Chronicles of an Inner Skinny Girl

Hypothetically speaking, if I didn’t live in Neverland where I could be 28 forever, this would be the last day that I would be 31.  Just for fun let’s pretend that’s the case and I’ll tell you what it (hypothetically) feels like:

I watch the seconds tick by on the clock and know that it is coming – another birthday.  I smile at the thought of how excited I was as a child each year as this day came around.  I always loved my special day and thought it could never come fast enough; little did I know…  I’m not opposed to birthdays in theory or even to the idea of getting older.  Generally speaking I’m in the camp that believes it is better than the alternative (unless the alternative is becoming a vampire because I would make a kick-ass vampire).  The problem isn’t the birthday, it’s being so far away from where I thought I’d be when this day came.

Once upon a time before the realities of the world took over and I became (on good days) cynical, I thought I would have everything I wanted and be totally put together by this day.  I thought I would be married with 2.5 kids, live in a big house with a picket fence, drive a responsible car (but under no circumstances a minivan), and be one of the youngest partners at my firm (in case you think I was crazy, I started at the firm when I was 24 and at that time you generally made partner in 7 years).  Well, here I sit as time runs out and I have none of those things.  Instead I am divorced and haven’t been on a date in 5 years, I live alone (I mean with Yeti) in a townhouse with an invisible fence, I drive a relatively irresponsible car (which, in fairness, I love), and not only am I not partner, but I now review documents for a living and am only a few months away from walking away from the practice completely.  And I promise you that I never thought I’d be back to losing that same 80 pounds again.

But before you play me the world’s smallest violin, I should tell you that while I may not have any of the things on my old list, I’ve been making a new list and it’s not too shabby.  I live in a city that has character and within a mile of my best friend (yes, Jen, I mean you).  I have the most amazing nieces who love me without question (last time I visited Phoenix Abby asked why I had to go to the airport again since I live in their neighborhood).   I get to start my morning at boot camp with fantastic women, and I get to help them reach their goals while they support me in mine.  I love to run (I still can’t quite wrap my head around that) and will soon finish a half-marathon (I can’t even tell you how ridiculous that statement would have been on my old list).  I’ve been accepted into a great writing program and get a second chance to do what I love.  And I may be back on the weight loss wagon (and I may fall off said wagon all the time), but at least I am slowly but surely moving in the right direction.  The only failure is in quitting.

So as I sit here and reflect on the past 31 years (or 11,688 days), I can’t help but shed a small tear for all of the goals I didn’t reach.  But I also have to smile because if I had reached all of those goals, I might have missed out on the really cool goals that are on my new list, and I wouldn’t be the person I am today.  I am the sum total of every one of those days…and maybe in another 365 days I will have reached some of the goals on my new list…or maybe I won’t and I’ll just scratch those goals for a new and improved list.  Either way, I’m going to do my best to enjoy the ride.

So remember how excited I was after my 9 mile long run went so well, today’s 10 mile long run would be the opposite of that.  It took an excruciating 2 hours and 53 minutes.  I know what you’re thinking – you ran 10 miles, you should be proud of that, blah, blah.  I am a little proud I guess, but still disappointed.  After last week I was completely prepared to call the 8 mile disaster an anomaly and believe that I could really stay on pace, but now I know it wasn’t an anomaly.  Don’t get me wrong, I’m not saying that the beautiful 9 mile run was an anomaly either, I’ve just now confirmed that I can’t always make my body do what I want it to.

It’s hard being in this in-between place of half healthy and half obese.  Part of me feels like a healthy person and wants to be the active person that I know I can be, but part of me still requires the extra effort of carrying around about 60 extra pounds – and that’s a lot to ask of any body, let alone a body that’s only recently converted from couch potato.  I work out with my sister a lot and sometimes I feel like she doesn’t really understand how hard it is.  I know that she wants to understand, but no one can truly get it unless they’ve been there (I’ve suggested she try working out in a fat suit, but she respectfully declined).  Sometimes when I’m running on the treadmill I’ll put my hands on the side rails for just a moment or two to transfer some of the weight to my arms, and it feels like I’m running on air.  I close my eyes an imagine what it would be like if this is what it always felt like; I imagine that I can enjoy running even more because my body doesn’t scream at me for every step.  I try to hold onto that image in my mind so that I can pull it out when I’m feeling weak…which is most of the time.

