" days.  It lends a faux-authenticity to the narrative I indulge in right before I quell and admit to myself that I still like me just a little to much to do that.  Well that and an unmitigated fear of the unknown. Plus I'm not so keen on final acts. Too final.

So now we begin the process that often ends with a body in the library.  At least in the mysteries of which I'm so fond.  Those wacky Brits.  They're not dying of gunplay.  Well, not so much.  They're much more creative.  Arsenic poisonings, stabbings with ancient Celtic spear points, "accidental" shotgun wounds, shoving one another off church towers.  They're so not gangster.

But back to this life insurance business.  It's a three step process because it's that much fun.

First I went to the office of the nice lady who sends us those colorful birthday greetings postcards with The Big Insurance Company Logo.  I gave some them information about my height and weight, paid my money and signed on the official line.

Next I answered four hundred and six questions about my health history, the health history of my parents, my siblings, my next door neighbor Ed and the Boxer down the street.  That was over the phone.  I said yes as my "electronic" signature.

Step three is a visit from a nurse who will give me an exam.  She told me to fast for 4 - 6 hours before she gets here at 2pm on Friday.  Fast?  No problem.  I've been in a near starvation state for three days now. It's technically a low carb eating plan, but I prefer to think of it as a slice of hell.

Many years ago I smoked.  I quit.  No problem.  I like my alcohol, but I can take it or leave it.  No problem.  But breaking up with sugar?  Well, I'm not climbing the walls, but I assure you there have been moments when you might see me stealing empty Oreo packages from my neighbors' trashcans just so I could lick off the crumbs.  Did you know coffee grounds look an awful lot like Oreo crumbs?

Addiction is so undignified.

So the nurse is coming and I'll be all ready to pee in a cup and my stomach will be growling like Leonard Cohen without the clever lyrics.  It will be like tea time at the Manor.  Without the tea and fancy cakes.  I'll try to be gracious, of course, but it may be difficult from my place on the floor where I'm sure I'll have fainted dead away. 

It occurred to me tonight as I stood on the scales for the 82nd time today that I should probably stick hard to this eating plan because I may have told the woman at the insurance office that my weight range is Audrey Hepburnish.

I stepped off the scale and wandered aimlessly around the bedroom in a stupor.  My pants remained on the bathroom floor where I left them when I weighed myself.

"I need that cake," I whined to MathMan.  That cake is what is left of the red velvet confection from Chloe's birthday.  Just one piece sits there oozing cream cheese frosting.   

MathMan would not play along.  He understands his role, my role and the role of the cake.  Were I to give in to temptation, I'd spend the rest of the evening extolling how I should now go ahead and have some ice cream, that stash of Hershey's in the top drawer, what's left in the potato chip bag and the remaining chocolate truffles from Mothers Day.

"Forget about that cake.  How about a little workout instead?"  He was looking at me over the rim of his glasses as I lay across the edge of the bed where I'd flopped so unceremoniously.

Silly me.  He meant the gym.

I still want cake.

Fat Fat The Water Rat

Today I had MathMan take a "Before" photo of me.  I took one look at it, put down the chocolate bunny I'd been nibbling and wailed.  Really, really wailed.

Oh my fucking goodness. "I look like that?"

Okay, so a while ago, a long while ago I may have mentioned here that I was going to try to lose weight and get into shape. I'd have been better off if I'd simply said I was going to take up smoking while developing a meth habit as back up because the counting calories and working out thing wasn't quite working out the way I'd hoped.

Part of the problem was that on that whole counting calories thing, I was missing the point.  I was supposed to count up to a certain number and then stop eating.  Oh.

Then I got sick with the real influenza.  The 1918 or whatever kind, not the one that we all call the flu, but is really some kind of intestinal bug.  No, this was the cough up a lung, get all feverish and feel like you've been run over by a truck influenza.  Although I suppose in 1918 the survivors must have said they felt like they'd been run over by a fast moving wagon.

So for two weeks, I stopped exercising because I couldn't breathe and I find breathing to be highly critical to exercise.  I realize this doesn't make me special. Instead, I did just as the doctor ordered.  I rested.  I sat, reclined, lay about and generally moved as little as possible because I just felt so meh.  It was like depression without the fun parts.

Then, there was that confusion over the Starve a Cold, Feed a Fever or was it the other way around.  I went with feeding.  A lot.  And often.  My fever was hungry and I took care of its every need.  Popsicles.  Ice cream.  Cream cheese on white toast with a smear of strawberry jam.  Ham sandwiches.  Cool Whip straight from the container.  That fever invoked cravings I never knew I had.

