Wednesday, August 26, 2009

Oh, For Shame!

Had a relatively busy morning this morning culminating in a run-by trip to the Wal-Mart. Which as you know, you can never quite just run in and get anything at the Wal-Mart. It always turns into an hour long "Oh yeah, and I need to pick up . . . " trip and a big fat chunk out of my checking account. And yes, I always refer to it as 'The Wal-Mart'. I know it's hick as hell, but I do so hate that place. I hate it more because I need it. I know that they are socially corrupt and I really shouldn't patron 'The Wal-Mart' but when you live in super small town Eastern Kentucky like I do, sometimes you just have no choice. I would love to fight the power, so to speak. But I can't, I'm just too hungry.
Which brings me back to my original point. I finished up my shopping and pulled my semi-cart into the lane. Sadly not the express lane. Only at 'The Wal-Mart' would they recognize the futility of anyone getting out of there with less than 20 items. I think it's only a myth. But I digress. Again.
So I'm in line. And I'm feeling kind of hungry. I get my usual Diet Mt. Dew, which I know is still horrible for me, but sometimes sacrifices have to be made. But I'm still thinking I'm hungry. Danger! Danger, Will Robinson! But do I listen? Do I make the smart choice and head to the conveniently connected SubWay for a Jared approved healthy lunch? Nooooo, I do not.
I grab . . . (wait for it) . . . the Combos.
That most hateful of all junk foods. Oh, I am helpless to resist them. Which is, I suspect why they are located right next to the Slim Jims and National Enquirer. There must be so many out there like me. But even then, I don't realize that I am making a poor decision. It is only later when I am halfway down the road and almost all the way through the bag, that I realize what a truly stupid stupid thing I have done.
True, it does not rate up there with the buffalo chicken wing-fest I had the day after New Years. Or even the fine German restaurant located temptingly close to my brother's new house. On the everyday bone-head move scale though, it certainly rates right up there.
I indulged in about an hours worth of self-loathing, before I realized what a slippery slope that was and snapped out of it. I will just have to do better next time. I will have to make smarter choices for the rest of the week. Hummus and baked pita chips are just as delicious as Combos. They are. They really are, I swear.
I will chalk it up to just one more reason why I should avoid 'The Wal-Mart'. Along with the ridiculously low priced cheesy poufs and the lure of the take and bake pizza. I will just have to burn a little extra gas and haul my ass to the nearest Target, where I know there will still be Combos, but at least I will already be feeling a little more socially responsible. It is easy to avoid the cheesy pretzel goodness when I am not already hovering a Pig Pen like cloud of shame.

Saturday, August 22, 2009

Why the KY State Fair Hates Me and Wants Me to Fail.

I just spent 24 eye-opening hours at the KY State Fair, a fairly decent state fair - to be sure. I have managed to make it almost 30yrs (4 of which I was a dedicated FFA member) and have never had to attend the state fair. Just to be clear - I hate a fair. I am one of those crabby, hateful people who hates a fair, circus, or parade, or any other gathering of "the public" in which there is merriment and joy. I would be relatively happy being a hermit, I am sure.
There was only one thing that could cause me to overlook all this bourgeois crap. It was a concert of Journey featuring Heart. That's right Journey. And Heart. Oooohhhh . . . Barracuda!
What I discovered at the fair, though, is that you CANNOT be on a diet at the fair. I felt like Templeton the rat in the animated Charlotte's Webb movie. "A fair is a veritable smorgasbord!"
There were hamburgers, hot dogs, sausages, potato ribbons, cotton candy, ice cream, a beirgarten, corn dogs ( a personal downfall ), and of course, the obligatory funnel cake. Damn the fair! We had to walk almost a mile to and back from our hotel to the concert so I felt that a corndog was justified. Come on, it's a literal State Fair Corn dog. And truthfully, it was the most delicious cord dog I've ever had in my life. And I consider myself a (former) connoisseur.
So, bottom line: Concert - awesome. The new lead singer for Journey kicks ass! And Heart, come on. If I can still rock out when I'm in my 50s then everybody else can, as my favorite comedian Kathy Griffen says, suck it! But do not go if you are watching what you eat and can't deal w/ temptation. Unless, of course, there is a kick ass concert that you absolutely can't miss.
Next up U2 and The Black Eyed Peas in Oklahoma in October. I can hardly wait. For U2 I would brave any corndog - State Fair or otherwise.

