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.