we sayin' oh we oh.

I hope I haven't made it a secret that I suspended my gym membership. It sort of happened without thought. One week, I was going regularly, the next week I had no drive. I wanted to exercise, just... not there. We have had such a mild winter so far that I've been incredibly lucky to take my exercise efforts outdoors and save myself the fee and the grief that I associate with my gym membership.

Don't get me wrong, it's a great gym. I just get really bored with routine.

I was nervous about running outdoors because of the cold. I was born and raised in the southwest in a desert; I'm a summer kind of gal. I thought that taking my training outdoors in this climate would ensure that I would never run again, because who gets pumped to run in single digit temperatures? I see people do it all the time, but I usually drive past them and think they're either rock stars or mentally unstable. I figured there was no way I could be as equally motivated, because they're awesome and I'm... me.

Time and time again, I have proven myself wrong. It's a great feeling. A week and a half ago, in the face of an impending snow storm, I set out for a run because I felt like it with no distance in mind. Almost 14 km later, I came home crusted in frozen snow wishing that the clock had allowed me more time. Just a few more minutes in the day would help. An extra 30 minutes isn't too much to ask? The dozens of miles I've ran in the cold so far have taught me a few things about how to dress, how to hydrate, how to prepare for disaster, the list goes on, but I'm still terrified of falling.

My fear is 100% legitimate. I have a history of complete knee dislocations and I know that a fall could take me out of the running game indefinitely. I can't run on a treadmill, but I'm afraid to run outside. Even if I reinstate my gym membership there's no way I could keep mentally engaged while running in place for two hours, I just don't have it in me. But drop me on trail outdoors and I would beg for more time. I have no experience in running outside of what I have chronicled here in this blog over the last year, so each run is a lesson for the books. I guess we can say this chapter's topic is snow and ice. I had a minor incident with ice that nearly ruined winter running for me and it's been haunting me ever since. Every inch of the ground is a hidden danger and suddenly I don't trust my feet or my legs or gravity. I had no idea how I was going to overcome this, I just knew that it was a problem.

Fast forward to Christmas day. I was at home with my parents with no plans for the day; we were supposed to graze at the all-day buffet laid out in the kitchen, watch movies, follow whatever whims met our fancy. A change in plans and some unexpected company set us all into action: we had to clean the dining room, put together a proper meal, and groom ourselves for our guests. As I was in the bathroom brushing my teeth and putting on my contacts, the urge to run struck me so hard that I couldn't resist. If I have learned anything this year it's that YOU NEVER IGNORE THE NEED TO RUN. Never ever ever. Our guests were thirty minutes out and I seized the opportunity to dress for a quick run. Since I've taken up distance running, I've avoided short runs because it annoys me to have to spend 20 minutes getting dressed for a 30 minute run, but on Christmas it seemed worth it. I literally ran out the door and didn't look back.

Things you should know: Des Moines has been pelted with the ugliest snow I have ever seen. The roads are 60% clean, with the remaining 40% taking the form of scattered hard-packed ice patches that can't be removed by snow plow nor shovels and have rendered the streets almost un-drive-able and the sidewalks unwalkable.

I ran out the door without thinking twice. It was 9 degrees Fahrenheit when I left, I was vaguely aware of that only for the fact that I needed to borrow a hoodie from my brother, but I didn't let it bother me and I ran. I got through the end of our block to the stop sign when it occurred to me that the awful sidewalk conditions were slowing me down and putting strain on my ankles so I moved to the road. I ran on the left side opposing traffic with my obnoxious neon yellow shirt shouting "Merry Christmas" above my headphones at the people I passed by. I got to the entrance of the cemetery where I was forced to confront my fear of road ice and I tiptoed my way through the minefield without incident.

My favorite part about running in this particular cemetery is that no run is ever the same because I can never remember the exact order in which I follow the paths. There's so many offshoots on the roads, so many ways that they intersect and diverge and reconnect that I could never cover the entire spread in less than a week's worth of runs. Each time I run into that cemetery I never know what I'll encounter. Funerals, family gatherings, private mourning, deer, traffic, and other pedestrians have all played their part in influencing the path I take and the same held true on Christmas day. The ice was in stark contrast to the paved roads and I could see long stretches of road ahead of me; some were clear, some were completely blocked off with ice, and others were patchy at best. I let the roads dictate my path and I found myself in a corner I had never traveled before. The only way out from this corner was through a short patch of very thick, very wide, very unavoidable ice. I put a great deal of faith in the senses of my feet and the traction in my shoes and the roughage provided by salt and dirt and a fresh dusting of fluffy snow to get through the ice and lo and behold, I made it through without injury.

I waved in gratitude to the van that waited patiently behind me as I crossed the icy terrain, chuckling at the realization that I had become that person who runs in 9 degree weather on Christmas day and that my stranger-friends in the van most certainly thought I was mentally insane.

I ran without my watch because my purpose was a quick 5 km in-and-out, I didn't think I needed to time myself. Not to mention, I didn't even want to know my mile time because I was certain that my ice-snow fear had brought me to a near-crawl and it saddens me enough to be slower than shit on even my fastest days. My Nike + iPod ignored my wishes and informed me that I completed 6 km in just under 36 minutes.

Record time.

i'm telling you, i'm telling you.

I try to mind my own business because I firmly believe that we are given one life to live and we should live it instead of butting in on someone else's. Like, for serious. I don't understand why people are so anxious to live my life for me when they have their own lives to live, you know? I spent a lot of time in philosophy classes in college so I think about this stuff more than any person should, but that's how I feel.

Anyhow.

If I ever have an opinion about what someone else should do with themselves, it's usually my own insecurity rearing its ugly head. Most of the time it shows up in the form of jealousy or condescension or anger, but underneath it all is insecurity. With that insight in mind, I usually reserve my comments (but not my judgment) knowing full well that I most likely have some sort of underlying issue with the topic at hand. That being said, I've mulled over this issue for almost a week now and it's eating me up inside to try to squash it when I'm almost certain that I'm right and not just for reasons of superiority.

(Jeez, I feel too much pressure from all this buildup.)

The issue: treating food as treats.

When I was younger I used to complain to my parents that we bought generic food. There were never Doritos in our house, only nacho cheese tortilla chips. As a kid, I wanted to fit in but it seemed impossible because the juice we kept in the fridge had the store name on the label instead of Juicy Juice or Tropicana. Conformity almost ruined my childhood until my dad told me that food is not an investment, it's not worth spending more money for what the package says when the stuff inside is all the same. To be fair, he sort of had a point, but his very declarative statement of "food is not an investment" is an argument I'd be willing to take up on another day. Onward.

I always hung on to this idea that food is not an investment (in the MONETARY sense, it certainly has a different meaning if we're talking about health and nutrition) and therefore it's wasteful to spend money where you don't have to. At the grocery store, I always wanted the brand of carrots with Bugs Bunny on the packaging, but a carrot is a carrot is a carrot no matter the spokesperson. You can't eat the packaging so there's no sense in paying extra for it to rot in the trash, so my dad says. I guess what my dad was trying to impart on me was that food isn't special, you have to eat to get through the day and there's no sense in getting all worked up over it. It's like breathing and blinking and sleeping: unavoidable, non-negotiable, and uncomplicated.

I carry that notion with me to this day, having realized over the years that food (as delicious as it can be sometimes) will always, without fail, turn into shit. Evolution is THAT good. There are HEALTH reasons to spend more money on food (such as organic) that I wholeheartedly support, but for the most part I do believe in the bottom line when it comes to picking brand name versus generic. Thinking of food as a necessity rather than a commodity has integrated itself so deeply in my thought processes that a conversation with a dear friend came to a screeching halt the other day when she mentioned her new diet plan.

I don't know the specifics of it, but the gym she recently joined has her on a program of strict eating with "cheat days" periodically thrown in. The program seems to have some successful effect (but please don't ask me to comment on that because I DO have an opinion and it is most likely unfavorable) and my friend has lost several stubborn pounds in the process. Yay. My problem with this plan, and all diets in general, is the forbidden list.

FOOD IS NOT SPECIAL, but the moment you disallow an item or a food group is the moment it becomes appealing. The only reason people LOVE pasta is because it's a "bad" food, but if you actually allowed yourself to experience pasta as it is you would know that it's not that great. Neither is bread. Or cheese. Or chocolate. Or ice cream. Or any other edible that has been deemed a diet abomination. The only truly satisfying component found in indulging in such items is the rush of knowing that you're breaking the rules, in which case... go run a red light instead and save yourself the calories.

My friend spent her single allotted "cheat day" binge eating raw cookie dough and egg nog, and as much as I disapprove of how she chose to imbibe her daily calories, my main concern is the pending emotional fallout. Mixing emotions and food is exactly how eating disorders begin, and I'm not saying that my friend will suffer from an eating disorder, but you'll have a hard time talking her out of another cookie dough binge next time her emotions go unchecked. From now on, she will remember egg nog as a happy thing and the feeling she had while breaking her diet rules will come rushing back next time there's a glass of egg nog in her proximity. It's rebellious. It's dangerous.

The entire concept of a "cheat day" is a dead ringer for positive reinforcement in conditioning, a process best used on dogs. DOGS. We are not dogs, we should not have treats. Sadly, the same behavioral processes that have trained my puppies to expect food at certain stimuli also apply to humans and I think that's very scary and very sad.

So the issue at hand is the complications of using food as treats, and there is a very simple solution: with the exception of life threatening food allergies, no person shall create a list of "bad" or "forbidden" foods and instead be open to the whimsy of one's gastrointestinal desires.

