The Morning After

Yesterday was a nearly perfect Christmas Day.  I spent it at home with my immediate family.  I wore stretchy pants all day and relaxed when I wasn't cooking.  And the expressions on the boys' faces when they opened their presents were priceless.  At one point my youngest threw himself into my arms as if I was Santa himself, which I guess I kind of was.  We were very blessed as a family yesterday.  And I may have made the most perfect prime rib that has ever been made.  I actually jumped for joy when my husband started carving it and I saw that it was perfectly medium-rare. I win.

Today, however, I woke up in a foul mood.  I still felt like Santa but now for different reasons.  I felt bloaty and thick and unattractive.  I could also discuss chin hairs left unattended over the holiday but that's a story for another day.  I'm totally over Christmas today.

This morning I had one of the worse food hangovers ever.  If you are like me you had way too much in the way of holiday foods and snacks over the last couple of days.  If you are unfortunate to be like me you also still have many of these goodies still in your home.  And if you are eternally screwed in the food department like me, you still have two more family gatherings to go to this coming weekend.  Let's not even discuss New Year's Eve.

So I started this morning thinking about what I ate and feeling guilty and full of regret.  But I stopped it as quickly as I could.  Holidays are always about family and friends and yes, food.  It's what we do.  We love each other with food.  It's why I made the cookies and other desserts that remind my husband of childhood Christmases. It's why he shoved a bunch of truffles in my stocking.  It's why I slathered a bunch of honey butter on homemade popovers for the boys.

One of the things I always told myself and others the first go-around on weight loss was this, "Even naturally thin people eat too much on holidays, birthdays or vacations."  Then they come home, go back to their regular schedule and the weight they gained comes right off.  Do they feel guilty about what they ate?  I have no clue.  I'm not privy to how the brain of a naturally thin person works.  For me it's like trying to read German or Chinese. (FYI: I can translate "fried dumpling" in 2.5 seconds)

One thing I know is that guilt and shame are not productive emotions for anything.  Not a damn thing.  So brush off the tinsel and the glitter (hey, no judgment on your "traditions") and go back to taking care of yourself, whether it's with healthy food or exercise or just being kind to yourself.  And if not today, then tomorrow.  And if not tomorrow, then the next day.  Just don't wait until New Year's Day.  You know how I feel about that.

13

This whole Body Gratitude project I've challenged myself with has gotten mixed reviews.  Some people are clearly sick of my posts.  Some are motivated by them. A few want the "old Cassidy" back who posted nothing but snark and sarcasm.  Others have admitted that, while they don't feel strong enough to participate, they appreciate the concept of this exercise in changing our internal dialogue.

I wanted to quit on Friday.  The news of the Sandy Hook Elementary massacre in Newtown, CT had me reeling.  What kind of bullshit project was I promoting when there are REAL issues out there?  Real tragedies much greater than feeling shitty about yourself for 30 years.  My life is good.  My family is with me, safe and healthy, and I am blessed.  Who cares if I don't feel beautiful?

A couple of people reminded me that I was making a difference to them.  One suggested that if maybe the world was full of people that had learned to love themselves a little more we wouldn't have these kinds of horrific things happen.  I'm not crazy enough to think what I'm doing is as grandiose as all of that.  This is a small thing, meant to help me and a few friends go into 2013 with a new mind-set. But what convinced me to continue on was the news that the 13 year old daughter of one of my friends was inspired to write her own body gratitude in her journal.  In a short amount of time her list was already up to 12.  12!!  It was excruciating for me to get that far.  She is absolutely amazing.

Can you imagine having the chance to go back in time and say wonderful, beautiful things to your 13 year old self?  What difference could that have made to my 38 year old self now?

I turned 13 in the Summer of 1987.   It was right before I started 8th grade at a brand new school (again).  I was terrified at the thought of trying to make new friends for the third time.  Of trying to fit in.  I was chubby and pimply.  I didn't have all the name brand clothes.  I had a raging crush on a guy about 5 years older than me who only thought of me as his best friend's little niece.  And I was really good at not being nice to myself in my own head.

1987

We got our first CD player that year.  The Princess Bride was released. Married with Children and 21 Jump Street started that year. The top songs in 1987 included George Michael's "Faith", U2's "With or Without You", Bon Jovi's "Livin' On a Prayer".  (Don't even get me started on the huge Janet Jackson phase I went through when "Control" came out.  I rocked the hell out of my boom box that year.)

In 1987 the cost of a gallon of gas was only $0.89 and a pound of bacon was only $1.80.  I mention the bacon not because I had any concept of the price of bacon that year but because I don't think I have yet mentioned bacon in my blog and I have been remiss.  Bacon is good.

The age of 13 is heavily on my mind today.

Just six days ago I wrote about my feelings of never belonging and of disconnect with family.  Less than twenty-four hours ago I mentioned in my Facebook status that I wish I could go back to my 13 year old self and tell her that she was beautiful.  13 seems like such a pivotal age to me.

This morning I woke up to a friend request from a half-sister in Germany I've never met.  We share the same father, whom I have also never met.  We talked a little on Facebook.  She's gorgeous and looks so much older than she is.  And I can already tell she's fierce.  I'm old enough to be her mother and my inner-mom has already decided that if I had a daughter that looked like that I would lock her away.

This young girl took it upon herself to reach out to a 38 year old woman, not knowing how I would respond.  She took the first steps that I may never have taken, fearing I would overstep my bounds or open up a can of worms I wasn't ready for.  She seems fearless and confident and apparently has more balls right now than I do at my age.

She's 13.

I'm reeling again today.

Whatcha huntin'?

A week into my Body Gratitude project and I find that I'm quickly running out of body parts that I feel really good about.  This doesn't mean I should quit, though I am certain there are Facebook friends out there who are ready for me to shut the hell up.  It's even more proof that I need to continue, even if all those people need to "hide" me until January 1st.  But what do you do when, after seven days, you run out of things to feel beautiful about?  Maybe you make lemonade from lemons.  Or in this case from cankles.

It's time to start choosing some body parts that I'm less fond of and make the most of them.  After all, it's not much of a challenge if I only give a shout out to the things that I've actually always loved about my appearance, right?  I mean "hair"?  Really? Hair was my first entry.  Hair is the one talent I have.  Lame answer.

