A Dumbbell In A Home Gym

A Cut Above.

Last week was not a banner week. I don't want to go into details right now, but it's been miserable. Aside from Friday, when I walked all over DC (more on that in a bit), I haven't done any exercise to speak of; I've been so emotionally wrung out that I just didn't have it in me. "Fortunately", I've not had much of an appetite, so at least I'm not coupling the laziness with lots of stress eating. I suppose that's something.

On Friday, though, I gave myself a bit of a break; my birthday is on Monday and as an early treat, I did something I've been wanting to do for quite a while. The rest of this entry is rated EG for Extra Girly, so I'll put it behind a cut.

There And Back Again.

Sorry for the delay in updates -- I've been in a haze of exhaustion since getting back from Quebec City last week. Two major trips within a couple weeks of each other is just one too many for me these days, I think. I don't know how people who travel for a living do it.

Anyhow, we loved Quebec City to the point that we're sort of only half-kidding about eventually emigrating there someday. We liked the climate (it's a bit colder and less humid than it is here in Virginia), and we loved the way of life, which seems considerably less tense, fast-paced and frenetic than it is here. I can't remember if I've ever seen my husband so depressed to leave a place. I put together an album of some of my favorite photos from the trip: have a look if you're interested.

I cannot recommend the place enough if you're looking for a vacation opportunity. The city itself is stunning, the people couldn't possibly have been nicer, and although I was thrilled by how much French I remembered and how well I could read street signs, almost everyone we encountered could switch easily between speaking French and English, so there wasn't even a language issue for us. Even though I studied French for several years in school and could read it well enough to get around, I've always been lousy at speaking it. However, by about the third day of our trip, I found that I could understand what people were saying to me if it wasn't too complex, although I couldn't always summon the words for a correct response. I did do a happy dance when I was able to conduct an entire transaction in French without getting hopelessly confused, and without the cashier switching to English.

Although my husband and I never did try out the fitness center in our hotel, exercise really wasn't a problem. Quebec City has one thing in common with my old college town: You cannot get much of anywhere without walking up either steep, steep stairs or a steep, steep hill. I'd remembered this from the last time I visited QC in the early 90s and I'd been trying to build up my walking stamina in the weeks before we left, but even my reasonably-fit self had to pause for breath halfway up one stairway near the Chateau Frontenac. The views from the areas outside the hotel make the hike totally worth it, though.

As for food, I'll say straight out that I had no intention of depriving myself while I was there. There are people who seem to take pride in visiting new places and refusing to deviate from their eating plans. I am not one of those people, and don't particularly want to be. Even so, I didn't do badly. Aside from our first and last nights in QC and the night before in Maine, where we ate dinner at a local restaurant that had unexpectedly fabulous food, we got into a fairly comfortable routine: a big breakfast at a nearby cafe that served up tasty fritattas and great coffee, and then relatively light lunches and dinners. Even on our lavish nights, my "Eat only until you're satisfied" training kicked in and I'd leave food on my plate, a habit that got me scolded by one server who thought I didn't like my food. (Yes, I liked the entree. I also like not feeling like I'm going to explode after I eat.)

My one not-so-secret (now that I'm mentioning it here and all) shame: for the first -- and likely last -- time, I ate poutine. This was utterly premeditated; I've been seeing Canadians talk about it online for years, and my curiosity was piqued. It sounded like one of those things that's really disgusting, horrifically bad for you, and yet really, really good. And while I didn't generally bother with the arena food at Skate Canada, figuring that there was much better food around for me to use up my calories on, when I saw that the food stands sold poutine, it was only a matter of time. And, well ... let us never speak of it again. (OK, it wasn't bad. I won't be lamenting the fact that it isn't sold in the US, though. Aside from the fact that my stomach was upset for hours, eating it just seemed *so* outrageously wrong that I felt as if I had a scarlet "P" branded on my coat for the rest of the day.)

So anyhow; I'm back, I think I'm finally fully-rested, and I promise that the next update won't be so long in coming.

Au Revoir!

So updates for the next several days are going to be nonexistent, but this time I actually have a good reason. The husband and I are off to Quebec City; I'll be checking out Skate Canada and we'll both be taking in ice hockey, plus the beautiful sights of the city.

