I’ve Lost a Bowling Ball

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I know this is me. I promise to stop soon.

Remember my post on January 22nd about how I gained a bale of hay?  Well guess what?  I’ve started to lose some of that bale of hay.  How do I know?  Let me count the ways:

  1. I can actually get my wedding bands off without the use of motor oil.
  2. When I sit, people don’t rush up to me asking when the bakery opens.
  3. I now only have enough chins to share with 1 other person instead of 4.  Sorry people.  I am a registered organ donor, not a body part donor.
  4. I can fit a kitten in my bra, WITH my boobs in it.
  5. On the subject of bras…they now ride up on me.  Even on the tightest setting.  That poses a real problem at My Retail Job.
  6. I no longer need a shoe horn to get into my jeans.
  7. When I walk across the floor, objects don’t fall off the dresser.
  8. I haven’t been mistaken for a Chicago Bears Linebacker from behind in quite some time now.
  9. There is a dot of light coming through between the upper part of my thighs.  Enough to light the head of a pin.  But light just the same.
  10. My arms stop waving about 3 seconds sooner than before.

It would seem that I have lost the size of a bowling ball that is used by an average adult male.  I don’t know.  I think that’s pretty cool.  And that bowling ball is staying where it belongs…in the lane, the alley, the gutter.  Wherever.  Just not on me.  I’m good with that.  I’m happy with that.  So happy, I could go bowling.

A Bump In the Night

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I know it’s not Breast Cancer Awareness Month.  I’m either late or early, however you want to look at it.  But I want to tell you a little story.  About 2 weeks ago, I was sitting on the couch watching television with DH.  It was late.  I was probably recuperating from a long shift from My Retail Job.  My right hand was resting on my left breast.  I’m not one to particularly feel myself up.  It just kinda was resting there.  And I felt a lump.  A huge freaking lump.  Practically sticking out of my skin.

About 2 months ago, I had a mammo AND a follow-up ultrasound.  I get the ultrasound every year because my boobies are cystic.  Our lovely insurance doesn’t pay for it.  But it’s peace of mind for me.  I know she’s pretty far removed, but my mother’s grandmother had breast cancer and would have died of it if a major heart attack hadn’t gotten to her first.

Anyway, I actually didn’t freak.  I didn’t see my life flash before my eyes.  I knew it couldn’t be cancer because I just had the girls squished, pulled and molested by not one, but two strangers.  And cancer just doesn’t grow that fast.  Does it?

I waited about a week and a half before I made my GYN appointment.  I didn’t want to seem like an alarmist.  I was hoping it would go away.  Well, it wasn’t going away.  But I was completely obsessed with feeling it.  Every.Single.Moment.  I knew in my gut that it was nothing.  I was just obsessed with the damn thing.  Like a pimple-on-the-end-of-my-nose kind of obsessed.

The good doc said it was a cyst.  So he prepped a nice big needle, numbed the area and stuck it in.  Nothing.  He did it again.  Nothing.  Completely empty needle thingy.  He seemed pretty surprised.  Then wrote a script for yet another ultrasound.  Joy.  I left his office battered, bruised and maybe a tad bit nervous.  But just a tad.  I’m pretty sure my blood pressure didn’t change or anything.  It was just the hypochondriac in me.

I went for my ultrasound 2 days ago.  It’s a cyst.  In fact, you can see it on my last sonogram from April.  It was teeny tiny.  Then grew.  And grew.  I think the thing is on steroids.  They said it would probably just go away.  My question is do I have to grow another boob to house this thing before it decides to move along?  And, when will it go away?  My bra only holds a “D”.  I may have a problem.

So, check your lady bumps girls.  It’s important.  I’m lucky.  Some are not.  I have friends who have/had breast cancer.  I am not one to give myself a breast exam because I am completely squeamish about those things.  But now I will make it a habit.  Get to know those babies.  And any lump or bump that wasn’t there before and/or feels weird, call your doc.  Just to be sure.  Chances are it’s nothing.  But at least you’ll spend less time being obsessed.  And save the breast exam for once a month instead of every second like I did.  Total time waster, trust me on that one.

Manufactured Reality

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A friend shared this picture on Facebook a couple of weeks ago.  These fine ladies were spotted in a Swedish retail establishment.  There was a bit of an outrage over them.  It seems that they “condone obesity.”  I have something to say about that.

