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!