Surprise! Epilogue...

So, my sister-in-law, who knows I "run" now, texted me, asking if I wanted to do something called a "warrior dash."  Not entirely sure what it was, I checked it out online.

Holy shit.

It's 3.1 miles, which I'm comfortable with.  It's the other stuff that scares me.  Like the fire.  And the barbed wire.  And the fire. 

I'm officially registered.  Husband is too, along with some other friends, which makes it a little less scary and a lot more fun.  In the meantime, I'm "training."  So far this week, this has meant coming home from work and collapsing on the couch in a fit of exhaustion.  I need motivation, I thought, snuggling a little deeper into the couch.  I need to be held accountable...

And here we are again.  Today was my first productive "training" day this week--I got on the elliptical and made what felt like a very unnatural movement with my legs for 45 minutes.  It was actually my first experience with an elliptical, and I came dangerously close to falling off  a couple different times (I let go of the bar to grab water).  Am I just extremely uncoordinated, or are these things cleverly disguised machines that will bring an end to civilization?  I've seen Transformers, people.  I know what I know.  Don't be fooled by their user-friendly Quick Start option...they want your blood.  

I'm 30!

Here's some webernet ambiance for you while you read.

Well, folks, I'm 30.  It's pretty much the exact same thing as 29, except when I stepped on the scale this morning, I was 129.2!

That's right, scale!  I beat you and your stupid scale mind games!  Take that!

So, I did it.  Not without some sweat, tears, lamenting, and nacho binges, but here we are.  And I do want to offer sincere thanks to you guys, the few people I trusted with this blog.  You guys really cheered me on, especially during those dark times when I thought nothing would ever happen.  You really don't know just how much that means to me, unless you imagine me spreading out my arms very, very wide.  There.  That much.  If you ever find yourself needing a cheerleader for any endeavor (unless it's, like, burning monkeys), let me know, and I'll bring the pompoms.  I owe you one (but again, no monkey-burning). 

Lament: One More Week

So, my birthday is a week today.

Shit.

I'm nervous, guys.  Fo' realz.  (I think using the apostrophe after the fo just cost me some street cred).  Last time I weighed myself, I was exactly 131, only one more pound to go.  Seems like that should be a good thing, right?  But here's the thing--my weight never seems to have any rhyme or reason to it.  It's my version of Russian Roulette.  I get on the scale, close my eyes, and pull the trigger.  Maybe I'll be 134, maybe 131.  Who knows?  I just hope I don't kill myself each and every time I do it.

I'm playing another round tomorrow morning, just so I know what I'm dealing with.  If it's above 131, I plan on hurling my body at the couch at break-neck speed (which might happen if I miss the couch, come to think of it), and lamenting.  And by "lamenting," I don't mean I will lay there and feel sorry for myself--this is something Husband came up with.  It's somewhere between meditation and a game that an acting class for 8 year-olds would probably use.  Here's how to play:

1.) Unless you live with someone like Husband, who will not question your weirdness (even though he probably should), check and make sure you're alone.  Don't forget to check under the beds.  I don't know why someone would be hiding under there, but seriously, if a murdering rapist broke into my apartment and heard me playing Lament, I'd be horrified, and probably apologize to him as he was murdering/raping me.  It would be that embarrassing.

2.) Throw your body forcefully on a soft piece of furniture.  This is not the time to half-ass it.  Really put some effort into it.

3.) Ready?  This is your big moment.  Lift your head from wherever it landed, and make a ridiculously over-exaggerated Shirley Temple pout.  If you have trouble with this, scrunch your eyebrows as low as you can (no using your hands, cheaters), and clothespin your lips together.  Got it?  Good.

4.) Now, take the clothespin off your lips and take a deep breathe.  As you exhale, in your whiniest, most melodramatic voice, say, "LAMEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEENNNNNNT!"  Be sure to maintain your bitchface.

5.) Repeat Step 4 as long as needed.  Just so you know, your first few "Laments" should be considered a warm-up.  After you have a couple under your belt, your bitchface should be effortless, and your "Laments" should be building in intensity.  Husband introduced me to this, and I've never had a bad day that it couldn't fix.

