Taste Bust

On Sunday, the most glorious thing happened: I had Oreos.

These were my first Oreos of the year. We didn't have them growing up as a kid (grama's house featured the off-brand vanilla variety) so there were too many nights as a depressed young woman I'd eat a whole package of the mint kind. With a glass of milk, of course.

I was buying gauze at the pharmacy on Sunday when they caught my eye. There was a snack stand, and among the carb- and calorie-laden options was a four pack of mint oreos, dipped in chocolate. They were the very definition of where heaven and hell combine.

I wasn't particularly hungry but bought them with a note of forgiveness and apology. I knew that they would take alot longer to work off than they would to eat, but my self-indulgence said it was ok.

So in the car, I ripped open the package. And .... mmm .... they were gone.

My first Oreos of the year and they were gone without me realizing it.

I do this sometimes. Ok, a lot of times. I eat so fast or so mindlessly that I barely taste something. I look down and it's all gone - how did that happen? Oh yeah, I'm a pig.

The same sort of thing happened tonight. I got home from work at 10 and since I'd not eaten (no groceries + dumb = dumb and hungry Ang). I had two bowls of cereal, scooping the yum in my mouth with nary a pause. One bowl gone, I poured another. I figured it was my caloric right.

Well, I'm paying for it. It's 430, I've been awake for an hour and Craig just groaned at me. I dont know that I wouldn't have woken if I'd eaten the cereal and actually REALIZED what I was putting in my mouth at the speed of light, but maybe it would have been worth it.

Mind Control

For the past two weekends, it's become glaringly obvious how much I let others control my feelings. Not like a zombie or anything, and I'm not talking about the evil media (although the ShamWow guy has me convinced). Rather, it's likely someone I know. And they don't always use that power for good rather than evil.

Yesterday Craig and I had a fight after lunch because he wanted to go home and I wanted to do errands. My aversion to making two trips to the west end is so that I would rather he stay in the car and moan. After one stop, I took him home since he was feeling so icky, because the guilt was making me feel icky too. But because of that fight, I took my sweet time doing errands. Usually I want to spend every spare second of our Sundays together, but this time I wandered around Target, spending 20 minutes in the floss aisle.

And because I was upset and guilty and angry, I decided to REALLY show him and buy a bar of Cadbury dairy milk. And Eat. The whole. Thing.

Ha! Now I can be bitchy AND fat!!

It's like I should assign myself Thinking Error Reports.

Another example of this, also an issue on Sundays, is church. We used to LOVE our church and we went every week. But after I got fired from my youth ministry job (no fault of my own), we just haven't been able to go back. We've made amends with pretty much everyone involved. I took the complaint to the staff comittee. And we even went back a few times. But it just doesn't feel the same anymore.

So because of someone else's asshat behavior, we no longer worship where we married. We don't really go to church at all, actually. And the place I nurtured my spirituality is gone, along with it, my feeling of connection to the Spirit.

It sucks, really.

You'd think as someone who knows so much about OTHER people's minds, I'd be able to at least control my own. And yeah, I'm working on it. But it's a goal much harder to measure than 'lose five pounds'. I think the first step, no more fight chocolate. The first rule of fight chocolate is to not have fight chocolate.

sacrifice

So I made Craig read my most-recent blog posts earlier. When he was finished, I asked him what he thought.

"Very good honey. You are quite dedicated."

This, from the man who NYT begged to run their copy desk (that's my version of the story at least). I know I'm a good writer. I know I'm a bit funny. Why doesn't anyone else know it? And better yet, why doesn't anyone else know it and offer me a book deal and lots of money to do it?

I'm just as good as all the other fat-chick writers. My last name includes Lancaster, which I'd like to consider puts me on the same level as Jen. And I swear, the tales of me sweating all over the gym and mentally hating the gym rat next to me are HIlarious.

Actually, I think I already know what I'm missing.

Alcohol.