Hope everyone has a fantastic week and I'll see you next week! Oh, and Happy Halloween.

Ahhhh.

So the community pool is open again (and the weather behaved itself this weekend, allowing us to go on Saturday and Monday), and now I feel as if everything's right with the world. At least until Labor Day.

As my husband and I were heading into the pool area for the first time on Saturday morning to pick out our lounge chairs, I said "Y'know, I actually dreamed about this place over the winter." That earned me one strange look from him. But can you blame me? This was a miserably cold winter in which I think I was sick more than I was healthy; no wonder that my subconscious was fixated on being outdoors, being warm, and having fun.

And there's no comparison between the lap pool at the rec center and our community pool. The lap pool is All Business; the neighborhood pool is sun, warmth and the scent of sunscreen. I like swimming and I was grateful to have the indoor pool after our community pool closed last season, but I can't see using anything but the rec center's gym until September. I do use the lap lanes at the neighborhood pool, but I like the ability to just swim under the ropes and then float around on my back in the water, or do a few underwater handstands if I'm feeling especially goofy.

And then there's the diving board. I started out my pool experience this summer pretty much the way I ended it last summer: by going off the diving board several times. That's something else you can't do in the rec center's lap pool; the diving boards are always blocked off and appear to be for swim meets only.

Being a grownup at the pool rocks. We happened to show up during Adult Swim on Saturday, and while the kids had to line up at the diving board and look grumpy while waiting for the lifeguard to blow the whistle, I just breezed by them and dove, dove, dove. I think diving -- sailing through the air on my way to the water and then feeling the water buoy me back up to the surface -- must be about as close as I'll ever get to feeling as if I can fly.

Yeah. It was fun. Boy, did I miss all that.

However, I do think I may have solved the mystery of why anyone in their right mind would attempt to hit on me while I'm wearing a bathing suit. My suit is apparently more decorative than athletic and wasn't designed to stand up to the rigors of vigorous lap swimming. I'd noticed that it was getting increasingly transparent along the side seams; it doesn't show too much and I'm still more covered than anyone wearing a two-piece, so I didn't particularly care about that.

I didn't think about the fact that there's a third seam running right over my backside. Or that the fabric around that seam would start getting transparent too.

Until this weekend, when I happened to glance at my rear view in the mirror while I was wearing the suit.

Oh. Oh dear. The view wasn't downright obscene -- just flesh, no particularly interesting bits visible -- but I'd call it "PG-13."

Memo to self: Friday night, we're heading out to search for a new suit. So put down that raspberry scone.

Fool For The Pool, Year Two.

First of all, I must apologize profusely to anyone who saw the repugnant racist spam some asshole saw fit to post in a comment to my previous entry. I'm not sure what about this blog made anyone think that kind of crap is welcome here, but they were quite wrong. Anyhow, vile spew all gone now, and I've sprayed the blog with Lysol. (Ugh. I feel like my nice little place has been violated. That's the first time I've had to ban someone in almost two years of running this blog.)

So, I'm still in a very boring rut. I'm neither gaining nor losing. I went on a wonderful bike ride last weekend, but I have been very inactive this week thanks to feeling horribly enervated for the last few days. I couldn't even muster up the energy to throw together a basket of laundry or sit up to work on some drawings I'm doing. The exhaustion finally lifted somewhat today. Which is great, because guess what happens this weekend?

The community pool opens! Woohoo. On the one hand it feels as if we've been waiting forever; on the other hand, it seems as if the intervening year just flew by. The weather forecast for this weekend stinks and I'm guessing that the water's going to be frigid. But dangit, I'm going to give the pool a try anyhow, even if it means just sitting in the sun while wrapped up in my towel.

I hope that everyone has a fabulous weekend, and next week I swear I'm going to update more frequently. No, really. I mean it.

Permission To Suck.

This is a long one and it doesn't tie into diet stuff until later in the entry, so I'm putting it behind a cut.

Lately I've been up to a couple of things that have nothing to do with weight loss or fitness (at least not on the surface), but that I'm darn tickled about nonetheless.

SHOCKER -- Fat Woman Not Miserable; Claims Life "Really Wasn't That Bad."

So, that's me when I was fat.

