A Journey of a Thousand Miles…

Forgive me, it has been more than a week since I’ve confessed my feelings on the blog. First, it was a short work week because of the recent holiday. Holidays are good, very, very good, because of course they mean NO WORK. However, it makes going back to work hard because now instead of trying to cram seven days’ worth of work into five, I was cramming seven days’ worth of work into four.  Without boring you to death, I did get a lot done over the long weekend, but doing so meant I didn’t get much of a chance to write.  Then on Tuesday I had the opportunity to go to dinner with friends, including TD, a friend I hadn’t seen in years and years and YEARS. Now, given the choice between staying home and writing and going out to spend time with friends, catching up and generally laughing ourselves silly, what do you think is the logical choice? Of COURSE it’s going out and laughing ourselves silly! Now that I think about it, the presence of some margaritas certainly aided the cause. I’m not a drinker, but the margaritas were so pretty… and somewhat lethal, as it turns out. I’m not a drinker– I usually average about a drink a year, but ended up having two margaritas in one night. Okay, I ended up starting on a third, I confess. That’s a LOT for me. Anyway, it turned out we got so busy yakking away that we never got around to having dinner, either! We ended up ordering an appetizer because we felt guilty about having drinks on empty stomachs. All in all, not the healthiest way to spend an evening, but you know what? It was completely worth it and I don’t regret a second of it, or a calorie that I consumed. It was wonderful getting to talk to TD again and she and SJ hadn’t ever met.

 

Then Wednesday and Thursday I worked out after work, and by the time I get home from working out and grab a bite to eat, I don’t have much time to write. Then Friday I tried my best to relax and rest up, because this past Saturday I did my first 5k! SJ and I had decided just about a month ago that we should do this. Actually, I don’t even remember what started this whole thing exactly, other than my getting my ass in gear in general to work out more. I believe it was SJ’s idea in the first place and I crazily thought “sure, I can do this, why the heck not?” So I told her I would if she would and we signed up for the race.

 

Now, you know I’m not athletic because I’ve already admitted I’m not, but keep in mind that I’ve NEVER been athletic. You remember how when you were a kid in elementary school there were kids who were just natural athletes? The ones who could run like the wind, or excel at things like the long jump without much effort? And the worst of the worst– the kids who could pass the fitness tests without even trying! Oooh, if you weren’t athletic like me didn’t you just want to smack ‘em? And if you WERE athletic and could do those things, please know that I wanted to smack you because of it. I’m sure you were my friend, but still, I wanted SO much to be naturally athletic like you. I don’t mean to sound all “woe is me,” not at all. I was lucky– I wasn’t ever the one picked last for a team (thank goodness), because I had plenty of friends who would choose me and I wasn’t the worst of the worst athletically. I ran and jumped and played sports with everyone at recess and in PE, but I never came in first in a race, and I certainly didn’t excel at basketball, or baseball, or dodgeball, or ANYthing-ball for that matter. Okay, I was REALLY good at four-square. I totally ruled four-square; I was the four-square QUEEN! But other than that, I think I probably just would’ve been voted Most Likely to Injure Herself (um, there were incidents involving tether ball and not getting out of the way fast enough that are pretty funny now but left bruises back then). Then starting in junior high, if you don’t participate in sports, you just get less and less organized exercise. It gets easier and easier NOT to do much exercise from then on as you get older unless you stumble across something you really enjoy like running or cycling.

 

In any case, SJ and I decided that we could definitely walk the 5k, no problem.  I was a little worried because SJ walks several miles every morning, but my workouts are indoors and don’t involve walking. It’s odd, isn’t it, how even though someone can do cardio-intense workouts indoors, walking uses muscles in a completely different way? That’s what I was a little worried about– I knew I could finish, I just wasn’t sure that I’d be able to keep up with SJ and I wasn’t sure how I’d feel walking a 5k outdoors.

 

The happy news is that TD decided to join me and SJ in the 5K! Woo-hoo, another team member! On the other hand, she did the Danskin Triathlon this past June, so I felt a little intimidated. Would I be able to keep up with HER, too? Mind you, I have short legs to begin with, so I’m already at a disadvantage against one regular walker and one person who’s done a triathlon. I mean, my gosh, she bikes AND runs AND swims? How can I keep up with that?

 

(A side note for your amusement: being girls, we had to decide what to wear to the race. The official race t-shirts were tye-dyed, which is frankly gross. Hideous. Awful. Nasty. Yucky. Nobody looks good in tye-dye. Nope, sorry, they DON’T, do not attempt to argue with me. People may think they do, but I suspect they may have indulged in some mild hallucinogenic substances that rendered them susceptible to even wearing tye-dye in the first place. Tye-dye just makes me think of a really sweaty Jerry Garcia. Blecchhhh. So what to wear? We decided to wear pink t-shirts, so we all went out and bought our nifty pink t-shirts. Then at roughly 8:00 the night before the race, SJ has a wardrobe crisis and decides that she looks perfectly awful in pink and is going to wear all black to the race, and oh, by the way, she’s not going to wear shorts in public. Great. A few emails fly back and forth, but SJ ended up wearing black and TD and I went ahead and wore our pink shirts and looked like big ol’ pink Peeps next to her. Pretty darned cute Peeps, sure, but pink Peeps nonetheless.)

