CCC's Journey to Less of Me

Does this thing still work?

2012-01-20T23:12:00.000-08:00

Yeah, I know. I abandoned ship. A long time ago.

But get this...I'm still trying to lose weight. All while trying to adjust to my new role as mom. And that means, a new blog.

Swing by. Say hello. I promise, for the most part, I'm still me.

You can find my new online home at Diaper, Wipes, Shoes & Wine.

Looking back...and forward.

2009-01-04T10:05:00.001-08:00

So 2008 is over. It's a natural time for reflection. For introspection. For seeing what positive steps I took over the course of the past year.

I'm not one of those New Year's resolution types. I don't believe in them and think most of the time, they just set you up to fail...and then feel miserable about it. But I certainly don't mind taking a step back at the end of every year and looking back at how my life changed over the course of 12 months.

Some years, there are remarkable moments to reflect on...like the year I married Mr. CCC. Or how we bought our first house. The year I got my first real writing job. The year I lost more weight than I gained.

Looking back at 2008 I see...12 months with some significant changes here and there...Mr. CCC and I welcomed a niece (whom I adore!) into our family. My company may be struggling, but I'm doing some of the best work of my career, personally. Mr. CCC has come into his own at work too. I started volunteering at a local animal shelter--something I'd been wanting to do for years. I began training with Ms. A--and while I haven't seen the progress I would have liked totally, I know my body is stronger than it was a year ago. Overall, I'd say Mr. CCC and I are growing up---and slowly accepting that whole "we're adults now!" thing...

But my weight? Pretty much stayed the same.

Over the holidays, I beat myself up over that for quite a while. We posed for pictures on our New Year's cruise and in looking at them, I felt my heart break. Sometimes I've been able to fool myself into thinking I looked okay--with flattering clothes and great hair days. But cameras don't lie. And those pictures showed me I was still far heavier than I should be.

It wasn't exactly a new realization. Before the holidays, I went completely bananas and re-joined Weight Watchers for approximately the 325th time. Only a crazy person would join WW during the holidays but I figured if I could just get through the holidays by staying the same weight, I'd be ahead of the curve once New Year's passed.

Tomorrow, I'll head back to my meeting. I'll see if I met that goal. I'll also be back in the gym with Ms. A (Thanks to some sessions from Mr. CCC and my mom as Christmas gifts, yay!) and there will be no more looking backwards.

Sure, maybe 2008 didn't help me reach all the health goals I would have liked. But it taught me plenty and now it's time to move forward...

Reason #210,504,875,999 I relate to Biggest Loser

2008-09-23T17:05:00.000-07:00

Since discovering NBC's Biggest Loser a few years ago, I have been hooked. It's motivation t.v. People bigger than me, in worse shape than me, literally working their butts off and reaching their goals. Even though yes, it's not the most realistic way to lose weight (Um, I've never lost 10 pounds in one week!), it's proof of how hard work and good eating can get you where you want to be.

But before I hired Ms. A, I always cocked my head sideways when I saw the contestants weep at the thought of losing Bob or Jillian and having to work out on their own. I'd tell myself, "But you've already learned what you need to do! Just GO DO IT!"

Well, I am now officially off my sassy horse. Because guess what...the past six weeks without Ms. A have been a disaster.

I didn't eat well. I didn't exercise as much as I should have. The endorphin kick that made me energized and happy completely evaporated. I became the person I was before I trained with her--nervous, scared and miserable.

So when she sent me a text message last week telling me her maternity leave was over, I was ecstatic. We set up an appointment and I had time to think. I admit--I was filled with dread. I knew when I walked back into the gym, Ms. A would make me pay for my six week hiatus.

The thought was a little terrifying. And then it became empowering. In the time I worked with Ms. A, she challenged me like no one ever has. But she never let me hurt myself. She never let me fail. She never let me fall. She believed in me when I didn't believe in myself.

So imagine my disappointment when I had to cancel my appointment with Ms. A this weekend. Why? I went and somehow ruptured a blood vessel in my eye--the day before we were to train. When I should have been in the gym, I was sitting in my optometrist's office making sure the redness in my eye was nothing serious. (Thank goodness, it's not.)

I finally had my workout with Ms. A this morning. First off, can I just say the SIGHT of the woman is an inspiration? She had a baby six weeks ago--and looks amazing. I almost tripped over myself when I saw her. But when we started working out, all of my worst fears came true. I got dizzy and light-headed. I couldn't do some of the things I'd been doing just six weeks ago. So we modified.

But the point was--I finished. I did what she asked me and while I crept out of the gym exhausted, I felt good for the first time in six weeks.

So there you have it...I'm one of those "I worship at the altar of my personal trainer" people. And I absolutely love it.

Where did my good habits go?

2008-08-25T15:52:00.000-07:00

I know I've read the stat somewhere...that it takes 6-8 weeks (maybe more?) for a change in behavior to become a habit.

Whether it's 6, 8, or even 52 weeks, I know that for well over a year--possibly even two years--I've been eating breakfast. Yet on my last hiatus, eating breakfast was one of the first healthy habits I dropped.

Getting back into it has been tough. (Example: today's breakfast was a cup of skim milk and a 100-calorie Lorna Doone packet). As much as I love food, I am just not into breakfast. Eggs, toast, pancakes, yogurt...none of them appeal to me. When I was training regularly with Ms. A, I had to have breakfast. There was no way around it. If I didn't eat, I was going to pass out from the tough workouts she put me through.

So without her, both my workouts and runs to the breakfast table have been shamefully diminished. The good news is I'm tackling this breakfast thing head on this week. Goal is to do better every day than Lorna Doones and milk.

Even if that means low-fat PB & J sandwiches. (Hey, no one said breakfast actually had to BE breakfast, right?)

Picking myself up and dusting myself off...

2008-08-19T17:21:00.000-07:00

One thing I've learned about myself over the past couple of months.

I can talk a really good game. I can't always follow through.

See my last post for proof. A month ago, I was telling myself to get back on track. To stop obsessing, to get myself going.

Here I am, weeks later, still saying the same thing. Opening the cupboard and feeling embarrassed about all the junk I've bought (and yes, eaten). Standing on the scale and berating myself for not stopping the downslide sooner. (In the past two months, I have gained almost six pounds. Yes, two vacations were tossed into that mix--one to Europe and one to Las Vegas, but I've been home for a while. No reason not to start up with the healthy habits again!)

Two years ago, I started trying to lose weight. The goal? Get myself in better shape and at a healthy weight to have a baby. I wanted to reach that before my 30th birthday.

My 30th birthday was three weeks ago. And not only was I not at my goal weight, I had turned my back on my healthy habits.

Despite all the positive, good things I was telling myself, I looked at the number on the scale and saw that no matter how much work I was putting in, it wasn't dropping. So I stopped putting the work in.

And surprise, surprise. If you stop exercising and you start eating packets of raw cookie dough, your weight will creep up again.

You don't get credit for the hard work you did in the past. Your body takes what you're doing in the present and runs with it.

So, two months of no effort resulted in a few gained pounds. My new clothes looked snugger and snugger. The pretty sleeveless dress I bought for my 30th birthday--the one so many sizes smaller than what I was two years ago--was actually, GASP--tighter on the big day. (Note to self: Thank heavens for Spanx!)

And yet even days after coming home from my 30th birthday trip, I couldn't make myself get back to the gym (It didn't help that Ms. A was on maternity leave and there was no one to push me.) I couldn't stop eating out. (And while eating out, I didn't exactly go for the healthy options.) I kept telling myself, "What's the point in working? The work wasn't paying off."

And viola, a few pounds smacked me back to reality.

Despite all the blogs I've written about not quitting, I did quit. I only thank heaven that I caught myself before a few pounds turned into 10 or 20, or God forbid, put me back at my starting weight.

So it's back to the drawing board. Back to the workouts, back to the journaling, back to the healthy eating. And back to blogging. It keeps me accountable. It gives me an outlet. It reminds me I am not alone.

Mea culpa...

2008-07-16T04:55:00.000-07:00

A negligent blogger.

I suppose I should change the title of my little internet pet project because yes, I understand, I have been away far, far too long.

I could throw excuses on the pile...talk about the business trip that drained me of my energy, the month of May in which I worked hours upon hours, the overdue vacation that finally put my mind right. All have contributed to my extended absence.

But the biggest truth is that I've been tired. Tired of obsessing about my weight. Tired of countless workouts and measured meals. Tired of feeling obligated to sit down and pour my heart out when, well, I wasn't sure exactly what I was feeling.

The past month and a half has been a roller coaster, weight wise. I wouldn't be lying if I said it just wasn't one of my top priorities. Doing well at my job has become the newest obsession--particularly because my company announced they are laying off between 50-60 of us in my division.

So yes, I've been working out with A. But I've inhaled more than a few balls of raw cookie dough. Yes, I've started volunteering at the local humane society (the one activity on my weekly calendar that truly relaxes me!), but I've had lunches out with my fellow volunteers when our shift ends.

The number on the scale has stayed the same.

This hasn't bothered me. I need to schedule more thyroid testing very soon, but my body has changed and I am finally starting to accept that itself is a sign of progress.

I am getting more compliments on my weight loss from those who haven't seen me in a while. I am able to complete the progressively more challenging workouts A designs. A few weeks ago, I bought a sleeveless dress that is four sizes smaller than the size I was when I started my weight loss efforts.

This has been enough for me, for now.

Is it complacent? Maybe. Like I said, I'm tired of focusing so much energy on one part of my life. So I haven't blogged--because I haven't felt very inspiring or very strong.

But just as I have for the past two years, I carry on. I keep trying to eat well, I keep trying to exercise. I don't berate myself for an occasional treat here and there. (For the record, our 10 days in Europe were filled with wienerschnitzel, chocolate and wine. And I do not feel bad about the .75 pound I gained while there).

Maybe it's just taken two years to get to the point where I really have grasped the importance of moderation--not only in what I eat, but in how I view this part of my life.

And for those of you that have checked in and asked how I was doing--who wondered about me--I truly appreciate it. Your encouragement made me smile and I promise--I'll try really, really hard not to disappear like that again.

Staring another road trip in the face...

2008-05-01T19:03:00.000-07:00

Since I started trying to lose weight about a year and a half ago, I've noticed there are times it's really hard to stick to my healthy eating plan.

Holidays are tough. Birthdays are difficult. Weekends...some of them I've managed far better than others. But handling these has gotten easier and easier as I've moved forward.

Business trips, however, continue challenging me.

I don't know what it is...being away from home? A complete disruption of my routine? Is it all the eating out?

Do I kind of associate a work trip with a vacation? (I admit--I am far less judicious about my eating while I'm on vacation. In the past year, I've been fortunate to go to places like Hawaii and Paris. I'm not going to deny myself real mai tais or authentic pain au chocolats in places like those!)

Whatever it is--I start my work trips with the best of intentions. Last week's trip started with dinner at Longhorn...not so bad, I ordered grilled chicken with steamed veggies and rice. Lunch at Chick-Fil-A wasn't so bad either--grilled chicken sandwiches. But by my last night on the road, the idea of another grilled chicken breast made me want to pull my hair out.

So what did I order at our last dinner out?

A cheeseburger.

(Before you bring out your diet tar and feathers, I'll say I gave all my french fries to a coworker, cut the giant burger in half and only ate half of it.)

Overall--this last trip was an improvement over some of my past ones, but as I sit here, knowing that on Tuesday I'll be on the road again, I'm nervous. I don't want to give up one of my workouts with Ms. A. I don't want to want to eat the unhealthy food they have on-site. I don't want to squeeze workouts into whatever free time--if any--I have.

The good news is that this is the last business trip I'll be dealing with until October. And I've switched to a hotel that has a little mini-kitchen so I can at least have some healthy snacks and my own breakfast on hand (instead of the waffles and biscuits they'll be serving downstairs!)

It's not going to be the diet disaster other trips have been, but, I really can't wait until I'm home again and back to my routine--this time for a nice extended period of time.

Seriously--I haven't spent two straight weeks at home in...err, almost two months!

Moving at a snail's pace...

2008-04-25T07:17:00.000-07:00

I have to admit--my absence this week has had as much to do with my crazy work schedule (I'm sitting in yet another hotel room as I type this!) and my general 'bummed out-ness.'

This week marked a month of training with Ms. A...after a disappointing showing on my scale at home, I decided to fess up to her that I didn't think much anything was happening. We sat down to do my measurements, measure my body fat percentage and see how much weight I'd lost according to her scale.

Her scale showed a 3-pound loss (mine showed a 1-pound loss), I've lost just 1 1/4 total inches off my body and my body fat percentage was down 0.01.

Progress? Yes, but I'm crawling along. And Ms. A wasn't happy. So we sat down and talked about my diet--it's not ideal yet, but still. She kept shaking her head and saying, "You should be losing more than this..."

We came up with a few plans--cut down on rice and carbs and start making the switch from white, refined carbs to whole wheat. But she also said I should do something I've been putting off--go see my doctor.

I've been dreading going to see my doctor for a while. Partly because I'm afraid hearing something is wrong. But my lack of weight-loss progress isn't the only thing going on. I haven't been feeling like myself lately. And as if some sort of divine intervention was going on, I got home and came across an article in Self about thyroid problems.

I ran through the checklist of symptoms and noticed I had a few, including some not even limited to my weight loss problems. It kind of confirmed what I'd been fearing all along. And I understand thyroid issues aren't the end of the world, but it's hard to grasp something may be wrong with your body.

Either way, I've schedule an appointment to go see my doctor. Unfortunately, she can't see me until mid-May, which gives me plenty of time to worry, plenty of stress. I'm trying not to, but it's getting so hard. So hard to deal with the fact I am working so hard and not seeing much progress. But as I've been writing for the past few months--what are my options?

Quit and see my weight go back up? Throw away two years of hard work? I refuse to do that, even if right now, the only thing I want to do is kick a few walls in.

But it looked so healthy!

2008-04-18T09:04:00.000-07:00

As someone who's been dieting on and off for at least the past 10 years, I've started to consider myself somewhat of a pro when it comes to eating out...eating out is a way of life for me and when I'm really "in the zone" of eating well, I can go out to eat, pick the healthy stuff and truly enjoy the company.

I know all the "danger" words to avoid on a menu. Anything that's described as "creamy," "cheesy," or "crispy" is usually very tasty--but very bad for you. "Grilled" and "steamed"--those are things that are going to work.

So I felt pretty confident the other day when I made a run to Wendy's for lunch. I like the occasional Wendy's run--the chili is low-fat and pretty filling. Their grilled chicken sandwich is pretty good too (And I make it even better by getting it sans mayo and instead, putting some hot sauce on it. I'm a sucker for spicy!)...and that's what I intended to get when I pulled up to the drive-thru.

Until I saw the new Wendy's Go-Wraps on the menu board. Okay, I knew the fried and homestyle one were out the window. But the grilled one didn't look so bad. Especially, since in trying to analyze the picture, I saw it had little orange sticks mixed in with the lettuce. Carrots? YUM!

I ordered it, instead of my normal grilled chicken sandwich, and was happy as could be.

Until I got back to my office and opened the wrapper...those orange sticks I thought were carrots? Nope, gooey, yellow melted cheese. (In all seriousness, I'm not kidding. I really did think it was carrots--the kind that gets added in pre-packaged salads). Making it worse, it was slathered in ranch dressing.

I looked up the nutritional damage...260 calories, 11 grams of fat...for what's supposed to be an "add-on" item? (Cause let's be honest--I didn't think it was big enough to be a meal.) Eep! I peeled the cheese off, tried to scrape as much dressing off as possible, trashed the flour tortilla and ate the chicken breast and my chili. Needless to say, I was predictably hungry later.

I know now I should have gone with my usual--something I knew the nutritional stats for going in--but I got sidetracked. By something I thought was healthy and later learned wasn't.

I absolutely hate when that happens. When you think something's good for you only to learn later it's not? This has happened to me on certain occasions too--restaurant salads fall into this category and it's maddening.

It wasn't a diet disaster moment, but just one of those reminders that you really do need to be careful when you eat out--no matter how much you think you know about a menu or what you're eating. Looks can be very, very deceiving!

I want to be Chloe Marshall!

2008-04-11T09:33:00.000-07:00

Like most women who are battling their weight, I've found myself at odds on plenty of occasions with beauty pageants, fashion magazines, the fashion industry and the like.

As I've gotten older, while yes, I'm unhappy with my size, I've gained some respect and appreciation for my body and all that it does. But there are still moments when self-loathing creeps in because I can't find a nice dress or because no one makes a nice bathing suit for someone my size.

So imagine my delight when I came across an article about Chloe Marshall, a 17-year old beauty queen from England. Before you roll your eyes, take a look at Ms. Marshall...hardly your typical beauty queen.

She ain't tiny and she ain't blonde. If you look, you'll see--get ready for this--breasts. And curves. And arms bigger than toothpicks.

I'm sure you're stunned. I know I was. She's pretty, she's curvy and she thinks her body is fine just the way it is. And she hopes her entry into the Miss England pageant will show more young women that it's okay to be a normal size.

Hooray for self-esteem!

Of course, once I discovered Chloe's story, I was intrigued to read more. So I googled her name and came up with several hundred blog posts, stories and comments about her. Ouch. Daily Mail columnist Monica Grenfell wrote a scathing editorial on why Chloe Marshall shouldn't win the Miss England pageant.

Here's a little gem from Ms. Grenfell's piece:

"Who on earth does she think she's kidding? What she's demonstrating isn't bravery but a shocking lack of self-control.

Instead of flaunting her figure, Chloe ought to own up to the truth. She is fat and she got that way by over-eating.

I don't take any pleasure in attacking Chloe - after all she's only 17. But I think she has been very badly advised in her bid to champion the cause of bigger girls.

In my view, Chloe is a terrible role model.

I hope she doesn't win the Miss England title.

It would send an appalling - and very dangerous - message to other young women that it's OK to be fat."

Really, Ms. Grenfell? You don't take any pleasure in attacking a normal-sized, hard-working girl who's set out to do nothing but be a positive role model? Sounds like there is just a touch of sanctimonious, self-righteous hatred going on here.

You read Ms. Grenfall's piece and think Chloe must be at least 450 pounds, rolling herself down the aisle and smooshing herself into an inappropriately-sized bikini.

Turns out fatty Chloe Marshall is 5-foot-10, 176 pounds.

Type that into the National Institute of Health BMI calculator and you get a reading of 25.3. The normal weight range is 18.5-24.9.

Yes, Chloe's 25.3 is over the "normal" limit but c'mon...

"A poster girl for diabetes, strokes, heart attacks, cancers and all the other devastating and potentially fatal health problems that are caused or exacerbated by obesity."

Hardly.

A little more research brought me to the fact that Ms. Grenfell is a health and diet "expert"--who just released her new book, "Crash Diet"--A book that teaches you to lose 7 pounds in 7 Days...

Ha! Methinks I'll take diet and health tips from the beauty queen, just this once. Go for it, Chloe! Here's to hoping she brings home the crown!

Back home, back to my routine...

2008-04-10T17:55:00.000-07:00

So it's been a rough week. Had to go away for a week for work and let's just say...it is really, really good to be home.

On my last business trip, I lost complete control of myself. Ate whatever I wanted, didn't set foot in a gym, gained three (okay, maybe four) pounds. It was a diet disaster of the grandest proportions.

So you can imagine how nervous I was about the prospect of another business trip. One that I knew would last a week. But I trained with Ms. A the day before I left and upon researching the hotel discovered it had a 24-hour gym.

I felt good going in. Good that minutes after checking in, I was sweating away on a treadmill, good that the gym had free weights, machines, and resistance bands--all the equipment I use with Ms. A. It was great.

Until I got to the first work event and noticed the meal. Salad drenched in dressing, creamy mashed potatoes, rice pilaf and fried fish with buckets of tartar sauce. I went with the portion control theory here...but the next day, my choices were chicken parmesan and cheese tortellini in a cream sauce. Oh boy.

Needless to say, I ended up in the gym every day of my trip but one. I told myself, "If I can't eat the healthy stuff I want, I need to exercise extra hard."

As a result--came home today, weighed myself and I maintained. I'll take it.

Especially since the day before my trip, I went shopping for a few business-friendly outfits...and two weeks with Ms. A have already brought me down a size.

The Bottomless Pit

2008-04-02T15:21:00.000-07:00

There's one week a month that I swear, no matter what I do, what I eat or how much willpower I exercise, I feel just plain terrible.

Ladies, I'm sure you know what week I'm talking about.

This is the first time I've gone through PMS week since hiring Ms. A--and can I just say that yesterday's workout was especially brutal. I was dragging and struggling to finish every exercise. I was gaggy and gross and had absolutely no energy (Despite the fact I'm actually getting a good 8 hours of sleep a night).

I fessed up to what was going on and she suddenly understood...and told me it was absolutely normal. But she pushed me to keep going and keep going I did.

The dangerous part though has been the eating. I am a virtual bottomless pit before my period arrives. It's not that I crave anything in particular (Although today I fell prey to the siren song of some Wendy's fries--but I only ate a few before tossing the rest in the trash)...I'm just always hungry.

I can eat protein and it won't matter. Carbs do nothing for me. I just want to eat and eat and eat and eat. It's terrible.

Normally, I would tell myself, "Oh, relax. You have your period. You're entitled, have the cookies," and I'd indulge.

Now I'm trying to be a little more sensible and telling myself hunger--at least the hunger I'm feeling--won't kill me. I don't need to eat every hour on the hour. I am getting some nutritious meals in...I'm not really starving.

So what did I do when the mid-afternoon urge to eat hit?

Came to my computer, natch!

Progress, at last...

2008-04-01T19:02:00.000-07:00

I'll be honest.

When I stepped on the scale this morning and saw I was only down a pound, I was disappointed.

I thought about all the work I've put in. How I've pushed myself like a madwoman at the gym. How I'm eating earlier and how I've given up soda.

I was thinking for all that effort, there'd be more than one pound gone. But it wasn't to be. And then as I sat there, upset, it hit me...

When was the last time I saw the scale go down, period?

The past month and a half (maybe even two months) have been nothing but gains or plateaus. Yes, I'm still higher than I want to be, but hello...a pound off is a pound off. How many times over the past two months had I wished I'd "only lost a pound."

So I'll take it. And I'll be happy. And I'll keep on going. One of these days I'll wrap my head around that...

I'll miss my WI next week since I'll be on yet another business trip, so really, it was good to see some progress. I'm really looking forward to stepping on the scale in two weeks...I think it'll be even better.

Ch-ch-changes

2008-03-29T13:33:00.000-07:00

One thing I've learned as I've been trying to lose weight is that it's never enough to do this halfway. You can't exercise like a fiend and eat garbage. You can't eat well all the time and not exercise.

If you want to be successful, truly successful, you need both.

So yes, while my Tuesdays and Thursday torture sessions with Ms. A have been challenging (and exciting to finish, I must add), it's the things we discuss in her office, the things I need to do away from the gym that have provided the biggest challenges.

At one of my sessions this week, I had to bring Ms. A my entire menu for the past week--everything I'd eaten. Thanks to my BodyBugg log, this wasn't hard. But one glance at it and the first thing she did was say, "We need to lower your calories...this is why you're stuck. 2,000 calories is perfect, for maintaining..." The aforementioned 2,000 calories were what BB recommended for me. Ms. A suggested 1,600 on non-exercise days, 1,700 on exercise days.

Okay. I can do that.

But then she asked me about the times of my meals...

I'm Cuban. For many of us, eating late is the norm. It doesn't help that Mr. CCC doesn't usually come home until after 9 p.m. and we like to eat dinner together. Or that I often work late myself. Eating late has been a way of life for us.

So my heart leapt into my throat when Ms. A said no more eating after 7 p.m...if I wanted to have dinner with Mr. CCC, my dinner would be a sugar-free cup of Jello. Point blank, she wants me cutting down on the late eating. And she wants me to cut down on the carbs. And the Diet Coke.

That's a lot to adjust. A lot to change, and I'll be honest--it's been harder than I imagined. But I'm trying. I've gone a whole week now without a Diet Coke. And while I still enjoy my carbs, I am trying really hard to cut down on them.

The eating late...well, that's a work in progress. I'm still eating past 7 most nights, but I'm shooting to cut it off at 8:30. Either way, it's better than the 10:30, 11 p.m. eating I was doing before.

They're challenges, but no one said this would be easy. So I'll just keep plugging away, and working to eat my dinner before the sun goes down.

So that's what a workout feels like...

2008-03-25T19:43:00.000-07:00

Silly me.

I've been working out regularly for a while. Pilates once a week, cardio at least 3 times a week, weights twice a week...

It sounded good to me (though I confess--I knew I should be doing more.) But still--I was exercising. I was being active.

Yet today, I learned everything I thought I knew about exercise was wrong. Why?

Cause I had my first full session with my trainer and wow...just wow. She put my body through hell. But that good kind of hell. The kind of hell where you feel like you're accomplishing something. The kind of hell where your legs are jelly but you are proud of yourself.

Squats. Lunges. Dips. Weights. Walking. Doesn't sound like much, but it was 40 minute of agony. On more than one occasion, I thought for sure I'd be losing my breakfast. On those moments where my muscles burned, my stomach flip-flopped and I just felt like I couldn't do it, Ms. A (My affectionate nickname for my trainer) was right there--telling me to push through, making me believe I could do it. She was right.

Since hiring Ms. A, I've had a few people ask me if I really believed the investment was worth it. Today, I learned for sure that it most definitely is. Why?

Because I know myself. And when that workout got tough, had I been on my own, I would have slacked. I would have quit. I would have tried something else.

Ms. A won't let me do that. She knows what I can do. She challenges me to follow through. And that, more than her knowledge of exercise itself, is what has already made me--after one session--feel confident that I did the right thing.

I may, however, learn to dislike Tuesdays and Thursdays pretty quickly, ha ha!

An investment...in me

2008-03-23T16:02:00.000-07:00

A pair of $600 Manolo Blahniks.

A $1,200 bag from Yves Saint Laurent.

