Feelin Cute with Nowhere to Go

Well, with my new fun hairdo, I was feelin pretty spunky and cute, so I asked a friend to go out on the town - maybe dancin! She agreed! yay! So I got on my best jeans, and donned a sexy shirt, and put on my Naughty Monkey shoes. I took my kids to the movies (to reduce guilt about leaving my spouse with the kids when I went out), and then my friend called to say she had to work in the morning, so it would have to be an early night. So, I offered to postpone until tonight. So I went home and sat on my couch in my cute clothes. Darn. Today I enjoyed some time outdoors and ran after my kids (literally, I sprinted - didn't want to get "tagged" and be "it"), and tonight, well, here I am again... home. Double darn! It's like having a new car that you have to leave parked in the driveway.

Skinny Face Haircut

I got a new hairdo this week. I went in to de-tinsel my hair (yup, those gray babies are shiny silver and rather pronounced in the front of my hairline, so I pay good money to avoid seeing their shiny little glints in the mirror) and while sitting in a chair with tinfoil all over my head, I flipped through one of those hair magazines and picked out a new do. My hairstylist swore my hair could do it, and I trust her, and she was right. So, I got fun new color AND a new little bob that I really like. And others liked it, and today sealed the deal with someone saying, "Boy your face looks really thin with that new hairdo!" I will never change my hair again. Anybody got any ideas for the sort of haircut that will make my boobs look bigger and my butt smaller? Wait! No, I want one that makes me look good in a bikini! I think my only hope there is my current haircut and me wearing one of those big long shirts with the design of a curvy woman's body wearing a bikini ironed on the front so the design's "neck" and mine match up. You know the ones.....

BMI BS

Have you calculated your BMI? Body Mass Index. I want to know which skinny person set the limits for this? Which thin dork sat around and figured out a mathematical formula to tell us when we are overweight, "healthy" or obese? I have calculated mine. You can google BMI and come up with at least a couple of dozen online BMI calculators. Mine says I am overweight, which sucks. The cutoff is like 25, and I'm just over that number by a couple of tenths. And five pounds would get me into "healthy" BMI range. This should be reassuring, right? Sort of, it is. But the depressing BS is the weight I would have to be to be "underweight." Seriously? It's healthy for me to weigh 110 pounds? I think I would look like crap if I weighed 110 lb. Again, which stupid think dork figured that out?

Words a Man Should Never Say

Ok, so I fell off the wagon. I'm working on picking back up and getting on board again, and it hasn't been a binge-a-thon, so that's good. I have been stressed out, and being a psychologist I have a wealth of good healthy coping skills at my disposal. I've taught them to numerous people, taught sections of undergraduate coursework on stress management, done public speaking and radio spots about this. So, what did I do? Exercise? Listen to music? Journal? (blog?) nope. I ate chocolate.
Where did I get chocolate? Good question, because I had de-fatted the house more than a month ago. Like a good alcoholic in recovery pouring their vodka down the drain, I had rid my house of all things tempting, leaving only Bocas, unsalted almonds, and tiny Hostess cupcakes (oh - and the blueberry muffin variety are fa-bu-lous). But my husband had knee surgery last week (yeah, yeah, he's fine, back to me) and received a couple of lovely get-well baskets. One contained fruit, very nice, and the other contained Mt. Dew and Hershey Nuggets chocolate truffles. Rats.
I ate a couple of the chocolates from the gift box. My husband sees this and says, "Is that my chocolate?" Um, yes. "Pretty presumptuous to just eat my chocolate without asking." Um, ok (what?!). "Aren't you even going to apologize?" Um, sorry. "And you're supposed to be on a diet. You shouldn't even be eating that stuff."