 

And can you believe it, after months and months of extremely little rain (we’re in what’s at least a 30 year drought), it started raining Friday. It rained on and off all day, then Friday night a steady rain started. It rained all night– I should know, I woke up at 12:45, at 2:30, at 4:30, etc. I think I was nervous about oversleeping. I couldn’t believe that every time I woke up, it was still raining. We’ve had a couple of short thunderstorms this summer, but it hasn’t rained like this since I don’t know when. Never having been in a race before, I didn’t know if the race would end up getting called off for bad weather. Silly me, apparently races DON’T get called for bad weather, ever. So off we go to the race at 7:00 am. It was still raining steadily, so TD brought lovely clear trash bags for us to wear so we wouldn’t get soaked. The race organizers encourage people to run in costume, so there were lots of people to look at while we waited in our fancy-schmancy trash bags for the race to start. There were several pirates, a banana, lots of people in grass skirts, some wrestlers, even a really skinny sumo wrestler. I’d love to know how he felt running in what was pretty much a small diaper and a plastic headpiece that just could NOT have been comfortable. There was one guy I really wish I could’ve taken a picture of. He was wearing a Tigger costume. Granted, it wasn’t 100 degrees, but it was still in the high 80s and raining. I cannot begin to imagine what he looked/smelled like after the race, yuck.

The race was supposed to start at 8:00, but got started around 8:10-8:15 or so. We had moved over to the right to stay out of the runners’ ways (does that sound right? To get the heck out of the way of all the people who were faster than us), but you know what? Everyone running off at the start of the race was so infectious that we ended up starting out running, too, yay for us!

 

That’s a HUGE deal, for me, at least. For the last couple of weeks, every time I walked on the treadmill to warm up for a workout, I would try to run a few minutes, then a few minutes more, then a few minutes more to build up some stamina. Still, like I said, it’s different on a treadmill than outdoors. But I was doing it, I was running and keeping up with SJ and TD! I think the rain actually ended up helping, since the temperature was much cooler than it would’ve been otherwise. The temperature was nice, but walking/running in trash bags made us really warm after a while. We ended up ditching them at the first water station in favor of being cooler but getting wet. And since we ditched the improvised rain gear, I’m grateful we didn’t wear the tye-dyed t-shirts. With the rain and all, everyone really did end up looking like really sweaty Jerry Garcias. Getting rained on wasn’t so much fun, though, since it made using my iPhone really difficult. Yes, I admit I had my phone with me because I wanted to take pictures along the way. Hey, it was my first 5k, I wanted to document it!

 

We ran for a while, then slowed back down to a fairly quick walk because there was a hill toward the beginning of the course. And isn’t it amazing how hilly streets seem to be when you’re walking or running compared to when you drive on them? Mile one seemed to take the longest, but I couldn’t get a picture of the mile marker because I think my phone was too wet. I admit I got a little tired of carrying the phone in my hand where it was getting rained on, so I stuck it in my sports bra. I apparently called and/or texted several people during and immediately after the race, not sure how exactly, but I apologize if I boob-called you early on a rainy Saturday morning.

 

During the race we passed some people and some people passed us by, but all in all I think we did pretty well. Between miles 1 and 2 there was one participant I told TD and SJ we HAD to pass. I feel a little guilty, but right after the first turn I noticed a woman in a wheelchair who had one leg ahead of us, and I told the others “guys, we HAVE to be able to pass at least her, PLEASE!” I mean, Lord love her and how gutsy IS she even doing the race, but I just had to be able to do the race faster than she could! I didn’t mind getting passed up by senior citizens who were in obviously far better shape than I am, not at all.  And okay, there were kids running with their parents who zoomed past us. And a couple of blind, three-legged dogs. But I just would’ve felt really gosh-darned pitiful if a one-legged woman in a wheelchair had been able to stay ahead of me, God forgive me for thinking that. We passed her, thank goodness.

 

Not only did I think slightly uncharitable thoughts about a one-legged woman in a wheelchair, I admit that during the race I was thinking again about how impatient I am to be in better shape. Yes, I’ve lost some weight, but gosh I confess being around all those thin, fit people yesterday made me impatient again– I want to be back in a size 6 right now! Now, now, now! Yes, there were some out of shape people there, too, so I didn’t feel like I stuck out like a store thumb, but still. And then somewhere between miles 2 and 3 I got a sign. No really, I got a SIGN. Literally, a sign! I hope I can get the picture posted. There it was, bigger than life, telling me to be PATIENT. I don’t remember where on Congress Avenue the building is, or what type of business it was, and now I’m wondering why on earth they had just that one word on their marquee, but I guess the only bigger sign would’ve been if it had fallen and bonked me on my impatient head. So there ya go. I’m supposed to be P-A-T-I-E-N-T.

 

We ran a couple of more times (and passed more people, how exciting is that!), but I had to walk again after the titanium plate on my ankle started hurting. It must’ve been partly because of the weather, partly because I was running on pavement, but now I’m more determined than ever to have the surgery and recover so that I don’t have to worry about that anymore. I wanna do more 5ks!