The past few days I’ve been eating and drinking garbage.  I’ve had some less that pleasant things come up in my personal life and as always I turned to food.  The stupid thing is that I know better, but I just can’t seem to stop myself.  The food hangover (and sometimes real hangover) makes me feel like crap, but then I treat that with ice cream (and not the frozen yogurt kind) and thus the cycle begins again.  I don’t really have any magic answers (as usual) other than to get up each morning and try again…and maybe to put a lock on the refrigerator.

I know what you’re thinking…why is she so obsessed with time?  Because that is what runners do, obsess about time.  The time it takes to get from point A to point B.  We pace ourselves and know along the way how good or bad we’re doing to beat our last time (I know not checking the time worked out for me last weekend, but that was really out of character and some would argue that I got lucky.)  We use our time to set our goals.  Really fast runners race against each other, but I’m still racing against myself.  I am a slave to the stopwatch (and the billable hour, but that’s a different story).  My number one goal is always to finish and for now my second goal is to keep a 15 minute mile pace.

That may sound like a decently easy goal, and for 3 or 4 miles it is.  But on longer runs it can be a little harder than it sounds.  On my 7 mile run I finished in 1:50, which was only 5 minutes over.  But then I had a disastrous 8 mile run that took 2:16, a whopping 16 minutes over and a 17 minute pace.  I knew that I was not doing well on that one, but was still disappointed.  So needless to say I was really nervous heading out for my 9 mile run.  As it turns out, there was no need for nerves at all.

It was a beautiful Friday afternoon, and I took a break from my work to get in a “quick 9” (ha, ha).  I tied my shoes and selected my playlist and headed out the door.  I felt the pavement under my feet as I took one step, then another, and another, and 21,300 more (give or take a few).  I ran my 5 mile loop and then my 4 mile loop.  I saw my stepdad doing yard work three times and my sister drove past me twice (the first time she stopped and offered some much needed water and my adorable nieces gave me a sweaty high five).  The first 5 actually went pretty smoothly so as I headed back out I told myself that I was just going for my regular morning run.  Then the 4 went well, too, and the next thing I knew my iPod was telling me that I had just 400 meters to go (seriously, it is totally Big Brother).  Then 300 meters, then 200, and at last 100.  I pushed the button to hear my time and discovered I still had about 20 seconds to make my goal time.  I sprinted as hard as I could (which I assure you was not as fast as it seemed to my body at the time) up the hill (of course I had to be going uphill right at that moment) and at last heard the nice lady who lives in my iPod say “Congratulations.”  I pushed the button and was ecstatic to discover I had done 9 miles in 2:15:02.  (Btw, this obviously isn’t the climax since I told you my time in the title.)

So, goal number one…check.  And goal number two…double check.  You see, this isn’t really a story about time after all, it’s a story about setting a goal, a seemingly impossible goal, and then working towards it and being excited when you reach it.  There is another piece, too, and it’s not giving up.  If there’s one thing I’ve learned by now it’s that your body doesn’t always do what you ask it to do.  Sometimes you try your very hardest and you still fall a little short (just ask the Olympic athletes that finish fourth – at least I don’t have to wait four years to try again).  So for now I’m going to be proud of myself and savor this moment.  I’ll also commit this feeling to memory so that the next time I try my hardest and fall a little short I can reach into my memory bank (which Jen tells me is freakishly filled with minute details from my entire life) and relive this moment again…and again…and again.

This weekend was both interesting and fun.  I went with a friend to the Shamrock 8k in Virginia Beach.  I call it that because I merely ran the 8k.  She ran the 8k yesterday and the half marathon today, so she probably has a very different name for it.  It was the first time that I’d ever been to a “real” running event.  I don’t mean any disrespect to all of the amazing charity races that I’ve run; it’s just that this was a very different experience.  You probably have to go to really understand, but I’ll do my best to explain.

We drove up to Virginia Beach on Friday night and went to the Expo at the convention center to get our race packets.  It seemed like a pretty big place to pick up a bib and t-shirt, but I figured it would make sense when we got there.  We walked into the large room that was mostly walled off with curtains and walked to our left to get in line.  We split up first by race (me in the mere 8k line) and then by bib number (mine was over 22,000, which should have given me a clue).  I got my bib (which required my government issued id) and my goodies (a t-shirt and a draw string bag), and the woman told me that my chip would activate as I walked to the right past the computers.  I glanced over my shoulder and thought that sounded simple enough.  But then as I walked past the computer and then the curtain to my right I was suddenly called home to the Promised Land…there was shopping!!

