Spare a Square?

I'm on a strict diet. No taste, no fun, but a good rate of weight loss. But while my fellow dieters around me are dropping pant sizes like they change their chonies, my blubber loss seems glacial in speed.

The problem is purely mathematical. Why didn't I work harder to get my rotunditude under control when I weighed 200 lbs? Even 230? Nope, I had to press pause on the plan until I hit a massive 260 pounds. Better late than never, I know. And while I've lost enough weight to count for a couple of infants ... maybe even a toddler? ... it's slow going to start with.

Here's my theory.

Take a full roll of TP. Like this one.

Now take 10 squares off of it. Doesn't make much difference, does it? Take a 1/2 empty roll and pull the same amount off. A little more dramatic, I'd say.

So my peers who are trying to lose 50 pounds and knock off the first 10 drop eight pant sizes. OK, they're losing one pant size. Just feels like eight to me. I've dropped considerably more than 10 pounds, but I'm still just "more comfy" in my clothes. There are a few pairs of pants in a size smaller that I can manage, but I'm still mostly in 18s. Sigh.

Yes, I'm frustrated that my weight loss is so far from noticeable. But I'm trying to keep in mind that it's not just my jiggly belly and thighs hogging all the fat. When I gain weight, even my ear lobes get bigger. I'm an equal opportunity gainer. So it stands to reason that my lobes will have some trimming to do, too, and that won't have diddly of a difference on my waistline.

'Scuse me. Gotta go trim a few squares off the roll.

92 Pairs of Pants on the Wall ....

OK, in front of the wall.

Hello, world. Meet my progress piles. What you're looking at is

92 pairs of pants. Sized 16 on the left all the way down to 8 on the right. Right now I'm rotating through about five pairs of pants that are 18s and are reasonably comfortable. But I'd be lying if I said I wasn't perilously close to having to move up to a size that starts with a 2.

The last time I got super-de-duper motivated and lost a substantial amount of weight, I pulled out all my pants and organized them the same way. And then, after each 10 lbs shed, I'd pick up the upper left pair, take a deep breath (sucking it in, natch), and pull.

I'm one of those who really doesn't notice weight loss in myself right away. When co-workers or friends commented on the improved definition in my cheekbones, I'd stare into the mirror, wondering why I didn't see it. It wasn't until I had lost 40 pounds or so that I noticed that my back boobs (you know exactly what I'm talking about) were much less noticeable. I could see the numbers changing on the scale, but those were just numbers. Where I noticed weight loss was in my pants.

So I recently decided to go spelunking into the farthest recesses of my closet to pull out the 16s... the 14s... the 12s... the 10s... and even the 8s. And I did throw a few into the donation pile, because REALLY ... if I would't wear it now no matter what size I am, it's time to say buh-bye.

In a couple of weeks I hope I'm ready to grab a pair of britches and see what's what. A few of 'em even still have tags on them. Most, however, have been faithful friends that have rotated from the front of my closet to the back, and then to the front again.

I'm making a minor adjustment this time, though. When I'm through the first stack of 27 (yes, 27 pairs of size 16 pants!!!), they're not going back in my closet. They're going in the donation pile and out the door. Followed by the 28 pairs of 14s (!!!) and the 17 pairs of 12s. The weight loss experts say to get rid of your "fat clothes" just as soon as you can, so you don't give yourself subconscious permission to wear them again. This time, I think I'll take that advice.

Today I Choose Me. But Tomorrow???

This has been a very revealing week for me. I've been to weight loss groups designed to tap into the deepest, darkest parts of your inner you-ness to figure out why I choose caramels (especially those with that happy little icing goodness middle) over carrots. I glean a little more about my drive, I try to watch out for my tendency to eat my emotions, to protect myself with food and flab.

But I am clearly needing remediation. Keep having to re-learn that lesson.

This has been a week of fat-lab experiments for me, it seems. My younger, fluffier shadow -- a German Shepherd of 2-ish years -- has been sick for quite some time. A problem she was born with likely, that we have known for a year that would cut short her time with us. This week we truly thought we were close to the end. Five vet/ER visits in 8 days, vet bills well into the four-figure range (six digits if you'd like to count cents), and sleepless nights. Our whole family was affected, natch.

By my rough estimates I figure I've hit the drive-through around eight times in eight days. Some were just for a jolt of caffeine, others were for heart-stopping fare. Through some miracle of God, we all survived the week, and we're on a little upswing for my shadow. Short-lived, maybe, but an upswing nonetheless. And somehow, I managed to escape the week with just a couple of pounds up.

Today I weighed in at 251. Sheesh. So not where I thought I'd be by now. But today I got out of bed and put on three things: my robe, my tennis shoes (yes!), and a better attitude. The robe lasted till I could get the coffee maker singing my song, then was swapped out for shorts & a T. The tennies are still there. When I wear them I stay moving more. The attitude is still going strong.

Started out with a cup of Joe, a shake, and then whipped up some whole-fruit/veggie smoothies for me and the fam.

I know that my staying fat isn't going to keep my shadow around longer. And it won't make me feel any better about losing her when that time comes.

Anyone up for reminding me of that tomorrow morning?

Why I am NOT deleting this blog...

I have a pattern. Shocking, I know.

My pattern has to do with how I handle failure. You see, I'm a lot like every fat chick you've ever met. I'm afraid to fall flat on my arse. Not just 'cause it would hurt (uh, but it would), but because getting up is not a pretty sight.

I've already talked about how I was thin through high school and college. I even lost all the extra pounds I packed on in adulthood once. That lasted about 15 minutes. Seems like it anyhow.