Had you asked me earlier this week what I wanted for my 30th birthday (which looms in July), that's what I would have answered.

Don't get me wrong--I don't expect anyone in my life to get those for me. Nor can I afford them. BUT, I wanted them. So I've been saving, diligently, for a while. They were going to be my treats to myself on a very big birthday.

But I can't explain how or why I woke up mid-week and said, "That's not good enough. I want more. I want better. I want a better ME!"

Okay, maybe I can explain it...after my new scale--which I am beginning to detest--showed yet another gain, I went bananas. It annoyed me, but it didn't make me sad.

Despite the fact I really believe the thing is broken (Weights very crazily from one moment to the next) the number pushed me right back into the gym and in the haze of my monotonous workout, I saw a poster out the corner of my eye.

"Five Personal Training Sessions for $199! Sign up now!"

So after my torturous treadmill session ended, I asked to meet with a personal trainer, a woman I'd seen kicking various shaped rear ends all over the gym. She wasn't there, but I left a message. When she called back, she let me know she had an opening the very next morning at 9 a.m....and asked if I was interested.

"That was quick," I thought to myself. But I booked the appointment. And in 20 minutes, that trainer had me sweating like I never sweat in my hour-long, boring workouts. It was brutal, intense and I realized hours later--painful. But it felt good.

So when we sat in her office, I asked what other options there were....I know five sessions ain't gonna cut it with me. She showed me the 16-session package. And said we could add the five sessions at the bonus price...pretty much giving me 21 sessions for the price of 16.

My head spun looking at the numbers. The training wouldn't be cheap. Mr. CCC would murder me for spending that kind of money.

Then it hit me. I had plenty of money in my birthday saving fund. It would cover the training. I'd have to give up the shoes and the bag, but what I would get in return would be far more valuable.

So I signed on the dotted line. 21 sessions with my trainer. I start Tuesday. And I couldn't be more excited.

Because if this doesn't work, I don't know what will.

And let's face it...if I'm giving up the money for those shoes and that bag, I'm making sure those pennies aren't wasted.

How's that for finding my mojo again?

Trying to get back the mo...

2008-03-15T11:22:00.000-07:00

I'll be 100% honest, with you, with myself.

For the past month, my head and my heart haven't been in my weight loss efforts. I spent roughtly three weeks in a hotel room on various business trips. Events from early in the morning to late at night meant I had little time to work out--even though I packed my gear with me. Heck, I couldn't even use my BB because my travel laptop wouldn't let me upload data with the USB cable. There were limited options for dining...and while yes, I tried to stick with things that were grilled or steamed or from the vegetable family, I know my diet was far from what I'm used to eating at home.

It was tough and so I took a break. I needed to in a way...just stop obsessing about weight loss, weight gain, my progress or lack thereof. I needed to regain some control in a way.

While I was gone, my last two weeks of prepaid WW membership expired. I'll be honest--I have yet to decide whether to continune with meetings. In the interim, I've set up an online membership. I'm still logging my meals, my points, etc. But I'm nervous that I'm not making a good decision.

Fact of the matter is, I keep going back and forth about a lot of things with this. I'm very angry...at my body? At myself? I don't know.

I know that in my 29-year lifetime, I have tried to lose weight multiple times. Never have I stuck with a program the way I have with this one (even if my last few weeks have been lackadaisical). Never have I worked this hard in the gym, in the kitchen as I have since I started trying to lose weight in September of 2006.

And never have I seen this kind of slow progress. It's maddening. I know I've posted that for a few weeks already, but I can't take my mind off it. 33 pounds in 17 months? It's not much of an incentive to keep going, yet I do.

I think that's why that break was so essential for me. But now that I'm back to normal hours, normal workdays and oh yes--being in my own home again!--I just don't have the drive I did before.

I am proud of myself because this week I went back to the gym and back to Pilates--for the first time in almost a month. Getting there was the toughest part. Now I just need to keep it going. Somehow, someway.

Fighting the demons...

2008-02-18T18:45:00.000-08:00

It never ceases to amaze me.

No matter how long I've been on program, or how long I think I've finally conquered bad habits, I am stunned to discover this is all a life-long process. It is amazing how quickly all the good things I've learned can be thrown to the wayside.

It's been a bit of a downward spiral for me food-wise for three days. The reason for my bad behavior?

A bad run-in with the scale.

Seriously. Shouldn't I know better by now? How many times have I written "this is for life," or "The number on the scale doesn't matter?" Countless, countless times, right?

So why was it, that when Saturday came and I had yet another disappointing weigh-in, that I told myself, "The hell with it," and began stuffing myself with everything that wasn't nailed down?

After my weigh-in (Where I must say I stayed the same. Again.), I joined some of my friends for an outing to an Amish farm.

We had a great time...picked some strawberries and tomatoes. Enjoyed the fresh veggies. Had an all-natural milk shake. And then the real damage started. Apparently, these wonderfully kind Amish folks are great bakers. Herbed breads, cakes, cookies...and cinnamon rolls. Down went one cinnamon roll (at least they had no frosting...a small victory).

Then we went to a Mexican restaurant...down went the guacamole and the enchiladas. For dessert...another cinnamon roll.

For dinner, Mr. CCC and I made a late Wendy's run. I can console myself and tell myself the children's meal was a far better option than what the "old" me would have had, but let's get real. It was a burger. And fries. And yet another cinnamon roll for dessert. (Are you keeping track? That's three...in one day)

Sunday was our belated Valentine's Day dinner...where we shared a fried risotto appetizer (divine, I confess). Filet mignon as an entree. Flourless chocolate cake for dessert. This wouldn't have been so bad--everyone deserves a splurge meal every once in a while--if we hadn't had more fast-food junk at lunch.

To say I've blown through my calorie allotment for the past two days is an understatement. And I honestly didn't care. In my mind, what was the point of sacrificing? Of exercising? Of passing up what I really wanted to get the healthy stuff?

I've been doing all that for well over 16 months. I have lost a grand total of 33 pounds. I'm no math major, but that doesn't even come out to a pound per week. Considering how overweight I am, how much weight I have to lose, you can start to imagine why I'm bothered by this. You can imagine how my heart breaks when I see people who weigh less than me telling my how much weight they've lost; how they never exercise, how close they are to their goal weights. Internally, I start to cry and beg the gods of weight loss to please, please, let that be me.

So this weekend, I gave up. I quit. I said "To hell with this," and ate whatever I wanted, however I wanted.

And this morning, I woke up with a stomach ache. My body begged for healthy food. I kept thinking to myself what a good option a salad would be. I went to Taco Bell instead (At least I talked myself out of too much junk...I had a 9-point Fresco Chicken Bowl instead).

I'm leaving tomorrow for a week-long business trip. Because Mr. CCC and I are as usual, incredbily behind on the laundry, I had to run to the mall to get a few basics. And standing in the fitting room, I grew even more ashamed of my behavior.

Because despite what the scale told me--or didn't tell me this week--I've gone down another size.

In jeans.

You know, jeans. Those pants made with denim, that material that rarely gives? I almost started to cry. My body is changing and I'm not paying attention to it. Instead, I'm paying attention to a number. A machine made of cold plastic and metal.

I tried on a top...yes, it was cut very generously...but it was a medium. The XL and the large swam on me.

Why do I keep torturing myself with the scale? Why do I continue to let that little machine make me miserable? And why, when it doesn't tell me what I want it to tell me, do I still run quickly to whatever food I can stuff down my throat?

It's bad behavior at its worst. It's bad habits rearing their ugly heads. It's me, not believing in myself.

That has to change.

If I continue to pressure myself the way I'm am, I'm never going to conquer my issues with food or the scale. And if I don't do that, I will never succeed. And as I've written before, I have too much at stake to quit.

If only I could remember that...in good times, and in bad.

Why I'm really doing this...

2008-02-11T16:49:00.000-08:00

Things have been hectic--but incredibly exciting lately.

I haven't blogged in a while, but if I were to tell you things were "same old, same old," I'd be lying.

Why?

Cause Mr. CCC and I are now a very proud uncle and aunt. Mr. CCC's sister had a lovely little daughter last weekend and I can't tell you how excited we are. My niece is an absolute doll and I am already spoiling her. She and her mom are both doing really well (even if mom's a little sleep-deprived) and everyone is in love with her.

Her mom just sent us a link to the newest pictures and I have to admit--I teared up looking at them. Happy tears of course! Babies just bring such joy and this little one is so special.

The entire experience of watching my sister-in-law become a mom has been wonderful. And it's been an eye-opening reminder of why I'm doing this.

There are so many reasons I'm losing weight. Looking good and being healthy are right up there, no doubt about it. But for me, the reason is a whole lot more personal.

I really want to be a mom and I know that at the weight I am, that's just not good.

Seeing my sister-in-law hold my niece was amazing--and yet, for me, slightly terrifying. It hit me--what if I can't have that moment? What if this body, that I have used and abused for so long, doesn't cooperate? What if I'll never get to see my husband, who I adore, hold a baby we created together?

It's so weird--we've been married nearly four years. The questions about when we'd procreate started the moment we walked down the aisle. For most of that time, we'd give people the standard, "We're not ready yet" line.

What a cruel joke it is when your head is finally ready, but your body isn't.

When I saw my doctor last September, I told her my concerns...and she told me it was good I was concerned. At 230-something pounds (where I was when I saw her), my body was in no shape to make a baby. A pregnancy at that weight would be riskier than a normal pregnancy. It'd be more stress on my joints and my bones. But she was happy that I was doing something about my weight on my own.

And she even gave me hope. My doctor told me there was no need for me to pressure myself and feel I had to be at my GOAL weight to try and get pregnant. She said she'd be happy if I was in the neighborhood of 175 and told me that if I was a little bit overweight, I likely wouldn't gain much during my pregnancy.

I am bowing to her better judgement, since her walls were full of fancy medical school diplomas and all, and targeting 175. But that still feels so far away.

It's why the plateaus and the gains have been so frustrating. I keep thinking to myself, "I've wasted the first 29 years of my life being fat...it's time to get healthy. Doing that before 30 would be nice."

For the record--30 is in late July. And that's the plan I figured out with my trainer...to get me at 175 by August 1, all I'd have to do was lose 1.5 pounds per week. Manageable. Doable.

But on Week 1 with the BodyBugg, I stayed the same. This week I only lost one pound. I have never thought about my long-term goal of 145...that seemed so far away. Now even 175 seems like it's an eternity from where I am.

Sure, I see the progress I'm making. Mr. CCC and I donated two bags worth of my old clothes this weekend. I look at pictures taken of me recently and I don't cringe (much) anymore. But I feel like I'm in a race with myself, with my body, with my fertility.

And being around my niece has reminded me that it's a race I have to win, no matter how hard it gets.

Beaten up...by grandma

2008-01-31T15:40:00.000-08:00

So I'm loving life with the new BodyBugg (known from here on out as BB, because I'm getting tired of typing it out all the time, ha ha!)

Simply by wearing it, I feel like I'm playing a game with myself--burn more calories than I take in. Who knew it would take 29 years and a gadget to get me to truly grasp the science behind losing weight...

Well, there are few moments more rewarding in my day than the ones where I'm home, just before bed, uploading my BB and waiting to see how many calories I've burned that day. Seriously, I feel so triumphant when I see I reached my "target deficit" for the day.

But in order to reach this moment of nirvana, I uh, have to move more. I find all kinds of little reasons now to move--go to the copier on the other side of the office (instead of the one by my desk); park my car farthest from the store entrance...you know, all that stuff the exercise magazines tell you to do and you tend to roll your eyes at.

And I've gone to the gym more times this week than I have in a long while. I felt pretty good about myself and my efforts until this morning when I noticed the gym was crawling with elderly folks. Apparently, my Bally's is a SilverSneakers gym.

Nothing against senior citizens...I live in a building full of them and yes, some of them are grumpy, but most of them are very, very sweet.

No, what depressed me was the sweet little old woman who was apparently doing a lower body workout, just like me. She kept following me from weight machine to weight machine. At first I thought to myself, "Wow! I wonder if she can do this?! She's older!!"

But here's where the depression came in...after I'd hop off a machine, she'd hop on...and not change any of the settings. She was lifting the same weights I was--and on two cases, MORE than I lifted.

I was being outexercised...by a GRANDMA!

Talk about depressing. Or motivating. In my newfound effort to try and be more positive, I'll go with "motivating" to describe the whole experience. I found myself walking out of the gym thinking, "Man...I hope I'm that fit when I'm her age."

That lady was working out with all the gusto of a 29-year old (albeit one that's not very fit, but still...). She was limber and moving around and well...she was easily in her 70s.

I was in awe. I hope she's passing on all those wonderful lessons to her kids and grandkids. I wish mine had. Instead, I had a grandmother who believed with all her heart that food was love. And her food was usually fried and/or made with lots of fat. (Hello! We're Cuban...we FRY bananas!)

Now, my grandmother is paying the price. She's overweight. Not in the best health. Has arthritis and other things that make her feel terrible. I can't help but wonder how different her life would be if she was out there, moving around like the gym grandma is.

Screw depressing. Even motivating isn't enough. I'm thinking of that gym-going granny as inspiration!

I've been Bugged!

2008-01-28T15:25:00.000-08:00

Ha, now there's a catchy title...especially since it's true. In more ways than one.

This weekend brought another WW meeting, which brought another run-in with the scale, which brought another gain.

This time it was only 1/2 a pound, but considering it was the second week in a row, I was seriously bummed. (It also shot down the nagging notion in my head that maybe, just maybe, last week's gain was water weight or water retention. Apparently not!)

I don't do well when the scale goes up. Especially two weeks in a row. I left WW in tears, miserably unhappy and convinced I am destined to be fat forever. Well, isn't that nice?

But I didn't have much time to get upset. I had an appointment with a trainer to set up my BodyBugg. I now think setting that meeting up two hours after my weigh-in was divine intervention. Because after I sat in her office, let out all my frustrations, and got my Bugg program going, I was convinced I'd be able to do this.

I was also convinced I was going to have to work a lot harder than I have been.

The BodyBugg is a little device that I'm going to be wearing every day. It's going to measure exactly how many steps I take every day, how many calories I burn every day and at what point my metabolism is the highest.

I'll then enter everything I eat into the online program (which for me, is not a pain to do. I enter all my meals on ww.com, so heck, I can enter one meal twice. No biggie!) and the program will calculate my intake vs. the calories burned.

When I set up the program, I had to tell BodyBugg how much weight I wanted to lose, how much I wanted to lose per week, and give it a goal date. At this point, I told BodyBugg that I would like to be firmly ensconced in Onederland by my 30th birthday (in July!). It figured that means I need to lose about 1.5 pounds a week (a reasonable amount, I think). And based on that, it has calculated a target "calorie deficit" for me that I need to reach daily.

Pretty neat, huh? I'm loving it and I hope it answers some of my questions as to why my body just is not cooperating. Although when I shared with the trainer what was going on, she just about fell out of her chair.

To teach me how to use the program, she had me log a typical day's meals. When we did that, we were both stunned. I'd say that a good 3-4 days of the week, I'm not eating enough. My body's probably annoyed by that.

Now, I've heard of this "starvation mode" thing before. I know it's true. I just never imagined my chubby rear could find that place. But apparently, every once in a while, I do...my sample day calorie total was under 1,200. Considering I exercise, that's not good.

So who knows? Maybe that's why my weight loss efforts have been so batty--to make up for the weekends (when yes, I overindulge. Often!) I eat less during the week; but my "less" is not enough to give my body what it needs.

That's what I love about the Bugg...it's an awareness thing. Hey, it's not going to beep when I reach for the cookie. It doesn't stop you from reaching for the cheeseburger. But it makes you really aware of what you're doing. And you can't tell yourself your workout means you get 500 calories to play with---unless you really burned 500 calories.

It's one more way to keep myself accountable. But I am glad BodyBugg didn't go to Paris...

Envy...my deadly sin

2008-01-21T17:57:00.000-08:00

I like to consider myself a good person. For the most part.

I'm generally nice to people. I adore my family. I go to church. Donate money to charity. Try really hard to make time for my friends and the people I love.

But I know I'm far from perfect and one of my faults is that I am an incredibly jealous person. Eww, it just sounds ugly. But it's true.

I'm possessive when someone of the female gender looks at Mr. CCC. I roll my eyes (internally) when coworkers talk about their big raises. I wish I had the looks of Catherine Zeta-Jones or the shoe collection of Carrie Bradshaw.

I know I should be content with my lot in life, but like I said--it's my downfall. I want more.

This tendency towards envy has now spilled into another arena of my life...my weight loss efforts.

After being so proud of what I accomplished over the holidays, I guess I got a little complacent. And whaddya know...this week, I gained a pound and a half. Ugh. Considering it usually takes me two weeks or more to lose a pound, this was not a good turn of events.

Worse was how as I stood in line I had to keep hearing "Oh! Look at you! You've lost three pounds this week!" or "Wow! Look at that...down two. You're almost at your 10 percent!"

It's not that I wish my fellow Weight Watchers wouldn't lose weight---I want them to! But heck, I want to lose weight too!

I've now been trying to lose weight for 15 months. In that span, I have lost 32 pounds. That's really not good, especially considering that when I started this journey in September of 2006, I weighed 255 pounds.

That's a lot of weight. Enough that the scale should be moving a little better than it is. Yeah, I've had some rough patches here and there, but I'm well below the one-pound weekly loss that's supposed to be healthy (and normal).

And yeah, I am jealous of those newbies that have strolled into my meeting and lost 20 pounds in three or four months. Yeah, I'm incredibly jealous of those folks on The Biggest Loser who bitch and moan when they only lose two or three pounds in a given week. I'd KILL to have a week where I lost three pounds. I think in my 15-month journey that's only happened once or twice.

It's funny. When I crinkled my face at the ugly number this weekend, the weigher said to me, "You've lost weight. You'll get this off. You can't be negative about this," and the only thing I've been since Saturday is...surprise, surprise, negative.

The positive? Instead of channeling negative energy into a tub of chocolate chip cookie dough, I channel it into exercise. Working out while angry is a good thing. And that's what I did Saturday--went straight from my meeting to a 45-minute session with the elliptical machine. Today, I also called a personal trainer to set up an appointment...Mr. CCC knows how frustrated I've been with my effort so for Christmas, he bought me a Body Bugg.

The trainer is supposed to set it up for me. I'm hoping she also has some reasonable packages that maybe I can purchase so I can get some professional help in the fitness department. Maybe it's what I need.

And then maybe, just maybe, someone can envy my weight loss for the week...

So that's what a fever will do for ya...

2008-01-07T20:44:00.000-08:00

So Paris came and went.

And yes, it was wonderful.

The food, the scenery, the time away from work...heck, even the Arctic temperatures were a treat. (I live in South Florida; I get excited anytime the temperature dips below 70.)

But all that gluttony and chilly air did a number on my body...and a day after getting off the plane, I was huddled in bed, my body rebelling with a 101-degree fever. Mr. CCC came home early from work as several hours passed and my temperature wouldn't go down. The fever finally broke on Friday, but I was still so sick the only thing I could even fathom keeping down was saltines and Gatorade.

I think those two days of limited eating did a number on me--because when I went to my meeting on Saturday and stepped on the scale--fully expecting it to go up, btw!--I was pleasantly surprised.

Instead of gaining from my Paris indulgences, I lost half a pound.

How's that for just pure insanity? I spend eight weeks obsessing and completely stuck at my weight. Yet at my last two weigh-ins, the ones I wasn't worried about the number, or where I expected it to go up...the scale moved in the way I wanted it to.

So what's the lesson here? That I need to stop worrying so much about the scale? (Easier said than done!) Or that maybe, just maybe, a well-timed fever can do wonders for your weight loss efforts?

For better or for worse, I can now say that I lost a pound and a half during the holidays...and considering the average American gains 7 pounds between Thanksgiving and New Year's, I'll take it.

It was just the kind of kick-start to the new year and my re-focused effort I needed.

And get this...I even managed to go to the gym today. Felt like I was going to collapse, but I went...it feels pretty good to be back on track!

Wow...a whole month, huh?

2008-01-04T09:25:00.000-08:00

I know I've been missing in action for a while.

If I had to tell you what the past month has been like, you wouldn't believe me. Because for me, December was nothing but pure insanity.

I try not to get too much of my personal or work life into this blog, but when it comes to work, my busiest time of year runs from August to December. In that span, December is the worst. I work on the biggest project of the entire year with insane deadlines and uncooperative people.

The two weeks before Christmas I was literally at the office every day from 10 a.m. to well past midnight. Every day.

The good thing about all that? While everyone else was dodging Christmas-party diet landmines, I didn't even find time to scarf down cookies or champagne. I also didn't find time to darken the doorstep at my gym. It's been about a month since I've worked out. Ouch!

As a result, my weight loss has been at a complete standstill. Complete. I stayed on my plan, but for eight weeks, I stayed the exact same weight. Not up an ounce, not down an ounce. Eight weeks. When the same thing happened on week eight, I literally started to cry on the scale.

It was frustrating and maddening, but in the end, I kind of interpreted it as the universe doing its part to keep me even keel during a very stressful time in my life. It was as if my body said, "Hey, CCC. You've got a lot on your plate. Don't worry about shedding pounds right now. Worry about staying healthy and sane and finishing this project. We'll get going again as soon as you're done."

Sure enough, once I turned in the project and had a few days to enjoy Christmas, I stepped on the scale and lost a pound.

Of course, when I return to WW on Saturday, I don't expect that to be the case. Mr. CCC and I just returned from a week-long trip to Paris and I'll be honest--I did not even bother to count points.

Heck, it's Paris. Who knows when I'll be back? So I let myself enjoy...and enjoy I did. Crepes, fondue, champagne, foie gras and buckets of onion soup. Perhaps the damage isn't so bad--we did a lot of walking and in Europe, the portions are far more reasonable than here in the states--but even if I did gain a pound or two, I just don't mind.

I told myself before we left that I'd regroup come the new year...and for me, that new year started the moment the plane touched down. I'll deal with what the scale has to say tomorrow.

To make my journey even easier, Santa brought me one of those nifty Body Bugg contraptions. I need to go meet with a personal trainer next week to activate it and get it going. I'm really looking forward to getting back in the gym and back to my normal life. Because there was nothing normal about December and I'm glad that month is now in my rear-view mirror...

Life lessons from one of the babies

2007-11-28T17:00:00.000-08:00

When you're an only child but a part of a really (and I mean, really) large extended family, your cousins become the siblings you never had.

I love my cousins the way most people love their siblings--seriously. My family is incredibly close. Growing up, I'd spend every afternoon with my cousins. Weekend outings, parties, all of it was a huge part of my world growing up...they're my friends, my confidants...my family. My brothers and sisters.

Which is why Thanksgiving was such a highlight for me...life has gotten crazy for all of us as we've gotten older; some of my cousins are off in college right now; others are working their ways through their first jobs, their first big relationships...it's fun to watch and experience with them and catching up with them over turkey and rice and beans (What can I say, we're Cuban!) was the best part of my day.

Of course, my cousins all commented on my weight loss. I got lots of big hugs, congratulations and encouragement. They had questions about how I was doing it, what I wanted, and what my workouts were...and inevitably, I sat and spoke with one of my cousins in particular because she's a fitness buff and she wanted to help. (We actually got a big laugh out of my mom's reaction when I started doing pilates...which went like this: Mom: "You're doing pilates? But that's real exercise. Your cousin D does pilates. Aren't you too fat to do pilates? You know, if D does pilates, that's a good thing. She has a gorgeous body. Why didn't you take up pilates sooner?")

To understand why that was funny to me and my cousin D (who I consider one of the family babies...since she's a whopping six years younger than I am) you have to understand who D is...she's the family starlet. Seriously. The girl is gorgeous. Skin as clear as you can imagine. Long, dark shiny hair. A smile that is perfect and white and has never required braces. And oh yes--the figure. D has the kind of body I would murder someone for. She has curves in all the right places and without an iota of extra fat anywhere...in all seriousness, she is absolutely gorgeous and our family knows--she's the beauty.

But here's the thing--while, sure, there's a little bit of genetic magic in there (How did I skip those genes?), there's a lot of hard work there too. While everyone sat around us stuffing themselves with multiple servings of turkey, ham, stuffing and mashed potatoes loaded with cheese, cream cheese and sour cream (umm....), D sat there, nibbling on a plate full of vegetable sides.

She became a vegetarian a year ago. She works out every day and just listening to her regimen made me exhausted. But it left me inspired. And it reminded me--it does take hard work to reach the goals we have for ourselves.

When it came time for dessert, D indulged--she had one (small) piece of pie. While everyone else ate multiple (large) pieces of pie. She and I sat giggling over the ridiculous quantities of food and how our family just doesn't get it. Somehow, we always have way, way, way too much food to consume. It's the family joke. There's never been a shortage of food at any get together. Ever.

Sitting there and talking to her for most of the day helped me stay on track. How could I be discussing my new healthy lifestyle while I ate a cupcake? Was I supposed to talk about my new workouts between bite after bite of flan and pumpkin pie? I think not.

Having D to talk to, to commiserate with, to laugh with was huge. And it paid its dividends two days later when I went to my WW--and I stayed the same. Was I happy I stayed the same? Not really. But I knew I'd worked to do that--after a week of eating out, after being sick and too tired to work out, after surviving Thanksgiving--staying exactly the same was a minor miracle.

Life has started calming down somewhat for me. I've worked out a few more times. My eating is back on track in the best way possible. I'm actually eager to get back to my meeting this Saturday and see if the number has finally started budging down.

And I know part of what kept me on track during that rough week was my conversation with my baby cousin D...who knew those younger siblings could be so wise?

Desperation...and a scare

2007-11-21T09:23:00.000-08:00

I'm still in one piece. Barely, but still in one piece. I had to go out of town last week and ate out every meal...ugh. I tried to do my best, picking grilled chicken entrees, and I even got a gym workout in while I was there.

Then I got hit hard by a cold (that still hasn't gotten better) and just tried to lay low--do my work and get back home in one piece.

