Blah Blah Blah, Mid 30's Crisis

I have a case of the blahs. After a very good week last week, I went out of town for the weekend, ate fairly crappy and have not had a great week. I have not worked out at all, have not counted points, and am feeling blah. You would think I would get the connection: work out and eat well - feel good, be a couch potato and eat junk - feel like junk. But I can already tell that I do not want to go and work out tonight. What the heck is that about? Can someone explain that to me, please? Seriously, now. Is there a pill I can take for that? Usually one week of healthy habits and I am on track and ready to continue cuz I feel good. Am I getting too close to age 35? Is my metablolism and motivation being sucked into the abis called "aging"? I mean, I even tried on some clothing and looked at swimming suits, and this is usually enough to get my resolve going. This time it just continued the crap feeling. Cripes, people, I have a trip planned in April and a gathering with "the band" to perform in late July, not to mention the ever-looming swimsuit season that is inching foward (though who can tell with all of the snow we've been having around here)!!! Help! If any of you has found my mind and motivation, I'd appreciate it if you would mail, email or fax it back to me.

Olivia Newton John

When I was a kid I took gymnastics. I was not that good at it, but after several years could do some fun tricks. We always had a recital at the end of the year made up of some dancing moves with gymnastics (floor) thrown in there too. One year, when the song was popular, my class got to do our routine to "Let's Get Physical" by O.N. John. Remember that song with the video and ONJ in her spandex and headband across her forehead? Ha ha ha!!
Well, I don't do gymnastics anymore, but sometimes I wish that I did. My body remembers how to do the tricks, but my brain overrides most attempts, noting 'Um, you are not that strong nor flexible any more.' That's how it goes with exercise: do it or lose the ability and start all over. This is why I hate exercise, because I am constantly "starting over" at square 1 (which, by the way, is labeled "pain and misery square"). Once, 10 pounds ago and two summers ago, I had been in good shape, exercising regularly and did NOT hate it. So, I know it can be done, and I am trying to do it again. I am getting up at 6 a.m. (gross) and getting on my treadmill to walk and jog for 20-30 minutes. I did this on Thursday, Friday and today and will continue, with a goal of four times per week. And turbokick starts again this week in the evenings, and I will go twice per week. If this does not move the darn number in my tracking section DOWN then I do not know what will. So, ONJ, I'm working on it, I'm working on it.

A Tear in my Beer

I'm still stuck on my blog about envy. What the f?! That's just not nice to envy my sister like that, especially when she has worked really hard to be all full of fitness and stuff. So what is my problem? What is my major malfunction?! After much thought, I have figured it out (cuz I am a psychologist and apparently I can't resist trying to resolve this "issue"). Eureka!
Here it is: I have lost my drinking buddy. Hear me out... I am like an alcoholic who used to meet her friend for beers after work, but then the friend quit coming, went to AA and is leading a happy, healthy life without hangovers. And I'm still on the stool, ordering up beers and grumbling under my breath. Well, the first step is admitting the problem, I guess, so I hereby will quit begrudging others good health when they obviously put hard work into it (at least for today) and will reserve my jealousy and real resentment for the bitches who can eat whatever they want and never gain a pound. Sorry, bitches, no therapy in the world will cure me of that.

My Jeans are Loud

Ok, I'm back to complain about something. Were you all alarmed at the positive tone of the last entry? Never fear, I can always find something to complain about with witty sarcasm. My jeans are loud. Not like "bright, flashy" kind of loud, but like "I can hear them" loud. Whenever I put on my jeans, I have to do that calesthenic routine of deep knee bends, squats, and lunges to avoid the sausage casing look. And sometimes I resort to unbuttoning them and shoving my fist and arm down the side of my leg to pull outward to make room for my thunder thighs. This is the most depressing workout ever, I tell you. Well, I was in my normal jean warm-up the other day, noticing the seams straining to hang on and actually listened and heard the creaking of the fabric and stitching. Wow. Like my jeans are complaining, "Good gravy, buy a bigger size and quit trying to stretch me into submission. Oohhh, errrrrgh, rhaaaaaaah." and so forth and so on. I was tempted to yell at them, "Shut up, stupid jeans! It's just as much your fault for shrinking in the dryer!" but I thought that would make me sound crazy so I just blogged about it instead....which maybe has the same effect.... dumb jeans.

Mark Your Calendars!