You know what is not my talent?  My legs.  And this is largely due to my cankles. Did you know that the word "cankles" was the July 26, 2009 Word of the Day according to Urban Dictionary?  I didn't either.  But if you are one of the two people on this earth who do not yet know what a cankle is, I will give you the official Urban Dictionary definition:

The area in affected female legs where the calf meets the foot in an abrupt, nontapering terminus; medical cause: adipose tissue surrounding the soleus tendon, probably congenital, worsened by weight gain and improved in appearance only by boots. From the English "calf" meaning wide portion of the lower leg, and "ankle" meaning slender joint of leg with foot.

Call them what you want, but I have them.  My leg is pretty thick all the way down but my cankles are why I don't wear dresses often. They are not my best asset so I cover them up.  But they come with a lot of history.

I'm an only child and my mother had me very young.  She raised me on her own but there were times when she needed help and because of that we lived with my grandmother for awhile.  My mother's younger siblings that were still at home were more like brothers and sisters to me than anything else.  In fact, I have one uncle who is actually twelve days younger than me.  Try explaining that on the school bus.

As much as I was exposed to the "big family" experience, I never quite felt like part of the family.  I was never entirely included.  I viewed them as my closest of siblings but in reality I was never more than a niece to them.  I was devastated when my grandmother got remarried and moved the remaining younger kids out of state. I felt like I lost my whole family. And then again about eight years ago when the two aunts that I cared for so deeply completely cut me off after telling me in no uncertain terms that I was never actually one of them.  It took me a long time to recover and I still find myself struggling to get really close to people at times.

It didn't help that while growing up I didn't look like anyone in the family.  I really don't even look like my mother.  I've only seen a few pictures of my father here and there so I can't even comment as to whether I look like him.  Do you remember that Sesame Street sketch with the song, "One of these things is not like the other...".  That was me.  "Belonging" is not a feeling I ever remember growing up.

Oh, but I digress. Back to cankles. In addition to this huge extended family was my great-grandmother, Pauline.  I can't remember a time when she wasn't around while I was growing up.  I remember going to her apartment when I was little and she would give us circus peanuts (um, worst candy ever) and tell us not to rock in the kitchen chair or we may "upset something".  She saved all bacon fat in a can by the stove and she made the best cinnamon rolls in the entire universe, a recipe she took with her when she passed away.

Pauline was born in 1909 and later was pretty much raised by a single father, unheard of at that time, after her mother left, taking only one of the kids with her.  From what I've been told, she adored her father, Hamilton.  She married a little late, too.  I believe she was in her late twenties when she married and had four daughters.

There were days she would open up the mysterious trunk in her room and show me pictures from when she was in her twenties and the one thing I always noticed were her cankles.  She had them in the most literal sense.  There was no difference in her leg circumference starting just above the knee and going all the way down to her foot.  It was actually pretty amazing.

Pauline moved in with my mother and me after my grandma moved away with the other kids. (Ok, by now I'm sure you are confused.  In my world my grandmother was "Grammy" and my great-grandmother was "Grandma". Does that help?)  I'm sure it worked out well sometimes for my mom because Grandma Pauline could always be there for me before and after school but I know she was hard to handle sometimes. You couldn't appear to be looking for anything in the house without her asking, "Whatcha huntin?"  She couldn't sleep much at night and would wake us up with the sounds of shuffling cards on a glass table so she could play solitaire. She started nearly every story with, "When I worked at the state school..." (She worked at a state mental hospital in her youth and the stories, though I'm sure she held some back from me as a kid, were amazing.) She also worked at a hatchery and I'll never forget the time she told me about the three legged chick that was born with it's third leg coming out of where it's butt should be.  It would run around like crazy and then sit back on that middle leg, the other two "normal" legs sticking out straight in front.  Of course it died because, you know, it couldn't go to the bathroom.  But I still wanted a three legged chick for my own.

Grandma crocheted while she watched her "programs" and she even taught me how to crochet a little.  I still have a couple of zig-zag afghans that she made for me in that Charlie Brown pattern that she preferred.  I can still hear the way she said afghan.  Af-a-gan.  

Pauline had the thickest, strongest fingernails and she would file them to nearly a point.  It's really no wonder the babies would never come to her when she waggled her fingers at them to get their attention.  Unfortunately her thick fingernails meant she also had thick toenails.  Literally, it took two hands squeezing on the clipper to get through them. Guess who got asked to trim them for her?  Have I told you how I don't like feet?  Yeah, I don't.  Perhaps this is why.  I also used to roll her hair in curlers for her.  She had the softest, whitest hair that I've ever seen.

I got the call that Grandma passed away at about 6:30am one morning, literally moments after peeing on a stick and finding out that I was pregnant with Ethan.  There was a lot of emotion that day.  I was so sad that my children would never meet the grandmother that I had spent the most time with.  They would never hear her crazy stories.  I wanted to do something to give her some kind of tribute but I just couldn't think of naming my child Pauline. (Actually her name was Mattie Pauline but she hated the name Mattie.)  And if we were to have a boy the name was already chosen anyway.

We drove out to Missouri to go to the funeral and while there we went through all of my Grandma Pauline's old photos.  So many pictures of her with her dark hair and cankles.  One picture in that box stopped me short.  There was a picture of her father, Hamilton, whom she loved so much.  Only it was my face staring back.  Here was the missing link.  Finally, I had proof that I did actually belong in this big, dysfunctional family.

We decided to name our second son Sean Hamilton in honor of my grandmother and her father whom she loved so dearly and whose face I share.  I had no clue that he would grow to have the same face, further solidifying our place here in this world.  We do belong and we do have history.

I can't wear heels with ankle straps and the whole ankle bracelet fad of my youth was frustrating as hell.  But today I am grateful for my cankles and the connection it gives me to my family history.  And there is always extra-wide calf boots so life isn't so bad.

I still want a three-legged chick, though.

Because I'm good enough, I'm smart enough...

I haven't written in a few weeks.  Frankly, I wasn't sure what I wanted to say next and honestly I had my hands full with the one goal I had given myself which was posting 30 days of gratitude statuses on Facebook for the month of November.  As hokey as it may sound, I thought this was a good project for me because being full of love and gratitude and all kinds of hand-holding, kumbaya feelings is not my strong suit.  But I gave it my best shot and I think I did ok.  Some were half-assed on my least gracious days, I'm not going to lie.  And some were genuinely full of feeling.  But the final post of the month is probably my favorite.  I wrote:

Gratitude Day 30: This one is difficult to write because I have a real hard time believing it most days. In fact it seems like total self-absorbed BS to even write it and if you think it's obnoxious, trust me when I tell you that fact is not lost on me. But today and every day from now on I'm going to try and be really grateful for myself. This body, mind and heart have put up with a lot of abuse, physical and emotional, for 38 years and yet they continue on. This imperfect shell I'm living in has had the opportunity to create two beautiful boys that, for right now and hopefully forever, seem to authentically love and take pride in themselves. I've done lots of things wrong but I've done a few things really right, too, and I'm thankful for all of those experiences.

