A "Simple" Vocabulary Lesson

Another week, another realization. Still nothing as profound as an epiphany, but certainly more enlightening than a Homer Simpson "Duh!" moment. Here it is: simple and easy are two completely different things. Simple means "not complex or complicated." Easy means "not difficult." Still, many people--I'd even venture to say, most people--use the terms interchangeably.

Sometimes, a simple task is also an easy task. Clapping your hands, for example, is both simple and easy. But some simple tasks are not easy at all, such as lifting a 100-lb barbell.

Why do I bring this up? Because I have heard and read over and over again that losing weight is "easy." All one has to do is eat less and exercise more. All one has to do is drink 8 cups of water a day. All one has to do is eat only when physically hungry.  All one has to do is eat this and not that. All one has to do is follow this or that program. The advice is endless (and often contradictory, but that's another post for another day.)

As one who has been there, done that, and is doing it all over again, let me tell you: losing weight is not easy. Sure, the principles of weight loss are simple. Putting them into practice, another story. Putting them into practice consistently over an extended period of time? "Not easy" cubed.

Why? That's a simple question without a simple, or easy, answer. It's also an answer I haven't found yet, though I have any number of guesses.

I'm not sure the answer matters, either. Practicing a healthy(-er) lifestyle may not be easy, but it is worthwhile. But then, isn't that the true for all of life's worthwhile pursuits?

5K Fridays Follow-Up

No, I haven't yet reached my goal of 3 miles in 45 minutes. But I did register for my first 5K race. On Thanksgiving morning, I will be one of the many "turkeys" in the Dana Point, CA, Turkey Trot.

The prospect both terrifies and excites me--for the same reason: I've never done anything like this before. But there's no going back now. There's just going to the gym tomorrow.

Garbage In, Garbage Out

Last night was garbage night--the night I collect the garbage in the house, bag it up, and carry it down to the curb, where it sits until late Friday afternoon when the garbage truck finally finds its way down my street. ("Why don't I wait until Friday morning to put out the garbage?" you ask. Because the recycling truck comes down my street at dawn on Friday morning. It's easier to put out the recycling and the garbage at the same time--the night before.)

Over the last few weeks, I've noticed a trend. Garbage, it seems, is an indicator of my eating habits. During weeks when I make less-healthy (to put it mildly) choices, my 39-gal garbage bag is fuller and sometimes full. During those weeks when I make healthier choices, my garbage bag is less full--usually about half full or less. Last week was the former. This week was the latter. Next week I'm hoping to extend my streak to two.

Announcing 5k Fridays!

I am quite possibly the least athletic person I know. My memories of athletic attempts are memories of being laughed at, discouraged, and ridiculed. Seven months at the gym, however, have made me determined to do one athletic thing in my life—just to prove that I can. I’ve decided that my “one athletic thing” will be completion of a 5k race, in honor of my June 5k fiasco. 

Of course, being the perfectionist/overachiever that I am, I don’t just want to complete the race. I want to make sure that I don’t finish in last place. (Second-to-last, I think I can live with.)

To get ready, I’ve decided to walk 5k on the treadmill every Friday. I started last Friday, my first “official” 5k Friday. I squeaked out 3 miles in 60 minutes. My intent—which I am proclaiming here to make it harder for me to chicken out—is to do 5k at the gym every Friday until I can cover the same distance in 45 minutes. Consequently (and because I like the alliteration), I have named these workouts “5k Fridays.”

Let the games begin!

Making a List, Checking It Twice

I am a list-maker. I have a list of things to today, a list of things to do this week, a grocery list, a list of places I’d like to visit, a list of characters in my novel, a list of home improvement projects, a list of books I’d like to read, a list of ideas for this blog, a list of story ideas, a list of job contacts. Now I'm facing days of downtime between projects. For a compulsive eater/food addict like me, that could be dangerous. So I decided to make another list: a list of things to do instead of eating. I established two rules for the list: nothing on it could require the use of my car nor could anything on it cost me money.  This is what I came up with:

Things to Do Instead of Eating**

**This list is neither entirely serious nor entirely tongue-in-cheek.

1.     Make a list of things to do instead of eating
2.     Write in my journal
3.     Work on my novel(s)
4.     Work on my quilt
5.     Read the dictionary cover to cover
6.     Play with Benji
7.     Go for a walk
8.     Write a new short story
9.     Rearrange my books by color
10. Ride my stationery bike
11. Paint my nails
12. Rearrange my books by size
13. Watch my Slinky walk down the stairs
14. Try on and sort through my clothes
15. Pack a box to give to Goodwill
16. Rearrange my books by copyright date
17. Pack a box of books to donate to the library
18. Jump rope
19. Write a letter
20. Watch a DVD
21. Write a blog post
22. “Window shop” online
23. Clean my house
24. Make a mess
25. Clean up the mess
26. Update my address book
27. Expand my “to-read” list
28. Shred my junk mail
29. Count the coins in my change jar
30. Find fifty more people to follow on Twitter
31. Take a bubble bath
32. Change the sheets on my bed
33. Alphabetize my pantry
34. Change the sheets on my bed again
35. Teach myself yo-yo tricks
36. Teach my old dog a new trick
37. Mentally redecorate my house
38. Reread the longest book on my bookshelves
39. Compare my reading list with the library’s catalog
40. Write a really bad poem
41. Copy my favorite passages from a famous work of literature
42. Write an episode of M*A*S*H
43. Rewrite “I Will Survive” to “I Won’t Eat Pie”
44.  Make sock puppets
45.  Embroider my bath towels
46.  Create a plan for Middle East Peace (which should be much easier than solving this Debt Ceiling Debacle)
47.  Proofread CNN’s News Ticker
48.  Take a nap
49.  Call someone
50. Find books to add to my reading list 
51.  Call someone else
52. Test all the pens in my desk to see if they work
53. Sort my coupon collection by expiration date
54. Alphabetize my coupon collection
55. Throw away the expired coupons in my collection
56. Clean out my kitchen junk drawer
57. Braid my hair

58. Take another nap

59. Find out how to grow potatoes in a garbage can

60. Teach myself to draw a straight line

61. Teach myself to draw a circle that's actually circular

62. Give myself a tattoo (with a Sharpie, not a needle)

63. Do twenty-five jumping jacks

64. Write "I will not eat unless I'm hungry" 500 times

65. Find out how long I can hold my breath

66. Try to do a cartwheel

67. Clean up whatever I knocked over when I tried to do that cartwheel
68. Read my list of "Things to Do Instead of Eating"

The Malaise Who Came to Dinner

Did you ever see The Man Who Came to Dinner? It's about houseguest who overstays his welcome. He connives to stay in the house as long as possible. If I recall correctly, there's even a bit of blackmail involved. Why do I bring this up? Because I have my own houseguest who refuses to vacate the premises.

My guest's name is Malaise, and I honestly don't remember inviting him in. He showed up about three weeks ago. Now I can't get him to leave. I thought I shook him off on Monday, but then Tuesday, zhoop! He leeched right back on, like a pair of static-cling-infested polyester pants. Wednesday and Thursday, he snuggled comfortably into my sofa with his feet up.

I don't know what's feeding my unwelcome guest, but something must be. Strays don't stay where they're not fed. Problem is, whatever is feeding my guest is feeding me too. It seems Malaise has blackmailed my willpower into becoming a collaborator.

Maybe it's the heat. Maybe my routine has gotten stale. Maybe I just need a swift kick in the rear. Whatever "may be," I'm quite ready for my houseguest to leave now.

What a Week

Rapid-fire and often overlapping work deadlines, an almost week-long power outage at the gym, and I accidentally threw away my new car registration stickers. This week has been one challenge after another (and I still have two more days to go!) The best I can say is that I'm surviving. I usually aim higher than mere survival, but this week there were moments when simple survival seemed too much to ask. All of which is to say, I'm still trying to get that other foot onto the wagon--and get replacement registration stickers.

It Will Click Eventually. . . . Won't It?

Another trying week, though not nearly as bad as the last one I blogged about. I managed to recoup about 50% of my self-discipline--which, admittedly, is 50% more than I had during the Week From Hell. Still, it's a bit rough trying to get around with only one foot on the wagon.

I'm not aiming for perfection. I don't expect 100% in the willpower department. Should by some miracle I reach 100% in the self-discipline department, I know it would not last.

I would, however, like to hit 80%. If I can be on track 80% of the time, then I'll be in really good shape--literally and figuratively! For now, though, I'd be happy with hauling my other foot up onto the wagon.