See, a couple summers back Craig and I included microbrews, liquor, and over-priced pretty drinks from various restaurant decks among our very own food pyramid (filled out by nachos, fried chicken and burgers. Hey, the nachos had lettuce!). And at the end of the summer, when I realized in a flash of brilliance, "hmm, I think I'm gaining weight," evenings at the three-pint max brewery were the first of the food groups to go. And since then, I've just not gotten back into the habit of drinking. Grad school was in the way, and I don't have that many hard-drinking friends anymore. And to be honest, since I quit smoking the stench of bars make me want to vomit prior to a single drop (in the good old days, I only threw up to drink more).

As it is, we have a wine fridge full of goodies we brought back from California. Three months ago. The best wine in the country, bought at the vineyard, and we haven't tapped it. My former self would be so disappointed. My current self just begs me to be in bed by 9.

But in the effort of accomplishing the life long dream of being a writer who gets paid for it (and doesn't ever have to cover a 4H cat show), I have decided I can do it. I will work out. I will write. I will explore food and self-esteem issues via the world wide web, allowing whoever would chance upon my blog to point and laugh or commiserate and champion.

And, I will drink.

Hey, it's all the name of having my chubby, double-chinned, beaming (and soon to be drunk) face on the jacket of a book. A girl's gotta do what a girl's gotta do.

I'm Number One

I am officially the fattest person in my family.

Oh fuck.

Now, I'm used to being the smartest, cutest and funniest. But those are titles I'm proud to claim. Fattest, though I've been in the running for the top spot for about 7years, I actually tried to avoid.

You've seen that Craig is quickly joining the ranks of the anorectics. And mom, in her own battle of the bulge, hit the 206 mark this week. At this point, I'd just be happy with 246.

So in addition to fattest, I need to make hay to gain the titles of 'healthiest eating' and 'works out the most'. Craig has agreed to purchase me some training sessions for my combined anniversary-Christmas-VDay gift. And my schedule shall continue to permit water aerobics two days a week. Fall is quickly approaching but weekend walks are certainly in the cards for another month or two. And now that I know I can handle the hellish-est of Ultimate Fitness, let's see what an easy day there looks like, shall we?

Because this is one area in which I wanted to be the biggest loser instead of the reining champ.

Fruit Fracas

I really like fruit. What a bold, out-there statement, huh? But the thing is, I don't actually eat all that much of it. Because as much as I may long for the cool, sweet, citrus of summer, I really hate cutting it.

And yes, I'm aware this could be classified as 'lazy'.

I have a decent knife or two, gifts from the nuptials last year. But I have so many bad memories of trying to SAW through melons with my parents' dull blades that I forget it doesn't have to be that bad in my kitchen.

So last week, I bought a cantaloupe, watermelon and strawberries with the full intention of including them in lunches throughout the week. But between the nightly exhaustion and morning-ly rush, it didn't happen. Last night though, enjoying a night home with the pups, I had time to spare. So I selected a sharp knife and prepared for a mess.

Mess, averted. The whole ordeal took me less than five minutes. And in less than another hour, I ate the whole colorful spread.

So see, even if pulling out a knife is too daunting a task, when I put my mind to it, I can do anything. Even eat an entire watermelon (small!), cantaloupe and quart of strawberries in one sitting. That's easier than actually putting the bowl in the fridge, after all.

"It's Water Weight"

Man, I wish that I could assign the water-weight label to 80 pounds or so. But since it's not possible, I am using the water to my benefit.

I am EXERCISING in it.

I went to a couple bad-ass classes this week. Monday was Ultimate Fitness, featuring a workout that made even the instructor beg for mercy. Tuesday's was advertised as a 'gentle' workout, titled 'Mind-Body Connection'. It was actually a beginner's Pilates class that resulted in me sweating all over the Y-provided mat.

Wednesdays at work are what I affectionately refer to as 'hell day'. The day starts with a meeting from 9-11:30 a.m. There's another at 1:30, which lasts til about 3. At 3 or 3:15 (depending on if it's training or just a staff meeting), we meet until 4 when a lot of people go home. It is also a day at which I arrive to work at 8 a.m. after working until 9 p.m. the previous night. Now, my work may not be physical but my mind is sure flexing muscle. And after a summer of unemployment, let me just say it's HARD.

