There, it's February. Things will finally calm down around here. All the New Year's Resolution Dieters have left. Those of us that are still here are in it for the long haul, right? Good, now we can get back to what's really important...me. So I have been giving it a lot of thought, of course I have. Despite following the Nutrisystem plan to the letter and increasing my calories burned, I am not losing weight. While it is true I have not gained weight, I have noticed my body is becoming larger, particularly in that oh so important chest area. My husband is over the moon with this, ahem, development. I am not so crazy about increasing a cup size as well as whatever that around-the-chest number is called. My body has pulled some whack-a-doo things in the past, but this is completely bonkers. I can't even cross my arms any more, and when the scale doesn't show me what I want to see, I NEED TO CROSS MY ARMS! How nutso is it that I'm working so hard to make myself smaller and my result is that I'm getting bigger? Someone needs to be accountable. I have a call in to the pope, the president, and George Clooney. So far, no one has gotten back to me. *and still no spaces in my blogs!!!

If you'd have asked me on Saturday, I'd have told you that this was my week. I could just feel it. By Sunday, I was beginning to have my doubts. Today proved it. This is not my week. It has not been my month. Thank goodness I decided to count the tenths of pounds or I would have had no loss...AGAIN. I have no idea what's going on, but after extra workouts all week, I only had a .2 loss. I can drop that much if I spit twice. Now I'm a complainer on the best of days. You can imagine how much griping I did after my weigh in. My family cowered. The neighbors took cover. Grown men scrambled for hiding places. Life is not fair, and now the whole state knows it. They all heard me howl it this morning. It's fifteen hours later and I'm still mad. I'm not stomping around or yelling anymore, but I still have my arms folded. Nobody talk to me. I'm pouting.

So I decided to give fish a try. You get twice as much. C'mon, that's a no brainer. I have never cared for sea food, but I am very fond of eating. I pushed fear aside and stood over the freezers, staring. I stood there a long time, a very long time, staring, a long time, a very long time. A big, ol' shiny fish eye stared back. I began a motivating chant in my head. "I must be brave. I must be brave. I must be brave." Soon the chant worked its way out of my head and burst from my mouth. Just a whisper at first, "I must be brave." Then a little louder, "I must be brave." Louder and louder I uttered the chant until I worked myself up to a rebel yell, "I must be brave!" I reached out a tentative hand...and I quickly jerked it back. "Gack, I touched it!" I hopped around my shopping cart, shaking my hand, saying, "Ew, ew, ew." Full body shutters moved through me. A stock boy took a few steps towards me, decided I might be dangerous, and moved on to the individually packaged, microwaveable corn dogs. I reminded myself, once again, that a serving of fish is two ounces versus only one ounce of other proteins. I placed both hands on the the edge of the freezer. I swallowed hard. I squeezed my eyes shut. Mustering up all my reserves, I again reached into the case. "Blech!" I couldn't do it. I just couldn't do.

I totally rocked this weight loss thing today.  Not only did I eat what I was supposed to and only what I was supposed to, but I spent two hours on my treadmill.  You read that right, Suckaaaaaaaaaaaaas.  Two hours!  I did a hundred sit ups, spent a little time with my whole body vibration machine (It's not nearly as dirty as it sounds.), did my dry brushing before my shower, and did a detoxifying, ionic soak. 

 

You may well ask what inspired me.  After all, my usual work out routine involves chasing that last olive around the jar with a butter knife.  Throw in a wrestling match with my support hose and I am wiped out.  So why the sudden interest in all things physical?  The answer is a simple one, my friends.  It's guilt.  I suffered a 7-Eleven Big Gulp of guilt after spending four hours on a shopping spree.  You read that right, too, four hours.  It took six trips to bring in all my shopping bags.  Add that to my exercise tally. 

 

So, after hogging out on material things, I figured I had better give up something, calories, sweat, and toxins.  (The tears will come when I get my credit card bill.  Not my tears, but surely my husband's.)  It's my own little binge and purge. 