And I don’t mean I could buy an extra t-shirt or a cheap drink koozie.  I mean there were honest to goodness souvenirs in all shapes and sizes.  I had already wondered where I would get a Virginia Beach shot glass (for my massive collection – blame my father) and low and behold I wouldn’t have to chose – I could get one for the actual race.  But don’t think I stopped there; I got a beer glass (because the race was sponsored by Yuengling (a point which becomes relevant later) and my favorite beer is supposed to be poured into a glass) and a pair of socks (because…well, I probably don’t have a good reason other than they had socks for sale and I didn’t really like any of the shirts) and a hat (because it was only $1 and how can you say no to a $1 hat). 

And once we left the event shopping area there was a whole other shopping area filled with cool running gear.  At least I think it was cool – the truth is I still have a lot to learn about this whole running thing, but there was definitely a lot of stuff.  I got 2 pieces of “shoe bling” (translation: sparkly things you tie onto your shoestring for particular causes): one for autism awareness (‘cause let’s face it I’ll buy anything with a puzzle piece on it) and one for my half marathon (13.1: nothing like a little truth told in advance for motivation).  I was finally able to drag myself away from the shopping after that, but I was certainly amazed by what an event it was.

I was also amazed by the fact that my racing bib had my name on it.  And I don’t just mean it had a little sticker at the bottom, I mean it had my name printed on it as big as my number.  At the time I got it I couldn’t help but wonder why on earth they would put my name on my bib, perhaps so that the medics would know what to call me during resuscitation.  (Turns out that’s not it, but I’ll get to that.)

Race day morning was filled with excitement and cold air.  We managed to use the hotel (not our hotel) bathroom just in time before the manager apparently got suspicious of the line of 50 women wearing mint green bibs.  We then shivered in the doorway waiting for the start.  My friend was nice enough to start with me in my corral (based on anticipated finish time I was in the second to last corral and she was supposed to be in the second from the front) although it didn’t make a huge difference since once the gun went off I was quickly on my own (well, me and the moms pushing baby strollers).  It was cool though because I often run alone, just me and my tunes.

I fell into a steady rhythm and forced myself to wait a few songs before pushing the button on my iPod to check my pace and heart rate (my shoe talks to my iPod – totally Big Brother).  As the time to push the button neared, I decided to wait one more song and then another.  And then one more until I was grabbing a water cup at mile 1.5.  I decided to just keep going until next thing I knew we were turning the corner onto the boardwalk and the ocean view was simply breathtaking.  I focused on the ocean until I was grabbing water at mile 3.  Then I thought that I should try to keep running until mile 4 because that was how far I had gone without walking on my last 8k.  I kept running along this beautiful route and suddenly noticed something – people were cheering for me.  And not just a general bored clap from a teenager who is being of service to his community, but a genuine smile and encouragement.  And then it happened…someone looked me right in the eye and said, “Good job, Kristie, you can do it,” and I realized that the name on my bib wasn’t for the medics at all.

As I passed mile 4 I finally let myself consider what it would feel like to keep running to the end.  I had never run more than 4 miles before even on a treadmill, but it suddenly felt possible.  I kept my steady pace and silently refused to push the button, afraid that once I pushed it I would alter my pace.  My heart was beating fast, but steady.  As the finish line came into view I really started to believe I could do it.  I was careful to hold my stride because my biggest fear was to come this far and start sprinting too early to finish.  My first (and only) 8k time was 1:16:58, so my goal was to beat that.  I had started so far back that I knew if the clock was even close to that time I would beat it.  My eyes strained to focus on the large red numbers ahead, and I couldn’t believe what I saw.  1:13…that can’t be right.  I struggled to pick up the pace and found new determination.  1:14…so close.  I could barely breathe and have no idea if the announcer called my name as I crossed or not (the website swears he said every name), but I would not be exaggerating if I said salty water rushed to my eyes as my foot crossed the finish line at 1:15:20.  I had never been so proud of myself in my entire life…until today when I looked up my official time…1:05:44.

P.S.  In case you’re wondering about the title, as I said the event was sponsored by Yuengling, so there was a hosted beer tent on the beach at the end of the race, where we drank beer and listened to a live band, at 9:30 in the morning, and it was a good day.