So on Wednesday, instead of collapsing at home at 5 p.m. like a sane person, I went to the pool. There is a water exercise class (apparently the term 'aerobics' is dated, who knew?) that starts at 5:30, just enough time for me to hang up on the computer-help tech and ride bike the three blocks to the Y. Normally, I would rather swim in hot lava than put on a swimsuit in public, but since the other people in this class are actually bigger and more out of shape than me, I can actually pull it off (or pull it on, if you will - ha! fat girl in a swimsuit joke!).

As I walked into the water, the stress melted away. My brow unfurrowed. My breathing returned to a normal range.

I even frolicked.

I grew up in the pool, riding my bike the two miles into town to jump in at noon then pedaling up the hill and around the cemetary home around 8 p.m. Northeastern Montana summer features sunshine until about 9 from the time school is out until the bells ring for return. I loved every freckly, chlorinated minute of it. I lifeguarded a summer after high school, which remains among the few selected as 'best summer EVER'. So, I have an affinity for the pool.

Rather than wear a belt, I chose to work my core extra hard and just work it without the floatation device. I may have waterboarded myself during the crunches, and I think the ladies who wear towels on their heads may have been less than amused at my twisty-turny splashing, but I was as happy as a fish.

I vowed to remember how much I enjoyed it on Friday as well, when I would have two more fatiguing days. So I returned tonight. It's not that hard of a workout, although my heart rate rises and the resistance is certainly working my muscles better than my preferred activity of reading.

And as long as I'm the youngest in the class, I'm going to bust my ass like I'm Michael Phelps.

Not Fair Fatty

As you're aware, my husband was in a horrific motorcycle accident a month ago. A deer jumped in front of him on the interstate, he wiped out, broke his ribs, got road rash, collapsed his lung and lacerated his spleen. He continues to be in pain, and suffering side effects we weren't counting on (apparently he left his sense of humor on the highway with most of his arm skin).

But thank God, he is doing better and I have him around still. I mean, I am getting all sorts of excuse-mileage out of this one!

But I have to admit, my sympathy for him has greatly diminished of late. You see, when one's internal organs are all buggered up, apparently the stomach doesn't want anything in it. The first week in the hospital, I had to force him to eat anything. I was thrilled when he had three or four spoonfuls of mac and cheese. He didn't even want carrot cake, which he would salivate on command for previously.

It didn't change much when we got home. He would have a nibble of one of the various fab meals brought to us by his coworkers (see: the time Ang ate a whole pan of homemade mac and cheese). He threw away a milk shake. And when he made his fabulously famous chicken and dumplings, he was done before I was back for a second helping.

A couple weeks ago my aunt was visiting. We don't see her often since she lives in the middle of nowhere. She immediately commented on how much weight he's lost. God Bless her, she didn't comment on how much weight I have NOT lost.

Today, Craig posted these photos on facebook:


They are the 'before' and 'after' shots of Craig. In so many ways, our life has turned been divided into 'before' and 'after' the accident. Now, for Craig, it coincides with 'before' and 'after' he lost 20+ pounds in a month without running a step.

For the record, he doesn't recommend this as a weight loss solution. In addition to the $35K medical-bill pricetag, I guess it hurts.

Street Walker

I have to admit, the gym is not my favorite place to be. It's full of people. And they're sweaty. Ewwww....

So instead of the Y, I have adopted the south side neighborhood as my personal playground. Wednesday morning I was up early, meeting the sun as I pounded pavement. This morning, between an unscheduled puppy pee and rain, I opted for another hour of sleep and made my rounds tonight.

I can't help but feeling that walking, regardless of how much I enjoy it, how far I go or how much I sweat, is an inferior workout to lifting or intense cardio. Incredible shrinking husband (down 20-or-so pounds since losing his appetitie on I94, along with a few layers of skin), back in his four-mile days, basically REFUSED to walk with me, saying it wasn't "enough" for him. But I can still get the tingly, muscle-lengthening feeling from a longer walk that I do when I go hardcore on the elliptical.