Thursday, August 20, 2009

Inspiration Station? Not So Much.

It would appear that I have lost my mojo. You see, I am not one of these miracle people who have this internal motivation. Someone who can just get out of bed throw back a cup of black coffee and a banana and actually look forward to a good hard workout. I suppose had I been born one of this alien race, I would not be in the predicament I am in today. I need the external inspiration. Desperately.
See, I am one of those profoundly normal people who must drag my sorry ass out of bed, have a Java Monster (don't worry - the lo-ball only has 100 calories for the whole can), plus my multivitamin spiked w/ green tea and egcg, and even 4oz of orange juice for the sugar rush. Then I have to rush my kids to school and hurry to the gym before my chemically induced high wears off. I plug away on stinking sweating machines, glaring across the room at the skinny new trainer with the impossibly high ass showing the correct way to use the machine. She makes it look so easy. Naturally this is not true. She is nice, but I secretly want to snap her like a twig.
Then I'm home and it's time to force feed myself some form of protein, usually a boiled egg or a cup of fat-free chocolate soy milk - my favorite. I try to get in a few loads of laundry and make the beds before I inevitably crash for a semi-comatose doze for a few minutes before the kids get off the bus. Then, of course it's homework, dinner, dishes, feed the dogs, more laundry, kids baths, my bath, fold the laundry, take a few mandatory minutes to read something completely unnecessary and self-indulgent before falling asleep -I hope- before 1:00 or 2:00am.
The thing is, a few months ago. All this seemed to be no problem. Before the end of the last school year, I seemed to have it all under control. I breezed through my daily workout, burning 500+ calories and even having enough energy to take a 3-mile walk a few times a week. And my house had never been cleaner. Now I can hardly make it up the stairs with my laundry basket and I am trying to figure out just how we can afford a cleaning lady.
The thing that pisses me off the most is that I have changed absolutely nothing. My trainer says that we all go through periodic slumps once in a while. It is natural, she says, and it will soon pass. What does she know, I think, she eats grass and tofu and weight 100lbs. She is what I imagine Satan looks like in my own personal hell. See, I think there will be a personalized hell for each of us and mine will have me too fat to move while I watch this skinny bitch supermodel stuff her face with endless cupcakes and pies and extra salty chips and never gain a pound. Worse, she will periodically, get up, step over to the scales, climb on and blithely say, "oh look, I've lost a few pounds." Yes, this will be hell. And if I am unlucky enough to end up there, this is what it will look like. Oh, and there will be bad poetry. I hate poetry.
So, what do I do? How do I find my inspiration again. I need Biggest Loser to come back on TV. I need for Kirsty Alley to lose the weight again. (although, conversely, it makes me feel worse whenever Oprah loses weight. go figure.) I need Richard Simmons to come bark in my ear every day that I can do it.
Maybe tomorrow I will wake up with a burning desire to go work out. Maybe I will wake up with enough energy to get through my day. And maybe; as my GenX hero, Wayne Campbell, often says; monkeys will fly out of my butt. Oh well. At least if that happens I will at least have lost some weight. I wonder how much a flying monkey weighs?

Saturday, August 15, 2009

Getting Used to a New Trainer and other impossible goals

My trainer quit the gym. Just up and quit with no good reason. I know she has her own life and everything and doesn't exist just to whip my ass into shape, but still. My new trainer is actually the owner of the gym and she is super nice and helpful and there is absolutely nothing wrong with her whatsoever. I think, personality-wise, I might actually like her better. It's just that . . . well . . . you kind of get used to a trainer, you know?
It's a very personal relationship a woman has with her trainer. You tell her things you would never tell anyone else, not even your husband whom you love more than anything. You know, things like your weight. She's seen you sweat and groan through your toughest workouts and she's even measured your thighs, for god's sake! And you actually feel compelled to tell her the truth because you know that her sole job in your life is to make your body better. And that's exactly the way you like it.
Now she's gone and you have to get used to someone new. It's a bit like dating, I suppose, after having been in a long term relationship. I can't imagine anything more horrible. Now all I have to do is manage to carve out a good relationship with my new trainer without growing too attached. I have some serious issues.
My next impossible goal is somewhat more short term, but no less unrealistic. I want to lose 3.5 lbs. by the end of the week. 6 days. Not entirely impossible, but still highly improbable.
You see, I have these jeans . . . and then there's this concert . . . and well, you get the picture. I tried the jeans on yesterday and they actually fit. And fit pretty well, I might add. But I can't get over the fact that I'm hovering at 213.5lbs. and I can't help but feel that the jeans would look even better on me if I was at 210.
I know it's ridiculous, but still. I figure if I bust my hump all week then even if I don't lose the whole 3.5 lbs. I will at least have lost something, and hopefully even have jump started my metabolism so that next week is a little easier on the scales, too.
Call me crazy. Call me a dreamer. Just don't call me for the next 6 days. I will be at the gym.