Today I ran 8 miles as part of my training schedule, the longest I have run yet.  I was a little frazzled trying to get ready because I didn’t have my iPod that works with my Nike shoe tracker thing (which tells me how far I’ve gone and how fast I’m going), and I didn’t have any clean pants (I hate wearing dirty pants…it’s just gross).  And even though most days I would have let these kinds of things deter me from going, I was determined to do this run today.  And when I got to the brick bridge near the front of my enormous neighborhood (about 2.5 miles in) and kept running past it, I was reminded of the first time I saw it this past July.  Even though I wasn’t officially blogging yet, I did capture my feelings and I thought in the spirit of celebrating our improvements they are worth sharing:

Today I was feeling sorry for myself and had a little extra time on my hands because I didn’t have any work to do (although there is still plenty of unpacking and organizing left).  So as I started off my morning ritual of an hour-long “run” following an hour of boot camp fun, I thought that maybe I could run a little extra.  I had just added a new playlist to my iPod that was an hour and a half long (as always it was a rather eclectic mix… Sarah McLachlan’s “Angel” (not a bad warm up), Taylor Swift’s “Today Was a Fairytale” (from Valentine’s Day), Miranda Lambert’s entire new album (which includes the usual balance of kick-ass up-tempo songs and slow cry-your-eyes-out tunes), and several songs from various Lifehouse albums (mostly the softer stuff)).  There were twenty-six songs on the list, so I figured I would just keep going until the end of the thirteenth song and then turn around and come back.  I assure you that the moment I hit play I had no idea where this run would lead.

I settled in after my first-song warm up and alternated between a brisk walk and a slightly brisker jog, as per usual (for anyone new, I use the term “run” loosely).  I kept my breathing steady and focused on keeping my core tight and lengthening my stride ever so slightly (Jen would be so proud).  I took in my morning surroundings and enjoyed the hustle and bustle of parents sending kids out the door to school and workers rushing to their cars with their travel mugs of coffee (at least I think its coffee).  I thought about how great my neighborhood here is compared to my old neighborhood in Phoenix.  (I had tried running there, but when the sun was up it was way too hot – think blow-drying your face while sitting in your oven, and when the sun was down it was too dark and unsavory.)  I smiled at the other walkers, joggers, and runners as they passed by and mumbled something that I hoped sounded like “Good Morning” (there was simply not enough extra oxygen for enunciation).  I noticed a slight twinge in my lower back and pulled in my core a little tighter. 

The sweat was starting to get fairly significant and the sun was beating down as if trying to prove that it could be just as stifling here as in the desert.  I tried not to look at my iPod to see how far I had gone (or, more importantly, how much farther I had to go).  I was thirsty, but I was too annoyed by trying to run with a water bottle to carry one.  I focused on enjoying the music for a bit and pondered whether it was better to run with songs you already knew because you really liked them or with new songs because they distracted you a little (discuss amongst yourselves).  Before long, I had come to the traffic circle at Falls River and Dunn where I normally go left onto Dunn but today was going to go straight through (after checking for cars).  This wasn’t quite the usual half-way point because of the little block I circled, but it felt like a giant leap forward anyway.  By continuing forward I was reinforcing my commitment to push myself farther today.

Down Falls River a little farther, just past the point I usually come out of a side neighborhood and start heading home, I jogged down a fairly steep hill while mentally preparing myself for going up the mother of all mountains.  I had obviously gone up and down this hill many times…in the car!  It is so steep that driving down you have to ride the brake to avoid speeding, letting off the gas alone will not do it.  I would love to tell you that I pulled a Rocky Balboa and ran full-speed up the hill, but we both know that didn’t happen.  I did, however, walk up the hill.  And as it turns out, even after you reach the summit of what you thought was the hill of death, the road actually stays at a fairly steady incline.  In fact, I had only been able to walk ever since starting at the bottom of the hill.  But I didn’t worry too much; I just kept putting one foot in front of the other.

I finally glanced at my iPod and saw that I was getting close.  One more song and I would be turning this aching ship around.  I found a couple of flat spots where I could jog for a few bars and fell back into a nice rhythm.  Step.  Step.  Step.  Scrape left foot.  (Remember to pick up feet.)  Step.  Step.  Step.  Step.  (Keep core tight.)  Step.  Step.  The final song began to play, and I steadied my breath.  Step.  Step.  Step.  Scrape left foot.  (Remember to pick up feet, dammit.)  Step.  Step.  I glanced again at my iPod, just over a minute to go.  I was coming up on a bend in the road and figured I’d just about finish the block I was on.  And then, it materialized out of nowhere.  I swear to you I had no idea it would be there; I had no idea I was anywhere close.  It was like walking for years through the desert and suddenly happening upon a stream.  It was like your dad showing up at your recital even though he always had to work.  It was like your best friend showing up at your college graduation from three states over after secretly scheming with your boyfriend.  It was…the brick bridge that marked the beginning of the subdivision.  Not too long ago it would have been just as realistic to run to Cleveland and yet today I was here.  I jogged ahead until I touched the brick beneath my feet, and a tear rolled down my cheek (or a big sweat drop).