dead silence

WHAT?!!! "YOU'RE SUPPOSED TO BE ON A DIET?!!" These words should never come out of a man's mouth. Why not just say, "Put down the chocolate, fatty!" or "Oh, I see you're looking to add some more to your gut." Oh it pissed me off something fierce. I wanted to whip the little wrapper at him. I wanted to say, "Oh, like YOU should eat it all, man-boobs!" but that would be mean and untrue. But it would have made me feel better. And I know he was not saying I am fat. He was just protecting his chocolate, and I really should understand that. So, instead I sulked and thought something rediculous like, "Fine, I shouldn't eat this and I am supposed to be on a diet. You watch. I'll get super skinny and never ever touch any of your dumb chocolate again." Chocolate apparently makes me crazy. Or maybe stress and crankiness makes me crazy. But I still think those words should never be spoken by a man to his wife, girlfriend, significant other. Agreed? Ok, somebody put that in the big book of rules.

Panic Poet at the Gym

This is the LAST week of Turbokick class!!!! What am I to do?! Crap crap crap! I need at least another couple of months of this class, and it is moving to 9:30 a.m. I am at WORK during that time, so that's a no go. And I am bad at doing it on my own. Bad, I tell you.

I'm going to have to resort to Pilates or something. I have no desire at all to do Pilates. Maybe kettlebells can firm my fanny, whittle my waistline, curve my calves, de-jiggle my arm wiggle. Here is my haiku, inspired by my exercise reluctance:

Standing in the gym.
Love handles I do not love.
Push myself! Work out!

Here's another:

Sweat rolling down neck.
Breathless. Acheing. All meant to
Work off that cookie.

Jesus Died for my Sins (thank goodness)

Well, I did not smash the wagon to bits, but I am not the shining star on the wagon, either. I gave myself a big ole freebie weekend for Easter, vowing to not care about what I ate. I'm Methodist and we don't do guilt. (Or at least that is what I have been told by my elders.) So, yay Jesus is risen! I'll eat frosted cookies to celebrate! And potato salad! And cheesy potato casserole! And green bean casserole! And fresh-baked dinner roles! And angel food cake! And chocolate, of course! Because what says "eternal gratitude" for my Lord's sacrifice? - chocolate, that's what.

Well, the weekend wasn't a total loss. I did go on a nice long walk on Saturday morning - wore out my fat old dog who hasn't been on a walk since Fall, poor thing. Then we took kids to this really cool new park and I climbed on and played on everything there, too. It was fun! Except for the "saddle spinner" which is this seat that you give yourself one little push and will then spin for all eternity until you put your foot down. I had to try really hard not to hurl.

And at one point, I felt like crap. Seriously, I was jittery and felt slightly ill after too many cookies and little Hershey's eggs. Too bad that didn't translate into at least a week of feeling nauseated at the sight of sweets. Heck, I still can't really stomach Bacardi Limon (after a bad episode at my sister's graduation party, ending with drinking the stuff straight out of the bottle and heading straight for the bathroom to talk on the big white phone), and that's after about 10 years post-OD on the stuff. So why don't I have that same aversion to frosted sugar cookies? Darn it. Oh well. "Forgive me Father, for I have sinned..... I'll say two Weight Watcher's pledges and vow to stay out of my kids' Easter baskets."

Sledge Hammer, Please

I weighed myself this morning, cuz I know I have not exactly been following the points system like in my brief but shining days of glory. 146.5 - up 2.5 pounds. This pisses me off. I had on my PJs, so I quickly stripped (sorry for the nasty visual image) down to my skivvies, and... 146.5 - up 2.5 pounds. THIS PISSES ME OFF!! Frigga-frack! I have been faithfully going to Turbo Kick and I push myself in that class. I get low in my squats, reach high with my arms, add in the extra bounces for those extra calorie-burning moments, but all to little avail, apparently. And I could handle it if I could see some change in my body shape or something. But nope, same old oval-shaped slab of flab laying like some big gooey egg on my abs. Same wrinkled dimply knee fat, same size of clothing, same rolls that squish over my pantyhose. I'm not only about to fall off of the wagon, I'm about to jump off and smash the damn thing all to bits. Anybody got a sledgehammer?