You would be surprised what you're not craving when you open the floodgates. The moment I stopped fretting about bread and cheese and pasta was the moment I realized that I didn't really want them in the same way I had lusted over them before. And what a world of good that did :)

some day love with find me in the rough.

How to be happy while losing weight.

I wish this was a comprehensive list, a fool-proof way on how to find inner peace when you're in the middle of a very complicated process. It's totally not, and if that's what you're looking for I will absolutely fail to meet your expectations. But I can tell you with certainty that happiness doesn't start when you reach your goal; happiness is every bit a process the same way that weight loss is. Each day you're a quarter pound skinnier and an ounce happier and if you nurture it you will find one day that these tiny contributions have added up to something grand.

With that being said, here are my thoughts on How to be happy while losing weight.

1. Don't wait for happiness to start. It's not a magical possession that flits in and out of your life, it is a way of being and you have to create it from the ground up. You are probably not ever going to suddenly wake up happy. You don't go from slums/depression/whatever to waking up content, it doesn't appear overnight because it's not something that pops in and pops out at will. If you wake up happy, it's because you decided you were happy.

This morning for me was a happy morning. Some would say that I'm happy because the semester is over and I am feeling relief from being done with finals, but if you ask me, the truth is that I woke up happy this morning because I wanted to be happy. I was happy that the blankets were so warm and smelled so familiar. It really was that simple. If you want to relate this to weight loss, I'm happy in spite of what's going on with the scale these days. It read 2 pounds more than I would like to see, and most people might be disappointed with such a reading, but these two pounds in the grand scheme of things aren't going to make me or break me because I'm still a winner loser and that makes me happy.

2. Do it with purpose. Any purpose. Seriously, anything. Whatever it is, make that your goal. If you want to be happy, find something to motivate you. It can be short-term or long-term or micro-term, just as long as you keep moving forward.

I don't derive any pleasure from what the scale says. The number itself does not make me happy, it's the feeling of accomplishment that I enjoy the most. If I lose a couple of pounds by cutting corners and doing things in unhealthy ways, I do not feel good about it. Weight loss (at least the numbers) should not make you happy because weight loss is not a purpose, it's a consequence of leading a better lifestyle. [Leading a better lifestyle]... THAT's a purpose. Whatever lies between [the brackets] for you, that's what you should be focused on. For me, it's [running]. The weight loss will follow.

3. Look for it everywhere you go. In tiny crevices, in an abandoned project/hobby, in those extra minutes you spend in bed between hitting the snooze button. Happiness isn't necessarily big, it can be found in grand gestures as much as it can be found in the routine and the mundane.

I was thinking that it's less than a month until I see my neurologist again and I weigh exactly five pounds more than I did last time I saw her. FIVE POUNDS. I should be making progress. I thought about how I was disappointed that my weight is not below 200 by now (SO CLOSE, yet so far away) and I imagined my doctor's disappointment when I shared the news with her. And then as I was putting on a pair of skinny jeans in the mirror I realized that they fit MUCH better than they did a month ago and I actually like my silhouette. Not only that, but I'm learning to love my midsection. It's still soft and doughy, but for the first time in my adult life I can see the shape of my skeleton underneath it all. I'm not one to advocate finding happiness in the mirror, but today I found acceptance in a place I never expected, and for that I am happy.

4. Make it your own. Happiness should be something that no one can take from you. If you own your spirit of liveliness, it is important to remember that it is yours to keep and yours to give away.

Every day I carry my pride and my cheer with me, being intimately familiar with all the things it took to get me to this exact moment in time. Strangers, however, don't share my outlook. To the person I bumped into with my "abnormally large ass," I'm sorry you felt the need to point out my "abnormally large ass" and I wish you could have known me a year and a half ago when my ass was much, MUCH bigger. To an outsider, maybe all they can see is the 50 pounds I still have to lose, but that IN NO WAY diminishes the 75 I already lost. I am still a winner, even if you can't see it that way.

5. It doesn't have to cost anything, unless you allow it to. It doesn't matter if your currency is dollars or opportunities, happiness should only cost you what you want it to. Being unhappy shouldn't keep you from doing something you want to do, just like being happy doesn't come from spending money.

I've been thinking that my weight loss slump is because I don't have a New Years trip to Las Vegas motivating me this year. It just wasn't in the cards my bank account balance to make it work and I am bummed. Having LV to look forward to last year gave me serious motivation to work my ass off at the gym, so of course I feel like I need another trip to jump-start my exercise ethic. I'm unhappy that I can't afford Vegas and it's costing me chances to lose weight. There, I said it. But in the vein of "money can't buy happiness" clichés, I can't let money (or my lack thereof) cost me my happiness so I have to find it elsewhere. Like [crafting] and [running] and [that feeling I get when I know I put hard work in and lost weight].

Yeah. All good things.

Whenever I'm feeling particularly down, I ask myself, "Have you done everything you can possibly do in this moment to reach your goals?" If the answer is "yes," then I know my happiness is within reach and the anxiety and frustration and disappointment I feel about not being able to speed up the weight loss process dissipates. Sometimes it is a matter of waiting for time to pass but if you're happy you won't even notice :)

blow my whistle baby, whistle baby.

I was in a panic about my run last night because it was cold and I was nervous.

The cold ended up not being much of a bother, it was a freezing 19 degrees but my favorite fleece and my repurposed sherpa-lined hoodie took care of the details for me. It took a while to work out the kinks of running in such strong winds, but I found that tucking my sleeves into my gloves and alternating hands warming in my pockets really helped. Sadly, there was no cure for my right foot going numb (it's happened before and eventually I regain sensation) and I will probably always have a skin reaction to being out in the cold, but it's nothing that'll kill me.

The first time I ran this course I did it without knowing where it was or how long it was; I had a vague idea and the blind faith that kept me going in a moment of panic, so I can definitively say that adrenaline got me through the distance. This time it was at least 12 degrees cooler and I definitely lost the spark of being stranded without a plan.

As much fun as it was navigating myself through an unknown path in the woods, I've learned not to do that again because I could have gotten into serious trouble and no one would have known to look for me there. Knowledge is power they say, but it's hard to fight an adrenaline rush. As usual, the doubtful thoughts crept in and I feared my first stab at this course was an anomaly and I was bound to fail this time. Forget the fact that I'm well conditioned and I've been training for over a year. My stupid girl thoughts wanted me to fail.

I proved my stupid girl thoughts wrong by completing the course four minutes faster than I did on Wednesday, but a rare run-in with a very very thin layer of ice on the asphalt had me shaking in my britches. I spent the last 5 kilometers scared of every shadow, every streak of dirt smeared across the pathway thinking that it was frozen water threatening to end my run ruin my life. I started thinking about the possibility of falling and all the different ways I could land: on my wrist (broken wrist), on my bum (broken tailbone), on my knee (dislocated knee), in the splits position (hip problems for life)... the list went on and on. I was so petrified of hurting myself and never being able to run again that I literally came to a stop.

My fears LITERALLY stopped me from running because I was afraid that I would stop running. Yeah, that's logical.

My affinity for running (1) at night (2) on an unlit course (3) away from traffic (4) and without my cell phone means that my future in outdoor running is in jeopardy, at least during the winter months. I looked into getting YakTrax or similar products, but I'm not sure that's the best idea with FiveFingers and I don't exactly want to change my footwear so I guess this means I'm fucked. The half marathon training schedule that I'm follow is actually pretty low key, so I'm thinking maybe I should reinstate my gym membership and suck it up outdoors for maybe only one or two long runs per week.

Anxiety is getting the best of me.

sous le vent.

I teared up during a run last night. It was the last 3 kilometers of a 12.37 km run that I ran completely without plan. I gave a knockout presentation during my last class of the semester and I was pretty excited to realize that I have one final (minimal studying) before I get to celebrate another 4.00 semester with one month off. I came home pretty excited about all of this (plus I drank a liter of Pepsi at dinner) and I felt like running.

Side note: everything about the gym right now feels BLAHHH. I think about it and my thought is BLAHHH. My upper body strength is obviously suffering from the lack of weight lifting, but I just can't get my mind to embrace being stuck in a gray box (our gym is floor-to-ceiling concrete save for a wall of windows).

I dressed, set my Nike + iPod to a 7 km distance and started running. It wasn't in any particular direction but I've been favoring a certain road lately; since most of my runs used to start post-gym, I've had to accommodate my gym-less lifestyle by changing my runs which has led to me to the most magical area of Iowa City: Camp Cardinal Boulevard.

If you head north on my street, make a left turn and follow that for about 2-3 kilometers, there's a part of the city that is COMPLETELY untouched by street lights. No traffic lights, no building lights, maybe the occasional car headlights, but at 10:00 at night it's less frequent than you'd think.

It is absolutely breathtaking to realize that there are parts of this world that are completely unlit, and it's closer to home than you even know. It's probably not the smartest idea to be running on an unlit street at ten o'clock at night, but there's a certain magic in night running that everyone should get to experience at least once. As soon as I turned the corner from the main street, the flash of the green street lights was drowned out by distance and I stood utterly humbled at the beauty of my surroundings. The clouds hung in the sky as if they were threatening to rain, and instead floated like fluffy pillows reflecting the moon light in a way that no computer could recreate. If you tried to take a picture it would be just another dark and cloudy night, but the wind danced in my hair and atmosphere glowed in a way that felt electric in my bones.