6.)***Optional***  This step is not for the weak.  If you do happen to live with someone like Husband, or if you have amazing friends (I mean the kind you would trust with your secrets, hair, and money), you can have a group lament.  In the right company, a group lament will do wonders for your psyche, and solve all your problems.  But be careful--one shy, self-conscious eye-roller has the potential to kill it for everyone.  And nothing good comes from a ruined lamentation.  Do you think the Holocaust would have happened if Hitler had a solid group of friends to lament with after World War 1?  Exactly.

If you happen to be around my apartment tomorrow, and hear a strange noise that resembles Fran Drescher singing "Swing Low, Sweet Chariot," you'll know how the weigh-in went.  

Crunch Time

It's officially one month until my 30th birthday (give or take a day...my birthday is actually July 15th).  The pressure is on.  I've definitely made progress, and I'm feeling good about myself, but the last time I stepped on a scale (last Friday), I wasn't 130.  I was 134.  I would be fine with that, except IT'S NOT 130, DAMMIT.

I mean, come on.  I've been doing this for months now.  I exercise regularly.  I eat fruits and vegetables.  I cut waaaaaayyy down on both fast food and nachos.  Where's my big payoff? 

Not to mention how embarrassed I'll be if I have to rename this blog 134 by 30.  It just doesn't have the same ring, you know?

So I'm asking a favor from those of you who have been supporting me the past couple months: hold me accountable.  Keep me in check.  I only have one more month, and I need all the help I can get.

I want ALL the Moderation!

So, I've been doing pretty well with the whole Eat Like a Grown-Up thing.  Plus, I've really been making an effort to not eat after 8:00 pm.  The deliciousness of nachos increases exponentially as the day goes on*, so if I don't eat them after 8:00 pm, I generally** don't eat them.  I went shopping with a friend last week, and actually fit into a small.  I'm thrilled when I fit into a medium, so a small makes me question if I was actually shopping in the maternity wear by mistake.  (This has happened before at Target.  I'd rather not talk about it.)  But a small!  Maybe my 8 year-old mind was right!  Maybe I can accomplish anything!  Maybe I'll be 130 by 30!  And an astronaut!  Okay, maybe not that last one, but still!

And then came the holiday weekend.


I actually gave myself a pep talk.  Out loud.  While looking in the mirror.***  I told myself I didn't need to overeat just because it was a holiday; there would be plenty of fruits and veggies that I could partake in, and feel all proud of myself afterwards.


Needless to say, my actual life choice did not leave me feeling all proud of myself.


So, here I am, afraid to step on the scale and acknowledge the damage I've done with the three**** Memorial Day picnics I attended.  Am I the only 29-going-on-30 year-old who still hasn't learned moderation?  Where did everybody else my age get it?  Where was I?  These aren't rhetorical questions--I really want answers.  



*It's science, people.


**This excludes holidays, social occasions, outings, and days where I just need nachos, dammit.

***I apparently wanted to channel a cliche from every movie where a character is facing a dilemma.

****Yes, three.  And I overate at every single one. 

Vermin, no. Deliciousness, yes!

Warning: This isn't really a full-blown post.  I just feel the need to take a moment to celebrate the wonder that is ratatouille.  To be completely honest, I never even knew what ratatouille was until Pixar enlightened me, and even then, it didn't exactly tickle my pickle.  (Was anyone else disappointed that Remy made soup of all things for the critic?  Access to all kinds of Parisian cuisine, and he makes soup???)  It just wasn't terribly exciting.

Well, I was paging through my mom's copy of French Women Don't Get Fat by Mireille Guilianno (which I permanently borrowed years ago), and came across a super easy looking recipe for ratatouille.  What the hell, I thought.  Why not?

It turns out that ratatouille is incredible.  There's not much to it, but I was looking forward to lunch today because I knew we had leftovers.  If you like eggplant, garlic, and tomatoes, give it a shot.  The recipe I made used a crock pot, so all I had to do was chop up vegetables, and forget about them for four hours while I went and took a nap (seriously, that's what I did).  If you know of an easier, healthy recipe that is actually good, let me know.  In the meantime, I pledge my allegiance to ratatouille.   