First, kudos to this store.  America should follow suit.  Second, please define “obese” because I don’t understand.  They look pretty damn normal to me.  In fact,  I think they are hot.  They are curvy, voluptuous and sexy.  They look like you and me.  Not some undernourished, unrealistic waif.

I have a serious problem with the mannequins stores use today.  Because these “models” are probably about a size 0.  A size 0 mannequin is on display in a store that I shop in.  A store that is meant for women.  Most women I know are not a size 0.  These plastic bimbos get us in the door because we want what they are wearing.  So, we go on a quest to find the item in our size, try it on, and inevitably are disappointed because it doesn’t fit us like it fits the chick in the window, who by the way, has her clothing held on by a big-ass binder clip.  There is something wrong with that.  And it’s called false advertising.

I’m guessing that if the media, magazines, STORES, stopped portraying women and girls like this:

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my arm is bigger than this chick’s thigh.

…the percentage of eating disorders would drop.  It’s just a guess.  Because I am no expert.  I have fallen under the spell of advertisers. Until the realistic part of my brain makes me come to my senses.  But I worry about the young girls of our society.  They have to look at this same crap.  And feel the same way.  Except it’s way worse for them because they don’t have the ability to always think sensibly and are swayed by false advertising more than we are.

I don’t know about you, but I want my teenage daughter to feel good about herself.  To have high self esteem.  I don’t want her feeling badly about herself because some plastic bitch said she was fat.  It just makes our jobs as parents more difficult.  And can possibly undo years of hard work we put into our children.

So, shame on you retail stores, magazines, the media.  And bring on those size 12 mannequins. They are more than welcome here!

 

Death of a Grouper

Remember when I posted this on my Grouper post:

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That was on January 22.  Almost 4 months ago.  Since then I have completely changed my eating habits.  That picture actually makes me sick.  It just doesn’t float my boat anymore.

I’m kinda proud of myself.  And to say I’m shocked would be the understatement of the year.  Because when I said I was a grouper, I meant it.  In every sense of the word.  I was literally a bottom feeder.

The ultimate test was this:  I went out to dinner with DH the other night and he ordered desert.  I took half a bite because he made me.  I’m ashamed to admit it, but I’m notorious for caving under peer pressure.  It did not taste good.  For once, I actually ate less than hubby.

As far as the children of Ethiopia go?  I’m sorry kids.  If I could be promised it would make it to you without spoiling, I’d send it over.  But from now on, unless it’s low-fat and healthy, that leftover crap is going straight into the trash.  And I got to this place without a stitch of therapy.  Go figure.

We cannot predict the future.  Anything can happen.  But what I can control, I will.  Honestly, I would like to live to see the kid get married and have children.  Yes, I am admitting it.  I’d like to be a grandmother one day.  And not one that is overweight and wrought with medical problems.  Thank you very much.

“A minute on the lips, a lifetime on the hips” is so true on so many levels.  So choose wisely my friends.  It’s a matter of life and death.  But it’s okay to splurge once in a while.  In fact, I encourage it.  Go for oysters and wine.  Then exercise those suckers right off.  Wink wink…

Medieval Torture?

Inflict torture on our bodies.  That’s what we women do.  All in the name of Beauty.  Yesterday, as I was sitting in The Threader’s chair, with tears running down my face, little hairs itching my nose and a strong urge to punch the threading broad in the face and take her stupid floss and shove it where the sun don’t shine, I started wondering why we do these things to ourselves.  After I was finished tormenting myself, I walked around looking like I tried to set fire to my face:

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(There I go looking like Droopy again.  It’s uncanny, isn’t it?)

Then I got to thinking of all the other things we do for beauty.

Bikini Wax.  I did that.  Once.  About 16 years ago.  On the floor of the living room of my best friend’s apartment.  With 2 towels.  One in my mouth to prevent someone from calling the cops.  And one underneath me so when I bled to death, at least her carpet would be saved.  In retrospect, I probably should have gone to a professional.  It was likely equivalent to asking a butcher to cut my hair (sorry P, I know you tried).  And you women who go full-out and do that brazilian wax number?  If I wore a hat, I’d tip it to you.  You are some brave chicks.  There isn’t enough Holy Water in Jerusalem to get me to do that EVER.

Hair Coloring.  All those chemicals that get rubbed into our scalps.  I won’t highlight my hair but once or twice a year because I’m afraid of developing a brain tumor.  My stylist thinks I’m nuts.  But I remember when Jackie O died.  Everyone kept saying it was because she colored her hair too many times.  That totally freaked me out.  I’d rather walk around looking like Lillian Munster.

