So Why?

As you read my blog, you may be wondering “If she hates counting calories and eating vegetables and acquiring calluses on her butt, WHY is she doing this?”

Last night, as I went from the elliptical for twenty minutes to the rowing machine for ten, I asked myself the same question. I don’t like exercise yet. I don’t like being sore for a week before my muscles finally agree to work properly again. Am I really doing this for a NUMBER on a digital scale that I don’t like? And it’s not like the scale likes me, either. Am I avoiding emotional eating so I can one day, maybe, see a digital read out of one-something-something? Where my thigh met my butt was cramping, I had sweat in my love handles. If I’m just doing this for a number, I’m done.

Losing weight is hard freakin’ work. And I think about it all the time. I feel obsessed with food, which is interesting. I never felt obsessed with food before I started learning how to lose weight. But now? “Have I eaten few enough calories to have one more shot of vodka? I REALLY want this Reese’s, but have I eaten too much fat already today? I really should write my blog, but I haven’t exercised at all this week.”

TOO MUCH TROUBLE for a number, whether it’s weight, measurements, or a pants size. But that’s ok, because WEIGHT LOSS isn’t the goal. It’s the tool.

I went on a cruise with a friend. On our flight back up, we were supposed to sit together. It’d work out—she was thin, and I take up about 110% of a seat. So if I take a little bit of her seat, it doesn’t matter. Somehow, we got separated and I sat next to this Asian man. It was very uncomfortable, because I was very focused on keeping my legs together and my arms on my lap when he says “Maybe next time you should buy two seats.”

I recently went to Busch Gardens. An attendant came over to help strap me into a roller coaster. I deferred, and she persisted. Even called a friend over. The ride was delayed while two people took turns pushing on a harness and strapping me in.

I gave myself a pedicure this weekend. In order to paint my toes, I have to either 1.) hold my breath and paint as many as I can in one go or 2.) find a really weird position that should be taught in a yoga class. It’s usually a combination OF the two.

So why am I losing weight? I want to fit comfortably in my own airliner seat. I want to be able to sit in ANY seat on a roller coaster and not need assistance. To be able to paint my toes while breathing would be fantastic. I want the ability to do physical activities without feeling like I’m lagging behind, and not wonder if I’m going to break something by sitting on it.

The perfect weight is not 160, or 150, or 140. It’s the weight where I can do the things I want to do and not be limited by my own body.

Today, Tomorrow... Forever...

Weight loss is an exhausting, full time job. But can it really be anything else when I’ve spent twenty-one years accumulating bad habits?

It’s not even that I’m physically exhausting myself, though spinning certainly was. (No, I haven’t gone back yet. It’s on the to-do list. I’m considering using stationary bikes more often, so I can get some calluses on my butt cheeks, and thus endure less pain.) Doing simple addition isn’t that challenging either. “If I had an egg, which is 70 calories, and a glass of 1% milk, which is 110 calories, and a piece of toast…” I can do that. Especially since I use www.sparkpeople.com which has a really nifty calorie counter for me. Even the overly loving community members (“I ate 7,000 calories today! Bad me!” “No, you aren’t bad. I’m sure you’ll be within your 1,200-1,500 range tomorrow…”) themselves are what get to me.

I get to me.

No pun intended, but… The good ol’ US of A treats obesity like it’s an elephant in the room. And people who are obese do, too. What really gets me is all of these excuses we make up for ourselves. “It’s genetic.” “I’m big boned.” Please take a moment, and be honest. If to nobody else, than to yourself.

It’s you.

It’s… me.

And that’s the discouraging part. I already know most of the tricks. I haven’t figured out exactly how fat leaves the body, but it’s on my to-do list. The nutrition professor at school will get a visit from me soon.

But I mean, if I already know how to lose weight—10 minutes of exercise a day, eat between 1950-2300 calories—why am I not skinny already? To think that I have to be successful at exercising AND eating correctly most days for the rest of my life is terribly overwhelming. Looking up every single thing I eat is annoying—especially on days I mess up. But it’s not like failing to enter my food into my log is going to make me un-eat it. So when I look back at my log and see that I’ve eaten over 2300 calories by significant amount four out of the past six days, it’s just like… “Dammit. Am I ever going to get this right?”

I am a person who believes in behaviorism. So I know that behavior change is gradual. I know that with the proper set up, it will stick. And I have to believe that it will. Because the only thing that would be worse than weighing over three hundred pounds my entire adult life would be weighing over three hundred pounds for all of my adult life except for two. Two years of being fit would be worse.

I need to just plug away, and focus on today. And tomorrow. And not any further out than that. Because it’s the further out that gets me every time and makes each day a great day to not count calories or exercise.

So. I will forget about next week, and next month, and next year. I will focus on today. What can I do in the next twenty four hours to make my life a little better?

Adventures in Fitness: Spinning

What with needing to lose 32 pounds as my first weight loss goal, I decided that I needed to get moving. Literally. Since I enjoy exercise classes and have some free time Friday nights, spinning seemed like a logical choice.

Passes for spinning are distributed at 6:30.

