A Dumbbell In A Home Gym

I Get It Already.

Dear Treadmill:

Yes, I realize it's been a while since I've walked/jogged on you. What with us joining the rec center with its fancy machines, and preferring to walk outside or ride our bikes or swim when we're not at the center, I can't blame you for feeling somewhat neglected down there in the cold basement.

But my goodness, it just isn't necessary to make those ungodly groaning and creaking noises when I first start walking. Yeah, I get it: It's been a while. I'm carrying some extra holiday pounds. Okay. You can stop with the horrible sounds now. I mean, really.

Anyhow, I did it. I enjoyed that trail walk on New Year's Day. On Wednesday night, I threw on my exercise clothes as soon as I got home and ran down to the basement before the sloth could set in. I popped an old-school "Doctor Who" DVD into the Xbox and alternated jogging and walking for a half hour. Just like old times. Mission for the day accomplished. And the poor treadmill stopped the dreadful noises after a minute or two. I think it's just getting old.

And tonight, we forced ourselves out into the bitter cold to go to the rec center, where I resumed my weightlifting.

My eating for the last couple of days has been spotless. (It helps that right now, after the holidays, I never want to hear the word "cookie" again.)

I hereby declare the first week of 2008 a success.

Surviving Kryptonite.

Okay, so I have a post written up about the new company digs ... and suddenly I just don't feel like posting it. Three consecutive entries complaining about all this is probably two too many, right? I'll post that one a little later. Here's what's on my mind now ...

Mexican food (or at least the cuisine that is generally passed off as "Mexican" in the US) is my downfall. Any given dish may contain one or more of the things I could easily gorge myself on until I explode: Melted cheese. Sour cream. Guacamole. Tortilla chips, or tortilla shells. Margaritas. All invariably served in gigantic portions.

It is something I've rarely indulged in since the beginning of 2005. It's so easy for me to abuse, and I just didn't want the temptation.

My husband and I used to go to a pretty good Mexican restaurant near our old apartment; it was a regular fixture in our pre-weight loss life. And we'd eat shamelessly. I'd start off with one of those giant margaritas, and chances were excellent that we'd have already polished off one basket of complimentary tortilla chips and salsa before our appetizers arrived. Yes. Appetizers, because obviously all the chips and salsa just weren't enough. Said appetizers were sometimes jalapeno poppers (jalapeno peppers stuffed with cheese and then breaded and fried and served with a creamy dip), although sometimes I'd be "good" and just order a cup of chili or the vegetable tortilla soup. We'd probably devour more than a normal day's worth of calories before we even made our way to the entrees. And those were, as I've said, enormous. Big platters of fajitas, or burritos smothered in cheese and served with rice and beans. But I'd cut my entree in half and feel really virtuous about taking the extras home.

At least we didn't get dessert. We'd stagger home from all that gorging and collapse on the sofa in a haze of fat and carbs and tequila. That wasn't about hunger or nourishment; that was temporary insanity.

We haven't been back there since we both started losing weight. We've discussed going there a few times and I honestly believe I could handle it now, but there's more than a self-control issue going on. It's embarrassing, how we used to eat there. Going there again would be like visiting someone's house after they'd hosted a party where you'd gotten really drunk and danced naked on the coffee table before punching out their mom and then barfing and passing out. So that's been that. The closest I've come to going out for Mexican is getting the occasional burrito salad bowl at Chipotle.

While exploring our new neighborhood this week, I noticed a Mexican restaurant in one of the nearby shopping malls. I peeked in the window, examined the menu, and then moved on. I've been extremely vulnerable to emotional eating lately and I just didn't need or want the temptation.

But today, I was wandering around the same mall at lunchtime. I'd eaten Subway turkey subs for lunch for two days, and now I wanted something different. I examined pretty much every restaurant and food court in the place before finally admitting to myself that I wanted Mexican food, and nothing else would do.

And it went pretty well. They immediately gave me the ubiquitous basket of chips and salsa. To deal with that, I used a tip I read in one of my books about mindful eating: I told myself that I could have all the chips and salsa I wanted ... but I had to wait until my food came. Sure enough, once my meal turned up, the chips and salsa didn't hold much appeal. Yes, I could have asked the waiter to take them away, as I saw someone else do, but I wanted to know that I could deal with them being there.

