Friday Status Report

So it's Friday weigh -in day!

I am down one more pound.

So that is 6 pounds since the first of the year, and 15 pounds since I changed the way I eat.

This is slow but steady progress.

My big fear is that I will run out of things to talk about on this blog.  Although I have ideas, I fear that in time this will deteriorate to a boring list of everything I eat in a day:

7:20 -I ate my milk
7:45 -Danced my dance
8:10 -Had impure thoughts about a scone

(English majors will think that's funny.)

This will be sad because I have enjoyed the blogging aspect of all of this.  It keeps me excited and accountable.  But mostly it has helped me flesh out some of the emotional work it takes to get these goals met.

It helps me put a name to my fears and therefore rob them of their power. (Disclaimer: This does not work with everything.  For instance, if your fear is a tiger--even if you name that kitty Clarence, it will still rip your face off.  I'm just saying.)

But for now, I still have a few more silly things to write and a few kind people to listen and one more fuzzy pom to move into the pounds jar.  Not too bad for a Friday.

Spiders, Ants and Bill Pullman

I hate spiders.  More than hate, I fear spiders.  It is an irrational/rational fear.  I think it is perfectly rational to fear spiders, seeing as they kill one in 12 adults per year. (Probably.) On the other hand, I realize that when seeing an extra large spider it is not rational to run into the next room and cry into a pillow.  

When alone and faced with a spider to kill, I give a sort of pep talk to arm me for the battle. “I am the dominant species.  I am a thousand times bigger.  It will not kill me, I will kill it.  He will die today and I will go on. I AM THE DOMINANT SPECIES!”  And I like to let the speech build as I say it, like it’s the speech from Independence Day: “We are going to FIGHT!  WE are going to SURVIVE….”  With my new found courage I move the coffee table with the strength of a woman freeing a child from under a car and drench the eight legged fiend in apple lavender body spray.  Then I drop a book on its fine smelling disoriented self. “TODAY is OUR INDEPENDENCE DAY!!!” #lovebillpullman

I was thinking about this other day as I cleaned out my car. Yes, I like phrasing it like that "just cleaned out my car".  Like one morning I woke up and decided that a clean car would be refreshing.  Went out spritzed it a bit, and now it’s shines like when I drove it from the dealership.

I would like to believe that is what happened and that I didn’t have ants.  Yes, ants.  Tiny little horrible creatures that were pointing out every piece of trash and loose Cheerio that had littered my car.  I have never been a neat person, but I am not a dirty person and have never had a problem with bugs.  

About a week ago, I saw one maybe two tiny little black ants running around my car, but there wasn’t a whole lot to munch on.  Oh, there were crumbs and such, but nothing overly sweet.  (I like that last excuse I admit to food but pride myself on its low sugar content.) 

But the other day my daughter was munching on granola and spilled some in her car seat.  And as the old adage says, “Nothing motivates a mama bear like ants in her baby’s chair.”  So I gave my little girl some sidewalk chalk and dragged out the vacuum.  

I was thorough.  I was motivated.   I was ashamed.

I told my friend about this whole incident and she said I should put it in my blog.  I didn’t want to.  I wanted to hide this.  Hide it in that dark place where I carry my shameful secrets, like how faithful I am to the show Castle, or how I come down on the wrong side of history when it comes to Nickleback.   

Mark it down as a failing, and then carry it like lead in my pockets.  Lead that whispers that success is not something I was designed for.

The tiny ants were marching like little picketers with signs suggesting who I really am.  “You’re dirty.”  “You’re a failure.”  “You can’t manage this part of your life.” Let’s just shorten that to “You can’t manage your life.”

Who knew ants could say so much?  This is one of the problems that I have with digging myself out of clutter or tackling something that has gotten out of hand.  I look at a table covered in papers and such, or a pile of mail, and I see failure.  I see a mirror showing the true me, a poorly functioning adult.

This is the sort of lie I can’t believe any more.  This year is about not feeling powerless or crippled by my state any more.   It’s about speaking truth, and when the problem is actually bigger than me, falling on the Lord’s strength and going on. This is the time when I need to say, “It’s Florida, and sometimes an ant is just an ant.”

 

So I looked at whose small damning creatures took a deep breath and began. “I am the dominant species…”

Tear Drops on my Kale

Every time I eat, I experience what I like to call the “tyranny of the healthiest choice.” 

For example, I am at Chipotle and I am choosing a meal.  I avoid the burrito because the tortilla is flour.  I order a vegetarian brown rice bowl.  I go through a little check list in my head. Vegetables – good, check.  Brown rice – good, check.  Guacamole – good fats, check.  

 I feel fairly comfortable with my decision and sit down to eat.

But as I eat the doubts creep in. “Is this ok? Maybe I should have gotten a salad instead of the rice.  But the salad comes with dressing that is probably high in sugar.  Maybe I should have got this without cheese.  Isn’t cheese high in fat?  Wait, is that the good fat?  What is sour cream to the dieting world? Fat? Good fat? It’s sour, like sourdough bread.  Does that mean it has the potential to have lactobacillus?  OK, Steph, you know you’re pretty much saying sour cream is yogurt…wait, is it?!  I got veggies.  I like veggies.  Veggies are good, everyone says so… maybe I should have gotten beef.  A little more protein to feed my metabolism.  Or does that slow down your liver?  No, the beans have protein – no wait, are they a starch?  Avocado has protein, right? Am I eating any protein!?! Wait, what was sour cream again?”

