Hot By Thirty

Patting myself on my back fat

You can't keep a weight loss blog and not write about New Year Resolutions, right? Plus I figure I've got about 10 minutes before the kids (OH YES, THAT IS PLURAL) wake up so...

I started doing Sundry's year end recap thing until my own eyes glazed over (seriously, I answered pretty much every question with "new baby") but filling it out (halfway, at least) made me realize one thing: I've started exercising. I think it was the "what accomplishment are you most proud of" question (there's one like that, right?) (how many parenthetical statements can I fit in here?) that made me realize it. I started exercising this year and that's not something I've ever done before.

I played volleyball and basketball in high school, not because I was athletic in the least, but because there just wasn't a whole lot to do where I lived and if you wanted a social life you joined a team. And when your school has only 50 some graduating seniors it's not too hard to make the team. An average-sized stateside school would have laughed me off the bench, but I played four years of basketball and two years of volleyball. I was co-captain of both teams my senior year. I loved everything about it, except my craptacular basketball coach (and even he didn't really bother me too much until the last year). Oh, and running.

I hated running. I hated conditioning drills. I hated sprints. I know I know, everyone hated them, but I swear I hated them more. I developed shin splits probably by the end of the first week of practice and I'm ashamed to say I used those shin splints to get out of many a suicide drill. When we practiced in the high school gym we ran endless loops around the perimeter and I just wanted to die. When we practiced in the base gym (we had to alternate with the boys' team) we had to run from the high school to the base gym. Not terribly far, as I remember, but as soon as it seemed okay to do so, I walked. If the weather was nice and our coach was in a bad mood we sometimes ran the perimeter of the base. TORTURE.

Even after four years of high school sports and five afternoons a week of conditioning runs, I was still fat. Not super fat. I wasn't embarrassed to wear my uniform and I was never The Fattest Girl In School, but I don't think I ever LOST weight. (I don't really know, though. I never weighed myself and honestly, except for the normal high school girl self-absorption, I wasn't that concerned about it.) And so I've spent the last ten years thinking exercise was too hard. It didn't matter. I lost weight the first time simply by changing the way I ate and going for walks around the lake with friends. (Which, technically is exercise, but I can't say I was too disciplined about it!)

The kicker is, I told myself I hated it. I remembered the pain of running lines over and over and over. The shin splints. The wanting to slow down and walk not two minutes after I started.

When we bought the treadmill downstairsI had no intention of jogging. It was going to bemy "lake" when the weather was bad or I was too lazy to pack up the kids. I was going to watch TV! I knew I could never be like my super thin friend who runs 3 miles on her treadmill while the kids are napping. AS IF.

But the first time I ever tried our treadmill, a month after Molly was born, I set it on the second to easiest program and was very dismayed to find out I would have to RUN to keep up. It must be kidding me, right? Even on the Low Intensity Setting? Low Intensity still meant RUNNING?

I barely got through that 20 minutes. I stopped four or five times. I was half proud when I finished, half mortified. I resolved to just go at my own pace next time, do my own thing. But the next time I got on the treadmill I tried the same program, and that time I only stopped three times.

This afternoon I finished the 30 minute middle-of-the-medium-intensity-programs program without stopping. And I? Am a badass.

No SERIOUSLY. I am fully aware that 30 minutes is no big thing. I know probably five minutes of that program is just walking. I know that running even one suicide of the kind I used to do in high school would probably kill me, even now. What's more important than all that, for me, is that I like doing it.

I never ever ever ever ever EVER thought I would like running. EVER! And I don't really. I'm pretty sure that running outside, on pavement, where people can see me, where I am not watching Arrested Development on Hulu would be a dreadful experience. But I am sort of bummed out when I miss a day (or four) on the treadmill. I feel stronger. It's helped me lose weight faster. It's "me" time. I really like Arrested Development. I'm pretty sure it's contributed to my relatively anxiety-free season- no small feat.

I haven't quite figured out what all the distance readings mean, but I'm pretty sure I could now run a mile without stopping, I know how lame that must sound to so many of you, but for me that IS a Christmas miracle. That's something other people can do, not me. Never me.