Since getting back though, I've been trying to regain a little bit of control over my schedule. Work is still insane, but last night, while I was in the gym I realized how much I needed to make time for my workouts. While on the treadmill, they only thing I was thinking about was my workout--how good (and yet torturous!) it felt; how the sweat was dripping down my neck, how good that cold water tasted. I wasn't thinking about deadlines or editors or games or bosses or Christmas shopping or Thanksgiving with the in-laws. I just thought about me and my body. Have to admit...it was a nice change of pace.

And I realize, my goal of hitting 15 pounds down by Paris is not going to happen...I've hit a wall--a gain a few weeks ago, a loss two weeks ago, and no idea what to expect this week...but it's okay. Last night while watching the Biggest Loser, Mr. CCC and I saw a stat that had us both a little dumbfounded--the average American gains seven pounds between Thanksgiving and Christmas.

So, if I stay at the same weight, I've accomplished something. If I lose any weight, I'll have accomplished something. I'm just setting out to do that right now--lose whatever I can between now and the start of 2008.

And because I haven't had enough proof of why this battle is so important, I got yet another life lesson in desperation and weight loss today.

My stepdad's sister had to be rushed to the hospital this morning...why for you ask? Complications from gastric bypass surgery.

In all reality, I'm not one of those people who is completely opposed to gastric bypass. Sure, I think it's better to try and lose the weight in a healthy way that helps you adjust your habits and doesn't require surgery, but I know that for some people--gastric bypass is the only way out.

Only problem is--my stepdad's sister is NOT one of those people. She was overweight--by about 40 pounds when she had the surgery (it was post-baby weight). Her initial doctor told her she wasn't a good candidate for gastric bypass at all, but unwilling to accept that from her doctor, she began searching for another doctor willing to take her on. To make things easier, she even sewed weights into her clothing so that upon stepping on the scale, the number would be higher.

How a doctor with common sense didn't catch on to that is beyond me (and let's be honest--there are probably more than a few doctors willing to perform this surgery for the money) and she had the surgery a year ago. She's had several complications since.

The most serious came today--when she started bleeding. Upon further research, the ER doctors learned that not only had she had an unnecessary bypass, she had overeaten, rupturing the stitches in her stomach, causing the damage and the bleeding. She had to have emergency surgery to save her life. Her family is a wreck. Her children are scared. Her brother is angry.

I got angry too when I heard the whole sordid story...something my mom didn't understand. She said to me, "How can you be upset? You're trying to lose weight. You've been desperate." I had to explain to her that the reason I was so angry was because stepdad's sister put her life in jeopardy with the surgery. Then she put her life in jeopardy again by overeating when she knew she wasn't able to.

She risked her life for what? To lose an extra 40 pounds? Hey, with some lifestyle adjustments, that comes off. And you don't jeopardize your life. Why anyone would do that--particularly a mother with two small children--boggles my mind. It was selfish vanity....but as one of my friends pointed out to me--vanity is one of the seven deadly sins.

The good news is that it looks like my stepdad's sister is going to make it through this mess. The emergency surgery saved her. She's in recovery right now and everyone is yes, still holding their breath, but a whole lot more hopeful than they were early in the day.

And the whole experience made me grateful--grateful that I haven't reached that point in my life, that I would put vanity above my health; it made me grateful that there are healthy options out there...it made me grateful to know I'm making changes in my life that won't hurt me or the people who care about me.

I can only hope my stepdad's sister learns something similar from this scary experience.

Hiding in shame...and in panic

2007-11-09T08:42:00.000-08:00

I know what you're thinking.

I had a gain on the scale and a meltdown ensued.

That's not true. What is true is that I've had 3 weeks with 2 days off; I've worked nights more than I've worked days. I haven't had time to set foot in a gym (Literally--it's a little hard when you're working 9 a.m. to about oh, midnight)...heck, I haven't had time to set foot in a grocery store. Combine all that and you get a meltdown.

This time of year is brutal for me at work; It's been so bad the other day my boss called me into her office and asked if I was okay--because one of my coworkers confessed to her she was ready to crawl in a hole and cry. I've gone through this before and I'm used to it, so I told my boss I wasn't ready to throw it all to hades--but I was close. And at least for now, I'm starting to see a *little* bit of light at the end of the tunnel.

With all of this going on, I'll be honest. It's been hard to make myself a priority. Gym time? Laughable. Even my WW meeting last week had to be abandoned when I was called in for a last-minute assignment. And this weekend, I'll be packing my bag for an business trip. To make matters worse, I didn't even feel like I was in control of anything--including my eating.

I wouldn't say I've gone overboard with my eating--I haven't. But I do know that I haven't been in control of it. I've skipped meals because literally, taking the time to go get or heat food has been impossible. I've snarfed down dinners at 11:30 p.m. because I had to eat *something* and I was starving.

I've been abusing my body and while I can get away with that for a little while, it started catching up with me in the past few days. Even my face looks tired--dark circles under my eyes that inudstrial-strength concealer can't hide; two giant cystic pimples that I know are stress-induced and just a general dullness that has left me feeling on top of exhausted, ugly. (Not a good combination for me since I'm self-conscious to start out with.)

The good news? Like I said--I'm starting to regain a little more control. Yesterday, even though I wasn't finished with my work, I got up early and left for my Pilates class; when a coworker asked where I was going and why I was leaving early I said, "I'll finish my project tomorrow."

After Pilates, I stopped at the grocery store and picked up a few healthy items to make dinner for a few days; this morning, I had a chance to sleep in and tomorrow morning, I'll face the scale. No matter what it says, I'll pick myself up and move forward.

I realize I've probably jeopardized my goal of losing 15 pounds before New Year's...and that bothers me, but I will keep on plugging...who knows? Maybe the damage isn't as bad as I think (Or I'm just eternally optimistic)

Now back to your regularly scheduled weight loss pattern...

2007-10-27T07:34:00.000-07:00

Well, at least I had an idea it might be coming.

The fact that I lost weight for three weeks in a row was intoxicating stuff. Heady stuff. Stuff that had me optimistic and happy. But when I woke up this morning and could barely get my rings on, I knew my streak would come to an end.

Sure enough, got to my meeting, stepped on the scale and there it was. A nice, little, lovely 1-pound gain. Ugh.

Thankfully, the weigher didn't say anything, just noted my weight and sent me on my merry way. No offense to all the folks doing the weigh-ins across America, but a lot of us aren't chatty when that happens. I hate the "What happened?" question or the "You'll lose it next week" comment. In that split second, I'm upset. I don't want to talk about it. I want to take my papers, listen to my leader and start a new week.

Which is what I did. But part of me can't help but wonder what happened and why. The only difference from this week to last was that we eat out twice, instead of once. Okay, that's not bad. I didn't go over my points, but for the first time in this journey, I had to tap into eating activity points. I usually don't like to do that. And I won't again. Even though APs are designed to be eaten, for most of this journey, I haven't eaten them. The one week I did, I gained. I'm not going down that road again.

But that said, part of me seriously wonders if I've hurt my body with all the countless, unsuccessful efforts to lose weight. I've read in countless health magazines how bad yo-yo dieting is for the body. And I'm ashamed to say it, but I've been one of those yo-yo dieters.

I've been dieting as long as I can remember; I started my first serious weight loss effort when I was 14. Lost weight, gained it back. My next serious effort came in my early 20's, when I saw myself in a picture and didn't recognize who I was. Midway through that journey, Mr. CCC proposed and I had a new-found reason to stay on plan.

But about a month before the wedding, the stress of my job, of buying a home, of putting the final touches on the wedding plans got to me. I didn't have the motivation to count points, weigh my foods and go to meetings. So I stopped WW and didn't pick it up again until about a year after the wedding--when I'd gained about 25-30 pounds.

There were fruitless efforts there too. My mind wasn't right and I'd quit after a few weeks. Then I'd try again. Eventually, I ended up at Jenny Craig at my highest weight ever. But that too petered out after a few months and that brought me where I am now.

For the first time in my life, my head is in the right place. Save a few weeks here and there, I do have my mojo going. Yesterday, I didn't want to go to the gym. I was miserable, but I made myself go. When we ate out, I stayed within my points and passed up all the evil goodies my husband and parents were having.

I've traded my Starbucks for healthy, low-fat smoothies at Jamba Juice. I've traded my fast-food meals for healthier options. I want to do this, I want to put forth the effort, but my body seems to be resistant.

Has it finally gotten fed up? Have I finally blown my metabolism to smithereens? Is that why no matter what I do, my little "pattern" has shown up--two losses and a gain, two losses and a gain, now three losses and a again.

It's seriously sobering and maybe I have done my body wrong. Heaven knows I've certainly had plenty of nasty words for my body. Maybe my body now has a nasty message for me. I really don't know. But I am scared...scared that 15+ years of gaining and losing weight have taken their toll. Because on paper, everything should be going well.

For the first time in my life, I'm exercising consistently. I love sitting down on Saturday or Sunday afternoons, flipping through my cookbooks to look for healthy recipes for the week. I'm eating more veggies. I'm drinking more water.

You think my body would be happy that for once, I'm treating it well. But it just seems so determined to hang on to every ounce of fat it can.

I've said before I've felt this was going to be a long, hard fight. Nothing made that more evident than my weigh-in today. By all accounts, looking at the facts, I shouldn't have gained. But I did.

And that's what has me thinking...is my body finally fed up with me? And if it is, do I have any hope of changing it?

Well, that's nice to know!

2007-10-26T08:55:00.001-07:00

Two nights ago, I left work and dragged myself to the grocery store. It's funny. Before I was trying to eat healthy and make better choices, I loved doing groceries. Now, it's more of a weekly chore...it has to be done because we have to eat.

(Let's be honest--I know eating well is hugely important, but our grocery bill was also much cheaper before. And it requires a lot more time when you're reading nutritional labels instead of just tossing stuff in the cart. Hence why now groceries feels like a chore and not a fun outing.)

After about an hour of walking up and down the aisle, I headed to pay and noticed the woman standing in front of me in line--how could I not?

She was decked out in her workout gear. But it was the gear itself that made me smile...a leotard, leg warmers, a headband. It was very Flashdance and I had to take a look around to make sure I hadn't accidentally stepped back into 1982.

Of course it was still 2007 and it was her outfit that was dated, but hey--while it was dated, it was workout gear. Good for her for taking care of herself. She was a little older and as I started loading my groceries onto the belt behind her groceries, I noticed all the healthy things she was buying.

I kept thinking to myself, "Hey, this could be me in 30 years...in good shape, with a cart full of healthy groceries." Because really--despite the neon pink legwarmers, it was clear this woman looked good.

Then she turned around and smiled and there was a moment of recognition on both ends--it was my WW leader!

I took a quick look at my cart, wondering what in there I didn't want her to see and then it hit me...I was proud of everything in the cart. Yogurt, low-fat milk, lean proteins, veggies. Even the few junk food snacks were of the 100-calorie variety. There wasn't a fatty item or a bottle of soda to be found anywhere.

Woo hoo!

We exchanged pleasantries, but as she walked away it popped into my mind. I know that losing weight and getting myself in better shape is a journey with no end point. And this little encounter proved it.

My WW leader obviously still has to work to maintain her weight. And she does. She exercises, she eats healthy foods. She's still working on it. And I'll be working on it all my life too.

I admit--the entire experience left me feeling encouraged. It was clear that my WW leader practices what she preaches. When she stands up there every Saturday morning and shares her story, she's not exaggerating. When she tells us she still exercises, she means it. When she says she indulges responsibly and makes healthier choices, she isn't kidding.

It's nice to know she really has fought the same battle and that even today, she continues fighting. It's a lot more than lip service for some!

Quick! Look out your window!

2007-10-22T09:18:00.000-07:00

Did you see a pig fly? Are your feet a little chilly?

Because something is seriously up with the universe...get this...for the first time since I started this journey, I lost weight for the third consecutive week.

Not kidding! At my weigh-in this past weekend, I actually lost 1.4 pounds, bringing my total to 32.4 pounds. Three straight weeks of weight loss? Surely, the universe must be turned upside down on its axis. Hades has frozen over. Seriously people--this is a rare moment!

Am I being overdramatic? Sure. But really, I have to be honest--not even when I STARTED this journey did I lose weight 3 weeks in a row. In fact, my second week on WW, I actually GAINED weight. So after two weeks of good losses, when I arrived at my meeting this weekend, I was fully prepared to see the scale go up.

I've accepted this process is going to be a lot slower than I'd hoped. And I've already discovered my body's little pattern when it comes to weight loss--I'll lose for two weeks, then gain the next. Then it's back to losing for two more weeks before the next gain. For the most part, this is what my journey has been like. At first it drove me bananas, but after sharing my frustration with my WW leader (and learning her body did the same), I've just come to accept this is the way it is. My body loves fat and doesn't want to let it go. Got it.

Knowing this, I'd mentally prepared myself for the worst. Even though I'd exercised, eaten well, and done what I was supposed to. Imagine my surprise when I looked up at the scale and saw the loss. I literally giggled. Out loud. Like a little kid.

I left with a spring in my step and then a familiar feeling in the pit of my stomach.

I'm absolutely going to gain weight this week, aren't I? :)

It's just a number, right?

2007-10-19T11:32:00.000-07:00

You'll never believe what I did the other day.

I told someone--actually, a few someones--what I weighed.

I know to some people this isn't a huge deal. I read so many of the great weight loss blogs out there and am just so impressed with the way some people are willing to put their number out there.

But me? I would rather share my social security number and bank account number than tell people what I weigh. Or worse--tell them what I weighed when I started this journey. Which is why what I did the other day surprised me so much.

My friends and I were talking (okay, more like chatting back and forth via email), and I'm not even sure how, but we got on the topic of weight loss. And before long, after dancing around just how much weight I needed to lose and what the ugly numbers were, I decided to stop dancing.

And I told my friends what I weighed. I told them how much I had weighed when I started. I told them how much weight I still had to lose. And I told them the most embarrassing stat of all--that once, I'd been successful at losing weight. That I'd dropped 60 pounds before I got married and gained it all back in the 3 years after that.

Now let's be honest--my friends have seen me. They've seen pictures. They know I'm not at the weight I was when I walked down the aisle, but the numbers themselves tell the story.

Moments after I hit send, I had a momentary thought of horror. Were my friends sitting at their computers, mouths agape, thinking to themselves, "Holy jeez! I know she was fat...but I didn't know she was THAT fat!?!?"

But before long, the emails picked up and get this--suddenly, my friends started spilling their weights. What they weighed when they got married. How much weight they gained during their pregnancies. How much weight they wanted to lose. What their lowest weights had been, what their highest weights had been.

And you know what--it felt good. Almost liberating. We were all encouraging each other; no one said anything bad about anyone else or their number. It was one of those moments you really think, "Wow. I am so lucky to have such amazing friends!"

So I figured...it felt good to say it the other day, maybe it'll feel as good to say it here.

When I started this journey I weighed more than I ever have in my entire life...255 pounds. Now, I'm at 224 pounds. I've still got a long way to go, but I realized its time I let those numbers stop haunting me the way they do.

Because when all is said and done, they're just numbers. There's no reason to hide them. They don't define me as a person. They don't say anything about the kind of wife I am, the kind of daughter I am, or the kind of friend I am.

They're just numbers. And I'm not going to be afraid of them anymore.

"It's for Paris. I'm on this new diet. It's very effective..."

2007-10-14T20:18:00.000-07:00

To know me, is to know I absolutely love love love the movie The Devil Wears Prada. I can take or leave the book, but the movie...I can watch it for hours on end, quote it, and giggle every time.

One of my favorite scenes in the entire movie is when Andrea notices how much weight her coworker, Emily, has lost. Emily's response?

"It's for Paris. I'm on this new diet. It's very effective. Well, I don't eat anything and when I feel like I'm about to faint, I eat a piece of cheese. I'm just one stomach flu away from my goal weight."

It cracks me up every time...particularly because I don't doubt that this is what it's like for those who work in the fashion industry. Now, while I can't say I'm about to adopt Emily's radical eating plan (even though I do love cheese), I suddenly share her motivation.

Turns out that Mr. CCC and I will be ringing in the new year in you guessed it...Paris!

The words "ecstatic," "thrilled" and "can hardly wait" don't even come close to describing how I feel right now. In approximately 74 days, we'll be boarding an Air France flight and heading to the City of Lights.

And guess what? I don't want to look like a clumsy, fat American in the capital of fashion.

Shallow? Sure. I never said I was deep 100% of the time.

While Emily's character needs only one stomach flu to reach her goal weight, I'll need several full-blown attacks of dysentery to reach mine. But I do know that I can accomplish quite a bit in 74 days. So this past week, I kicked it into high gear.

My goal? To lose 15 pounds between now and the time I'm packing my suitcase. According to my WW meeting yesterday, I'm already on my way. I lost another 1.6 pounds, bringing me to my lowest weight in years. Hooray!

I've set this goal for myself for several other reasons too. Yes, looking good in Paris is one of them (I'm beyond tired of positioning myself behind Mr. CCC in vacation photos to hide fat), but I know the holidays are coming...Halloween, Thanksgiving, Christmas...if I don't set my mind right now and have a goal in mind, I could have a little disaster on my hands. Not going to happen.

Another reason? The Florida Girl that I am, I have never in my life needed to wear a coat. But I have always loved the glamour of a well-cut trench coat. They're just so fashionable. So chic. So glamorous. And after researching the weather in Paris in December I realized...I need a coat.

So what did I do? Bought myself a fabulous black, 3/4 length trench coat that makes me look tres chic.

The only drawback? While it cinches beautifully on my waist and buttons, it's a little tight on my chest. Once I'm wearing a sweater and some layers underneath said coat, there's a slight chance it won't close properly.

Unless I lose 15 pounds.

So there you have it...some women lose weight to fit in a bathing suit...I'm losing weight to fit into a coat. And to ring in 2008 looking as fabulous as possible!

Picadillo peccadillo

2007-10-08T21:06:00.000-07:00

Like every good Cuban girl, I like my food starchy and greasy.

Which is why one of my grandmother's specialties--picadillo--is one of my absolute, all-time favorite meals. Basically, picadillo is seasoned ground beef. You sautee some onions, peppers with ground beef; toss in some dry cooking wine, tomato sauce, raisins, olives and capers and viola...after 30 minutes of simmering, you've got yummy meaty goodness.

Serve it atop some steamed rice and boy oh boy...you'll make CCC very, very happy.

Even though I've learned to make picadillo with some lower-fat ingredients (ground turkey anyone?), I have to admit. It just doesn't taste as good as the beef version.

Since joining WW, I've tried to limit my consumption of picadillo. Sure, I know I can have it and I know I can work it into my plan, but picadillo is a trigger food for me. For some reason or another, all that greasy goodness makes me lightheaded and I can't stop with one serving. So needless to say, I try not to enjoy it too often.

This quest was made even easier over the past few months because my beloved rice cooker (a staple in a Cuban girl's kitchen!) broke. I've been so busy running around I didn't have a chance to shop around for a new one.

But today, I woke up craving picadillo. I also had a coupon from Bed Bath and Beyond for 20% off a single item...and it expires in a day. Sooo...I bought us a new rice cooker. We needed one anyway. But I didn't need the other thing I bought--some super lean ground beef.

As I cooked, the intoxicating smell filled the condo. My mouth started watering. I couldn't wait for Mr. CCC to get home so I could sit down and eat my yummy yummy meal. Sure, I knew I'd go over my points for the day, but hey--that's what flex points were for. As long as I weighed everything out, I'd be fine.

All went according to plan. Sat down with Mr. CCC for dinner, and yes, my picadillo was as good as I remembered. The new rice cooker made the rice so fluffy and perfect, with every bite, I felt like I'd just discovered heaven.

I enjoyed every bite and sat there satisfied...knowing I'd counted my incredible dinner and wouldn't indulge again for a few weeks. But as soon as I cleared the plates and went to the kitchen I was smacked in the face with reality, also known as....LEFTOVERS! EEP!

There was still a good cup and a half of rice left. Maybe about another cup and a half of picadillo. I grabbed some containers from the cabinet and began shoveling the leftovers in...so Mr. CCC could have it for lunch of course.

But wow...it just looked so good and it was still so warm. So I took another bite. And another. And another.

As I shoved every spoonful into my mouth, I asked myself, "Why are you doing this? Standing alone in the kitchen, hiding from Mr. CCC? You know if you really wanted more, you'd serve yourself and go back to the table. But you won't DO that, because then Mr. CCC will know you served yourself AGAIN. And you know, CCC...you don't have all the points for this extra food. What the heck are you doing this for????"

But it didn't matter. I. kept. eating.

I finally made myself stop and thankfully, there was still quite enough for Mr. CCC's lunch. My stomach felt so bloated and full and was just in a general state of "ugh" that I felt not only guilty, but physically sick.

Sigh.

I'm not going to waste any more time being upset over this incident. I counted the (extra) points for my little kitchen "incident" and have a workout planned tomorrow morning that will help me move forward. But I did learn my lesson.

I still am not ready to have picadillo. It goes into the pile with my other trigger foods--chocolate chip cookies, cookie dough, and pizza. At this point in my journey, I just can't eat those foods in the portions they should be eaten.

So for a while, picadillo, you and I must part ways.

I'm going to blame this whole episode on the new rice cooker. Seriously. I can't eat picadillo without rice and the only acceptable way to make rice in my kitchen is in a rice cooker. So had I not bought the rice cooker...this would never, ever have happened! :)

Moving forward...and gaining puppy perspective

2007-10-07T16:29:00.000-07:00

In case you couldn't tell by my last post, it's been a rough go lately.

My head hasn't been in it.

My heart hasn't been in it.

I'll be honest--if I hadn't purchased a 10-week membership at WW, last week would have probably been the time I quit. That means I would've gained back all the weight I lost (and possibly more), and the cycle would have begun all over again.

But I haven't quit. It's been hard, it's been trying, but thanks to some inspiration, I've been able to fake motivation for the past few days ;) I got some good advice that I took to heart...and while my schedule means I basically read a page a day before I fall asleep from sheer exhaustion, I purchased the Dr. Phil book a few of you mentioned.

And it's right on...if I'm going to change my body, my habits, my health--I'm going to have to change my mind. Permanently.

So yesterday, not having any idea what to expect, I went to my WW meeting and faced the scale. After blowing through my flex points over the weekend and scrambling for any points I could scrounge up during the week, I knew I'd had more food than I should have. I also knew I hadn't worked out the way I wanted.

I tried to prepare myself for the inevitable gain (which would have been three weeks in a row, GULP!) but it didn't come. Instead, I lost the weight I'd gained over the past two weeks and hit my lowest point on this journey so far. Whew!

And when I sat down for the meeting, I tried to open my mind to what was being said. The topic of the week? Quitting. Or better yet--not quitting, even when it gets hard.

Ha! Divine intervention anyone? Perfect timing for me. Perfect timing.

Got lots of good advice, but the one thing that stuck out at me involved again--changing my mindset. When I confessed I'd considered quitting, my leader asked, "Quitting what? You're not on a diet. You're following a healthy eating plan. You're changing your life for the better. What is there to quit?"

Touche, master WW leader. You're right.

For the past few weeks, I've let myself be my worst enemy. I've let self-doubt take over. I've let frustration seep in. And slowly, I'm pulling myself out of that rut. No more blowing it on weekends. A little more planning and sacrificing of my time....since my beloved evening workouts aren't a possibility anymore, it's time to get up early and get it done in the morning.

It's up to me to change my mind and how I look at this journey I'm on. I'm changing it right now.

I got another dose of perspective late this week that reminded me yesterday how far I've come.

About a month ago, my parents adopted an adorable little puppy from the Humane Society. After much thought, much discussion and much whining (from me, I admit it), my parents realized their house just didn't feel like home without a dog. Since losing Dobie, we lost the happiness of having a four-legged friend run to meet you at the door. We lost the sweetness of a gentle nudge and a puppy kiss. We missed those things so much we decided to bring a new dog into our lives.

Oso is a German Shepherd mix who looks like a little teddy bear. But in the month we've had him, he's grown quickly. Not much of a little dog anymore. The other day, I volunteered to take him for a walk. I figured since I hadn't worked out, a nice stroll around the neighborhood would give me some activity points for the day. I set out with Oso, a bottle of water and a plan to walk for at least 40 minutes.

Call me naive.

Oso, who hasn't really had a walk that long yet in his little life, looked at me after about 20 minutes and sat in a shady spot. No amount of coaxing, water or treat would get him to continue. And I was 20 minutes from home.

I had two options--I could call home and have someone come pick us up or I could pick Oso up and carry him home.

I went with option two.

It was exhausting and I had to stop several times, put him down and take a breather. When we'd brought Oso home from the shelter, he weighed six pounds. As I trudged home with his furry little body pressed against mine, I knew that number was long gone.

Sure enough, I got home, put him on the scale and took a look..."little" Oso weighed 15 pounts. As I wiped my sweaty forehead it hit me...

I've lost two Osos.

When I carried him home for those last 20 minutes, I was miserable. He was heavy. With every step in the hot Florida sun, I swore internally that dog weighed a ton. And a year ago---I carried twice his weight on my body.

Talk about perspective. Yes, it's taken me longer than I would have liked to lose the weight, but it's happened nonetheless.

The whole episode--along with the inspiration I've found this week--have kept me going.

As for "little" Oso, the vets tell us he could get to be anywhere between 70 and 80 pounds. For every pound I lose, he's gaining.

I can't wait to get to the point where I can say I've lost a full-grown Oso...dare to dream, dare to dream. And despite the increasing body weight, I've got to say, I still love that I can pick him up and cuddle our little boy. Before long, he'll be much too big to carry home.

October's here...and I am not.

2007-10-01T15:59:00.000-07:00

I've tried looking under the couch. Under the seats of my car. In the abandoned drawers in my desk. I've looked in the closet, under the bed, but really, my motivation seems to be missing in action.