 

I did pause to take a picture of the 3 mile marker, but right after that we ran the rest of the way (only 1/10th of a mile, but HEY, it was at the end of a race in bad weather). Being us, we made sure to smile and look good for the photographer as we turned the last corner. And yes, we reminded each other out loud to smile and look good and energetic. I’ll have to go look for those pictures later; I hope at least one turned out decently well. I was farthest away from him, so I may not really be in them at all. If that happens, I’ll still have evidence that I did the 5k because at the end of the race SJ ran ahead of us so she could turn back and get a picture of me and TD crossing the finish line. My first thought when I saw it was (of course) that it’s not a great picture of me. Seriously, I look so BAD in baseball caps, is there something not right about the shape of my head? Then there’s the whole soaking-wet-t-shirt-can-tell-my-sports-bra-is-black-because-of-the-pouring-rain thing, but then I thought about it. You know what? I finished a 5k, y’all! I didn’t run the whole thing, but I got up at 5:45 on a Saturday, showed up in bad weather, ran part of it and kept up, and I FINISHED the darn thing. A journey of a thousand miles begins with a half-walked, half-run 5k. We did it! Hooray for us! TD and SJ, we ROCK, you know that? Thanks SO MUCH for doing the race with me. Piggles, wish you could’ve been with us. All of your support and encouragement means more than you could ever know and I love you guys! I’m going to go cry now….

 

And of all the dumb things, you know what I think might be the biggest measurement of how much I’ve done in the last few months? Partly it was that I was in public in running shorts, for one thing. That’s freaking HUGE. Huge, I tell you! No, it’s that as I was walking/running in the race, I realized that I wasn’t absolutely miserable because my thighs were rubbing together. I can’t believe I just admitted that, but nope, I was okay thigh-wise. I mean, I’m NOT okay thigh-wise in general, I don’t like them very much and I gotta lose a lot more weight, but my thighs weren’t rubbing together and making me crazy! That’s major, major, major!

 

 

Next month there’s a 5 mile race that we’re talking about doing, and just this morning someone brought up something called an adventure race that takes something like 3-5 hours!?? I’ll have to Google it to see what exactly this is, but I think we’ve collectively started a monster…

P.S. For those who’ve asked how the weight loss is going: after two irritating, incredibly frustrating weeks of not losing any weight (didn’t gain, but didn’t lose), I finally lost some weight. I weighed in on Friday and lost 2 pounds, 4 ounces. Not as much as I’d like, but I’ll TAKE IT.

And now I’m going to try to load pictures from the race. I hope this works!

 

SJ shows off her fancy rain gear before the race.

There were lots of bathrobes and lots of really fit people at the race start.

Just because I liked the t-shirt.

More weirdos behind us at the start line. I sure hope that guy's facial hair is part of his costume and not real.

2/3 of the way through the race. Of course, I guess we could've driven to this point so I could get the picture.

Amy's Ice Cream water and ice cream station.

A REALLY big reminder...

Just about finished with my first 5k. The photographer is on the far right. I wonder if he got any good pictures of us looking cool and calm, yet energetic.

42 pounds and 18 ounces

Patience: The capacity, habit, or fact of being patient.

Hmmm, not exactly what I’m looking for. Let’s look up patient: patient (adjective): 1. bearing pains or trials calmly or without complaint; 2. manifesting forbearance under provocation or strain; 3. not hasty or impetuous; 4. definitely not Laura.

So I admit that I’ve always known I’m NOT the most patient person in the world, but last week when I weighed myself, I realized maybe I’m underestimating just how very impatient I really am. Okay, there’s no maybe, I know I’m underestimating, but what I really want to know is why I’m so impatient. I’m not going figure out the answer to that one right away, but it did get me thinking not only about impatience, but about unrealistic expectations, too. And isn’t it funny how when you start to think about something, things related to it seem to pop up? I had been working on this post for a few days, and a couple of people started pestering me about it, asking when it would be up. I just answered “patience, please, I’m working on it.” Good to know I’m not the only impatient person around. Then yesterday a Facebook friend’s status was also related to patience. All you have to do is start pondering something and it appears everywhere, I swear! Anyway, his status was that we should learn the art of patience, because impatience breeds anxiety, fear, discouragement, and failure. Patience, on the other hand, creates confidence, decisiveness, and a rational outlook, which eventually leads to success. I forgot to ask him where he got that, but it definitely rings true for me. It hit me pretty hard this past week how very impatient I can be and moreover, how if I’m not careful, I could end up becoming discouraged because I have such high expectations of myself.

I weigh myself once a week, on Friday mornings. Anyone who’s tried to lose weight knows the drill– once a week is the limit for weighing yourself because daily fluctuations can be too discouraging. This past Friday when I weighed myself, though, I not only didn’t lose any weight, I gained eighteen ounces (somehow eighteen ounces sounds so much less offensive than one pound, two ounces, don’t you think? I think so). I was so shocked I must’ve weighed myself  5 or 6 times before I accepted the bad news. And yes, I shoved the scale around, hoping I’d just lost the “sweet spot.” For the first time since I started this lifestyle change (it’s not a diet, it’s not a diet, it’s not a diet) in June, I didn’t lose any weight! Until now, I’d been really fortunate. There have been weeks that I didn’t lose much, maybe 2 pounds, but there hasn’t been a week I didn’t lose. Needless to say, I was devastated. Abso-freaking-lutely devastated. Undone. Destroyed. Willpower crushed. You name it the negative emotion, I felt it. What did I do wrong? What didn’t I do that I’ve done for the past couple of months? How could I have let this happen? I beat myself up for a few hours, and it took me the better part of the day, but I calmed down and after thinking about it, came to terms with it. I think. I mean, it’s still irritating, but I can live with it. (Like I have a choice.)

Just as a check (and because I couldn’t stand it anymore), I weighed myself again on Saturday morning. A no-no, I know, but I just had to check to see if Friday was a fluke.  You know what? The eighteen ounces were gone again. I was back where I started, which is better than losing even a little ground. I’m trying (trying oh, so very hard) to look at things as learning opportunities instead of screaming opportunities, so I thought about what I could possibly learn from this.