Want to know something funny? That fat woman in the picture was actually pretty happy with her life. If you'd told her that she could never be fat and happy, she'd have rolled her eyes and muttered "Kindly speak for yourself, thanks."

I originally saw this article on Big Fat Deal, and I wanted to comment there but realized that I was writing a blog-length post.

I was neutral on the article, but the headline really pissed me off with its obnoxious use of "You" rather than "I". Here's something a lot of people might not believe:

For the most part, I really wasn't that unhappy when I was fat.

Now, I was profoundly unhappy and lonely when I started putting on all that weight -- I was miserable about my job and my lack of money and friends and boyfriends, and food was my one reliable source of comfort. If I couldn't find anything else to do on a Friday night, there was always a double date with Ben and Jerry, right? Unfortunately, by the time my situation improved, the godawful eating and lifestyle habits I'd developed had taken deep root.

Don't get me wrong; I knew how fat I was and I certainly wasn't thrilled to be that size. You already know if you've been reading for long that I endured some really awful moments. There were the times when I had to slink out of the plus-size section of the store in shame because everything there was too small. There were the times when I broke chairs in public. There were the occasional insulting remarks from strangers. There were the times I'd have to suck in my stomach and hope nobody noticed that the restaurant booth was too small for me. There were the deep feelings of embarrassment when a doctor would bring up my weight.

Those moments sucked. But those weren't everyday occurrences. For the most part, I was pretty happy. Why wouldn't I be? I had (and still have) a fine life. I had a good job. I had a house. I had some chronic health issues, but they were non-weight related and they've been in check for years.

And best of all, I defied the direst prediction that the fat-haters love to throw at people like me: I met and married a wonderful man. ("No man will ever want you," my dimpled ass.) My husband never once made an issue of my weight and never made me feel anything less than gorgeous and desirable, and I figured that if I was good enough for him, everyone else could go pound sand.

And while my life back then seems depressing to me now -- staying inside and immobile as much as possible; spending hours playing video games, gawking at the computer, or just sitting around devouring ridiculous amounts of food and then staying up half the night with indigestion -- it didn't seem depressing to me back then. I'd lived it for so long that it was comfortable and familiar. I didn't know about the simple joy of riding a bike through a tree-lined trail on a cool autumn morning; I couldn't miss what I didn't know.

And my husband and I hung out and did stuff with friends and family and generally enjoyed our lives.

Only in the last few months of 2004, as my weight soared to the point that it was causing me a lot of physical pain and discomfort, did a polite little voice in the back of my head start saying "Self? We really need to do something about this. Not because we're foul and disgusting. Not because we don't dare don a bathing suit in public. Not because we're infringing on the constitutional rights of fat-hating knuckledraggers to see only slender women wherever they go. But because we hurt, and because heart disease runs in our family and we're flirting with a heart attack."

And I honestly think that that's been the key to my success thus far: I hated my size, but I didn't hate myself. I'd already done that trip, thanks. I went through the cycle of self-loathing during high school and college, and I was already familiar with the danger of believing that losing weight would magically fix everything else that was wrong in my life.

This time, I knew going in that losing weight wouldn't change everything. Lucky me that I didn't feel there was much in my life that actually needed fixing this time around. If any of the variables in my life in 2005 had been different, maybe this story would have a different outcome. I don't know.

I realize that this is just my experience and that I don't -- and never will -- speak for all fat people. And it's not that I want to go back to my previous high weight, mind you. I know now that I missed out on a lot when I planted myself on the sofa and ate all day long. I just feel oddly compelled to stick up for that woman up there. She wasn't consumed with depression and self-loathing; she was just fat.

Sorry. Again.

Yeah, a bit of a lag between updates there. Sorry about that. There was a death in my family last week -- one of my aunts -- and even though it was far from a surprise, it's still knocked me for a loop in ways I didn't expect. She was my father's older sister, but when I was a child and a teenager I tended to think of her as my unofficial third grandmother. I lost all my grandparents early on, and she stepped in to do grandmotherly things like teach me to bake, take care of me when my parents were out of town, and generally spoil me rotten. With her goes a major part of my childhood, another link to my dad, and a woman who was a real linchpin of my family in ways I didn't even realize until after she was gone. I walked around after her funeral thinking "This is probably the last time all these people will be together like this," and it hurt.