Life continues kicking my arse all over town. Work stress. Family stress. The fact that no matter what I do, I am always running late. I'm staying up until all hours of the day, barely finding time to eat and when I do have time to eat...the words "not pretty" aren't descriptive enough.

In the past week...let's see...I had a day where I didn't journal. At all. Okay, let me stop lying. It was two days. There was another day I ate two chocolate chip cookies for breakfast (the bright side: at least it wasn't more). Even my workouts--which have been to this point a stress relief--are killing me. Last week, I dragged myself to the gym, despite the fact I didn't want to be there.

I gave myself the same old pep talk I've always given myself--if you don't want to be here after 20 minutes, go home.

Every time I've said that to myself guess what's happened--I've stayed on the treadmill or the elliptical machine and left feeling proud of myself. This past week the 20 minutes came, I was miserable. I went home.

As I was driving home, that was the night I had to stop and ask myself what I was doing and why. I'm getting into the danger zone here and I need to snap myself out of it. The thing is--I don't know how.

The fact I haven't lost weight in two weeks is killing me. I know it's not about the scale. I know it's not about numbers. I know there are good things happening. But mentally, for me, not seeing the number go down was draining. I talked a good game and for a while, I even believed it. But then the doubt crept in and the devil sitting on my shoulder just wouldn't shut up.

"You've worked so hard and you've only lost 30 pounds this year. Everyone else around you is hitting their goal weight. You're just a fat failure."

"Oh, come on. You don't need to work out today. You exercised yesterday. You can take a day off."

"You're working late every night this week. You're not going to be able to make a WW meeting for a few days. Go ahead and share the ribs with the hubby. By the time your weigh-in rolls around, you'll have burnt it off." (This one was funny, yet incredibly believable!)

"Hey, the first time you did WW, you lost weight like there was no tomorrow. And back then, you weren't even exercising. You're obviously just not doing it right this time."

"Look, you've been fat since the day you were born. Maybe it's time you just accept that's what you're supposed to be...fat."

I haven't shared these feelings with anyone. Not Mr. CCC. Not my incredibly supportive friends. Not the readers of my blog and for a long time--I didn't even want to admit them to myself.

It's part of the reason I haven't blogged for so long...I'm fighting an internal battle and as always, I'm trying to do it myself. And I can't. I go back and forth between wanting to continue what I'm doing and stuffing myself silly with cupcakes, french fries and nachos.

What's so maddening and frustrating about it is...I may not notice something is happening, but others do. Yesterday for example, my mom (one of my life-long weight critics) looked at me and said, "Did you lose more weight? You look great!" and today, one of my coworkers (who knew I was trying to drop some pounds) asked, "Can I be so bold as to ask how much weight you've lost? You look terrific."

If they believe it, why can't I? Why am I putting so much stock in a number? Why does a scale--even one I only visit just once a week--still have so much power over me?

I feel like some sort of weight loss fraud right now. I know all the positives, I'm just not seeing them. I'm not feeling them and my motivation is gone.

Right now, I'm just operating on the assumption that I have to do this...or I'm going to kill myself with food. (I never denied being overdramatic!) I need to do this or I won't grow old and raise great-grandbabies with Mr. CCC one day. I need to do this or I'll be the sad fat woman that you see using a motorized cart to do the most basic of errands.

There is proof all around me that I need to eat healthy and I need to exercise, but I just can't get my head around it at all.

And I need to be inspired...to know someone else has done this--at a turtle's pace--because that's what it feels like right now. The good thing is, I believe in inspiration so I'm off to take a look.

My body continues to amaze me...

2007-09-23T13:31:00.000-07:00

I know, I know. I should be taken out back and smacked upside the head a few times. I've been missing in action. It's maddening, but that's how my life has become. Just to give you an idea...I had an unexpected business trip this week. Yup, completely out of the blue.

One day I'm in the office, the next I'm on the road, scrambling to find healthy eating options while traveling with people who would prefer to find a place where they can inhale as much alcohol as possible.

I'm happy to say despite that, my eating stayed in reason. And for the past two weeks, as I've started to get a better grip on the craziness that is my scheduled, I've managed to find plenty of time for quality workouts.

It's felt great to get back on track after two weeks of NOT eating well and not exercising.

So can someone please tell me why this week, when I went to my WW meeting, I gained a pound?

This came after last week--where I stayed the same.

I simply do not understand.

I do not understand how two weeks ago, I was eating junk and not exercising and I lost 3 pounds. Now, I get back on track, exercise, eat better and I gain weight? It's maddening. Frustrating. Bananas.

The only thing that keeps me from going bonkers is that I KNOW things are happening. Good things.

As in a shopping excursion that DIDN'T involve the plus-sized department.

Seeing a friend for the first time in months and leaving her practically speechless.

Walking tall and finding confidence I didn't know I had.

Somehow, all of that keeps happening, even if the scale doesn't cooperate. For now, I can be patient.

Let's see how long "for now" is...

A scary look into the future?

2007-09-13T15:22:00.001-07:00

My parents are travel agents. Meaning, they're never home. They're always out and about, taking people on fabulous trips while most of the time, I'm left home to sulk.

Okay, not sulk really, but because my grandmother (who lives with my parents) is 83 and really not able to stay home alone, Mr. CCC and I "move in" to my parents house while they're gone.

We're there to keep watch over the house, the pets and of course, my grandmother. This week has been a difficult one, but one that's been eye-opening as well.

A few days ago, my grandmother woke up complaining of a pain in her neck and back. We figured she'd just slept on her neck funny and that a day of medicine and rest would get her back to normal.

Yesterday, when I asked how she was feeling, she said much better. I figured the issue was past until this morning...when my grandmother woke up screaming and crying because she could not move.

Mr. CCC and I packed her up and took her to the doctor. Just as I was getting ready to leave though, she tells me to grab all her medicines from her nightstand so she could show the doctor what she was taking.

I was more than a little surprised at what I found when I went back inside for her medicine--there were bottles and bottles and bottles. Grabbed 'em, put 'em in a bag and headed out.

When the doctor finally saw her and asked what she was taking, I produced the aforementioned "little" bag. As he looked at them, he explained to me what they were all for.

One for her cholesterol. One for her high blood pressure. Another for arthritis. Another for controlling or doing something with her blood sugar levels.

My head was spinning.

I know my grandma is older. And I understand our bodies start to fail us but as I watched in sadness while the doctor poked and prodded at my grandmother to try and find a solution for her pain, I couldn't help but wonder how different my grandma's life would be if she'd lost weight.

She's been overweight as long as I've been alive. For a good chunk of my life, she smoked. (Fortunately, she gave that up about 10 or 12 years ago...). But doctors have been on her for ages to lose weight. All of her weight (like that of most overweight Cuban women) is centered right on her midsection, something I know makes the weight even more damaging.

Even scarier? I was there when the doctors weighed my grandmother. She weighs less than I do. (She's also about six inches shorter...but when I checked our BMIs, hers is lower.)

It was sobering. But I know there's hope.

A year ago, when I started this journey, I weighed 30 pounds more than I do today. My BMI was at 41. It's at 36 now...still not good, but obviously, progress. And this week, when I went to the doctor and was weighed, I got the inevitable, "You need to lose weight" lecture. (I cut her some slack because it was my first visit--and the lecture stopped when I told her I'd lost 30 pounds and was continuing to work on things).

The other thing that stopped my doctor in her tracks? She took my blood pressure and said, "You exercise, don't you?" to which I responded that I did...and she smiled and said, "I knew it...because your blood pressure is perfect and there's no way someone at your weight should have that blood pressure...unless they're excercising. Keep at it and next year, I can't wait to see your weight."

It was a good moment for me but I had no idea that two days later, I'd be sitting in another doctor's office with a glimpse into my future if I don't "keep at it."

So many times, I get frustrated about my weight because I don't look good. Because I can't buy the clothes I want. Because it's about vanity.

I got another reminder today that there's a lot more at stake.

If she's fat...I'm doomed!

2007-09-11T14:22:00.000-07:00

Okay, have to admit...

Despite the fact I own one of her CDs, I'm no Britney Spears fan.

I don't think she can sing (the aforementioned CD was purchased many many moons ago while I was quite possibly, intoxicated). I think her tramped-out image is cliche. Her career is in the toilet and her personal life ain't doing much better.

But today, I feel real, real bad for her.

Two days after her horrible performance at the VMA's a lot of people have a lot of mean things to say. Is the outfit a good choice? No. Was her "singing" worth the hype? No. She couldn't dance. She was clearly lip-synching but people can and have overlooked all of that.

What they can't seem to overlook is her body. In its review, the Associated Press wrote Brit-Brit's performance failures included, "The paunch in place of Spears' once-taut belly."

Perez Hilton, a man who looks like he's never met an order of fries he didn't love, called it a "beer belly."

Uh, wait a second. That. That up there...over there...that flat, yet curvy stomach has a "paunch." It's a beer belly?

Hey AP--wanna see a paunch? I can show you a paunch. Britney? She ain't got one to show. Perez, you want to know about beer bellies, take a look at yourself in the mirror. (Or click here...)

To call Britney's body--one that most women, including myself would kill to have--"paunchy" or fat is just proof of how unhealthy our society's outlook on bodies is.

We sit here wringing our hands about the increases in eating disorders. We complain that fashion models are nothing more than hangers with flesh, but then when a woman who has had two children in less than two years struts out in a bikini with a curve or two and no six-pack we call her "fat."

Hypocritical much?

Worse is that the more I've read up on this, the more I'm coming across people justifying their mean words about her body by saying, "Well she didn't look like that before!" or "It's her job to look good."

Can we take a step back in time to "before"--when Britney was running around in school-girl outfits and covering herself with a snake...back when all of the people criticizing her NOW said she was too thin then and that it was impossible for the average woman to look like that.

Now Britney's heavier than she was and she's still getting grief?

Sad, sad world we live in.

Criticize her performance. Say she was drunk and that she looked out of it. Talk about how she can't sing. I'll agree with you wholeheartedly.

But please...don't call Britney Spears fat. She's far from it.

And if she is fat, then well, maybe I should throw in the towel. Because it's going to take a ridiculous amount of self-control and exercise for me to look like that.

She's got breasts. She's got curves. She's still got the rockin' body.

What the hell is wrong with us if we can't see that?

Utterly confused!!!

2007-09-09T19:36:00.001-07:00

You know how we all have those weeks--the weeks where we stay on our weight loss plans, exercise like mad, follow all the guidelines we're supposed to and when we go weigh in nothing happens?

This wasn't one of those weeks. Actually, I had the OPPOSITE kind of week...heck, opposite kind of TWO weeks.

I'm still trying to navigate and master my new schedule and I must confess--there have been more than a few meals eaten in my car this week. If you can read between the lines, you know "eating in my car" means eating from a drive-thru. Think McDonald's. BK. Wendy's. Panda Express. You're rolling your eyes at me. I don't blame you!

I really do go out of my way to try and make the best choices I can, even when it's fast food. Mushroom chicken at Panda Express with steamed rice. Grilled chicken breasts from Pollo Tropical. But there was an order of nachos from Taco Bell thrown in there. And a cheeseburger too.

To make matters worse, I have not been working out as much as I did before school started. Instead of my 4-5 weekly workouts (plus pilates), I'm lucky if I'm getting in there three times. And this week, I was so sick on Wednesday morning because of a medicine I'm (temporarily) taking that I could barely drag myself out of bed--no pilates for me this week.

Yet in a weird stroke of "I really don't know how to explain it," I went to my WW meeting on Saturday--after missing last week's meeting--and get this...I LOST 3.6 POUNDS!

Baffling isn't even the half of it.

I'm at a complete loss for an explanation. By all accounts, it hasn't been my "best" two weeks. There have been weeks where I've spent countless hours in the gym, have tracked every meal, have stayed within my points and I've gained ounces...or haven't lost at all. (Remember the six week plateau?)

Then I have two weeks like this--hectic eating on the run, bare-bones workouts and I lose almost four pounds? Seriously...WTF? What the heck is my body doing?

I don't have any answers other than maybe I have been doing more than I give myself credit for. But honestly, I really don't know.

Part of me is almost terrified--that maybe this weight loss was a delayed reaction to what I've been doing all summer and that when I go back to the scale next week, my "naughty" two weeks are going to catch up with me. And then part of me thinks, "Well, it wasn't pretty or ideal, but you DID stick to your points. So maybe your body just needed a shock."

I don't have any answers. I really don't. Maybe you can help.

Here are a few of the things I've done over the past two weeks...I'll dare you to tell me if any of them sound like "the right things to do to lose weight."

*Eaten from a fast food restaurant multiple times in one day (although I didn't go over my points)

*Worked out much less than in previous weeks

*On each of the past Fridays, only had two meals. (Fridays are the nights I get home super late--past 1 a.m., so what I do is have a nice breakfast, exercise, and then eat a late, filling lunch around 4, 5 p.m....then by the time I get home at 1 a.m., I'm too exhausted to eat)

*Blew through all--if not most--of my flex points on the weekend (My new count starts on Saturdays)

*Journaled every bite, regardless of whether I went over my points or not.

*Went over my points a few days. Period. Over my daily points with no flex points to use

So there's some good there (the journaling) and some bad (only eating two meals on Fridays?) Do you think all this behavior is going to catch up with me next week?

I don't know why, but I do...

That said...I was DAMN HAPPY to see some progress on the scale. Again, after six weeks of waffling with the same pound, to kick that number behind for good was incredibly powerful for me!

Only...now what?

Lost and Found

2007-09-04T19:38:00.000-07:00

Bet you thought I was exaggerating, didn't you?

You thought, "Oh CCC! You're not nearly as busy as you think! You'll find time to exercise! You'll keep eating right. You'll stay on track. You're just psyching yourself out..."

My worst fears about time management concerns came crashing down over the past few days. But the good thing is, somehow, I am still stumbling through.

Has my eating been perfect since I last posted? Nope. Has it been disastrous? Nope. Am I still finding my way through a new schedule that has me stumbling home past midnight a couple times a week? You bet!

After coming home from work Friday night (err, morning) at 2, when the alarm clock rang at 9 a.m. for my WW meeting, I hit snooze. When it rang again at 10 so Mr. CCC and I could get ourselves together to head down to Miami to watch my beloved Hurricanes play, I hit snooze again. The lack of sleep caught up with me. (But fear not--Mr. CCC drives like a bat out of hell and we made it on time to the game, whew ;)

But it wasn't just my lack of sleep that wreaked havoc on my life over the past week...last Sunday when Mr. CCC and I went to my mother's for dinner I left my WW books and journals sitting in her living room. Yipes! The old me would have tried to "measure in my head" and probably would have failed...but thank heavens for online tools--I looked up all the point values for everything I ate and logged everything in the notes section of my planner.

Woo hoo for baby steps.

I got a reward of sorts today at the doctor's office--according to their scale, I'm down a pound. I was pretty excited about that, though I'm trying to contain my excitement...that's not my regular scale and who knows how calibrated it is, but either way, it felt good to know that despite the challenges I've faced in the past week and a half, my weight loss efforts haven't gone to hell in a handbasket.

I'm a few days away from being back on the scale officially, and I'm doing whatever I can whenever I can to keep myself on track...planning meals, journaling, squeezing in workouts whenever possible (including Labor Day!)

But I have to admit--I hate the lack of structure. I'm definitely flying by the seat of my pants here and the control freak in me isn't happy.

Just. Have. To. Keep. Plugging.

Breaking through...

2007-08-26T18:44:00.001-07:00

The good news: After five weeks stuck at the same weight, something finally happened.

You read it right--I lost weight! Not a huge amount, but I was so relieved to see I was down 1.2 that it didn't bother me (much). Was I hoping for more? Sure. Was I just thrilled something happened? You bet. Do I know this is something of a minor miracle considering I've been dealing with my period the past week? Absolutely.

The bad news? I now get to eat less food. My loss moved me into a new (lower) point category. I'm a little nervous about it, but I'm just going to have to find a way to make it work. Unfortunately, I didn't start the week off well. My sister-in-law hosted a housewarming party last night in her new gorgeous home and I uh, overindulged. (I can't be the only one that needs vodka to get through an evening with my in-laws, can I?). But the flex points have been counte and dedcuted and on we go...

But the fact I've lost a point isn't coming at a great time. All summer I've been dreading the return of the school year. Though I'm not a teacher and I don't have kids, my life becomes completely insane once the school year starts because of my job. At least twice a week now, I'll be coming home past 11 p.m. I'll be out of the office, out of my house, out of my comfort zone on those nights. Finding time to workout is going to be more challenging, so I'm going to have to capitalize on whatever time I do have.

Since starting this journey, I've been working out every night after work. This was perfect for me in a couple of ways--the first being Mr. CCC works late pretty often. Going to the gym after work was a good way for me to pass the time 'til he got home and it kept me out of the house (and the kitchen!) until dinner time. And let me tell you right now--I am not a morning person. The idea of waking up early to go exercise gives me the shakes. Plus, on the occasions I did that, I found myself insanely hungry the rest of the day. I'd be out of points well before dinner time. So evening workouts were perfection.

Only problem is that now that school's back, I'm going to be working late myself. So I'm going to have to find ways to make morning workouts--work. That means going to bed earlier, having dinner earlier, packing healthy snacks for during the day and planning my meals better. It's going to be a challenge, but I'm determined to make it work. I have to.

I know I can't be the only one who's got to work out in the morning...how have you made it work for you? I could use the advice and the inspiration so tell, tell!

I know what word rhymes with "stuck"...

2007-08-21T15:36:00.000-07:00

...and it's the word I screamed (internally!!!) while standing on the scale last week.

I bet you know the word I was thinking of, don't you? Well, let's rule out some possibilities. It wasn't duck...or truck...or puck...or schmuck. Figured it out yet?

Okay, imagine your reaction after five days of relentless workouts, passing up treats and realizing you've only lost half a pound (after two straight weeks of gaining!) You wouldn't be happy, would you? Neither was I.

Sure, the weigher was all chipper and happy and "Yay! You lost half a pound!" but it took all my self control not to utter the word-that-rhymes-with-stuck while standing in her presence.

After two weeks of gaining and all the work I'd put in earlier that week, I was so upset. More upset when I realized over the past four weigh-ins--four weeks of dieting--all I've managed to lose was nothing. Exactly nothing. I weigh today, exactly what I weighed July 21.

While I can honestly say I'm not sure what happened with my last weigh-in (where I gained 4 ounces despite eating well and exercising), I know I was lucky to have some, any kind of downward progress this past week. Why? Because in the two days after Dobie's death, as I posted, I was a nutritional black hole.

If you were fried, covered in cheese or barbeque sauce, drizzled with chocolate or soaked in vodka, I was going to eat you. I didn't care what I put in my body. But less than 72 hours after losing my boy, I knew that the food wasn't helping me in any way and I got back together.

Two pilates classes in one week. Cardio and weights every other day. Not going over my points (Or telling myself I hadn't). And all I could muster was a half-pound loss? Gotta admit, it was disappointing.

But it was also eye-opening.

And it made me realize...while I can exercise my brains out, if I'm still taking in food that I have no business eating, exercise isn't going to make any difference. And maybe that's something I wasn't being honest with myself about while I've been stuck. Have I really, really counted every bite? Have I really, really measured everything out? Have I really, really journaled every day?

Or am I just coasting along, counting on my exercise to undo that bite of chocolate cake I had at my boss' birthday? Or am I figuring that because my muscles still ache from pilates it's okay to steal a few fries off Mr. CCC's plate?

Since that weigh-in on Saturday, I've tried to make sure I do keep track of everything. I'm writing down every bite before I even swallow. And if I go over my points for the day, I flip to the page in my journal where I mark off flex points and there they go.

To make this work, I need to be real. I need to be honest. I need to be as on top of my eating as I am on top of my exercise. Simple as that. I can't tell myself that because I don't weigh what I did when I started this journey that I've got a handle on this eating thing. Because I don't.

Maybe that's what's happening. Maybe I've just gotten comfortable. Or maybe I really am stuck on a plateau. I can't be 100% sure yet. I think this weekend will give me more of an idea. Here's to hoping there's not something more serious going on.

Face to face with the reality...

2007-08-16T11:16:00.000-07:00

From the moment I was a little girl, I've had an unhealthy mental image of what the ideal woman should look like.

Of course, I didn't realize it was an unhealthy image until I got older, but when I was 6, 7, 8 years old, few women in the world to me, were prettier than the Miami Dolphins cheerleaders.

Are you cringing yet? The 29-year old me is. But the little girl I used to be just saw pretty faces, big smiles and shimmery outfits. Who wouldn't be fascinated?

I first encountered the Dolphins cheerleaders because of my mom. Prior to opening her own business, she worked in sales in a male-dominated industry. This meant part of her job often involved entertaining clients. She took her female clients to spas to discuss business. Her male clients often got tickets to Miami Dolphins games. Her company used to set up quite the pre-game tailgate and since she was a single mom hard-pressed to find a sitter, I'd get to go down to the Orange Bowl with her and her coworkers to help.

It was hard work, but when you're 7 and your parents are in the middle of a divorce, a Sunday afternoon at the Orange Bowl with all that yummy food and a football to toss around was bliss. And inevitably, someone would always prefer to stay at the tailgate party, giving my mom and I their tickets and into the game we'd go. (No wonder I fell in love with football...)

To make their tailgate even better, the company would often pay the Dolphins to have the cheerleaders make appearances at the tailgate parties. So hours before the game kicked off, those women would show up with their shimmery pom-pons and their shiny white boots. In my mind, they were glamorous. Even as a kid, I knew there was something about them...after all, why would all the cute sons of my mom's clients rush off from playing football with me to pose for pictures with those glamazons?

Is it any wonder that when I was young, if you asked me what I wanted to be my answer was "cheerleader"?

But as I got older, I realized there was more to aspire to than being a professional pretty dancer. Soon the answer to the "What do you want to be when you grow up?" question went from "cheerleader" to "pediatrician." (My mother, understably, was relieved.)

I started getting good grades in school and got a little bit heavier. Inevitably, I was one of the outsiders looking in...the cheerleaders at my school were thin and pretty and popular. And some of them weren't all that nice. But I still wanted to be like them--be liked by them, so for two years, I was on the squad.

Eventually I gave up cheerleading, telling myself I wanted "more" than to just be on the sidelines. In reality, the cheerleaders intimidated me the older we got. I ran from my pompons and embraced my bat and ball. I was a softball player now. But the cheerleaders have always been those girls I've looked up to and thought had the 'perfect' lives. Like the head cheerleader who dated the quarterback of the football team (who I was secretly in love with). Or (again), the Miami Dolphins cheerleaders who could make a crowd of 70,000 (mostly) men go crazy with one toss of their head and one shake of their hips.

The older I got, the more critical my view of cheerleaders became. I viewed them as nothing but eye candy (especially the ones that did nothing but dance...I know quite a few cheerleaders do more than that and train and perform like athletes...I'm not talking about them). My bitterness only grew when while we were dating, Mr. CCC got a job with the Dolphins' marketing department.

Part of that job? Accompany the Dolphin cheerleaders to appearances throughout South Florida. While the cheerleaders would lure the fans (err, men!) in, Mr. CCC would try to sell them season tickets. I hated that he was around those cheerleaders in their skimpy outfits for hours at a time...it pulled at every self-esteem issue I had and I worried that one day, Mr. CCC would come home and tell me he was running off with one of them. And why wouldn't he want to? They were tall. Thin. Beautiful. Voluptuous.

I was not.

Yesterday in my Pilates class, I came face to face with my childhood goal/adult nemesis. There was a new student in class and as the rest of the chubsters and I sweat and groaned through the new moves our instructor demanded, the newbie flew through the routine with the kind of grace and precision you just don't see from newcomers to Pilates. She barely broke a sweat.

Our instructor must have noticed the fact so many people turned to look because she pointed out for the rest of us not to worry--that the new student was a dancer and had been training professionally for years. As I was leaving the studio, I overheard the chatter...the newbie was a Miami Dolphins cheerleader.

I glanced over and wasn't surprised--perfect body, perfect hair, perfect smile. For a moment, all I could think was, "Damn...I can work as hard as I just worked and I can cut back to eating absolutely nothing and I will never, in my wildest dreams, look like that." And part of me internally rolled my eyes---if she was so advanced and so flexible, why the heck was she strutting her stuff in a beginner class? I go to Pilates to escape my body issues. Not run into them head on.

It was rather depressing and took me right back into junior high mode--where the cheerleaders were the ones with the perfect lives and I was alone. But as I recounted the story, to a (very wise) friend, she told me I had to STOP thinking like that...and how we women are so hard on ourselves and overly critical of everything regarding our bodies. She had a point. For the first time since taking Pilates, I left the studio feeling down about myself...not proud of what I had just accomplished. And that bothered me.

That's my cross to bear, my issue to work through. I shouldn't be placing value on the person I am by the way I look. I shouldn't see a beautiful woman and roll my eyes, telling myself internally that she's automatically a bitch or that she's bound to be mean. I shouldn't look at a woman with a perfect figure and rationalize she has a perfect life. Because I don't know her. For all I know, she's lost her job, her husband, a child and is burning with pain inside.

For all the times we preach to our children and our friends about how looks don't matter, how often do we really believe that ourselves? I know I have issues. And I also know I need to find a way to stop that negative thinking.

Instead, I can (and should) look at that Dolphins Cheerleader and think, "Wow...I bet she has to work really hard to look that good." Because I'm sure she does. She's probably passed up cookies and cake her entire life. Or she spends six hours a day exercising. Is that something to be envious of? I don't think so. Would I want to skip some of the fabulous meals I've had in my life to be that thin? I don't know that I would. Am I willing to spend hours upon hours cooped up in a gym, instead of enjoying time with my family and friends? Nah.

But more power to those that do...that have to for their jobs. There's nothing to envy there...you have to just admire their self-control and their willpower. (Unless of course, you discover her dinners consist entirely of chocolate, wine and cheese and her exercise is limited to walking outside to get the mail. If that's the case, then yeah, I'm gonna be really, really jealous!)

