Hey, there, Fatty!

And, no, I'm not talking to you, Dear Reader(s).  YOU are clearly beautiful and at a very healthy weight.  YOU have not taken the last five months of mucus-related illness and turned it into the Pizza & Ice Cream Jamboree!!  The More You Eat, the More Fun You Have!

 

I, on the other hand, have.  Emotional eating is one of my biggest downfalls.  "Whaaaaaaaaaa, I have a sore throat; please bring me Whitey's!!!!!!"

 

(For those of you who don't live in the Iowa/Illinois Midwest area, "Whitey's" is not a racial slur, is a super-fabulous ice cream shop that has locations throughout our area, and ice cream that is so good certain soldiers I know have written home and demanded boxes of it packed in dry ice to be delivered to them in Afghanistan.)

 

I have reached a size that is not okay with me.  Size, weight, etc., are all very subjective, though.  For some, my current weight might be a goal weight.  Not for very many, but for a few.  But when I calculate my BMI online -- even though this method is terribly inaccurate and doesn't factor in muscle and activity level, etc -- I am overweight.  Not obese, just overweight.

 

Regardless of everyone else's opinions or what the lovely BMI people on the Interwebs say, though, the fact of the matter is I'm not happy with where I am.  It's not a skewed view, either.  It's not like I'm stick thin and still think I'm fat.  I've always had a very good, objective view of my body.  I realize that I look just fine.  I realize, also, that I looked better 30 pounds ago (at least).  And that'd be a very healthy weight for me to be at again.

 

Plus, I bought a skirt at Target yesterday, because none of my shorts fit me and the temp here is around 300 billion degrees Fahrenheit, and it's a size that is just completely unmentionable, as far as I'm concerned, and it's still kind of tight.  I took it off today to work out and held it up, and it's ginormous.  Then I folded it in half and realized that THAT was what I wanted it to look like.

 

So I've started eating a diet that consists of 99% fruits and veggies, no caffeine, no dairy, no bread if I can avoid it, nothing processed.  It sounds worse than it actually is.  This very strict version is only meant to be followed for about 10 days, after which I may start adding in more grains, but whole grains, not white rice or anything.  This first 10 days is sort of a cleanse.  The theory being that the less shit you eat, the less shit you crave, and the less processed food is in your system, the better your body is able to get rid of the toxins from what you were eating before.  Seems to be working.  We went to the movies yesterday, and I brought along apple slices with almond butter, and didn't touch the giant bowl of popcorn or the soda Brian had sitting between us.  If you know me well, you know I have ZERO willpower, so that was a big freaking deal.

 

We went to Olive Garden for dinner afterward, and I asked for their gluten-free/garden menu, and selected my dinner carefully from the items on there.  Did you know one breadstick from there is 150 calories?  I ate a meal of at least six of those WITH ALFREDO on 4th of July.  No wonder my ass is huge.

 

So so far, so good.  I'm also taking some vitamins from GNC, Women's Active, something-something.  They seem to give me a ton more energy, improve my mood significantly, and suppress my appetite to a certain extent.  I'm using some Hoodia patches my mom gave me (looks like I'm trying to quit smoking or something) and those work great in conjunction with the vitamins (yes, I checked, and it's ok to use both together).

 

Whenever I get on a health and fitness kick, though, the first thing I want to do is run.  I miss it.  I CRAVE it.  I long for the unmatched feeling of new running shoes being tightened around my feet.  I want to jog along the river again, like I was doing last summer, enjoying pure, unadulterated "Me Time." 

 

No one will let me run anymore, though, after my string of injuries last year (first few weeks in: Knees;  second try: sprained ribs; third try: torn muscle in my leg).  If I even think about running I swear Brian can hear it, and he's all, "OMG, NO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

 

Instead, I'm doing yoga.  And I love me some yoga, we all know that.  It's fantastic.  But since I'm working out on my lunch hour, it doesn't get me out of the courthouse.  I just bring my mat and my DVDs to work, and do it in the office.  It's not as satisfying a "Me Time" as running was.  I can't do it without the DVDs, because I won't hold the poses long enough without that skinny bitch yelling at me.  No one yelled at me when I was running.  No one reminded me to breathe when I was running.  And, ya know, that reminder is stupid.  It's not that I forgot that I SHOULD breathe, it's that I CAN'T breathe, and I don't appreciate you pointing that out, thankyouverymuch, Judgmental Yoga Lady.

 

So basically, I'm eating grass, chugging water, OM'ing myself into a sweaty mess, in what seems to be a fairly futile effort to get my ass back in my favorite jeans (which, by the way, I was wearing last year at Ellie's birthday party, and now can't even get one leg into).  I suppose we'll see how it goes.  Barring any more illness, maybe I'll be back in a fairly acceptable state by August 12 when I'm going to Iowa City for the weekend with a bunch of my friends from high school to celebrate our 30th birthdays.  They're all skinny.  And beautiful.  And sweet.  If I didn't love them so much, I'd hate them.