Fake Nails.  We ingest more chemicals during that process.  That shit seems so toxic to me.  Yes, I used to go get fake nails put on back before I was married.  But now I’m scared to death of all that.  I’m good with my nubs.  Besides, I can’t really hurt anyone, particularly The Threader, with what I have rockin’ at the end of my phalanges.

Botox, boob jobs, nips, tucks.  It’s endless.  All for what?  So we can look good, of course.  People don’t want to look at our hairy faces, sagging foreheads or breasts that wobble to and fro’.  What’s wrong with embracing our natural beauty?  Apparently, this chick doesn’t agree.  She looks much better now, don’t you think?

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Her “before” picture is to the right, believe it or not.  She sure was ugly once.

How I Am Getting Healthy

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Mr. Martian enjoys my elliptical more than I do, I’m afraid to say

I posted today on my Facebook page that I lost 8 pounds.  One of my followers wanted me to share how I am doing it.  Basically for me, it’s a life change.  Not a diet.  Besides having high cholesterol and suffering from reflux, I am at the stage in my life where if I don’t start taking care of myself, the kid will have a problem on her hands.  I don’t want to be her problem. I would like to control what I can.  And I would like to enjoy my Golden Years when the time comes.  With my hubby.  Who is healthy.

Let me start by saying that I am a foodie.  A major foodie.  There isn’t a food I won’t try and there isn’t much I don’t like.  I’ll even eat it if it falls on the floor, has a little mold or is a bit past the expiration date.  Remember, I hate throwing food away.  And I’m gross.

I don’t believe in fad diets.  I’ve tried them all from cabbage soup to Atkins.  And then only to have every pound plus some jump back on me within a few short weeks.  Although it took me months to lose it.  I believe it’s a conspiracy.

So here’s what I am doing.  I cut a lot of fat from my diet.  I try to eat at least my daily allowance of fruits and vegetables.  I am eating a healthy snack that I enjoy in between my meals so I’m not starving when lunch and dinner comes along.  I LOVE me my carbs but they had to be reduced.  Reduced, not cut.  I am not into depriving myself of All Things I Love. That doesn’t work for me.  Like I said, I am a foodie.  Depriving a foodie is like depriving a fish of water.  Not a good outcome.

I don’t put a crapload of food on my plate like I used to.  I had a really bad habit of eating way beyond the point of being full.  You know that feeling where you just can’t move?  It’s completely unnecessary.  I haven’t done that in over 2 months and I couldn’t be better.  And I never need to reach for my bottle of Tums anymore.  Ever.

I abhor exercise, so I chose something I know I can do and stick with.  I walk 3 miles 4-5 times a week.  Fast walking.  With some hills.  I plug my earphones into my iPhone and go to town.  Before I know it, it’s 45 minutes later and I feel great.  It’s completely invigorating.  If it’s crappy outside, I try to get on my elliptical for 30 minutes.  I hate it.  It’s boring and there is no fresh air.  But at least I’m moving.  No more excuses.  I have grown tired of excuses.

I will be happy if I could lose another 8-10 pounds.  But I know my limits.  I will never have that 120 pound body ever again and I am at peace with it.  I will not lose weight that I know isn’t realistic for me.  I don’t need to look like a super model.  The point here is to get healthy.  Besides DH likes me with curves.  And who am I to deprive him?

I Think It’s Time

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In case you are wondering, that is my chin.  Not my mother’s chin although I can see where you would make that mistake (sorry, mom).   Not Mount St. Helens.  Or a lumpy cushion.  My chin.

When did this happen?  It use to look like this:

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and like this:

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Now that I have given up wine during Lent (except on Sundays) even though technically I didn’t need to because I no longer practice the Catholic religion but do practice Lent so I will do it for Jesus, I have decided that now is as good as any to get my fat ass up and moving.  In addition to the fact that I have completely lost my neck, I want you to see that I have also lost my sweet little booty and flat stomach but gained some nice arm and back fat. I actually used to have really nice legs.  They too, are gone.  This is me at 154.6 pounds:

Day 1 - Front View
Day 1 – Front View
Day 1 - Side View
Day 1 – Side View

I know.  Don’t be jealous.  Jealousy is not very becoming.

