Serious Business in the Bathroom and the Mysteries of Weight-Loss

Weight Watchers World:  5/4/2011 1:25 PM

When the plumbing isn't working right, we suddenly realize how much we take it for granted. And I'm not talking about the pipes in the walls of your house.

As you might have already realized, this blog is full of subjects that might be a bit of TMI, but I'm really hoping that we can just consider that part of my charm. After all, the process of weight loss is very personal and so are the victory celebrations, no? Odd and sometimes downright gross as they are, this is reality. That said, let us continue and don't say you weren't warned.

My plumbing is working just fine, thanks, and I'm so glad. Losing weight is turning out to be more like potty training than I ever thought it would be. Boy am I focused on bodily eliminations, especially in respect to the minutes just prior to my weigh-in. Don't even try to tell me that you aren't completely bummed (snicker at the pun, go ahead!) when you get the urge to go five minutes after you step off the scale. And don't tell me that you aren't sitting there doing your business and wondering exactly how much your business weighs. I do. I freely admit it.

Anyway...like potty trainees, we are focused on our dirty deeds with a concentration that rivals that of professional athletes. Of course, I am a bit of an odd duck all around so I have to start to wonder about whether or not "business time" is the only time that I am actively losing weight. Do I lose weight while I sleep? If I do, where does it go? Doesn't that defy some scientific law, seeing as I'm sure fat doesn't melt and evaporate into thin air?

No, I'm pretty sure that we only lose weight in the bathroom. What a special and hallowed room it is. I think I love the bathroom. More and more every day.

Maybe we lose weight when we exercise, too? Maybe...though those fluids we slake off in the form of sweat do get replaced. I don't know about the scientific soundness of all that, but I do know that even if we do lose weight while exercising, I still think that I like the bathroom method better. Less effort on my part.

Okay, I admit that I am completely laughing inside. Why? Because fifteen minutes from now, this very blog is going to be running laps in your head while you pee! BWAHAHAHAHAHA!

Fives and Zeros: What I am Going to Miss About My Non-Digital Scale

5/3/2011 2:26 PM

I need to replace my spring-loaded turning-dial type scale. I want a new, digital one that will help me keep track of the pounds down to the 0.1, but I have to admit I'm going to miss Hector (yes, I named it).

Hector's bold fives and zeros have been the face of my weight-loss since last year (prior to that we weren't very close...Hector and I, that is). It is because of him that I think of my weight the same way that most people think about buying a house. Yes, a house...it's all about being in the right neighborhood, you know.

Those fives and zeros (Stay with me here! Fives as in 5, 15, 25, or, in my case, 265, 255, 245. And Zeros as in 260, 250 and so on.) neatly divided up my struggles into manageable sections. I might have weighted 264 in the beginning, but I saw it as "around 265". Likewise, when I got on the scale this morning I had reached the territory of 235. 235! I said 235! Four pounds. Wow.

Anyway...I'im getting side-tracked...

So Hector does have to go. I need accuracy and must be confident that my scale is telling me what I actually weigh. Specifically, I need this to shut up Fatty and Troll. If you don't know who they are, and you really care, you're going to have to read my first and third (I think) blogs.

You probably understand, this is a HUGE deal. Switching scales might mean a gain, which isn't really a gain, but just a more accurate reading. No matter, it will still feel like a gain. Granted, it could also make for an unanticipated loss, but I'm trying to stick with reality at this point. I know it's all in my head, and that the real important thing is how my pants are fitting, but we ALL care about that number. The lower it gets, the more we cherish it. Lets all just admit it!

So, I am bidding farewell to Hector and his fives and zeros. He will always be there in my mind, digital display or not. I will forever think of 227.5 as "around 225" and, thus, feel better about it.

Thank you, Hector, you will be missed my friend!

Wardrobe Diaries: Exactly Which 7 Pounds Did I Lose?

Weight Watchers World: 5/2/2011 1:15 PM

Weigh-In is bright and early tomorrow morning (actually, it will still be dark outside and WI takes place in a bathroom that has no windows, so maybe it doesn't matter?). I am confident that I have lost another pound or so, but for the sake of what is official at the moment, I must state that I have lost 7 pounds, total.