The Art of Self-Sabotage

A friend of mine who is dealing with a serious health issue promised that he would blog about his experiences, both good and bad. For this blog to mean anything, I have to do the same thing. That means blogging about last week and weekend, during which I forgot every single healthy eating habit I had acquired, including the rule about not eating when I’m not hungry. Especially the rule about not eating when I’m not hungry.

I was determined to break that cycle this week, so I spent my Monday treadmill time figuring out what knocked me off the rails. (Thankfully, the gym habit was virtually unaffected by my detour, although—as long as I’m being brutally honest—I did skimp on the stretching.) This is what I came up with: It’s all about numbers.

The first numbers were the numbers in my bank accounts. As a freelancer, I don’t have a regular income. It’s my least favorite and the most nerve-wracking part of what I do. There are often huge gaps between paychecks. I’m in one of those gaps now. I know the money will come in, but it’s not here yet and my creditors still must be paid. (Don’t you hate that?) That means dipping into my savings. And that means watching my savings dwindle. And that causes anxiety. It seems I’ve inherited some of my grandmother’s Depression-era mentality, the worry that I won’t or don’t have enough money. Most months I can talk myself through this anxiety without self-medicating with copious amounts of carbs. Not this time.

Why not this time? Because I did exactly what I said I was trying not to do: focus on the number on the scale. I noticed that I was thisclose to having lost 10% of my body weight, which is a significant milestone. I immediately got carried away with my success. I started thinking about other milestones—what I could weigh by the end of the month, and on my birthday, and at Thanksgiving. I was so caught up in what could be that I lost sight of the work I needed to do today. So the work stopped.

On some level, I think I was also a bit frightened by my success. As much as I want to reach my healthiest weight, I’m also scared to get there. I don’t remember being anything other than grossly overweight. (Just to be clear, that’s gross as in “way too much,” not gross as in “Eeeeewwww!”) I’m not sure I know how to be thin. Granted, I’ve got a long way to go until I get there, but I feel like I should start preparing my psyche now. That, however, is another post for another week.

My Right Foot

Does anyone know where I can buy a single right shoe? A gym shoe, to be exact.

I knew that as I lost weight, my feet would get smaller. But I expected them to shrink at a similar if not equal rate. How silly of me. As it turns out, my right foot has sped past my left foot in the getting-smaller department.

On my last gym visit, I noticed that my right heel was coming out of its shoe as I walked. I tightened the shoe. My heel again came dangerously close to escaping its confines. I tightened the shoe once more. Same story. My left foot, by contrast, still fit snugly in its shoe.

So, I ask again, does anyone know where I can buy one right gym shoe?

Not Quite Ready for Primetime

I decided this week that I could complete a 5k run/walk. (In my case, it would be all walk and no run.) I have no idea where the thought came from. I have absolutely no empirical evidence to support the idea that I can walk 3 miles without dying. The most I’ve managed on the treadmill is 2.5 miles---and that made my legs all wobbly. Still, my brain insisted I could do this.

My brain was wrong.

I tested the idea at the gym the other day. Even with the treadmill set at a lower speed, my body made it clear that it is not ready for 3 miles of anything. My feet, my knees, my ankles—all protested with great vehemence. Then they threatened to go on strike.

I haven’t given up on the idea, but my brain and I had a long talk about realistic expectations. A 5k is not one of them. Yet.

Gym Dandy

It took me a while to find a topic for this week’s blog posting. Usually an idea comes to me on Wednesday morning while I’m on the treadmill at the gym—except that this Wednesday, I didn’t go to the gym. So, no new idea.

I joined the gym in January, one of my New Year’s goals. I knew regular gym attendance would be a catalyst for losing weight and improving my physical health. I didn’t know how much the gym would improve my mental health.

When I joined, I was in the middle of a long-term, high-stress project. After a few weeks of regular gym attendance, the project felt much less stressful—despite the increased workload.

Then came The Blizzard. Being snowed in for a few days made me realize how much the gym had helped me. I became edgy, cranky, restless. (Can you say “withdrawal”?) As soon as I got back on the treadmill, those feelings evaporated. 

Now, even though there are days my brain says, “I don’t want to go to the gym today,” my body says “Let’s go!” So I do. Except for this Wednesday, of course, when my brain said, “It’s too damn hot to go to the gym,” and my body responded, “I hear that!”

