The more you know...

I was talking about exercise and self-image with my mother the other night. She is also losing weight and getting healthier...I can just hear her saying, "Well, I don't know about that. I'm trying..." Stop-it, mom, she's doing great. Anyway, she is in an exercise class with a colleague. They both started about the same time though my mother has a bit more to lose than the other woman. She also has some trouble with her knees and recently she had to take some time out to have dental surgery; it'll take all the zoom right out of you. And then she gets back to class and what are they doing? Zumba. And her friend knows all the steps and my mother had to work a bit to pick it up.

"The instructor is up there and she's a tiny little thing and she has tiny little hips and she's shaking her butt so fast I can't even see it anymore! I mean it! She just goes so fast, I can't believe it! and I can't do that, Melynda, I just can't; it's because my butt is so big."

Of course, if you've ever seen a talented, generously-sized Hawaiian hula dancer, you know that is not the case.

"Mom, my butt has got to be bigger than yours and I can shake it pretty fast. I can shake all kinds of stuff. It may not be as aesthetically pleasing as watching her stuff wiggle around but I can do it. And if I can do it, so can you."

So I told her everything I know about shakin' ass. My mother. I taught my mother how to rump shake over the telephone. Yeah, my life—it is never boring.

Mostly I learned what I know from a combination of fearlessness, several years dancing in clubs with a spectacular gay-man-friend, and half-assed—pun intended—study of bellydance. Eventually I hope to study bellydance in earnest but until I feel comfortable walking around in public in a midriff, it's all youtube and Netflix instructional videos.
I've learned a lot. And all that muscular isolation results in a lot of good, strong shimmying. I suppose I had no idea how I would use my new powers when I was learning them but I think if it helps my mother get through an hour of Zumba...for real. I win.

Well, we all do.

We were also talking about a strange tendency I had read about on another blog. The habit of some people to feel less big than they really are. Really, to think of themselves one way instead of constantly feeling the weight and size everyone else sees them as. I do this all the time. Or at least, I think I do.

I don't feel tremendously fat. I don't feel anything about my size other than to acknowledge that I am larger than other people. It isn't until I see a dreaded profile picture, I mean a photograph taken of the sideview of me, that I ever think, "Wow, I look really overweight." So it isn't until then that I feel really overweight. Lately, because exercise requires it, I have been more aware of the size of my body. I can tell that I am going to be more comfortable on a bike after I lose some inches. Now my belly gets in the way sometimes and my legs feel really cramped if I get into any position that isn't sitting straight up on the saddle, none which is comfortable. I know that I will get more out of my mat work (Yoga) when I am smaller because I will have less to lift into inversions, less overall pressure on my joints, and less tissue to work around when I go all pretzel-like. I'm already pretty flexible; without the extra hundred or so pounds...I think I might eventually be able to kiss my own elbow.

I can see where I can improve but I still don't really see myself as fat. There's a difference between knowing a thing, and feeling it, you know? I'm not deluded, thinking I am a svelte jaguar, but I don't think of myself as unpleasantly hugely fat either.

My mother, taking that class with her friend, said, "So there she is, she stands in front of me in the class. So I am looking at her, watching her do all these moves, you know? And she's shaking this way and turning that way and I am following along and I think, 'I'm doing it!' And I get so excited that I'm getting it and I'm not making a fool of myself. And in my mind, I think I look like her. But then I tell myself, Uhm, no, no you don't, silly woman. You still have a looong way to go."

I guess sometimes I do the same thing. I am dancing along to whatever music video, because nothing gets your heart racing like a night in the club but I don't drink and I don't like strangers to sweat on me... most of the time.
So I'm in my apartment killin' it on the floor with J-Lo and I am jumping around and moving and shaking and dropping...and somewhere in there I might realize what I look like from an objective viewpoint...but I feel so Good and I feel so alive and sexy that that's what I think of myself. I project my feelings of power and confidence onto my self-image and I carry that around with me most days. That's what I see when I look in the mirror.