I knew right then that it was going to be a good night.

The farthest I've followed this road on foot was 4.5 kilometers, and that was only because I was limited by fear that I would reach a point of no return without a phone or an escape plan. I thought I would follow the road to 5 kilometers and then turn back to my make run a nice 10k, but when the time came to turn around I ignored my original plan. At 6km I thought to myself, "I could do 12k, I could make it home if I turn back NOW," but despite the word "NOW" ringing in my head, I trudged on.

At 7km I started to panic realizing how far away from home I actually was while being vaguely aware of how far away the end of the road was from where I stood. I tried to recall the closest business or residential area so that maybe some kind person would open up the door to me and allow me the use of a phone to call home. But I persisted.

Curiosity kept me going. A while back I had read somewhere that the UI cross country course was close on my path but I didn't know where (visually or spatially). It could have been 100 paces from where I was but I wouldn't know because I didn't even know what I was looking for. I was way beyond being able to retrace my steps back home so it was a huge relief to run into (almost literally) a gazebo with park information; I had found the Clear Creek Trailhead. I took 30 seconds to study the map at the information kiosk, plotted my way back home, and set my path to the winding paved trail to the east. There weren't any mile markers but I had a good feeling that the distance wouldn't kill me, at least not before the cold did.

The trail is... surprisingly perfect. Wide, even, new, devoid of any structural cracks or potholes, hardly any debris. There was a nice rhythm to the rolling slopes that made it actually pleasant to run up AND downhill. At one point, the trail splits into different directions and I knew to follow it to the right based on my map reading skills, but there was no way I could have been prepared for what was about to happen next.

The trail leads to a spread of land that I would equate to a well landscaped prairie. It's a geological surprise nestled in between wooded areas, beyond which is a well developed neighborhood and business district. Separated from a substantial metropolitan area by just few hundred meters, this prairie-within-a-forest hit me square in the face as the lady in my iPod said "Congratulations, you have completed ten kilometers. Press pause to end your run." I found the stars in this perfect little haven, feeling completely safe knowing that I was close to home, absolutely loving the way that nature lit my pathway with this inexplicable electric glow of silvery moonlight. I closed my eyes for a few seconds trusting that my feet would find the ground as I kept moving forward and a gust of wind lifted me to a level of happiness I hadn't experienced before.

I couldn't tell you if the moon had fallen out of the sky, or if my legs were still attached, or if there was a murderer planning my death from the hedges; all I knew in that moment was that I was happy.

With my eyes still closed, my iPod shuffled to a song that has deep and personal meaning to me and suddenly the significance of this scenario hit me and I was thankful to be alive. I cried for the first time ever during a run, it was short and quiet, and if I had chosen I could have kept it to myself and no one would have been any wiser about it.

I don't know if what I experienced was a runner's high, but I'll tell you that this run was special for many reasons. First, I can now officially say that I've transitioned into distance running. Running 3-4 miles... eh, that's just a typical running day. But running 7.686 miles is something to be proud of and I did it in bitchin' style. Secondly, I've found a way to fall back in love with my city. Instead of running for distance, I learned in a concrete way that running can take me anywhere... literally. It gives more freedom than exploring by car and it's faster than walking, and because of that I discovered the most magical running trail that I can't wait to run again. I jumped in mid-course so I only got a run a fraction of the length, but my trusty friend the Internet has hooked me up with maps and parking locations so I can make the most out of the 24 miles of awesome this town has to offer.

Thirdly, I can't imagine my life without running. I was thinking that the drivers who passed me by probably thought I was out of my damn mind, and you know what... I was. COMPLETELY OUT OF MY MIND. It was 30 degrees, pitch dark, and I followed a trail that I didn't know and where no one knew to look for me. I admit, it was reckless, but the only reason I ended up running that far was because I was thinking. Thinking! I was reflecting on how my presentation for class went, what next semester will be like, what I'm going to do after I graduate, what songs I want played at my wedding, how I'm going to find new running paths in the city I eventually live my life in, how I'm going to work my way up to running 12+ km on a random Wednesday night if/when I ever have kids. I was thinking about my Vibrams, how much I like my newest pair and what I would like from my next ones. I was thinking about what underwear I would wear on race day. I was thinking about how I'm going to carry more water with me in the future once my runs get too long for my 20 ounce bottles. My entire run, all 97 minutes of it, was an exercise in WHATEVER I FEEL LIKE DOING.

Because those quiet moments in between songs when all you can hear is the quiet pitter-patter of your feet and your slow and steady breath, those moments are all yours and you never have to answer for them.

you make me feel.

On Wednesday, I had convinced myself to go to the gym.

I was in class talking about how I was going to the gym.

I made several references to my exercise habits and talked about how it made me feel so good afterwards.

I came home and had zero motivation to go to the gym.

Boyfriend was on the brink of being convinced (by me) to stay home. Instead, he made the bold choice to go to the gym.

I... I just couldn't face it.

I spent hours building myself up, trying to get myself in the mood, bargaining and swearing that I would actually go. Boyfriend tried to talk me through it, and together we found that my issues with the gym were really issues with time. Going to the gym means 20 minutes on the elliptical then 30 minutes of weight lifting then an hour of running back home. The thought of having to do all that was just... ugh. And I just couldn't talk myself into going to the gym when I felt like the elliptical time was unnecessary, but then that only leaves 30 minutes of weights which is just a waste of gym clothes. If it takes me longer to get dressed than I would actually spend exercising, then you can probably guess that it's not worth it to me.

But then there was still the hour of running.

There was no reason why I couldn't just do the hour of running. No one ever said exercise only happens in a gym.

So I'm standing in my apartment parking lot in my running tights with no destination in mind, only thinking that my usual pathways weren't going to cut it. I wanted to explore.

Perhaps exploring rural Iowa at 9:30pm in the dark in 28 degree weather isn't the smartest thing to do, but I felt the urge and I chased it. I chased it to the highway, down the large unlit boulevard, into another town. Literally another town. To be fair, it's Iowa and leaving city limits isn't really that big of a stretch, but I did it. In the cold, in the dark, on Wednesday night.

I went as far as I felt safe going, knowing that my iPod had tracked me to be somewhere around 4.5 km from home. I looped around, and at 8 km I realized I wanted more. I took a side street that I drive by at least four times a week that I didn't even know existed and followed it until I found a familiar intersection. Coincidentally, it led me right behind my gym building. I ran past the panels of windows pitying the suckers for puffing away on their machines that lead them nowhere while I was learning the secrets of the road.

The dropping temperature and my lack of water quickly dictated that I take my run home and I landed on my front steps a few hundred meters shy of a full 10k. An hour and fifteen minutes after I started my run, I was sad that I didn't carry more water with me because I really could have gone a few more kilometers.

Slowly, unintentionally, my mileage has increased. I started running with the intention of signing up for a 5k race but when that opportunity passed me by, I kept running. I thought about waiting for my friends to catch up to my level so we could run together, but I didn't want to wait. So I thought, what about a 10k? And the idea has been lodged in my head for months waiting for the opportunity to hit me in the face. On Wednesday, I proved to myself that ten kilometers is just a typical Wednesday night run, so the next step? What comes after this?

I never wanted to be a marathoner. I never wanted to be that person because races and medals and bragging on Facebook isn't really my thing. But I can't imagine not having a goal.

So even if I never sign up for, pay for, formally train for, or complete a competitive half marathon, I think that's next on my to-do list. It only feels natural.

i'm giving you all i got.

I'm catching up on one of my favorite TV shows and of course the subject matter is adoption, and while I haven't been affected by this first-hand it is a HUGE factor in my life. Coincidentally, just the other day I found some (literally) long-lost family on Facebook.

These were people I met briefly once a long time ago; we spent a few awkward encounters together being told that we were "family" meanwhile feeling like complete strangers. I've always said that family is more than blood, but I would be lying if I didn't admit that I think of these people on more than just passing occasions.

The conversation starts, "hola prima! como estas?" and while the words are flying from my fingertips, I don't know what it means to be this person's cousin. How are you doing? What the fuck does that mean? I guess the more pertinent question is "who the fuck are you?" While it is very simple plotting our relation on a family tree, she is still a stranger from another country that I plucked from obscurity. But DNA says we're family.

A few clicks into her profile pictures and I start to see familiar traits and it's obvious to me that I am definitely one of them, at least biologically. The wide hips and big ass, definitely from my dad's side. I guess I was just always thankful that I'm not built like a fridge like all the ladies on my mom's side that I never stopped to consider where my looks came from. My newly-discovered prima and I are extremely close in age and extremely close in looks, and I have to say how absolutely overwhelming it is to feel this relief.

I never bothered to look for my family before now because I was certain of who I am. I am still certain of who I am, but my heart is racing realizing that I just uncovered a new piece.

Continuing in my recent theme of self-acceptance, I am excited to see what fruits this relationship will bear. It's almost unsettling to meet someone who grew up thousands of miles away from me and to find that she looks EXACTLY like me, she looks more like me than my own sister does. Already, I've found peace with my thick hips and my rounder-than-usual ass because, for the first time ever in my life, I have PROOF that it's genetic and not just a consequence of bad habits.

Who knows what I'll find, how long this will last, or if anything will come of it, but I can already tell you that it was worth the few days of agony that followed the submission of my Friend Request in being able to learn these few facts.

I feel a little more complete.

in the city.

If you Google "bloated turkey," this comes up. WTF.