I am really proud of this, Internet. I'm really proud of the fact that I haven't given it up, that I LIKE doing this. I didn't achieve much this year (new baby notwithstanding, although she's pretty fabulous) but this is something I am really really proud of.

I don't have any new resolutions for 2009 (I've got my by-my-thirtieth-birthday resolutions!) but I fully intend to keep up the slow chubby girl jogging on the used treadmill in our two foot by four foot office space.

What are you proud of? What are you sticking to? Does anyone know what 1.34 means when my treadmill flashes the "distance" reading? BECAUSE I HAVE NO IDEA.

My favorites were the chocolate-dipped spritz

I weighed myself this morning (Sunday) because I have strong masochistic tendencies. I did nothing this week except gorge myself on Christmas cookies and I was morbidly interested to see how much weight I gained. I mentally calculated an acceptable gain (3 pounds? 4?) and stepped on the scale.

I was DOWN half a pound from the previous week. I weighed myself three more times and the got the same number each time.

Here are my theories:

1. It was a Christmas Miracle!

2. I made my Christmas cookies with fat-free butter, sugar-free sugar and low-carb flour, things I had no idea existed in my refrigerator and pantry.

3. I didn't eat as many as I thought I did.

and the theory I decided was most likely:

4. I just didn't eat anything ELSE.

I'm sure I've mentioned before that I'm a bit of a picky eater and certain things just don't interest me. Phillip's family has a rib roast for Christmas dinner (a HUUUUGE rib roast) and that sort of thing is totally wasted on me. I'll eat it, but I'd probably rather eat a bowl of cereal. Same with fancy appetizers and fancy cheese and fancy dips and other stuff people have at parties. So my guess is that when it was time to actually eat food, I didn't eat much. I ate broccoli and a few bites of meat for Christmas dinner. But then I had 14 Christmas cookies and a slice of cake. In other words, I have eaten nothing but sugar for an entire week.

I gave myself a really hard time about this on Christmas Eve. I ate more cookies that night than I've eaten since Molly was born. I've been trying REALLY HARD to lose this baby weight, people, and I was totally disgusted with myself. Have I no self control?

Of course, I kind of let that go on Christmas Day. It was going to be a long week of being in other people's houses, with my only real food choices being which kind of Christmas cookie to scarf down. By Saturday, my last Christmas celebration, I didn't think twice about sampling each kind. (And my aunt officially makes the best cookies. So there.)

When I stepped on the scale this morning the LAST thing I was expecting was a LOSS. But a loss it was (seriously, I weighed myself four times) and then? I treated myself to the last handful of Ghirardelli bittersweet chips in my cupboard. To celebrate, right? And then? I made chocolate chip cookies for my new next door neighbors, because I needed to give them SOMETHING and I didn't have any more Christmas cookies. So. GO ME. Not exactly expecting to see a loss tomorrow morning. But I will let you know.

Oh! And I also bought myself a pair of jeans. That I can JUST BARELY squeeze into. I bought, with my CHRISTMAS MONEY, a pair of jeans that are TOO SMALL. I was not kidding about the masochistic tendencies. I can zip them up and button them, I just can't exactly MOVE. And so these are my Motivation Jeans. These jeans WILL fit me by the time I'm thirty, if not sooner. OH YES, THEY WILL BE MINE.

***ETA*** Weigh in Monday morning: I am down two pounds from last week. Scale MUST be broken.

Monday Weigh In- Post Party Edition

I'm down half a pound this week. Sort of a bummer since I was down about two pounds Saturday morning. LE SIGH. I thought I got back on track yesterday, but apparently not enough to counteract the Party Nibbling. (Oooh, but the Party Nibbling was delish!)

I have a new short term goal! Two and a half pounds from now I will be 1X9 pounds, that X being the right TENS digit of Pre-Baby Weight. Know what I'm saying? Once I hit that I will be buying myself something pretty. That's how this works, right? Set a goal, reward yourself, keep going?