The treadmill, it seems, has become my meditation machine. I climb on, turn on my iPod, and pick a view outside the gym windows, usually the geese in the field across the way or the cars speeding by on the main road. My feet start moving and my mind starts wandering.

My wandering mind has found topics for my blog, issues to vent about in my journal, ideas for short stories, new scenes for my novels, ways to improve existing scenes in my novels, and a billion other ideas that I have no idea how to categorize. The gym, it seems, is the door to my unconscious and the treadmill, the key that unlocks it. (Now if I could only figure out how write down all these ideas while working out….)

My mind has also wandered down Memory Lane, often to embarrassing or hurtful moments in my past. Because I’m on the treadmill, I have to walk right through those memories. I can’t dwell on them, as I would otherwise be prone to do. My legs are moving, so my mind has to keep moving too. I have to leave those moments from my past behind me, which is where they belong anyway, right?

That might be the most helpful thing of all.

More than a Number

“It’s never been true, not anywhere at any time, that the value of a soul, of a human spirit, is dependent on the number on a scale.”

—Geneen Roth, Women, Food and God

We live in a world where we are identified by numbers. Social security, driver’s license, credit cards, bank accounts, insurance cards—different numbers for different parts of our identities.

My identity has always been defined by one more number: the number on the scale. It’s a lesson I learned in my childhood and young adulthood: I am what I weigh.

Over time, that lesson obscured every other part of my identity. I wasn’t able to see any part of myself other than my weight, and I became convinced that everyone else saw me the same way.

To say that this had a destructive effect on my self-image and self-esteem would be an understatement.  There were moments when I hated myself simply because of the number on the scale. There were days when I felt like a failure because of that number. There were weeks when I punished myself for that number.

It’s a slow process, unlearning that lesson. But I’m managing, slowly but surely, to be kinder to myself. I have begun to see myself in dimensions other than my weight. I rarely ever define myself as the “short round girl with big glasses” anymore—and not just because my glasses are smaller than they used to be.

Which isn’t to say I’m completely at peace with that number on the scale. I’m not. If I were, I wouldn’t be on this journey. But I’m starting to feel the power shift, away from the scale and into my hands.

Lessons Learned

This last week was rough, but hopefully not in vain. This is what I learned:

• Pepperidge Farms Chesapeake cookies are the cookie equivalent of crack.
• When I don't sleep well, I don't eat well.
• What inches down (the scale, the last couple of weeks) can skyrocket back up (the scale, this week).
• The above three items are connected.

Blogger’s Remorse?

I’ve always been a private person, "kept myself to myself" as the saying goes. Expressing my most intimate thoughts and feelings has never come easy. So minutes after my first blog post hit the web, I had a crashing “What was I thinking?” moment.

My weight has always been an especially sensitive subject for me.  I don’t think I have a rawer nerve than that one, yet that’s the nerve I chose to expose to the whole wide world. And exposed is exactly how I felt. I might as well have been standing naked on the interstate. I still feel that way.

When I think about it, that’s one of the reasons I started this blog: to force myself to be more open about my experiences. For decades, I’ve buried my feelings and my fears—especially my fears—under all this weight. If I’m going to succeed on this journey, that’s a behavior I have to change. I have to learn to speak up when I’d rather hide. I have to learn to give voice to the things I’m afraid to even think.

Thanks to the supportive feedback I’ve received so far, it’s just a little less scary than it was a week ago.

A Journey of A Thousand Miles Begins with a Single Step

So said Confucius a long, long time ago, and so begins my journey.

A while back, my friend Aroon asked if I had a blog. I responded something to the effect of “Hell, no!”  In fact, I'm pretty sure those were my exact words.

Nonetheless, a seed had been planted. In recent months, I’ve toyed with the idea of starting a blog. The obstacle was finding a topic that I could write about with authority frequently over an extended period of time. I’m almost embarrassed to say that I looked at my life and saw nothing all that interesting.

Until today.

Today, my muse hit me over the head with a gigantic piece of lumber. Two consuming efforts dominate my life these days: getting healthy (a.k.a. losing weight) and finishing my novels-in-progress. Why not blog about them? About the journey to reach my goals? About the trials, tribulations, frustrations, and victories that I encounter along the way?

So that’s what this is: the story of my quest to achieve my goals. The story of my “getting there,” starting with my first—and most difficult—goal: reaching my healthiest weight.

The journey is sure to be more than a thousand miles long with many bumps along the way, but this is the first step.