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.