By six twenty nine, I was prepared and at the desk.

Student ID: Check.
Exercise outfit: Check.
Clean sneakers: Check.
Padded seat: Check.

For those of you who do not know what spinning is: it is hell on a stationary bike. You sit on a stationary bike and follow along with what the instructor says, whether she says “Stand and sprint” or “sit and recover.” I had not ridden a bike (stationary or otherwise) for any significant length of time in years. I figured it was going to be unpleasant. My friend was no help at all, talking about how intense it was going to be and how we were going to die… Thanks, Krys. Just the boost I needed to get me through the door.

“So, who here has never done spinning before?” The instructor looked quite fit. Actually… everyone in the room looked either fit or borderline anorexic. I am the first (but not the only) to raise my hand, and she comes over to help me set my bike up.

I couldn't help but notice that I’m the only one who brought a pad for my seat. It made me feel less hardcore. I mean, being 320 pounds and doing spinning is hardcore, right? But the seat seems to say “I can’t keep up with everyone here. I’m not as intense as you.”

When everyone was settled, she started the music. We hadn't started yet and my butt already hurt. It was not promising. I still had fifty five minutes to go— wait, what did she say? Did she ask if anyone would mind if we only went for forty five minutes? It was brilliant! The incredibly slender woman next to me complained about that being less calories she could drink that night, but I’d have agreed to anything that would have gotten me off of that instrument of torture sooner.

Ten minutes in and I wasn’t sure whether sitting or standing was worse. Sitting hurt my behind, and standing hurt everything else. I allowed myself to get off of the bike three times, giving myself a short break during which I marched in place.

Just because I couldn’t follow along doesn’t mean I let myself relax. Each time I got off I desperately wanted to walk out of the room. I didn’t, though. People would have seen. Worse, I would have been stuck with the knowledge I quit.
When all was said and done, my butt cheeks feel as though I sat atop a flight of roughly carpeted stairs and slid down them in a thong, then straddled a piece of splintered wood. My toes were numb and my feet were cramped.

I told myself I was proud as I limped out of the room, desperately trying to make my arms obey. Maybe tomorrow I’ll leave with a sense of “Go me!” Last Friday, all I left with was a wedgie that was visiting regions clothes should never go and arms so tired that I couldn’t quite reach it. Gotta start somewhere, right?

Scale Induced Ice Cream

The scale has a sense of humor.

I’d decided I’d like to lose weight. Ten percent of my current body weight, in fact. It’s a good goal. I hadn’t weighed in yet, but I knew that I was looking at a minimal loss of 28 pounds. Maybe 30.

So I peed, washed my hands, stripped out of my clothes. Took the scale out from its hidey hole. Spent some time fidgeting, shifting my weight from one foot to the other, and then back again. Finally took a deep breath and stepped onto the scale. With supreme effort, I managed to avoid shifting while on the scale. Five seconds is a long time to wait.

The offensive number so blandly displayed in the little box couldn’t be right. I waited for a moment. Closed my eyes, opened them again. Yep, it definitely said 3-2-0. What?! That couldn’t be right. I laughed out loud, so that the scale knew I got the joke.

“But seriously. We’re going to try this again, scale. Give me the real answer this time.”

I stepped off. The digital numbers clear and I wait a few more seconds then climb back on. An even longer five seconds finds me at 320.2 pounds.

“Scale! I did NOT gain .2 pounds in ten seconds! Take it back!”

I snatched it up from the floor and put it back in its hidey hole. I had a sincere wish that it would rot, and then be forgotten, along with those horribly affronting numbers. 320.2 pounds indeed.

What’s a twenty one year old woman to do when she learns that she weighs 320.2 pounds? The answer is obvious—I needed to mull it over. Three minutes later I found myself on the couch with half a pint of Starbucks ® Java Chip ice cream and a fork.

Sometimes spoons aren’t sharp enough to cut through really hard ice cream, ya know?
Obviously, my mother was to blame. She didn’t teach me correct nutritional habits. Apparently I grew up on raw hot dogs—something she never stopped. I remember sneaking into the kitchen at night and stealing cookies. When my grandma would ask me what I was doing, I would hurriedly stuff it into my mouth and mumble “nothing” around crumbs. Or maybe my step-dad was to blame. There was a time I really wanted to play football, and he told me I wasn’t allowed to play if I didn’t run until I vomited. Really, running-until-puking doesn’t appeal to an overweight twelve year old. Maybe it was both of them, and the fact that when I was in high school we had fast food four nights out of seven, and I was left to cook for myself the nights we didn’t eat Wendy’s. Damn my parents!

I was filled with righteous anger at my parents as I ate that ice cream. About halfway through it, I stopped, and considered what I was doing. I was so angry at weighing over 300 pounds that I was—not exercising. Not journaling. Nope. I was eating ice cream. Maybe, at twenty one years old, I can’t really blame my parents any more. Maybe, at twenty one, I need to look at what I’m doing wrong.

So with one last bite and a deep sigh, I put the cap back on my ice cream and put it back in the freezer.