The post script to this story is this…on that summer day I completed 5 miles for the first time in my life, and it took 1 hour, 38 minutes.  Just a couple weeks ago I completed that exact same trip in 1 hour, 14 minutes (and I only had to ice my feet instead of my entire body).  And, in case you’re wondering, today I ran 8 in 2 hours, 16 minutes.

They say a picture is worth a thousand words…mine are usually expletives.  I remember when I was younger people used to tell me how photogenic I am, but it’s been a long time since I’ve seen a picture of myself that I like.  I’m lucky that I have such adorable nieces; I can just put pictures of them everywhere thus making the lack of pictures of myself less noticeable (although this plan did backfire slightly once – when

The beer may have something to do with the cheese grin.

 I got divorced a concerned co-worker asked how “my children” were taking it).  I do have a few pictures of myself on display (all with other people), but they are from the last time I lost weight and considered myself acceptable looking.  The only exception to this is the wall of boot camp photos littering the side of my refrigerator.  We take a group photo the last week of each camp, and it is nice to look back at everyone and remember how much fun we had sweating together.

I also look at these photos to visually track my progress.  The problem with that is that our brains are all

Babies are really good at mini golf.

about perception – the image we see is a little bit of truth mixed with a lot of what we expect to see.  I’ve attached two photos of me from the summer of 2006 to demonstrate the point.  At the time these photos were taken, I still saw a fat girl in them – sure I recognized that I wasn’t as big as I had been in the past, but the image I saw was still clouded by my expectation of myself, and I couldn’t see that I actually looked pretty good.  When I recently saw the golf picture again (that’s the one of me in the green – ignore the scowl, I’m pretty sure it had something to do with being beaten at mini golf by a 3-year-old), it actually took me several seconds to realize I was looking at myself.  And once I did figure it out, I couldn’t believe that I hadn’t been more pleased with my appearance at the time.  But regardless of why, the reality is that I wasn’t.

Where the journey started.

After losing 40 pounds of face fat.

So now that I’m armed with this knowledge, surely things will be different this time around, right?  Afraid not.  I know that I have lost weight – a lot of weight – since that first boot camp picture was taken.  And admittedly I can see the difference very clearly in my face.  But to me the rest of me looks just the same.  I know that isn’t really possible…I know that I now wear regular 16 clothes instead of plus sized 20…I know that my measurements have gone down…and I know that you can’t actually lose 40 pounds of face fat (can you?).  But none of that logical information changes what my eyes see.

This morning I took a long, hard look in the mirror and searched for any signs that I could be proud of my new body.  I closed my eyes, pictured what I wanted to see, and opened them again…same old girl.  So why am I depressing you with the realization that you are doomed to see yourself in the same way forever?  I guess because I want to let you know that you’re not alone when you keep looking and looking and nothing changes.  And to say that I hope we’re not really doomed forever and that eventually we’ll see what we want to see, but in order to do that we have to keep looking.  And mostly because I just feel like whining about it because I don’t think it’s fair that I work so hard to see the same person staring back at me (except for the blonde hair and the new feather hair extension I just got).  So if you just want to whine about it, too, I’m here to listen…I will also listen if you want to tell me how fabulous I look.

I’m the type of person who really doesn’t like asking for help.  Not primarily because I think I don’t need it (although if I’m being honest, that’s certainly part of it), but mainly because I hate to bother people.  I like to be the one giving the help because a lot of my self-worth is derived from how much I help other people.  Let’s say, hypothetically, that my sister needed me to lend her my car, pick up my niece from the bus stop (in the hypothetical cold rain), take her husband’s car to the tire shop (and wait for it), and take my nieces to Blockbuster (where I would give up two of my online movie exchanges so they could each pick out their own movie), I would do it all with a smile because it made me feel good and worthy to know that I had helped her (and that my nieces would be adequately entertained).

And being the wonderful sister that she is, Jen would offer a million times to help me with things, but I would mostly decline because I know how limited her time is.  (I should note that she does wake me up every morning at 4:45am for boot camp and never complains when I move slowly and make us late.)  So yesterday when we were on the way to the 5k run that is part of my training schedule, I quickly rebuffed her offer to stay with me during the run.  I knew based on her previous 5k times (6^th in her age group) that I would be holding her back significantly.  To say that she would not take no for an answer would be an understatement.  She insisted that she was going to stay with me and what choice did I have – it’s not like I could outrun her.