I lifted the sour cream wad out of the black bean soup and scooped even more sour cream and most of the cheese out of my taco salad, leaving mostly ground beef, lettuce, and guacamole. I ate until I felt myself getting full. I left with my head held reasonably high and my stomach satisfied but not distended to the breaking point. I don't think the staff will point at me and laugh if I come in again.

Victory! It's good to know I can handle myself. I miss all the gooey cheese and sour cream and the margaritas, but I sure as hell don't miss the awful way they made me feel.

Stupid Vacation End.

Up there is Tai Shan, Washington DC's youngest and cutest celebrity. Click on the picture for the full-size photo.

Sigh. Tomorrow I go back to work. I can't tell you how not excited I am. The only good news is that this week will be a very short one -- today was a holiday, and on Friday we're off to The Wedding. (Yes, I promise that there will be photos of me in my bridesmaid dress.)

As with last year, this year's vacation was a very active one. My husband and I generally started the days off with a sunrise walk on our trails; I was always horribly grouchy while putting on my clothes and cross-trainers, but by the time we'd get out to the trail and start spotting deer I'd be in much better spirits.

We also took advantage of the relative emptiness of our rec center on weekday mornings to go for swims and use the fitness center. I am really going to miss that -- we went on Sunday and the pool was utter bedlam.

Last Thursday we took a trip to the zoo. I've been there several times but have very little memory of seeing much other than the big exhibits. Why? Because the place used to be utterly exhausting to walk around. It's huge. It's sprawling. And if you use the entrance I generally use, you have to walk uphill to get to all the good stuff.

And back in my old unfit days, I couldn't hack it. I'd end up sitting on a bench for several minutes between every exhibit, and before long I'd be agitating to go get coffee somewhere in DC. I only lasted a couple of hours at most.

On Thursday, we lasted five hours. Walking up the hill didn't bother me in the slightest. I told my husband I wished I'd wore my pedometer; I'd love to know just how many miles we covered. I got to see exhibits I didn't even know the zoo had (such as the bird house and the Gross Bug And Sea Creature exhibit, which I probably could have skipped, but hey -- it was there and I'd never seen it before. It's not like you can see cockroaches in DC very often. *snerk*) And I finally got to see the pandas. Every damn time I've been to the zoo in the past, they've been off exhibit for some reason -- they were on loan somewhere else, or they were off being artifically inseminated for the umpteen zillionth time. Sheesh.

Well, we got a nice long look at them on Thursday, including quality time watching the baby. I even got to see the adult male panda do something that would get an adult male human arrested if he did it in public. Rock! (It involved a tree, and it had my husband saying "So why do these things have so much trouble mating?" That's all I'm gonna say about that.)

And sure ... by the end of the zoo trip I was sitting down a lot, and my feet were killing me. But an hour of sitting down and drinking coffee at a Barnes and Noble fixed that. We were even hale and hearty enough to go grocery shopping when we got back that night.

And did I mention we went on a two-mile sunrise walk that morning?

Fitting into smaller sizes is great. But it's also wonderful to get an unexpected reminder of just how far I've come fitness-wise.

Oh, and because I have an ego the size of Mt. Everest -- err, I mean a lot of photos of myself in various stages of weight loss -- I put them together in one handy album. *points at sidebar* Most of them have already appeared here, but I put in a couple of new ones.

Back to work. Bah.

One Last Splash.

On Tuesday night I wanted to go swimming after work. Although the pool should be open through this weekend, the temperature is supposed to be in the very low 80s by then and we've already established that the pool sucks when the water's too cold.

I spent that afternoon thinking about swimming. How quickly could I get changed after work? Could I repeat my performance from Saturday morning and swim laps for an hour straight?

And then right around 3:00, the sky started looking really ominous. Our local weather forecasters have been predicting late-afternoon thunderstorms for about the last eight weeks; it began to look as if yesterday would be the day they finally got it right. Of course.

By the time I got off the subway and headed for the bus, I wasn't thinking about the pool anymore; I was hoping we'd make it all the way home before the really blinding rain erupted, and I was also wondering if we'd lose power at home before I could even sneak in a treadmill session. It looked that threatening out.

And then something great happened. Halfway through the ride, I noticed that the sun was fighting its way through the gloom. By the time I got home, the sunny skies were totally winning the war; the black and gray clouds had scooted off to the distant horizon.