Fear and Loathing

I've gotten a bit cocky.  I've been doing really well with the exercise part of the "diet and exercise" thing, and while I knew I needed to work on the eating part, I guess I didn't acknowledge how serious it was.  I weighed myself for the first time in two weeks this morning.

138.

For those keeping score at home, yes, I gained 1 pound from when I first started this blog.  All the work, all the running, all the stickers.  All for not.  As you may have guessed, I'm feeling less than motivated at the moment.

I can't say that it's a complete surprise--I've had my share of junk food in the past few weeks, and without getting on the scale, I wasn't feeling particularly 130-ish.  Or 134-ish, for that matter.  I guess I just hoped that the running would cover for the nachos (on a related note, I did find two different bar/restaurants that serve amazing nachos that are each perfect in completely different ways, like snowflakes).  Alas, the running not only failed to cover for the nachos, but made me hungrier than usual.  I'm told you're supposed to eat things like tuna and bananas to combat this, not pulled pork BBQ nachos (which are as awesome as they sound).  I can practically hear my body laughing at me.  ("You thought just because Left Knee stopped hurting that we'd cave in to your unreasonable demands?  We've been planning our rebellion the whole time!  And here's what we think about this 10k crap!  VIVA LA COUCH!")

So now I'm fear and loathing on my couch.  Fear that I might not be able to make 130 by 30, loathing that I can't control my addiction to junk food.  Interestingly, my 8 year-old mind has come in handy during this dark time.  The beauty of being 8 years old is that you haven't grasped the idea that maybe, just maybe, some things are a little out of reach.  There was no doubt in my mind at 8 that I was going to be an actress when I grew up; in fact, I was pretty damn sure that I was going to be the youngest actress ever to win an Academy Award.  Someone would; why not me?  So 8 year-old mind is helping me out at the moment.  I can still hit 130 by 30.  I'm exercising, and now I know how close I am to 140, as opposed to 130.  And as a wise man once said, knowing is half the battle.

Spancy!

10k!!!!!

Actually, it was 6.4 miles, which is more than 10k, but I'm not even going to try to translate that into the metric system, which we all know is essential for the "spancy" adjective.

To be completely honest, it wasn't intentional; it was more like a happy accident.  I was running/walking on the bike trail, which has mile markers and markers at each road that intersects.  I usually go about 2.2 miles, and turn around, more or less putting me at 4.4 miles (that kind of math I can do).  I decided to do 5 miles today, because it was beautiful out and my knee wasn't rebelling (I think it quietly accepted it's oppression).  The catch is there weren't any markers to indicate when I hit 2.5 miles.  So I kept going.

That's right.  I ran/walked 10k because of my inability to judge distance.  Who knew that would be a useful skill?

So, of course, the very first thing I did when I got home was to run to the mirror, and see if a six pack magically sprouted on my stomach on the drive home.  Sadly, it did not.  However, that didn't stop me from checking again approximately two minutes later.  And then again, after I went to the bathroom, because maybe my new magical abs were hiding in my colon.

I plan on trying to hit 10k again tomorrow.  But for now, I'm basking in my spanciness. 

Return to Neverland: Falling Off the Wagon

I have good news and bad news.

The good news is I'm running like a motherfucker (I've never seen one run, but I imagine if you pursue that particular hobby, it has to be a skill you develop).  The sticker system is totally working, and I built up to the point where I'm running/walking 5 miles!  Hooray!  The best part is that 5 miles is almost 6 miles, which if I'm not mistaken, is equivalent to 10k.  Multiples of 10 make me feel special.  The metric system makes me feel fancy.

10k makes me spancy.

Additional awesome is that, according to my statistical software program (also known as Stay Positive Smiley Stickers, or SPSS), I ran/walked 3 times a week, every week in April.  One particularly ambitious week, I went 4 times.

And now the bad stuff.