This was not the first time she had “coached” me during a 5k.  We “ran” the Race for the Cure last June when I had been home less than a month and hadn’t really trained.  I don’t remember much except the heat was unbearable, the hills were unbelievable, and the “encouragement” was … um, emphatic.  By the end of the race I was daydreaming about life as an only child.  But when I got to the very end and realized I had starting sprinting too soon, it was Jen who gently pushed me up the final hill.  I also beat my goal of coming in under an hour…my chip time was 52:32.  So in the end I was glad she was there, but I still wasn’t sure I was ready for round two.

This race wasn’t that much different…except that I am a runner now.  I am much better trained and wanted it more, but there were still plenty of times I doubted myself.  When that happened, it was Jen who reminded me how far I had come.  Don’t get me wrong, it wasn’t a Hallmark movie – I still yelled obscenities at her every time she told me to take “long strides” since her legs are twice as long as mine, and I still fought back when my heart beat too hard, but she just let me yell then told me to do it anyway.  She even chased me a couple of times, which made me laugh and reminded me that I run to have fun (and so I can eat).  And even though in the end I didn’t need her to push me up any hill, I did beat my goal of coming in under 45 minutes with a chip time of 44:48…nearly 8 minutes better that my Race for the Cure time and almost 4 minutes better than my last 5k time in December.

So I guess the moral of the story is to help others and to graciously allow them to help you as well.  There’s no denying that we are stronger together than we are apart.  And the most important part of the story to me is this…thank you, Jen.  I may not always admit that I need your help and sometimes you may have to help me whether I like it or not, but I am a better person because you help me.  So in case I forget next time you “coach” me, thank you.

Dear Victoria’s Secret:

I have a complaint, a very huge (no pun intended) complaint.  I have been a loyal customer since I was in middle school – even though I had to use my own allowance to buy your underwear because my mother insisted that Hanes was good enough.  I admit that sometimes my purchases became a little sporadic, but that is because you clearly don’t believe that “plus sized” women deserve quality undergarments.  That was one of the things I hated most about crossing the horrible threshold into the big girl clothes: cheap underwear.  But that is not my complaint here today; I accepted long ago that such was the price paid for indulging in too much fried food goodness (four words: Krispy Kreme Bacon Cheeseburger) and that arguments of unfairness and equal protection fell on deaf ears.  No, this complaint is actually even more painful.

I have been working really hard recently to lose weight…really, really hard.  I exercise constantly and never eat what I really want to.  And thanks to all of that work I have lost 40 pounds (pause for applause).  Not only have I lost this amazing amount of weight, but I am also finally crossing back into the land of the living (i.e., “normal” sized clothes).  This is very exciting because it provides me with exponentially more choices in clothes, especially underwear (see above rant on the horrors of plus sized clothes).  It was with great excitement that I planned on spending my Friday afternoon shopping, at last, for regular panties…and it was with immeasurable horror that I left empty handed.

I entered the store and smiled at the thought of finally being able to shop for myself rather than for birthday presents for my mom and sister.  I searched until I found my favorite style of panties and began my old routine of looking at the end of each color for the XL because they are laid out in size order.  The first color had an L at the back – no worries, so you’re out of one color…there are plenty more.  I moved on to the next color, which also had an L at the back – weird.  Oh well, deep breath.  Third color: L.  Fourth color: L.  Fifth color: L.  And even though this was really starting to feel like more than an unfortunate coincidence, I continued to confidently go through each color until the truth became undeniable – you only carry L in this style in the store (I know that it comes in XL on the website and I know that I have previously gotten XL in the store). 

Still undeterred, I moved on to my second favorite style only to be met with the same fate.  I looked around at the drawers under the tables and they all seem to stop at L.  Finally a sales person walks by and I get her attention and ask if the store has stopped carrying XL panties.  “Of course not,” she assures me with a smile, and I feel a wave of relief wash over me.  She walks over and points to one drawer and proclaims, “Here they are.”  In fairness, her statement was technically accurate, the drawer did contain XL panties; however, the only style in the drawer was granny panties…I mean high cut briefs (no offense to grandmas who wear bikinis or non-grandmas who wear high cut briefs…if you are a grandma and you wear high cut briefs I can only say, if the shoe panties fit…  I’m not sure which I find more offensive: the fact you don’t carry XL panties in the store anymore or the fact that the one style you do carry in XL is granny panties…it’s as if you’re suggesting that fat people should only wear granny panties.