And I pick the components of my plate apart and run through different meal ideas.  Every article I have read on nutrition starts flipping through my head, along with pieces of advice I have gotten from people.  All weighed and measured for their merit.  I try to come up with some sort of hybrid answer to what should be on my plate, but everything feels a little wrong.  I can never eat with confidence.

The "low calorie me" gets in a fight with the "low carb me", and the result is me crying into a bowl of kale.  (Wait, doesn’t too much kale affect your thyroid?)

I think this main problem comes from a very insecure part of me.  The part of me that really cares about what people think, the part of me that really wants to get it right.

I want people to see what I am eating and marvel at my brilliant choice.

You see; when you struggle with your weight you always feel like people are watching you eat.  This might come from the fact that you watch everyone else eat.

Actually, this is probably just me.  I watch what people eat like I am writing a field journal on human consumption.

**in a British accent**

“Now as we come upon the feeding ground of the food court, we see the thin couple eating a grilled chicken sandwich, while the larger man consumes something called a chalupa.  So one can deduce that chicken sandwiches lead to the more slender frame and chalupas to the more robust.”

(For the record, if you are ever making a food joke, “chalupa” is by far the funniest food word of the 20^th century.  Before that it was “mutton.”)

On the self-conscious obsessive flip side, I want onlookers not to judge me by my size but by my plate.  I want them to think, “She is heavy, but look at that salad.  She is really trying.  No judgment here, only encouragement.”  *thumbs up*

So you see the importance of having the right things on my plate.  Everyone is watching.  If I don’t get it right, I am not a dieting fat girl; I am a fat girl getting it wrong in the food department again.  

This is what the psychological community would call “crazy talk.”  Crazy or not, it still rattles around in my silly head.

As I was putting this piece together my morning devotions brought up Matthew 6.

Verse 25 says:

Therefore I tell you, do not be anxious about your life, what you will eat or what you will drink, nor about your body, what you will put on. Is not life more than food, and the body more than clothing?

Now this verse is not for written for people that are trying to decide whether or not they should eat sour cream.  It is written as a comfort for those who do not know where their next meal is coming from. (How is that for perspective?)  

But the line that stands out to me is “is not life more than food…”

I think it is important to figure out what food choices are healthy for my body.  I am not being a good steward of my body to remain this size. So I will do more research on which diet plan I should follow and try to make the best choices in His strength.

But all this obsessing about what is on my plate and your plate and what not; well it’s a waste of my life.  

There is “more” to every part of this scenario.  There are more important things than what I ate today or what I will eat tomorrow.  There is more to other people besides what is on their plates.  There is more to me than a chubby girl with a salad.  

Life is more than food. 

Fitness is a Foreign Tongue

I used to go to one of the largest gyms in South Tampa.  For those who aren’t local, South Tampa is the nice side of town. I chose the gym because I liked the programs there and it was up the street from me. 

One day as I was running on the treadmill a thought occurred to me, “I am the heaviest person in this gym.”  I easily had twenty pounds if not more on all of the women and some of the men.  It was a gym of extremely fit people.   

It wasn’t a bad gym at all.  The instructors of the classes learned my name, always said “Hi” to me when I was in class, and encouraged me when they saw me in the gym outside of class.  The staff was very encouraging too, although sometimes I got the feeling from my personal trainer that he felt like he was assigned to a sinking ship. 

I also witnessed extreme acts of athleticism in this place.  I once saw a man pull his whole self up.  Not a chin up.  He went from hanging vertically from his arms to then pulling his entire body up 90 degrees to a horizontal position and then he twisted his body one way, then the other.  

I also saw a tiny woman jump from the ground to the top of a box that was probably six feet tall.  People were swinging heavy ropes and doing all sorts of activities with large chains tied around their waists.  As I watched these amazing people, I thought the same thing that I think when I watch Olympic high jumpers, “These people should fight crime or start stealing stuff.”

I soon moved away and joined other gyms.  But on TV I kept catching ads for P90X.  They would show these amazing transformations where moderately fit people would change into ridiculously cut people.  Although the results were exciting, none of the before people looked like me.  Actually, I really would be ok if my “after” could look like some of their “before.” And they kept talking about how it is so effective because of something called “muscle confusion”.  Every time I exercise my muscles are confused. “What’s going on?” “Why are we moving so fast?” “Is someone chasing us?” “Are we fighting crime or did we steal something?”

The overwhelming feeling is that I am not fit enough to get fit.  I don’t always know where to start, and even if I did I just can’t seem catch up fast enough.  But I always knew that running was a good start, and although I wasn’t fast, my form was never that bad.

But I recently read an article from a friend, which claims that running is not effective in weight loss. My friend recommended, High Intensity Interval Training or HIIT.  

I pinterested “ HIIT work out for beginners,” and, well, not only did everything sound like it would hurt my knees, but there were words in there that  I had no idea what they meant.  How does one punch a plank? Do I need a pick axe to do the mountain climber? And isn’t a burpee something I did to my child when she was small?

Once again I am a stranger in a foreign land.  I don’t speak the language.  I barely know the diet.  And everybody looks different than me.

My main problem with fitness is that it always comes at the expense of my pride.  I don’t need to tell you why jumping jacks by a person who has 100 pounds to lose is an embarrassing thing.  Let’s just say everything…moves… too much.

So what am I going to do, stop exercising?  Just let myself get soft and ineffective? And don’t I eventually want to be the kind of person that can fight crime or steal stuff, or at least be fit enough to be their side kick, or perhaps their butler?

So I am going to do more research, watch some you tube videos and probably do a lot of squats.  I think squats are still good.