My weight increased.  I could feel myself ballooning.  Paint me blue and I'd be just like Violet in Charlie and Chocolate Factory. And may I just tell you, it's fucking uncomfortable.  I hate this.

So last week I went to the library and took out Bill Phillips' Body for Life.  In 12 weeks I'm going to transform my body and mind.  If I don't I'm going to kill myself.  Seriously.  It will be slow, painful to watch and my clothes still won't fit, but I assure you it will be suicide.  I'm too damn fat.  And it will kill me.

So here we go again.  I have my plan.  I have my goals - they're written down.  I know what I'm to do and I better fucking do it because nothing fits.  I'm sick of waking up with a sore back.  I hate it that I flinch when MathMan reaches his loving arm across me in bed because I'm ashamed of my belly fat.  I am sickened at the notion that the kids probably look at me and wonder why I can't be svelte and pretty like the other moms they know.  Even the cats look at me with disdain when I apologize to them in the morning because I can't bend over to pick up their food bowls without groaning.

I mean just this morning, MathMan and I were watching a dvd and one of the characters was described by a couple of the other characters as a "little tub of lard."  I cringed because I was thinking that compared to me, he didn't look fat.

Simply put - I don't want to be this person anymore, buried under killing fat, hiding under pounds of flesh that are the result of bad choices and a bit of genetic trickery. Damn genetics.  What?  It would be too much trouble to make me either tall or naturally thin?  I don't require both.

So here we go again. No way in hell am I posting my before picture.  I'd rather run nude through the neighborhood at noon being chased by bees.  Just rest assured that it's enough to make me want - out of sheer vanity - to follow through this time.  Because if I don't, the disappointment in myself might kill me before the disease does.

Sparked

I can't believe I missed my blog's anniversary. I'd say blogiversary, but I'm never sure how to spell it. Bloggaversary? Bloggiversary? Anyway, it's been a year since I switched to writing in this one place because I was overloaded with blog commitments. And what do you think I've noticed today? Of course, the commitments have piled on again. But now it's more of the twitter, facebook variety, which are quicker and to the point. Much easier to see a lot in a shorter amount of time. Still a major source of time gone missing.

Because too much is never enough, I've added two new places where I'm tracking my lifestyle changes, but I'm only going to use one. It's here. I'm going to stop using the first one I started. I like the tracking better on this one. I've spent a good part of the day setting things up on that fitness website and it reminds me a bit of the old days when we would spend two hours setting up our Barbie houses and fifteen minutes actually playing. Nevertheless, I'm going to do what I can to use the available and free technology on my quest for fitness.

It felt just a bit hypocritical as I set up the pages today while I ate things like birthday cake, potato chips and Kraft Dinner warmed over. Alternately sucking some Betty Crocker frosting straight from the tube and taking my measurements seemed just a bit over the top, but I won't let the shame of it stop me from getting up tomorrow and trying to eat things that won't make me sorry later.

Since I started paying attention, I've lost 2 pounds. It's a good start and I'm trying hard not to freak out about what a setback today might have been. I know it's counterproductive and will only lead to me doing the old "might as well have that bowl of ice cream now that I've already blown the day" attitude. To tell you the truth, though, a day of being completely sedentary and consuming mostly refined sugar has left me feeling sluggish and yawning. It's 6:30 in the evening and I'm ready for bed. I need to remember this feeling and the knowledge that it's a direct result of my wicked, wicked ways.

Until then, well, you know......

My kind of veggie plate! Mac and cheese, mashed potatoes and a sweet potato.
At least the beans were green.

Will Get Back to You When I Can See My Toes

Well, cake got involved yesterday. I don't know if I'll ever be able to fully deny my inner four year old. As many of you pointed out yesterday, that's no excuse for not trying. I agree.

I'm touched by the outpouring of support for this endeavor. Some of you mentioned that you relate to my issues. Naturally, I'm glad in the misery loves company way. In comments, some of you have noted that you'll get started on this as soon as this food or that food is gone. I completely understand.

As I've mentioned in emails to some of you, Sophia's birthday is on the 7th and so there will be more cake in the house. She's turning eleven and wants a vanilla cake with chocolate frosting. Too bad she doesn't want a radish cake with Brussels sprouts frosting. Now that, I could away from without feeling the least little pang.

And since she has the nerve to turn eleven, I suppose I should have the decency to stop considering this extra heft my last little bit of pregnancy weight.

Thanks for your comments yesterday, even those of you who offered advice, you bunch of rule breakers. As predicted, I heard from the water pusher. I still say noted. I also heard from those of you who've had good results from moderation, even the most basic of exercise, Weight Watchers with fabulous group leaders, and the subtraction of just one food sin at a time. I heard warnings about the perils of using the old "muscle weighs more than fat" argument for having another Krispy Kreme and I'll keep in mind that it's not just the cake, but the potato chips, too, that add more cushion for the pushin.

