good

This is the end of my fourth week of working out. I’ve been fairly consistent during that period, except for week two. (That was when I figured out that exercise time needs to be scheduled. Duh.)

Today I did cardio and all my weights. And this is the first time that I actually feel good after having been. I was upset to have to cut the cardio short, actually.

Mark that one on the calendar.

Lucky

Whether or not my body type is lucky is a matter of opinion. I carry weight easily, but I also tend to carry a lot of it, so the more traditional aesthetic sense might dictate unluckiness. But there are many reasons it is lucky: I am sturdy, I am naturally strong, I’ll hold up in a famine, I am rarely sick.

I am lucky to have my husband, who always tells me I am beautiful and cute and wonderful no matter what weight I am at. He is not naturally inclined toward large women, but he still seems to revel in my curviness and sturdiness. I love that he goes out of his way to make me feel like my rounded bits are appreciated, and that the lumpy bits are negligible. I also feel lucky that he is tall and sturdily constructed himself. I never feel that I’ll accidentally snap him like a twig. I can always lounge against him without worrying about hurting him. I haven’t ever had a person who was my safe place before, so far as body things go.

I am lucky that my two best friends understand weight. One is shorter than I am and from Polish peasant stock. She walks miles and miles every day and comes and goes from yoga, watches her food, but is never afraid of a piece of cake. The other is taller than I am and from German peasant stock. In the past year, she's worked out nearly every day and changed her eating habits, but she is never afraid of cake either. Lately we’ve been lunching every week. Some days we eat tofu and vegetables, and some days we eat pizza and garlic bread with cheese and brownies. All of us know that we will never be little girls, and all of us know that we are beautiful (across the board) and healthy (to varying extents).

I should remember all of this on the days when I don’t think my body is lucky, or that it brings me lucky things.

the slow slide

Thinking about how my eating habits have changed over the past 15 years.

15-18 Toyed with ovo-lacto vegetarianism, and was reasonably devoted. Then fell in love with another ovo-lacto who was flirting with veganism, and so I was strict for quite awhile. In spite of the restrictions, I did not make good choices — I remember a lot of lunches that consisted of the largest size of Arby’s curly fries, a lot of dinners of veggie egg rolls. I was sick frequently, and had pneumonia at least once during those years. I hit my all-time low adult weight my first semester of college - around 160 pounds. For me, 160 is a flat stomach and tight ass.

18 - 21 The same, but with chicken. Started eating the chicken to spite the vegetarian after we broke-up-but-stayed-friends. Then decided that I never felt sorry for chickens anyway. Back up to my high school weight, which was around 175.

22 - 24 Cleaned up my act. Lots of whole grains, lots of organic veggies, fruit, and dairy. Occasional chicken, cold-water fish on Sundays. Three liters of water each day. Isometrics and lots of stretching six days a week, and massage at least once a month. I looked great. Lots of compliments. I was about ten pounds above my high school weight.

24 - 25 Dated a guy who worked out like a manic and could use half a bottle of olive oil in one dish. My best friend was a 300-pound woman. I ate a lot with both of them, and one or the other of them turned me on to red meat again. And desserts. I quit working out, and my massage therapist moved away. Somewhere in these two years, I topped 200.

26 - 27 Quit job to begin grad school and decided that I couldn’t afford to do the organic thing any more. Met the eventual love of my life and started doing the sitting-around-and-eating-falling-in-love thing. We ate all sorts of things that were terrible for us because whenever we were together we felt like celebrating. Kept going for occasional walks, then less, then even less. Then started writing thesis and quit moving all together.

28 - 29 Finished the thesis, graduated. Moved to the snowy north, and figured that new life = new habits. Began walking again and eating better until I broke my ankle during the first winter. It’s a slow-healing injury, but I watched my weight during my three months of immobility, and lost about 13 pounds. Then we decided to get married in the summer and I freaked out and started eating. Kept eating all through the fall, right through to January. When I finished, I was still about 10 pounds below my thesis weight, so not all was lost.

Things I’m Doing Right

It seems important to remind myself of things I’m doing right, since I’ve been spending a fair amount of energy beating myself up for the things I’m not doing completely right with food. (If nothing else, I’m determined this blog isn’t going just to be a place to wallow in memories.)

• I’m doing cardio at least three times each week, for at least 30 minutes. For most of that period, I’m keeping my heart rate at the top of the range my trainer recommended.
• I’m meeting with The Trainer tomorrow morning. This is our second session, and we’ll start adding weights to my routine.
• I’m being fairly consistent with my water — at least 68 ounces each day.
• I’ve committed to a regular routine of deep-tissue work for as long as I can afford it. This has helped me immensely in the past. Really, I never looked/felt better than when I was really on top of this aspect.
• I’m being reasonably consistent about doing the things my massage therapist wants me to do to reduce inflammation: icing inflamed areas regularly, taking a low dose of ibuprofen, judicious hot baths. And remaining hydrated! (See previous.)
• I’m making some progress toward managing my stress. Working out helps, of course. And so does semi-regular yoga. Saturday I made myself take the day off, and went to a movie for the first time since last summer.

And really, my eating is much better than it was six months ago. I’m regularly getting lots of fruits and veggies, eating whole grains every day, limiting my desserts, and backing off the meat. Plus, I’ve completely cut out my Diet Coke habit in favor of one cup of black tea each day.

Looking at this all neatly listed does make me feel better. That’s quite a lot of Things Done Right over the last bit.

immutability

One of the most prominent obstacles is my lack of belief that things can change. It surprises me that I feel this way this time around, since all my previous efforts were marked by great enthusiasm. This time, I really don’t actually believe that progress is possible, even though I’ve dropped about 7 pounds this year, which is respectable enough for half-past February.

There’s a memory that keeps surfacing lately. I am seven. There is some sort of after-hours event at my school, and I have spent time picking out a dress and arraying myself for it. I think I look good. Mom and I drive down the back roads to my public school. I remember the slant of the autumn light. The dryness of the grass. And the way she looked over at me, looked down at my belly, and said, “My god, with that belly you look pregnant.”

What a thing to say to a seven year old.

You have to understand that the talk about pregnancy as an undesirable state started very early at my house. Both my aunt and my grandmother had been pregnant teenagers, and Mom was determined to avoid the same fate for me. So being pregnant was obviously a bad thing, something you wouldn’t want to be. For her to say that to me was a mark of utter digust.

Secondly, I wasn’t an obese child. Looking at pictures, I’m reasonable for my large frame. I was certainly never anything approaching skinny or thin. My peasant genes have always shown. And like many children, I puffed out and then shot up with growth spurts.

I can’t remember if I thought of myself as fat before the moment I’ve described. But I certainly have ever since, and it was reinforced on many other occasions by my mother and by others. I think this has a fair amount to do with my conception of fat as immutable.

Why write?

This morning, I meant to go to the gym. Really. And on the mornings when I just go and don’t think about it, I usually get there.

This morning, I couldn’t get out of the house, and couldn’t figure out why. I had my workout clothes on. I was stretched out. I had the time scheduled. But I kept coming back to the computer, over and over, to do just a little more work. Finally I made myself be still for a bit and figure out what the hell my problem was.

I didn’t feel worthwhile enough to go work out.

And that was when it became clear that, in spite of my determination not to have yet another blog, writing was the only way out of this. I am on the brink on failing yet again, and I’m determined that I won’t this time. That is my gift to myself as I turn 30.

Funny that a cheesy anonymous Blogger account is part of that gift, after all these years of full-identity blogging and owning my own domain. God has a sense of humor.