Last week when I put on my pants, I realized exactly which 7 out of my 246 pounds I had lost: the ones that were holding up my pants. Not all my pants, only my gray trouser jeans. They fit perfectly when I bought them at Christmas but last Tuesday, I was nervous to carry anything with me while walking down the hall at work for fear that I wouldn't have a free hand to hike up my drawers. Seriously, it is nothing short of a miricle that I didn't display my panties that day!

It's a good milestone, mostly. The first pair of pants to bite the dust in the wake of my re-emerging figure! Wow!

Honey, leave it to him, pointed out that Weight Watchers was going to cost us a lot more than the prescribed monthly fee. Already, he needs to buy me a new pair of pants.

I suppose it is the quandry of all who endeavor to unload some of their pounds: do I buy clothes that I like, knowing I will not be able to wear them for long, or do I buy cheap, crappy clothes that don't look very nice but, again, I won't have to wear them for very long? I'm leaning towards spending the extra money for things that I like. It's important that I feel good about how I look during the process, not just when I have the "finished" product, right? I think so.

So sometime this week I will be scouring the racks at the singular plus-size store that sells clothes that I like. I will look forward to it much more when I have some selection, but this will do in the meantime. Good thing there is a sale this week!

"Binges" and "Pieholes"

Weight Watchers World: 5/1/2011 5:55 PM

I find that I am changing my vocabulary as my pants get looser. After thinking long and hard about "binges", they just don't seem to fit anymore...kind of like those pants I was talking about.

For me "binge" paints a picture of downing chocolate cake by the light of the refigerator, gobbling Ding Dongs and Ring Dings so fast I can hardly taste them...and maybe eating ice cream until I have to stop because my tongue is so cold that it hurts. No, it's not a pretty picture...downright embarassing, really. That is why binges are usually hidden things. For me, it meant stopping at my favorite fast food drive-thru and ordering enough food so it looked like I was taking it home to a family so that I could sneak around to a remote parking spot at Walmart and consume it all myself.

Did I really just admit to this in a public forum?

I did.

I'm a bit nervous about that, but my saving grace is that I don't do it anymore. At least, I haven't since I started the program. I say all this to get to this point: I am reservng the term "binge" for the behavior I mentioned above. Eating 17 baked tortilla chips instead of the prescribed serving size of 15 is not a binge and therefore should not be served up with binge's traditional side dish: guilt.

Similarly, plowing through my entire weekly point allotment in one holiday meal is not binging, either. Suffice it to say: I should not have felt bad about my 78-point Easter. I should not have thought of it as a "binge" "Binge" discourages me...it tells me that I haven't changed and I'm not in control. Let me tell you...as I traversed the Easter Sunday smorgasboard with my half-cup measure and piled my plate with fat-packed casseroles and even indulged in a Whoopie Pie later...I was not binging. I was having a treat. I was still On Plan and all was A-okay.

Now..."Piehole".

I'm going to bite the bullet on his one and simply erase "Piehole" from my vocabulary. I do not have a special facial portal just for pie. Although my mouth has been the passage for many a slice of apple, chocolate cream, strawberry, ect...it is no more a "piehole" than it is a "broccolihole" or a "lean turkeyhole". In fact, in spite of my current obesity and the nutritional and portion-control crimes that got me into this mess, I can truthfully say that my mouth has chewed on broccoli and lean proteins far more often than it has munched on pie.

Gosh, I feel so much better now that I got all that off my chest!

This is going to be a great week, my friends! Victory, both on the scale and off, is within our grasp! Lets plan our treats and shovel forkfuls of veggies and high-fiber whole grains into our faces!

Little Pig Will and Little Pig Won't

Weight Watchers World: Saturday, April 30, 2011

I have two inner pigs. Pig Will and pig Won't are equally stubborn: Will about the things she will eat and Won't about the things she won't eat. The good news is that they are okay with my change in lifestyle and partnership with Weight Watchers.
Still, On Plan or not, pig Will insists on sweets. Daily. She also gets cranky when she's hungry and is not negotiable when it comes to her consumption of BBQ.

Pig Won't is not going to eat cantalope, sardines, liver or bananas. Never. Not under any circumstances.

(To explain: Cantalope: I want to like it but I just can't. It's a pretty color...I can agree to that. Sardines and liver: do I need a reason? I don't think so. Bananas: I have a very good reason for hating them. It involves yours truly as a poor, defenseless baby, my mother, the inspiration to make home-made baby food, a blender, a bunch of bananas and some leftover liver. Yes, that is another reason for my - er - Won'ts dislike for liver. And I'm not pulling your leg about my mother and the blender.)