The good news is I gained two pounds. Yes, I said good and I said gained. I wouldn't have been surprised by higher. I've scored much higher with less effort. It's not often I feel positive when I see a gain, but two pounds is manageable. It sets me back a week. And man oh man, the things I did to earn those pounds were surely worth a week. The hubs didn't quite see it that way. He never does. After I leaped off the scale, making sure to keep my toe over the numbers so no one could see my shame, he asked, "Well, how much did you lose?" My excuses began early, "It was Christmas and New Year's Eve, remember? Of course, I didn't lose anything." I manipulated my words carefully, admitting to nothing. He began his bumble bee flight from stove to counter to refrigerator and back again, moving food from all three areas into his mouth. Even though he was using both hands to eat, and eating non-stop, he still managed to begin his usual weight-loss advice rambling. "I guess that's not too bad, with the holidays and all. That's when most people gain weight. You did pretty good. At least you didn't gain a bunch of weight." Dang, he chose that moment to look at me. Why, oh why can I not tell a lie? It wouldn't even have been a lie, merely an omission. I could have just let his flood of words continue as they usually do, but I didn't. I took a stance of anger instead of shame. I glared at my husband. It might as well be his fault. I narrowed my brow and held up two fingers, wishing whole heartedly that I could have been holding up only one finger. I'd have used the middle one. "Oh, you did gain," he said with a head shake. He resumed his breakfast bustle, clicking his tongue, but not tisking enough to keep him from talking. "You don't exercise enough. You could have a treat now and then if you would work out more often. You have to exercise." I need to point out that my husband is overweight himself and his only exercise is yelling at the television screen during football games. It was with these facts in hand that I interrupted his lecture. "Well, I hear the laundry calling." He jammed a mouthful of egg into his face. "Oh, go ahead then," he said with a flip of his hand. "No, no, Love," I replied, taking a slow sip of my coffee. "It's not calling ME."

In the dream I was exploring a big, beautiful, old house with the understanding the this place was to be my home. I wasn't sure how that came to be, but I was happy for it. Specifically, I was glad to be free of my old habitat. This new house suited me so much better. I adored everything about it. The architecture was beautiful and bold and clearly more for aesthetics than for function. Every room was furnished and decorated with the utmost thought and care. There were so many beautiful things, paintings, plants, pillows, vases. I touched these items lovingly. I understood that these things were not mine, but they seemed to be a part of the house. I spent most of the dream trying to discern if I was to "inherit" the house with or without its contents. I have devoted enough time to dream study to know that a house usually represents the dreamer's mind, the place where we "house" our emotions, our souls. The fact that I was visiting this new place for the first time speaks to me. The din and clatter of daily life has taken over. I haven't taken the time to get in touch with myself. I have gone through so many changes emotionally, mentally, spiritually that it is no surprise to me that my "home" has not merely changed, but is a completely different place. How happy I am to find beauty and over-all good feelings about the space where my spirit is, or soon will reside. What concerned me was that the rooms were all filled. As perfect and precious as those knick-knacks were, none of them were mine. Have I filled my mind with lovely thoughts and beliefs that are not my own? Do I hold on to these fine treasures that have come from others? It is no secret that the way I look, my clothes, my make-up, my hair, is a carefully crafted blueprint. The things I do and say, even the places I visit, are all meant to convey a message to those around me about who I am. But what if all of these wrapping and trappings are not really a representation of my authentic self? Have I decorated my true self with the tastes of others? Am I living a life that has been given to me, already built, already formed, already filled?

There are strangers' photos on my camera, as well as a man's bare butt. I have bar stamps all up and down my arms. The back seat of my car is flooded with paper hats, plastic leis, and assorted noise makers. I am too afraid to stand on the scale, but I can actually feel about five pounds of food and liquor looking for a place to settle. It will take weeks to undo the damage. And maybe just that long to decipher this note scribbled on a cocktail napkin. I think it says, "What kind of humming bird does the mambo?" Anyway, it's my own handwriting that answers, "The penguins are hoarding at three." I will be the first to say that I am happy to have the holidays behind me. But man, wasn't it fun

The fight started in the typical way, I thought I detected laughter, so I gave those old jeans the stink eye. They, of course, mocked me in return, saying I would never be able to take them. They called me "Blubber Butt" and "Ton-o-Fun." I wasn't about to take that. I ripped those suckers from the hanger and jammed my foot into the leg. Those pants were not about to give up so easily. They twisted and tightened. I was persistent, though. I tugged. I pulled. I grunted. I wiggled and squiggled and did the "puttin'-on-my-pants" dance. I shook my booty and jiggled my junk. By this time my husband and children came in, lured by the sound of battle. They formed a circle around me and begin to cheer me on, except for my husband, who could only say he felt sorry for the pants. With the moral support, and the - - ahem - - tough love, I became energized and renewed. It appeared I was to be the victor, but then the pants gave me an evil grin, That wide, open-zipper smile. However, I was not about to give up the fight. I squatted down, hoping to inflict a little stretch on the garment. Once, twice, three times. Then I hobbled over to the bed and laid on my back. I yanked on the the little zipper tab, it bit back. I ignored the digging pain on the side of my forefinger. I ignored the cramp in my thumb. Just shy calling for a pair of pliers, it occurred to me that buttoning the waist might aid the closing of the zipper. I took a huge breath in, blew it out hard and fastened those buggers. I was panting from the effort, but it worked. I tried the breathing trick again, empting my lungs and my gut of air, I pulled the zipper up, stuffing the fat down as it went. With a noisy gasp, I won the battle of the jeans. I rocked a few times over the bed in effort to rise. Then I sat on the edge, feet dangling, unable to breath any lower than my chest. It was amid my family's proud and joyful applause, that I began to cry. "What is it?" they asked. "Are you not happy? You've won, don't you see? You have won the battle with your 'skinny' jeans!" I covered my face in sorrow and shame. "You don't understand," I told them. "These are my 'fat' jeans."

