Time to Work on the Arms!

It’s me again – a full year and a half since I first launched “Operation Big Butt”, and I’m finally back in a place where I can feel good enough about my progress that I can write about it.

It’s been a bad rough patch – because of all of the things that tend to happen in life, I’ ve been literally unable to focus on my weight. Then I got the scare of my life, and I was forced to.

I am 44 years old now, and I suppose that a lot of it is what comes with being a 44-year old African American woman. My doctor recently put me on medication for high-blood pressure, and tested me for a host of other things, and I realized that if I don’t change some things and change them fast, I won’t be around to torture my son’s future wife.

So, here I am again, ready to revive “Operation Big Butt” (though I’m really thinking of renaming the blog – there’s nothing very funny about this anymore), and needing to write about it to keep me sane. If you use food like I’ve always used food my whole life, you might be able to feel my pain. If you have a healthy relationship with food, well then you’re very lucky. As for me, I’m having to totally re-tool the way I eat, and it is as hard as overcoming any other kind of addiction, I think.

Just got back from a walk/run through my neighborhood, and it feels great. Time to do this!

It’s so easy to blog about big weight-loss plans when you’re heads in the game, and you’re feeling like you can do it with one hand tied behind your back. It’s a whole other thing when you wake up from a chocolate-chip cookie induced coma and realize you’ve fallen off the wagon again.

Actually, it was more like I dove off head first, and I don’t even remember why. A two-year relationship that went bad is probably the culprit. I’m eating instead of having sex, or dealing with my feelings, it’s what I always do. I am the quintessential emotional eater; I’m the quintessential emotional everything.

I’ve always let my emotions lead me around by the nose – sometimes I think I’m powerless over them. And when I feel sad, or lonely, hell, even happy or celebratory – I eat. When I need comfort, I eat. When I’m scared, I eat. And when I’m lonely, I eat.

On a daily basis, I stare into the mirror at my ever-expanding gut, and know that I have to do something, and I have to do it fast; that’s how this blog was born. Not out of a need to make anyone laugh at my weight-loss efforts (though I can understand why it might seem that way), but out of my need to say out loud that I need to help myself. I need to help myself.

And so, several days after my false start, and I’m sure 7 pounds or so later, I’m ready to begin again. And this time, like the last time, all I have is the love of my son and a life that’s rife with possibility to kick me into gear. I know that there is so much more out there for me if I can kick this.

Only those who know that I’m not kidding when I say I’m battling an addiction to chocolate-chip cookies can probably understand. Understand how something that everyone in the world has to do to survive can wreak such havoc on your life and health. I have to eat to live, yet if I don’t eat the right kinds of things, I’m putting myself on a path to an early grave. It’s not like drugs, alcohol or even cigarettes; we humans can live just fine without any of those things, but we all have to eat, and eating to live instead of eating to fill a void is just as hard as giving up any other vice.

And so – it’s not so funny anymore. Day 1 was a hoot. Day 2, I was shaky but still optimistic. By the time I’d taken the swan dive off the wagon, I was deeply ashamed of myself, and didn’t even want to be reminded that I started this blog, but start this blog I did, so it’s time for me to smack the crap out of myself and get back on track.

Wish me luck – and those of you who are so inclined, please pray for me. I’m going to need it.

Lesson for this week? Blogging about losing weight is a whole lot more fun when you’re, well, not crashing and burning.

I have no idea what happened to me this week. Well, that’s not true. I got very caught up in the idea of losing weight, making it funny, cracking jokes on this blog, and paid very little attention to the very real problems that have kept me this way my whole life. Like the stress and emotional problems that plague me, and that derail my attempts at losing weight time and time again.

At some point this week, I hit an emotional brick wall, and how did I tear it down? by making mad, passionate love to the better part of a Papa John’s Spinach Alfredo pizza. After that, it was impossible for me to work out again (not physically, mentally), and I told myself that eventually I’d get back on track. That was pretty much the gist of Day 6 and 7.

