Day 119: The Thirty Pound Mark

Today I stepped on the scale and stared at the number. 240.2. That’s 31.2 pounds gone since I started this puppy.

Everyone associates certain numbers with certain things. When I was in Oregon last year, I remember being frustrated that the scale only read 242 after months of being vegan, rebounding and Bikram yoga (of course, there was lots of fast food in there too, but I wasn’t paying attention to that). Three ago, when I was living with my ex-boyfriend and we had decided to go on a serious exercise kick (or, HE decided for us and I reluctantly plodded along), I stepped on the scale and was 233. Several years ago, after a five-day fast, I stepped on the scale and was 228. That was probably the lowest weight I had been since college, when I was about 180.

I can easily remember where I was and who was around me at each of these weight points. Most importantly, though, I remember that I wasn’t quite happy. I was doing these things because I thought they would work or I wanted to please someone (mostly that) or I was frustrated with my life… some bullshit reason. And, no matter WHAT I did, there was always some form of fast food I was craving and/or diving head first into, despite my “efforts”.

I put “efforts” in quotations because really, I was just bullshitting. I see that now. I wasn’t working out as hard as I could have or with any true consistency. I would go for a couple of weeks eating “right”, and then have a total self-induced food orgy. There was no real balance in my mind, body or spirit.

That’s not true of me today. I am more even than I ever have been, and I think that’s why it’s been easier than before to shed the weight. I no longer think of food as this major crutch to get me through WHATEVER. I see, more than ever, that clean food + exercise + water = weight loss.

31.2 pounds. Holy shit. 100 pounds still feels like a long way to go; it still feels like a huge number. But how do you eat an elephant? One bite at a time.

Day 118: Are You Shrinking?

I was walking down the hallway to the ladies room. A co-worker, walking towards me from the other end of the hall, stops about 100 feet away and asks, “are you shrinking?”

I didn’t quite hear her (… yeah, right), so I asked her to repeat herself.

She said, “Not that you were heavy to start with (bless her deluded heart!), but lately, you seem to be shrinking!”

Yeah, buddy.

Day 111: Everything’s Not Cold Turkey

(This is a little off-topic, but hey. It’s my blog.)

I was having a small hair meltdown this morning, and it taught me a thing or two about patience.

A little background first: my mother doesn’t like my hair in its current state. She loved the bald, she even loved when I began to grow it and it was in these perfect little shiny-black curls all over my head. However, now that I aspire for a more kinky look during my mid-growth period, she’s not feeling it. I see her looking at me out the corner of her critical eye. She even told me once, when my fro was perfectly rounded, that I looked like Winnie Mandela. She prefers “fierce” to “fro”, and I think she sees the possibility of the thing, but… she’s just not feeling it. And that’s okay with me – she doesn’t have to. I think her little side looks are hilarious.

Well, this morning, I’M the one not feeling my hair. It’s just not… UGH! It’s pissing me off. I know where I want it to be, and IT’S NOT FUCKING THERE YET. My hair grows fast, but in it’s kinky state, the growth isn’t as obvious as it would be if it were straight, so I’m pissy and irritated with this process. So I sent a “grumble, grumble, grumble” text to my mother, who I usually vent about hair with. After she laughed at me, she said, “maybe you need to find some other things do do with it while it’s growing. No chemicals or augmenting, but something… everything’s not cold turkey.”

And just like that, I’m snapped back into reality. Not everything is cold turkey, I agree… but some things are.

As I have said before, I equate this hair growth journey with my weight loss trials and tribulations. It’s all the same thing to me – something I have never REALLY concentrated on doing before, and a long-term goal that takes patience and and equal amount of focus and non-focus (just enough focus that it doesn’t drive you crazy!). I know that in the end, I will be ecstatic at the results of both endeavors, and I need to stick with it in order to get to that point. No one said it was going to be easy or comfortable or that I would like every part of this deal, but going cold turkey and watching a thing naturally evolve is a part of it that I have to deal with. I’m not the kind of person who can say, “well, just one order of large french fries won’t hurt me.” French fries are trigger foods for me, so I have to cut it out of the diet by going cold turkey. Same with the hair; if I don’t learn how my hair wants to behave, what’s the point of growing it? I don’t want to find “something else to do with it”… I want it to just do its thing.

It may not be as comfortable as the bald would be at this point, but hey. Comfort zones are for pussies.

Day 105: Fearing the Fear of the Fear, When There is no Fear

So yesterday, I admit, I had a moment. We’re not going to call it a panic attack or anything, but it was a bit melodramatic. I blogged about how I was afraid of Thanksgiving with my family, about how I was afraid I wasn’t over my food addiction, about my weekend food obsession… blah blah blah. Like I said. Melo. Fucking. Dramatic.