I could learn to disregard the dietician who told me that I actually needed to eat more calories every day. Sure, but that would  probably come back to bite me in a couple of months when I’d be not just exhausted but absolutely exhausted and pretty darned close to completely losing my mind (because Lord knows I’m halfway there already!). I could decide to take it as needing to work out more, but no, I work out five times a week, which is more than fine. Or… is the lesson patience, maybe? Maybe it’s going to take longer than I want to get where I want to be, and maybe I should learn to accept that some weeks I won’t lose weight, or as much as I want to. I need to remember that this is a process and to remember what I’ve accomplished so far. 

At least I can admit I have a problem, which as you know is half the battle. Do me a favor and don’t ask the question I’ve already asked myself a thousand times: why on earth would I expect to be able to do something that is so difficult for so many people so quickly and effortlessly? It makes no sense, I know, considering how long I sat around on my fat ass doing nothing to stay healthy and in shape. But now that I’ve started, I want the weight off NOW, I want to be back to a size 6 NOW, I want everything NOW! I know I have to learn to be patient, but I want to be patient NOW!

Unfortunately, impatience is nothing new. I also tend to expect perfection from myself in every way, which logically I know is silly. I can’t help doing it, though. Nobody’s perfect, nobody loses weight every single week and never ever has a setback. It reminded me of when I broke my leg. I didn’t do it doing anything fun or exciting  (I tell people I was rescuing small children from a burning building), I was just walking across the front walk of the elementary school where I did volunteer work. I slipped on a patch of ice that was hidden underneath some snow, and the next thing I knew, I was flat on my back staring at a beautiful clear winter sky, wondering why my leg was on fire, and not realizing how my life had just changed. It was the absolute pits–it was winter in Chicago, I had to have surgery, and recuperation was a pain–basically lying around for weeks waiting for the bone to heal. I remember the day I went to get the cast taken off–I was so excited at the thought of being able to walk again. Re-read that carefully. For some reason, I had it in my head that I’d be able to walk out of the surgeon’s office on my own. Sure, I’d need the protective boot and I’d be walking with a limp, but I was so sure I’d be walking out of there. The cast was sawed off, the final x-ray was taken, the staples were pulled out, the boot put on, and the surgeon said “okay, you’re all done.” I slid off the exam table onto my feet, ready to stroll out the door … and promptly fell flat on my face. No exaggeration whatsoever, I really did end up on the floor (and in a lot of pain, by the way).

I had just seen for myself a few minutes prior how atrophied my leg muscles were, and I had just been shocked at how shrunken and meager my calf looked (yes, I wanted thinner legs, but even I thought that was a little too thin), but somehow I just thought that 10 weeks in a cast wouldn’t affect me. Not the way it would anybody else, at least. I mean, I wanted to WALK. I wanted to, so why couldn’t I? The surgeon walked over to me with a pair of crutches, looked at me on the floor, and said “um… you’re going to need these, though.” Yeah, I did need those crutches for a while, even though I was hoping I’d be that miracle patient who could walk out of there unaided. Not only did I need the crutches, I needed physical therapy, too. THAT was difficult and at times so painful I swore I’d never go back for another session. But I knew that if I wanted to re-learn to walk correctly, I had to use the crutches, had to do my therapy exercises, and had to be patient while my muscles were rebuilding.

So yeah, I know that if I want to lose weight for good, I can’t just will it, and I can’t take shortcuts. I’m going to have to go through the workout sessions, and I’m going to have to eat right from now on (it’s not a diet, it’s not a diet, it’s not a diet). I have a coworker who’s on the grapefruit diet, and I sometimes envy him, sometimes pity him. I envy him because he has one whole item to shop for at the grocery store. I, however, have opted for the slower, more difficult way — nothing is forbidden (it’s not a diet, it’s not a diet, it’s not a diet, you know) since it’s a lifestyle change. I envy him because he has one decision to make every day: eat the damed grapefruit. I have 100 every day: cook for myself or give in to fast food; choose something that will help me get where I want to go or choose poorly and suffer a setback (why do I picture Yoda sitting in the ice cream freezer [on top of the pistachio, of course] at HEB saying “there is no try, only do. No ice cream.” Fine, Yoda, no ice cream today.) His weight loss has been faster and easier than mine, but I know in the long run I’ll be better off. I also feel for him in a way, because he could lose it any time and start scarfing down everything in sight. I mean, what a crappy way to live, just eating one food over and over. I may be overweight, but the thought of eating one food all the time is kind of sad, don’t you think?

So I started thinking about what I have accomlished since June. As of last Saturday, I’ve lost just over 42 pounds. I hadn’t really thought about it in terms of what 42 pounds is really like, so Monday morning at the gym I went over to the dumbbells and picked up a 40 pound weight. You know what? I’ve lost some weight! That puppy was heavy. It gets so easy to lose track of what it adds up to when you think of it in “just” 3 or 4 or 5 pound increments. And I can run on the treadmill without gasping for air and feeling like I’m going to die, and my trainer does sometimes say “nope, that weight’s too light for you, you’re ready to increase it again.” I have bicep muscles, people! My stamina has increased quite a bit thanks to the bootcamp sessions every week.  I guess I have managed to accomplish something this summer. I know I’m only part way there, but yes, it did help with the patience thing when I really thought about it. It didn’t take 3 months to gain all the weight, and it’s not going to take 3 months to take it off, either.