Today, on Day 8, still grappling with some tough personal issues, I told myself that I wasn’t ready for this, declared it “Cheat Day”, and lost my f’ing mind. A trip to McDonald’s in the morning that included a 3-pk of chocolate chip cookies, two cupcakes at work (it was cupcake day), and a box full of fried crap for dinner. I think it was chicken, hush-puppies and some jalapeno’s deep fried in cheese. I can always console myself by remembering that a Jalapeno is a vegetable. Always.

And so it goes. Tomorrow, I have my first meeting with my personal trainer, because the pressures of my work week prevented me from seeing her this week. Unless I find the time, and find a way to fit the important stuff in to take care of myself, I can forget about this, and I cannot afford, nor do I want to forget about this. It’s too important. So, having shared these words, I’m going to pull myself off of this computer, slap the shit out of myself (literally if I have to) and get ready to go and meet Steffini Bethea in the morning.

Gotta get my head back in the game.

Booyah!

Just got in from doing 1.6 miles and 35 minutes on the treadmill - can you say “burn, booty, burn?”  I am SO proud of myself!

This was not a bad day, not a bad day at all. I awoke to my normal bowl of Bran Flakes, and headed off to work singing a song. Can’t remember which one.

I haven’t been in the office since my little odyssey started, because of Thanksgiving holiday, and it was great to be back out and about. For lunch I had lots of chicken (of the Chinese variety), salad and fruit.

My major lesson for today – you must, must , must ignore what other people think about your looks, your weight, etc. Early this morning, as I was leaving the house, my mother says to me, “Pat, I’m worried about you. You’re bigger than I’ve ever seen you.”

When I said, “But Mema (that’s what I call my Mom – tee hee), I’ve been at least 40 pounds bigger than this”, and stood up and showed her my profile to somehow prove it, she looked me over and said, “well I don’t think you lost it, I think it’s all hiding behind your stomach.” Sigh.

So, my body image dessimated, I get in the car and drive down to the office, and on my way off the elevator, I hear, “Pat, oh..my.. GAWD, what are you doing with yourself, you look FABULOUS!”

Ditzy co-worker. “Uh, nothing – I colored my hair, do you like it?”

“Your hair is great, but it looks like you’ve lost half your body weight – what have you been doing?”

“Eating everything that crosses my path…”

“Well keep it up, whatever it is, you look great!”

This same co-worker approaches me at least once a week to marvel over my beauty and svelt, statuesque frame,  normally right before she asks me for a favor. I might be wrong, but I think I saw a crack vial fall out of her purse in a bathroom stall once. I dunno, could have been lipstick too, I guess.

But the point is – I got two diametrically opposed opinions of what I look like right now, and if I wasn’t such a strong-minded, evolved chick, I would be in danger of a) letting my mothers diabolical remarks derail my progress, or b) falling for my co-workers obvious attempts at butt kissing, by saying “the heck with it, I’m fine like I am”, and sealing the deal with a Rueben sandwich and some fries from our corporate cafe. Hmmmm….Ruebens.

But I choose c) stay on task and ignore every voice but the one inside my head that tells me I can be better. The truth of the matter is, I’m actually somewhere in between, “Oh..my..GAWD”, and “OH MY GOD!”, when what I really want to be is “Good god, girl!”

Tip of the day: I HIGHLY recommend taking a daily women’s multi-vitamin. At the advice of a good friend, I started taking Women’s One-a-Day in the orange box about two months ago. I was concerned that I was too fatigued, and I told her so. I was certain that even if I had had someone to put it on like a porno star, I would have been hard pressed to do so. A mere couple of months later, I feel rejuvenated, I have a much clearer head, and I have all the energy in the world for the sex I’m not getting. Vitamins rock!

Being weighed at your doctor’s office is like going on a blind date – you never know what the hell you’re gonna get.

I know I hid from the weigh-in thing for a couple of days, but I actually did wake up this morning and weigh myself on my trusty digital home scale. The magical starting weight for my little adventure is 313 lbs. I didn’t like it, but I stood there in my bathroom butt-ass naked and told myself that that was my friggin’ weight, and I was prepared to, well embrace it.