Sorry to be all Secretive with the X and everything but even my pre-baby weight is nothing to get excited about. That number is not a 2 or a 3 (numbers I last saw in, oh, SIXTH GRADE?) and should I ever hit pre-baby weight I have plans to lose more. If blond Amy from Biggest Loser can shrink to 120 something, I shouldn't sit here thinking it's impossible for ME to be that small. (Although, honestly? CANNOT EVEN IMAGINE SUCH A THING.)

I think I have it in my head that there is a limit to how much I can lose. Well, OBVIOUSLY there is a limit, but I'm talking more like, "Oh, I'm just not MADE to be 120 pounds." That kind of thinking. When I lost weight before I shrunk two sizes, definitely thinner than I was in high school, and I think I just kind of left it at that. I would have liked to lose more, but I'd lost a lot of motivation by that point. I thought I looked great, even if I was STILL the Fat Friend, and I just didn't work so hard. I didn't gain weight (until I got pregnant) but I didn't lose any either. I wonder if that will happen again. And I wonder if I will care? Because really, for all my harping on weight loss, I'm not all that unhappy with the way I look.

Anyway, things might be going my way since we are snowed in and might not be able to drive to all our Christmas festivities this week. We called every auto parts store in North Seattle yesterday looking for chains and everyone is out. I can't remember a time when it snowed so much for so long that we actually needed CHAINS. This will be sad, of course, if we miss our family Christmases, but think of the effect it'll have on my waistline! I am all about the silver linings, folks.

One small toffee bar now is nothing in comparison to next week

I'm down two pounds this week. YAY. And I've got 9 Molly pounds left to lose. That's single digits people. WHOO HOO. I think I'll go have a celebratory toffee bar!

Why is it that every time I have something to celebrate I want to celebrate by EATING? I was talking to Phillip about this and he said that you're supposed to celebrate losing weight by buying new clothes. Which I can TOTALLY do, by the way. But honestly, my first thought turns to something sweet. Oh! I should have a piece of cake! Because: go me!

I'm starting to get a little nervous about all the holiday eating. Not NERVOUS. I mean, you do your best and if you fall off the wagon you get back on the next week la la la, but still. You don't want to lose all your momentum, which is what Christmas feels like to me. (Well, besides all that Birth of Christ stuff.)

We're having a party this weekend and I can tell you now that nothing at our party is going to be good for you. And we're having four Christmases this year. FOUR. We're going to have our own family Christmas on the 23rd. We want to have some time to ourselves to open the presents we give each other and you KNOW I'm going to put out a plate of treats. I HAVE TO. The 24th belongs to the party at my grandma's house with extended family and you know what we eat on Christmas Eve? FRIED BREAD DOUGH. Smothered in the topping of your choice and most of us pick my grandma's egg salad. My aunt makes about 12 million of these little puffs of fried goodness and I swear, that's 20 pounds RIGHT THERE.

AND THEN. Christmas Day we spend with Phillip's parents, which is a nice respite from the insanity of my family, but still all about the food. Even more so, since Phillip and his dad expect to eat prime rib with all the fixings. AND! AND! This year there is even more going on, since my brother and his family are flying in the day after Christmas, which is when my immediate family is going to have Christmas. Got to have all the grandchildren there at once, right? My family Christmas is several hours of present opening (there's a lot of us) interspersed with trips to the snack table. Where there is nothing healthy. Of course. (And if there was, why would we eat it?)

So I am doomed. DOOOOOOOOMED. My best outlook is to lose as much weight as I can this week so the Christmas week doesn't do me in completely, but with my party on Saturday that's doubtful. Even if I didn't eat anything, I'm sure gin adds a few pounds. Sigh.

The junk in my trunk

I'm not sure what my weigh in is going to look like tomorrow morning. I was actually pretty proud of myself this last week. I exercised nearly every day and ate the right things and Friday I hit my lowest post-Molly weight. But I screwed that up pretty quick. I ordered pizza at a restaurant Friday night thinking Jack would share it with me (he didn't, was too busy screeching and whining and embarrassing me), I ate breakfast, lunch AND dinner out on Saturday, not to mention the copious amounts of wine and sweets I managed to consume at the office party that night. (The former owner threw a replacement party at his swanky new digs. You can do that when a national conglomerate buys your tiny software company and makes you a multigazillionaire overnight.)