My goal for the New Year is to improve and grow internally, reducing the "weight" of my own self-criticism until, with constant practice, my internal dialogue is one of love and thankfulness for myself and my body. We all deserve to care for ourselves as much as we care for all those whom we hold precious.

I'm also thankful that this is the last gratitude that I'm obligated to write as, I'm sure, are you. Bring on December!"

The very next day the body that I was trying to be so eternally grateful for decided to gift me with a stomach virus, leaving me laid up in bed (I'm actually still there), giving me plenty of time to think on my new blog subject. I have a lofty goal mentioned in that gratitude post but no clear path on how to get there.  I've been reading body-accepting blogs and curvy-loving Facebook pages and sadly, a lot of those still end with people debating via comments, nastily mind you, the difference between beautiful and just plain fat.  Sigh.  Not helping.

I've also read a memoir by successful "anti-diet, pro-body acceptance" blogger Kim Brittingham called Read My Hips.  While I have found her thought provoking, hilarious, entertaining and compelling, I still don't agree with her 100% on some topics. However, here was a passage that struck me early on.  She was remembering a frumpy, chubby, awkward classmate who, after one mysterious Summer break, came back to school transformed into someone sophisticated, stylish, graceful and outgoing.  Kim tried to coax the secret from this friend who seemed altogether ignorant of this miracle that had happened, one that Kim wanted for herself.  Finally, Kim decides, "Maybe all that happened was that someone told her she was beautiful, and maybe for once she believed it."

Hmmm... A place to start perhaps?  But as I've already explained I don't receive compliments well so it doesn't matter what anyone says if I don't believe it.  So it has to come from me.  And there you have it.  Affirmations.

No offense, Senator Franken, but you will always be Stuart Smalley to me.

My first exposure to affirmations came from my Grammy. My mother and I moved back in with my Grandmother and all my mother's siblings when I was around 5 or 6 and on occasion I slept in Grammy's room with her.  She didn't mind because I slept like the dead with no moving or sounds at all.  My Grammy was one of those people obsessed with the newest in holistic type medicines and concepts. (That's not a bad thing - I prefer holistic and homepathic paths myself)  However, she didn't do anything in less than it's extreme. She was a mini-trampoline using (hysterical if you had the pleasure of knowing her bra size), Neo-Life vitamin selling, protein powder consuming Bible beater. And she read every self-help book known to man.

One morning after staying in her room I woke up to her talking to herself.  She would spread her arms wide and bring them together to a centering point, touching her nose with both tips of her index fingers while saying her daily affirmations in a low, monotone voice. "I am smaaaarrrttt"  "I am successssful" "I am callllm" "I am beauuuuuutiful".  At this point, I cracked one eye open and in my most snarky, dead pan, 6 year old voice said, "I wouldn't go that far".  She laughed and laughed at my quick wit, which probably wasn't the best idea.  It only encouraged my ongoing habit to say what ever sarcastic, dry humored thought came to my head just to get a laugh.  But sarcasm was a language of love in our family.  I was fluent at a very young age.

I didn't give much thought to affirmations for awhile.  And when Stuart Smalley came on the scene I was mostly just reminded of my kooky grandmother. The idea of positive internal dialogue was pretty much lost on me seeing how I eventually became fluent in self-deprecation in addition to sarcasm.

During my years online in the Weight Watchers community my friend, Marylyn, would surprise us with a post out of the blue saying, "Quick! Name something you love about yourself!".  I loved those posts and the idea still sticks with me today.  How wonderful it was to see a hundred women or more post something positive about themselves or their bodies. It wasn't always easy to add to the thread but almost everyone did so.

We are coming up on the New Year soon.  Time for resolutions and new gym memberships.  For "This time I'm going to actually do it!" and "Wait till you see me next Summer"  This is a very profitable time for weight loss companies and fitness centers to capitalize on your big plans.  January is the cash-cow (I promise this is not a fat joke) for the industry.  But it's all a bunch of bullshit and I'll tell you why.

I was a certified personal trainer and group fitness instructor. I had lost 130 lbs. with no medical intervention. I had a pretty decent knowledge of nutrition and a pretty flexible schedule to get in all my workouts. I worked in a gym, for God's sake. And I still managed to gain back nearly 50 lbs in 4 years knowing all that I know and having the time to prevent it.  The answer doesn't lie with a specific eating plan, exercise class, bootcamp, personal trainer, or corporate weight loss center telling you when to eat and how much.  Those are all tools and very good ones.  But if you don't fix what's in your head, if you don't find a way to love yourself and tell yourself that you are beautiful and worthy and actually BELIEVE it, you won't succeed.  Maybe for a while you will. Maybe for a while you'll think you have it beat and you'll think you can help others beat it but it will come back around to you.  I promise you that.

I'm going to try something harder for me than my 30 Days of Gratitude in November.  Leading up to this New Year's Resolution time I'm going to attempt 30 Days of Body Gratitude.  I'm going to try and post something positive specifically about my body or my appearance every day with the final post on January 1st. I could post about all the other things I believe about my character and my personality but those are not where I'm lacking.  I like myself in those categories.  But, like most other women, I cluster most of my thoughts of self-worth with my physical appearance and I do so in a negative way.  Time to change that.

Will this fix everything? No.  I'm a long way off from that.  But I'm going to baby step into 2013 focusing on changing the one thing I really have control over, how I view myself, instead of that stupid number on the scale.  I will post something every day for 30 days and I will attempt to do so without any self-deprecation.  I hope you will join me.  If you are my Facebook friend, post what you are grateful about your body right on my status. "Quick! Name something you love about yourself!". (Please, please comment with your own gratitude on my status or I'll look like that asshole who can't stop talking about how hot she is.) If we aren't friends yet, post something in your own status or post something here, even if you have to do it every day on this one blog post.  This is what it's here for.