But my inner piggies need not worry. Will can have her sweets and BBQ and she doesn't need to worry about heing hungry. Won't doesn't need to fight off nighmares of choking down liver and bananas...again.

I was so thankful this week for the freedom we have in moderation. I didn't need to avoid social situations that would inevitably offer goodies and sweets. I didn't have to abstain, I only needed to keep my head and track what I ate.

Have a great week, everyone! As for me, I'm planning to go out to dinner with Honey and The Boy...and these two giddy piggies!

Twelve and a Half Chocolate Easter Bunnies

Wednesday, April 27, 2011

Have you seen my bunnies?

Actually, in honor of Easter I have converted my weight loss to its value in chocolate bunny, so you haven't seen my bunnies and as of my weigh-in yesterday morning, I haven't seen them either.

I did not lose this past week, but I am not disappointed about that. Between the 78 PPs I consumed on Easter Sunday (all my dailies, all remaining weeklies and all but 4 of my activity points!) and the (LATE!) arrival of Aunt Flo (ladies, you know who she is!), I was downright peachy-pleased that I didn't gain. In fact, converting my pounds lost to chocolate bunny loss has served to make me posatively extatic, loss or not!

12 and a half chocolate bunnies.

I spent some time thinking about it. I estimated that this number accounts for just about every Easter at which I received a chocolate bunny. I did have to participate in some fuzzy math, namely involving the fact that I was three the first time I got a basket and until I was ten, my mother managed to eat more of the bunny than I did. Yes, chocolate thievery is hereditary and I shamefully admit to having snitched creamy, sweet morsels from not only The Boy's Easter Basket, but his Halloween candy and other assorted treats as well. To counter my shame, I must proudly point out that for an only child, The Boy is remarkably good at sharing.

I am proud to report that in just four weeks, I have undone the damage of all my childhood chocolate bunnies.

I suppose, however, that this means I am going to have address the impact of the Cadbury Creme Eggs during this coming week. Something tells me those will take a lot longer than the bunnies!

The Bathing Suit: My Anti-Goal (And Fat People are FAST!)

Weight Watchers World:  4/26/2011 1:53 PM

Gosh, I'd love to have a body like a Victoria's Secret model. Who wouldn't? Granted, if I did I wouldn't be letting people take pictures of it and publish it in a internationally-distributed catalog, but that's not the point.

I think I have accepted the fact that even if I get to goal, my body will always bear the scars of obesity and pregnancy. Looking good, or even halfway decent, in a bathing suit is not one of my goals. Wearing a bikini...not on your life...unless I suddenly give my life completely over to vanity and keep a gifted plastic surgeon in my personal employ. And that is not going to happen. Not on this paycheck.

As much as I'd like to climb on a soapbox right now and preach about how my goals are about having more energy and lowering my risk for disease, I have to be honest. I want to look better than this! Living longer is a fringe benefit.

Reconciling my desire to look better with the reality of what my body is capable of...that is the hard part. So, in my own best interest...I have been forced to come up with some non-looking-good-in-a-bathing-suit goals.

Here goes...

Last summer, we bought season passes to a local water park. Honey and The Boy paraded around that place with me without shame. They love me. So, my thighs look like water-logged kitchen sponges, big deal.

I think it had been at least fifteen years and a hundred pounds or more since my last trip down a waterslide. I went down two last summer and learned an incredible lesson: a waterslide is about the only place in the world where FAT = FAST.

The first slide I went on looked tame to me, but that small, winding, completely-enclosed tube was a lot steeper than I thought it was and the interior was completely black. AND there was no need for me to sling myself into its frightening innards with such force. By the time I got to the end, I was like a bedraggled spitwad shooting out the end of a soda straw at 900 miles per hour. The bottoms of my bathing suit were lodged uncomfortably you-know-where and neither of us have been the same since.

It wasn't fun. I was terrified. Water was spraying directly into my face, so breathing wasn't an option and claustrophobia set in after the first nanosecond. I thought I was going to die. I'm sure that if there is a waterslide into that Biblical Lake of Fire, then it will closely resemble that one.