I am addicted to fast food.  I may have run like a motherfucker, but you can't tell because I've reverted to eating absolute crap.  I know a big portion of this stems from the Neverland lifestyle I've grown accustomed to.  That, and it's been an incredibly stressful and busy past week, which increases my laziness factor exponentially.  My 8 year-old mind will only accept so much before it just tantrums.  All I can do is hope I'm not at work, rehearsals, or on the phone with my adviser when it happens, or I'll wind up screaming, "YOU'RE NOT THE BOSS OF ME!!!" and throwing myself on the ground and refusing to get up.

I have high hopes for this coming week--finals will be over, so a lot of the stress will disappear (theoretically, anyway).  Maybe I'll get a chance to go grocery shopping, and be able motivated to prepare healthy-yet-delicious meals.  April got me exercising on a regular basis; May needs to be about Eating Like a Grown-Up (For Real This Time). 

Let's Just Be Friends

The point system and I have parted ways.  It was a mutual decision. It was a perfectly good weight loss plan, and I'm an adult a person who is capable of losing the 7 pounds, but at this point in our lives, we're just not a good match.  We have different needs--I need immediate gratification, not the elusive promise of something at the end of the month.  And really, it deserves a grown-up who will recognize it's true potential.  So we decided to call it quits.  We promised we'd still be friends, though.

I haven't entirely given up, though.  In fact, I'm trying out a new plan; one that I think will be a better fit.  This one doesn't get hung up on my relapses, and just focuses on the positive.  Plus, it acknowledges my 8 year-old mind.  I get a sticker every time I run, and I get a sticker every day I don't eat any kind of fast food (Wendy's salads do count, even though there are veggies included; a big plate of nachos counts as fast food, a single small plate does not).  Stickers can be redeemed at any time for guilt-free fun, but if I can possibly wait til the end of the month, the options will be better.  Like the prizes at Chuck E. Cheese.  Sure, you can get 10 plastic spider rings right now, and wear one on each finger like a gangsta (I've had limited interactions with gangsti, but I'm sure they do this).  OR you can wait until Mom tells you you're about to leave, and get a troll doll to put on top of your pencil, ensuring that you will become the most popular kid in school (this last part is speculation--I imagine that's how the popular kids gained their status.  I always went for the spider rings).  Either way, I win!

According to the super-awesome stickers on my calendar, I've run 6 days in April so far.  I've also built up my stamina. so I'm now running/walking 4 miles instead of 3!  Go me!

Bring on the motherfuckin' spider rings!

A for Effort?

So, I finally came up with what I thought would be a good reward program for me.  My very own point system, tailored to me.  Every day that I go running, I would get a point.  Every day I eat fast food (or 2 giant plates of nachos), I would subtract a point.  However many points I have at the end of the month is how much money I can blow guilt-free as a reward for my efforts.  I figured this would allow wiggle room for when I HAD to have nachos, and wouldn't cost me a crazy amount of money (unless I started running every single day, and never, ever ate fast food.  Okay, I'm done laughing).


I'm currently at -5 points.

I even ran three days in a row!  But I got a salad at Wendy's yesterday because the leftovers I so diligently packed in my lunch apparently went bad.  I got Subway today because I was STARVING and knew the oatmeal I packed in my lunch wouldn't hold me until 5:00 p.m.  I got Dairy Queen the other night because Husband wanted some, and I went along for the ride, and after the long, arduous trip down the street, I really wanted something to show for it.  And just like that, all my running points from this weekend disappeared.  (Should the Wendy's salad count?  It is fast food, but it's a salad.)

Knowing that I have to run five more times just to break even isn't doing a whole lot to motivate me.  I feel like I failed before I even started.  Maybe I should only count the positive points the first month, just to encourage me to keep going.  It feels like cheating, but I don't know that I'll stay motivated otherwise.

Bleh. 

Hunger v. Laziness: An Update

Surprise!  I didn't waste away on the couch last night!  So, as you might have guessed, hunger eventually won.  It was an endurance battle of epic proportions, let me tell you.  I wish I could show you a montage of Obnoxious Laziness beating Hunger all night, only to have Hunger overcome in the end, but alas.  Imagine it as best you can...this will help.