So here is my complaint: Are you freaking kidding me?!?  I have accepted that you don’t make any plus sized clothes.  I have even accepted, begrudgingly so, that you don’t carry my bra size in the store even though I know you make it and you used to carry it, because I know that a size 40 band is technically outside of what is considered “normal.”  But now you want me to accept that you no longer carry the very “normal” size of XL in the store.  You know what is not a “normal” size?  XS!  That’s not a real size, that’s a supermodel size (and don’t they get to keep the panties after the photo shoot?).  I am so mad I could spit!  (I’m not really sure why I would spit when I’m mad, but that’s what my mom says and I’m pretty sure it means really, really mad.)  And don’t tell me that you’ve done some ridiculous market study that shows you don’t need XL in the store.  You have an entire store devoted solely to underwear (and a few pajamas) and you can’t possibly find the room for all five sizes.  Again I ask, are you freaking kidding me?  Macy’s only has a small section devoted to underwear and they seem to find room for XL.  And no, I can’t just go buy my underwear there instead (see above rant about cheap underwear). 

Like it or not, I’m at your mercy.  And while I can’t exactly threaten to take my business elsewhere, I can’t just stand by why the (probably supermodel sized) powers that be trample on the feelings of those of us who eat more than celery for dinner.  And if you don’t care about me, take a moment to imagine your mother, sister, or very own little girl going excitedly into the store only to be told that she has to special order her underwear.  What will you say to her?  How will you explain it?  How will you make sure she feels beautiful? 

In closing, I’ll make you a deal:  I’ll try to put the brownie down 9 times out of 10 if you will stop making me feel like a failure for the one time I don’t.

Sincerely,

Disappointed XL Sized Customer

It’s no secret that the scale has not been my friend.  I’ve had more ups and downs that a roller coaster and more stalls than a teenager learning to drive a stick shift (btw, I’m not suggesting that all adults know how to drive a stick, just that by the time you become an adult you realize that it is a total waste of time since car manufacturers invented this lovely little computer to do it for you – although you may rethink this position when your 3-week-old shiny Ultimate Driving Machine has to be towed away because this computer broke, thus requiring a new computer from Germany…what was I talking about?)  Oh yes, the scale, the most awful invention ever since the dinosaurs (except for maybe the guillotine – hard to know since no one who has been in the guillotine can tell you about their experience…wow, I did not take my ADD meds today).   Anyway, I even have a friend who refuses to weigh herself and won’t look when she gets weighed at the doctor’s office because she used to have an eating disorder and has determined that the only way to stay sane about her weight is to not know what it is.  I know that there are health implications to being overweight, but I still think it’s sad that we put so much pressure on ourselves about one stupid little (or big in my case) number.  Why does it matter so much what the scale says?  Well, I have no answer to that; I just know that it does matter to virtually all of us.

So once again I have set out on this journey to make my number smaller.  And recently I have finally started going in the right direction again, and I must admit it feels really good.  This morning I had a special surprise during my ritualistic weigh as soon as you wake up routine…199.8 (also known as “Onederland”).  Those of you who have ever struggled with a number larger than one as the first number in your weight know exactly what I’m talking about.  There is something about that first number being higher than it should be that makes you feel so far away from where you need to be, so destined to be heavy forever.  Getting that first number down to where it should be brings new hope that you can bring the rest of the numbers down, too.  You start with the first one and the rest will follow.

If I’m being completely honest though, this moment was a little bittersweet.  It definitely felt really good and made me feel really proud of my current effort…but it also reminded me of all the times I’ve been welcomed into Onederland before only to be kicked out months later because of my love of French fries and ice cream (if I lived in Vermont, I would marry Chubby Hubby – I know, I really shouldn’t eat anything with Chubby right there in the name).  I know that I shouldn’t dwell on past failures and instead should celebrate current victories, but knowing it and feeling it are two very different things.  I want to believe I’ll get it right this time, I really do, but I’m scared, too.  The lesson to be learned, I guess, is that just like I know I can be kicked out of Onderland, I also know the way back in.  So for now I’ll try really hard to enjoy that I’m here and focus on getting away from the border town of Ninetyville and headed to the comfort of Fiftytown and then maybe even Thirtyton.  Now, if I could only find a faster car…

This weekend was interesting…and a little eye opening.  I attended the AFAA Apex training class for personal training certification, during which I learned a lot, both expected and unexpected.  The Apex is an intense training of only three days for the class and the test and is offered the same weekend all over the country twice a year during February and September.  Jen and I first talked about me taking the class over the summer.  I clearly remember the hot afternoon at the Bedford pool as we sat in our lounge chairs and talked about the future.  We agreed that September would be too soon, but that I would definitely be ready in February, so I signed up and looked forward to it. 