Even after that, my family talked me into another slide. This one, they assured me, was a slow one. They reasoned that it was so slow, they even let you go down head first. I ascended the tower with apprehension, taking courage at last when I saw a small boy passing a loop beneath us. He had to scoot foward on his bottom to avoid coming to a complete standstill. Again, I began my ride with confidence that evaporated like sweat in the desert. Again, I couldn't breathe without inhaling chlorinated water and skidded out the bottom of that slide, hydroplaning twenty feet into the pool before sinking to the bottom in the fetal position.

So: pulling this tale together...goals and bathing suits. My only bathing suit-oriented desire is to be able to ride the waterslides with my family without killing myself or being the fabulous fat lady who can go from 0 to 142 miles per hour in a single turn of the slide. The Boy might think that my "gift" is outrageously cool, but I do not. I don't have to look like an underwear model while doing it and, frankly, do we not know what happens to women who go down waterslides in bikinis?

Really, I'm okay with being asthetically imperfect in this case. I'm not crazy about it, but I can stand it if being at my goal weight means I might have to scootch foward on my bottom in order to get around that first turn on the "slow slide".

Bras and Other Supports

Weight Watchers World: 4/25/2011 2:07 PM

Molded-cup bras used to scare me. In their early days, let's face it: they too closely resembled padded bras and heaven knows, I never needed one of those. I refused to buy one because I was afraid of my underthings becoming obvious to the casual observer.

In all fairness, those of us who are top-heavy are generally more concerned about this since our - um - bounty is front and center and very hard to miss. For some of us, our double blessings enter a room several moments before the rest of us...perhaps that is a slight exaggeration, but it sure feels that way at times!

In light of all this, it is completely unnecessary to attempt to draw additional attention. I cite the inevitable food deposits on the front of my shirt and the magnetic power those leftovers weild upon the eyes as proof. Unmentionables designed for enhancement are just not appealing.

So, I was in a popular plus-size store this past Christmas and there was a sale on bras. I had always been amused and mystified that some 80% of this shops's bra selection was of the molded-cup variety. For Pete's sake, some of those things are large enough to swaddle six-month-old twins, why on earth would a woman in her right mind want to enhance a bust that required nine yards of fabric just for basic coverage?!

Because there are many busty women who knew something I didn't.

You see, bras were on sale that day so, I extracted a seafoam-green molded-cup balconette from the crowded rack and snuck off to a dressing room. The lady in the next room was trying on bras, too, with lots of whoops and hollers. I rolled my eyes silently and wrangled myself into my pick.

I looked in the mirror and was instantly struck full-force in the kisser by a giant epiphany.

Mother Nature is not kind and neither is her primary spawn: Gravity. In fact, Gravity seems to target the girth-challenged in the most undignified manner.

But, there I was: grinning ear to ear and turning like a ballerina in a pink jewelry box. Donning that molded-cup bra was as good as shoving a double-barreled shotgun in Gravity's impish little face. My girls were lifted to regions so far North that I don't think they'd been that high since I hit puberty. I'd looked so disproportionate for so long with my poor girls looking like they were trying to hide my belly button. Those molded cups not only didn't make me look huge, they actually made all of me look smaller.

Just like that I was shrieking and trading recommendations with the nutty lady in the next room as we ransacked the clearance section.

Bottom line: support is vital. This is true of both bras and Weight Watchers. Sometimes our support comes from places we don't expect. However, there is one major difference here that I would like to point out:

While we all need support in our weight-loss, we frankly shouldn't need a cheering section to keep us On Plan. Our support is there for when we need it, which shouldn't be every day (unlike our bras). If we are relying on our families to keep us motivated, steer us clear of temptations, eat things they don't like and rejoice over the .1 pounds we lost every single day, then please know that we are expecting waaaay too much.

We are making the decision to change our lifestyle. Not to change theirs to the same extent without their consent.

Let's be independent, my friends! Work with our families so that their support is there for our tough days and pull on our big girl panties for the rest of the time! We can do this! Lets remember that everyone needs support, but that even if we are technically in a wheelchair, we all have our "own two feet" to stand on! Don't expect others to become your legs and your willpower. We might be weak, but we won't get stronger without practice!

Taking My Medicine

4/24/2011 7:02 PM

I have spent thirty three years trying to do a lot of things. Among those: avoiding sweat.

Even during periods of time when I was active and fit, my exercise of choice was swimming. Yes, you sweat when you swim (a rather gross concept that I advise you avoid thinking about) but being surrounded by cool water, you don't notice it as much.