I'm hoping to enter 2013 with a new thought process.  I want each of you to wake up and have your first thought (before you think of your specific body gratitude of course) be, "I'm beauuuuutiful"  Touch your nose if you  have to, I don't care.  And don't ever say to yourself, "I wouldn't go that far".

I'm hoping that soon each of us can say "I'm good enough, I'm smart enough and, doggone it, I like me."

Thick Girl Couture - Hold the Juicy

I am not a fashionista.  Never have been, never will be.  Perhaps it stems from having exactly two plus-size stores to shop in during my twenties and a good chunk of my thirties. Or that I usually wasn't able to afford the most trendy brands. Mostly it's because my body is difficult to fit and I'm deconditioned for the psychological and emotional beat down that shopping delivers.

I remember I wanted nothing more than to have a pair of Guess jeans in 7th grade.  I'm quite certain it would have solved all my pubescent problems and probably brought world peace.  Alas, it was not mean to be. I couldn't fit into them.  I was able to hold my head up a little higher when I managed to squeeze into a pair of Palmettos, though.  Thank you, Baby Jesus.

I can afford more now. I can shop in most stores. (I still flip 5.7.9. the bird when I walk by, though) I usually have a little more time and patience when I go to the mall.  But most shopping trips still end up with me two steps closer to Xanax than I was before.  This reminds me - I need to go shopping this week.  Thank God the Mall of America serves alcohol.

Despite all of that, I have always tried to look my best.  Even at 300 pounds I took pride in my appearance and tried to take care of myself.  And along the way I have learned a few "rules" for myself that I think most women, thick or thin, could benefit from.

Jeans: I'm starting with the big one. Jeans are the bane of my existence. Nothing looks better than a great fitting pair of denim.  And nothing is more elusive.  My mother dreaded taking me jeans shopping every Fall for school.  I still hate it.  Thank God for websites like PZI Jeans and Little In The Middle.

Not only is it hard to find jeans that fit well but now you have to worry about a whole slew of issues that you didn't worry about before. Should I wear skinny jeans? How far apart should my pockets be? Which rise? Pocket flaps? Colored or metallic denim? Rhinestones? Mom jeans?  This is what I know.

Just because Skinny jeans come in your size, it does NOT mean you should wear them.  Skinny jeans would look exactly like sausage casing on my thighs, and not in a good sausage-loving way.  I just can't do it. And I see all the young girls these days trying to squeeze into the most unflattering style of jeans known to man just to keep up with their skinny friends and it makes me sad.  Know your limits and work with what you got.

And I see you jeggings.  I'm not falling for it.

Pocket flaps and pocket spacing - do your homework on the spacing.  Too much space is a sure fire way to get a Wide Load sign tacked to your butt.  And if you are lacking in the way of extra padding on your ass and you want to add the illusion of shape, by all means add some flaps and glitter.  If you come with an extra helping - skip it.

Speaking of glitter, I was once lamenting to a male friend of mine how hard it is to find jeans to fit my shape.  He suggested I try Apple Bottoms.  I had already looked at their website and saw that most of their styles were altogether too skinny and bedazzled for my taste but I kept an open mind.  Until I saw them at the mall on a sister who had a lot going on.  Make no mistake - she was gorgeous and put together.  But she was thick.  A whole lotta thick. Have you seen the sparkly little fruit-shaped Apple Bottom logo on the back pockets of their jeans?  Well, these were more like dinner-plate sized pumpkins instead.  I have no desire to wear rhinestoned winter squash on my rear end, which is sure to be my fate.  No thank you.

Stick with dark denim.  Too much whiskering and fading on your largest parts will make you look, well, large. Buy boot leg and straight leg. Fit is everything and remember a lot of department stores will do free alterations if the fit isn't exactly right.

Bras: Most women are wearing the wrong bra size.  Trust me on this.  Your band is too big and your cup is too small.  A good fitting bra will make all your clothes fit better and will make you look thinner. I promise.  Run to the mall and get fitted if you need to but if they try to measure you and then do that "add 3" rule" you better high tail it out there.  Unless you want to fall out the bottom of your bra at an inopportune time.

Signs you have the wrong size:

1. You have indentations in your shoulders (your band should do all the work, not the straps)
2. Your band rides up in the back
3. Your cups overfloweth until it looks like you have 4 boobs instead of 2
4. Your cups are looking sad and empty

Even if you are losing weight and you don't want to spend the money on new bras all the time, believe me that it's still worth it.  Splurge on this one thing. And learn your proper size. You're welcome.

Foundation Garments: Smoothers. Girdles. Gut Suckers. Spanx. Use them when necessary.  But beware.

I love the scene in Steel Magnolias (I'm convinced everything you need to know in life is found in this movie) where Truvy and Clairee are watching a woman dance at the wedding reception and Clairee says, "Looks like two pigs fightin' under a blanket." Been there, done that.  Truvy says, "I haven't left the house without Lycra on these thighs since I was 14." Clairee: "You were brought up right".

Once I had to explain to a male friend of mine (the same one with the Apple Bottoms - hmmm) that Spanx were not just another cut of women's panties like thongs, boyshorts and cheekies.  He was devastated to find out that the sexiest sounding pair of drawers available were the least sexy thing imaginable.  Though if I could find a well fitting, Lycra-having, roll-smoothing thong with plenty of coverage in the front, I would probably give my firstborn to own a couple pairs.

I love me some Spanx.  I really do. Sara Blakely deserves to be the youngest self-made female billionare.  But I have some issues with them.  Maybe it's just me.

The Higher Power Panties are a great idea.  Why smooth only from your waist down when you can batten down the hatches all the way to your bust line?  Herein is where the problem lies.  One false move, one extra piece of wedding cake and there is no higher power available to keep those things from rolling down. Do you remember those roller shades that you had to give a tug to and then they would roll up at the speed of light with that obnoxious sound.  Yeah, just like that.  Except now they are at your belly button.

They also promise to not show at your thighs.  Perhaps there is something wrong with my thighs because I have been victim to an inverted "muffin-top-o-the-thighs" many, many times.  Just do a test run before you go out and make sure that your foundation garments don't show.  Comfort?  Not a consideration.  We all know you aren't going to be comfortable in a gut sucker.  But at least have the decency to pretend to be svelte, smooth and line free.

General tips: These are just some various rules that I live by when shopping or going out.   Take what you want, leave the rest.