The pups accompanied me tonight, and my route is not dog-friendly. Not only are there lots of other dogs to bark at them, but the traffic on State Street is such that I have to stay very alert and keep them close. I prefer my walks to be mindless, nothing more tasking than singing along to Dolly and Cher, breathing in and out like an alligator. Plus, the pooches got stickers in their feet. It was a good workout for all of us although about halfway through they were ready to get back on the couch with dad.

I downloaded some new songs to entertain me in the morning (Welcome to the Jungle, some Lil Mama and When I Grow Up) and organized my favorite songs into a "Going Fast" playlist. That way I won't come across any relaxing tunes when I'm trying to walk my heart into gear.

I feel like these walks are a step in the right direction. It doesn't necessarily matter what I am doing as long as I enjoy it, since that is the key to continuation. Maybe as I get in better shape - hopefully before snow flies, as that will end my street walking days - I'll be more open to lifting and running again.

But for now, these shoes are made for walking, and that's just what they'll do.

I've got a big butt and I cannot lie

So at the gym where I work out, there is a wall of mirrors across from the weight machines. It figures that when people who are in great shape are working on getting into better shape, they want to watch themselves doing so.

I use the mirrors to check out my ass.

Now this isn't just for vanity's sake. When I am passing those machines, I want to avert my eyes so as to not be cursed by their bone crushing power. See, I am basically scared of lifting weights, at least when it comes to upper body. I have had so many shoulder problems, and now that it's mostly under control I don't want to fuck anything up. Makes sense right? So yeah, the ass.

It was a little more than a year ago when I noticed that my booty was becoming bigger. I even likely remarked to Craig something along the lines of "hmm, I think I'm getting a big butt." Chances are, he'd already noticed.

I'd like to say that my ass enlarged as a result of muscle turning to fat. But really, I don't know that there was enough muscle there to blame. Apparently, around the age of 25 my love of carbs started depositing on my butt and thighs. Up until that point, I had a tummy but the rest of me was acceptable. More acceptable anyway.

Last year when I was working with a trainer, he had me squat, lunge and glute-push all in the efforts of having a tight bum under my wedding dress. The sight of Reese shaking his booty motivated me through many sets of the hateful exercises.

On one of my mirror walks recently, it was confirmed that indeed, my ass has not reduced in size. In fact, my ass seems to have taken on a life of its own. You know how women's hips sort of sway when they walk? Well nowadays, my ass sways too. After the hips. Like a one-two, one-two to a very, very bad song.

So at this point, it seems that my ass has taken on a life of its own. There's the increased size, the fleshier flesh, and the ripply cellulite. And now, its own little dance. To a very, very bad cha-cha.

Domino Effect

Ever have one of those days when EVERYTHING sucks? You wake up late, have bad hair, can't find any clothes, the boss is crappy, the clients crappier, fight with your spouse and the dog pees on the bed?

Well I had the OPPOSITE kind of day.

I was up in plenty of time for work. Had a good breakfast and a pleasant-enough husband. My outfit was a cute one and I had on new shoes. My two-minute commute was uneventful, and the HR lady at the new job was a Cowboys fan. So far, so good.

The second half of my work day consisted of meeting my wonderful coworkers, whom I'm already excited to be working with. My mentor was very reassuring and answered all the questions and quelled my insecurities. My supervisor sang my praises to other case managers, based entirely on my interview. The man who is going to be training me for the next few days grew up in Ft. Worth, so we had an instant connection. At the end of the day, he encouraged me to ease into work and not let it be another stress in my life. Can you believe it? Someone in leadership, at a new job, telling me to take it easy?!

I got home to a husband who was in a great mood and had a freshly brushed mouth. He planted a big ol' smooch on me before we took the pups up to have dinner with Pops (father in law). BBQ ribs are good the second day too! The gentlemen watched a fb game while I made update phone calls to mom, grama and auntie. I was happy to report I have the best feeling I've ever had about starting a new job with this one.

