Finally Getting Fit

Well, it’s Friday. I wish I had some awesomely interesting news to report, but I don’t. The only thing remotely interesting is that I bought a pack of cigarettes last night.

I quit smoking at the end of August. It was hard. I used that new drug on the market, Chantix, and that helped tremendously. I’m positive that taking Chantix is the only reason those around me are alive and intact. My husband quit, too. We’ve been doing fantastic, with the exception of a few cigs snuck on weekends when multiple beers were consumed, and we’ve been saving a ton of cash. All in all, it’s been such a good thing.

And then last night, I just went and bought a pack. I was feeling kind of down. So I just bought a pack. And I got carded. What’s with that?

Anyway. That moment of weakness is a perfect description of the entirety of me. Things get icky, I cave. I fold like an oragami crane. I crumble like a dried-up leaf. I stuff my face. I take a nap instead of exercising. I go shopping and blow my budget. I get loaded with my friends when I’m feeling stressed or upset. And I buy a pack of cigs.

So maybe it isn’t just that I like food. Or that I have a slow metabolism. I think all of this destructive behavior stems from one simple fact: I’m a pussy. I take the easy road. The road most traveled, so to speak. Anything to not exert any kind of real emotional response.

And what problems do I really even have? Good lord. I have a hubby who loves me, a home, great friends, the best parents, loads of expensive purposeless education, a decend job… I’m a lucky chick. There are frigging people out there who are homeless. Who are fighting in Iraq. Who are struggling with terminal disease. Who the hell am I, anyway?

I don’t have any answers. But I do think it’s time that I quit being such a pussy. I am taking my life for granted. It’s my obligation to make the most of what I’ve been given.

Seriously. What was I thinking?

I love cookies. I love cookies more than ice cream. More than cake. More than pie. More than– dare I say?– any other dessert out there. So why would I torture myself and participate in my office cookie exchange?

For those of you who may not know, a cookie exchange is where there is a group of people and each person makes X number of cookies (the same kind). Then, you bring in your cookies all separated and exchange. For example, I made five dozen cookies, or 10 bags of six, and I recieved, in turn, 10 types of cookies, 60 all together.

60 cookies.

Now, I mostly did it because I’m a joiner and I like to participate in office fun. But, my dark side knew how many cookies I would receive and she was maniacally twisting her fat fingers together with an evil grin on her face as she imagined the plethora of cookie deliciousness spread out before her. “Texan cookies” with fruit and nuts, date balls, spritz with sprinkles, fudge squares, ginger snaps, special K, Mexican lemon cookies… I’m one of those pink, plastic Hungy, Hungy Hippos that has an endless stream of marbles entering it’s face. Not flattering.

So, temperance is the pre-holiday goal.

So yesterday I didn’t work out. I was too lazy to get up before work to do it. Then I worked all day, made cookies for my office cookie exchange (oh, more about that tomorrow…), and went to a bowling league Christmas party.

Before you scoff, I’m just a sub on my ma and sister’s bowling team. It’s not like I’m actually on a bowling league, so don’t get all judgey on me. Anyway, it was pretty fun. We bowled three games (and I got a 127 on my second game– woo hoo!) and had some snacks afterwards. Horrifyingly tempting snacks, but I didn’t go hog wild, so to speak. Good for me!

Then I got home and resumed baking 6 dozen cookies and doing a load of laundry, finishing around 11:00 pm. And then of course I was all wired up from being stressed all day, so I didn’t get to bed until after midnight. Yuck.

So, does bowling count as exercise? I’m assuming since there is beer involved, that’s a no.

Today my challenges are:

1. DON’T eat a million flippin’ cookies. Really. Don’t.
2. Find time to work out, even though there’s choir practice tonight.
3. Drink water!

I worked out again last night on the stationary bike for 20 minutes. This time no TV, but my MP3 player (check out this blog for info on different kinds of MP3 players, if you don’t already have one. www.mp3gaze.com. Do it now– thank me later!) with some energetic new (newly downloaded, not new as in a new release) workout songs:

Don’t you just know it? (Huey “Piano” Smith)
The Government Totally Sucks (Tenacious D)
Runaway (Me First and the Gimme Gimmes)
My Neck, My Back (The Vandals)
F*ck and Run (Liz Phair)
More Than a Feeling (Boston)

(I added the names of the songs because I used to see people inquiring about others’ workout songs on the Weight Watchers forums.)

My small victory there was that my hubby was home. It’s much easier for me to exercise when I don’t have the option to hang out with him. He works a lot of evening shifts and every other weekend, so we tend to get a little excited when we have a whole evening just the two of us.

So, what’s 20 minutes? Exactly. But my hubby being home was just the excuse I would have snatched up last week.

Anyway, today I’m doing fairly well on food, but this evening another challenge will present itself: happy hour. I will stick to light beer– only one (one big one, anyway)– and absolutely no greasy bar food. No spinach artichoke dip and chips. No mozzerela sticks. No nachos. No broccoli cheese bites.

Okay… now I’m getting hungry. I think I’ll stick to thinking about new workout songs.

Fat pants - noun. 1. Pants slightly larger than the majority of your pants. Usually worn around one’s period or on on low-body image day. 2. Pants with an elastic waist band. Example: “Holy crap I’m bloated today. Guess I’ll wear my fat pants.”