1. If you have your Great Grandmother's cankles or short, stubby legs like me don't buy shoes with ankle straps.  I don't care how sexy they are.  Your fat ankle does NOT need a belt.  It will only make you look more cankley. (new word of the day)
2. Sexy doesn't mean show as much skin as you can or wear it as tight as possible.  Sexy is well fitting and figure flattering.
3. If you are past the age of 24 months, do not put words on your rear end.  Not Juicy, not Pink. Nothing.  The day you see me wearing a sign on my butt is the day I've found a way to lease it out for advertising space.  They will pay me in cold hard cash and I will charge them up the... well, you get the point.  Don't do it. You're a grown up.  Let your ass speak for itself.
4. When in doubt, go with a mid-rise.  Didn't your mama tell you never to show your crack in public?  Seriously, very few of you can rock a low-rise and keep your modesty.  I know I can't.
5. Bigger, baggy clothes do not hide what you hate about your body or that you're rocking some major stuffing bloat from Thanksgiving.  They will only serve to make you feel frumpy and unattractive while giving all your secrets away.  Just find clothes that fit right and make you feel good.

In the end, the only thing that matters is how you feel about how you look.  Wear something that makes you feel sexy and confident and you will always look beautiful.  It's all in the attitude.  Confucius said, "Everything has it's beauty, but not everyone sees it." Though lets not get carried away now.  Even Confucius wouldn't like Crocs.


Leave a comment and share some of your "rules".  We have to stick together so no one ever says about us, "Oh that poor girl - she doesn't have any friends!  If she did they wouldn't let her go out looking like that." Help a sister out here!

On a Break

Blog number six and I'm already struggling with the next post.  Not a good sign.  It's not because I've run out of ideas.  I know exactly what I want to write about.  It's more the fact that before I can do so I have to call bullshit on my own damn self and I really hate doing that.  I mean I REALLY hate it.  It's bad enough when someone else tells me I've got it all wrong.  I shouldn't have to do that to myself.

If you're even half a girl you've probably seen Bridget Jones' Diary and you watched Mark Darcy list out all of Bridget's faults and neuroses only to finish by telling her, "I like you very much.  Just as you are."  And you swooned.  Don't even lie.

That's what I've been looking for.  My mission is to do the work it takes to be able to say that to myself.  Not because I made it to a certain weight or fit into a certain pair of jeans.  I want to love me just for me and I want to do it v.v.v.v. much.

At the same time I've trying very hard to get back to a weight I'm more comfortable at.  I work out about 6 days a week.  I track my food and keep account of all my carbs and proteins.  And I use the scale and body fat percentage to measure "progress". (I'm going to pretend those quote marks represent a more philosophical argument that progress could be measured in a multitude of ways but in this instance I was actually just trying to infer sarcasm over the rate in which the scale is moving.)

I'm trying to love me just the way I am while simultaneously trying to change the way I am.  I'm having a real hard time rectifying the matter in my head.  How do I do them both at the same time?  It's like an enigma surrounded in riddle wrapped in bacon.  And so far it's been total bullshit for me.

One could argue that providing healthy activity and nourishment is a form of loving oneself.  However, I'd counter that it can be unhealthy if one has basically got a white-knuckled death grip on the Spin bike because she's trying to force the scale into submission.

 I'm one of those people that loves exercise.  I really do.  So much so that I did it for a job for quite awhile.  However, sometimes I lose focus on what my real motivation for doing it should be.  And it all boils down to that stupid number.  And if there is one thing I know for sure it is this.  Getting that number to say what I want it to say won't fix me and it won't make me love myself.  Been there, done that.  Didn't work.  And you, too, will be waiting a long damn time if you are waiting for the right number, the right job, the right partner before you can finally say, "I'm fixed. I love me now."

As a personal trainer I had many ways to measure progress with clients. Sure, we started with measurements, body fat and the scale.  But there was also watching their endurance increase. There was a measured progression in the complexity of the exercise or the weight being used.  And one of my favorite ways to see progress in the confidence in my clients was to look for when they finally started watching their own form in the mirror.  You have no idea how many people won't look at themselves while working out.  That day I would catch them staring into the mirror and know they were watching the workout and not thinking negatively about their body - that was a good day.  But in the end, if the scale didn't say what they wanted they still weren't happy.

Sadly, I'm no better.

So the scale and I have to take a break.  I need to work on the issues from the other direction.

1. Work on my inner Mark Darcy. (This will probably encompass steps 1-78 but we are simplifying here)
2. Exercise because I like the way it makes me feel and I love feeling strong.
3. Eat healthy foods that make me feel good instead of sluggish
4. Stay off the god damned scale because it's a total mind fuck (especially when one seems to have more gravity that the average person of the same size).

Some of my trainer friends or past clients may think it's a cop out.  After all, how will I know if I've made progress at all if I don't step on that scale and see if all the hard work has made any difference?

Maybe I'll know when I can look at myself in the mirror and like me just as I am, v.v.v.v. much.

Walk of Shame

A good friend of mine confided in me today and told me she had a rough food weekend while attending a couple of get-togethers.  She ate more than she intended and she drank more than she should have. She was feeling pretty defeated after doing the walk of shame to the bathroom scale this morning and seeing how much she was up.

I told her she was disgusting. I said she was ugly and fat and would never get it together.  I told her that she wasted a good month of hard work at the gym and clean eating. I told her she was a failure and, to add insult to injury, I reminded her that the pictures I saw posted of her on Facebook this weekend made me sick.

If you know me at all you know that I am incapable of saying those things to anyone, even someone I don't like. But I sure have no problem talking to myself that way.

I hosted Book Club this past Friday and had fun doing some cooking and spending time with friends.  I laughed so hard I cried and I promise I will never hear or say the word "spelunking" again without cracking a smile.  On Saturday night we went to a Halloween Party and again had a great time.  But I did eat too much this weekend.  To be specific, I ate way too many carbs, which I've been very careful about lately.  I drank more wine than I should have and had too much punch from a witch's cauldron. And, *gasp*, I had desserts for the first time in week and weeks.

If I had to pick one skill that I had, one thing I excelled at more than anyone I know, it would be bloating.  I bloat like it's my job.  The kind of bloat where you know you better not take your shoes off because you probably won't be able to get them back on. Don't even think about challenging me to a bloat-off.  I got this.

Today is no exception.  Do I know logically that it is impossible IMPOSSIBLE to gain that much in a weekend?  Of course.  Does it still mess with my head.  You bet.

