Bathing Cellu-suit Season

I know it has been a week, but I've had good intentions and even better excuses. I will be honest from the start. I only exercised three times last week and I've been eating like an obese wild boar in heat. I've had take-out from this place and that, extra sizzling butter on my Ruth's Chris steak, chocolate parfaits, and many more unmentionables for one who is trying to "Lose it." However, believe it or not, this past week would be a diet compared to a "Bad" week in my sedentary days, progress you see.

Me and my little family enjoyed a beautiful silver morning at Newport Beach complete with forget-your-troubles breeze, and a take-in-the-moment soothing sound of the splashing surf. Despite my poetic applause for the ocean, it put me in quite an emotional tizzy. The truth that has been screaming at me in stores, across ads, and with the weather finally splashed me in the face: it is bathing suit season.

My daughter loves to swim, and so do I, really you can't NOT swim here in the summer--it is sweltering. I've lost 25 pounds but there is no hiding the damage that has been done--stretch marks and curdled fat. I personally don't think bathing suits are flattering on ANYONE. Swimwear magazines are not fair--the models have the warning of the photo shoot, perfectly tinted skin, a fan blowing their hair, and of course, the digital air-brush touch-ups. Last year around the pool I modeled a two-piece number--black with white polka-dots, and a fanny-skirt that I thought covered my hips and thighs. Looking back I think that ugly thing actually ACCENTUATED all the wrong things, and it had NO support for the bazoombas. Needles to say, that one is going in the trash. I think I am going to dust off a simple one-piece Speedo suit: black, WITH cups.

I've been looking high and low for cover-ups that I can actually SWIM in. The little breezy things that tie around the waist are not enough. I can't afford the few seconds of shame it takes to toss it on my towel before plunging in the water. So, I went against all fashion advice and bought a nice, comfortable, swimmable pair of men's board shorts. Trust me, I looked at the ladies version of the board short, and "Short" is too mild a term--the way those tiny things ride up my cellu-butt--more like board thongs. I decided that because I'm usually only with my daughter--I don't have anyone to impress but her. And the most important thing to her is that mommy have fun in the pool. I might look like a chubby surfer dude with huge man-boobs, but I will be comfortable and free to PLAY. Now I just need an option #2 for when her daddy decides to come with us...

The Whole Truth

There's No Hiding

I've made a TINY effort to be better about my messy tendencies around the house, but the onslaught of heat has forced me to go into OCD clean over-drive (OCD clean for me is just a little less tidy than what most people would call "normal") The warm weather has invited some vigilant intruders seeking refuge--ants. Our house is old. I think it was built in the early 1900s. In fact, an elderly woman on our street said, "Oh, my sister and her husband did the renovations on that house in 1950." I don't say this to complain; I am happy as a lark and snug as a bug--along with some other snug bugs. It just seems the ants on this property are especially evolved to find the tiniest cracks in the wall. They are even emerging from cracks in the PAINT! It's like they already KNEW where to go before they arrived--as if their antie aunties have been passing the information from one generation to the next. No amount of modern doors, caulk, and paint can hide the fact that this is an old house with some very old friends.

Mothers know that ant-watching can be great entertainment for children, whether observing with a face pressed on the glass of an ant farm, or hovering over a tiny hill in the dirt. I've been doing my own ant-investigation and I'm with the hoodlum boys who say we must fry all the ants with a magnifying glass. Ants are not evil creatures, but when they pour, I mean literally, pour out of a long shut cabinet, and crawl up arms and legs by tens, or make their way into the refrigerator--I'm sorry, it's over.

Because of these ants, snacking is threatening my weight-loss AND my house. Some of the snacks of days and months past fell aside to be forgotten by me, but discovered later by the devil insects (I guess I lied about ants not being evil). Earlier this week, while I was crouched under my computer desk to study the comings and goings of the little black specks, I found a crowd gathered around two Easter M&Ms. Powdered doughnut pieces were in especially high demand. Some ants could not compete for the most popular goods, but there were plenty unidentifiable crumbs for picking. As I continued to scan the floor, I was amazed by the highways of ants avoiding a big, chocolate, cube-thing. I squatted lower to see what it was.

A few weeks ago I tried to "trick" my chocolate-craving brain by purchasing dark cubes from the health-food store called "Energy Nuggets." About one-inch squared (I mean cubed), they vaguely resembled walnut-filled brownies. They are packed with sunflower seeds, peanuts, sesame seeds, pumpkin seeds, cashews, Carob Powder, and peanut butter. I could only eat one--they tasted like nutty cardboard, but I figured they were a better pick than brownies. I must have dropped that lone nugget on the floor in disgust. The ants were no fools to my silly mind trick. They took one look at the plump square and probably thought it was a human cube-shaped corn poop because that is exactly what it looks like outside of the deceiving package. I can't hide from the remnants of my eating-cheating or the wild insects that reap the benefits, but I can learn one thing from them--if it looks like a poop, it probably tastes like poop. So next time I think I'm just going to eat the brownie instead and run a little longer, oh, and of course, clean up after myself.

Activism

Since I have committed myself to a life of activism--staying physically active--I have decreased my time in front of good old TV. I average about 4 hours per week these days. But months ago, as a pacifist (that's the opposite of activist, right?) It was much more than that; more hours in front of the TV than I care to admit. OK FINE! Some days were spent entirely in front of the TV--cue shameful head-hang.