Friday, August 14, 2009

Can you airbrush away my outrage?

This morning on the Today show was a story about Kelly Clarkson being on the cover of SELF magazine. The story was allegedly about Clarkson being comfortable with her body. She is quoted as saying that when asked about her weight she feels: "you seem to have a problem with it. I don't. I'm fine." Awesome! How great to hear a celebrity that is comfortable with her curves. Now, to be fair, Miss Clarkson is by no means fat. She is however what I like to call Hollywood fat. That is defined by not being a size 4 or below and looking like a 14 year old boy with big ol' fake boobs.
Hollywood fat is what Jessica Simpson is. But unlike J.Simps, Clarkson is not going into hiding aka fat camp. She's not going to endorse Jenny Craig or NutraSystem or anything like that at this time. By the way I hate that commercial where that skinny bitch Zora tells us how she went from a size 10 to a size 2 on NutraSystem. Bitch, size 10 is my goal weight. Get over yourself.
But back to Kelly Clarkson. SELF magazine's angle has always been to make women comfortable with the selfs they are now while helping them to achieve their body goals. The story on Clarkson had pictures of her during a recent performance where there was noticeable . . . umm . . . junk in her trunk, shall we say? And fuller arms and a tummy. They addressed reports by her critics that said that Clarkson has let her weight go. Clarkson responded in the above mentioned quote and others that she was perfectly happy with her body and that any problem that other people had with her appearance was their own problem, not hers. Sounds like a very healthy attitude, yes?
Well, yes. As long as it stays inside the magazine covers. But whatever goes on the cover must go the way of Cosmo and Glamour. Even for a self-help magazine, what goes on the cover must be the most beautiful, most sexy, most unattainable that ever was. In a story that praises Kelly Clarkson for her healthy attitude towards her body SELF magazine retouched her cover photo. Not just retouched in the sense that they cover up her under-eye circles or blended out a panty line. These cover editors decided to visibly shave off several pounds of Miss Clarkson's self-described wonderful curves. It would appear to be the case that the editors don't really read the stories that fill in the space between their covers.
What the hell? I can't decide what pisses me off more. The fact that this magazine that had heretofore given the appearance, at least, of embracing all body types, has now gone glam. Or the fact that when I take my family's annual Christmas card photo nobody will be in a studio working feverishly to airbrush away my baby belly and bingo wings.

Friday, August 7, 2009

Is this supposed to be inspirational, or something?

OK, I know this is completely ridiculous, but I have found something new to piss me off. To be fair, on the pissing me off scale this is relatively low and probably completely petty. But hey what are pissing me off scales for if not arbitrary absurdness?
So here it is. For the past two morning in a row I have entered my gym only to be greeted by dance mix versions of church hymns. No, don't adjust your screen, you read it right. Dance mix church music. Seriously? What the hell - to say the least.
Now, please before anyone gets all up in arms that I am against their religion - that is not what I am saying. Not here, anyways. I believe that all music, even gospel, has its place. Just not at the gym. I think even the most filled with the spirit, shall we say?, can see the logic of this. It's like fish tacos. Two things that just don't go, in my opinion.
When I go workout I like to here me some Black Eyed Peas, some Flo Rida, hell - even some damn Brittany Spears is better than this stuff. I'll freely admit it. I don't hate the post post breakdown Brittany stuff. In fact Womanizer and Circus are fairly excellent workout tunes. But how am I expected to work up a sweat to a tub-thumpin' version of Amazing Grace? The ridiculousness of it almost made me lose track of where I was in the circuit. That's the worst part of it. Not only is the God Rock awesomely inappropriate but it's downright distracting.
So while I may be over in the corner moaning "Oh, Jesus!" after any given workout, that should certainly not be taken as a request to the DJ.