And the dress I bought to wear for our anniversary arrived (which was great timing, because my husband was out and I want to surprise him with it). I couldn't resist trying it on. It looks incredible and brings the va-va-voom, and I'd like it to look even better by the time our anniversary rolls around in a little over a month.

So I took off the dress, put on my bathing suit, and headed for the pool. I had the place practically all to myself; there were a few children scattered around but I guess people had been frightened off by the interlude of scary skies. Pity; by the time I got there, there wasn't a cloud to be seen. The weather gods really gave me a break.

I had a great time. I didn't swim for an entire hour, but that was on purpose; I was determined to spend at least a few minutes just goofing off in the water. I swam laps for about 45 minutes. When adult swim started and the kids got out of the diving area, I went off the diving board. Several times. My husband likes the diving board more than I do, but last night I found myself having a ball. Knowing that this might be my last shot at the community pool for this year, I didn't want to leave. My body finally made the decision for me, as my lower legs and feet started stiffening and cramping up a little.

And yet I dragged out leaving as long as I could. I stood there drying off, looking around at the place and taking in all the splashing and shrieking sounds for just a few more minutes. I didn't want it to be over.

It wasn't just about the pool; it's about the feeling that being at the pool has given me. For years, we'd drive past this pool in the summer and I'd get a little pang of regret. I'd always liked swimming, but I was certain that my days of donning a bathing suit in public and swimming or even just splashing around were gone for good. And yet, there I was. I'm no supermodel. I'm still more "Before" (or maybe "During") than "After." But that isn't the point. The point is that this journey keeps surprising me, even now. I find myself doing things I never thought I'd do, or ever do again. And I find myself enjoying them that much more because I once believed they were out of the question for me.

Journalversary!

Wow. It's been a whole year since I started this blog.

I feel like I should have some profound statement to make here, but all I can say is "Holy damn. I actually stuck with things this long." And a lot has happened in the last year. I got out of the 200s for the first time in years. I bought a bike. I shopped for clothes and didn't have to go near the plus-size department. I wore jeans. I started swimming again, and thus I went out in public in a bathing suit (that one above all still kills me).

On the sad side, I came close to completely losing my way during and after our cat's terminal illness. I've gotten pretty good at dealing with the occasional minor physical injuries or illnesses that pop up (ice it, rest it, pop an Advil, and take it easy) but dealing with that emotional blow was hard and scary and painful.

I don't know what took me so long to start my own blog; I'd been avidly reading other blogs during the first few months of my weight loss. Part of me was afraid I'd jinx things if I started officially talking about what I was doing, I guess. Up until that point, I'd only been discussing my efforts with my husband and my mom. I worried about starting the blog and then falling right off the wagon, as I had so many times before.

But this effort felt different to me from the very beginning, and I'm happy to say that it still does.

Anyhow, my sincere thanks to everyone who reads, comments, links me, and emails me with kind thoughts.

I really hoped that for this entry I'd be able to announce that I'd hit my second goal at last, but ... not quite. Sort of. I did indeed see a 169 flash up on the scale this morning and was tempted to run around the house roaring "GOOOAL! GOOOAL! GOOOAL!" in the style of the Univision World Cup announcers, but two "just to be sure" rechecks produced a fargin' 171, so I couldn't make it official. This is the first time I've seen any sixties-ish number show up on the scale, so at least I'm making some genuine downward progress at last. It can't be much longer now.

Anyhow, I'll wrap up all this babble with a few photos of Saturday's morning bike ride.

Schmoop! There was a doe hanging around here too, but we kind of lost interest in her the second Baby showed up. Baby seemed remarkably unfazed by our presence. The only thing cuter than a baby deer is a baby deer that has tiny fuzzy antler stumps, but I didn't see any on this one.

But then a jogger came running through and scared Baby away. We've noticed something very odd with most of the deer we've encountered out on the trail: They really don't like pedestrians and will freeze or bound off very quickly when we're on foot. But when we're on our bikes? They're still wary, but after giving us the hairy eyeball for a second or two, they'll get back to eating grass even if we pull over to stare at them and take pictures. Weird, huh?

Cute little guy. I almost ran over a turtle a couple of weeks ago; it was parked in the middle of the trail looking remarkably rocklike and I didn't realize what it was until I was practically on top of it. I damn near ran into a tree to avoid hitting it. My husband scooped it up and deposited it safely in the grass. Anyhow, this little guy was hanging out by the Civil War railroad bridge abutment.