My friend Michelle came over to help me get the house ready for Christmas. Yes, I needed help. It's a daunting task, don't judge me. She was very disciplined and got to work right away. "Let's play," I said. "No, we have a lot to do. I came here to work, so let's work." My bottom lip popped out. I tried to tempt her. "I made fudge brownie caramel coffee." "Good. Put it in a to-go cup and let's go. Christmas won't wait for you to have coffee." I didn't want to get the place ready. If I wanted to get the place ready, I wouldn't have needed Michelle to come over and do it for me. I didn't want to work. I wanted to play. It seemed Michelle was determined to keep me from doing so, but I had my trump card. "Today was my weigh-in day," I cooed seductively. She stopped short. She can resist neither the elation of celebrating my over my victory or the decadence of gloating over my defeat. "And...how did you do?" Ah ha, I hooked her. "Well, that depends how you look at it," I said, deliberately dragging it out, slowly luring her over to the dark side. "I lost two pounds." She stood silently, searching my face for a cue. Upon finding none, she finally asked, "So do we start jumping up and down or do we start complaining?" "Complaining, I think," I nodded. "I mean, two pounds is a nice loss, but it's been so slow in coming. And I did work extra hard this week. It would have been nice to have an extra result. Plus, I had that initial weight gain at the beginning, so actually, I'm not even back down to the weight I was." Michelle swiped her hand over her mouth. "Sorry," she said. "I lost interest. I got so bored I drooled." I sighed. "I just don't want to weigh this much." "It's just a number," she said. "Yeah," I said. "A high number." "You have a digital scale," she said. "I do," I said. "It counts up the numbers when you get on it," she said. "It does." I said. "Well," she said. "It's very simple then. Step on the scale. Watch as the numbers begin to rise. When you see the number you'd like to weigh...jump off. Easy." Michelle has always been full of wonderful ideas.

Why must everything, EVERYTHING, be about food or eating? My son crawled into bed with me this morning. He snuggled up to me and said, "Mmmmm, when I smell you I think about eating." A thought, Huh? What do I smell like? Have I ingested so many cookies in my life that now I'm sweating sugar? Have I been sleep eating? I did dream about eating a stack of pancakes. I sat up and checked my shirt for maple syrup drips. My father calls them "senior spots." The happier I am to be eating, the more food I seem to get on my front. It's strange, since I am so in love with food you would think I'd work harder at getting it into my mouth. It's become worse as I've become older. So either my father is right about the senior thing, or, and I think this is case, my chest has gotten bigger and catches more of the falling feast. Also, I dribble more food because my gut is bigger and I can't scoot my chair close enoungh to the table. The fork must travel a further distance from the plate to my mouth. More room for error. All that aside, I found no evidence of a midnight snack. So I don't know what made my son think about eating, I only know that the mention of eating made me want to eat. Believe me, when it comes to eating, I don't need any reminders.

It was a day of Christmas baking. Why do I do it to myself? I finished stirring the fudge and, without thinking, I stuck the spoon in my mouth. Dang it, that must be like 50 calories right there. I spread the frosting on the roof of the gingerbread house and without a thought I ran my tongue over the knife, another 30 calories. I put the cookies on the pan and then licked the sugar off my finger, 20 calories. What the...? That's like a extra twenty minutes on the treadmill. Why was I sabotaging myself? Then I sat around looking at all the yummy things just daring myself to try a little of each. The little tastes I had as I was baking sent my cravings into overdrive. "Kids! Get in here! Bring your friends!" I gave out samples and tastes and nibbles until everything was moved from platters and pans into little tummies. Yes, I will have to spend another day baking, but at least there are no more triggers fueling my addiction. The sad thing is that this day proves that it probably is my own fault that I am overweight. I have lived too long with the illusion that I was just this born this way. If I really was born this size, my mother would absolutely hate me.