I was glad to hear, too, from the folks who don't want me to delude myself with ideas that I, too, can look like an adolescent boy with concave cheeks and ribs all pokey outy. It's true, I was never a chick who could balance a ruler across her hip bones so I promise not to go too nuts.

The other comment that caught my eye was the one about not becoming too judgmental and preachy. As if! And even though I am not a fan of Dr. Pepper anymore (I think I threw it up in the 7th grade), it's highly unlikely that I'll ever fully give up drinking the occasional root beer or Coca Cola. I mean, if you don't drink at least one Coke a month, they won't let you vote in the state of Georgia, so right there is reason enough.

The point is, though, this is for my health and hopefully will last long enough for me to fit into some of the clothes I've been drooling over on etsy. This is not to shame you or anyone you love. I've never been an all or nothing kind of person, even when I've wanted desperately to be one. If I offer any tips at all, it will likely be in the form of "don't try this at home without medical supervision and a fire extinguisher close at hand."

So where does that leave yesterday? Was it a success? If you're interested, you can see the chronicle of shame and horror here. There's a general post, a nutrition post and an exercise post. Bets on how long the nutrition and exercise posts will last? Nevermind. I'm going to log the fun stuff over there instead of cluttering this blog up with my constant ruminations about my input and output, the crush I have on my elliptical and when I think I can start wearing pants with zippers again.

For those of you who'd rather not click that link, here's a quick recap of lessons learned:
1. I can zip through 45 minutes on the elliptical as long as I am distracted by something good and commercial free on the telly or by having someone with which to chat. Thanks to MathMan for keeping me company yesterday.

2. According to my elliptical's readout, I "ran" 8 miles in that 45 minutes. Now, I don't trust the accuracy of that, but it's nice to know that I could manage a 5k as long as I'm being towed along on my trusty exercise machine. Listen, I don't really imagine myself participating in something as bone jarring as running this frame through a 5k unless orgasms are involved. So.

3. If Sophie and I are going to have 'tea' when she arrives home from school, I must choose things that contain fiber, perhaps some lean protein and not a lot of carbs. Hot chocolate with toast can't be my fall back so that I get my sweet tooth fix.

And finally, these Hershey's Kisses in the drawer next to me? They need to get gone.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a carrot to nibble.

Call Me Mike or Mary Anne

I have battled my weight since 1987.
In August 1984, I left my hometown weighing 107 pounds and wearing girls size 12 jeans (I'm short. Very short. 5'3/4" short. Short.)
In September 1984, I discovered that weekends, including keg parties and pizza consumed at 2 a.m., began on Thursday nights and ended with the first class on Monday morning. If I managed to make it to class, that is.
In the spring of 1985, I started trying to match bite for Dunkin Donuts bite my boyfriend who was about 6' 1" and who officially qualified as a stringbean. He had a certificate and everything.
Even all that youthful, nubile sex didn't save me from gaining a few pounds.
By July 1985, the size 12 jeans no longer fit. Good thing I was working at Sears so I could use my employee discount to buy some skirts and pants with elastic waistbands.
I went to France for a summer semester in 1987. There I lived on wine, pastries, pizza, coffee, beer spiked with all manner of sin and whatever I could get my hands on at Flunch. No, I didn't really like French food. What a shame my palate was so limited back then. Talk about missed opportunities!
However, thankfully, when I was in France, I walked everywhere.
Then I came back to U.S. and enjoyed all the things I'd missed while I was away. No, I don't mean fruits and vegetables and whole grains. I mean Oreos, peanut butter, Arby's, Skyline Chili and Big Boys. The sandwiches, not the gender.
As luck would have it, I chose that same moment to give up walking for the great American past time of sitting behind the wheel of a car on an ever-expanding bottom.
And so it began. The slow slide into the reality that is fat genes, fat jeans and tears in front of the mirror because no fair!!!! I'm shaped just like Grandma Hewitt!!!

Why couldn't I have really been adopted like my sister told me I was?

Getting married, settling down, and having children did not help matters.
Phentermine did. But that's no solution, clearly. I can suppress my appetite, but eventually, my bad habits catch up with me. Again.

You see, I come by my bad habits honestly. You know how some people are Charmin people or Chevy people? My dad was a Ford man who loved his Pepsi. Cereal wasn't breakfast until we'd ladled tablespoons of sugar over it. That was a gift from our mom. Dad's breakfast of choice was a tall glass of 2% milk with about 1/4 cup of Hershey's Syrup added for giggles. The only bread in our house was white.