When I lost the weight, I was at a previous job. A job where I made a lot of friends, was enjoying my work. I left to move up in the world, to take a promotion at another place of employment. I was already starting to gain the weight back, but I wasn't back to buying clothes at a tent supply store yet.

It's been four years since I left that job. And I. Have. Not. Been. Back. That's sad, frankly. I've avoided social gatherings that I would have loved to attend, because I don't want them to see that I failed. Take my timeline a bit further back ... to high school. I have a lot of friends I keep in touch with from back east, where I am from, via Facebook. They see a close-up of my face ... never the whole bod. I never appear in photos with my family. When I go home to see my family, I don't advertise that I'm going, because I don't want people to see me. If they do get wind of it, I go out of my way to lie to them and say that, sure, I'll be there ... but I'm booked solid with things to do while I'm there. Why? Because I don't want them to see that I have failed. Why taint their memory of a thin me with the gruesome reality?

I'm coming up on a year soon with this blog. Started in August 2009, and in November 2009 and February 2010, I came back with a vengeance. I will be motivated! I will do the work! I will lose the weight! And then I fall off the plan wagon.

Pre-blog, I used to keep journals about my weight loss journey(s). I'd start out strong, lose a few pounds, then go back to my evil ways. The journals would fall down into the abyss between my nightstand and bed. I'd dig them out (usually when searching for my glasses or an earring), dust them off, and ... rip out the pages I had written on.

Why? So I didn't have to read about my failure. And so that others, if they so happened on my journals, didn't know that I had failed.

So--I'm not here today to announce grand intentions. I'm not going on a bandwagon to say that I've figured it out, that I've made a decision to choose health and activity instead of junk and tv-watching.

I'm here just to say that I'm not going to delete my blog. I'm going to have to just be OK with leaving it all out there, for people to count the months between blog entries and count how many pounds I didn't lose.

That's actually a heckuva start for me.

Months Flown, Pounds Found

So here's the thing. When I've journaled in the past about weight loss, and then fallen off the wagon (and then got dragged behind it for a few miles, then left behind, then ... well, you get the picture), I normally press "re-set."

Re-set, to me, means a complete do-over. I tear the journal pages out and shred them, black out the goals I had set, re-stock the fridge and pantry, and generally just try to forget my failure. Again.

Not this time. I am more than a little chagrined to look at my initial blog entry here, from wayyyyy back in August, see my gasp at hitting 229 lbs.

Truth time? Again? Right now I'm at 247. I'm darn near an eighth of a ton. It's probably not healthy to look at it in ton fractions, but I'm trying to scare myself a little.

I've been noodling around with different options, reviewing all of my diet gains and losses, looking for the next road to travel down. I know that what is most important is that I find ME again in the process. I've taken a couple of classes on raw foods, and as a family, we're really enjoying some of those recipes and techniques. Can I go 100% raw (which also means vegetarian, of course)? Probably not. At least not yet. But I figure that getting way more natural, unprocessed foods into my body can't not be healthy, right?

Who's with me? Heck, I'm a little more worried about making sure that I'm with me, but the more, the merrier!

I am not who they think I am.

I was at a workshop this week where we were asked to do a short free-write based on the prompt "I am not who they think I am." No other guidance than that. I rolled my eyes, hating this type of touchy-feely crap. but as soon as my pen touched paper, I ran with it. Here's what came out:

I am not who they think I am. I am weak. I am afraid. I am a person behind a person. I am looking for me, the one who can be comfortable in her own skin. My relationships surround me, but they don't all get to see me. I don't let them. I am on a journey to myself. They say that it's not the destination, it's the journey. Nope. I just want to get there. I want to plant my flag in the soil that is me, the me within. Who I am. Wherever that is.

Even though the workshop didn't have anything to do at all with weight, self-esteem, or any of that inner/outer self stuff, I knew when the first words were written that I was speaking of my weight loss journey. I've been thin before. Four years ago I visited size 8. Didn't stay long, though. I got cocky, careless, and ate my feelings and stress. Sooooooo much to learn.

Time to hit the road. I've loaded up the car, pulled out my map... just gotta check the tire pressure, windshield wipers, traffic, look for gas stations ... wait, where are my keys???

Groundhog Day

Hi. Me again. It's been two and a half months since my last entry. And boy, have I ever sinned.

Before I get into today's story, let me get this out there into the universe ... today when I woke up, I weighed 243 pounds. Technically, I probably weighed more than that, but I refuse to weigh until I've tinkled. Every little bit helps, right? So I was bummed, of course. Huge number. Biggest I've ever seen on my home scale.

I tried something new today. I decided that I needed a person. Someone who knows my number (243 ... gasp!) and can therefore appreciate when I've dropped a few or sigh along with me when I've gone the wrong way. Someone who I can be accountable to. Someone who won't judge me, 'cause she's dealing with the same issue. Not my husband, or my son. My weight loss counselor knows my number, but she doesn't really count. She doesn't love me the way my person loves me. I called my sister.

I shared my number with her, out loud. It scared me. 243 pounds is a BMI of 41.7. Both numbers are equally frightening. What's scarier, though, is the possibility that I'm now closer than ever to being 250 pounds. That's an eighth of a ton. What?!?!

I've spent much of my adult life looking for the trigger, the epiphany... the moment when I finally realize why I should lose weight, the motivation. And it's bothered me that it's never really one thing. But I think what I'm learning -- finally -- is that in order for me to conquer THE BEAST I need to have an epiphany every single day. Maybe more than one. Whatever it takes for me to realize that I've never done anything so bad in life that I need to punish myself with poor health... that I'm worth good health, and my family is worth it, too.

Today's revelation? Just that ... that I can have as many as I need to get on track and stay there.