More than half of my weekly TV hours are spent watching Dr. Phil and Oprah. Call me a middle-aged woman with emotional problems if you must. Phil has become a little too sensational for my taste, but it takes a lot for Oprah to irritate me. As I was indulging in my laziness today, listening to Laura Bush chat with Oprah, I saw a few ads that got me thinking. First, the lap-band surgery. I realized that I am officially under the healthy weight to consider lap-band surgery--meaning I am too skinny to have lap-band surgery! WOW, I haven't been too skinny for ANYTHING in a long time. I'm mindful that lap-band is a last resort for morbidly obese people, but still, it was a moment. At first I was happy, then I thought, UGH, now I REALLY have to do this the hard way.

Then there came the plus-size bra ad from Playtex. So irritating. I get it, heavy-set women in their bras talk about how freeing it feels to wear big, breathable hosiery. But as a big, busty woman myself, I can tell you from experience--PLAYTEX bras are horrible!! First of all, the bra comes in a BOX, A BOX. They spent so little time at the factory fabricating the misshaped garment that they actually had time to put it in a box. Secondly, and most important, it is NOT supportive. Maybe I got the wrong size, but I decided to pass on the RIGHT sized boob-holder that makes me look like cone-shaped, slouching granny. I think I would rather see a grown man in a whip-cream bikini than watch that ad again.

I exercised today! But it was a sad reminder that from now on I MUST get up at 6:00 am. The SoCal sun is getting too hot to exert my body beyond breakfast time. The hot where I live is not like the beach, it is very dry, and exhausting. I took my daughter up the mountain trail again. Oh, by the way, apparently the things I call mountains are "Hills" around here, but I don't buy it. Those beasts are mountains to this mid-western girl, okay!? I sound cynical and grouchy, but that is just my menstrual migraine talking (you're welcome for sharing, now you can write it in your day-planner to prepare for next month), I am actually very happy today, and very proud to call myself an activist.

Head in the Coulds

I didn't exercise this morning. I absolutely refused to wake up--despite my husband's diligent pleading. Here is the credit again for the REAL person responsible for me getting up before 8:00 am---my husband is always right at 6:00 a.m. and I never loisten to him, shame on me---He just read over my shoulder and typed that, and he thought I would erase it out of embarrassment, who's embarrassed now? Gosh I love that little buger.

When I typed the title for this entry I meant to say "Head in the clouds." I was about to correct my type-o but decided my mistake was applicable. When I begin to see success I get full of hot air and tell myself that I don't need to exercise today because I have already worked hard enough. In this way, my head is in the CLOUDS. But as I have mentioned many times, this is not a diet, but a life change. Again and again I come to the realization that life-changes don't happen overnight and they don't REMAIN unless they are maintained, forever. There is a reason they call it a "life" change, it is meant to last for life.

I don't want to have my head in the clouds then have my head stuck in the COULDS. Let me explain: If I get lazy and let this change slip by, I will be moping around saying, "If only I COULD have stuck with the program. If only I could have eaten one treat a day. I could have felt much better than I do now," and so on. In order to keep my head out of the "Coulds," I must first keep it out of the clouds of arrogance and mediocrity. So maybe you nice folks should stop telling me I am doing such a good job and I look like a super model, because it is beginning to get to me. Just kidding. No one ever said I look like a super model, and I cannot receive enough encouragement during this humiliating process. I just have to remember in my quiet moments that this is not over--it is never over. I really don't want to look back and say, "I could have been something better."

She'll Be Jiggling Down The Mountain

Simpsons fans out there--you must remember the episode where Homer got a physical exam and the doctor did a fat-content test without the use of a pincher gadget (those are so scary--they remind me of Saturdays long ago when my dad would chase me and my sisters around the house with live lobsters right before they were to be sacrificed in boiling water). Instead of being pinched by the fat-o-meter, Homer simply striped to his underwear and the doctor poked his belly and started a stop-watch. The amount of time it took for his blubber to stop jiggling was the obesity indicator. After about a minute, his fat was still dancing and he exclaimed, "Wooo Hooo, look at er' go!" I admire Homer for embracing his fat and obsession with food--it creates many wonderful moments that help the rest of us, in the real world, laugh about all our struggles with weight.

So how did this obscure Simpsons clip suddenly pop into my head? For several days I have been quite literally, jiggling down the mountain. Please see entry "Spank You Very Much" to understand the status of my skin, yeeesh. I have tired a little of the same old pavement during my daily exercise, so I have traversed the mountain trial that I talked about in the previous entry. The exercise is very intensive--I huff and puff and sweat like a piggy in a house made of sticks. Add a stroller on top, and I am barley holding on. But thank goodness for the high-end stroller with shocks (and bike-shop tire tube upgrade, ehem, ehem), it glides easily over the rocks and debris along the trail.

When in nature I begin to sympathize with mountain people--you know the ones who say, "Forget You!" to society and live like wild animals off of the land. When I'm walking the trail, part of me wants to forget about all the junk and dirty dishes in my house and eat wild berries for the rest of my life. But then, I don't think I could ever bring myself to weave a blanket out of my over-grown armpit hair, so eventually I make it back to my home and the comforts of modern living--but I understand the temptation. Anyway, for those of you who want a true jiggle-test here it is: find a nice, steep, gravel trail, and RUN down. All off my capable muscles are busy keeping me upright and what is hanging is left to gravity, scary.

My knee is doing quite well. I am up to .5 miles of running three times per week. The other days include speed-walking and combo-weights (workout for arms and legs at the same time, I HATE it, but very effective). The trail-blazing has added new dimension to the usual speed-walking, so I think I'll keep it up. Check out my weight stats. I'm working hard. And just for your entertainment, I thought I'd draw a picture of what I would look like as a Mountain Woman.  I'd be quite thin, but that doesn't make up for all the other stuff I'd have to go through.