And I honestly couldn't bring myself to give a good goddamn about eating well or working out. I did both to an extent, but I wasn't as diligent as I could have been on either score.

I've gotten back to caring this week, though. I've had three clean eating days in a row, which probably sounds pitiful but is a major achievement after last week. I've also declared this Cardio Week after getting a couple of wake-up calls about how badly my aerobic fitness was beginning to lag (all of a sudden, the stopped escalators at the Metro were getting really hard to climb again). I did the first week of Couch to 5K on Tuesday, and I was appalled by how much I was sucking wind by the end. But it felt good to run again; I can tell from the way I'm eating and moving that my body is seriously ready to get back on track. It hasn't even felt like a battle this week.

And because it wouldn't be a new year without me developing an interest in new and goofy (for me) forms of exercise -- last year it was Dance Dance Revolution, for those of you who weren't around -- this year is going to be the Year of ... Bowling. I know that this isn't as calorie-burning as, say, swimming laps for an hour, but according to SparkPeople it burns a surprising number of calories as long as you aren't scarfing down pizza and beer between turns. Which we don't.

My husband and I have gone bowling with friends of ours for years, and after every game we'd say "Y'know, that was actually fun. We should do that more." In the past couple of months, we finally got around to the "do that more" part. In fact, we started going to a nearby alley frequently enough that my husband finally brought up the idea of getting our own bowling balls and shoes.

Which was fine with me, as the rental shoes tend to gross me out and I could never find balls that seemed quite right. (And I'd often wonder whose fingers had been in those balls before mine. Yuck.)

The thing about me and bowling, though, is that I completely stink at it. I'm horrible. And I'm not just saying that to be self-deprecating. Little kids who blithely hurl the ball through the air in the general direction of the pins tend to do at least as well as I do. Even so, I still have fun. I've picked up a book or two for some pointers, which is good because it turns out that I was such a hopeless nitwit that I was actually using the wrong fingers in the ball. Was my face red!

And tonight, we finally made good on the idea of getting our own equipment. Since fifth grade, I have had a shameless Hello Kitty fixation. So when I spotted this ball in the lobby of an alley that had a pro shop, it was only a matter of time:

(Click on the picture for a larger image.)

So I'll probably continue to stink when we go bowling. But at least I'll be goshdarn cute while I stink, and surely that has to count for something.

Woman Wears Bathing Suit In Public; Quiet Community "Will Never Be The Same."

So, as planned, we went to the pool this morning.

Oh, swimming. Where have you been all my life?

Okay, I know. You were always there. It wasn’t you; it was me. I changed. I believed I was too fat to swim anymore, or at least too fat to swim in any place where someone could actually see me in my bathing suit.

Let’s never break up again, okay? Okay. Mwah!

So yes, I loved swimming. Every bit of it brought back joyful memories: Easing into the pool and going “yeeeeeek!” at the initial shock of the cool water against my warm skin. Jumping off the diving board and plunging down, down, down into the deep end. Or just stretching out on my back and floating peacefully.

And I’m honestly amazed at how much I remembered of the actual swimming strokes. I guess the lessons I took throughout my childhood must have embedded themselves permanently in my brain. I first remember taking lessons when I was but a tiny thing at the Y in New York City, swimming in a pool that reeked of chlorine so strongly that I thought the fumes would crisp my nostril hairs. After that, there were summers of lessons at my community pool in Maryland and then at my various summer camps. I even had a spiffy little Red Cross certified swimmer card.

Lord knows I’m not the most efficient swimmer in the world -- and never was -- but today I could do a passable freestyle, until I got tired of having my face in the water and rolled over onto my back for the backstroke. That’s probably my favorite move.

There was only one drawback: My husband absolutely HATES being in the pool. It goes way beyond "This sucks and I'm not having any fun" into a near-phobia of being in the water. It turns out he's always had this aversion. He’d been trying to keep it quiet because he didn’t want to spoil my enthusiasm, but he couldn’t hide it for long today. He couldn’t have looked more miserable if he’d been in the front row at a Britney Spears concert. (Yes, that would make him miserable.) I tried to teach him how to float on his back, but since my advice boiled down to “Well, you just ... I dunno, stretch out on your back and then don’t move,” I wasn’t too helpful. I’m trying to think of ways to couch floating in yoga terms, since he’s a yoga nut. He wants to try the pool again soon, although I’ve told him that he shouldn’t force himself if he doesn’t like it. He told me he’s content to sit in the lounge chairs poolside with a good book, so who knows?