A fellow momblogger, http://not-your-average-mom.com (if you haven’t read her blog, please do. She’s really funny) has inspired me.  She has been posting pictures of herself during her weight loss journey.  Don’t expect as good results from me so quickly because she works out A LOT.

So, I decided that in order for me to finally get moving and do something about this problem, I am going to commit to my readers.  Because if I don’t follow through I will embarrass myself and this is a small town.  I don’t want you bitches talking smack about me.  I say that in jest.  Love to you all.

I know I’m really putting myself out there.  I am being real and I am being honest.  I am sharing the bad and the ugly.  But I have zero drive and even less will power and I’m afraid if I don’t do something to make myself accountable, I will continue to be on the downward slope.  And I don’t ski.

So far today I have walked 3 miles in the freezing 25 degree weather, had a salad for lunch and drank more water than usual.  I’m off to a good start.  But it’s only day 1 and I still have to meet the girls tonight for my weekly “Monday Night with the Girls” ritual.  Wish me luck.

If you don’t mind, I will post a new pic each week to see if I’m changing for the better.  If you don’t want to look, please don’t.  I know it’s a lot to ask and I appreciate your support.  And who wants to look at me week after week?  I don’t.  That’s why I’m doing this.  Goodbye double chin.  You are no longer welcome.

I Am a Grouper

No, not a groupIE — a rock band following floozy.  But a groupER — a bottom feeding fish.  That’s how I like to describe myself these days.  I believe that is one of the reasons why I have gained a bale of hay…55 pounds…since this:

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DH, the kid and I went to a local BBQ place for lunch over the weekend.  This is what we ordered:

  • Wings
  • Potato Skins
  • Onions Rings

That was just for starters.  For my main meal, I ordered a pulled pork sandwich with sweet potato fries. The kid ordered a pulled pork sandwich with regular fries, but that doesn’t matter.  She’s 14.

DH ordered a small cup of chili.  That is why I can bounce a quarter off his ass AND his stomach.  Even though he is old.  Even though he is middle-aged.  Because he is not a grouper, he is a guppy.

There was this left over:

  • 1/4 of a potato skin
  • 2 onion rings
  • 1 wing
  • 1/2 sandwich
  • 1 small pile of sweet potato fries

DH hates leftovers.  They pretty much repulse him.  Me?  There are starving children in Ethiopia and I cannot, will not, throw anything away.  Well, unless it starts to look like a science project and even then I have a problem with it.

So against hubby’s wishes I told the server to wrap it all up.  That was Saturday.  Yesterday was Monday.  DH tried to toss out my leftovers twice but I caught him and threatened bodily harm.

So I ate this for lunch to save it’s life:

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Even though I wasn’t hungry.  If I didn’t, it would go into the garbage and I couldn’t live with myself.  I guess that explains why I look like this now:

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All because I can’t throw away food.  Ok, I’ll say it…I’m middle aged too.  I know that doesn’t help.  I also know I’ll never have that 23 year old body again.  But come on.  A bale of hay?

Please Keep the Muffin Top Where It Belongs – In the Bakery

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I have a slight problem.  That problem would be the extra skin, flab, lard, fat — more affectionately known as “The Muffin Top” — around my midsection.  Really.  I’m not running a bakery, so what gives?

Every day, I agonize over getting dressed.  Now of course, if I were willing to give up my size 6 jeans and give in to my “real” size (that would be an 8 or…cough, cough…a 10) I wouldn’t have the problem of spillage.  Yes, I can get them zippered and buttoned.  But only after a few squats, stretches and very — and I mean VERY — deep inhales.  The wondrous sight that awaits me is not pretty.  Let me introduce you to my BFF — the loose fitting top with the elastic around the waist, so it doesn’t show belly you wouldn’t want your own mother to see.

Over the summer I attended a wedding. I kid you not, I had to pour myself into not one, but TWO spanx-like devices so that my tummy would appear slimmer.  Forget about sitting down all day.  And using the bathroom?  Well, let me just say when I excused myself to relieve the bladder, my DH was close to sending out a search team.  I do appreciate the Spanx.  ALOT.  Thank you to the brilliant person who invented them.  I really do LOVE you!  (Disclaimer:  if someone tries to hug you, brush up against you, or even get within arms length of you while wearing these contraptions, your cover is totally blown.)

So why buy bigger jeans and possibly look better too?  Because I’ve got it under “control.”  And anyway, I’m going on a diet Monday.  Nachos anyone?