The last time I posted a weigh-in was October 10. I knew it had been a while, but I didn't think it was that long ago. My apologies.

The troof: today, 28 Nov 2012, I weigh 219.0.

More troofs: This doesn't bother me.

These 2.5 pounds are not insignificant, and simultaneously also not significant. It just is. Please don't think I'm taking this laying down. Let me explain:

Since October 10, I have gone home to visit my family a whopping FOUR times. Also during that time, I celebrated my birthday with three parties (one of which was a 12 hour tailgating marathon). Weekend guests, Thanksgiving, alcohol, and pumpkin pie were all sprinkled in during the last six weeks et voilà, I gained weight.

Add it all up and it should be of no surprise to anyone. NO ONE.

Even more troofs: Several times over the last six weeks, I have seen the scale read "225"... maybe even more, not that you'll get me to admit to it. Most recently was on Sunday when I was CERTAIN that my almost 17km of running plus my good eating choices had evened out to zero Thanksgiving pounds.

At another point in my life, I would probably be upset that me weight has been stagnant, well... tightly fluctuating. I had hoped to be sub 200 sooner rather than later, but my pants still fit and I feel good about myself and I have a wealth of memories and good feelings from the life I've been living over the last six weeks.

Like I said last time, I've been living life. And a good one it's been, 2.5 pounds and all.

promis je pleure plus jamais.

So I've been thinking about self-acceptance and what that really means.

Before I continue, I need to make it abundantly clear that these are MY thoughts about MYSELF and nothing else.

I feel like my thoughts are those of two different persons sharing the same body. There's the fat me and the new me. Actually, those are bad characterizations. There's the careless me and the mindful me. There, that's better.

Careless me used to hate just about everything about my body, but careless me was still confident to dress and act how she pleased. Careless me never let anything stop her because careless me had a high degree of self-acceptance.

Okay, reality check: that last line is a lie.

What was really happening was that careless me had simply accepted that NOTHING WOULD EVER CHANGE. I was a fat baby, a fat kid, a fat teen, and therefore fat for life. Careless me had accepted that and decided it wasn't going to stop me from being happy.

There is merit to that kind of thinking, and to be honest if I had the chance to go back and change things I'm not certain I would. The only thing I wish to tell my younger self is how important health is and to treat my body accordingly. The problem is, you're healthy until you're not and the moment the bomb drops is the moment you realize all your regrets.

I spent the last week at my parents' house for the Thanksgiving holiday absolutely petrified that I was going to come back to my regular life being five pounds heavier. In the days leading up to Thanksgiving, I was thinking of all the ways I could cut calories, how I could eat less (or not eat at all) in a manner that no one in my family would notice. I was subconsciously planning times to slip away from the house to go running, I even went so far as to plan TWO runs in a day. It was secretive, destructive behavior that I have NEVER in my life engaged in and it caused more stress than it was worth.

I only let myself get away with that for two days before I took the time to think about what was motivating this, and that's when I realized: I was planning a food binge and my subconscious was trying to make up for it with unhealthy tactics. My brain was hoarding the idea of food, dreaming of all the unlimited servings of mashed potatoes and dinner rolls I would enjoy DAYS IN ADVANCE. Somehow I got it in my head that Thanksgiving dinner wasn't about nourishing my body, it was about gluttony.

And that's a problem.

Before things got too out of control, I took a stand against myself. It was a full-on wrestling match between careless me and mindful me and I am so happy that mindful me won.

On Tuesday, after two days of poor and irregular eating, I went for an 8km run in a cemetery by my house. I went out with the intent of running for calories, but it turned out to be exactly what I needed for my mind and my soul. I ran for an hour allowing my mind to sort out all my food and mood problems (funny how they go hand-in-hand) and when I returned to the house I was delighted to realize that my body was screaming for fruit and water. The feeling carried on through Wednesday, which was a designated rest day, and I was extremely proud of myself for not letting copious free food and alcohol get the best of me.

Thursday morning was a rush with an overcrowded house and I took that as a sign that I needed to run. I went to my trusty cemetery with no distance goal in mind, running half for pleasure and half for hunger moderation. I managed 8.32km in 58 minutes, and while it's a distance I am extremely proud of, I knew I could have gone further but time constraints held me back. Regardless, I spent a beautiful hour in the park with dozens of other runners, bikers, walkers-of-dogs, and those scattered few that came to honor the dead. My family thought I was crazy for going for a run on a holiday (it does seem like an odd thing to do) but even without the calorie expenditure, I will always argue for an hour of exercise if only to clear my head.

Mindful me won the exercise battle by a landslide. I'm very happy that I am able to see the benefits of exercise beyond the merits of burning calories (because let's be honest, we all think "hmm... I just burned off _______" even though everyone knows it doesn't work like that). But careless me still thinks "those mashed potatoes would feel great in my mouth." Careless me always wants another glass of champagne. Careless me always says "yes" to pie and ice cream, even if my stomach is full.

But.

Careless me would never walk into a store and buy bright blue skinny jeans. Because even though careless me thought she had reached self-acceptance, in reality she had just given up. Given up trying to lose weight and be healthy, given up keeping with fashion trends, given up caring. Who cares if my pants are a size 18? Who cares if I look bad? Who cares if my outfit is shapeless and colorless and without thought?

"It is what it is."

Too many times, careless me gave into that type of thinking and too many times careless me missed out on something greater because I gave up fighting in the name of "self-acceptance." It was just defeat in disguise.

I ran off to a clothing store on Thanksgiving day to cash in on a sale. It was 7pm, I had the store mostly to myself, and I walked straight up to the rack of colored skinny jeans and I debated between the red and the blue. Both were terrifying options but I was tired of looking at all the trendy girls in public with a jealous eye wishing I could be as bold. Bold indeed: I took the blue. In a smaller size.

Mindful me was being reckless as I took the jeans (along with 40 other items) to the checkout counter without having tried them on first. I told myself I would take them home, throw away the tags and receipt, and I would hang onto them until they fit AND I wore them in public. If they fit right away, I would wear them right away. That's what I promised myself.

Imagine my terror when I found that the button buttoned and the zipper zipped. In order to keep myself from becoming a liar, I HAD TO take the jeans out in public. I don't look like Kate Middleton, nor will I ever, but mindful me was BEAMING out in public on Friday feeling fabulous in my bright blue jeans, black tank, white fleece, and black wedges. Mindful me wasn't worried about the size of my thighs, how my butt looked, or what people thought of me.

I felt fabulous.

So maybe the jeans are begging for attention, and I'll probably get it every time I go out. Maybe it's flashy and out there, but who says I don't deserve it? If you ask me, I think that's what self-acceptance is all about.

c'est comme la mer et les marées.

I've been avoiding this. This little blog right hurr. It used to be my refuge, the place where I shared my failures and basked in my happiness and obsessively combed through my archives looking for subtle hints that might give me more insight into my own psyche.

I have been avoiding all of it.

There's a fairly good explanation for it, at least:

I've been busy living.

In the weeks that have passed since my last post, I've been battling a 8-9 pound weight gain. When I first saw the number on the scale, I thought I would be extraordinarily disappointed in myself for slipping in the wrong direction, until I realized how absolutely unproductive that would be. Instead, I fought back.

I stopped to figure out how it happened. What was I eating that I knew I shouldn't be? Why was I not looking forward to exercising? When were things at their worst? Where could I make simple changes?

I've found that booze in any quantity and for any reason is... counterproductive. I have more incendiary things to say, but I'll leave that for another time seeing as how I'm about to embark on a week-long vacation that will be soaked in alcohol.

Also, I have drifted away from plain water and into the arms of flavored drinks. It's been a nonstop barrage of Gatorade, lemonade, Crystal Lite, and diet sodas. I absolutely know better, I just can't get myself to care.

Vegetables have stopped appealing to me. The good news is that I'm at least mindful of my caloric intake so my weight has reached a much more acceptable level, but that's not to say that I'm doing it healthily.

In my dreams [literally] I was doing calculations on how much weight I've lost since this time last year. Initially I was disappointed (mostly because I lack perspective) until I took a real good look at 1) where I had been in the last few years and 2) where I actually am now. It's taken a tremendous amount of effort to see my current weight as a positive thing as opposed to the glaring failure it feels like. Instead of embracing my new skinnier frame, I have been criticizing myself for not having met some of my goals [yet]. But it's pointless to punish myself for failing to be something I'm not (if that makes sense?). I'm not 199 pounds... not right at this moment. Which is not to say I won't ever be. Which is not to say it's not worth fighting for. Which is not to say that I failed, because where I'm standing right now feels pretty damn good. AND THAT COUNTS.

Tonight I will be headed (first east then) west for an entire week at home with my family for the Thanksgiving holiday. I know it's a few days early, but I'd like to take this opportunity to run through a few important thank yous:

I'd like to give thanks for doctors, all doctors, but especially mine.
For health insurance, and friendly health insurance employees who take the time to look up information for me.
For all the countless souls online who took the time to write about things they know... about anything. For all the hours I've spent learning and growing and becoming excited over such words.
For shoes. And running. And all the nice people I run into outside who are always so friendly. For everyone who, in whatever tiny denomination, has helped me feel comfortable in spandex... in public.
For all the negative comments and the bad looks and unsolicited criticism in the form of "advice." And 100x more importantly, all the nice things people have had to say. The kind, the encouraging, the supportive, the complimentary. All of it.