Does it matter what other people see? Or anyway, does it matter more than what I think of myself?

It took me a lot of years to figure out the answer to that.

A ride and some things I am learning to not whine about

I rode for about an hour and forty-five minutes today, bright and early, after only about a minute of kicking my little feet about not wanting to be awake yet...at ten a.m.. Yeah, I am self-employed; I set reasonable hours but I am a harsh task-mistress. And there's no health plan. I've instituted these health incentives instead: If I eat well, take a multi, and work out, I don't die.
I think as far as employee benefits, you can't really get better than that.

Things I am learning to not whine about:

1. Waking up early.

This means any earlier than I would normally let my ass roll around in bed without an alarm or caring about the cat paw swiping at my face. Mostly I wake up to do long rides in the morning before can I feel that my legs Do Not Want. Mostly I have to set two alarms to get me to do it. The crazy thing is, I like mornings. The problem is, I HATE alarms. But for now, while my internal clock seems permanently set to "I hate summer; sleep all day," I set the alarm.

2. Quinoa

I do not like this stuff. I think it tastes off, like something is wrong with it. In the way you'd say that about the super-quiet child who laughs at the wrong moment, "I think there might be something wrong with Geoffrey..." Like that. I dress it up, I flavor it up, I mix it into things, I make salads with it. Still, I end up licking the roof of my own mouth trying to figure out why something just tastes...wrong. However...

Not only is quinoa's amino acid profile well balanced, making it a good choice for vegans concerned about adequate protein intake, but quinoa is especially well-endowed with the amino acid lysine, which is essential for tissue growth and repair.
—from "Quinoa" at http://www.whfoods.org

Damn. So no more whining about quinoa. Though I reserve the right to think that it is beyond awful that there is a Quinoa Corporation, I am just going to suck it up and eat it up. As an ancillary benefit: the more of it I eat, the more I will win at Scrabble.

3. Clothes that don't fit

Actually, I learned not to whine about this one a while ago. If your big problem in life is that you are losing weight so fast that one day you wake up and nothing fits...and you go around sighing and saying, "Woe is me, I am trying to lose weight and it's working and now my clothes are too loose," you will be struck by lightning. Or at least evil-eyed by most women in hearing distance. And some of the men, too, though they might be more subtle about it. It's like that "Friends" scene:

ROSS: I don't know what I'm gonna do. What am I gonna do? I mean, this, this is like a complete nightmare.
CHANDLER: Oh, I know, this must be so hard. "Oh no, two women love me. They're both gorgeous and sexy. My wallet's too small for my fifties AND MY DIAMOND SHOES ARE TOO TIGHT."

Earlier while I was doing some kettlebell stuff I realized that I was gleefully swearing about how much I love exercise.
"GodDammit! I love sweating!" "F--- me!, I AM AWESOME!"

This happens sometimes. I remember this feeling, this feeling of being invincible. Of knowing that, if I had to, I could run (preferably bike) from zombies...if I absolutely had to, of course I would prefer a sawed-off and a couple boxes of ammo but this is about cardio, not about target practice.
I remember back before I slipped into Boyfriend-landia...I felt great physically. I was strong and fitter than now. I was losing weight then too. I ate well and slept easily, and worked out every day. For months I had kept it up. It amazes me that I let that all gradually slip away because I fell in love (and because that person I fell for really likes fatty carbohydrates). Somehow, that doesn't seem right, like somewhere there's a factor missing....

So I guess there's another something I have to learn to not whine about, if only because of the possibilities:

4. Being alone

I'm BRILLIANT!

Instead of just exercising and eating well and losing weight, I am also going to get taller. I'm thinking at least 6-foot, 6'3" or so. And I will wear four-inch heels all the time. No one will ever see the top of my head again. I am GENIUS.

This is what happens when you play with Photoshop.