And finally, me out on the trail. (Before anyone scolds me, I do in fact wear a helmet whenever I ride; I'd just taken it off to let my head cool off while we were taking a breather.) I love the top I have on; it's so light and thin that if it weren't for my trusty Enell covering up a good bit of my underneath, it'd be positively indecent. They're perfect for hot mornings.

Have a tolerable Monday, everyone.

My Husband's Pants

Yesterday morning my husband asked me if I wanted to take our basketball out and shoot hoops on the aforementioned court by our house.

All my good workout pants were in the wash. The only clean ones I had were a 3X pair that were too big on me back when I really was a 3X. I figured I'd be in imminent danger of mooning the neighborhood if I wore those. My husband asked me if I wanted to borrow a pair of his.

I had one of those "Oh, don't be ridicu-- ... hmmm" moments. I should explain that I've always outweighed my husband by a pretty substantial margin, even when we were both a lot heavier. At my heaviest I probably outweighed him by 60 or 70 pounds. I just accepted that we were never going to be one of those couples who can share each other's clothes.

But I've whittled the margin down to under 30 pounds. I'm able to wear his hockey shirts now, so I figured I'd try a pair of his workout pants.

They were a size L. They fit me fine. In fact, they're bordering on too big. My husband admitted that they're too big on him and said that I could have them if I wanted. Yay! And I highly recommend shooting hoops if you've got a nearby court; even though we were only out there for about 20 minutes before the rain really started coming down, today my upper body is as sore as if I'd done a heavy-duty weights workout.

I couldn't tell you why this tickles me so much, but it does: I'm wearing my husband's pants. Right now, in fact. They're black and made out of some noisy nylon material that reminds me of 80s parachute pants; they make a funny zip-zop, zip-zop noise when I walk. I warned him that he may have unleashed a monster with his simple offer; he's liable to come home some night and find me rooting through his closet trying everything on to see what I can swipe from his wardrobe.

That was the highlight of a weekend that wasn't all that relaxing. Between having an ultra-busy, stressful week at work and a sick kitty at home, I've been feeling like a drop of oil sizzling in a really hot skillet. This has not been a banner week on either the eating or the exercise front; every day I'd do well at one or the other, but never both. It's still daunting to realize that no matter how long I've been at this, there are still days when I'm so stressed out that I'd like to do nothing more than pull a chair up to the refrigerator and devour everything that won't run away.

But that's how it goes. I was filling in the weekly wrap-up page of my workout log tonight and summed it up this way: "I did the best I could during a really stressful week." I can live with that.

Edited to add: Wow, I'm slipping. I don't know whether to be amazed or appalled that it never once occurred to me to make a "getting in my husband's pants" joke.

Non-Scale Victories.

Well, the word for this week, and for the previous week too, is "Plateau." Shit. I have been bouncing around the same three pounds for two weeks straight. It's frustrating the hell out of me, especially because my first goal (getting under 200 pounds) is so close -- and yet, so far.

But even without the scale, I've achieved some good things this week.

--So far, I've had an impeccable exercise week. No skipped workouts and no wimped-down workouts either. Not even last night when we got in from errands late and I considered bagging the treadmill. It's supposed to turn horribly hot around here again this weekend so I may not get in an extra park walk, dammit, but I'm going to bump up to Week 4 of Couch to 5K tomorrow morning.

--I sat cross-legged on the ground outside and felt perfectly comfortable. (At this time last year, that would never have happened. I'd have had a job getting down there in the first place, and cross-legged? Fuhgeddaboutit. Thank you, Rodney Yee.)

--I have weaned myself off full-fat whole milk lattes and now consider skim lattes just fine. I absolutely detest skim milk and refuse to use it in my regular coffee, but when it's all foamed into a latte I can deal. The guy at the cafe where I stop in the mornings makes an especially good and foamy one. Yum.

Part of me wants to just stop weighing myself, but I'm afraid that if I stay off the scale completely and then go weigh myself in three weeks and still haven't lost anything I'm really going to get demoralized.

Stupid scale. Why couldn't I hit the plateau *after* I passed my first goal? It couldn't even let me have that one petty thing. *Whines, stamps foot.*