Above weighing a certain weight or looking a certain way, I wanted this journey to end in the realization that I could be a normal person despite all my food-related issues. I had expected this feeling to come out of years of practice, so I'm pleased to announce my reemergence from my blog-vacation being fully in possession of "normal" people qualities.

It has not been without struggle, but the last month has been an exercise in how to enjoy one's self, go overboard, and clean up the mess in a healthy manner. And I succeeded. Blissfully.

[PS - today's banner picture is a nod to my favorite, the Steelers, and my new favorite, Thor aka Kiesel. And it's also a celebration of the fact that I am UNDER 100 KGS and maintaining it. Two-digit weight for the win.]

i'm at a payphone.

I'm eight chapters deep studying for an exam tonight in Human Relations in Management. Chapter 4 is titled "Building High Self-Esteem."

Sadly, as the text points out, American adults define their worth by their possessions and professions, which is precarious in unstable times.

So what do you have when you take away what you do, what you own, what you look like? Most people can't answer that question honestly.

I stared blankly at the page for a few minutes wondering what I were to say about myself if I was asked who I am without being allowed to mention what I do (for a living) and I came up with a few things:

Runner.
Painter.
Crafter.
Comic relief.

That's what I have. Five little words.

But in all the world, in all the words, I chose these four items because that's what I want most for strangers to know about me.

I'm proud of what I am (or at least what I perceive myself to be) and I am content that this is the identity I have built for myself in 26 years. I wish the same inner peace on others.

oh what a shame that you came here with someone.

I got three hours of sleep last night, I've been up for 19 hours now, I have an appointment in less than ten hours, and I'm doing all the wrong things with my free time.

Like...

Looking up new songs to put on my NEW iPOD (birthdays are the best).

Two very enthusiastic thumbs up Ke$ha's way for this masterpiece. For serious.

Also, part of my birthday present was Lilo & Stitch on DVD which I watched TWICE tonight. I just rented this movie a few months back so I'm not that far removed from the content, but I had totally forgotten all about this:

Madly in love with He Mele No Lilo. Madly in love with hula.

our dreams, they are made out of real things.

It's been 366 days since the first time I entered a gym with a degree of seriousness. One whole year, and damn what a year it's been.

On this weekend last year, we spent the weekend in Chicago celebrating our anniversary, the celebration was postponed to accommodate the pre-season hockey tickets I had gifted my lover. Overall, the weekend was magical. We had a great conversation on the car ride in, the hotel was impeccably placed and our room was exactly what we needed, we had a fabulous dinner consisting of Chicago's famous deep dish pizza, and our hockey team won.

All I remember of the trip was Saturday night, the feeling of dread that I had when I realized I would have to cut my way through a very dense group of people at a bar to get from where I was sitting to the bathroom.

Every step, nudge, and "excuse me" on my way to the bathroom was horrifying. In my head, I was imagining all the things the bar patrons might be thinking of me. At one point, my worst fear came true when someone called out "fat bitch" in my direction. I had no more defenses left as I continued to push past the crowd, tears welling in my eyes. The return trip wasn't much better, I came up with a lame excuse about the smoke bothering my contact lenses for the redness in my eyes but I felt so transparent that whole night. I turned down every drink passed my way, utterly conflicted because I wanted to let loose and have fun with my friends but guilty knowing that I did not need any of the calories.

That weekend in Chicago was supposed to be magical. Memorable. Life changing. It was meant to be one of those movie-esque romantic weekends that would shift the nature of the relationship from just dating to madly in love. I planned everything perfectly.

If you ask my boyfriend, he'll tell you that it was one of the best weekends of his life. For him, it was a blur of good food and beer and all this favorite sports teams and friends he hadn't seen in a while.

At second glance, I don't think of that trip as a failure. Boyfriend got exactly what I intended, and the trip was indeed memorable, and as I would find out later, it would be life changing.

We returned to Iowa City late on Sunday night, a new episode of Dexter lined up on the DVR, and instead my interest was directed towards my closet. Still filled with the horrible pain of the bar experience, I looked to my closet to do as fit people do. What's that, you ask? Well... all the healthy, skinny, fit people I know/see carry gym bags. And that's exactly where I started.

I had no idea what I was doing, all I knew was that if I were to have any chance of balancing work, school, and exercising, I would have to be well equipped.

That's not my bag, but it sure is cute.

I made do with what I had: a yellow tote bag from Target, cotton pants and a tank top, cheap sports bra, tennis shoes, and the standard toiletries, and a post-workout snack of Chex Mix. I wasn't well equipped, but the idea was that if I packed a gym bag and took it to work with me I would have no excuse, I would have to go to the gym. And that's exactly what I did.

The first day was a blistery cold Monday, October 10, 2011. I felt silly going into the fitness center at my work knowing that my bosses and coworkers could come by at any time to laugh at my fat self huffing and puffing on the elliptical. I was so wrong. So horribly wrong.

Every single person that knows about my exercise efforts has been nothing but supportive. Some are impressed by my dedication, some are stunned by the results, but everyone has been kind and gentle with their words. Not only did my body need a makeover, but my heart needed some therapy too. I had spent too much of my life hating myself and my body, dreading things that should be fun, and avoiding large parts of my life because I couldn't stand to be ridiculed when I already felt so bad.

I am extremely pleased to say that today, one year, 366 days later, I am in a much better place.

At 216.5 pounds, I have lost 75.5 pounds. My BMI went from 43.1 to 32.0

Aside from the numbers, I have made serious progress in other aspects of my life. I LOVE exercise, I have found an easy balance to eating right and enjoying myself, and my confidence is through the roof. I'm not going to lie, being slimmer has its perks but the best results have happened inside my head.

Now, I can't wait to fly on an airplane.
I love shopping and clothes again.
I would jump at the opportunity to go to an amusement park.
I eat and drink without guilt, because I know my body needs fuel
And lastly...

I don't panic whenever I have to go to the bathroom in a crowded bar.

ignore this

test

oppan gangnam style.

Where's the line between showing your life, and just plain showing off?

I was typing thinking this post out in my head during my long run last night, and even though that was only 15 hours ago, I've mostly forgot what I intended to say. So let's wing it.

Lessons in running outdoors:

I prefer running outdoors. The fresh air, the scenery, and the fact that you can't stop until you get back home are major contributing factors for my love of hitting the pavement. Cliché, I know, but there are benefits to running on pavement rather than on a treadmill. I won't go into that now, but Google "running outdoors vs treadmill" if the subject truly interests you.

I started my weight loss journey on the elliptical, because my seriously overweight body could not handle the impact of running, but I did each exercise with the intent of eventually becoming a runner. BECAUSE RUNNING IS AWESOME. I've harbored a great deal of hatred jealousy towards runners because I wished that it was me. More than anything, I wanted to be that person puffing clouds running on the side of the road in the dead of winter while the rest of the world is being lazy cozy.

I remember the first time I ran outdoors and I was petrified that a person driving by would laugh at the way my butt bounced or that someone would notice my cellulite through my pants. These are not irrational fears. I was afraid of being judged, that someone would pull up beside me and say, "Should you really be trying to run?" Every step I took was a "fuck you" to the thoughts inside my head that were saying go inside, you're embarrassing yourself.

During those first few runs, I had no idea what I was doing. I had no idea how to pace myself, how to dress, no clue as to what I should be bringing with me. I was a hot mess. Here is what I've learned so far:

1. You need to be crazy-super aware of what the weather is doing. Also, you need to be crazy-super aware of what your body can tolerate.

Knowing the temperature is not enough! You have to know about the humidity, chance of precipitation, visibility and road conditions. If it's sunny out, don't wear black. If you run at night, don't wear black. White is generally a good choice, unless it's foggy, in which case wear neon. Or Christmas lights. Fleece is your friend on cold days, cotton is the devil on warm ones. It's surprising how little clothing you need to run in the cold. A thermal headband and running gloves will make you so toasty that running stops sucking in below freezing temps.

2. If you dress the part, you'll feel the part.

I'm not saying you have to go out and buy an entire new wardrobe for exercising, but there are advantages to that type of clothing. Cotton is not your friend. It holds moisture which makes you sopping wet on hot days as well as cold days. And if it's cold enough, IT WILL FREEZE. Even when it's 30 degrees outside, you will sweat through your shirt and it will freeze. Not fun. If you have anxiety about what people think of you while running outdoors (like I did), your clothing choices can help with this. If you take yourself seriously enough to invest in good dri-fit items like tanks, fleece, and running tights, outsiders will take you seriously too. Not to mention, it aids in your performance making you a better runner overall.

3. Unless you hurt yourself, you will never finish a run and think, "Damn, I wish I hadn't done that." Ever.

Last night, I was on the last stretch of a 7km run and my toes were numb and my quads were tired and all the bounce had left my hamstrings. I could have easily walked the rest of the way home and allowed myself to loosen up the stitch I had in my right lung. Instead, I finished. Hobbling, grumbling, sore, ready to pass out, but I finished. If there was an Awesome award, I would have won it last night. It doesn't matter if it's a slow run, an awful run, a run-walk-walk-jog kind of run, the point is that you did it and no force on earth can take that back.

Enough of the lessons for the day, mmkay?

I burned a ridiculous amount of calories last night, between 20 minutes on the elliptical (oh holy hamstrings) and a more in-depth weight lifting routine (oh holy rowing) and the crazy 7km I ran outdoors. But not once during my workout was I doing it for calories. I stopped thinking of my exercise time in terms of weight loss, and instead I've been focused on my fitness. I suppose that has been reflected in the stalling of my weight, but I just can't bring myself to care. I know there's still fifty pounds to lose, but I need to work on my arms/shoulders/back muscles and my hamstrings and glutes could use a boost. Pick your battles, I guess.