Here's what might actually surprise you (it sure as hell surprised me).  I wound up going to the kitchen and making a fruit smoothie (yogurt, no ice cream) and an English muffin!  I'd like to say I made a conscious choice to be healthy, but frankly, getting in the car to pick up something sounded too intense.

Unfortunately, I can't end on that happy note.  Husband came home, and in true Neverland fashion, we made nachos.  Then we made more.  The night ended with both of us clutching our stomachs, oozing grease, and moaning about our Bad Life Choice.  What kills me is that there was a little voice warning me as we made the second plate, urgently whispering, "Bad idea!  Bad idea!"  However, I failed to hear it because my eight year-old mind was too busy screaming, "NACHOS!!!!  YAYYYYYYYY!!!!  BEST IDEA EVER!!!!!!"

Damn you, eight year-old mind. 

Day Whatever: Hunger v. Laziness

It's one of those ridiculously lazy days.  Not the relaxing kind of lazy with popcorn and a movie, the obnoxious kind you would be embarrassed to reveal to friends and family (but not apparently in a blog).  I came home from work, completely spent, dropped my bag at the door, and collapsed on the couch.  And now I'm laying here with the laptop, stubbornly refusing to move.

I haven't turned on the TV because I don't want to get up and get the remote, which is on the coffee table, three feet away from me.  Even to me, that's obnoxious.  If Husband were home, I'd ask him to do it (and he would, because he's awesome like that), but he works late on Thursdays, so the TV situation isn't changing any time soon.  (I'll watch something on Netflix via laptop.  Cause I'm a problem-solver like that.)

Unfortunately, I've hit a bigger obstacle than the TV.  I'm now hungry.

But I don't want to move.

But I'm hungry.

You see the conundrum.

It's my own personal Sophie's Choice...except, you know, instead of choosing between my children, I have to choose between being hungry or being lazy.  But otherwise, it's exactly the same.  EXACTLY.

I'm trying to bribe myself to get up and eat with promises of fast food, but laziness is rejecting it.  What about getting something delivered?  No--my cell phone is in my bag, which is still right by the door where I dropped it.  This is exactly why I can't lose these 7 horrible pounds...I throw these lazy/stubborn tantrums, and then I use fast food to try to get myself out of it, just to avoid wasting away on the couch.  I can see Husband coming home from work, only to find a skeleton, straight from Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade, collecting dust on the couch, and wondering how the heck someone can starve to death with a full refrigerator 10 feet away.  Pure laziness.  It's not easy, but apparently, it's my calling.

Day...um...13, maybe?: The Routine

I just got back from a 2 day conference in Cleveland, which went pretty well, except it disrupted The Routine.  In an effort to make 130 by 30, there are certain rituals that I perform in the morning (as long as I don't have to get up exceptionally early because, I mean, sleep trumps all).  Here's how it generally goes:

9:00 a.m.
Get up, turn off alarm.

9:05 a.m.
Feel embarrassed that I have to set an alarm to be up by 9:00

9:05-10:00 a.m.
Eat breakfast, dick around on facebook.  The size of this time slot is directly proportional to how interesting everyone's statuses are that particular day

10:00-10:30 a.m.
Try to put a dent in the dishes, while occasionally running back to my laptop to check stupid stuff, like "What's the name of that Coen brothers movie?  You know, the one with Tim Robbins?"
(A: The Hudsucker Proxy)

10:30-11:30 a.m.
Do a series of stretches, squats, and sit-ups while watching The Doctors and The Price is Right; contemplate why I prefer Drew Carey to Bob Barker

11:30 a.m.
Go running/walking if I feel motivated

This is The Routine, my ritual.  I've grown very accustomed to it.  I rely on it--to do it differently is like to watch Memento in the correct chronological order.  Its chaos is its beauty. 

But when I'm staying with my sister-in-law and her family in Cleveland for 2 days, I have to go with their routine, and a wrench gets thrown in the system.  My rebelling body and my eight year-old mind get confused.

"What are we doing?  Where are the status updates?"
"Why are we up so early?"
"Is this granola?  Why are we eating granola for breakfast?"
"That's not Drew Carey!  That's Dora!"
"No sit-ups?  Hooray!"
"Are we on vacation?"
"Will there be nachos?"