Monday, August 3, 2009

Fat Girl Skinny Jeans

Today it happened. I had heard something like this could be possible if one was willing to put forth the effort. I had never been too sure. But today - today it happened. I fit into a smaller size jeans.
Not just any jeans, the smallest sized jeans the big girl store makes. Now, here's where it gets a little confusing. Lane Bryant, my big girl store of choice, used to size everything in the traditional 14/16, 18/20, 22/24 and so on and so forth. At the time I wore a 18/20. Occasionally I could squeeze into a 16, if it was independantly sized and I didn't care about breathing. But then they had to go change it. And confuse the hell out of it along the way.
Now instead of soul crushing 16s and 18s and even 20 somethings on our tags we are greeted by 1, 2, 3, & 4 up to 7. This is evidently supposed to delude us into thinking that we are smaller than we actually are. Does it work? Of course it does! Never in my adult life have I been a 3. Once in ninth grade I got into a 5, but I had mono. I usually hovered around a 10/12 in high school. I reached my body nirvana my freshman year of college. Instead of gaining the freshman 15, I actually managed to lose it. I know, I hated me too. My point is that I had never been a 3 and now I was one at my heaviest I had ever been in my life.
But before you get too excited it's important to know that you can't just be a 1 or a 2 or even a 7. You have to know if you are a yellow, red, or blue. What the hell is this, kindergarten? I mean seriously, what difference can it make? Evidently I was wrong yet again and it makes a big fat difference - so to speak.
Plus sized jeans designers, formerly the mom-jeans queens, have apparently woken up to the fact that the average American woman wears a size 14. Never mind what this says about the state of American health, but what does it say about the bottom dollar? It only took them, like a million years to figure out that just because a woman is big doesn't mean she wants to dress like a grandma. And no woman's body is built like any other woman's body. They call their new sizing system Right Fit for obvious reasons. It begs the question - what took you so long? And BTW, no self-respecting grandma of mine would be caught dead in a mom jean. My mamaw can rock a boot cut like nobody's business. She does, however, draw the line at low-cut. She is a grandma after all.
But back to the point hand. Yellows are for the ladies with minimal curves. The proverbial rectangles. No ass whatsoever. Clearly, these jeans are not for me.
Next is the Reds. These are the average, middle of the road, most women fit these, catagory. Also, not me
No, I fall into the Blue catagory. Blues are for the girls with the big ol' bidonka-donks. A little junk in the trunk. I like big butts and I cannot lie . . . you get the idea. Yes, I wear the Blue. The curviest jeans that the curvy girl store makes. When they implemented this change I morphed from 18/20 into Blue 3. And that was fine with me. At the time.
Then we decided we were going to Vegas and I decided to lose a few. Like 10 or 15 pounds off my big ass was going to make a big difference. Although it was a high point of my life when I was mistaken for Ann Wilson in the MGM casino. Heart was playing the next night and Ihad recently dyed my hair black with red streaks, so it was not an unreasonable comparason. Still I was excited.
But then it got to be serious. I was going to be turning 30. Something had to be done. And it was. As you know I have been going at it diligently for nine months now. And my size 2 jeans (I just like to say it out loud. Size 2!) were getting a little loose. Can you imagine?
So today I was at Lane Bryant and saw these jeans. I had my kids with me so I couldn't really try anything on, but still I had a coupon and I couldn't pass them up. So I bought them and brought them home with the full expectation of trying them on in the privacy of my own bathroom and taking them right back to the store tomorrow. But lo and behold, they fit. And not just fit, they really fit. I could breath and everything. And the best part is they are a . . . drumroll please . . . size 1. Whoo hooo!!!! Look at me go. I am one size away from NOT having that dreaded W behind the size on my clothes.
So as it stands now, I am at the 214/215 (depending on the day) pound mark. My birhtday is in exactly three months. I would like to be below 200 by then. A point I have not been since before my first child was born. Never mind that I was way below 200 at 145, but that's another story. I have made peace with the fact that I will never be 145 again. But I can guaran - damn - tee you that I will not be in the big girl jeans again. We finally got rid of one W now it's time for me to shed another.