So yeah. Tomorrow might be ugly.

**ETA: I'm down a pound and a half. Which is fine. Except that I was down a lot more on Friday. I should totally do my weigh ins on Fridays. That would take care of my weekend carb habit!***

Even so, I now fit into most of my clothes. The clothes in my closet are three different sizes and I can fit into all except the smallest size. I feel pretty good about that.

I remember, though, that even when I lost all my Jack weight there were still things that didn't fit me. My favorite pair of pants, for example. I have a pair of beat up Old Navy khaki pants that I wore everywhere before I had Jack. You know, the comfortable Who Cares What I Look Like pants. Everyone has them. I was dying to wear these pants again, but they never fit. Even when I lost ALL the baby weight, probably 10 pounds less than what I was when I originally bought those pants, they still didn't fit. Sure, I could button them and possibly wear them out, but they didn't fit the way they had before. My body was totally different.

I know this is true because one way I stay motivated is to take measurements. (I also weigh myself every day. I know you are not supposed to do that, but WHATEVER. It's a lot easier for me not to eat a cookie when I know I gained a pound rather than weighing myself once a week and thinking I can get away with that cookie because I'm SURE I did great that week.) So I measure things every couple of weeks. And I still had the journal where I kept track of weight loss before I got pregnant. And I compared my measurements. After losing all the Jack weight, my waist was smaller than pre-Jack but my butt was BIGGER.

And I'm afraid that's just the way it is. Things that fit me fine before probably won't, even when I've lost the last 10 pounds. Having a baby makes you a different shape. You're different. IT SUCKS.

Stupid holiday dinners

I am up two pounds this week and feeling pretty rotten about it.

I KNOW I KNOW, Thanksgiving blah blah blah, but still. I am no Biggest Loser camped out in a weight loss compound with healthy food and a trainer. It takes a LOT for me to lose two pounds and now I have to do it again. I hate losing and gaining the same pounds.

Thanksgiving was pretty rough. It's actually not my favorite meal. There are many many parts of Thanksgiving dinner that I could do without. But mashed potatoes and gravy? MORE PLEASE. Apple crisp? Which we have for the people who don't like pumpkin pie? Which includes me? A NICE BIG HELPING PLEASE. WITH ICE CREAM.

Then I made the mistake of not sufficiently stuffing myself during the actual dinner, so when we got home from 'The Quantum of Solace' (good movie, even if it's horribly depressing) I made myself another plate of turkey and gravy. And there would have been mashed potatoes on that plate if there'd been any left. '

AND THEN? There was Thanksgiving Number Two at Phillip's family's house, and I ate even more at that one. My family makes this awful stuffing that's 99% celery (I HAAAAATE CELERY) (of course I hate the vegetable that requires more calories to consume than it contains), but Phillip's family's stuffing is fried rice. Sticky fried rice cooked inside a turkey. Oh, it is glorious. And then his mom made a cheesecake for dessert, which I could seriously finish off all by myself. Cheesecake is leaps and bounds above apple crisp (and pumpkin pie most certainly!) on the Tasty Dessert Scale.

I was feeling rather rule-abiding at my family's Thanksgiving and avoided as many carbs as I could manage. But as the weekend went on, my resolve broke down and Saturday night I found myself making pumpkin bread with chocolate chips and licking the bowl. (And the beaters, and the rubber scraper.) It's so easy to fall back into, "Eh, whatever, this isn't so bad." I know people think low carb diets aren't balanced and/or are too hard to stick to, but it's what works for me. And if I'm not consciously choosing to avoid dessert and bread and pasta and all that, THOSE ARE THE ONLY THINGS I EAT. If weight were not an issue I would happily subsist on cereal and cake and pasta with cream sauce. In a lot of ways, me on a low carb diet means I'm putting carbs in their PLACE. Which is "Some of the time" instead of "ALL DAY EVERY DAY".

I got back on track yesterday and even talked myself into doing the next routine on the treadmill (twice as long, gah), except Jack started howling halfway through his nap and Phillip had to pass Molly off to me to deal with Jack and darn it, I had to quit! Bummer, huh?

This week's goal is to lose those two Thanksgiving pounds.