After the blog spew, I curled up with the book “Women, Food and God”. I’m interested in reading further after the first two chapters, but I couldn’t really get out of my own head, so I fell asleep. When I woke up this morning, I was greeted with tons of supportive comments, which (let’s face it) is an awesome thing to wake up to. It’s cool when people know where you’re coming from and can kick you in the hindparts with love and affection. However, this comment from Amacuba takes the cake:

“OK girl. Get a snazzy broach to firmly clasp that cape you wear to your throat. Feel it fluttering in the wind behind you. Stand up, stomach in, boobs out, kick-ass high heeled boots making your ass look FIERCE, and, symphony swelling in the background, yell with all your heart and soul, “I AM NOT FOOD’S BITCH! I WILL NOT WORRY ABOUT HOW ANYONE FEELS ABOUT MY LIFESTYLE! I AM DOING THIS FOR ME, NOT FOR ANYONE ELSE!!!”

I laughed hysterically. Amacuba (a.k.a. Manda-Bunny) is my ace-boon-coon from ECD.com. She’s a riot, and we are constantly Inboxing behind the scenes. Her comment struck me to the core – in addition to reminding me that I am not food’s bitch (LMAO… again!), she reminded me to laugh at myself. I mean, what am I doing? This is not as hard as I am making it out to be. I was freaking out about the anticipated freak out, when there IS no freak out to anticipate!

I know you know what I meant…

We make such a big deal about the holidays and holiday eating. But I forgot to practice what I preach: it’s a lifestyle change. One day will not make or break me. And why am I thinking that I’m going to go overboard and eat a bunch of junk? First of all, my family doesn’t MAKE junk. Second, I know my stomach by now. It won’t even let me tolerate the madness! Third… so what if I eat? Will that totally derail me? No. Will I get right back on plan on Friday? Yeppers. Why? Because I know this way of eating – of LIVING – is what’s right for me. I’ve lost thirty fucking pounds. I’ve BLOGGED about it. Bared my soul to cyberspace. I’m not going to throw it all away now and begin shoving McDonald’s into available orifices. (Ugh! The visual! Sorry about that…)

Sometimes, you just need someone to remind you of how silly your mind wants to make it all out to be. But it’s a new day, and my snazzy broach is firmly affixed at my throat. The cape is flying (the one with the big EC on it). I’m standing in my high-heeled stiletto boots. Stomach in, boobs out, and I’m yelling at the top of my lungs….

Yeah. You got it.

Day 104: Pondering Food Addiction (or Freaking Out About Thanksgiving)

I have the book, Women, Food & God at home, but I haven’t picked it up yet. I heard from a second-hand source that it’s all about food addiction, so I am eager to read it to see if I’ll be able to pick up some pointers. I believe I am/was/am addicted to food, and I need to get over this.

I know that I WAS addicted to food when I first started this whole thing. I remember clearly the feeling of trying to fight the food urge, and the simultaneous feeling of relief and shame when I gave in to McDonald’s or Baja Fresh or Wendy’s. I hated that feeling. It made me ashamed of myself. Since beginning this program, there has been so much less of that, as clean eating makes me feel wonderfully guilt-free. Even the strict 500-cal HCG plan makes me feel great, because it’s a means to an end. But when I have a cheat day, the guilt and angst return.

This feeling comes up in me for three reasons – first, I was way off my eating this weekend. Second, my family, albeit supportive generally, has started making “comments” about my eating lately. Third, I’m worried about Thanksgiving. Really worried.

Let’s tackle ’em one by one.

After the 5K this weekend, I had Popeye’s chicken and fries. I was STARVING after the walk, and was ill-prepared, food-wise, for all the time that public transportation took to get anywhere. By the time we hit the Popeye’s, “fuck it” was my general attitude. PLUS, I just came on my cycle, which I know didn’t help my hunger pangs or attitude. Sunday, the cramps and the home-alones didn’t help the situation any. When I weighed having broiled tilapia against delivered pizza, the pizza won out. I did better than expected, having a small pizza and drinking a gallon of water instead of a larger pie with some sugary drink, but excuses, excuses. Over the course of the day, I had the pizza. It was delicious, yeah, but the after-guilt is kicking my ass.

My family has started making small comments about my eating. I am not a fan of this turn, people… not a fan at all. They are giddy over my weight loss, but when I say I can’t eat this or that, I’m starting to get the rolled eyes and the snide comments. I mean, what the fuck? When did this happen? Maybe it’s getting to me more because I’m mid-cycle short-fusing, but still. I dread the whole “we have to have a conversation about this” feeling that’s coming up in me. I mean, we HAVE talked about this. They should just be supportive, period. No one likes when I go all hermit-like, but I will in a heartbeat to avoid any bullshit.