So, I’ve been wearing my fat pants for weeks it seems. (Don’t worry, I have more than one pair and a semi-functioning washer and dryer.) This makes sense now that the batteries ressurected my bathroom scale. However, now that I’m aware of the fact that the wearing of fat pants has become a daily neccessity, rather than an occasional desire, I’m wondering if I need to invest in some clothing.

I do not want to buy new pants. Especially now that I’m committed to only going down the scale. I’m talking about under-garment articles.

I have a couple of under-garment pieces that have come in handy on more than one occassion. A Spanx biker-short sort of deal that sucks me in from just under my bra to mid-thigh, and a bra/belly-holder-inner from Lane Bryant.

My rationale for buying these articles although I’m at the forefront of a weight-loss journey is that even when I start losing weight, I’ll still need to smooth down the muffin top and other unpleasantness.

The bra/belly-thing combo is a favorite of mine and I do plan to purchase a couple more of those.

Pros:
Smoothes the roll of fat on top of the pants
Supportive bra, too
Comfortable– not too tight, not too loose

Cons:
Sometimes it rides up a bit. I try to tuck it into my uns, but that doesn’t always work
Kinda pricey

The Spanx biker-shorts thing is also pretty good, depending on the situation.

Pros:
REALLY holds in the bumps and lumps
Makes it possible to wear pants I have began to outgrow…
Perfect for dresses and dressy occasions

Cons:
It is tight– uncomfortable after an 8-hour work day
The top can start to roll down, like panty hose– this produces an excentuated roll as well as pain
This is also pricey

So, I think I’m good with one Spanx thing, but I may invest in one or two more bra/belly things. But I will keep my eyes forward to the day when I won’t have to think about fat-concealing under-garments and fat pants. Then again, maybe fat pants are like skinny jeans in that every woman has a pair? I will do some research.

PS– here’s a cool blog on style: www.stylefix.net

I am very proud of myself. This may seem completely lame to normal people. But I am. I worked out for 25 minutes when I got home from work last night on my stationary bike.

I tried to pump myself up all day. Every once in a while (in my mind; I don’t want to worry my cube neighbors) I said to myself, “I’m going to work out when I get home.” It was very simple. I didn’t embellish with thoughts of how I was going to start looking sexy or anything like that. Just very simply, “I am going to work out when I get home.”

I think this was helpful in that it made the future action not seem like it was optional. It was just something I was going to do when I got home. Like eating dinner. Like reading my book. Like watching Charlie Brown’s Christmas. (By the way, Charlie Brown’s Christmas still kicks ass.)

So I got home and immediately made myself change into workout clothes, even though I was still deciding whether to eat first or second. Then, knowing that food can have a slightly coma-inducing effect on me, I chose the bike. It also helped that my husband had called when I walked in the door. I told him my plans, which would enforce actually going through with them.

And it wasn’t hard. I mean, I did work up a slight sweat, my legs began aching a bit, and my butt felt a little numb afterwards, but I simply got on, pedaled, and watched a rerun of the Simpsons. I can do this. (PS– cool blog on the Simpsons: www.watchingsimpsons.com.)

And I will do it again tonight.

Ok. It’s been a while since I’ve weighed myself. Before Thanksgiving… way before. The batteries died in my digital scale. So new batteries were purchased this weekend and I did my official weigh-in this morning.

Even after being nearly totally nude (I had on my snazzy red uns) and even after blow-drying my hair (wet hair is probably heavier…), I still weighed… 211. 211 pounds. Two hundred and fucking eleven pounds.

How could I have gained six pounds? Was it Thanksgiving dinner? How about my period? That should be starting on Tuesday or Wednesday. That’s got to account for some water weight, right? Or how about my snazzy red uns? They’ve got to weight at least seven pounds, right?

I was even too shocked to cry. I’m encroaching on my highest weight ever… again. I swore I’d never see 200 again. Suddenly I’m at 205. Then 211.

I think denial must have kicked in again. I mean, I could feel my clothes fitting tighter. My once-falling-off-my-hips jeans were now squeezing up an unattractive innertube of fat around my middle. And I could see more puffiness in my face and neck. But I thought, it’s just a few pounds. I was bound to gain a couple after quitting smoking in September (which I don’t regret and am still very happy about!). But this is much too much.

The time is now. I don’t care if it’s right before the holidays with all the cookies and big feasts and general snacking galore. I don’t care that it’s winter and I can hide my muffin top with big, wooly sweaters. I don’t care that I quit smoking. I don’t care that I’m bloated or if my underwear weighs ten pounds. These damned new batteries have given me a wake-up call– or rather a kick in the great big fat ass: It’s time to stop being lazy and lose some weight. It’s going to be hard. But I’m tough. Or at least, I’ll become tough.

New goal: 30 pounds lighter before I hit 30. That date is April 7. The weight should be 180.

At this weight, I should be wearing size 14/16. XL top– maybe L, depending on the brand. I know that’s still overweight– I don’t plan to stop there. But I think 30 Before 30 has a nice ring to it. And I think I’m finally ready to get my ass in gear.