(The last question is inevitable, and will be asked in any social situation.)

So now I have to get back into The Routine, and that's done with great reluctance.  I did my exercises this morning (no running, though), and now I need to grocery shop for ingredients for Real Meals with Fruits and Vegetables.  Right now, we have ketchup and Teddy Grahams, and even in Neverland, that's not an acceptable meal.

Day 10: The Jig is Up

So, I kinda have the mind of an eight year-old.  I have to touch things, especially if it's soft.  Or has an interesting texture.  Or if I'm not supposed to touch it.  I like shiny things.  Occasionally when we're at the mall, Husband thinks it's hilarious to get very excited, point in a random direction, and exclaim, "Look!  A distraction!"

It may or may not work every single time.  I'll let you decide.

My eight-year old mind finally caught on that eating Real Meals with Fruits and Vegetables is not a fun grown-up game, but is a lifestyle change.  My eight year-old mind does not like that much.  In fact, she pretty much threw a tantrum equivalent to the kind you see in a grocery store, where the toddler is wailing on the floor, and the poor mother, against her better judgment, bribes the kid with anything in sight to end this miserable and embarrassing scene.

I have to say, I was somewhat prepared for this.  After the realization that Paying Bills and Going to the Gas Station are not fun grown-up games either, similar tantrums took place.  I know how my eight year-old mind works.

I need to distract her with something shiny.

So I'm now on the prowl for new and exciting recipes--nothing too intimidating, but something that will offer a certain degree of novelty that will act as the shiny piece of tinsel that will calm my eight year-old mind the hell down.  Because I really don't want to break down and buy her a Carmello bar just to shut her up, but a person can only take so much, you know?

Days 8 & 9: What the...What!?!

Shit just got real, y'all.  (And I don't think I've ever felt whiter than I did just now, typing that sentence.)

I ran/walked 3 miles yesterday, and felt super proud of myself.  That's 3 times in 4 days!  Look at me go!  I'm more machine than man!  My body, still craving the couch/internet/nachos regimen and sensing that I recovered from The Incident in the Bedroom, decided to up the ante.

I stepped on the scale this morning, and I'm back up to 137.  I swear to God it smirked at me when the numbers stopped blinking.  Stupid scale.  I should have known it was just toying with my emotions last week when it promised me 134.  I should have known it would never change it's ways.

How is that even possible??  How can someone run/walk 3 miles for three days and gain weight??  Did I build so much muscle in that time that I bulked up?  Cause I've looked in the mirror, and I assure you, that crazy female body builder with veins sticking our of her neck is a far cry from what I'm seeing.

I think it's a test of wills.

Day 7: The Incident in the Bedroom

So this morning I woke up feeling like I had consumed a deep-fried small child during the night.  I tried to convince myself that it was all psychological, that I hadn't magically gained a bunch of weight between the time I went to bed and the time I woke up.  It's all in your mind, I told myself.  And to prove the point, I did something really, REALLY stupid.

I tried on my skinny jeans.

I've heard that people who have had traumatic experiences sometimes repress them, because some memories are just too horrific for the human mind to accept.  I have vague, disturbing recollections of The Incident in the Bedroom, which I'd rather not discuss, but I'm pretty sure I set a record for going through the stages of grief.  First, denial, as I stuffed myself into what were once very comfortable jeans, determined to button them against all odds.  Next, anger.  I mean, what the hell?!?  I just exercised 2 days in a row.  Where's my immediate gratification???  I'm not so sure I bargained with God, as much as cursed Him and His Divine and Delicious fish frys.  Then, of course, depression, as I scowled in the mirror, and contemplated whether other women my age (who have also never been pregnant) have stretch marks across their ass like me.  I don't think I officially hit acceptance, but I did finally give up at one point, and threw on my sweat pants.  I think that's as close to acceptance as I'm going to get today. 

Day 6: I Ran! Okay, Fine. I Walked!

I exercised!  For two days in a row!  There has to be some kind of award for that, because my body is already pissed at me for interrupting its couch/internet/nacho regimen.  It rebelled today on the bike trail.