Oh! And I would have the one orthopedic surgeon in Chicago who didn’t believe in removing the hardware after the broken bone had healed. I’ve had a titanium plate and pins in my left leg for years and I’ve had it with being able to forecast the weather because they’re still in there. I’m planning on getting them taken out in December, and I admit I’m a little apprehensive. What if I can’t walk or run right away? What if I can’t get back to exercising as soon as I want to afterward? What if I GAIN WEIGHT? (I know, patience, don’t worry about it right now). As difficult and inconvenient as it might be, I know in the long run it’ll be worth it because my leg won’t hurt as much when the weather changes. Getting back to being physically able to do a lot of exercising will be tough, though worth it in the end. Kind of like getting healthier and back to my ideal weight is tough, but definitely worth it, too.

So Here I Sit in the Fire

So why the delay in getting this latest entry posted? I did have a lot to do at work the last few days, and I have my regular workouts that I have to make, but truth be told, I procrastinated a little. Okay, okay, I procrastinated a lot. I probably could have had this posted by Monday night if I had really put my mind to it, but I kept finding excuses.

It’s because this post is about how I arrived at “the point.” You know, the point where you just can’t take it anymore? I had to stop and think back (cue the “going back in time” harp music) to try to pinpoint how this really got started. If you don’t know where you’ve been, you don’t know where you’re headed, I think. Well, at the very least you don’t know how you ended up “here,” wherever you own “here” is. This is just particularly difficult to write because it takes me back to a time in my life when I felt like an utter failure. Frankly, it sucks to think about it and it made it REALLY easy to put off writing. I know anybody would find it hard to think about a time like that, but I guess I have to make myself do the difficult thing in order to understand how I arrived where I am. So I will. Ugh. Bear with me.

I’ve already admitted that I’m overweight and that I need to make some serious changes in my life. What on earth could be more difficult to write about than something that personal? Well, try the last year that I lived in Chicago, when I felt like a complete failure because I wasn’t succeeding at work. I know, I know. I didn’t rob a bank, I didn’t mistreat a senior citizen, I didn’t kick a puppy, or anything like that. It happens to lots of people every day, so why was it so hard for me? I’m not sure, although I can tell you that I had never been a failure at work before that. Ever. I just made the mistake of letting my work become my life, instead of it being just one facet of my life. Admitting I felt like such a failure is much more embarrassing than admitting I’m overweight. Go figure (pun intended.)

I love Chicago– it’s such a beautiful city with so much to do (and SO many great restaurants, believe me, I know). By the time I left, though, I admit I was beaten down and pretty small (yes, I know, ironic since soon enough I would be feeling way too large). I worked for a large management consulting firm downtown, and for most of the time I was there, I loved it. Toward the end, though, things were pretty rough. The company had gone public, so everything changed drastically from the time I had started working there. Where there used to be a sense of camaraderie, there was competition, and I’m talking absolutely cutthroat stuff. One part of the company’s mission statement when I started was that they hired nice people. One day that sentence just sort of disappeared… funny how as much as they pushed their mission statement down our throats, that little disappearing act was never, ever discussed.

To give you a little bit of background, what mattered was billable hours and bringing in the cash. People used to be fairly generous about sharing projects, but the focus changed and everybody was hogging hours, and generally being really obnoxious about getting on the teams with the biggest budgets. I’m not a cutthroat kind of person–never have been, and I never will be. I didn’t have the heart for it, plus it was really hard to change gears and go from a cooperative work environment to a competitive one. I had always excelled at work, ALWAYS. It was hard to go from having autonomy and being told I was doing good work to feeling like everything, absolutely everything, I did was under microscopic scrutiny and that every little thing I did was constantly being judged by the nit pickiest people on the face of the earth. It felt like if I even breathed wrong, I heard about it. And that’s only a slight exaggeration! Pretty much everything I had done in the past was now wrong. I just didn’t have the enthusiasm I had previously had for the job because the job had changed while I hadn’t. I felt like nothing I did was right. I took criticism of my work as criticism of me, which I shouldn’t have. It’s hard to separate yourself from your work, I know. I try not to do that now and I can’t always do it, but back then I really couldn’t. I worked so many hours and put so much effort into the job that it WAS me. Criticism of my work was criticism of ME. I took everything too personally, and when my work came under fire, I believed that I as a person was under fire. I felt like an abused puppy, always waiting for the next blow to come.

Unfortunately, I didn’t have much of a support system to help me cope. My friend Lauri had left the company and I really missed her, and my sister’s family had moved to southern California. After a while I realized I felt completely alone in a city of 8 million people. Sure, I had friends, but we all lived so far apart all over the city and the suburbs. We all worked a lot of hours, and we all had to run for our own trains and buses when we could. It was also really hard in the winter– when it’s 20 degrees outside and the wind is howling off the lake, your inclination is to get home as fast as possible, hole up in your own apartment, and hibernate. Oh, alright, MY inclination was to get home as fast as possible and hibernate. There are certain crazy people out there (and you know who you are if you’re reading this) who are so devoted to running that they’re willing to run in the snow and ice. I, needless to say, was not one of those crazy people. Don’t get me wrong, though! I don’t mean to sound as if I couldn’t possibly have made more of an effort to get out and about with friends. I know I could have, but the long hours at work were starting to affect me and (unfortunately) my whole attitude toward life. All I was doing was working long hours, sleeping some, working long hours, sleeping some, repeat ad nauseam.