Stereo-vision

A friend of mine said, the last time she saw me, that I looked different, especially in the face.
Hmm.

I guess it is one of those things where you can't see minute changes in yourself as well as other people who don't see your face all day, every day. I can see that I look different but I tend to think that is because then-boyfriend was already being sort of distant, which hurt and was exhausting—I wore that on my face a lot of the time when the picture on the right was taken. I tend to think that most changes I can see are more attributable to the change that is inevitable when you have to pick yourself up after earth-shattering, soul-ripping heartache.

But it could be the Leslie Sansone Walk Slim DVDs; ass-killin', Beyoncé dance parties; cooking; health-research; and calorie counting that fills all my new spare time.

Thanks horrible breakup! you just might have saved my heart(health) by breaking it.

(I swear I don't fantasize all day about running into the X at NYComiCon in two years, where I will be raging hot in kick-ass "Battle Royale" costume, surrounded by admirers. "Oh—I wow! I never thought I would run into you here. It's great to see you...I know, I look even more incredible than I did before, and that's saying something...Yeah, you're an idiot." I don't fantasize about it All the time. But some of the time, oh, you bet).

I swear I didn't mean to buy food

but I did. I left the house to buy a scale, thinking, "Just because I have it doesn't mean I have to curl up on it when I am not exercising..."

The only scale I found, at the pharmacy by my apartment, was something like, 60 dollars. No thanks. I know about wanting accuracy here but umm, I'm poor.

Anyway, no scale for me. I ended up at the grocery store. I keep going through all my produce and I needed whole grains, apparently. I feel like the website where I analyze my food intake is disappointed in me. "14.6 grams of fiber? Oh, you should be ashamed of yourself! Eat some Brussels sprouts already!"

I would if I could. The store was out.

See, I live in an area where everyone, excuse me, EVERYONE has a car. And if that is an exaggeration, it is not one to say that everyone needs a car. The nearest quality grocery store is an hour-long bus trip and a half-mile walk (one way) away. Normally I would be the first one to say, "Then just walk, lazy," but the groceries suffer. I'm a long time walker from way back. Trust me, the groceries suffer. It would be different in not-90-degree weather but as it is, nothing frozen or prone to wilting would survive. So, except for Thursdays when the Farmers come and set up a tiny market, I shop with the masses at Corner Grocery Store. The cucumbers are rotten. The "fresh" spinach is slimy. The peaches are dotted with spreading bruises, like murky water running under their fuzzy skins. Yum. For that matter, the yoghurt I prefer to buy is often past expiration. I think I am the only one buying it, which probably means they will discontinue it soon.

I wish that living in the poor part of town for once didn't mean getting cut-rate, rotting produce but that is usually the way. I wonder why poor families just choose drive-through fast-food all the time, I mean, there's so much fresh, nutritious food right he— Oh. Right. Slime and mold. I don't even want to know what's going on in the meat section. Ignorance is mandatory in this case.

So I buy frozen and make do. Just because the ideal isn't an option, doesn't mean giving up is an option. This would be true even if I wasn't trying to lose weight. I wish I could still make weekly trips to Heavenly Natural Food Store, but right now I cannot. So I try not to frown at the soda aisle, the Hamburger Helper (and its beef powder), the frozen meals. I just get my dried beans, still-white cauliflower (they must have just arrived today), and frozen spinach.
I do my best to look like this is exactly what people buy at this store all the time; I like to assume some do. The fava beans were probably a bit of a hopeful stretch but hey, at over 7 grams each of fiber and protein per ounce, we should all be joining Mr. Lecter in a bite or two (liver not recommended, ever).

The scale

I am one of those people who not only does not own a scale but I forget that other people have them...and weigh themselves regularly? What's that about?