Picking up the pieces

2007-08-13T20:24:00.001-07:00

It's been three days since Dobie left us and I have to tell you...it hasn't been easy. Not when it comes to adjusting. Not when it comes to seeing my stepdad's face. Not when it comes to walking into their home and not being met by a cold nose nudging into my arm, my legs, my anything...

It also hasn't been easy when it comes to my diet.

I've been a nutritional black hole since Saturday morning. I was too upset to eat on Friday night but by Saturday morning, when the ravenous physical pangs of hunger hit, I was all about eating whatever I wanted, whenever I wanted, and however I wanted. McDonald's for lunch, nachos and baby back ribs for dinner...Sunday wasn't much better...it was my cousin's birthday and the whole family got together. I didn't indulge in the cake, but it was pretty hard there for a while to pry the guacamole out of my hands...and the wine? Well, let's say my uncle is a wine distributor. Between my love of wine and my desire to avoid all talk about Dobie (because of course, my family asked), I drank...oh, maybe, 5 glasses? Yipes.

But I put an end to the weekend pity party as soon as I woke up today. Figuring that I've already blown past my weekly allotment of flex points, I've realized it's going to take some work and planning to make sure I only eat my 29 points per day. And since I probably ate more than my allotment of flex points, there will be no skipping out on exercise. I told myself if I got my act together today, maybe by Saturday, I'll be lucky to maintain my weight from last week.

But talk is talk and midway through the afternoon, I was hit with one of those waves of pain that just shows up out of nowhere. I can be sitting there, working on a project or reading a book and it just pops into my mind that he's gone...and suddenly, I'm sad all over again. Combine that with a dull craving for chocolate I had been successfully fighting to that point and I was on the verge of disaster.

But then I stopped...and pulled out my class schedule for Pilates...turns out there was a class starting in less than 15 minutes. I knew if they had an opening, I could make it. I called, there was lots of space, I went, figuring it'd take my mind off the pain for a little while.

I was right. The Monday afternoon class is a lot less full than my regular Wednesday morning class, so my instructor was able to give all five us real one-on-one torture. No one got away with slacking. I was working hard. I was sweating. I wasn't thinking about anything else...it was just what I needed.

I felt good when I got home...because I'd avoided stuffing myself with empty calories. Instead, I'd sought relief in exercise. I need to start doing more of that.

This weekend did teach me though that no matter how much progress I make, I will always be an emotional eater. I will never be one of those women who doesn't want food when the world is crashing down. But I need to learn how to manage it better. If not, I'm going to be sunk...

A heart that's just too big...

2007-08-11T02:19:00.000-07:00

I don't even know if blogger picks up timestamps on posts, but if it doesn't, I'll tell you I'm writing this at 5:30 a.m.

Few people are ever on the computer at that time of morning for a good reason. My reason? I just can't sleep. Even though I am mentally exhausted and physically drained, I can't sleep.

My sweet, precious Dobie is gone.

His surgery on Tuesday went well and he didn't have any complications at all that day. Wednesday we went to see him and while he looked a little mopey, we knew that was to be expected...he'd just had some MAJOR surgery! Again though, no sign of complications. He was on a heart monitor and things looked good. His vitals were good.

But yesterday morning, my parents got a phone call that he had taken a turn for the worse. His heart rate was elevated, his breathing was labored, he didn't want to eat and he was unresponsive with the doctors and staff. He was alive, but didn't acknowledge them. She suggested then that we all head down there and bring him some of his homecooked food to see if we could "perk him up."

I called Mr. CCC in tears and we both left our respective jobs to meet my parents at the hospital. I was fully prepared to say goodbye to my dog, but what I got instead was what I consider Dobie's last gift to us.

When he walked into the room, he practically ran and jumped to us. His tail started wagging like crazy, he licked us all. He didn't know who to go to first...it was happy dog overload! We spent two hours with him and while at first he didn't want to eat, when I sat down next to him, and gave him a piece of chicken from my hand, he took it and looked up at me like, "Well? There is more, isn't there?"

The doctor came into the room while we were with him and looked visibly relieved. She told us Dobie had given her quite the scare and that it appeared what he really, really needed were his people. She then told us if he didn't show any complications overnight, he would be ready to go home.

My mom got the call Friday morning to pick him up and they brought him home. But he was a shadow of the dog we'd seen a day earlier. He didn't want to eat. And during the day, he would respond to them and try to get up and follow my parents around until finally, they just sat in the room with him because they knew the activity wasn't good for him. He just didn't want to be by himself.

When I got out of work and went to their house and saw Dobie on his bed, I knew he was slipping away. He barely lifted his head to greet me. I tried to get him to eat like he had the day before, but nothing. It was the only time in his life that Dobie has ever turned his back to me when I've spoken to him.

Things got worse not even an hour later when while on his bed, Dobie lost control of his body and went to the bathroom all over himself and the bed. My parents cleaned him up, put him in my car (since it was easier for him to get into) and rushed him to the ER.

The doctors did everything they could, but Dobie went into cardiac arrest in my car. He died moments after reaching the hospital.

My parents and I had a long discussion as to why they let him come home today, but I got my answer when I saw his discharge papers. His painkiller dose was double what he'd been prescribed after his biopsy last week. And the first instruction on his "medicine" listing was, "Give Dobie lots and lots of love!" with a BIG heart on it.

I believe in my heart that his doctors knew yesterday when they called us that he wasn't going to make it. But instead of keeping him separated from his home and his family anymore, they sent him home to spend his last days with us. The painkiller dose meant he felt nothing--something the vets in the ER assured us...Dobie knew his body was failing him, but he did not FEEL his body failing him.

It's been a little surreal. This is the second time in less than a year that my family has lost a dog. Cancer took our Papo last October and I think cancer again played a part with Dobie, although technically, what took him was his heart problem---an enlarged heart.

Dobie did have a very, very big heart and of course, I find it ironic that that's what caused him to leave us. He was truly a special dog who always showed us he cared. Even today, in his final hours, he tried to be with us as much as he could. He was as noble, loyal and kind as you could ever imagine.

People were always stunned when they learned we had a Doberman Pinscher. And I can't tell you how many times people would cross to the other side of the street when they saw me walking him. He looked ferocious. Until you got up close and he would nudge with his cold nose. Or offer you his paw as an introduction--we showed him how to "shake hands" as a pup and eve yesterday, when I asked, "Give me paw?" he always put his paw in my hand.

Dobie never growled or complained, even when in pain. He never bit anyone or begged for food. Whatever you asked of him, he did. He loved to roll around the in the grass of our backyard or play hide and seek with us. (We always did the hiding, he did the finding). We used to joke in our family that his eyes and his face told us more than words ever could and that he was one step away from being human and all he needed was to physically speak. I can never and will never forget that face.

It's been incredibly hard on my stepdad. My mom and I got Dobie for him as a Christmas gift six years ago because he had always wanted his own dog--a big dog. And while Dobie loved us all, there was a bond between he and my stepfather that could not be broken. I often used to joke I was jealous, because with my parents out of town so much for work, I did lots of dogsitting for Dobie and he'd just up and leave my side as soon as my stepdad walked in the door.

When my parents got home from the ER tonight, my stepdad stumbled through the door wearing Dobie's collar around his neck. He just held onto me and cried, sobs shaking his entire body saying, "My dog is gone...my dog is gone...why is my beautiful dog gone?" It was heartbreaking in a way I can't describe. He ended up throwing himself on Dobie's dog bed and sobbing and we just had to give him his space.

The only consolations I have right now are that so many wonderful people, including those of you who stop in on my blog, have sent our family so many good wishes and so many prayers. To know Dobie was in so many thoughts is incredibly special and I am eternally grateful. My other consolation? That this happened while my parents were home.

They're both travel agents so on most weekends, they're not here. I can't tell you how many times over the past few months while Dobie's health was deteriorating and Mr. CCC and I had to rush him to the ER alone I've asked God to just let Dobie stay with us until my parents got back. I don't even want to wrap my head around the idea of having to call my stepdad and tell him his boy was gone.

Dobie's last minutes on earth weren't ideal and yes, he was rushed back to the hospital but his last days and his last hours were with his people. He wasn't alone when he passed and he was in no pain, surrounded by just love. When all of our times come, we should be as fortunate.

I truly believe God needed a really, really, really good dog in heaven, so he called Dobie home. And more importantly, when he did that, he ended Dobie's tough medical road and healed his little body in a way no one on earth could.

I'm pretty sure that his little brother was waiting for him and that the two of them are having a great time together. And I bet just like it happened here, the little one is already pushing Dobie around...

Grazing my way through the day...

2007-08-07T18:39:00.000-07:00

I have to admit, when I'm nervous, or scared or emotional, my eating can go either way.

Sometimes, the mere thought of food when I'm bothered is horrifying. It doesn't help that on some occasions, when I've eaten while upset, I've gotten sick. So as I sat down to eat my lunch today at work, I quickly wrapped it up, put it back in the fridge and told myself I'd only get sick if I ate it. After all, with Dobie in surgery today, my stomach was doing its best impersonation of an Olympic gymnast. Flips and turns and somersaults all over.

But as I get ready to make dinner, I'm smacked in the face with the reality that no, I haven't had a big meal today (save breakfast), but I am just about completely out of points. There was the small order of fries I got from Mickey D's when I picked up my lunchtime salad. There was the yogurt I ate around 2 p.m.; the bag of chips I inhaled around 4 p.m.

I told myself at lunchtime that if I ate a full meal, I'd likely make myself sick. But I've probably inhaled more calories with my nervous grazing than I would have had I just eaten the darned salad. Where's the logical explanation there, CCC? Ah, right...there is none.

By skipping my lunch for fear of losing my lunch, I was powerless to stop the cravings when I got hunger pangs. And no, the damage wasn't horrific (I still do have 8 points left for dinner...) but I know what I did today wasn't healthy.

It was as if every time the phone rang, I jumped, expecting news on Dobie's surgery and when there was no news to get, I ate something. Anything. How that 100-calorie pack of cookies that is still sitting on my desk made it through the day I'll never know, but thank heaven for small miracles, right?

The only thing keeping me from losing my mind is the fact that in about 24 hours, all the worrying and stressing should be over. Dobie was a real trouper in surgery and the doctor said it went well. She found some smaller masses on his liver and spleen that she removed and sent to be biopsied, but she told us those could be nothing more than "old dog changes" since Dobie is a few months shy of his 7th birthday (rather old on the Doberman Pinscher scale).

But because Doberman's have blood clotting issues and Dobie has a heart condition, the next 24 hours are crucial. His body needs to adjust to what the doctors did and the doctor said she doesn't foresee any problems, but we need to get him through the next day.

To deal with the fact that I'll probably still be a nervous wreck tomorrow, I'm going to plan ahead.

Here's the gameplan:
1. Pack lunch. Not only will I save money, I'll save points (Since lunch will likely be a homemade sammich or a WW frozen meal).

2. Pack snacks with said lunch. Healthy, point-friendly snacks. This will deter me from inhaling another bag of tortilla chips that weren't even worth the points I spent on them.

3. Leave the money at home. If I don't have singles or change, I have nothing to use at the vending machine. If I have no money, I can't buy junk. If I need something, there's an ATM downstairs from my office that dispenses $10 bills. You can't use those in vending machines, so there!

4. Pack gym bag and return to workout routine immediately after work. I'm back into the groove, went yesterday, have Pilates class in the morning, but I skipped the workout today to go to the hospital and meet with Dobie's vet.

5. Distract myself with any and all things possible while at the office. Get work done, start on projects that aren't due for a while, email Mr. CCC and friends to avoid noshing. Heck, blog if I so see fit and I have a few minutes. Whatever. Just do not mindlessly eat.

That oughta do it, right? RIGHT! And I know my buddy's going to be perfect tomorrow evening and this long process will finally come to an end. With a saner CCC and a happier, healthier Dobie!

Am I hard to read?

2007-08-07T16:01:00.000-07:00

Alright, so this is more a housekeeping post than anything else...

Tinkered around with the page, the fonts, the colors and because I'm such a girly-girl, this is what I came up with...

It's not hard on anyone's eyes, is it?

I just wanted to spice things up, but I don't want anyone to stop reading because my format is far more annoying than my words :)

Let me know!

Hot fun in the summertime...

2007-08-06T15:27:00.001-07:00

Okay, so South Florida is in the middle of a heat wave. Even by our standards, it's warm out there right now. Miami had a record high yesterday and even the simple task of walking from my condo to the car leaves me feeling sweaty and gross.

Combine that with the fact that this afternoon has been non-stop ridiculously busy for me, and it was time for a Starbucks run.

I've been avoiding Starbucks like the plague since getting back on the Weight Watchers wagon. Sure, I know they have healthier options and you can get anything you like made with non-fat milk and no whipped cream, but let's be real.

That's the stuff that makes Starbucks sooo good.

But today, I had to have some caffeine and I needed something cool (plus the escape from the constantly-ringing phone was essential) so I took a short stroll and immediately started drooling at the sight of one of their new summer drinks--the raspberry mocha frappuccino.

As you know, I'm a sucker for anything chocolate. And raspberries + chocolate = a little slice of heaven for me, so I figured I'd indulge. After all, I've been a good egg all day--working out in the morning, drinking my water, having a sensible WW frozen quesadilla for lunch. I had the points to spare.

I was happy to discover I could get the drink made in the "light" version using skim milk and I asked for the lightest bit of whipped cream possible (ie, I had far less whipped cream on my drink than the picture up there!) As I sipped and took in the chocolatey-raspberry goodness, I had to melt a little bit.

It was yummy in a plastic cup!

My best friend (whom I have the extreme pleasure of sharing an office with!) eyed my drink suspiciously (enviously maybe?) and asked if I'd checked the points out on it. I hadn't yet, but when we got back to the office, I had to gloat.

A tall, made with skim milk had only 140 calories and 1 gram of fat. SWEET!

On my WW point slider, it drops in right on the line between 2-3 points. Since I'd added a small touch of whipped cream, I went with the higher number. And enjoyed every sip.

I know Starbucks is trashed a lot for the number of calories and the amount of fat in their drinks, but there are some healthy choices there and we all need to remember that (myself included!).

If you like raspberries and you like chocolate, get thee to Starbucks.

Someone please let me know if it's as yummy without the touch of whipped cream. I bet it is...

Up and down

2007-08-05T10:54:00.000-07:00

Another day, another emotional roller coaster ride.

Despite the fact I haven't worked out over the past week the way I would have liked, once I got back into Pilates on Wednesday, I was back on like crazy. I did cardio that night. On Thursday I did cardio and weights; same thing for Friday.

And I have to admit, I was pretty proud of myself for not doing the emotional eating thing...the leftover birthday cake has sat in my fridge--untouched--all week. I've stuck to my points. Picked the evil goodies out of a salad I'd ordered figuring it was healthy. You put all of that together and the fact I had a slight gain last week and I figured once my weigh-in came, something good would happen.

So when I stepped up the scale and saw I was up another 0.4, I lost it. It's the first time in this journey that I have gained weight two weeks in a row. It was the first time I'd gained weight and had no good answers. I didn't cheat. I journaled everything. I was so upset at the unfairness of it all and I'm not proud of this, but I stormed out of my Weight Watchers meeting, sat in my car and sobbed. When I got home, the words, "I'm going to be fat for the rest of my life!!!!!!" were uttered (okay, yelled) to Mr. CCC.

I was livid and so tempted to stuff myself, but instead I figured I'd punish my body. By working out. I went and pushed myself on the stairmaster, pushed myself on the treadmill and came home drained.

A few hours later though, all the rage I'd felt at my disappointing weigh-in evaporated when my grandmother called and told me Dobie was not eating and throwing up. With my parents on the west coast for the day, I knew this was my issue to deal with. And I remember when we picked Dobie up from the hospital after his biopsy, the doctor told us discomfort would be normal. If he didn't want to eat or drink, that was normal. But if he threw up, we had to bring him in immediately.

I hightailed it from Fort Lauderdale to Miami, and called the vet to let her know we were on the way. The nurse then informed me that when we got in, Dobie's vet had gotten the results of the biopsy earlier that day and she'd meet with us about them. (Gulp!)

Mr. CCC, who had been working, met me at the animal hospital because with my parents not there, I didn't want to be alone when I heard the biopsy results. After all, the vets had painted a pretty grim picture earlier in the week. And his episode at the moment wasn't making things better.

As we rushed him in, the doctors took Dobie away to do some tests. The diagnosis? A bad (nauseous) reaction to his medications. Then the vet informed us she was going to prescribe something else for the tummy issues, but that we couldn't take him off the medicine that was making him nauseous, because she was scheduling him for surgery on Tuesday and he needed that medicine beforehand.

I looked up and said, "But surgery? I thought you said that wasn't an option for him?" And then we got the best news we've had since Dobie's ordeal began.

Despite the fact all signs pointed to cancer, his biopsy results had come back benign. When I heard her say "benign," I literally started to sob. Now all signs pointed to Dobie being cancer free...he still has to have surgery to have the tumor removed. The vet also said it was time to neuter him because if we didn't, these problems would likely continue.

Talk about complete and utter joy...the doctor said Dobie's case was really surprising her because that kind of growth just isn't normal in a benign tumor. To make sure, she was going to do another biopsy of the tumor once it is removed, but she said to us, "Your doggie just may be the miracle dog."

After that, how much could I let a 0.4 gain bother me? It didn't. It's amazing how quickly things are put into perspective for you. Hours earlier, I'd thought that gain was the end of the world. Now I realized it was anything but.

Don't get me wrong--I'm not going to accept what happened. I'm going to keep working hard and maybe the fact is, I can't afford to work out just three times a week. I had been going five times a week before Dobie got sick. I need to get back to that.

And I really need to assess what I am putting into my body. Every bite, every calorie. I don't have any room for error. Since coming off from my rage, Mr. CCC and I have had time to talk about my gain a little bit. And as he pointed out, it could be some leftover effects from my birthday weekend. It could be the fact I've been doing weights. Either way, the trend is still ultimately downward and I need to focus on that.

I also need to accept that there are going to be ups AND downs on the scale. And I just can't let one (or two) bad weeks deter me. I have too much at stake to give up.

A donut STILL can't fight cancer...

2007-08-01T13:46:00.000-07:00

A few months ago, I wrote about my run in with a chocolate-glazed donut when my family and I learned my grandfather's cancer had returned.

I have to admit, that was incredibly hard and it remains incredibly hard, but we're encouraged by the fact my grandfather's tests have not been alarming recently. He's due back for another check next month and we'll know more then.

But last night, I had a flash of deja vu, and another fight against emotional eating when I got news about Dobie and his surgery.

I was sitting at work when my mom called and she started hedging right away...asking if I was in the office, if I could talk, that she didn't want to disrupt me. So I outright asked, "Is the dog alive?"

She was a little taken aback and said, "Well, of course he is...but..." and that was when I cut her off. Because as far as I was concerned, if Dobie was still with us, the day was a good one. With his heart condition and some of the blood issues Doberman Pinschers have, I truly was terrified my beautiful bud wouldn't even make it through surgery. So for me, hearing he had was the best kind of news.

Until my mom finished speaking. Apparently, before putting Dobie in, his vets did another x-ray and a physical exam. In that, they discovered the tumor on his prostate had grown. Rapidly. They opted not to perform the surgery on him and when my mom said that, I could only choke out the words, "It's cancer, isn't it?"

Hey, I was pre-med for two years. And I'm pretty sure I remember reading that benign tumors don't grow that rapidly. That Dobie's had meant that well, it was a malignant tumor. My mom whispered, "Yes" and that was when I just felt rage. I barely listened to the rest of what she had to say, but I gathered that the vets decided to do a biopsy to determine what kind of cancer he had, how aggressive it was, and what--if anything--could be done for him.

We'll get the results in a week. So basically, we have another week of waiting and wondering and worrying.

But I was so angry because this is incredibly unfair. So incredibly unfair. Last October, we had to put our other dog down because of--you guessed it, cancer. Then in May we learned my grandfather's cancer was back. Now at the end of July, Dobie had cancer. How many times can this same disease cause havoc on one family? Seriously! And that's in the past year. I've lost my cousin and my uncle to cancer as well. Cancer is just hitting below the belt right now and I'm really beaten up.

I made arrangements to meet my mom and stepdad at the vet to pick Dobie up. All the way there, I fought the urge to stop at McDonald's and get fries. Or onion rings from Burger King. By the time I passed a KFC, I was just about ready to stroll in and sate my pain with an entire bucket's worth of fried chicken.

Why I didn't stop, I'll never really know. I don't know if it's the fact that my brain understood food wasn't going to help or if it was just that I was in a hurry to get to the hospital and see my boy. Either way, today, with a little bit of perspective, I can just say I'm grateful I didn't find solace in food.

When I finally saw my Dobie, he was still groggy from the anesthesia, and his eyes were a little glazed. But when he saw us, his little tail started to wag. He ran (well, as best he could) to us and licked us all. I had to fight back the tears. No one deserves cancer. Not my grandfather, not my cousin, not my uncle and definitely not this dog...this dog who has never done anything bad to anyone. Ever.

For the past week, I've soaked up every minute possible with Dobie. I'll be honest--once his surgery was scheduled, he became my priority. Instead of going to work out when I was done with the office, I'd rush to my parents house (ie, the Den of Evil Food Goodies) and see him. This morning, I finally put a stop to that and went back to my Pilates class.

I feel almost mean and selfish for saying this, but it was probably the most peaceful hour I have had in the past day. I was done with the worrying. I was done with the crying. The only thing I could think of was the physical pain I was feeling--the burning in my thighs, the stretching in my hamstrings, the straining in my arms. Never in my life have I been as grateful for a workout as I was for my Pilates class this morning.

It reminded me that no matter how painful, how difficult life gets to be, I need to take care of myself. I need to find relief for me. I need--for at least a little bit--to think of no one but myself. And I can only hope my lack of exercise doesn't catch up to me when it's time to face the scale on Saturday (Because more honesty--I have been a little naughty, what with the birthday and the fact a few--okay, two--chocolate chip cookies found their way into my mouth last night.)

Today has been about regaining my focus, regaining my control. There's nothing I can do, or eat, that will make Dobie better. Nothing I can do, or eat, that will make my grandfather better. I can only stay positive and pray for them and that is what I shall continue to do.

I've gotten so many positive messages and wishes for my family, my dog and I and I really wanted to say thank you...it has meant a lot to me to know so many people have kept us in their thoughts and prayers. There's still a very, very slim chance it won't be cancer, and I'm not above asking God for a miracle.

But for the most part, right now, I'm just continuing to pray that my amazing dog isn't in any pain. That he doesn't suffer and that his doctors and my family do the best we can for him. If that means we have to send him to be with his brother, we'll deal with that then. But for now, I just want him to be happy and painfree and enjoying the world around him...

Happy New Year To Me!

2007-07-30T11:48:00.000-07:00

Now that I am starting to stumble out from the haze of birthday cake, presents and pampering, I can take a minute to think. Or more importantly, to blog.

Friday was my birthday. Birthday No. 29. Kind of a sobering number when you think about it. For a good part of the morning, I was rather bummed out. This is the last year of my 20s. All I could think was of how I had wasted yet another decade being fat.

I was fat at 19 and I vowed to change. That didn't happen. I was fat at 24 and I vowed to change. That didn't happen. I was fat at 27, and I vowed to change. Are you seeing a pattern here? I'm still not sure why it clicked during year #28, but it did and I'm running with it.

But what was most fabulous about my birthday (aside from the Benihana dinner, the bowling outing with my buds, the new Kate Spade from Mr. CCC and the ridiculously yummy Edda cake) was reading what my friends and family wrote in their cards to me. It really hit me that there are people in my life who truly, truly love me. They want the best for me and they're going to be there for me no matter what the number on the scale says. I was honestly touched and I wept like a little baby. Pathetic, really.

One thing that jumped out at me while reading my mom's message in my birthday card was where she wrote, "Happy New Year!" For a second, I thought she'd been sipping a little too much wine as she wrote my card or had sniffed too many magic markers at work...but she said something pretty interesting--a birthday is a new year for us as individuals. We all ring in Jan. 1 together, but it was on Friday that I really started my new year.

There's plenty of time between here and the Big 3-0 next July. Plenty of time for me to continue working towards the new me, the healthier me. (I was about to type "happier me" but you know what--it's time I stop equating happiness with my weight. I'm happy NOW. I have an amazing husband. Friends and family who care for me. A roof over my head, food on my table, and a job that while occasionally frustrating, allows me to be creative and do what I love. Save for a few ups and downs here and there, I'd say that all makes me pretty happy.)

My mom's message in the card really struck a chord and was just the kind of reminder I needed to boost my morale and keep me focused. Resolutions aren't just for January, right?

And mom did something even more important the day after my birthday. With my tummy full of cake and that aforementioned Benihana dinner, I was about to shy away from attending my Weight Watchers meeting. I was bloated after all that salty goodness of a meal but she told me to suck it up and go weigh myself.

"You'll know what you're dealing with and you can conquer it next week. Besides, you know if it's gone up, it's probably from all the food last night."

The woman had a point, so I went. And while this is no birthday miracle post, where I proclaim I lost a ridiculous amount of weight, I was pleasantly surprised to see I'd only gained 4 ounces. That's nothing. That's not even half a pound.

Every once in a while, you have to accept that life is going to hand you an extra four ounces (or two). I wouldn't have traded the amazing time I had Friday night for a loss on the scale.

As for the other glaring event in my life--Dobie is scheduled to have surgery tomorrow. I would be lying if I said I wasn't scared. I am terrified. Terrified of the results, terrified of the possibilities, terrified of the risks. I spent a good chunk of the weekend holding him close, cuddling him and just spending time with him. It's really hard to accept how quickly this has happened--one day he's okay, the next he's in an ER, he gets better and then it's surgery. Poor pooch!

Whatever happens tomorrow is in God's hands and that's how I have to view it. I'm expecting to be a nervous wreck tomorrow waiting for the call from my family. But I know his vets have checked him from snout to tail to make sure he's able to have the surgery, so I am going to be positive and do a lot of praying.