And speaking of nausea, it finally got to the point where I was sick to my stomach every morning as I got ready for work. Seriously sick to my stomach. The taste of toothpaste was enough to give me the dry heaves. I was having a physical reaction to having to go to that office every day! How sad is THAT! But even after months of throwing up every morning, I still didn’t get what was going on. I remember I went to see a doctor, and she looked at me and said “You’re not sick, I just think you hate your job.” Really? Wow. I never honestly thought of that. Stress? Sure. Bad days? Sure! But hate my job? Wait a minute… Holy crap, I hated my job, the job I once loved! So after having some sense knocked into me, I decided I wanted to be around my family and back home in Texas.

When I moved back, I did take some time off to rest, but pretty soon I had to go back to work. The goal of taking some time off was to try to rejuvenate and find the old enthusiasm I had lost, but I’m not sure what happened. I guess the last few months in Chicago affected me more than I was willing to admit.  Worse, I didn’t have the right attitude when I did go job hunting. Instead of being patient and waiting for the right job, I took the first job offered to me. I KNEW it wasn’t a good fit the second I arrived for my interview, but I brushed aside my gut feeling to do the safe, practical thing– have a paycheck coming in! I mean, how gutsy would it have been to turn down a job and stay unemployed for who knows how much longer? Pretty gutsy, and I wasn’t feeling gutsy at the time. Remember,  I was still feeling like a failure. I still remember that when I left the interview, if someone had asked me to describe the office, I would’ve said “gray.” Gray everything– I honestly remember the carpet as being gray, the cubicle partitions as gray, the receptionist was gray, the wall color being a pale shade of gray, etc. That right there should’ve been the first big clue, but noooooo, I accepted the job. What a surprise the first day was when I walked in– I must’ve been staring at everything around me trying to figure out where all the gray furniture and carpet went. As it turns out, what was primarily gray in that office was the people. They were dry, dull, unimaginative, humorless drones who didn’t want to do any more work than they were absolutely required to do, and who saved all of their energy for gossiping about each other and stabbing each other in the back. Oh, what an energy drainer! I lasted 6 months before I had to go find another job because I couldn’t stand it anymore, and I hate to admit it, but I did it AGAIN. I was so desperate to get away from the first place, I jumped out of the frying pan and into the fire. Yep, right smack dab into the fire, and here I sit today.

To say that I threw myself into my current job is putting it mildly. I was desperate just to prove that I was a good employee. I worked steady 12 hours days, I worked weekends, I worked holidays. I think after the last year of the job in Chicago, I needed to have someone say “you ARE doing a good job.” Unfortunately, the praise and recognition never came. You know what did? The feeling of being a failure, and this time around, POUNDS came along, too. The pounds came because I told myself that I didn’t have time to eat right, that I couldn’t leave my desk to take a lunch break (had to prove my dedication, of course!), and I SURE didn’t have time to work out, because I was at work at all hours from early morning to late at night. The problem is, I never got ahead of all the work and I never will.

It finally hit me about a year ago that nothing is going to change. It’s really not, not ever. I know that rationally, I shouldn’t feel like a failure again because I’ve tried, I really have, but management is not going to get me any more help, and a tough situation is only going to get worse. As it is, that really hit home this last week when we discovered that the wrong information for someone was entered into the payroll system, and the paperwork with the correct info wasn’t in the employee’s file. I didn’t make the mistake, but it’s my responsibility because I didn’t find the mistake and correct it. It kills me, believe me, because even though I want to get another job, I still take a lot of pride in my work and it pisses me off that I didn’t find the error.

(As an aside, though, this last week taught me something else. It taught me that I shouldn’t keep things internalized and that it’s healthier in the long run to just be honest about things, even if it’s embarrassing. The truth really shall set you free, I suppose. I hadn’t said a word about the situation to anyone even though I had chance after chance. I just couldn’t bring myself to do it because I felt like such an idiot. After keeping it to myself for the better part of a week, a couple of days ago the stress was so bad that I finally ended up just sort of blurting it out to someone who was probably a little taken aback at hearing about it out of the blue, but who (thankfully) listened to me and was honest but reassuring about it. Saying it out loud took away some of the power, I guess. It made it easier to talk to my sister and a couple of friends about it, and nobody’s tried to make me feel like a failure yet. I still feel like an idiot, though.)

So I realized probably a year ago that there wasn’t going to be any fundamental change in the way the company does business, and that I needed to find another job. But I also knew that I didn’t want to interview looking the way I did. I knew I wouldn’t be comfortable, much less confident, interviewing at the size I was.  I’ve known that much for a while, but it wasn’t until a few months ago that I really thought about it and realized something much more important. I had sacrificed my health trying to get something I just wasn’t ever going to get from an external source. It seems so clear now, but no manager, or review, or job was (or is) going to make me feel better about myself. I have to make myself feel better about myself (if that makes any sense whatsoever, but you know what I mean). I wasn’t going to be able to do that, though, unless I started to lose some weight and take back my life. Accepting this (very wrong) job is completely my responsibility. I didn’t ask enough questions about what the job actually entailed, I didn’t ask about staffing and support, and after I was offered the job I sure didn’t ask enough questions about performance reviews and salary increases. That was one mistake I will never, ever, make again, believe me.

 So back in May when I started thinking about what I want, a new job was at the top of the list. I want to enjoy going to work again. I don’t want it to be the center of my life, but I don’t want to feel constant stress about it, either. I want to LIKE my job. SO, the resume rewrite has started. Granted, it’s not finished, because there’s this blog thing I have to write, and my workouts have to remain a priority, and then there’s work. There’s always lots and lots of work. And then more work on top of that. But it will be done soon, and I’ll start looking for another job shortly.