So you can imagine my angst when I arrived at my doctor’s office this morning for my big physical (after only downing two small slices of turkey bacon), stepped up on the scale, fully clothed, without my shoes, and had to endure the following:

“Okay – looks like you’re at 321, Ms. Smith”, my nurse said.

“Uh, actually, I’m at 313. My clothes must be throwing your scale off a bit”, I laughed nervously.

“Hmmm….” The nurse looked me up and down. I was wearing a t-shirt and a pair of knee-length exercise shorts. “No, no ma’am, you couldn’t be wearing more than two pounds of clothes. I’ll put you down at 319….”

“Uh, unless I downed two slices of bacon weighing three pounds each, there’s something wrong with your scale – I weighed myself before I came in, and I was 313…”

“I assure you, Ms. Smith, this scale is accurate to within a fraction of a pound. Now, if you’ll follow me into Exam Room 7…”

I took the cheap, costume jewelry off my fingers and wrist, pulled my cell phone out of my bra and dropped it all on the chair next to the scale. “Check my weight, now, please”, I said with a hiss.

“321 Ms. Smith”.

Off came my t-shirt. “Again”.

“319.5, Ms. Smith”. I stepped out of my pants and pulled off my socks. “Again!”

“320, Ms. Smith. I guess that last reading was a fluke…”

To make a long story short, I was standing there shivering and completely nude before my nurse agreed to jot my final weight down as 318.5.  Defeated, I thanked him and the nurses at the check-in station, gathered up my things, and headed to my assigned exam room.

“Oh Ms. Smith – don’t forget your pony tail!”, he said. Asshole.

So, I definitely do hate scales. I feel that every manufacturer of weighing equipment should be held to the same high standards as pharmaceutical companies. After all, if some rat bastard piece of equipment gets my weight wrong, causing me to go out and celebrate with a peanut buster parfait, and then I learn that I’m actually 5 pounds bigger than said scale told me I was, I should be able to sue the scale company for pain, suffering, and contributing to the expansion of my ass. You know – get litigious.

But all was not lost today – I met my new personal trainer, a ray of sunshine named Steffini Bethea, who owns a small firm called, “Fit in the Spirit”. She was upbeat, beautiful, small, toned, and very enthusiastic. She laid out the basics of her program, which includes lots of exercise time, and a phased approach to a balanced, healthy diet. She tried to allay my fears with story after story of clients who were “over 200 lbs” who she’d been able to help. I must wear my poundage pretty well, because when I told her how much I weigh (I gave her my home scale version, of course) I’m almost certain I saw beads of sweat begin to form on her upper lip. Her dazzling smile was just a little less genuine when she said, “I’m sure I can help you, Ms. Smith.”

Much more on Steffini to come, but I’m sad to report that to celebrate my break-through experience with my new trainer, I hit the drive-thru at Arby’s for a box of popcorn chicken.  And Jalapeno bites. Jalepeno’s are a vegetable, right?

11:45 p.m.

Today was momentous. Today, I actually got dressed and went to the gym. LA Fitness to be exact.

I’ve been paying for my membership at LA Fitness for over four years. I’ve probably been one other time this year, and I think that was because I needed to use the bathroom.

Anyway, when I stepped up to the front counter and showed my ID today, the receptionist was rude enough to blow the dust off of it right in front of me. Beyotch. She scanned it, and I snatched it and walked off.

Then, as always on my first visit to the gym in a while, I made a beeline for the treadmills. Funny – a full three days after Thanksgiving, and the place was almost empty. Since I had my choice of treadmills,  I stepped up to one right next to a guy that looked like he was running about 70 miles an hour. I firmly believe that gyms plant guys like this in the treadmill area everyday to make the rest of us look like slack-asses. I swear to god, I wanted to hit the emergency stop button on that guy’s machine, watch him fly over the handle bars, off the safety railing (we were on the second floor) and down to the ground below, so I could lumber down the steps (out of breath of course) to stand over him and screech through clinched teeth, ”Not so fast now, are you pal?”