Maybe you could too, pretty please?

Scenes from the Women's Department

2007-07-25T20:49:00.000-07:00

With the celebration looming for Birthday, Version 29 and a hamper full of dirty clothes, I decided to treat myself for a new outfit to wear to party in...

Discovery No. 1--Something is happening!

Finally, finally, finally...after months of struggling, exercising, and eating right I've started shrinking! My first hint was while I was in the lingerie department at Nordstrom. With their Anniversary Sale going on and my favorite line of bras marked down, I figured it was as good a time as any to stock up. After noticing I could use a further hook on my regular size, I went optimistic and got a bra that was one band size smaller...and guess what...it fit! It actually fit better than my old size so guess who started doing the happy dance in the fitting room? That's right...ME!

The news only got better when I finally made my way into the Big Girls Department and tried on a pair of jeans. After noticing my current size is gettin' a little saggy in the rear, I tried on one size down and hallelujah! They fit too! (Okay, I confess--there's a teeny bit of muffin top. But it's not a lot and it's nothing a good pair of Spanx won't fix. Besides--when I tried on my current size, it was too big, so I went with the lesser of two evils. Small bit of muffin top trumps a baggy butt!)

Discovery No. 2--More good people out there are starting to realize the world is made up of women who are bigger than a size 10.

And by good people, I mean designers. Today, I noticed there was a plus line from Calvin Klein and I bought jeans from the Michael Kors women's line. Wow...designers realizing even fat women like nice clothing. Only took a lifetime to get there, but they finally did.

Now Mike...think you can get more of your designer buds on board? Seriously. Let's look at the facts. There are millions of overweight women in the U.S. They have to wear clothes. Most of them would like to wear nice clothes. I don't know about you, but the business woman in me sees a market with lots and lots of money to spend. So make some bigger clothing and make some bigger profits. Isn't that a win/win?

Discovery No. 3--America's obesity problem is really, really bad. It's also heartbreaking.

While I was happily celebrating the fact I was going down in sizes, I watched helplessy as a girl young enough to still be carrying a doll had to buy clothing in the women's department. And she cried to her mom that nothing was pretty enough, that her friends would make fun of her, that she didn't like anything.

Her mother--extremely heavy in her own right--just told her to face it--this was the department where they had to shop and she was "much too big to shop in juniors." That only made the little girl cry worse. They finally left and as I made my way to the counter to pay for my jeans, the salesgirl just shook her head and said, "That was the saddest thing. That girl was only 10."

You've got to figure, at age 10, you're much too young to be doing groceries. You're much too young to be making your meals. You're still pretty dependent on the adults around you to feed and clothe you. Sure, you can ask for the junk, but your parents have to be able to say no. And when you get to the point you're not even a teen and you're shopping in the women's department, it's your parents responsibility to find a way to stop the madness.

I know that I'm completely to blame for the situation I am in. I am old enough to make the decisions about what I buy at the store and what I cook for my meals. I am old enough to drive myself to the gym. And I'm old enough to realize what I was doing to my body was anything but good. I was old enough to put a stop to it.

I've often told Mr. CCC that when we have children, I am hell bent on making sure they learn from an early age how important fruit and vegetables are. I want them to see fast food as an occasional treat--not a daily meal. I want them to play sports, to be active, to never experience the humiliation I went through on the playground when my classmates made fun of me. I never want my children to battle their weight and have the kind of unhealthy relationship I have had with food for most of my life.

Seeing that girl clutching a doll and rifling through size 2X tops only reinforced those thoughts in me. So maybe part of me is doing this for someone else--someone I have yet to meet, someone I have yet to hold but someone I already know I will love with all my heart.

Because after all, if I can't be a healthy example for my (future) kids, who will ? And I'll be damned if I ever have a daughter have to buy back-to-school clothes in a department I don't plan on setting foot into myself for much longer...

Who am I doing this for?

2007-07-21T20:19:00.000-07:00

One of the best parts about becoming a blog-a-holic has been the discovery of so many other fabulous weight loss blogs....some of whom I've linked to on the left over there....

It's been so wonderful to read how others are making their way through the universe of weight loss. It's nice to know I'm not the only one fighting this battle. It's encouraging to read that just as I struggle, others struggle. It's inspiring to share in my fellow bloggers' successes.

Being overweight isn't something you can always talk about with your girlfriends. Especially when for so long, you've been the only chubby one in your circle. I can't tell you how many times in my life I've gone shopping with a girlfriend where she leaves with tons of bags from stores I have no business setting foot in while I leave the mall with a new pair of socks...or shoes.

But the blog world has shown me I am far from alone and there was no moment that hit more than this week when I read this from the fabulous Minx.

As she recounted the story of the cad who placed more value on her weight and her looks instead of on her stellar personality (and how she allowed him to do so!), I alternated between wanting to reach through my computer and smack some sense in to her and wanting to reach through my computer and give her a hug.

Why? Because haven't we all been there? Haven't most of us chubby girls allowed a man or his comments about our weight to dictate how we feel about ourselves, what we eat or how we act?

Minx's story hit me so hard because for me, that moment came when I met The Baseball Player. We never really had a relationship. Not a proper kind. We went on a few (err, okay, two) dates but for the most part, our interaction was limited to late-night sneaking around and me going to his place.

At first, I was so smitten by the fact that this adorable athlete was paying any kind of attention to ME that I played by his rules. More than once, a planned outing to meet his friends fell through. More than once, he cancelled weekend plans with me at the last minute. More than once, I went running when he called at 11 p.m.

I'm not exactly sure how long it took me to snap out of my funk and realize I deserved better but the moment came when it hit me that I was lowering myself and my morals for a guy who was embarrassed to be seen with me.

Not because I wasn't smart. He often told me I was. Not because I wasn't funny. I made him laugh. A lot. Not because I could discuss his beloved baseball with him more than any woman he'd ever met. He said so. Often.

No, he was embarrassed because while I had a chest he adored, it came with a large tummy and thunder thighs. One night while we were kissing, he ran his hand across my stomach and said he could help me come up with a workout plan to get rid of it. Seeing as how I've always been trying to lose weight, I agreed...and asked if he wouldn't mind coming to the gym and showing me. He was non-committal and never brought it up again.

After that, I began pushing myself in the gym. I tried to eat less. A few pounds came off, but I learned then one of the most valuable weight loss lessons a person can grasp--that until you are losing weight for yourself and for your health, it's just not going to happen.

Eventually, my brain caught up to my heart and I cut ties with The Baseball Player. Shortly thereafter, I met Mr. CCC, but while he pushed me to let him in my life, I resisted. He kept asking for dates, I kept putting them off. Why? Because Mr. CCC wasn't overweight...I kept telling myself he'd want nothing to do with me because of how I looked.

Eventually though, his persistance, his insistence that my weight didn't matter got through to me. We did go on that date and before long, I found myself working to lose weight again...and again, for him. Because I was afraid to lose him.

I lost weight and regained it and Mr. CCC didn't run. When he proposed, I was at my highest weight in a long time...I joined Weight Watchers and lost 60 pounds in preparation for our wedding. But because I still hadn't lost the weight for myself, that weight came back. Mr. CCC still hasn't gone anywhere.

This journey I'm on now is the first time I've set out to lose weight for myself. For my health. There's no wedding gown to get into. There's no man to attract. Yes, one of my goals is to get my body in the best possible state to make a baby, but more than ever, this time, I realized and accepted my weight was a ticking time bomb. I don't have heart disease or diabetes or high blood pressure because I'm in my 20s.

If I'm at this weight in my 30s, I know the outlook won't be so rosy.

Before, when I cheated on my diet, it was always the voice of someone else I'd hear in my head. The Baseball Player. My mother. My doctor. Now, when I reach for a cookie when I don't have any points left or when I try to dodge a workout, the voice I hear trying to nudge me back on track is my own.

It's not a man's. It's not another woman's. It's my voice and this time, I'm listening. Because this time--for the first time--I'm doing this for me.

(And for accountabilities sake--if you've been reading my exploits for a while, you know Saturday is weigh-in day. Just thought I'd let you know I'm down another one...that's 26 pounds since I started, 12 on Weight Watchers. Woo hoo! I'm finally starting to get back into Those Numbers I Have Not Seen In a Long, Long Time)

The High Cost of Being Healthy

2007-07-18T14:45:00.000-07:00

This weekend, as Mr. CCC and I went through our expenses, I heard him sigh...

"I see you're back to Pilates?"

Considering it was Sunday evening, we were home balancing our checkbook and I wasn't dressed in my Pilates gear, I'm guessing he must have "seen" I was back in Pilates because he found the copy of the check I'd written to pay for my last class. I got a little rankled when he added, "I guess I have to add it back to our budget," in a tone that made it sound as if my $30 a week class was bleeding us dry.

I (politely) pointed out the only reason I'd taken a break from Pilates was because we'd gone to Hawaii and that I felt it was important for me to continue taking my weekly class so I'd be in better shape and continue on my healthy journey. I also pointed out (again, politely, lol!) that we're fortunate enough to be able to afford my Pilates class. Mr. CCC and I are blessed to each have good jobs that help us put food on our table, a roof over our heads, enjoy life and take the occasional Pilates class...

But the next day, I was struck again by money vs. health when I went to McDonald's for lunch.

Wait, wait, before you ask what I was doing at McDonald's for lunch, hold on...I have a good reason--their Southwest Salad with grilled chicken is YUMMY! And a not-horrible 9-points including dressing...

I ordered my salad and my bottled water and then heard my total--nearly $8. A glance up at the rest of the menu board showed me that a Big Mac, a large order of fries and a large sugary soda would have cost me half of my salad and water.

Doesn't seem right.

Again, I'm in a fortunate enough place to be able to get the healthy option, to pay for my salad, a gym membership, Pilates class and my Weight Watchers membership. But I know not everyone is. I know there are families struggling to put food on the table--and odds are, since processed, prepackaged food is cheaper, I'm sure they're eating more of that than the fresh veggies and lean meats you need in a healthy diet.

The more I thought about it, the more upset I got. We keep hearing about the obesity epidemic in this country, how kids are starting to develop diabetes at earlier and earlier ages, how the costs of all our health insurance is going to go up as people keep treating diseases caused by obesity. It's sad. Truly sad and just another one of those instances where we know and understand the system is letting us down.

Sure, not everyone can afford to drive a BMW or a shiny Lexus. And that's okay. But good, healthy food shouldn't be a luxury. There's just way too much at stake...

Oh...and a Dobie update...continue to keep us in your thoughts. His initial tests came back inconclusive. His first test didn't find traces of cancer, but doctors would like to do a biopsy to be 100% sure.

Our beloved pup is going to have some more tests Friday to see if he can even undergo a biopsy because of his heart condition. Keep sending us your positive thoughts and prayers!

Up and Down...

2007-07-14T09:14:00.000-07:00

If I were to say the past 24 hours have been an emotional roller coaster ride, I would be making an understatement.

Last week, we had to rush our fabulous Dobie (a Doberman Pinscher who is convinced he is a lapdog) to his veterinarian...he was incredibly lethargic, wouldn't go to the bathroom and on top of some already existing heart conditions, we were worried. Some x-rays and bloodwork revealed Mr. Dobie had found a bone and made it a snack. We're not quite sure where the bone came from, because he's on a prescription diet so all he gets from us is his food, but we know last week was the Fourth...and our neighbors all had cookouts. Doesn't take a genius to figure out Dobie had probably been given or tossed the bone from there...vet prescribed some things to help him pass the bone, ease the pain and get back to normal.

Which he did--for a few days. Then yesterday, he was back to being very droopy, very lethargic and not himself. His vet was closed so we rushed him to an ER...where X-rays revealed his tummy was still full of gas and fluids. And there was a mass in his prostate that could have been missed on his last x-ray...or could have been misdiagnosed as a bone. I immediately lost control...

Why? Because if you've been reading my blog, you know my grandfather is battling prostate cancer. And what's worse--less than a year ago, we had to put our other dog down because of an advanced cancer that was untreatable. As the doctor explained the possibilites to us, I could only hug Dobie and cry...she wasn't 100% sure it was a mass, but she wanted to keep him overnight because he had a fever and she wanted to do another x-ray overnight. We agreed...that was last night.

This morning as I dressed for my weekly weigh-in, the vet called back. The second x-ray showed there was definitely a mass on Dobie's prostate. He had swollen lymph nodes and his abdomen was filled with liquid. She recommended more testing--including an abdominal ultrasound--to see what that fluid was. One of the possibilities could be blood from the mass having ruptured.

I was filled with absolute rage. This is what we went through with Papo (our other dog) in October. Because of Dobie's heart condition, he's been seeing his vet every month. EVERY MONTH he gets a workup on his blood, his heart...if he's had a tumor growing in his body, how could his regular vet NOT have caught it? And that's when the ER vet lowered the boom...on top of all of Dobie's health issues, she went through his paperwork and noticed he was 3 months behind on his heartworm test and 3 months behind on his Parvo vaccine.

Again--nothing but anger here. How could his vet have missed that? For heaven's sake, the dog just had his teeth cleaned last month. We're up to date on his teeth cleaning but not on a basic vaccine? My mom made the decision instantly to transfer Dobie from his old vet to the new hospital where he is at. He'll be visiting that hospital from here on out...assuming of course, he makes it through this battle.

My mind has not stopped working. I barely slept last night. My heart has broken in a million pieces because this absolutely amazing dog does not deserve to go through this. Our family, already dealing with the loss of one dog and adjusting to my grandfather's cancer, can't handle another loss. I can't handle it. Mr. CCC keeps telling me to be strong and to not assume the worst--we don't know if the mass Dobie has is cancerous. And if it is, it may be treatable. He tells me I am freaking out yet without having to...but I can't help it. It's just.too.much.

I was practically sobbing as I went about getting ready for my WW meeting...the only normal thing I've done all week...and up until yesterday, I couldn't wait to see how the scale has treated me. I have done great with my eating...I've tried a few new WW recipes Mr. CCC and I are both enjoying. I went back to Pilates. I even started lifting weights to go along with the cardio I've been doing. All in all, you'd figure a very productive week.

It was.

I stepped on the scale and had my biggest single-week loss since starting this journey...I was down 3.6, for a total of 11.6 on WW and 25 total since I started (then abandoned) Jenny Craig late last year.

I immediately burst into tears on the scale--here I was, in the middle of this godawful crisis with my dog, getting the best weight-loss week I've had yet. It meant so much, and yet so little all at the same time. The weigher asked me what happened and when I told her, she even teared up and hugged me too...For a moment, it was what I needed.

It's really hard for me to grasp that a month ago, I was packing my bags for Hawaii and I didn't have a care in the world. All the relaxation, all the stress relief is gone...it's completely back to reality, and a harsh one...

The only thing I can get my mind around is the idea of going to work out. My weight loss right now is just about the only thing I can control. I'm up for a promotion at work (yup, more for the roller coaster--I had my interview yesterday morning), there's so much happening with Dobie, and I have no say in anything that happens there.

But I do have a say about how I respond...I could dive head-first into ice cream, but I have to say, I haven't wanted to do that. Instead, my first instinct last night as anger coursed through my veins was getting to a gym as fast as possible. I needed to channel that anger into something productive. And the only thing I can control now is how I respond to all the challenges before me.

I'm trying to focus on that.

But if you're the praying type, could I ask you to keep Dobie and my family in your prayers? I have a feeling the next few days will be very hard on us and we could use all the prayer and healing vibes we can get...

Am I supposed to get naked to get skinny?

2007-07-10T14:45:00.000-07:00

After forcing myself to work out on Friday when I most definitely did not want to, I told myself when I was done that it was time for a treat.

Determined to make sure that treat wasn't sugary or fried, I opted to get some things to make working out a little easier. And since I'm tired of shoving my clothes into The World's Tiniest Gym Bag and because I hate working out in men's t-shirts (many of which are just awful!), I headed to the mall.

No cute, normal-sized gym bags to be found anywhere. And workout gear for women was just plain limited in general...although the helpful clerk at Foot Locker suggested Macy's. Trudge, trudge, trudge across the mall to find an obscure corner of Macy's dedicated to workout gear. Some of which was actually cute.

I grabbed a couple of XL shirts and headed into the changing room. Where I could only laugh. XL? These shirts were XL? In what friggin country? Munchkinland? Lilliput?

Okay, strike one. I headed to Sports Authority next to see if I could get something there.

That wasn't a total failure. I did find a great gym bag which means when I get home from working out, my pre-gym clothes won't be wrinkled into oblivion. And it being Sports Authority and all, there was a ton of workout gear.

Hallelujah!

Grabbed a couple of XL shirts from Nike. Some UnderArmour. Other random generic brands. With nearly half a dozen shirts tossed over my arm, no doubt I'd be able to find SOMETHING that worked, right?

Wrong, wrong, wrong! Again, the XL workout shirts were cut for teeny-tiny women who obviously, don't need to be working out. Or those who already achieved teeny-tiny status because they worked out. Whatever.

Strike two.

The whole episode was a repeat of my quest a few months ago to find a new sports bra. (And I thought swimsuit shopping had been depressing! I forgot about the sports bra excursions..shudder!). I just couldn't understand it.

Am I destined to work out in drab men's clothing forever? Am I going to always have to smoosh my boobs into a sports bra that's two sizes too small? Is there any quasi-fashionable workout gear for those of us that don't have supermodel proportions?

If the whole world is telling those of us who are overweight that we need to get off our butts and exercise, you think there would be clothing designed to help us do that, wouldn't you?

Apparently not.

Which brings me to my last-chance option. The mall I visited last week didn't have a Lady Foot Locker. The mall I'm visiting in a few minutes does. Cross your fingers.

I don't think I'm asking for too much, am I? Just a little something pretty to wear when I sweat because, well, if you know me, you know that I try to look pretty as much as possible. Even when I'm glistening with prespiration.

(Although please note: I am not one of those loony women that wears makeup to the gym. But fashionable pony-tail holders and rubber bands? Absolutely!)

Lucky? This is supposed to be lucky?

2007-07-09T09:08:00.000-07:00

So much for the luckiest day in the century...

Wasn't that what astrologists, psychics, and numerologists dubbed this past Saturday? You know, 7-07-07?

Figuring that was the case, I dragged my carcass to my WW meeting on Saturday despite the cupcake binge, the margaritas and the two parties I'd attended in less than seven days. Hey, if it was the luckiest day of the century, I'd lose some good weight, wouldn't I?

Stepped on the scale and wow...was I impressed. I was down two.

Ounces.

All I could do was laugh as the weigher excitedly said, "Congratulations! You lost this week!

Two ounces is a loss? Oh come on. Let's be honest. I was one bathroom trip from staying at the same weight. Either way though, considering the week I'd had and my fling with cupcake temptation, it wasn't bad. I didn't gain and you know what, maybe there was some luck involved there.

It could have been a lot worse, but it was disappointing. Yes, I know I'd had more sweets and alcohol than I normally have, but I exercised my rear end off. (And yes, I did go exercise on Friday. I was completely unmotivated, I didn't want to be there, and it was a challenge to push myself as hard as I did, but I went...)

You figure with all that exercise, something more than two ounces would have come off. But the weight loss universe doesn't work that way. Sometimes you can work hard and nothing happens. Sometimes you DO pass up the treats and you're disappointed.

After my "loss" this weekend, I've tried to reassess and think about what it's going to take to really get on track...and it's going to take real discipline. Being as meticulous about my eating plan as I was when I started. Weighing everything. Counting everything. Journaling every bite. That's just how this program is going to work.

And I've also decided it's time to revamp my workouts...back to Pilates this week and stepping up the cardio. It may also be time to start working some weights into the routine.

Afraid to face the music

2007-07-06T08:32:00.000-07:00

Last week, I was all talk.

I had perspective. I was proud of keeping my weight-gain under control on vacation. I was working out, I was ready to get back on track. It was on.

Okay, guess what? It's off.

For the first time since joining WW, I am deathly afraid of going to my weigh-in tomorrow. Why? Because this week has been nothing but challenge after challenge and I have not exactly risen to the occasion.

Saturday--a friend's birthday. Taquitos, quesadillas, margaritas and cupcakes. Monday--grandma's birthday. More cupcakes. Fourth of July--burgers as big as my head, chips, potato salad and oh yeah...even MORE cupcakes. (Let me just say it--I've been a cupcake whore this week!).

Let's just say yesterday was the first day all week I was comfortable with what I ate. I blew through all my flex points at Saturday's party. Wednesday's numbers were ugly.

And sure I've worked out, but every day I've gone to the gym I have had to drag myself. And I'm sitting on my bed right now knowing I should be on my way there now but I just don't have the mojo to go.

What's happened to me? Where did my motivation go? Has anyone seen my willpower? My ability to turn down cupcakes?

I just feel so lost and so afraid to face the music tomorrow. You think all of that would have me rushing to grab my workout clothes and get in the gym, but it's just not working that way. I'm at a complete and total loss. This was supposed to be the week I got back on track, put vacation behind me and got down to business.

For the past few weeks, as I've spoken with my friends who are working to lose weight, or I've posted on blogs about sagging motivation, I've always been full of encouraging words...ideas...suggestions.

Too bad right now it's so hard for me to listen to my own advice.

Okay, I am going to the gym. I am going to the gym. I am going to the gym...RIGHT NOW.

The questions we don't want to ask...

2007-07-05T12:40:00.000-07:00

I have to start today with a confession.

When I started this blog, I did it with the intention of finding an outlet for my frustation. I viewed it as a place to inspire others and get inspiration myself. I knew it would keep me accountable and help me on my journey to becoming the best me possible. I vowed to be as honest and forthright as possible.

I haven't been doing that.

For the past few days, I've been going back and forth about something in my life and I've thought "Hmm, I bet it would make an interesting blog. I can't be the only one feeling this way, right?" but it's such a personal look into my life I couldn't do it. Then I realized I had a few more readers than I thought and I again told myself, "Well, I can't put that out there...it's too personal."

But after an informal poll of my friends I realized--I'm not alone. And we were so relieved to hear most of our friends had gone through similar situations and shared the same fears so I found a little bravery and here I go...

It's always hard to accept when something in your life isn't right. Especially when the part that isn't right is...your love life.

Oh, don't get me wrong. I know I'm married to an incredible man. And I know I'm lucky to have someone like him.

Mr. CCC is as supportive and encouraging as anyone could imagine. He knows me better than anyone else. He understands me more than anyone else. He makes me laugh. He's a hard worker who wants the best for our family. For the most part, our relationship is exactly what I imagined when I thought about the husband and marriage I wanted.

But there is one thing that's so far from perfect and last night, as I watched fireworks, it hit me.

I ain't gettin the kind of fireworks I want.

You get my drift, don't you? Fireworks. Yeah, those fireworks. When there are fireworks, I can't lie. It's quite a show. All the bells, whistles, and shooting sparks you can imagine. When the show does start, it's usually very good.

But the problem is, lately, there aren't as many shows as I'd like. Sometimes I try to get things going only to find my partner in pyrotechnics just isn't in the mood. I can't help but thinking of all those jokes people make about marriage--about how once there are rings exchanged, sex disappears.

Maybe it's the fact a 14-hour day has him exhausted. For a few days there was the sunburn that meant no one, including the World's Hottest Woman, was going to lay a finger on him. The nights his allergies have him sneezing his brains out aren't going to work either. Cause nothing is as hot as dripping snot all over your other half, right?

There are a million viable explanations for the fact we're not together as often as I would like, but let's face it. When you're a fat girl and your man is mumbling "Not tonight, honey..." only one thing goes through you're mind.

He's not attracted to you anymore.

He doesn't want to be with you because you're heavy.

The idea of being intimate with you grosses him out.

You're ruining your relationship because you can't keep your disgusting fat face from stuffing itself. Way to go, CCC.

(Okay, so that's more than one thing).

Last night after trying to see if a lazy day away from the office would help us not be so tired, I tried to drop some hints to see if I could light a fuse and shoot off some sparks.

Nothing.

I rolled over with a sigh and tried to fight the tears and tidal wave of self-doubt. Mr. CCC heard the few sobs that managed to escape and was asking me what was wrong. For a while I tried to play dumb and said my nose was stuffed up. But like I said above--he knows me more than anyone else and he didn't buy it. Before long I choked out the words..."You don't want to be with me because I'm fat..."

He hugged me close, wrapped his arms around me and said I was being silly...that he was just tired...that he loved me no matter what I weighed or how I looked and he was just tired. But the little voice in the back of my head would not quit. Why is he always so tired? Why doesn't he want you? Don't guys want sex all. the. time?

Eventually, we fell asleep and I woke up this morning in a funk, still feeling very, very down on myself. Still wondering what was going on. Still thinking I'm as fat as a cow and my husband has finally had enough.

I know it was a little easier to beat myself up because this hasn't exactly been the "back on track" week I wanted it to be (Two birthdays + Fourth of July = too many sweets to pass up on!). I was vulnerable to start with and my husband passing up on some quality time with me just kicked me while I was down.

In confessing my disappointment to my friends (because let's be honest here--it's not the first time I've been turned down), I discovered more women go through this than I thought...I got a lot of encouragement and support from women whose weights run the gamut saying they've been there...and it stinks.

But even though maybe we've all been there and women of all sizes have body issues, when you outweigh your husband and he turns you down, you do feel lower than low. You start asking questions, you're at a loss. You wonder if things would be different if you didn't weigh as much as you did, even though deep inside you do know he's tired. You do see the sunburn on his skin. You do know he's worked a 14-hour day.

You still feel unattractive and I hate feeling unattractive. I hate feeling this alone, this desperate, this lost. I hate wondering if my husband isn't attracted to me anymore. And I know when I lose this weight, I won't wonder that anymore.

I'm not saying my life will be perfect when the weight comes off. I know it won't be, but I know it'll be nice to know the negatives in my life won't be automatically connected to my weight, as they are now. I'll be able to take a step back and say, "okay, he's not in the mood tonight...let's figure out why" or "Okay, so you don't have the confidence to do XYZ...let's change that."