There is a sunny side to this story: today's weigh-in was 218.5. Every little bit counts :)

even if the skies get rough.

Thoughts on failing

.

I thought I was failing. I was failing. If nothing else, I was failing in my mindset. The way I thought about things. The way I approached situations. The way I felt about myself at the end of the day.

But I don't just fail things. I'm an excellent student, so it was more like F+.

For weeks, pretty much since we came back from vacation, my weight has been hovering around the same numbers. They're still good numbers, but the lack of change was really wearing on me. What was I doing wrong?

Sure, I went to the gym every day. But as a very wise person recently pointed out, you can't out-train a bad diet. But was that it? Was my diet really that bad?

The simple answer: no. I let myself slip into old habits. Extra portions, snacks 'cause I felt like it, late night eating. Still heavy on the fruits, light on the carbs, limited in cheese and other dairy.

SO WHAT HAPPENED?

There was a week that scared the shit out of me. A week when I stepped on the scale and the numbers went: 221, 223, 224, 225.5, 226. Up and up and up. Every day I panicked thinking about what bad news the scale would bring and instantly I would regret every indulgence, as if promising to never have a venti pumpkin spice latte again would absolve me of the calories I had already ingested.

There were tears. Lots and lots of tears. AND BARGAINING. Oh, how I bargained. I don't know who I thought was listening, but I offered a plethora of things I would never actually commit to. And that's when my epiphany came.

Before I started losing weight, my weight loss plan was intermittent starving followed by closed-eyed wishes on the scale. ADMIT IT... you do that too. You skip lunch one day and then have a really big dinner, and the next morning you're disappointed when the scale has nothing good for you. FYI, that cycle will only set you up for disappointment. It never works. Ever.

But somehow along the last seventy-plus pounds, I must have gotten amnesia because I found myself doing that again. Indulging when I got the chance, and standing on the scale hoping for good news. If I were to be honest with myself, I would know not to expect any weight loss before I stepped on the scale, but that was precisely the problem: I wasn't being honest with myself.

Those white russians didn't count. Neither did the 12" sub, or the six cans of Coke, or the two slices of pizza, or the drive-thru I had for lunch. Individually, these were small infractions. One or two of them combined, my metabolism could have taken care of them just like that. But the collective? Too much to ignore. And the truth is, these were spread out over two weeks... just enough time to forget that it had happened but not enough time for me to have worked it off.

At the root of my problem was that I have gotten comfortable. I have found a sweet spot in my exercise routine and I've tested the limits of my metabolism to know exactly how much I can eat and still maintain my weight. If I were at the finish line, this would be a happy post. But I'm not, I'm sickeningly far from it.

The only solution was to go back to the beginning, to shock and punish my body so that it would again learn to burn all the fat I have stored in all the wrong places (dear body, if you're reading this, let's work on the arms, HUH?!). In the beginning, I was tired and sore and hungry and cranky all the time. In those days, when I laid in bed with a heating bad contemplating another round of Tylenol, I knew it was worth every single second, and there was never a question to stop or to slow down. Back then, I couldn't make it go fast enough.

So then, what the hell is my problem these days? I run miles like no one's business, I lift weights like a pro, and I conquered my eating addiction once, so why let myself slip? I still don't have an answer to that. Part of me thinks that I'm in my comfort zone. I've lived a significant part of my life at this weight, for the first time EVER everything in my closet fits, and I look as good as I feel. It's true that I don't know what comes after this, and so one could make the argument that I'm afraid. I guess I am.

Maybe just a little afraid.

Onward and upward downward.

Today, I got a double boost that I so desperately needed. First, I weighed in at 219.0. I have a sneaking suspicion that it's actually lower than that, but I won't be able to confirm until the morning. Secondly, I received the thumbs-up to plan for Las Vegas in the spring. I love event planning so much that (at times) I seriously regret my business and management degree. Celine Dion Las Vegas is a fabulous motivator for me because the best sequins come in smaller sizes and we all know I fking love sequins. HAHAHA... I'm not joking. Plus, having a thing (any thing, really) to focus my attention on is best because I tend to be single-minded. No, I can't go out for drinks. I'm starving myself for Vegas. I HAVE to go to the gym today... gotta be skinny for Vegas. IT WORKS (for me, at least).

I'm going to be very unlike myself now and declare... nothing. Absolutely nothing. I don't have a goal weight in mind for Las Vegas March 2013. I truly, honestly don't. All I hope for the next six months is that I maintain my focus and become better, stronger, healthier. And if I manage to bring my weight down to a number that begins with 1... or if I work my skinny little ass into a size 8 dress, you won't hear me complain about it.

a new day will dawn.

I stepped on the scale this morning, saw something very unfavorable, and then reminded myself that it's a new day. Scratch that, NEW YEAR!

Shanah tovah to all.

I'm so incredibly disappointed with what I've eaten and how little I've exercised, but I had a rough (no, seriously, ROUGH) weekend at work and I'm not exactly sure how I would change things given the chance.

Instead of beating myself up, I'm going to take a cue from my friends from the Promised land and have a lunch of apples, honey, and nuts. I would love a pomegranate but our groceries stores aren't carrying them yet. And believe me, I would punch a kitten for some challah but it's best if I keep the bread intake to a minimum considering my current circumstances.

L'shanah tovah. L'shanah tovah, indeed.

tied to me tight.

I am failing hard at weight loss lately. Failing. Hard.

On the one hand, I want to live a no-pressure life. BECAUSE I'M YOUNG. Aside from feeling like I deserve this, I also don't want to get to a point later down the line where I regret the years I spent obsessing about my weight.

On the other hand, it's for my HEALTH. I know, I know this. Not only am I hurting myself, but my future husband and my future kids and the family and friends that love and support me. It's a serious matter that should be treated as such.

But if we're being honest, for one damn second, let's suspend reality for a second to consider more frivolous things:

When I go out for ice cream that I know I shouldn't have, or I skip the gym in favor of watching Netflix under the blankets on the couch all night, I'm not thinking about what my doctor would say. I'm not thinking about the constant dilemma I face between being happy in the moment or healthy in the long run. I'm thinking of this dress.

But this dress is at least two years away from being mine, which means I've got time. Which means I can have that ice cream. Which means I can skip the gym.

I'm failing so hard at weight loss today because I keep telling myself I have a tomorrow.

Fuck me.

reap just what you sow.

I don't remember how we got on the subject, but something very VERY important came up this weekend.

Back up.

Last Wednesday, boyfriend met with his PCP for his annual physical. It was a point of serious stress because he had been waiting for this day for MONTHS for two reasons: to get weighed, and to find out what might be causing numbness in his feet. The last point was a huge issue because he has a family history of diabetes and he's a really big dude. All those factors put together made him certain that he was not going to get good news.

Boyfriend has been diligently putting in hours at the gym consistently (even more consistent than me) over the last few months (pretty much since we came back from Vegas) with absolutely NO IDEA what his weight was doing. I cannot go more than two days without weighing myself, I would go nuts. A large chunk of my weight loss success has come from the sole fact that I am aware of my weight at pretty much all times, so I can't even begin to imagine how one could go MONTHS without checking and still go to the gym every day. That cluelessness would drive me insane.

So there I was, 3:40 pm, suffering out my last few hours at work waiting anxiously for an update. I almost broke a chair lunging to my phone as it rang, boyfriend's picture flashing on the screen. I hung on every word as he told me everything his doctor said, having to hold myself back from jumping and screaming at work. With pride.

Boyfriend's efforts have paid off, he is down 37 pounds and nowhere close to diabetes. I really mean it when I say, Thank God.

We are entirely way too young to be where we are with our health. It's embarrassing that we have specialists to tend to our medical conditions, which are weight-related; it's a point of shame that we're so familiar with our pharmacists because we're always having to pick up prescriptions; it's shameful that we've gotten THIS FAR into our adult lives before deciding to do something about it.

I'm so happy we put our foot down and decided enough is enough. No more. Between the two of us, we've lost 110 pounds. That's a person.

If you Google "110 pounds," at about page 19 of the images you'll start to see a whole bunch of dogs in harnesses. I guess Google thinks this furry monster falls into the 95-110 pound category.

Some people have shaken their heads and said that we shouldn't gave gained that to begin with. Sure, good point. And we should all live in houses made of rainbows and ride around on unicorns. The reality is that we did gain it. WE DID, it happened, I can't erase/re-write history. The ink on that page is already dried. We have the opportunity ahead of us now to start a new chapter, and this chapter is titled Working Extra Hard to Undo All the Mistakes We've Made. It's a long chapter. It might make for a shitty read, but it's my story and I'm going to tell it.

It came up this weekend in conversation, we were making jokes about our new svelte selves when it dawned on us how awesome it's been. We certainly didn't notice the weight when it was there (I think we both convinced our respective selves that we were just big boned) but what a relief it's been to have lost the weight.

Believe me, these are experienced words: It feels much better to be living this way. Boyfriend and I WILL attest to that now and forever, we'll scream it from the rooftops if we have to. Today marks exactly eleven months since I first gave myself the gift of a gym membership and I gotta tell you... hot diggity damn it's been worth it.

Confession time.