I took off for the gym and while making my way through the building, another woman asked if I WORK there?! So apparently, I looked like I belonged there! I beat out 30 minutes on the elliptical, a soundtrack of fave tunes on the iPod. Off to the grocery store, where my great energy, great day and great mood culminated in making great choices. Got some protein drinks for Craig and I, and we're even going to try a mango!!!

Watch out world, Here I Am!!!

"Be one of those women that when your feet hit the floor in the morning, the devil says 'oh shit'."

Fashion Fast

I have been reading Scales from the Tale, a collection of blog posts written by women trying to lose weight. So basically, other blogs like this one. Only they make money from it.

Anyway, there are several essays about the state of woe Fat Chicks find themselves in when trying to shop for clothes. I add "for clothes" because as a people Fat Chicks tends to have the best shoes, purses, jewelry, and various accessories known to man. Some, like me, store warehouses worth of body, hair and makeup products in their bathrooms. We can shop, oh yes we can. It just so happens that the fashion industry in general doesn't really want us to.

Or at least that is how it seems. These Fat Chicks were bemoaning the fact that they have to rely on Lane Bryant or Avenue to do their shopping. As a small-town girl turned to midsize-town girl, I have to say: I do not pity them.

Growing up a size 14 Fairview, I wore a lot of XLs and Silvertab jeans (everyone was doing it). There was no such thing at Torrid, Maurices' extended line or even online shopping at that point. The JCPenney in Sidney had nothing for me then, and it doesn't now either.

So now I live in the city, right? Well JCPenney is still my only option. And their plus clothes have the styles for old and young mingled together, blended in with maternity clothes. A woman there today (need black pants for work ... no success) was bitching that everything looked maternity. Could be, she was IN the Maternity department.

A trip to Lane Bryant, for me, costs about $200 hands down. Their jeans still don't fit me (I wonder what it's like to have jeans actually fit?) but I can find slacks, tops, jackets and hell yes even PANTIES that fit me. I have never left that store (the nearest is in Fargo, so it's not like I have a lot shopping opportunity) without feeling like it might just be possible for me to look as hot as the friends I shop with.

A trip to Dress Barn in June (oh god, I just admitted it) actually resulted in some pretty cute clothes. Crop pants that I've worn on every interview this summer, denim capris with a matching jacket that is going to be adorable come fall, and even plain old tshirts that I dared purchase in pink! and orange! There are now two splashes of color on my side of the closet. Miraculous.

So until some hot designer (how pathetic, I can't even think of a name) comes up with clothes that will FIT me, you can find me in my "uniform" - tank top, capri work out pants, running shoes. Let me rephrase that - that's what you can find me in until I replace it with a uniform two sizes smaller.

It Could Be Worse

There are worse things than being fat.

Like your husband crashing his motorcycle and being in the hospital for a week. Like watching your husband crash his motorcycle. Like your husband having broken ribs and a collapsed lung. Like your husband being in pain every day.

On July 21, Craig bought a motorcycle in Sidney. At 9:30 that night, just a few miles east of Pompey's Pillar, a deer jumped in front of him and he put the bike down. The bike got a dent. Craig got road rash, and those broken ribs and collapsed lung I mentioned. It was the worst thing that either of us have been through.

And the best thing. We've been more honest with each other these last few weeks than all summer. We have new perspective on life and our priorities. We are taking action about his health, my health, our relationship health. Our finances are being addressed. We've made new connection with God, expressing gratitude each day that Craig is alive, and his injuries weren't more severe.

We've had great support from friends and family. That includes daily meals from coworkers at the Gazette. So while I certainly have weight and exercise and nutrition on my mind, it's not the most important thing. In fact, it takes a back burner. I'm just happy if I remember to eat, let alone get us both showered, dressed and out of the house in a day.

I start a new job next week, and it's hard to be excited. Right now I'm just allowing myself grace and forgiving myself for finding comfort in brownies. It's gotta stop soon, I know, but there are moments when it's all just too much.

So hopefully I'll be more active on here starting next week. But for right now, I just am happy to be a wife with a husband. At any size.