And that brings up Thanksgiving. I have a small family, and we LOVE to relax, break out a board game, put the DVDs into rotation, and eat some great food. My aunt makes a 7-Up cake that will make you smack somebody, and the rest of the Thanksgiving eats are equally scrumptious. We’re not a “junk food” Turkey Day crowd, but there is plenty of hummus and crackers, mushroom soup, my world-famous collards (made with olive oil and plenty o’ seasonings), etc.

None of which is on the HCG program.

I don’t know what to do. I don’t want to derail my success thus far, but I also don’t want to hear my family’s collective mouth if I don’t eat or bring something else to eat. I mean, I know people reading this will say to go ahead and have the damn food, just don’t go overboard. I hear and appreciate that, but especially after eating this weekend, do I do it? I’m driving myself crazy with all this fucking food thinking!

Which brings me back to the food addiction thing. This is why I think I’m still there… I think about food WAY too much. It’s really bothering me. Many people could just have a day with their families, eat the damn food, and then get back on track the next day. Why am I freaking out about this so badly? I think it’s because of the fact that I thought about food so much this weekend – when my day is quiet, that’s when the food shit comes up in me. When I’m busy, it’s not a problem. But downtime sucks. SUCKS! it hit me like a freight train, too. Caught me completely off-guard, because I haven’t been hungry at all during the HCG. There’s all this stuff about HCG and your period, but I ignored it. DAMN!

I am trying to relax about this, but I’m freaking out a bit. What I want is to keep going. This is the smallest I have been in about 2 years. I do NOT want to fuck this up.

Day 101: Falling In Love

For the first time in, well, maybe my whole life, I am falling in love with my body.

Before now, I never recognized what an awesome body I had when I was younger. Before college, in college, in my twenties… I was completely oblivious to how people looked at me. I alwasy thought I was fat because I was the biggest/tallest of all my friends. I never appreciated my body, and I grew older, this turned into a severe case of separation anxiety. I separated my head from the rest of my frame and only paid attention to what was above the collarbone. I hated looking in mirrors, and I hated taking pictures below the neck.

I feel like this is all changing now.

I have a long way to go, sure, but now I’m beginning to look at my body differently. Especially my lower body – of late, I hadn’t been in love with my thighs or butt, and I downright hated by belly. I’d do whatever I could to hide the lower half of me. Now, however, I find myself really admiring my thighs. My butt hasn’t been my strong suit in the past, but now, I’m starting to see how I can change that through weights and lunges and stuff. In the meantime, I’m kinda digging how cute it is! My tummy’s smaller, so even thought our relationship was dysfunctional in the past, I see signs that we’re on the mend.

I see my body being reshaped. I see the fat pockets and the cellulite leaving me. I see my limbs as long, smooth extensions of the whole of me, and instead of rushing past the mirror in the morning, I take that extra second to look. To REALLY look at my whole body and appreciate the curves I see. That mirror time is my time to wonder how it’s all going to look when it’s flatter or rounder or cut or tighter. I’m not scared to look at it. I don’t criticize it. I see all of me, not just the parts I didn’t like.

I can honestly say that, for the first time ever, I love my body. Not for what it will be (as I will love that, too), but for what it is and looks like right now.

I love my body.

Day 97: Ah, Boxing!

For the last few days, I have been hankering for a beating. I have enjoyed the convenience of the Power 90 DVDs, and the workout is challenging, but I have been longing for the days when I was yelled at by a trainer at 5:30 in the morning, 4-5 days a week. To me, there is nothing better than having someone push you to your ultimate fitness level, and I am convinced that this is the best way for me to achieve my highest level of hotness.

I’ve been thinking about the exercise that I have enjoyed in the past and weighing what I want to do against time and budgetary constraints. I kept wavering between weight training and Bikram (hot) yoga, but what I want, ideally, is to find a cheap gym with a tough trainer that can accommodate my early morning jones for sweat. I have to, however, look at what I have available to me and make it work.

After talking with a friend on Saturday and going deep into the pros and cons of both, we came to the conclusion that boxing really IS the sport for me. Bikram is awesome, but I’m such a Type A Power Person that all that calm introspection ain’t really gonna hit the spot in the long term. I know me… I want passion! I want fire! I want to hit things! I want something that I LOVE and will be excited about at 5 AM. When we talked about it, I got all jazzed. He took me through a couple of punching exercises on the phone, and by the time I was done, I was hooting and hollering with joy. I know that’s the right move for me.

So, boxing it is. There’s a gym near my job, so, paying attention to my time and budgetary obligations, I will wait until December to visit them, interview trainers, and get started.

That doesn’t mean that I have to wait to start looking for some cool wraps and gloves, through! Ahhhhh…. RESEARCH.

Day 95: New Measurements

I was putzing around the house this morning and thought… “Hey! When’s the last time I took my measurements?” So I break out the measuring tape and get to work. After all was said and measured, I’m down 20 inches, total, from the start of this project, and have lost almost 9 inches since last I measured. This is WITH the 8 pound gain from a few weeks ago! I mean, I’ve almost gotten rid of that gain, but the fact that the measuring tape is showing the shrinkage is BOSS!