I learned well how to nurture my sweet tooth like it was my most precious possession. If I want to clear my family from a room, I don't have to pass gas (although that can work if I've consumed the proper combination of chocolate and green peppers). Nope, all I have to do is load a bowl with cherry jello, sprinkle it with sugar and pour milk over it. Sugar sprinkled on gelatinous sugar. You'd think I was eating raw brains or something.

But I am not here to play the blame game. I'm a grown up. I am perfectly capable of making my own choices now. I just choose to make all the wrong ones when it comes to food and exercise.

It's come to my attention, however, through the baleful stare I receive from the scales right before they squeeze their eyes shut in pain as I step on them, that things are horribly out of control. Again. I am obese. Contrary to conventional wisdom, saying it does not make it any easier. I no longer can see myself as a potentially thin person. I can't even remember what it looked like. Even my eyelids look fat. No really.

Bless his heart, MathMan pointed it out the other day without knowing.
Him: Are you sinuses bothering you?
Me: Yes, a little. Why?
Him: Your eyes look puffy.

When he left the room, I ran, okay... I lumbered to the bathroom to stare at myself in the mirror. More injustice! My mother's eyelids had attached themselves to my face!

I have nothing and no one to blame but myself.

I'm genetically predisposed to being rotund. I carry my weight around my middle like a fat little apple on fat little legs. Let's just say, I would hate to read how someone might describe me in writing.

You know, once, a long long time ago, when I worked for AARP, one of the older volunteers (older being someone in their late 80s, perspective, my friends) was overheard describing me as "you know, that pretty, chubby girl." I was crushed. I wanted to parse the heck out of that statement. Did he mean pretty, but chubby or pretty chubby as in "Watch it, girly, or you'll find yourself crossing the line from chubby to fatso before you can say Ice Cream Sandwich."

But I knew what he meant. Chubby, but too cute to call a fatty. That was then. Now, I don't even qualify as cute or a girl. I'm silver-haired and swaddled in a layer of lard that is going to kill me. Slowly. But dead is dead. And I'm not a fan of the nasty way people who are festering with slow killers, the proverbial ticking time bombs, age.

So I'm making some changes and I'm going to log them online because I'm too cheap to go out and buy a notebook. And besides, I've forgotten how to write longhand.

From time to time, I'll share some of my journey? adventure? shame? with you. I know, you're thrilled. But perhaps watching me flounder about in this fat suit (see, I still don't want to believe this is the real me) will A. Make you feel better about yourself; B. Give you some universal sense that you are not alone in your struggles, whatever they maybe; and/or C. Make you laugh, because let's not kid ourselves, watching the fat chick slip and fall? Even I, with my highly cultured sense of humor, find that funny.

The thing I'm not seeking here, to be just flat out honest with you, is advice. People, I'm 44 years old, moderately educated and weigh - well, let's not get too personal. I'm aware of what I should be doing. Both my parents have hypertension and each has some level of diabetes. There have been incidents of colon cancer and breast cancer on my father's side. On my mother's side, it's like nothing to have open heart surgery. People, I get it. I really, really do. But getting it and implementing it are two entirely different things. I am an emotional eater with a heavy hitter sweet tooth. I am allergic to exercise. Really. I have a doctor's note.

But there it is, plain and simple, what I need to do. Eat less of what's bad for me. Eat more of what's good for me. Move more. Yes, yes, yes, and yes. And for that one person who is going to email me and tell me to make sure I'm drinking enough water. Noted.

So if I don't want your advice, why I am writing about it? Well, accountability. You know, MathMan has a cute way of describing accountability. He likens it to Mike Mulligan and his steam shovel. In the book, Mike and his trusty steam shovel Mary Anne dig better, faster, deeper when they have an audience.

Well, writing about this need to get healthy is my own way of doing a Mike Mulligan. If I write about it, I know one or more of you are going to occasionally remind me of my plan to be healthy. Oh yeah, you'll whack me with it just after I bake a pie or write about consuming martinis and wine full of empty calories. And that's cool. That's accountability. That's what friends are for, right?

But then there are those of you who will snatch a picture of me from my flickr and send it to me and make me want to grind my teeth and scream at the universe and dive head first into some Ben & Jerry's Phish Food. And that's cool, too. There's a bit of me who likes you when you're cruel.

Of course, I should say here that I am indeed doing this for my health. But the truth is that I want to get skinny so that I can indulge my fantasies of swanning about in steampunk fashions or vintage clothing from the 30s, 40s and 50s.

Mostly, though, I'm doing this Because I soooo need a day when I can look in the mirror and not say to myself "Fat, fat, the water rat....."

Whatever it takes, People, whatever it takes......