But I digress. After deciding that doing a proper workout setup on the treadmill’s fancy digital interface would take far too much effort, I hit the “Quick Start” button, and the machine took off at a blazing 1.0 MPH, at zero incline. I entered my weight and started to walk, but I was still able to get a pretty good look at what Speedy Gonzales was doing. I could actually feel the wind coming off of his legs, which was a good thing, since after 30 seconds of walking 1 MPH and waving my arms, I had already broken into a sweat.

Okay – but I did 25 minutes on the thing, alternating between 2.5 to 3.0 miles per hour, until cooldown, during which I spent 5 minutes or so stumbling at about 1.5 miles per hour. But - I knocked down 172 calories and walked 1.05 miles. Hooray for me!

I was so proud of myself that I decided to do an impromptu weight training routine. Again, the place was empty, so I had my choice of all the fancy machines that I had never quite learned to use, and I immediately headed for a machine that would help with my arms and shoulders. I set the weight at 35 lbs (seemed like a good idea at the time), and proceeded to pop off three sets of 10 reps each. Suffice it to say, it took twenty minutes for the muscles in my arms to unlock – I had to wait until I could bend them again before I could reach for the ignition, put the key in, turn it, and drive home. All in all, a pretty successful workout.

But I won’t have to go it alone for long. Tomorrow, I visit a personal trainer who thinks she can help me. Today’s workout was so that when she asks me when the last time I worked out was, I can honestly say “oh, just yesterday”. Very smugly.

BTW – I didn’t have the worst day nutritionally – I had my normal Bran Flakes for breakfast, ate chicken nuggets and a salad from Wendy’s and washed it down with a light lemonade for lunch, and a Ham sandwich (with potato salad) for dinner. The cries of my mother’s Red Velvet cake went unheeded. For a second straight day.

(PLEASE NOTE: The potato salad admission illustrates my desire to provide full disclosure. Potato salad is a no-no for me. Anything with carbs in it is. Sigh.)

Also, still no weigh-in. I couldn’t get up the nerve today either, but for sure I’ll be tackled and forced to get on one of those sucky doctor’s scales tomorrow. Oy.

9:45 a.m. 

So my family is downstairs making pancakes, turkey bacon, pork sausage (just to keep it all fair), hash browns and scrambled eggs. And the orange juice is flowing like a fountain.

Me? I’m hiding upstairs in my office trying to figure out how, without any discernable game plan, I can stick to what I’ve said I’m going to do, and drag my butt downstairs to eat something for breakfast without breaking the speed record for falling off the wagon.

I am full of resolve. I have so many reasons to get healthy, the most important of which is my son. He deserves to have a Mom that will be there for his highschool graduation, for the bestowing of his Doctorate in Law, and for his inauguration as the fifth Black President of the United States. So I have to do this. (Take a moment and gaze on his gorgeousness):

You might wonder why I would make such a public display of my latest attempt at losing weight, and I say latest because there have been dozens over my lifetime. I’ve tried every diet known to man – the Quick Weight Loss Center Diet, Weight Watchers (I stopped going to THESE meetings when I discovered I was the only one not there to lose 6 pounds so I could fit into my wedding dress), The Atkins Diet, The South Beach Diet, The Cabbage Soup Diet, the Eat-One-Meal-A-Day-Diet, the Eat-Five-Meals-A-Day-Diet, and on, and on, and on. And I always lose weight. And I always gain it back.

The thing is, my attempts to lose weight have always been a deeply personal thing. Something that I deal with on my own. I don’t exercise with a buddy – I hate doing that. I always feel like I have something to prove when I go to the gym with a friend. And I don’t like support groups – the people who run diet programs and support groups are lunatics. They mean well, but they’ve seen way too many fat people – they’re all too - desensitized. I was once told by a weight loss program worker that I needed to “lose a few pounds” before I could start the program.  I told her that she had just pierced a hole through the space-time-continuum and that I was leaving and would never return. Unless like her idiotic comment, the fabric of time wrapped over onto itself and I had no choice but to reappear there. Sheesh.