Even now that I am On Plan, I wouldn't be exercising except for one thing: I have to. Yes, I have to. I work for an institution that employs nearly 6,000 people. Since I have been at my job for under a year, I am still a peon in the eyes of the Great Parking Authority. Translation: it is exactly a mile from the closest "legal" parking space allowed by my permit to my chair. A mile. One way. I measured it. Yup.

That is two miles per day, plus another mile worth of errands. And I hate it. I hate every step. As the ninty plus degree days of the Texas Summer are already here, hiking to the car gets tougher. By the time I get to my vehicle at the end of the day, I'm huffing like a waterbuffalo in labor and the condition of my backside rivals that of a few landmark swamps. It is not a pretty site and it does not improve as get the air conditioning going in my car while sitting on leather seats that have been absorbing the heat all day.

It has been theraputic to whine about the discomfort, so I hope that you at least found it amusing. Maybe someday I will find a method of sweat-production that I enjoy. Until then, I will have to suffer through my hikes to and from the parking lot and reap the benefits of the forced marches every Tuesday morning at weigh-in.

Go ahead, you can pity me!

On Avoiding "Healthy Lifestyle Snobbage"

4/22/2011 11:55 AM

I have been blessed with some great relationships. Of course, I had to work, sweat and sacrifice for them, but they are worth it. Why should I expect my realtionship with food to be any different?

At the top of my list of reasons why food and I have been so disfunctional is the entire concept of "All Or Nothing" and the self-loathing that goes along with the inevitable failure. The rest of said list is filled with misconceptions and self-deceptions along the lines of: "Since frozen yogurt is better for me than ice cream, I should be able to eat a half gallon of it every day and still lose weight." and "I don't want to start I diet because I won't be able to eat any of the foods that I like."

So, I am armpit-deep in challenging every item on that list and having a wonderful time doing it.

However, I am often shocked over the gap that is widening between my food choices and those of my family. I find myself frequently having to resist the urge to gawk at the frivilous, oblivious sorts of things that once had me tipping the scales at 264 and straining the zippers of my size 24 jeans.

A few nights ago I was making breakfast tacos for dinner (see "Pound Wise and Flour Tortilla Foolish", if you are not sure what those are!). I carefully determined the whole-to-egg-white ratio for minimum PPs and maximum yum, and measured low-fat sharp cheddar, salsa and Baked Doritos (Yes, Doritos...and don't knock it till you try it!). Then I sweetly smiled at Honey and asked him to tend to the center-cut bacon.

I was preoccupied with whether I had put too much salsa in the mix for the scramble to congeal, so I didn't notice when Honey finished the bacon and wandered off to the pantry. I did notice, however, when he returned with four slices of Texas toast and plopped them in the pan with the hot bacon grease.

"What are you doing?!"
Honey looked at me like I had surely lost half of my IQ while he was fetching bread.

I realized my mistake immediately. I knew what he was thinking: "Just because you've turned into a food snob, doesn't mean you can make that choice for me." How many times had I experienced "Fatty Paranoia", thinking people were judging me for what was on my plate or in my shopping cart? Granted, sometimes I was imagining it, but sometimes I wasn't. Even when it came from well-meaning people who loved me, it didn't help; it didn't make me want to make a change in my lifestyle.

So, I said nothing more as Honey proceeded to allow that bread to soak up every drop of grease in the pan and consume them along with his 6-point tacos. I was truly horrified, but I was careful not to look down my nose while savoring my two tacos and, honestly, wondering what on earth those fat-soaked slabs tasted like.

Honey turned 38 last weekend. He's always been fit, but within the last couple years, the pounds have crept on. He is a builder, so he is active all day long and he understands during his afternoons, that his ability to work hard is directly related to what he puts in his body at lunch. If he eats what he packs (healthy sandwich, applesauce, a yogurt, pretzes and water) he can get a lot done and feel good. If he eats out, allows a customer to provide lunch or even has Subway, lethargy sets in and lunch occupies his stomach like a block of lead for hours. If he has soda or sweet tea, he might as well pack up and go home early. The afternoon is a loss.

Still, in the evenings and on weekends, that understanding goes out the window often enough to be having an impact on his waistline. Maybe someday he'll join me On Plan. He's toyed with the idea a time or two. In the meantime, he has his own "list" to cope with and he doesn't need me looking down my nose at him from my perch in Weight Watcher's bliss.