Of course that was before I knew that my weight loss efforts would completely stall out from September to December.  That was before I knew that I would still be north of 200 pounds when the time came.  By the time this Friday rolled around I had moved from healthy anticipation to utter terror.  I was pretty sure I would be by far the biggest person in the room.  Jen did her best to reassure me that I knew what I was doing and that I shouldn’t worry about what anyone else thought.  My brain knew she was right, but my heart…  Anyway, I got there, and it turned out I was right.  While I was pleasantly surprised to learn that I was not the oldest person there, I was the biggest by a very, very long country mile (except maybe for the unbelievably hot guy who made the Incredible Hulk look small).  But I put on my 100 watt smile and acted like I knew what I was talking about (and during the brief legal section I actually did know what I was talking about).

The funny thing is that everyone was very nice and no one treated me like I didn’t belong.  By the end of the weekend I was really starting to feel like everything was okay.  There was just one little problem…the constant discussion about what to do with the poor, helpless obese people.  All weekend we talked about all of the horrible diseases caused by obesity (the only thing worse for you is smoking…I’m pretty sure obese people who smoke are actually the walking dead), which I don’t dispute from a health perspective.  But we also spent a lot of time talking about all of the significant modifications required for the obese people, including sitting in a chair to do upper body weights because it’s too hard to stand.  This all came to a head this morning while we were practicing for the “practical” part of the certification.  We would be given an exercise to demonstrate and our “client” would have some kind of special need that we needed to take into account.  For the lunges the special need was obesity, and the instructor demonstrated that the appropriate modification was to have the client perform the lunges between two chairs that they could hold onto for support.  During the demonstration someone asked if the “client” had bad knees and someone else said with a laugh, “Don’t all obese people have bad knees?”  It took every ounce of strength I could muster to hold it together in that moment.

You see, obesity is defined as having a BMI of 30 or higher…after all that I have done my BMI is 38.  So while it was nice to know that everyone was nice to my face, it cut really deep to know how they felt about people like me.  It also hurt a little to know that here was a room full of people learning how to be personal trainers, and they were taught so little about what to expect from a particular group of people, perhaps that is part of the reason we start to expect so little of ourselves.  I believe it has to do with the comfort zone.  No one, myself included (especially me), likes to be uncomfortable.  It’s why we walk away from confrontation, it’s why we refuse to go to the dentist, it’s why we don’t get off the couch, and why we bring the smallest weights we can find to boot camp.  We like what is comfortable and what we know.  We don’t want to push ourselves too hard because it may not feel good and we don’t try to lift the heavy weights because we don’t think we can.

Well, everyone asks what the secret to weight loss is and I’ve finally uncovered one of them – you have to push yourself beyond your comfort zone.  Don’t get me wrong, I’m not talking about actual physical pain, I’m taking about the uncomfortably stiff muscles.  I’m talking about lifting the heaviest weight you have even if that first time you can only eke out a few reps before switching to the lighter weight (next time you’ll get just one more).  Trust me when I tell you that you have no idea what your body is capable of doing – all you have to do is ask.  Tonight I ran out of time for my run so I ran a “quick 3”…and by that I mean miles.  If you had told me a year ago that 3 miles would be my quick, no-time workout, I’m sure I would have laughed.  Tonight I laughed, too, but it was a very different laugh.

Getting back to my class, the unthinkable happened.  During the practical test as I was acting as the “client” for my partner, she pulled the lunge card with the obesity limitation.  I would like to tell you that I was laughing on the inside at the irony, but I wasn’t.  I was sad at the thought that this room full of people would look at my information on a piece of paper and instruct me to perform lunges in this manner…even though I ran an 8k in 1:17.  So, what does all of this rambling mean?  Three things:

1)      To the trainers out there: we’re fat, not helpless.  You have to push us to be better than even we thought we could be – that’s what you’re there for.  If we wanted to be babied we’d ask our mother.

2)      To the “obese” people out there: prove the world wrong.  Don’t wait for anyone else to expect more from you, expect more from yourself.  Push yourself just a little further beyond your comfort zone each time and watch your comfort zone grow.

3)      To everyone:  Everyone out there is a real person with real hopes and dreams.  No one is merely a piece of paper or just a number (especially a number as woefully inadequate as a strict height to weight ratio).  Look beyond the number, the paper, the outside…and you might just catch the slightest glimpse of yourself.