Yeeeeaaaaaaahhhhh, boyeeeeeeeee!

You Can Stay A LITTLE Plus-Sized, Can’t You?

There is this awesome chick that I work with that represents sauciness to the max. She and I are both plus-sized representations of chocolatey sassification – she’s got great style, we’re both growing our hair out naturally, we both hit the strut full throttle in the hallways. I like her – a definite friend in the office. This morning, we were in the kitchen talking about our regular stuff, and she was reminded by a flyer on the fridge to sign up for the office Thanksgiving potluck. She asked me what I was bringing.

Insert diatribe here.

A little background: I started at my company at the end of October, 2009. As we slid into the holiday season, the team and office food orgies were off the chain. We had food as far as the eye could see every day of the week, but the biggest extravaganza was the office Thanksgiving potluck. O. M. G. There. Was. So. Much. Food. Everyone is encouraged to bring something, so it’s yams and cakes and casseroles and macaroni with cheese (and more cheese) and jello fruit molds and alcohol-infused brownies… it’s insane. The potluck runs for about three hours, and people are encouraged to eat. And eat. And eat some more.

Between October and January last year, I swear I gained 15-20 pounds. This is NOT happening again.

This is what I (vehemently) explained to her this morning when she mentioned the potluck. I’m not going. I’m not going ANYWHERE near it. Not bringing anything, and not ingesting anything from it. I said, “I’m on a plan, and that plan doesn’t take holidays.”

She acknowledged that she needed a plan – said she had been on one earlier this year, but had stopped. She exclaimed that she would love to get down to a size 12 again. I said, “Good for you, honey. I’m going for a size 8.”

She was stunned. “Size 8? What? You can stay a LITTLE plus-sized, can’t you?”

The answer, boys and girls, is a hearty “hell no”. I’ve been plus-sized for a long time. I’m done with this experience. Size 8, here I come.

As a Black woman, I think it is expected that we keep our curves. Being plus-sized is more than accepted – it’s often revered. It means we have more bounce to the ounce. It means we have ass and tits and thighs, and we should celebrate all of that (and whatever other “curves” come with it). We are the epitome of songs like “Brick House”, “Bertha Butt Boogie”, and “Baby Got Back”, and being the big/sexy, big/loudmouthed, big/opinionated Black woman is the role we are often cast in. But when other plus-sized women see us losing weight for whatever reason (even health), they take it as a smack in the face. I remember the backlash that Monique received when she lost weight – women were ANGRY. They claimed she was betraying her core audience. I don’t know what the hell would pop off if Gabourey Sidibe decided to shed a few pounds. There’d probably be a riot.

(Don’t even get me started on her….)

I could give a shit what other people think of my weight loss, because it’s a personal decision. It’s important to Carla, not to the the image of Black women as a whole. I celebrated being plus-sized in public, but secretly hated the fact that I couldn’t buy off the rack or was constantly pulling at my clothes to cover my stuff up. I’m not having that anymore. I am going to celebrate my fit, toned, healthy body. Carla is dropping to a size 8. Over and out.

Day 94: Unbreakable

I read this on ECD.com today and damn near cried! Totally powerful, totally awesome. Hope it provides you with some kick-ass inspiration!

I AM UNBREAKABLE
By: Lucas G. Irwin

Most people don’t understand, but you’re ok with that. For you, training is not a hobby or a social activity; it is a way of life. Those around you say that you are obsessed, taking it too far and possibly insane. They can’t understand why you won’t eat birthday cake, why you bring Tupperware full of chicken to a party or why you go to sleep early on a Friday to rest up for a Saturday training session. But you don’t care. Their accusatory tones, sarcastic remarks and insults are merely cotton bullets firing at a titanium wall of perseverance known as YOU.

You know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that any negativity that surrounds you is fueled purely by jealousy. Jealous that you are capable of unconditionally committing to something that most cannot stick to for more than a few weeks as part of their yearly resolution. Jealous that you gladly embrace a level of pain, discomfort and fatigue that others cringe at the idea of suffering a fraction of. Jealous that you take time to count carbs, protein, fats and calories while they count their chicken nuggets to make damn sure their 10 piece isn’t a 9 piece. In short, they’re Jealous of YOU.

Ironically, all the comments, nagging and questioning that is meant to break you down a little, does just the opposite. Every negative word reminds you of how special and uncommon your mechanical allegiance to training really is, in turn, pushing you harder. So bring it on! Let them call you obsessed, crazy or insane and watch you get stronger with every word. The only one who can slow you down is yourself. As far as the rest of the world is concerned, you are both an immovable object and an unstoppable force…

YOU ARE UNBREAKABLE.