I felt badly for him, but I had a ball. If only I knew a way to bottle that feeling and give some to him. I had to remind myself of my “Start new activities slowly” exercise principle, because I probably could have splashed and stroked around for hours. It was hard for me to remember that I’m 37 and prone to DOMS and fatigue rather than eight years old and tireless. (I’d remember it every time I climbed out of the pool and felt gravity drag on my body again, though -- whew.)

And tonight my skin still smells of chlorine and sunblock, even after a shower. It’s a nice, warm, familiar, comforting scent. It smells like summer. I’m very tired now, but I’m content.

Oh, and the whole “wearing a bathing suit in public” thing? I barely thought about it. It helps that without my glasses or contacts I can’t see more than a few feet in front of me, so I couldn’t really see anyone else’s bodies (and start judging my own against theirs) or see if they were scoffing at mine. Besides, anyone who looked at my body for more than a couple of seconds would likely have gone blind from the glare off of my pale white body parts that haven’t been exposed to the sun in over 11 years, anyhow.

Honestly, I just don’t care that much anymore. (And I seriously doubt that anyone else did either.) It’s totally weird to not care, but over the past year and a half I’ve become acutely aware of how much I cheated myself out of because I was worried about what others would think. It’s way past time to stop doing that to myself.

The pool is open until 8:00 every night, so I do believe I’ve found a new activity to throw into my workout rotation for the next couple of months. I’ve been kicking ass with the “All Dumbbells! All the Time!” program off of Stumptuous (and even did the lower body workout this morning before hitting the pool), but it’s nice to know that I’ve got a new option.

Distractions.

Tonight I have to write the entry I’ve feared for a long time. We had to put Sick Kitty to sleep this afternoon. After a surprising burst of energy and good spirits last week, he declined to the point that the answer to the question “Are we keeping him alive for his sake, or for ours?” became painfully obvious. We made the decision this morning and set up the vet appointment for 2:30 so we’d have a little more time to spend with him. And we both took a mental health day from work.

I never realized until today how good I am at distracting myself, directing my attention away from the things I don’t want to feel instead of just facing up to them. How does this tie into diet and fitness? Because I used to use food as one of my distractions. And the temptation to do so again today was awful. Sometimes I wish I could be one of those people who can’t eat when she’s upset about something, but I’m not. I never will be.

No, I’m not going to beat myself up about what I ate today. Number one, I wasn’t that bad. And number two, I just plain don’t care. But I was horribly torn and restless all morning. Even if I didn’t want food, I wanted to do something, anything to get my mind off the emotional pain. Staying upstairs with the kitty and petting him and thinking that tomorrow he won’t be there with us while we’re drinking our morning coffee (he’d always walk back and forth between us on the bed, demanding head rubs and licking moisturizer off my fingers; he was especially fond of Clinique) tore a hole in my heart. I kept wanting to go downstairs and hop on the computer and mindlessly surf the web for a few minutes. And then another part of me would chime in with “What the hell’s wrong with you -- you’ve only got a couple of hours left with the little guy and you want to waste it doing stupid stuff that’ll still be around when he’s gone?”

Allowing myself to feel tough emotions rather than stifle them with food or wine or laziness has been an incredibly hard habit to get into over the past year and a half. It’s never been harder than today. As long as I’m on the computer or reading or munching, I feel mostly okay. We did the right thing by him, and in a strange way it’s a relief; we’ve all been battling this for months now. It’s when I’m not doing anything at all that the hurt starts back up. I’m not looking forward to going to bed tonight. I know I’ll get through this -- I’ve done it before -- but it’s going to be damn hard. He was a sweet kitty, and it tears me up that out of all the nights I could really use him walking on us and purring and snuggling against us, it's this one, but he's gone.

But we’ll be okay. That, I know. Go give your pets an extra hug, if you're the pet-owning kind.