My version of "running" is different from Serious Runners.  Serious Runners do just that--they run.  Usually in some crazy spandex outfit and specially crafted shoes with a strange combination of gel, strategic holes, and air bubbles.  If I tried to do that, I'd turn bright red and collapse.  I know this, because I tried to play soccer in 3rd grade.

So I do a walk/run combo...run for thirty breaths, walk for thirty breaths.  Today, the proletariat muscles of my body joined together (under the leadership of my left knee) in a Marxist revolution, and cried, "NO MORE!  VIVA  LA COUCH!"  My walk/run came to a screeching halt.

I figured I had a choice--I could listen to my body's demands and walk, or I could totally be bad-ass, channel my inner Rocky, and crush the revolution under my running shoe!  Mind you, this would inevitably lead to an equally bad-ass cane and permanent limp.

While I think I'd have a lot of fun rockin' a pimp cane and making up different stories about how I got my limp ("It was in 'Nam.  I don't like to talk about it."), I succumbed to the masses.  I walked.  Now, a couple of ibuprofen (or as I like to call it, the "opiate of the people") later, I'm determined to give it another shot tomorrow.  Seriously, if that doesn't deserve an award, what does?

Day 5: I Ran! Where's my Celebratory Nachos?

I did it!  I actually ran, just like I've been vowing to do every day!  This deserves a reward.

Ordinarily, this would be the time for celebratory nachos, accompanied by the Nacho Dance (yes, this actually exists).  Ordinarily, this would also be the time when Husband and I would decide that Pepsi goes better with celebratory nachos than anything we have, and we'd make a Pepsi run to the gas station next door.  Ordinarily, this would lead to a catatonic state of being where I lay on the couch, cursing the deliciousness of nachos, while grease oozes out my pores.

No more!  I mean, no more rewarding myself with food, not no more nachos ever.  That's just silly.


So I need a replacement reward, preferably something that isn't going to become a crazy expense over time.  I am absolutely open to suggestions :)

Day 4: Progress is Relative

It occurred to me in the shower today that I should probably note more positive changes I've made, as opposed to focusing on the negative.  In order for you to fully appreciated these changes, I feel like I need to give you a little background on my marriage.

Husband and I happily live in a Neverland kind of existence--our three and a half year marriage is pretty much equivalent to a three and a half year sleepover.  If you gave a couple of 10 year-olds the ability to drive and a credit card, that would be us.  We go to work, pretend we're grown-ups, and then come home and play.  We play games, do puzzles, watch movies, laugh, poke at each other, show each other crazy internet stuff, and generally goof off.  We only clean if we're expecting company or we're trying to eliminate some funky smell.

We also eat like a couple of 10 year-olds with no adult supervision and a credit card.

Seriously, nachos are considered a legitimate dinner because meat is involved.  So are chips and salsa because salsa has vegetables in it.  I'm not joking.

So when I tell you that I started making real grown-up food for dinner, and have incorporated fruits and vegetables into our meals, I want you to appreciate what that means.  We had homemade chicken stir-fry last night, and it was good.  Husband got out the rice cooker and made rice to go with it!  Look at us!  Being grown-ups! 

There is hope.

Day 3: False Hopes?

I woke up feeling skinny this morning.  You know how that works, right?  You wake up, and the Fates decide to toy with your self esteem--for completely unknown reasons that have nothing to do with logic, you can feel a.) normal; b.) skinny; or c.) like you just consumed a deep-fried small child.  Thankfully, today was b.

So I got a little balls-y.

I got on the scale.  134.  I want to be very excited about this, but the scale has burned me in the past.  Like, for the entire past year.  I'll see progress, get excited, and then I'll wake up one day and inexplicably weigh 137 again.  I can't take that kind of relationship, Scale.  Don't play me like that.

So instead, I'm trying to focus on non-quantitative progress (on a blog called 130 by 30--I know, I recognize the ridiculousness of that).  We'll see how that goes.

No ice cream or donuts today (social or otherwise), but I did indulge on some honey roasted peanuts.  And by "some," I mean handful after handful as the Husband and I watched 4 episodes of Lost.  To be honest though, I still interpret the peanuts as less sinful than ice cream because it's found in nature.  Don't judge.