If a friend or client had come to me with the same feelings I'd have had a whole list of things to say to them. 1) Get off the God damn scale. 2) Persistence, not perfection. 3) Success is measured by how many times you get up, not how many times you fall down. 4) Even skinny people eat too much at parties.

That number I saw on the scale doesn't take away the fact that I've been eating cleaner than I have in ages.  That I've been more consistent with my workouts than I have been in forever.  That I've been seeing changes in my body and I've been feeling so much better than I did 6 months ago.  But sometimes I let it do those things.

When did it become acceptable, even expected, to be nicer to other people than you are to yourself.  Where did I learn that it was ok to speak to myself the way I do?  No one has ever spoken to me that way and if the did they'd learn real quick how mean my right hook is.  Yet I still do it to myself.

I first joined a gym after losing about 75 lbs. on my own. I hired a trainer on day one and he changed my life.  But one of the sessions with him that I remember most vividly was the day I told him that I had hit the 100 lbs. lost mark and I wanted to thank him for his help. We talked for a bit and then he asked me, "So how does a person get to be 300 lbs anyway?"  Anyone else may have been offended by this but I knew what he meant.  How do you get to 200 and not notice?  Or 250 and not decide to stop?  Granted, he had never had a weight problem so he truly didn't understand the battle.  But it freaked me out that I didn't have a good answer for this.  The only thing I came up with was this, "I didn't love myself enough to stop". 

I've never figured it out I guess.  That's why I'm back here again.  And it's why I allow myself the internal dialogue that I do.  I swear if I never lost another pound but learned how to love myself the way I am, the way my friends and family love me, I would be more successful than I ever have been.  I know I post a lot of obnoxious "Love your Body" and "Accept your Curves" themed pictures and articles on Facebook.  I'm not being preachy here.  I'm trying desperately to change my thinking. Please take the time to share any thoughts, articles or favorite books you have on the subject here in my comments because I know this problem of forgetting how to self-love is epidemic. (Not that kind of self-love.  If you haven't figured that out yet, I can't help you.)

I went for a long walk with a very good friend yesterday and she said, "I wish you could see yourself through my eyes."  I wish I could, too.  I'm working on it.  I'm never going to stop going out with my friends.  They are my air.  They remind me that I am worth loving just as much as I love them.  And they make me laugh.  I'll probably eat too much with them sometimes or drink too much.  But I'm not going to stay home and hide and live inside my own brain. I've proven that's not always a loving place to be.

Besides, what's the point of being skinny if you are sitting at home by yourself.

Fake It Till You Make It

I think I'm a pretty confident person. I've always known I was smart. School came so easy to me.  I know I have an ability to make people laugh.  I've been pretty successful at most things I've attempted. I know I have a huge heart and I'm a fierce friend if I let you in. I can teach a class with the utmost confidence that I can break you. Overall, I like who I am.

Yeah, I'm pretty confident most of the time. But if someone pulls out a camera I will tuck and roll faster than if someone had just laid down cover fire. I have mad photo evasion skills.

I don't know when my cameraphobia started.  Maybe when someone took a picture of me in my little toddler bikini around the age of 4 or 5 and nobody happened to notice that the bikini top was slid way over and a whole nipple was showing. I spent the rest of the day with my hand on my heart like an awkward pledge of allegiance.  Or maybe it was that mullet I received right before 2nd grade pictures?  I have no idea.  I just know I hate cameras.  Unfortunately that means there are very few pictures of me around.  I was always behind the camera, taking pics of the kids.

In an attempt at "therapy" I hired a photographer friend to do a shoot with me. She does beautiful work and I would recommend her to anyone.  Aside from her talent she loves what she does and I believe that makes all the difference. If you are looking for a photographer here in Minnesota, you must contact Erin Zemanovic Photography.  This picture is my favorite. I look so deep in thought.  More than likely I'm thinking, "I wonder if that place over there serves wings?"

But armed even with a bunch of Facebook worthy photographs I still hate the camera.  And I honestly don't think the pics truly look like me.  They are much too pretty and I don't do pretty.  I love them, but I don't see me.  And that's not Erin's fault. You know what I see most of the time when I look at pictures of myself or I look in the mirror?  This:

  

That was me for so long that I have a hard time getting my mind around anything else.  I don't think of myself as pretty. You know how people always describe an attractive overweight person by saying, "She's got such a pretty face"?  I always got, "She's got a great personality."  God, that's like the curse of death when someone is avoiding the topic of your appearance.

Sure I can seem confident when I go out to the right bar.  But heels, a cocktail, soft lighting, a room full of beer goggles and Marvin Gaye will make everyone feel like a sexy beast.  True story.

But overall I'm not confident in the way I look.  I never have been.  And a secret they don't tell you about losing a considerable amount of weight - sometimes it makes you hyper critical.  I avoided mirrors and cameras so much that it became a non issue.  As I was losing I started paying super close attention, searching for any sign of a change in my body.  Seeing every flaw close up after avoiding them forever.  Add to that all the stretch marks and loose skin from damaging your body for so long and it's a recipe for disaster.  Nothing makes you feel more attractive than getting to your goal weight and realizing you look like a menorah on day 8 and there is no amount of exercise or perfect nutrition that will remedy that.

This morning on the news I saw a segment about a college girl, Stella, who bravely had a photograph of her in her underwear posted online with a big middle finger to all those that hurt her or made her feel bad about her body.  I think she is amazing and I wish I had her courage to just say, "Fuck it. This is me and I'm beautiful."  It was suggested to me that I could conjure up the same confidence if I "fake it till I make it".  I could just post some pics of myself in the same manner and be an inspiration to all my friends.

Um, hell no.  Hell-to-the-No.  No one wants to see that.  And let's not even discuss the fact that I have young boys who would be traumatized someday by the whole idea. I just can't.  I wish I could.  But no. Posting my before pics is about as brave as I'll ever get and you don't even want to know the anxiety I have about it right now.  And don't assume this post is about fishing for compliments because anyone that knows me knows that I am the absolute worst compliment acceptor in the entire world.  I suck at it.

I am actively working on changing my thinking about myself and my body.  I want to think of myself as beautiful and I want to encourage everyone else to do the same. But I can't post that kind of picture and I have no one to give the big middle finger to about making me feel bad about myself except for me.  So for now I will use my words to work on this rather than photography and leave the other method to Stella.