So this time, I’ve decided that I need help from normal people. My friends, my family, and yes, the blogosphere. This time, I’m going to use my own words to give me the daily strength that I need to change my life. And I’m VERY excited about it. “Operation Big Butt” will be both a cry for help, and really good therapy, or at least I hope it will be. Okay – time to go downstairs and find a bowl of Bran Flakes. Peace out. Later.

 2:02 p.m.

Okay – not bad. I had Bran Flakes and a banana for breakfast. Sliced off a few chunks of left over smoked turkey.  I think the things to do now is go for a walk. Hmmm…

9:11 pm

It was not the best nutritional day, but at least I didn’t cave in to the Red Velvet menace. I ate way too much bread though, wheat bread. And brisket. Mmmmmmm, brisket. I didn’t go walking, and I was too afraid to do my first weigh in.

But there is some good news. I think I’ve found a trainer who is willing to work with me – I have an appointment on Monday with my doctor to get a full check up, and then I have an appointment with her.  I’m a little apprehensive about a first workout since I’m fairly certain I couldn’t make it 30 seconds on a treadmill right now, but I’m going. I’m going to go. I’m going to get started.

This is about the time at night where all my resolve disinegrates. (Heavy sigh). I’ll let you know how I did in the morning.

Technorati tags:Diet Exercise Humor Patricia Wilson-Smith Duped By Love

Hello. My name is Patricia Wilson-Smith, and I am a career dieter. I’ve always, always been fat. I don’t remember a time when I wasn’t on a diet, or shopping in the husky section of some store to find clothes that fit. It’s who I am, but it’s not who I want to be. I think I can be different. And that’s the reason for this new blog.

Okay. It’s the day after Thanksgiving, and I’ve spent all day today trying to determine whether or not I’m better at eating, or sleeping. Regrettably, the turkey and dressing induced coma I’ve been in all day would seem to indicate that I’m pretty gosh darned good at both.

It occurred to me after a marathon pig-out session with my family on Thanksgiving Day, (as I struggled to reach the top of a flight of stairs) that I have to make a change. Then I found myself getting winded walking back down the stairs, and I knew I was really in trouble - I mean, damn! Who gets winded walking down a flight of stairs? Not cool…

I feel unhealthy, and I look like crap -my skin is blotchy, and yesterday, somebody guessed my age to be 7 years more than it is. I wanted to kick his ass, but I couldn’t get my leg to go high enough.

So - let it be known that on this day, Friday, November 23, 2007, I hereby pronounce to the world that by this SAME date next year (November 23, 2008), I will be 100+ pounds lighter. That’s right – I am declaring war on my big butt, here and now, and by erecting this blog, I’ll ensure that the whole world knows it. Or, could know about it. You know what I mean.

And before you ask – I’ve already sought help from NBC’s “The Biggest Loser” - well over a year ago. They weren’t buyin’ what I was sellin’:

And so here I am again, on another Thanksgiving Day, trying to recover from another hellishly wonderful dinner, one for which my mother baked two Red Velvet cakes (among a host of other butt-burgeoning desserts), and then blamed ME when she caught me with a slice in each fist, curled up in a fetal position on the kitchen floor, comatose.

A brief aside: Just knowing that my mother’s Red Velvet cake is in the house causes me to have strange, unexplained black-outs, during which I gorge myself (or so I’m told). It’s a horrible way to live. And when I’m not blacked out, I can hear her cakes calling me, taunting me, daring me to indulge:

“Pat – where you at, girl? Come and get summa ma good ole velvety lovin’…”

Rat-bastard Red Velvet cake. As of today, I’m turning a blind, uh, ear not only to it, but to all things fattening. As of today, I start the journey that will get me to my more beautiful, more healthy self. The funny thing is, I have absolutely no idea how I’m going to do it.  What I do know is that my thighs no longer rub together. My thighs are next level. Now they just stay glued to one another, while my lower legs do all the work. Yep. Not cool.

Stay tuned for weigh-in and more of my thoughts tomorrow.

Technorati tags:
Diet Exercise Humor