Ok, for the past two days I have felt cute. Try not to drop your laptops or spill your drink on your keyboard in surprise. Believe me, nobody is mor surprised than me. It started yesterday because I tried on a skirt that did not fit a month or so ago, and it fit, and I had new funky shoes to go with it, ergo the cute feeling. Thank goodness for control-top pantyhose! Also, I tried on a skirt that I just purchased and it is a little loosey-goosey with my pantyhose on, so I might go and see if the next size SMALLER fits. Now, this may turn ugly on us folks - I may go and try it on to discover that it pinches rolls of fat into, well, visible rolls of fat and then be right back to the same self-depreciating Eeyore of weight loss that you have all come to know and tolerate. OR (dare I hope? dare I wish?) I will ride the natural high of having the smaller size fit and even make my butt look cute. Ok, let's not hope for magic from one skirt.
You see, this all started with a weekend adventure with my sister, where I got hair and makeup done, transforming me from frizzy-pouffy haired dead person into curly-haired woman with good eye makeup. Then we tried on clothes after drinking martinis. Martini goggles are good for my self-esteem, apparently, because I did not look like a toad nor lump in the clothes I tried on. Granted, there were items that were less than flattering and I grumbled some about my girth and envied a couple of women's flat stomachs and Sahm's shapely legs, but all in all a good time yeilding several purchases and ending up on a dance floor. Nigh onto the perfect evening, I think. So, I'll keep riding the high, compounded by the need for trying on a smaller skirt and ask for you all to cross your fingers, get out your horseshoes, send me your positive mojo, and say a small prayer that the smaller one fits or that I will keep my sanity if it does not.

Addict in Crack Alley

Food sucks. I love food. I have been reasonable, restrained, and keeping within my measly points limit. But this weekend, there will be an event and there will be "heavy appetizers" (why don't they just call them "butt enlargers" or "gut growers"?) and martinis - Cosmos and cream-based martinis. Oh my. (Cheeses and dips and martinis - oh my! - it's like Wizzard of Oz only the Wizzard is a plastic surgeon and the yellow brick road is full of Culvers and doughnut shops and the Witch is Laura Dean.) And it's another candy holiday approaching us - Valentine's Day. I'm trying to avoid that aisle in the store these days, or else I'm like a crack whore in Crack Alley, drooling and shaking trying to remember to buy apples and not spend my money on Dove hearts. Lord, Grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to back away from the chocolate, and the wisdom to get on the treadmill. It works if you work it and you want it bad enough!!! sigh.

Bikini season is approaching

My sister, Sahm, is going on a fabulous Mexico vacation (again, the envy factor hits me, but not as badly as for her workout drive and schedule) at the end of the month, and will go looking fabulous, no doubt with a tanning-bed earned starter tan to avoid frying while on the beach. Good plan. She is also going with her new bikini tucked into her bag. I tried on my bikini the other night. Ouch. I wore it proudly two summers ago, 10 pounds ago. I thought about taking a photo of myself in it to tuck into my purse and look at when I want to eat cookies (which is every day) or when I want to skip a workout. I had also thought that I could put it on if I was going to eat sinful foods. But after I tried it on I decided that cruel and unusual punishment are not motivating. Yikes, white flab is not cute in a bikini.

Beyond Ghetto Booty

I can feel my ass. Not with my hands (though I could do that if I choose, but ew), I can just feel its presence. You know what I mean? Like when I walk today, I am just all too aware of my ass and its largeness, straining against the fabric of my jeans. It's grossing me out! Every step produces the sensation of my attached butt cheek swinging it's big way around and back, alternating with the other in some awful waddling movement. It's like someone slabbed a couple of rotisserie chickens on back there and is making me walk around with them stuck on my butt. Some people are proud when their butt is big and round. I would be if the roudness was narrow and curved appealingly out away from my back and back into some shapely legs. But mine seems to be a big pile of mush that extends widely into saddlebags and glops its way into my legs in some sort of butt/thigh convergence with some cellulite sprinkled in for good measure. Good grief, it's pathetic. How many cans of cream and kettlebell workouts will it take for me to de-grotesque my derriere?? Lots. Until then, I'll just be trying hard to wear flowy pants and/or control-top pantyhose to try to contain the jiggling enough to avoid my own gagging.

Chili Con Carnage

Ug. Gained a pound last week. Weighing in on Monday is a dumb dumb dumb idea. ESPECIALLY after the Superbowl. See, the weigh-in Monday is supposed to get me to resist that second brownie (ok, it is supposed to get me to resist the first one, too), skip the brown sugar-sprinkled bacon-wrapped cocktail weenies, and stick to happily munching on the veggies and fruit while everyone else eats chili with cheese and Fritos, tortilla chips with taco dip, and hot wings, along with the aforementioned goodies. Supposed to. Didn't. I ate it all. And it was goooood, and I felt miserable and had terrible dreams that the superbowl party hostess took me, unsuspectingly, on a murderous spree and was about to pin the whole thing on me. My psyche was in tune with the fact that I had succumb to her plot to incite carnage on my diet efforts. Superbowl - 1, me - +1 on the scale. Damn.