I won't promise I'll always have pants on when I write, though.

“Just give me a thousand words and you may make your own pictures.”- Erica Goros

Deconstructing the F-Word

I've already gotten some feedback to this new blog of mine and I love it.  I love that people can relate and the encouragement to keep going has been fantastic.  I also had a suggestion from someone who liked the blog.  She thought that perhaps I should not call myself fat because it may be a turn-off to those that were heavier than me.

I totally understood where she was coming from.  It's hard to listen to someone thinner than yourself complain about their weight.  When someone that is a size 4 complains about the 10 lbs she's gained it takes all the effort I can muster not to throw something at her.  In a loving way of course.  Keep in mind that I trained and supported people smaller than me at the gym for almost 4 years.  That's a lot of stuff not thrown.  But body issues are body issues no matter the person's size.  I totally get it.

But today I'm going to tell you why I will continue to use the word 'fat' in this blog.  And if you are easily offended this is probably not the blog to follow anyway. I can't for the life of me figure out how to make this funny today.  We will return to our regular programming next time but today I'm getting real.

First and foremost, I will use the word fat because, frankly, I've more than earned the right to.  I've been morbidly obese.  Hell, according to BMI (which is total bullshit on any planet), I'm still in the obese category. Most of my adult life has been in that category.  I'm not as fat as I was at my heaviest, but I'm definitely fatter than I was at my lightest. I am, and always will be, a card carrying member and no one can take that away.

The first time I lost weight I was part of an online community, mostly women, who all needed to lose over 100 lbs. I met some fantastic, beautiful people there - many who are still in my life today thanks to Facebook.  We affectionately called each other fatties.  It was the fatty board.  Occasionally a newbie would show up and announce that the term was offensive and boy did she get a verbal beat down.  You don't get to be 100 lbs overweight by not having something we called 'fatty brain'. We don't think like skinny people.  Food is first and foremost in most of our daily thoughts. We reward ourselves with food when we've had a spectacular day.  We comfort ourselves with food when it's been total shit. We think about what we'll eat when we wake up and we get nervous when we don't think there will be enough. This issue with food and weight creeps into every aspect of our lives.  It's who we are.  And just because I'm no longer 100 lbs overweight doesn't mean it's still not there.  It's like an alcoholic who is celebrating sobriety - are they no longer an alcoholic just because they aren't drinking?  I will always be susceptible to self-medicating with food and it's a reality that I can't ignore.

Second, I'm trying not to give that much power to the word fat. It's not offensive. It's just matter of fact. A good portion of the fat we carry on our bodies is essential. The rest is extra, but it's not evil.  It's actually a product of a very well designed biological process.  Our bodies are doing what they are supposed to be doing with the lifestyles we are giving it.  We just aren't living the right lifestyle.

I struggle daily with not tying my weight to my self worth but that is not the fault of the word 'fat'. My weight is not who I am. Unfortunately my feelings about my weight do affect me, though.  On what I call my "ugly days" where I hate everything about myself - those are the days I need to be very careful with the word.  But when I'm thinking clearly and logically the word has no emotional impact on me other than to sum up my current situation.

And finally, for a person larger than myself to be upset that I called myself fat one would have to assume they didn't already know they themselves were fat.  I'm calling bullshit on this one. She knows she's fat from the moment she wakes up each day to the moment she goes to sleep.  She knows it when she struggles to buckle her seat belt when she can't actually see the buckle. She knows it when she has bruises on her hips from the arm rests on movie theater chairs.  She remembers it when she goes to bend over or squat down and the inseam of her jeans rips open from stretching too far. She's painfully aware of it when her legs have friction burns from her thighs rubbing together under a skirt. She feels every bit of it when she has to ask a flight attendant for a seat extender in front of a whole fucking plane of people or when she's terrified to sit in someone's lawn chair because she knows she's going to break another one.  She knows it when she leaves an appointment where her doctor said it was probably time to consider gastric bi-pass and the kid in the elevator asks her why her bones are so big. Or when she's asked to get off a kiddie roller coaster in front of a huge line of people because the safety bar that would protect her youngest son won't lower far enough to latch.  And she has to beg and plead with the roller coaster operator while trying not to cry in front of all those people to please, just please make an exception and let her two boys ride without her.  Just one time. Please. 

If she gets upset because I've called myself fat it has more to do with the fact that she's not ready to face her own issues with weight yet.  And it probably means she's not going to like this blog, either.  And that's ok, too.  I'm not for everyone.

Do you want to know when that fat word doesn't work?  When you use it on someone else.  Never in the history of forever has calling someone else fat ever helped them.  No amount of calling your spouse fat will encourage them to lose weight.  Never has a mother telling her daughter that she'll never find a man to love her because of her weight ever given her that light bulb moment. It's not an intervention. The f-word is hers to own, not yours to give.

I don't believe in punishing myself.  I don't believe in negative reinforcement - like putting pictures of cows and pigs on the fridge to deter myself from eating.  I detest fat jokes and I'll call you out every time if I hear you make one about someone else.  But I know I'm fatter than I want to be and I know if I ignore it my fatty brain will put me right back where I was.  And I'm not going back.

Not Your '50 Shades' Vanilla

Curvy. Big Boned. Chunky. Thick. Full figured. Voluptuous. Solid. Bootylicious? (FYI Snoop said it way before Destiny's Child sang about it). Rubenesque - this one is my favorite.  It sounds smart and artsy and proves I was born in the wrong century.

I never really knew what my adult figure looked like until I lost weight in my early 30's.  I was probably the same weight in high school as I was at my goal but back then I just felt fat. And I'm pretty sure when a couple of boys would fly up dramatically out of their seats when I would sit down at my desk they weren't suggesting I was curvy and sexy. I'm also quite confident that breaking several chairs in her lifetime doesn't lead one to assume her large rear end is a major asset. (ha! ass-et)

And then there was the time my youngest son asked me, "Momma, how come your butt jiggles when you walk?"  Sigh.

So I lost a bunch of weight and turns out - I'm curvy. Apparently there is a mathematical equation for this: a hip-to-waist ratio that determines your qualification.  So-called studies show that this perfect number is .7. In real world speak - you can't find a damn pair of pants to fit your huge hips and ass without leaving a gaping hole at the back of your waistband.  But good news - you now have somewhere to put your purse if you go dancing.