Admittedly, we were bad this weekend. Baddddd. Binge drinking = not diet approved. We spent Friday and Saturday drinking like crazy and eating what was there without any care, and it even spilled into the first part of Sunday, not to mention we spent that time not exercising. As we were slipping into a fried potato coma Sunday afternoon, we were snapped out of our stupor remembering that the gym would have to come early if we were to watch the Steelers play later at night.

Oh, Steelers. You fuckers break my heart.

Boyfriend seemed disheartened at the realization that this forthcoming week would be spent working off two days of bad eating and he cut his losses after 40 minutes of cardio. I, on the other hand, insisted on lifting weights since I hadn't done so since Thursday. Instead of making him wait around for me, I sent him home with the intention of running back to our place after lifting. I spent a little over an hour at the gym between punishing my favorite elliptical and doing my regular lifts plus a few more, and then I set myself to running all 1.55 miles back home. As I approached the turn onto our street, I followed a whim to keep going straight and turned a 1.55 run into a 6 miler. It was 70 degrees with a slight breeze and my lungs and my calves were loving the opportunity to push it to the limit.

I came home dripping in sweat, heart pounding, toes tingling, L-O-V-I-N-G every moment I spent on that run. I was walking running on sunshine.

these words are my own.

Yes, a second post today.

No, we're not playing tic-tac-toe.

We're going to discuss numbers. My numbers. I stalk weight loss blogs like crazy and I've never seen anyone do this before, which seems outrageous to me because I effing love numbers. Math... eff yesssss.

I think it ironic and appropriate that the symbol for numbers is known as "pound." How fitting for this discussion.

I texted my college BFF this morning to tell her the momentous news that I had finally reached my skinny college weight. The text that followed got sent so fast I hardly knew what my fingers had typed before I pressed SEND.

I said to her, "It's weird... I almost don't know what to do next."

That's the worst part about reaching goals, the emptiness and the "what now?" Before I get lost, I've gotta reassess.

Starting weight: 292.0 / BMI: 43.1 / July 2011
Exercising weight: 285.0 / BMI: 42.1 / October 2011
Current weight: 220.0 / BMI: 32.5 / September 2012

Initially, my only fitness goal was to exercise every day to make the gym a habit. I have conquered that one like no one's business. Then there was the standard 5/10/20 pounds lost benchmarks. I was especially interested in getting my weight to 265, 245, and 220 for personal reasons (each weight marked certain, um, milestones).

Once I realized I really was succeeding at losing weight, I set my sight on losing 92 93 pounds. More than anything, I wanted to see my weight start with a 1. I can't tell you the last time I've seen that. So, with that...

Current short-term goal: lose 20 pounds (weigh 199/200).

And, so that I don't experience this crisis again in a few months, another goal. Except this time, a final goal.

Ultimate goal: lose 122 pounds total (weigh 170).

I maintain that I've never had a specific target weight in mind because numbers that big overwhelm the crap out of me. I've come to the final conclusion that I want to weigh 170 pounds for a few reasons, which I will explain now. Firstly, it's a healthy-ish BMI (25.1). Technically, it's "overweight" but it's important to my confidence and self-esteem that I still have curves on my body. I want fuller breasts and thicker hips and juicy thighs. I'm built that way naturally and I find it to be very appealing, both to myself and my partner. So there's that. Secondly, it's a number I would be proud to say out loud. At 5'9" with a curvy build, I don't think anyone could fault me for deviating from the 120/130/140 pound standards. Thirdly, it's not out of reach and yet it still poses a challenge. Believe me, it's scary to think that there's still another 50 pounds to lose (ANOTHER FIFTY?!), but I've done it once and I can do it again. Lastly, I believe 170 pounds to be a weight that I can actually maintain. I'm sure with serious dedication that I could get my weight to a more health-friendly 150, but I fear that in doing so I will forever spend my life obsessing about food and exercise. Not to mention, I have yet to have any kids so it seems almost stupid to be talking about a "final" weight when I will have to repeat this process as many times as I procreate.

To reiterate, I've got 20 pounds to lose in the short term, and 50 long term.

A little more math:
Current: 72/122 = 59% [FAILING]
212 goal: 80/122 = 65% [D]
200 goal: 92/122 = 75% [C]
188 goal: 104/122 = 85% [B]
176 goal: 116/122 = 95% [A]
DUNZO: 122/122 = 100% [A +++]

Side note: I know I've marked my current progress as failing, but I in NO WAY actually believe that to be true. I'm a god damn rock star. But I've always been an A student and putting it in these terms makes it palatable to me. Instead of having a list of random numbers and goals, this provides me with a framework that I can relate to; it has meaning that is personal to me that is meant to motivate, despite using the very un-motivating word, "fail."

indie record that's much cooler than mine.

I made the colossal mistake of watching the video for Taylor Swift's "We Are Never Getting Back Together." It's a catchy song, and I harbor no anti-Swift feelings (my iPod is proof), but seriously WTF. She's what... 21 now? 22? One: why are you dating someone in HIGH SCHOOL? Two: why do you still act/sing/write like you're in high school? That video was pretty much exactly what I would have asked for had I been handed a singing career at age thirteen.

An open letter to Taylor Swift:

Honey, you're embarrassing yourself. And you're doing nothing for females everywhere; in fact, you might have even set us back thirty years. Now take your very large piles of money and buy yourself an age appropriate personality.

With love and patience,
The whole damn world.

Now, let me tell you about my Labor Day.

It was largely uneventful. I went to work. I did stuff. I drove home. I did stuff.

No, no. Wait. I take that back.

I drove home, then I got nekkid and stepped on the scale.

220.0       220.0       220.0       220.0       220.0

I stepped on and off the scale, over and over and over. You could have slapped me in the face and I would have been less shocked. I wasn't expecting anything in terms of weight loss this week because my eating has gone unchecked and my time at the gym has been standard and by no means remarkable in any way. It's a mere two pounds from where I had been, but oh boy do those two pounds mean the world to me.

I feel like I've been chasing 220 for years, mostly because I have been chasing 220 for years. I remember EXACTLY where I was when I first saw those numbers on the scale and I was horrified (mostly because I had a lifelong track record of avoiding scales and I had zero clue as to my weight at the time). Little did I know, that was the slimmest I would be for a long ass time. To be completely honest, I thought getting back to 220 would be magical because the last time I was here was a really great time in my life. For the first time ever while stepping on the scale, I actually yelled (it was a scream of happiness) when I saw my weight come up 2-2-0, but aside from the fleeting moment of pure joy, it's been a day just like any other day.

File this under: Things They Don't Tell You When You Lose Weight.

True facts: every bit of losing weight is awesome and incredible and amazing. And for that reason, nothing is special. It's kind of sad when you think about it. I should be celebrating today; TODAY is the day I FINALLY DID IT. I'm back to the lowest weight of my adult life and all I can think about is the next twenty pounds.

On the one hand, I should give myself a pat on the back for remaining motivated when it could be so easy to cash out and revert to old habits (let's be real, I'm lookin' pretty fine these days). But on the other hand, I surely deserve a bit of respite? As long as we're being honest... there's no way my curiosity would allow me to throw in the towel now.

It's just too close.

who's that chick who's rocking kicks?

Today, being a holiday, is reserved for a very special topic: my shoes. Because everybody needs a good foot story to start their day.

I've had foot problems as long as I could remember. As a baby, I would pull off my socks at every occasion, much to my mother's displeasure. There are albums full of photos where I'm pulling my socks off, even as an infant I hated having my feet covered. True story.

I distinctly remember an event that happened when I was four years old that should have been traumatic and instead has been the point of reference that definitively marks my history of foot anomalies. It was a hot summer day in western Texas. For those of you unfamiliar with the area, it's a desert in a mountainous region that's crazy-hot. Like, Las Vegas hot. Arizona hot. Cook-an-egg-on-the-sidewalk hot. I wanted to play outside but I was too impatient to wait for my aunt to fasten my shoes for me, so I ran out the front door barefoot. She chased after me, yelling that I would hurt myself on the pavement. I stood on the sidewalk dumbfounded wondering what all the fuss was about. What do you mean I'll burn my feet? My feet are just fine. And thus began a lifetime of shoe avoidance.

At the ripe age of four I learned that my feet don't burn on hot pavement.

Sandals, flip-flops, open-toed shoes of all varieties were the only shoes I would wear, despite violating all the rules of my school's dress code. If the shoes allowed me to skip the socks and gave me the freedom to slip them on and off with ease, they were mine. I hated wearing shoes.

Skip forward to the year 2000. We were new to the state of Iowa and new to a concept known as winter. I swear, in all my life, I never experienced below-freezing temps before moving to Iowa, and suddenly I was thrust into life in this state during the worst blizzard in recent history (look it up in an almanac, it's the truth). My desert-raised, flip-flop wearing self didn't own a coat heavier than a windbreaker, so snow boots were definitely not in my wardrobe. I learned quickly that I didn't even need snow boots.

My freak show feet play both ways: I can't feel freezing temperatures either.

I've always thought of my abnormality as a fun trick, it's a great ice breaker, and I love seeing the look on people's faces when I prove that I really am impervious to temperature. Hot water? No biggie. Solid ice? You betcha. However, there are limits. I can actually FEEL my feet. Some people confuse my temperature insensitivity to extend to all forms of insensitivity. Believe you me, it hurts when you stomp on my foot, so please don't stomp on my foot. I can feel touch, tickles, tingles, rocks, sand... just about everything the same as you do. Except water.