Of course I have no idea how long it’ll take to find another job, but I do know that taking control of the situation has done a lot for my self-confidence. This time I’ll make sure to take time, ask a lot of questions, and in general make sure the job is a good fit for me. I will NOT force myself to fit the job.  So wish me luck on the great job hunt. And by the way, anybody want to be a reference for me?

Changes…

…They are a Comin’

But first some details.  It’s been pointed out to me that anyone reading this blog might want to know the vitals: how much I weighed when this began, what I weigh now, goal weight, etc.  My first inclination is to say “screw you, that’s none of your business,” but that would be rude and I’m not a rude person.  Still, I hesitate to put numbers out here, because hey, it’s a little embarrassing (as if spilling your guts in public isn’t, right?)  I may change my mind and post specific numbers later, but for now I can tell you this: I’m 5′ 3″ and when I began working out, I wore a size 18/20.  Definitely not the largest size in the store, but plenty big for someone my height, okay?  I’m down to a 14/16 right now, and as of last Friday (weigh-in day), I’ve lost 38.6 pounds. Enough about that.  Back to our story:

In the first Half Assed post, I explained that I was snapped out of my doldrums by getting asked out on a date.  After I realized that I didn’t want to continue living the way I was, I had to think about what I wanted out of my life.  What did I want, and with what was I unhappy (to be grammatically correct)?

First and foremost, I was unhappy with my appearance. As I mentioned in my first blog entry, I had allowed myself to gain quite a bit of weight.  Granted, I was extremely lucky that I didn’t yet suffer from any health problems related to my weight, but I couldn’t count on that lasting forever.  I was also lucky in the sense that I seemed to have topped out at my maximum weight, regardless of what or how much I ate. (Now that I think about it, if I were happy at that weight, I could be eating a cheeseburger and onion rings right about now… but I wasn’t, so I can’t!)  Then again, I couldn’t count on not gaining weight in the future, either.  What it really came down to was vanity, plain and simple.  I’ll admit it; I have no problem with it.  I used to be a size 4, and I never had become used to shopping for clothes in larger sizes.  In all seriousness, there is NO thought put into the “design” of plus sizes, not at all.  I haven’t found anything that I truly loved to wear in years because plus size clothes are so damn ugly.  And don’t get me started on the fabrics! I confess I’m a little bit of a fabric snob– I do not wear synthetic fibers.  Unfortunately, the majority of plus-sized clothing seems to be made of polyester.  Frankly, if I wanted to ever feel so much as halfway good about what I was wearing and how I looked, I was going to have to lose some weight.  I also love shoes. Of course, shoes are the one thing you can wear regardless of your weight, but they go with the clothes, you know?  No cute shoe is going to turn a butt-ugly outfit to fabulous.  My shoe collection had sadly been rendered pretty much useless at a certain weight.

Next, I knew that I wanted to find another job, but I was procrastinating because I knew I wouldn’t feel confident interviewing.  It hit me pretty hard that I’ve been putting up with a less than ideal work situation just because I don’t want to interview while I’m fat.  Don’t get me wrong; I like what I do, and I’m lucky that I truly like my coworkers.  Right now there isn’t one wacko in the group I work with every day (although I suppose I could be lying since some of them know about this blog!).  I know that not everyone can say that they genuinely like their coworkers.  The issue with my job is the volume–without going into too much detail, the vast majority of companies the size of the one for which I work would have one person each responsible for the three areas I have responsibility for.  I do have an assistant, but she’s on the phone all day answering employees’ questions.  I’m lucky to have her at all; it took two years of pleading just to get her job into the budget.  The fact is, I have way too much work to do, and prior to this summer, I was working steady 12 hour days just trying to stay ahead.  I told myself that I was way too busy to work out, or go out, or do anything because I had to work.  Part of the life re-evaluation was accepting the fact that regardless of how hard or how long I worked, nothing at the job was going to change, so the change would have to come through me.  I no longer work 12 hour days.  I still don’t take a lunch break, but I don’t work until 8:00 every night.  Depending on what’s going on, I’ll work late if something absolutely has to get done, but staying very late is no longer routine.  Besides, what did working 65-70 hour weeks ever get me except a fat ass and a lot of stress headaches? It certainly didn’t get me any decent raises, that’s for sure.  Now I work out two mornings a week before work and I get here when I get here, and I work out 3 nights a week and leave at 5:30 to get to my workout on time.  Guess what happened after I started working on my own schedule? Nothing… there’s still too much work to do, we’re still not caught up, but I feel a lot better and I have more energy (on most days, anyway). I know that finding another job in a tough economy will take time, so I’d better get started now.  I’m not anywhere near my goal weight, but at least I’m smaller than I used to be. 

As much time as I devoted to work, I gave very little to friends.  I sincerely regret that.  I hate to think how much I missed because of my self-doubts and lack of confidence.  Part of it was that I felt that I was too fat to see anyone.  I don’t know why I assumed friends would judge me; I certainly wouldn’t have judged them.  In any case, I never went anywhere or did anything because I felt horrible.  One of my goals is to be a better friend, to go out and see people, and to be there for someone when they need me to be.  I’ve made an effort to reach out to old friends, and I’m happy to say that we’ve been able to get together a few times and catch up on the last twenty or so years.  I don’t want the get-togethers to stop. And I’m so happy to say that I made a new friend this summer– here’s a shout-out to ah… we’ll call her Jessica Simpson, or JS, who’s been incredibly encouraging while I debated starting a blog. Thanks!  