 I'm on a constant mission to both make peace with my shape AND be fit and strong. Most days I'm ok with my curves. Some days I underestimate how much space they take up, like the other day when I almost knocked over a bunch of equipment at the gym with my butt but was saved by my trainer whose own derrière defies all laws of nature on her tiny, muscular body. But name one sport that my body shape is conducive to. Try it. I dare you. It doesn't exist. You are more likely to see my figure on Thick Girls with Booty  than  Strong is the New Skinny. Unless someone forms a National Childbirthing League (and trust me when I say I do NOT want to be drafted) I'm out of luck and fighting nature for the rest of my life when it comes to physical activity.

Enter Louwanda. I took a friend and former client to my favorite place to listen to live music in downtown Minneapolis. We had a great evening and got up to leave at the end of the night when a woman got up in my face demanding my name. (I'm pretty sure my friend thought we were about to get cut.) I politely told her mine and asked her for her name. Louwanda. She then proceeded to say, "I saw you walk past me three times! And the last time I said, 'Oh, hell no. Who she think she is walking in here like that?'" "Walking like what?" I say.  "Oh you know what I'm talking about!" (Ok, so maybe we are going to get cut) I told her that was just the way I walk and she yells, "Bullshit!"  At this point I don't know where we're going with this. But then Louwanda gives me one of the greatest compliments a Rubenesque girl in the 21st century can get. She says, "Girl, you might be vanilla in the front but you're 'chocolate' in the back." Ok, she didn't use the word chocolate. She used a particular n-word that I don't happen to use. But, profanity aside, this is high praise coming from a sister and I loved it.

I'm not ever going to be thin.  I won't ever have an easy time shopping for jeans. It is my destiny to have to haul this junk around with me every time I try to be active, which is nearly every day.  This shit is heavy, y'all. But that night, thanks to Louwanda, I didn't care that my butt jiggled when I walked. And I had the perfect name for my blog.

Confessions of a Recovering Personal Trainer

Once upon a time I was 308.5 lbs. Three-Oh-Eight. I vaguely remember that person and I have occasional glimpses of her even now, real or imaginary.  I think I'm still her in those last few seconds before I pull my jeans up all the way and pray that they will still button. When I work up a lather wrestling myself into a pair of Spanx - yep, I'm that girl. And I'm her when I walk between tables at a restaurant and still turn sideways between the chairs, even though I fit now.  Most of the time.

I was over 300 lbs. and a size 26 when I decided I had had enough and I was going to do something about it. Just a little under 3 years later I was 129 lbs. lighter, a size 10 and a Personal Trainer.  The journey of how I got there is a story for another day - the one that had a happy ending to that "once upon a time".

This is a different story.  The one where I hated the word "inspiration".  There one where "motivation" made my teeth hurt. The one where getting up to teach a class or train clients who are actually thinner than me made me want to drive right to Dairy Queen on the way home from the gym and get a Peanut Buster Parfait. (I never actually did that.  I do have some self-control.  I sent my husband after the kids went to bed.)

It starts as your typical love story.  Girl meets Gym. Girl obsessively stalks Gym. Girl gets a job at Gym so they never have to be apart. Sadly, it ends the same way as those love stories, too.  Girl gets her heart broken. Girl eats a whole pizza by herself. (Ok, I haven't done that in YEARS.  I swear!)

I think I can pinpoint the exact moment when I made my mistake. I was interviewed for an article in the local paper which highlighted my story of going from morbidly obese to personal trainer.  I had agreed to do it begrudgingly because I thought it would bring publicity to the gym. But, contrary to popular belief, I loathe being the center of attention and detest the pressure of being a "role model". The article very nearly gave me hives. I did it anyway.

At one point the journalist asked me, "So why did you want to become a personal trainer?" I gave her the real answers: 1) I wanted to give back to the Gym that I loved and to which felt like I owed so much. 2) I wanted to show other people who were just like me that they could do it, too, without resorting to surgery. 3) I thought that working in the fitness industry could serve to be part of my maintenance plan and help keep me in check, because (wait for it...) "Nobody wants a fat trainer."

I swear if you think back on that day - if I could give you the exact moment - you would recall that you felt a slight shift in the air pressure.  Maybe a chill that wasn't there before. I know you had to have some sense of impending doom that you couldn't quite put your finger on.  I will tell you exactly what it was.  That was Ms. Karma and she was chuckling to herself while polishing up her bitch slapper. That week was my lightest week on the scale - the smallest number I ever saw in my adult life. And it was all up hill from there.

I think I was pretty good at what I did.  My classes were full.  I had a ton of clients.  I made them laugh and I pushed them through discomfort to do things they didn't think they could do. I gave them good workouts and taught them proper form.  And when they needed hugs or needed to cry, I was there.  And there wasn't one emotion about weight-loss that I couldn't sympathize with them about.  I've experienced each and every one.  What they told me most often was that they liked me because I was "real". (I think this was a nice way of saying I wasn't a rock hard fitness goddess they could never measure up to. Ok, I'll take it I guess.)

Flash forward 3 1/2 years. I was physically and emotionally drained. I felt devoid of any passion. I felt brow-beaten and disrespected by an employer who called me venomous and derisive. I felt like a stranger half the time in my own home because I was absent so much due to my schedule. I had given every bit of myself to Gym and I was leaving with so little.  Except for one thing - that I had in abundance. Karma is nothing if not true to her character because I. Was. Fat.       Again.

I taught my last classes and trained my last clients a little over 4 months ago.  There were a lot of tears that week.  Who am I kidding? There were tears every day for weeks before that week and probably for more than a month after that week.  I'm in full recovery mode now.  I'm trying to heal and make myself a priority and be healthy again and it's about 1,000x harder than it was when I was 308.5 lbs.  Back then I was full of hope and excitement and the dreams of "Oh, God, please just let me get to a size 16 again.  If I could get there I could be happy forever." Trying to start over when you are broken and damaged and embarrassed of where you are now compared to where you were? Well, played, Karma. Well played.

I'm starting a new story now.  One where I learn to care for myself again. Where I make peace with my body and respect it rather than try to beat it into submission.  Where I find joy once again in feeling strong and fit without doing it in the public eye. And maybe, just maybe, my story of fat-to-trainer-to-fat again will help someone else down the road so that they don't make the same mistakes I do, forgetting to take care of themselves first. And if not, I hope I at least make you laugh and not even care that you have a fat blogger.