Day 2: If a Tree Writes a Blog in the Forest...

So it's occurred to me that a blog may not really hold me accountable if no one reads it.  Unfortunately, this forces me to make some uncomfortable choices.  Here they are, in no particular order:

A.) Continue to blog to absolutely no one, and inevitably stop in early April when the novelty of being a "writer" wears off.

B.) Actually tell people people about the blog, thereby admitting that my outfits for the past year have been strategically chosen to make me look about ten pounds thinner.  Also involves giving a certain unnamed frenemy more gossip to dish.

C.) Only tell a few trusted friends, and swear them to absolute secrecy.

D.) Find a way to blog only to total strangers, who will, for reasons unknown, embrace me to their collective bosom.

My preference is D, but for some reason, I don't see people accidentally stumbling on this blog.  Damn.

In other news...

Did pretty good today, if you ignore the scoop of ice cream.  And in my defense, it was a social thing--I was out with a friend, and we stopped and got a scoop (in a dish, no cone).  I know in the long run, my body won't process it differently because it was a social thing, and it's not going to help me get back to 130.  But for some reason, it makes a difference to me.  Like, if it was me sitting on the couch, watching Dancing With the Stars (very impressed by Kirstie Alley, btw) eating ice cream, I'd feel bad.  When it's grabbing ice cream with a friend, it seems pardonable.

On a side note, wouldn't it be AWESOME if your body did process it differently?  Like, if it was all, "Oh, you're treating your grandma to a milkshake?  Well, that doesn't count, cause you're being a good person.  This one's on me."  Mind you, my grandma would probably take a serious hit.

Day 1: Is It Failure If You Enjoy Every Minute of It?

8:00 a.m.
Off to a good start.  I had cereal and half a grapefruit for breakfast, and packed a healthy lunch to take to work.  No fast food temptation for me!  Oh, no siree!  Celery!  Banana!  Yogurt!  Maybe I'll even run after work!

9:00 a.m.
My boss brought in donuts for everyone.  Fresh baked donuts.  She never does that.  It would be insulting not to have one...dammit.  Seriously, one hour into work and I'm eating a donut.  I guess the silver lining is that I contained it to one, but still.  So much for the blog holding me accountable.

5:00 p.m.
Home from work.  Exhausted.  Can barely make it to closet to hang up coat.  Contemplate just throwing it in general direction of closet.  Running is only going to happen if a serial killer starts chasing me, and even that is questionable.

Crap.

And So It Begins...

So I've been I was 130 lbs. for all of my 20s.  According to the interwebs, which must be true, that put my BMI at "healthy"...not overweight, not underweight, but just right.  Plus I felt comfortable in my own skin. 

Then my Pappap died.  My family is very Italian, and when we gather to mourn, we eat.

We mourned a lot. 

I was no longer 130, but really didn't sweat it.  I mean, it was an out of the ordinary kind of moment, right?

A few short weeks later, Christmas came, filled with all of those once-a-year indulgences.  Like eggnog.  And cookies.  And eggnog.  And pumpkin pie.  And did I mention eggnog?  Still wasn't concerned, though.  I mean, everyone puts on a few extra pounds around the holidays, right?

Then New Years rolled around.

And Valentine's Day.

You get the picture.

Well, Pappap died over a year ago, and I'm 137 lbs.  I know this isn't exactly obese, and the interwebs tell me I'm still "healthy," but I'm not comfortable in my own skin anymore.  My thighs rub up against each other in a way that makes me think I should grease them to avoid starting a fire.  My skinny jeans scare me.  Sweatpants look more and more appealing with each passing day.

I refuse to accept these 7 extra pounds without a fight.

I want to be back at a steady 130 lbs. before my 30th birthday on July 15th.  That's a good couple months to adjust my eating, try to start running again, and generally eat like a grown-up.  No more nachos for dinner.  I've been trying to do this for a while now, but I'm easily distracted and all about immediate gratification, so I'm hoping the blog will hold me accountable.

Wish me luck!