I have a terrible little story to tell you.
My father, when I was around eight or nine, decided that I was too fat. He told me that no one liked people who are fat and sad; I probably looked sad because he had just told me I was fat. He said people like to be around happy, beautiful people (obviously fat people aren't beautiful...thanks dad).
Anyway, he told me that every time he picked me up and took me to his house for a visit, that he was going to weigh me to see if I had lost any weight. He also told me that whenever he had me that I would be on a diet.

So as soon as humanly possible (it wasn't long) I stopped going over to his house. I realized that he was a...uh, a bad influence, we'll say, pretty early on.

This may have something to do with why no scale and why it never occurs to me to know how much I weigh. But it seems wrong to blog about weight loss without having some sort of quantifiable record of Success. You see those tickers all the time: the ones with a storm cloud on one side, over your starting weight and a rainbow and a pile of money and happiness on the other side over your goal weight. I don't seem to have one of those because I lack a starting weight (though I have a guess), I do not have a bathroom scale, and uh, I also lack a goal weight...it's more like a goal area, give or take twenty pounds.
I guess I already suck at blogging weight loss. But I persevere!

I am taking measurements. I may even post them if I feel particularly brave. There's something so much more visceral, real, 3D about measurements than a simple number on a screen. After all, do you know what 267 pounds looks like on this 33-year-old Mexican chick who is 5'9" and a bit muscly? I thought not. But you probably know that 55 inches is a lot of inches for a body measurement.
I am also taking pictures but considering that I took my first set myself in poor lighting using my laptop camera...I might wait until I can get a friend of mine to do a photo shoot in a week and post those instead. It's good to hang in the artist community; services for trade :)

There are a lot of benefits I bet, to having a scale. I would be able to track my progress with a graph. I like graphs. I would be able to weigh other stuff in my apartment, including my cat. Maybe her complete lack of concern for her weight would rub off on me.
And that's my real concern about getting a scale: I don't want to become numbers obsessed in all this. Until I weighed myself out of curiosity at someone else's house a few weeks ago, I had no idea what I might weigh. No clue. And now I think about that number all the time. 267. 267? 267, hmm. But not because I think it is WAAAY higher than I thought it would be or lower than I thought it might be...I just had had no idea what my weight was. The numbers, as numbers often are, are just so abstract. The way my clothes fit is real; I can understand that. How my ass looks in my underpants—I get that, that's real to me. And the fact that I can run upstairs without breaking a sweat. Rad.
But I can see how I might get sucked into the numbers game. I already sort of have become a bit too concerned with my daily caloric intake and weighing my food. I know that it's important to watch that but I almost feel like when I hit my target intake of food for the day that I should get a pat on the back, "Praise me, PRAISE ME!" even though I am only doing it for myself. How much worse will that be tracking my numeric weight loss?

To scale or not to scale?

New name, new goals, new me

So, SO MUCH has happened, as is often the case when you leave a blog for over a year. I had an exhibition, a mixed manic state (not as fun as it sounds), a relationship and now am in the post-relationship "everything hurts" stage.

They say you should never try to modify a diet, or start a new fitness plan or weight loss regime from a place of turmoil. However, when all you have control over is yourself, your body...it becomes a way of reasserting control, of gaining perspective.

Anyway, all that means is that I am finally going to be honest about the fact that I am trying to lose weight.

I have lost pounds here and there throughout the years but, especially while in this latest relationship, I have gained a few too. Fact is I haven't really put myself on any kind of weight loss plan in over ten years. I've always been overweight; I always thought I would be. But now, free of anyone else's food influence, I can eat how I want again. I can ride all I want, dance all I want. And due to spending so much time with someone who loved me and wanted Me, not an impossibly perfected version of me, a switch flipped and now I can see that I am already beautiful, so this is not coming from a negative place. I think in the past I was always afraid to try to lose weight because I knew I would still hate some part of myself for ever being ugly. Now that I know that I have never been ugly, I can try.

Human psychology is crazy, right?

So here I am, at the beginning. About a hundred pounds. About a hundred miles. About a year and a half to go.