Don't ask me what it feels like to stand in water because there are no words to describe it. But I promise, it's nothing like you ever felt. I know my feet are wet, but for the life of me I cannot tell you if the water is warm or hot or cold. It's weird. The only reason I know it's weird is because I have perfectly normal sensation in my hands and it's a real mind fuck when I have my hands and feet submerged in water at the same time.

I feel pain in my feet if the temperature is extreme (boiling water, below zero temps) or if I'm exposed for a prolonged period of time so thankfully I'm not ever in any danger of causing serious nerve or tissue damage because I'll know there's a problem before it becomes serious. Despite this, I've had several doctors tell me over the years that I should have this checked out, a suggestion I never followed.

Until I met my neurologist.

I told her about my temperature insensitivity and my problems with shoes and she pulled out a fancy doctor instrument (a paperclip) and started prodding my feet. My tactile sensations and reflexes are intact, and after conducting an EMG she deduced that I have no serious nerve damage. Her official diagnosis: hereditary neuropathy. For some reason, nerve connections between my feet and brain never developed properly, so signals from my feet get interpreted in abnormal ways (i.e. no temperature response, discomfort from having the foot constrained). There is a real, physical reason that I can't feel temperature and have difficulty with shoes.

A lifetime of shoe hatred was explained with a few squiggly lines from an EMG, and suddenly I had a doctor giving proof that normal shoes are not meant for me.

A few months before I got the confirmation I so desperately needed, I had hypothesized something of the sort and took it upon myself to experiment with shoes. Shortly after I had resigned myself to making the gym a habit, I started having foot problems that would not go away, despite having changed shoes no less than eight times. Frustrated, I ditched the shoes altogether and found that the heavens parted when I exercised barefoot. Knowing that the gym wouldn't tolerate that for long, I began doing research on barefoot-style shoes.

In November 2011, I bought a pair of AdiPure trainers by Adidas. I made the very conscious decision to go with the new kid on the market, as opposed to the more established Vibram FiveFingers, because of my familiarity with and fondness for Adidas products.

The unfortunate black coloring lead to the horrible nickname "monkey toes." Gross.

I wholeheartedly believe that I would not have been able to accomplish as much success with my weight loss had I not discovered these shoes. The pain I had with normal trainers was so severe that there was absolutely no way I could ever incorporate exercise regularly.

I was extremely pleased with how things progressed with the AdiPures that I knew I would need a second pair before I wore out the first. Instead, I decided to diversify: in February 2012, I purchased my first pair of Vibram FiveFingers.

Classic, in taupe & clay.

Despite spending months in AdiPures and a lifetime of general shoe avoidance, my transition into FiveFingers was rough. The really are not joking when they say it takes months to adjust. The biggest problem for me was how the shoes stretched out my smallest toe. The Classic are as advertised, they truly are foot gloves. A few weeks after I started my FiveFingers journey, boyfriend alerted me to a crazy-sale on a pair of FiveFingers that I could not resist.

Sprints, in olive and baby blue.

I wasn't thrilled about the color, but the price ($30 shipped) couldn't be beat and I was interested in trying something with a little more grip. The Classic, while great for walking around and flexible activities such as Pilates, didn't offer much in other departments. The Sprint model is great for both indoor and outdoor activities and is usually my go-to shoe for the gym. It's flexible enough to allow full range of motion and circulation on the elliptical, but it has a little more substance to it which translates well to outdoor running (even on wet surfaces).

I ordered the Bikila LS solely for the fact that they looked more like normal shoes. The stares are relentless when striding around in public wearing FiveFingers and I was hoping that a more conventional-looking pair would ease some of the curiosity/repulsion that comes with wearing these shoes.

Nope, still monkey toes.

Again, they were on crazy-sale online so I bought a pair blindly hoping that I had ordered the right size. Months later, I'm still not sure if I did. The first few weeks wearing these shoes were just awful, they were a hair too short and would cut off circulation if I spent too much time sitting. I would spend a couple of hours a day wearing them at work, praying and wishing that they would stretch and my $50 would not have gone to waste. It took about a month of intense stretching and smashing and twisting, but I was finally able to take them out for a run. The first run was exhilarating, so much that I feared I would never again wear my other FiveFingers. To this day, I still fight the desire to favor these shoes over the others. They're best saved for the days that are spent strictly outdoors, as I feel the best qualities of the Bikila LS model are wasted on indoor gym activities.

Still learning to love these.

At the REI store in Pittsburgh, I had a moment of weakness and bought these on impulse. They were on sale in my size, and in all honesty I had been stalking them online for months, I just never had a reason to pull the trigger. I ran about 16 miles in these on a rugged outdoor pebble track and they were divine, but the one time I took them to the gym was horrible. They're stiff in the heel, arch, and toes, which provides great protection against the outdoor elements, but unfortunately I doubt I will ever be able to bring these to the gym for the very same reason. I am seriously looking forward to trying these out in the mud someday, and I like knowing that I have another pair to swap out with the Bikila LS so I don't wear them out too quickly.

There is a purpose and place for all five of my barefoot inspired shoes, and I don't believe I could have achieved the same effect with just one pair. I'm probably set in the shoe department for at least the next year and it would take one hell of a sale to get me to buy another since I feel like all my foot needs are met with my current line-up. Overall assessment: they're expensive, and oh-so-worth it.

i feel the pain, feel no shame.

PMS made me clean out a pint of Ben & Jerry's last night. Well, it was only 3/4 (someone had already eaten some of it). Add to my level of shame: it wasn't even my ice cream. My friend who watched my apartment while I was on vacation left that ice cream behind. I have been promising to bring it to her all week, and instead I ate it in a moment of weakness.

So, not only am I in debt 700 calories, but I've lost out on $5 and at least 20 minutes of time having to replace the stupid pint of stupid ice cream.

You know who doesn't have these problems? BOYS. Because boys don't have crazy hormones and aren't affected by sugar. I hate my second X chromosome today.

I was thinking I could take a day off from the gym, and then I remembered there's only six months until I return to Las Vegas. That's 180 days' time to exercise myself into a shape that won't embarrass me when I have to share a room with this:

She's 44. Three kids. Worth half a billion dollars. LOOK AT THOSE LEGS.
Fuck, I hate her.

i've got some living to do.

Last night I ate my way though pizza, pokeystix, mozzarella sticks, and boneless wings. We had a Groupon that was going to expire and I was starving. JUDGE ME. And then... all that food put me in a food coma and I slept through gym time.

LOOK! IT'S THE SPICE GIRLS!

Hopefully you're so distracted by these magical creatures that you forgot what I just told you.

Today is a new day.

feel a way you've never felt before.

I don't have much direction when it comes to my personal or professional lives. I've been content mulling around, living day-to-day, not exactly sure where my home is aside from the basic facts that I was born there, lived there once, I'm squatting here for a while, and we're going somewhere in the future.

"I have direction!"
"Yeah... towards the mall.

Gripping, I know.

I'm a 20-something in the midst of what other people would call a crisis, but it doesn't feel that way. My contemporaries are in intermittent states of panic, almost always characterized by random fits that begin with "WHAT AM I DOING WITH MY LIFFFFFE?"

Okay, I'll bite. What am I doing with my life?

I could tell you what I did yesterday, or, I could tell you a story. I'm going to do both.

My life on a Sunday.

I awoke early at the contemptible hour of 12:45pm. It's not humane to subject mere mortals to such torture. [Ha.. ha.. I'm such a comic] Immediately after rising, breakfast was served to me on the finest platter of the Dixie disposable variety. We feasted on burritos made of egg and potato hash smothered in green chile pork of my own making, meanwhile enjoying Game of Thrones. The pattern of eating-and-watching-and-eating-while-sedentary-and-eating-and-watching-some-more continued well past dinner time (pierogies and sliced tomatoes, if you're interested). Like clockwork, we dressed for the gym at ten past nine. The rest goes like this: gym, shower, Breaking Bad, bed. The end.

I ask my suit-wearing bear friend that ALL THE TIME. No, seriously. His name is Sir Bunk and he wears glasses.

Aside from working on Saturday morning, I did nothing with my weekend except for eat, watch Game of Thrones, and think about eating while at the gym. If I made the mistake of sharing this information with my mom, she would yell at me and tell me to pull myself together and come up with more constructive ways to spend my time. It's true, aside from my garden and a paltry résumé speaking for my "career," I have not constructed much out of my life. The highlight of my days is the odd day each month I get to lift weights (and I say "get to" because, if I had it my way, I would lift weights every day). And then after maybe two or three weeks' time, I dance in front of the mirror checking every angle of my back, shoulders, arms, and legs, praying that my efforts have manifested.

I'm building muscle.

Oh Willy, you know me so well.

I don't for one minute believe that I'm special just because I've developed serious definition in my calves, but there's one thing you have to understand about me if we have any chance of being friends: this is new to me. I'm almost 26 years old and the concept/process of losing weight and gaining muscle is entirely, 100%, thoroughly new to my experience on this earth.

I upped my free weight bench press from 30 lbs to 40 lbs last night and today I'm prancing around like I fart rainbows. I'm that fabulous today.

Yes, it's true that I watched at least ten hours of TV last night. It's also true that I went to bed with my hair wet, and I let my alarm snooze 10 minutes longer than I should have, and I came into work six minutes late. And my skirt is crooked and my shirt untucked and my hair's a mess.

But...

As I was doing bicep curls in front of the mirror at the gym last night, for the first time ever I thought to myself, "Huh, those are some nice legs." And I almost cried. Self-acceptance is a beautiful thing.