My sister has also been incredibly supportive of the changes I’m making, and I want to thank her too.   Yet another goal is to be a better sister to her, as well as a better aunt to her kids.  It’s difficult when you live in different states and you’re both busy, and the kids need to be driven everywhere, and our bedtimes are so different, blah, blah, blah.  But she’s going through her own changes this year and I want her to know that I love her and I intend to work on being a better sister. Well, I guess I could say it to her, couldn’t I!  Hey, if you’re reading this, I know you’re going through some tough stuff right now, and I guess that as the older sister, I think of you as always having everything under control.   I shouldn’t assume, and just know that I love you very much and the shovel is always at the ready should you need my help.

I still can’t decide whether to tackle the next subject or not; stay tuned while I debate with myself.  Thanks for reading!

and last, I admit I’m not 5′ 3.” I’m 5′ 2 and 1/2.”

I’d Rather Kick Myself

How a Fat Girl Decided to Change Her Life

Let me begin this blog by getting something out of the way.  I’m fat.  I. Am. Fat.  Got it?  I admit it—I’m overweight.  Now, I’ve been overweight for the last ten years or so, but I’ve been seriously overweight for about the last five.  The detail on how I became this way can wait for another blog entry.  Let’s get to the good stuff—what made me decide one day that I’d had it with and that I wanted not only to be healthier than I had been in a long time, but happier, too?  It wasn’t a health scare or a warning from a doctor that I’d better change the way I was living.  In fact, not one doctor ever said a word to me about being overweight.  I swear to you, they didn’t.  Really!  To a person, they were of the opinion that as long as my cholesterol, blood sugar, and blood pressure were fine, then I was fine.  By that definition, I was fine.  Always had been, and probably would’ve been for a good long while.  No, it was nothing as dramatic as a health scare that got me out of my fat rut.  Instead, this story begins, as (sigh) so many do, with a man.  This man came into my life unexpectedly a few months ago and inadvertently turned it pretty much upside down.  It’s because of him that I started thinking seriously about my life—well, the quality of my life, anyway.  What on earth did this one man do to make me stop and think about changing?  He asked me out.  I know, I know!  The absolute nerve of this man, asking me to dinner!  Yep, he asked me out on a date, but I said no.  Now, I said no primarily because he was not yet officially single,* but I also said no because my immediate reaction after he asked was “I can’t.”  Not “I don’t want to,” or “hmmm, sorry, I just don’t think we’d get along that well,” but I can’t.”  Even as I thought the words I knew how ridiculous they were, and just as quickly as I said no, I realized that I really wanted to say yes. (Although, hello! I am NOT one to go out with the Almost Single.  Only the Definitely Single.  Okay, there was that one really good liar, but that’s a whole other story.) 

You see, this man and I hadn’t ever met in person, we knew each other only through a correspondence.  It began as a casual thing, the “hey, how are you today” kind of emails that people typically exchange, but we started discussing more serious topics, exchanging emails more frequently, getting more personal, and we started a real friendship.  The problem was, when he asked if we could actually meet, I panicked.  There was no freaking way I wanted him to see me.  Big deal, we’re friends, right?  Sure, but I was just not comfortable with who I had become.  You know the phrase “she’s really let herself go?”  That was me—I was the very definition of that phrase.  I had gained a lot of weight, I no longer bothered to dress well because of it, and I wasn’t even bothering to wear makeup anymore.  I can’t believe I just admitted that.  Anyone who knew me 5 or 6 years ago would be shocked to hear that.  I was never a clothes fanatic, but I was always put together—hair, nails, makeup, and of course, always the right shoes to go with whatever I was wearing.  Always.  Now I was (I hate even typing the word) frumpy.  Me!  Frumpy!  But I was, sensible shoes and all (shudder!).  Now I know there are plenty of overweight people who are truly at peace with who they are and how much they weigh.  More power to them, I say, if that’s how they want to live their lives.  I, however, am not one of those people, and it really hit home when I was asked out on a date.  I realized I wasn’t happy.  I wasn’t happy being fat, I didn’t like not being able to find clothes that fit that I actually liked, and I was way too good at avoiding looking in the mirror.  Worse, I even avoided seeing friends for fear of what they would think of me.  For years I had even refused to let anyone take pictures of me (so don’t ask, they don’t exist).  I don’t know exactly how it happened, but as large as I was, I had disappeared.

That’s why back in May, one simple request for a date got me started thinking about my life, something I had become really good at avoiding.  I realized that yeah, I did mi ss dating, seeing friends, and just having fun.  I realized that I wasn’t really living, I was merely existing.  I wanted to be able to say yes without hesitation if someone asked me out, or if friends asked me to go out and do something.  I wanted to feel good about myself again.  Therefore, it was time for a serious change.  Do you remember the movie “How to Make an American Quilt?”  There’s a line from that movie that I’ve decided should be my new motto.  In the movie Maya Angelou’s character tells Wynona Ryder’s character “I’d rather wonder than kick myself .”  Ryder’s character responds “I’d rather kick myself.”  I decided that day that it was time to stop to stop wondering “what if,” but to start risking maybe having to kick myself after trying and possibly failing at something.  So yes, the impetus for the drastic changes was a man, but rest assured I didn’t make any changes FOR him (please, let’s not give him a bigger head than he already has).  You’ll hear more about him later, but next: the changes themselves.  

 

 

*a story that may or may not be detailed later in this blog.  Oh, who am I kidding? Of COURSE I’ll explain that later.