But in the meantime, while the numbers are still up there, the weight is a built-in excuse. For everything. I just don't want that anymore.

Finding perspective...

2007-07-01T11:52:00.000-07:00

Before packing up for Hawaii, the universe threw me a bone.

My last WW meeting was specifically about keeping on track on vacation. My leader--who is fabulous!--told us from the start we had three options--the first was to stick to our program completely. Stay within our points, weigh, measure and journal. Odds are, you do that, you'll lose weight when you come home. But understanding that most people don't want to work that hard on vacation, she offered us a compromise, option two.

Option two was to eat whatever we wanted, in whatever quantity we wanted and to not worry about counting anything. The catch? She wanted us to journal. Inevitably, the act of writing down what you eat keeps you on track. You'll reach for the chocolate chip cookie, but the idea of writing it down in your journal just might stop you from eating it. She suggested this was a pretty good vacation strategy and that most people who use it either maintain their weight or have a teeny, tiny gain.

Intriguing? Sure. But who wants to spend their vacation lugging around their WW point books and stopping to write everything down. I didn't. I wanted to escape my life. Completely. I waited for her next suggestion.

Option three was just my speed. Eat whatever you want, drink whatever you want, and don't journal and don't count. BUT try to make better choices. Go for the grilled chicken instead of the fried. Reach for the fruit instead of the chocolate at dessert. The key to option three though was that you had to be completely willing to accept whatever the scale said when you came home. Odds are, with option three, you're going to gain weight. And that could be a slippery slope. After two weeks of undisciplined eating, some people just extend it to three weeks, four weeks and never really get back on their weight-loss program.

But I knew my vacation was going to be just that--a vacation. As soon as I came home, I'd get back on track. So I set my goal--go to Hawaii, follow option three and do my best to keep my weight gain to a reasonable, manageable number. I told myself for 10 days in Hawaii, including a seven day cruise, if I could come back with a gain of two pounds or less, I'd be happy.

So I tried to eat reasonably. I enjoyed every dinner but opted to go lighter at breakfast and lunch. I exercised. I enjoyed every minute and every calorie. (There was one night in particular that involved a chocolate mousse dessert and an entire bottle of riesling....it was nice!). But yesterday was time to face the music.

Since getting home, I've been back on track (save a side order of fries with my McDonald's salad the other day, sigh) and yesterday, I stepped on the scale wondering if I'd met my goal. Turns out--I had.

I gained 1.8 pounds on vacation. That's it! I was thrilled! At first, the weigh-in lady couldn't understand why I was so happy to have gained weight. Then I told her--I was back from a 10-day vacation in Hawaii, that included a week-long cruise.

Suddenly, she understood. And she actually said I'd made quite the accomplishment, that that small of a gain was actually pretty remarkable. I could only smile. I KNOW that! Talk about being willing to accept whatever the scale said...

I think it's the first time in my life I've ever been able to see the scale go up and know it's okay. It's the first time in my life the scale has gone up and I haven't flipped out. I wonder if this means I'm finally starting to accept the the scale is not an enemy. It's not a friend either. It's just a machine that takes a snapshot measurement of one small part of my life.

I know as long as I keep staying on track, keep exercising and continue to eat sensibly, I'm going to get this weight off. It's amazing how motivated I am--it's a motivation I haven't felt in forever.

I just need to keep that going and realize that like the tags in the clothes I bought before vacation, the number on the scale is just that...a number.

It's just a number....

Assessing the damage...

2007-06-27T13:52:00.000-07:00

Settling back into reality after 10 days in Hawaii is hard.

Really hard. Much harder than I anticipated.

Today was my first day back at work after more than 2 weeks off. I nearly cried. There are still suitcases stuffed with clothing cramming every corner of my bedroom. It's almost as if I've told myself, "If you don't unpack, you aren't home yet."

Denial at its finest!

However, there has been one thing I actually hopped right back into without even a second thought--my diet and exercise routine. Weighing, measuring and counting my food has not been a chore. Dragging my rear end to the gym hasn't been nearly as torturous as I imagined it would be.

How can that be? After 10 days of eating whatever I wanted (including desserts that would make you drool!), you'd figure it'd be hard to get back on track. But I've done it.

Because even though I'm not due back at WW until Saturday, I stepped on a scale--just to see where I stood. And now I know.

It's not a great place.

The first scale--at my mom's house--was immediately after getting off the plane. When I knew it wasn't a good idea, but I couldn't resist. It said I was up 7....and I am not talking ounces.

OUCH!

I can only hope it was some plane bloat after a 12-hour flight. I know I barely had anything to eat or drink on said flight so I could avoid the bathroom (hate hate hate plane bathrooms!) so I tried again the next morning to see if there was any improvement.

After trying the scale at the gym, I fared a little better--up 3. That seemed a little more realistic and reasonable.

I say reasonable because while I ate whatever I wanted--including dessert--I didn't do too badly. The food on our cruise ship was far from perfect and the buffets were barely worth the trouble. So what did that mean?

Lots of small-portioned meals from the dining rooms or room service. And because the dinners were far better than breakfasts or lunches, I told myself, "Enjoy dinner. Be more reasonable early in the day." So I did.

And for the first time in ages, I actually used the workout gear I packed. Yup, you read that right--I exercised. In an actual gym. In Hawaii. You're stunned, I know. Mr. CCC was! And not only did I exercise, I was the one who suggested said exercise.

Our cruise was pretty port-intensive--we had only one afternoon at sea--so we didn't get to exercise as much as we liked...in the gym.

But we walked everywhere. We swam. We did a 1.2 mile hike up and down a volcano crater. (And I dare anyone to say that wasn't exercise. That was the most intense workout I've had in months! And yes, I'm counting Pilates!)

Taking all of that into consideration, I figured I'd have a small gain, but nothing I couldn't handle. That was why the 7 pound-gain on my mom's scale stunned me and why the 3-pound gain at the gym didn't phase me.

Whatever happens Saturday when I get to my "official" weigh-in, I'm trying to keep it all in perspective. Hawaii was an incredible experience...it was the honeymoon Mr. CCC and I wanted three years ago. The scenery was breathtaking. The ocean was unbelievable. Most of the food--including at Duke's and La Mer in Waikiki if anyone is heading over soon--was worth every calorie.

How often do we get trips like these? It's taken me 28 years to get to Hawaii...while I know it won't be 28 years before I go back, I know it isn't the kind of trip we can take annually. So why stress about what I was eating or how much gym time I logged?

I didn't. And whatever happens on Saturday, happens. If I did gain 7 pounds, I'll deal with it. I'll take it off again. Seven pounds, or three pounds, or whatever is a small price to pay for 10 days I will never forget.

The moment I got off the plane, it was a new day. A chance to start fresh. So I did.

Aloha!

The Perils of Plumpy Pampering

2007-06-14T23:13:00.000-07:00

I may be fat, but there is one place where I have absolutely no body shame.

I believe in the good life. I believe in pampering. Unlike some who battle their weight, I have no problem stripping down to my skivvies if I know there's a fabulous massage or incredible body wrap waiting for me.

I love spa days.

I think I got this boldness and this love of the good life from my mother, a woman who herself, has fought the battle against extra pounds. But she's never been one to deny herself the right to look and feel beautiful. When I was a little girl, I used to spend Saturday afternoons at the salon with her, begging for nails painted just like hers or for fancy haircuts. By 7, I was getting full manicures and pedicures. At about 15 I had my first spa day.

I was hooked. And I don't let the fact I've got a little chub deter me from frequent indulgences. Sure, the moment I take my robe off and get on the table for a massage I wonder if the therapist is just a bit horrified by all the extra flesh she's going to have to work on, but any worries I have slip away the moment the massage starts.

So to prepare myself for Hawaii, I called up my favorite spa and decided to treat myself to a full-body exfoliating scrub and a self-tanning treatment. After all, the citizens of the South Pacific do not need to be blinded by my pale skin that would make Casper the Friendly Ghost proud.

I'd never had either treatment before so I wasn't sure what to expect. When making my appointment I asked what I needed to wear; the lovely receptionist told me it didn't matter. They had disposable clothing for me to wear during the treatment so I wouldn't ruin my goods. Disposable clothing. Okay, I figured maybe a little paper dress or something similar to what you get at a doctor's office.

I was okay.

Until the therapist pointed out the the provided "clothing".

Lying on the table was a little strip of muslin and something the size of a piece of gauze wrap. You know the kind, that you pull out of a first-aid kit to stop some bleeding. It ain't tiny, but it ain't big either.

She explained the strip of muslin was a disposable bra and with the flick of her wrist, opened the little gauze thingie to reveal a paper thong.

I could not contain my laughter. Seriously? A paper thong? Oh. My. Heavens. And the paper bra? Please. I think it strained on its own at the site of my boobs. I had to laugh. It was the oddest thing I could ever imagine putting on my body.

I took one look and shook my head. I don't wear real thongs made of cotton or lace. I believe the only place floss serves a purpose is when used on your teeth. Not on your rear. So I happily told the therapist I'd keep my own undies on. Hey, they were the cheapie cotton kind from Victoria's Secret. If I ruined them, no harm, no foul.

And surprisingly enough, I was able to wrap the paper bra around the girls. Oh, it strained. And I had to kind of hold the bra in place with my arm to keep my boobs from sliding out but it worked.

But I can't lie. It was embarrassing. For the first time in a spa treatment, I was absolutely horrified. I felt truly exposed. The only people that have ever seen me more naked are my mother (Back when she had to diaper my tush!), my doctor and Mr. CCC. And none of them have ever oiled me up from head to toe, scrubbed me down and then rubbed self-tanner on every nook and cranny.

It felt like the longest hour of my life. Worse than my Pilates class, actually. My mind couldn't stop working and I kept wondering what the therapist thought of me; if she was laughing internally and wondering why this fat girl wanted a fake tan. Fake tans are a dime a dozen here in SoFla but I'm willing to bet most of the women who get this treatment at this posh spa are teeny tiny women who spend their weekends on the beach. You know, the Beautiful People.

To her credit though, the therapist was great. As she scrubbed me down and painted me with tan-in-a-bottle, she made great conversation. She kept me from focusing on how exposed I was and for that, I tipped her generously. It's been about 10 hours since my treatment and my skin looks pretty and sun-kissed and subtle. (No orange pumpkin Lindsay Lohan, Paris Hilton faux glo here!)

It was far from the relaxing treatment I was expecting, but part of me wonders how much it had to do with my own body hang up. I mean, this woman saw my stomach. My thighs. My spare tire. I do a pretty good job of hiding all of those from the man I married. Awkward doesn't even begin to describe it.

The whole experience was a reminder of how far I still have to go, but of how much is at stake. Yes, losing weight is going to make me healthier and give me a new physical lease on life. But I wonder how much more comfortable I'll be. I wonder how exciting it will be to not worry about what anyone else thinks of my body. I even wonder if maybe one day I can pull off wearing a paper thong.

Well, let's not go that far. I don't think I can ever pull off wearing a paper thong.

Aloha! See you soon!

It's just a number...

2007-06-13T07:02:00.000-07:00

To know me is to know I am a certified shopaholic.

Even with my excess weight, for me, shopping is always a great way to pass the time. I love to hunt for a good deal...it's like a sport. I love to try and find things that highlight the parts of my body I do love (like my legs!). And don't get me started on shoes, bags or beauty products. (I love love love makeup shopping!)

So if anyone thought my pre-Hawaii shopping would be limited to a bathing suit, oh you were so sorely wrong. (And you really don't know me!)

As Zanitta pointed out on my bathing suit post, losing 20 pounds is a tweener stage. Sure, you've lost weight but maybe not enough to make some changes in your sizes. EEK! Did I get to experience that firsthand yesterday. I tried on a pair of shorts in two sizes--neither fit right. The larger one was too big...saggy and loose. The smaller size? It buttoned but it wasn't exactly flattering. (One small consolation: there was no muffin top. I hate muffin top!)

I'll admit--I was truly bummed by looking at some of the numbers in the tags. You'd like to think you're losing weight and your body is changing but as I kept poking through the racks, I started to see sizes as nothing but numbers. They weren't consistent. In some things by some designers, I fit into a 16. In others, I was an 18. And in some slightly disturbing cases, a 20. But there was no rhyme or reason. I wore different sizes in different items by the same designer. The little tag in the back started to become just a number--not a tormentor.

And then I started having fun!

I tried on a pair of tops, dresses, pants...and happily, I can say a lot of them looked great! Maybe to others I still look the same, but losing weight gives you confidence. You start to see yourself in a better light. Or maybe you do look better--because you're now actually the size of the clothing you've been squeezing yourself into. Who knows?

But I bought a dress that seriously looked good (A complete contrast to the dress I bought for Mr. CCC's 3oth a few months ago. OUCH to those pics!), I found some great black shorts. And get this--I was able to buy more shorts and some great tops at NY & Co. and Gap.

Did you read that? NY & Co. and Gap.

No Lane Bryant. No big-girl stores. It was fabulous!

Do I fit into everything into Gap and NY & CO.? Not yet. But I fit into enough things that made me feel good, made me feel like I was making progress, made me feel like soon I would be able to buy anything in there! It was just what I needed after my junk food bender from this weekend. Seeing one weekend didn't throw all the other work to the curb was huge.

It's about 48 hours now til Aloha time and I'm ready to get scooting. I have a feeling I may love these vacation pictures a lot more than last year's! (And I can't wait to see next year's vacay pics cause I know it's just going to keep getting better!)

I'm not doing that again!

2007-06-10T10:43:00.000-07:00

Nine weeks on Weight Watchers, 9.8 pounds down. 23.5 total since I first started to trying to lose weight last year.

Not too shabby, huh?

I've been making progress. I'm exercising. I'm loving my new healthy habits.

So can someone tell me why for the past two days I've put nothing but junk into my body? Pizza, cheeseburgers, movie popcorn. Just looking at the words makes me shudder. (My only consolation is that I exercised twice during this binge-fest so there is one positive...)

Actually, maybe two.

In all truth, while I've eaten junk, I've done it according to my weight-loss plan. I haven't gone over my points and I've made far better choices than I was making nine weeks ago. Yes, I had a cheeseburger, but I passed on the fries. Yes, I had pizza. But it was a thin-crust pie topped with veggies. Not the deep-dish, extra cheese, extra meat extravaganza I was "enjoying" before.

So yes, better choices overall and I'm proud of myself for making them, but let's not kid ourselves. Weight Watchers gives you flexibility and the option to eat whatever you like--in moderation--but I don't think it's supposed to be two days of buttery popcorn, cheeseburgers and pizza. In those two days, I've had one healthy meal, thanks Applebee's. But one healthy meal in 48 hours?

Ouch!

To drive the point home, my body rebelled. In a big way.

When we got home from the movies last night, my stomach was topsy-turvy. I was nauseous. All that grease hit my stomach like a ton of bricks. It's been a few hours since I still feel a little "off."

I truly believe our bodies respond to what we give them. When I gave it junk, it wanted more junk. Before I was trying to lose weight, multiple McDonald's and Taco Bell runs were not unusual. No wonder the pounds came flying on. But for the past two months, I've been giving my body the good stuff.

Veggies. Lean meats. Fruits. I've measured my portion sizes. I've cut back on desserts and alcohol. Yes, I know I can enjoy them--and I have--just in moderation I didn't have before. My body got used to the good stuff and when I gave it junk, it wasn't happy. I wouldn't wish this stomachache on anyone.

Lesson learned.

And ultimately, isn't this what this journey is all about? I didn't want the junk, but because I didn't plan well, it was the easiest option for me and I took it. The pizza came after a late night at work where I didn't want to cook. And because it was pouring rain, Mr. CCC and I weren't in the mood to go anywhere. Pizza delivery it was. The cheeseburger? Scarfed down while driving from one errand to another.

But I also know part of me wanted the food. I could've had a grilled chicken sandwich instead of the burger, right? And I didn't need the popcorn at the movies. I wanted it...

Fortunately, after this stomach ache, I don't think I'm going to be wanting the junk anymore. I think actually I'm going to go out of my way to avoid it. Progress...not perfection.

I'm happy that this morning, while Mr. CCC scarfed down some cold leftover pizza, I had my healthy breakfast. I've been drinking gallons upon gallons of water to try and flush the junk out of my system. I'll get to work out again in the morning.

I'm doing my best to move forward and maybe this weekend is exactly what I needed. Mr. CCC and I leave for Hawaii on Friday. At this time next week, we'll be on a cruise ship. Surrounded by food and I'm going in knowing my body is not going to be happy if I don't take care of it.

I'd rather have learned that lesson here, than to have a nasty tummy ache on our dream trip. So let's move on. Let's keep going. And let's remember what two days of junk can do.

(And for the record--I found a quasi-flattering, rather stylish bathing suit this week...all hail the swimsuit pros at Nordstrom. Woo hoo!)

Yay...and nay.

2007-06-07T16:15:00.001-07:00

If you've been reading my ramblings for a bit now, you've got to know I'm a certified Chocoholic.

I love love love chocolate. I'm addicted to chocolate. Mr. CCC loves to giggle every night because before I go to bed, I must have some sort of chocolate, with skim milk.

So you can imagine my delight when last week, I made a stop at Walgreen's to buy some water before working out and saw a box of these so-called, "100-Calorie Brownies" made by Glennys. (You can find 'em at www.glennys.com)

Intrigued? You bet I was.

And I bet a lot of other people were too because there were only three left. I bought two.

That night as bedtime rolled around, I figured it was time to try. At 100 calories and with 7 grams of fiber, the WW pointage was not bad at all.

Well guess what--neither was the taste! No, it's not your typical ooey-gooey fudgey goodness that you'd get from a fancy bakery or even a Betty Crocker box but it was good. (It doesn't have all the calories and fat those have either, if that's any consolation!) And well worth the 2 points I spent on 'em.

Absolutely perfect with a cup of skim milk. It wasn't too sweet and just chocolatey enough. Even borderline-cakey. I could totally imagine warming it in the microwave and dropping a dollop of vanilla ice cream on it...

I ended up finding a health store near my WW meeting that also carried them, so I bought more. And the health store also carried the Glenny's blondies. Well count me in for those too...

Hate to report the blondie (Which is only 1 point) is not as good as the brownie. In fact, I took one bite and spit it out. It tasted like nothing, absolutely nothing. And the texture was downright gross. I threw the whole thing away, tossed the other one I bought and dug into a brownie instead.

So Glenny's gets a thumbs-up for the brownie and an EWWW YUCK! for the blondie.

Chocoholics, enjoy!!

This is why I love shoes...

2007-06-04T13:29:00.000-07:00

It's amazing how quickly one can go from being so proud, so determined, and so empowered to feeling so low.

With t-minus 11 days before Mr. CCC and I leave for a belated Hawaiian honeymoon, I finally faced up to the fact I needed to go...(insert scary music here)...swimsuit shopping.

The horror!

Despite the fact that I live in South Florida, I have managed to avoid this traumatic shopping experience because, well, while I love the ocean I don't go to the beach. Not here, in this place where tanned rock-hard bodies are de rigeur and I have a body that is neither tanned nor hard.

The last time I bought a new bathing suit was 3 years ago right before Mr. CCC and I went on our real honeymoon...back when I looked good and more importantly, felt good. So that experience wasn't traumatic at all.

I didn't think this experience would be either.

I was down some weight. I was still on a high from the exercise endorphins and the Saks Outlet made shopping practically a mandate, sending me a coupon for 30 percent off any item in the store. Considering I was eyeing those rather expensive "MiracleSuit" types of suits, I was game to use the coupon before it expired.

Well, that was my first mistake. Never limit yourself when trying to find a swimsuit.

Not only did I limit myself to one store--I limited myself to a 30-minute window (Mr. CCC and I were out running errands and I told him that would be all I needed. Not a wise move on my part.)

But we got to the store and I was still determined to find a nice suit at a reasonable price. Being an outlet, they didn't have the options you'd likely find in a regular department store. Not in terms of style, sizes or colors, but they had about five suits that looked promising on the rack. So I dug in.

I grabbed suits in three sizes--the one I didn't want to be at ( ie, the same size I've been wearing since starting this journey), the one I figured I was at (ie, one size smaller), and just for craps and giggles--one I would have been thrilled to be at (two sizes smaller). What can I say? Pilates and my weight loss left me optimistic.

Let me make one thing clear--optimism doesn't last long when you're a fat girl trying on bathing suits.

The dream suit (two sizes smaller) wouldn't even get any farther than my hips no matter how much I pulled and yanked. So there went that option.

But I wasn't disillusioned yet. That had been a dream scenario and well, as long as I was down one size, I'd be happy. So I tried that one and sure enough, I could pull it on even though my tummy area (still sore from Pilates) screamed in pain.

My stomach was sucked in, pulled tight and it Looked. Like. Crap.

I stood there for a minute under the flourescent lights and bit my lip in frustration. How was it possible? How could I have lost more than 20 pounds, upped my exercise so much and still look like a pale beached whale?

Why was there still dimply skin? Why were there still lumps and bumps and things spilling over? How come I couldn't breathe?

Before I knew it, I was in a rage, tearing at the suit, yanking it off in exasperation and trying not to cry. It was the exact opposite of how I'd felt just 24 hours earlier. How could the pendulum swing so far so quickly?

I'll be perfectly honest--even though I didn't want to, I tried on the largest suit and it fit well--from the chest down. But it had absolutely no support for the girls so I wasn't about to get it. If I'm going to get a bathing suit, it's going to have to fit well everywhere and because it was the only one in that size, I was done.

I put all the suits back on their hangers and stalked out of the fitting room to find Mr. CCC waiting. I didn't say a word other than "Let's go" before the questions started.

"What happened?"

"You didn't like any of them?"

"They didn't fit? But I thought you lost weight!?"

I know he was honestly curious and being a man who has never had a weight problem, he didn't understand how upset I was. I couldn't find a way to tell him that all the work, all the effort, all the exercise still wasn't paying off for me, appearance wise.

I couldn't find a way to tell him I looked worse in those bathing suits than I ever imagined possible. So I pulled my sunglasses on (to hide my quickly-watering eyes) and whispered, "This is why I love shoes. This is why women love shoes. This is why fat women love shoes."

I have a bit of a shoe obsession that in the course of our eight years together, Mr. CCC has not been able to figure out. He can't understand why I have countless pairs of black heels or why I need more than one red stiletto. In the course of our marriage, my shoe collection has tripled--while my wardrobe has stayed pretty much the same.

Why?

Because shoes don't make you look fat. Shoes don't have buttons that gape. They don't have zippers that won't go up. And the numbers on shoes tend to be a whole lot lower than the numbers on my pants. I can grasp having to buy Size 10 shoes...I can't grasp having to buy Size 18 pants. (Who am I kidding? There are even some Size 20s tucked in the depths of my closet).

Shoes don't mock you. The only pain they inflict is physical if you wear them too long or walk too much. I can handle that. It's the emotional pain I don't do well with.

For the most part, barring pregnancy or significant changes in your body, the size of your feet doesn't change. Shoes (and purses) are the only things I've cared to buy in the past 3 years because they haven't forced me to deal with the fact I was gaining a ton more weight than I had any business gaining.

Suddenly, all of that came pouring out. And Mr. CCC, bless his heart, just took my hand and asked if I wanted to go use my coupon to get some shoes. I smiled through the tears.

But I turned him down. I still need a bathing suit. And I have a feeling the one I'm going to end up buying--with industrial-strength spandex and the tightest lycra humans can make--won't be cheap. I also know I'm going to need to get off the plane with a tan to try and make myself look less ghostly, so I've booked a self-tanning appointment at my favorite spa.

Apparently, when you're fat and facing the thought of wearing a bathing suit, deceptive tricks must be employed.

And we all know deception ain't cheap. I'll take my shoe money for that, thanks.

Wish me luck....11 days to find a swimsuit that is half-decent.

I have no idea where to start.

I'll take the epiphany, with a side of awe, please...

2007-06-02T12:49:00.000-07:00

Okay, so there's still plenty of chub hanging on to my hips, my boobs, my butt, my arms, and okay--yes, my back.

Physically, even though I'm losing weight, I still look like the same person. But today I finally recognized that I am changing and I can't even begin to describe how amazing it feels.

The realization hit me like a tidal wave of in all places--McDonald's. (Read blog below for insight on why I was even there...)

I haven't had good ole fashioned junk food in forever and this week, all I could think about was having a Big Mac. I didn't care that it was bad for me. I wanted one. Very, very badly.

I made a deal with myself--get through the week, go to my weigh-in, exercise at least four times in the course of said week and I would let myself have the two all-beef patties with special sauce, lettuce, and cheese...

Needless to say, I woke up today with a spring in my step. A week after my disappointment at the scale at my last weigh-in, I knew today was going to be good. Real good! And I was gonna have me a burger to boot!

I'd exercised. I'd counted my points. I'd dodged more nutritional bombs than I ever imagined I could (I had two--yes, two!--meals at The Cheesecake Factory this week. Both were for work-related functions and meetings I couldn't get out of. So I stuck to appetizers and small salads. Not too shabby!)

I got on that scale knowing the weight was going to come off and I would be back on track. Sure enough--I was.

I lost the pound from my gain and a little bit more. I was ecstatic! And inspired. I called Mr. CCC and told him I was finally going to go and try that new Pilates class I'd been eyeing for weeks. And we agreed to meet for cardio afterwards.

As I planned my exercise-filled morning, I even thought to myself, "Well! I'll really get to enjoy that Big Mac this afternoon! It's going to taste soooooo good after countless (okay, 8) weeks without one!"

I called the Pilates studio only to learn the last class they had for the day was a beginner/intermediate class. I was scared as all hell. Intermediate? I'd never done Pilates before. Could I hang with the non-newbies?

The instructor asked how fit I was (gulp!) and I explained that I was overweight, but I'd lost 21.5 pounds and that I did cardio at least 3 to 4 times a week. She told me I'd be challenged, but that I certainly could fit in with the class.

I told her to sign me up and off I went.

There are no words to describe the kind of excruciating pain the next hour brought me. It was pure torture. Stretching, crunching, muscle-shaking pain.

I was by far, the most uncoordinated person in the room. Poor instructor parked me on a machine right in front of her and had to keep guiding me through all the positions and exercises.

Most of them I could only do halfway, some not at all. But I tried, and I tried, and I sweat like a crazy person. In that hour I realized that all that exercise I'd been doing for the past weeks was nothing compared to this.

I left the class in pain, out of breath but get this--completely interested in trying it again.

Are you amazed yet? I know I was!!!! I signed myself up for another class (extreme beginner this time, please!) and while I filled all the paperwork out, one of the ladies in the class came up to me and asked how I had enjoyed it.

I told her not very much--that it was painful, that I'd physically never worked that hard in my life but that despite that, I felt good. And then I apologized for holding up the class and monopolizing the instructor.

At which point everyone still in the studio turned around and looked at me as if I was crazy. Another lady said, "Are you kidding? For a first-timer, you were amazing. It took me 3 months of beginner classes to work up to what you were doing on your first try. I hope you're planning on coming back!"

It was the kind of encouragement and motivation I needed. Here were these virtual Pilates pros telling me I could do it. And I believed them. I believed in ME!

So even though my body was pushed to its limit, Mr. CCC and I had a deal--some cardio after Pilates so I dragged my sore self to Bally's. I couldn't put myself through my normal routine, but I did enough to get my heart rate up, sweat some more, and earn a pretty impressed look from my fitness-obsessed husband.

When we finished working out and it was time for lunch, I headed to Mickey D's, my mouth still watering at the idea of my burger. Finally. I'd get my burger. I had the points, I'd worked out...once every eight weeks ain't bad for a junk food run, right?

Then the moment I pulled into the parking spot it hit me like a tidal wave.

I didn't want the Big Mac.

I didn't want the french fries.

I didn't want the jumbo-sized Coke.

I had worked so hard all morning. I'd pushed my body to a limit it really has never, ever felt. I was proud of what I'd accomplished, of the week I'd had and I was about to reward myself with a HAMBURGER?

WHAT WAS I THINKING?

My mind flashed back to the buckets I'd sweat in Pilates just an hour and a half earlier. I thought about the feeling of pride I had when I'd stepped on the scale first thing in the morning to see that again, the weight was coming off.

No burger would make me feel as good as I'd made myself feel. And just like that, I started to cry.

They were tears of amazement, tears of joy, tears of relief because finally--FINALLY!--I was starting to see the new me. The me that wants to be healthy. The me that wants to be happy. The me that finds happiness and bliss and contenment in things other than food.

For 28 years, I knew that me was there. I knew buried under layers of fat and hidden after years of self-doubt, she was somewhere deep inside.

Seven weeks of countless workouts, counting points, and one excruciating Pilates class, I got a glimpse of her. And I heard her say, "You don't want that burger. You're better than a burger. You deserve better than chemicals and additives and fat. You WANT better than that."

And the new me was right. So I listened.

I pulled out of that parking lot, wiped the tears of awe from my still-chubby cheeks and drove somewhere else for lunch. I filled up on chicken with veggies, steamed rice, and a spring roll. (Okay, so the new me wanted a spring roll. It was 80 calories and 1 WW point of pure indulgence.)

I was full. I was happy. I was content.

It's been three hours since my lunchtime epiphany. Three hours for me to sit back and realize I did something amazing today. By the time I ran through the front door to tell Mr. CCC what had happened, I was crying again.

I was so proud of myself I couldn't stop. For the first time in my life food made me cry for all the right reasons.

And I was proud that the new me is finally, finally, finally starting to come out of her shell.

I'm going to treat her right and make sure she sticks around for a very, very, very long time! (Forever sounds about right, actually...)

McDonald's is safe again...

2007-05-31T13:31:00.000-07:00

I've always had a great relationship with Ronald McDonald.

I first fell in love with him when he added a carousel to the McDonald's near my childhood home. Talk about a happy meal--french fries and a horsie to ride? When you're five, isn't that the definition of heaven?

Over the years, my relationship with Ronald only got more serious. Eventually a Happy Meal became just a taste. Happy Meals became double cheeseburgers, which became gigantic-o Big Macs. With fries.

By the time I got to college and discovered you could get cheeseburgers for 39 cents on Sunday, my relationship with Ronald was serious. And on my end, practically exclusive.

I couldn't help it. I was hooked. But I was also fat.

And since I no longer want to be, I broke up with Ronald.

It's been hard.

I still miss his french fries, his crazy red hair. I wonder if his Big Macs still taste the same and if he still wears funny white paint on his face. Every time I pass a McDonald's, even as I struggle to lose weight, I get an insane craving for the junk he peddles so easily.

But I've made passing up on the Golden Arches a sport...(My route to and from work does NOT pass a McDonald's. Pretty amazing considering there are 30,000 McDonald's on this planet)

You can imagine my reaction when I heard someone raving about McDonald's newest addition to its "healthy" menu--the Southwest Chicken Salad. I scoffed. It's got to be loaded with fat, calories, sugar, sodium...after all, everything else on the menu is!

But the salad did sound good. And I'm a sucker for any food with a Tex-Mex, Southwest flair. So I looked up the nutritional information.

Not too shabby. A little high on sodium but for 420 calories (INCLUDING dresssing, I might add!), it wasn't the nutritional landmine I thought it would be. So I bought one.

And guess who's hooked on McDonald's again?

The Southwest salad has some kick--the chicken (they offer both crispy and grilled--we both know what kind is better!) has a lime-glaze that really, makes the dressing almost unnecessary. The little tortilla chips give it some crunch without adding major fat and there's a good mix of lettuces to keep the whole thing interesting (with some fire-roasted veggies to boot.)

All in all, it's become one of my favorite lunches although like I said--it's a bit too high in sodium to enjoy every day. But for me, it's made McDonald's safe again.

On top of being a good lunch, the salad's taught me the art of self-control. To walk into a McDonald's and smell--but not order--the fries is a major victory.

I can't help but toast myself with my bottled water as I walk out feeling good about my choices and how I'm learning to pass up the bad stuff to get the good instead!

Inspiration TV!

2007-05-29T12:31:00.000-07:00

When NBC's The Biggest Loser became all the rage a few years ago, I made a point not to tune in.

After all, when the numbers on the scale are going up (as they had been for me while the show was on), the last thing you want to do is watch a television show where people twice your size lose tons and tons of weight.

I knew if I watched The Biggest Loser I'd have to face up to the fact I wasn't taking care of myself, I wasn't healthy and that it was up to me to change things.

Two years ago, even one year ago, that wasn't something I was ready to do. So when everyone around me started chattering about this great, inspirational, oh-so-motivating television show, I'd change the subject.

Or roll my eyes and say things like "Well, if I lived on a ranch for three months straight and had nothing to do but workout with a personal trainer, I'd lose weight too..."

But as if to prove that divine intervention exists, the morning after I re-joined Weight Watchers, I was flipping channels and guess what happened to be on Style Network? The Biggest Loser.

Instead of rolling my eyes and flipping past, I stopped. Before I knew it, I was sucked in. Over on the other end of the couch, my husband gasped every time they'd show the before and after shots.

Style Network loves to do marathons of their shows and for three hours we were mesmerized, watching as these people exercised, ate, cried, laughed and lost weight. I finally understood why so many people I knew had been so into the show when it premiered a few years ago.

It was inspiring. It proved that if you were willing to work at it, you could make changes in your life...if you were willing to sacrifice, you could lose weight.

Since that Sunday morning, I became addicted. And yesterday, true to Style Network form, they had a Biggest Loser marathon. And Mr. CCC and I watched just about every episode.

Wanna know why we skipped two of them?

We went to work out together! On Memorial Day. How's that for dedication? (Both in terms of television viewing and exercise.)

That marathon of Biggest Loser couldn't have come at a better time for me. I was still incredibly upset over my Saturday weigh-in. I'd whined about it to Mr. CCC, I'd pored over every page of my journal looking for snacks or points I could cut out; I'd decried being a woman and all that entailed (including that whole bloating thing.)

I was beating myself up mentally and on the verge of doing so physically when I sat down to watch hour upon hour of The Biggest Loser.

And as I watched the contestants challenge themselves and occasionally come up short on the scale it hit me--there are going to be bumps in the road.

There are going to be weeks where I will work hard and I will push myself and I will pass up goodies and the scale won't budge. Just like there are going to be weeks I slide a little and don't gain.

Here were people whose sole responsibility was to lose weight and on occasion, they failed. But they picked themselves up, kept going and realized one week, one weigh-in, does not a failure make.

That's why as we watched hours of Biggest Loser, I grabbed Mr. CCC and said, "Let's go exercise! I know the gym is open!" and it was. And we went.

And I felt good afterwards--like I had accomplished something. (Or, if you want to get really cheesy and listen to The Biggest Loser theme song, that I'd done something to make myself feel proud.)

But more than getting on the StairMaster (and the treadmill...and the elliptical trainer...), my hours of television watching on Monday helped me push through my mental roadblock and keep going.

I've been eating my veggies, drinking my water, staying on program because I know if I do all those things, if I continue to work, I will get over my disappointing weigh-in.

So maybe I'll cue up some Biggest Loser re-runs to watch when things get tough again. I'll tap right into that inspiration, but next time, I won't watch it right before working out.

Because let's just say running from the treadmill to the bathroom to lose my lunch was not the kind of exercise I wanted. I guess that's the result of a little too much inspiration!

I knew it was coming...

2007-05-26T07:53:00.000-07:00

For seven weeks, my effort to lose weight has been nothing short of amazing. Good losses, positive changes. My mind was committed, my body was committed.

I was cruising along on a sea of weight loss bliss.

Well, the ship hit the rocks this morning.

You know how last week I blogged that I was expecting the weigher to ask why I had gained weight and she never did? Well...she asked today.

Up 1.4.

Can you say OUCH?

Even though for the most part, this has been a great week on program, this morning, I had a feeling I was in for it when my wedding rings, which have been happily moving around my fingers for about two weeks now, just wouldn't. Go. On. I pushed, and pushed and pushed and finally had to shove them on.

I knew at that moment that odds were, my weight was going to be up.

I know I'm probably retaining water. My period is due in a few days. I had a drink and some grilled shrimp last night. The last time I had grilled shrimp the night before a weigh-in, the number went up as well. So it may be a sodium thing, even though I know shrimp is healthy. It could be the fact that I've upped my workouts and my intensity and maybe my muscles are sore.

See? I have a million explanations.

Or, it could be that I haven't been following my plan the way I should be. Have I really journaled every point? Have I really weighed and measured everything? Have I really been pushing myself as hard as I thought in my workouts?

That's the thing about gaining weight--it forces you to stop and analyze things. To examine what you're doing and make sure you're really doing it right.

Instead of considering this gain a set-back, I'm viewing it as a chance to learn and to stop and think. And while yes, I was very disappointed with the number--AM very disappointed with the number--I know I have two options.

I can either keep pressing on and put this week behind me or I can quit and watch the number go up.

Quitting is just not an option right now. I won't let it become one. I'm going to use this upcoming week to really measure what I've done, to really analyze what I eat and I know the number will go down next week.

Without a doubt, it's not the progress I'd like to be making, but let's face it...I can't afford to stop trying.

A donut can't fight cancer...

2007-05-24T07:32:00.000-07:00

I've been talking a good talk since I started my blog and my WW journey.

I've been writing every point, working out, exercising, telling myself to make better choices. It was all pretty good.

Until last night.

To understand what last night was to me, you have to know about my grandfather. He is one of the loves of my life. Every day, he used to pick me up from school when I was a little one and take me to the park and play. Sounds like routine grandpa behavior, right? Well, not from him.

To everyone else, my grandpa is the strong, silent type. He's your typical Cuban man. Nothing ever gets him down, no one ever gets too close. Until I was born and that went out the window.

I was the apple of his eye, the pride of his world. He took me everywhere with him, showed me off to all his friends. Afternoons in the park with a happy meal and a push on the swing made my days so blissful. He'd take me to the bookstore and buy me all the books I wanted. Would let me sit in the kitchen and watch him cook. He taught me about baseball, about who my family was and where we came from.

I was his world and he was mine.

When my parents divorced, I always liked to say my mom became my mother and my father but as an adult, I realized now she had a whole lot of help from my grandparents. Everyone worked to try and make life as normal for me as possible. My grandparents became second parents.

My grandfather became my father.

A few years ago, when he was diagnosed with both prostate and skin cancer, my world was shattered. I still remember sitting in the hospital as he went through treatments to overcome them both. When he did, more than ever, I knew he was my hero.

He nearly cried when I asked him to walk me down the aisle when I married and to this day, one of my favorite moments of the day was how as he guided me to the altar, he looked to where our family was seated and gave them a thumbs-up sign.

Just as he had made my mother a strong, independent, incredible adult woman, he knew he'd done his best to make his granddaughter the same.

Do you have a picture now of how much this man means to me? To my family? Now you're able to understand why last night, it seemed as if my world screeched to a halt and the only consolation I could find was in an old friend---food.

I was at my mom's helping her pack for a weekend away when I decided to call Abuelo and see how he was doing. He was frustrated. The Marlins had managed to score four runs in the bottom of the ninth to tie their game with the Phillies only to blow it an inning later and lose.

Baseball's a religion to him and for a few minutes he went on about how the Marlins could do that, almost as if it was a personal affront. But I wanted my real questions answered...he'd had a doctor's appointment earlier that day to gauge how his cancer had progressed. He, and eventually we, had learned it was back a few weeks earlier.

I asked how it went and he dodged the question beautifully. But that's how he is. He'll tell anyone but me if something is wrong.

So I knew something was wrong.

I handed the phone to my mother who a few moments later was biting back tears and trying to control her anger. His PSA levels were elevated. His doctor wanted a biopsy. Now. My grandfather....did not.

When she hung up and I probed for answers, she shared that information. My grandfather, at 84 years old, didn't want biopsies or surgeries. He had already undergone a certain kind of radiation that could only be done once, so it wasn't an option now. His doctor, after trying to change his mind, finally resigned himself and told my grandfather they would just have to monitor the situation and he'd have another series of tests done in a few months.

I was livid.

Cancer is cancer, people. We all know when it comes back, it's usually more aggressive. His PSA levels, though not as critically high as they could have been, were elevated and had risen enough in the past month to alarm his doctor. I couldn't accept that my grandfather was giving up. That he didn't want to try and fight this time.

Before I knew it, I was standing in my mother's kitchen ripping into a chocolate glazed donut as if my teeth were personally attacking my grandfather's cancer. I was angry. I was chewing furiously. I was about to dig into my second chocolate glazed when I stepped away from the box.

No donut was going to cure his cancer. No donut was going to make him change his mind about treatment. No donut was going to make me or him feel better.

I guess it's good that I realized that and that I didn't blindly blow through the dozen. But I still felt terrible and helpless.

And for a moment, I felt like a diet failure, even if my diet wasn't at the front of my mind.

I've had time to re-assess and gauge why that happened and I still don't have any answers. Other than the fact that when times get tough, all I want is food. Preferably sugary and high in fat.

That has got to change. If I'm going to make the effort to become a happier, healthier person, I have to find ways to deal with my feelings. I have to find other ways to feel better. I can't find support from a Dunkin Donuts box, comfort from a Pillsbury chocolate chip cookie.

I have to find the strength in myself. I have to know eating when upset won't do much of anything to change the world around me.

Breaking 28 years of bad food habits isn't going to be easy. I realized that last night. But I still would like to think I've made some progress.

Because had this been a year ago, it would have been one dozen donuts. Last night, it was just one.

I need to keep making strides here because I have a feeling the next few months are going to be difficult for me and my family. And beyond that, life will always have challenges.

Food won't solve any of them.

Eww...No!

2007-05-22T13:48:00.001-07:00

Another food review for you...and I wish I had more good things to report.

But I don't.

I'm a sucker for chocolate chip anything. Cookies, muffins, cupcakes...if it has chocolate chips, I'm all over it.

So when I saw these TastyKake chocolate chip bars in the store, I was intrigued. I was even more intrigued when I pulled out my WW slider and saw they were two points. Into the cart they went.

But whoa...were they just not for me. They just didn't taste like anything. Not buttery like you might expect with the cake and the chocolate chips didn't taste like much either. It was very blah and boring, and let's face it--when every point counts, you want to make sure it's good stuff.

These, sadly, did not fit the bill for me.

Better luck next time, TastyKake! You definitely get kudos for trying with a low-fat item, that's for sure!

My deal breaker? Shallow people!

2007-05-22T10:38:00.000-07:00

If I'm blogging, you know that means I'm playing around on other internet sites and today, on one of those, one of the hot topics was weight.

Someone brought up a radio show where a man called in to say his girlfriend had gained weight and his "blood no longer boiled for her." He wanted the radio station's listeners to weigh in (ugh, bad pun!) on whether or not he should say something to his girl.

As interesting a topic as that is, what got jumped out at me was this response to the question...

"I think in this particular case, where the woman gained 50 lbs, that could be considered a deal breaker. And the boyfriend is perfectly justified in saying someting to her about it as long as he goes about it in the right way and is not insensitive or hurtful.

People can't help what they are attracted to physically. It would be one thing if she was overweight right from the beginning, but gaining 50 lbs during the course of a relationship is a lot. That completely changes a person's appearance...."

For the record--let's start by saying there is no polite, thoughtful way to tell someone they've gained weight. We may be fat, but we're not stupid. We see what's happening to our bodies, we can tell our clothes are tighter. But nothing anyone says is going to change that. We only change and lose weight when we want to change and lose weight.

I was stunned to read that a woman, yes a woman, would say something like that. Aren't women supposed to be the compassionate ones? The understanding ones? Hell, we're the ones that gain weight during pregnancy and struggle to get it off. That doesn't breed loving people for who they are?

Apparently not.

My first instinct was rage. My fingers started flying in a response that was almost as child-like and shallow as the post that got me that upset. And then it hit me...this isn't someone worthy of anger.

It's someone to feel sorry for.

Why? Because people who create "deal breakers" based on personal appearance are cheating themselves out of knowing what love really is...love for themselves, and love for someone else.

I have no doubt it's been hard for Mr. CCC to watch me battle my weight. In the course of our relationship, I have gained and lost 60 pounds. Yup, I said sixty.

He's seen me at my highest adult weight and he's seen me at my lowest. And he has never stopped treating me the same. He's never stopped wanting me. He's never stopped loving me.

He's been supportive and encouraging. He's been a partner in the truest sense of the word, sharing my joy when the number goes down, sharing my frustration when it doesn't. He's never said a thing to be about my weight--probably because he knows that I know what's happening and saying something and hurting my feelings wouldn't be of any help to anyone.

I'll be the first one to wonder if he's less attracted to me than he once was, but whenever I ask him, he says I'm still as beautiful as I was the day we met and that he won't stand for me calling myself names. Is he telling me a little white lie? I don't know. But I do know that his answer means he knows me, understands me and loves me.

As I re-read that comment above, it hit me that people like that, who value physical appearance so much, aren't worth my frustration or my anger. They'll never really know what it is to be with someone who loves them for who they are. They will never understand what it is to have someone love you through your faults and the changes in your appearance and that's sad.

Because it is in loving someone for who they are--not what they look like--that we truly experience what a fulfilling love is.

I wake up every day and know Mr. CCC wants to be with me for the person that I am. I have no doubt. And I am grateful that I was blessed with a love that strong, that unconditional, that supportive.

He is for lack of a better word, simply amazing. (And I need to remember that the next time I find myself nitpicking at him!)

Now, let's not tell Mr. CCC I wrote this. He doesn't need his fabulousness going to his head or anything like that, okay? ;)

See that thing in the trash can? It's my scale...

2007-05-19T15:20:00.000-07:00

Like most people who battle their weight, I have a love/hate relationship with the scale.

There are times the little piece of glass sitting in my bathroom has made me smile. Other times it's made me ecstatic. Other times, the scale has made me cry. Or left me frustrated and baffled.

It's been an exhausting roller-coaster relationship, but I couldn't break free. It's strange because I know that if a man, friend, boss or any other human treated me that way, I'd end that relationship and move on.

But the scale cast a spell on me. I was powerless to free myself.

Today though, I did. I finally tossed the scale away and it will torture me no more.

I know what you're thinking...CCC, how can you stay on track and try to lose weight without a scale? Here's how...and more importantly, why I need to do it this way...

Whenever I've tried to lose weight, I become obsessive about the scale. I'd hop on every morning and the number I'd see would dictate how I felt that day--thrilled, content, depressed, frustrated. Since re-joining Weight Watchers, I fell right into that behavior pattern and this past week, I realized it was just no good.

I missed my weigh-in last week because I was out of town so I figured I'd be making stupendous progress and my weigh-in today would be fabulous. But the scale in my bathroom refused to budge. One especially gloomy morning (okay, yesterday), the scale had the nerve to tell me I'd gained weight. It paid dearly when I kicked it, screamed at it and banished it to the bathroom cabinet.

But this morning, I dragged my dear "friend" out, almost apologetically and stepped on, hopeful that pound would be gone. It wasn't and suddenly, I was fighting back the tears convinced I was a failure and that once again, an attempt to lose weight would be foiled by a plateau...and one that came so quickly to boot.

I tried to console myself. I overanalyzed every bite I'd taken over the course of the past two weeks and wondered if I had some mysterious medical condition that was causing my body to latch on to fat.

After all, my scale kept telling me that fat wasn't going away, right? I struggled internally with whether or not to go to my Weight Watchers meeting and face the music on their scale. I decided though that I would go...and continue trying to work through my issues.

I got to my meeting, stepped on the scale and sighed, preparing myself for the inevitable, "What happened?" question. I refused to look up and see the number myself.

But the question never came. Instead, the weigher was almost chipper and said, "Hey! You had a great week! Good job!"

I looked up and there it was...I number I hadn't seen in months and one that was a few pounds lighter than I'd seen on my own scale. I was ELATED.

I had lost weight. While eating out. While celebrating my anniversary. While not working out the week I was gone. My hard work, my self control, my efforts--they paid off.

As soon as my Weight Watchers meeting was over, I called Mr. CCC and immediately shared my news. And I told him before I got home, that I wanted the scale gone. Not hidden under the cabinet. I'd look there.

I wanted it gone, gone, gone. And Mr. CCC, ever the supportive husband, dutifully complied.

The abusive relationship is over. I'm free.

From here on out, I'm following Weight Watchers to a tee--and that means weighing myself once a week. I understand now why that's what they recommend. Far be it from me to question their wisdom...

(And for the record--I lost two pounds since my last meeting. That brings my five-week WW total to 8, but more importantly...means I've FINALLY lost 20 pounds since I first started trying to lose weight a few months ago...Hooray!)

Excuses, excuses...

2007-05-17T17:07:00.000-07:00

I was out of town last week on business and while I'm sharing my weight loss journey with all of you (and my close friends and family...what can I say? I have a big mouth!), I really was trying to keep my efforts under wraps in front of my colleagues.

Mostly because, well, I was the only woman there and I certainly didn't want any jokes.

Eventually though, my secret came tumbling out. It happened over dinner at Applebee's when everyone looked at me like I'd grown two heads when I ordered from the Weight Watchers menu (A genius invention, by the way...)

Everyone at dinner had multiple glasses of beer in front of them. They were noshing on french fries, ribs, chicken fingers, and burgers while I picked my way through my meal (I say pick not because it was bad but because it was good...and I wanted to make it last, ha ha!). And of course, soon the question came up.

Why was I eating off the Weight Watchers menu when there were so many other yummy things to tempt me with?

I had to stifle my urge to say, "Are you kidding? LOOK AT ME! I should've been eating off the Weight Watchers menu the moment I switched off formula!" but instead I bit my tongue and said I was trying to lose weight for Mr. CCC's and mine's upcoming trip to Hawaii.

I got lots of understanding nods. Because even though they were all men, I'm starting to understand that "swimsuit season" freaks them out as much as it freaks women out. But then I started hearing the excuses...about how my job--therefore my lifestyle--made it difficult to lose weight. We all had such demanding schedules, finding time to work out was tough. Constant road trips and eating out meant havoc for the waist line.

For a moment I was tempted to agree. Heck, I've used those excuses for years. And then it hit me. It's not about excuses.

It's about choices.

Of course, traveling makes it harder to lose weight. No doubt about it. We all know restaurant meals can be dangerous but that doesn't make it impossible. I made the choice that night to drink Diet Coke instead of a cosmo or margarita. (Okay, I ordered the cosmo and it tasted so bad I switched it to Diet Coke). I made the choice that night to eat the Weight Watchers chicken dish instead of the burger and fries. I made the choice that night NOT to order dessert when everyone else did.

And as I looked around the table, I realized some of my colleagues were overweight. They were the ones most loudly blaming their "job" and their "lifestyle" for their lack of success.

It made me kind of sad for a moment because I know what it's like to be there. To feel like you can't control anything. To feel like you're just supposed to be overweight. I heard that resignation in their voices.

And then I got upset. Like me, those colleagues have friends and family who love them and have probably encouraged them to become healthier. They've chosen not to.

Staying on track is hard. Oh my goodness is it hard. As I'm blogging right now, my tummy is rumbling, I'm out of healthy snacks and I know the vending machine has all kinds of evil goodies for me.

I could just go over there, get some cookies, blame it on another late night at the office and say I'll do better tomorrow.

But I'm making the choice not to.

You aren't going to hear any more excuses from me.

Ever.

(Unless you're my husband and you're asking me to explain why I bought another pair of shoes. I might have an excuse then....)

Everybody loves chocolate...

2007-05-15T10:27:00.000-07:00

I've got to start my blog today with a confession...

Last night was Mr. CCC's and mine's 3-year anniversary. Like most of those battling their weight, to me, a good celebration includes good food. Since it was a weeknight, we didn't make it to our usual place, but we went to Grand Lux near the house.

Had a great, great meal...roasted chicken with veggies (yes, I even ate the broccoli and snap peas. Aren't you proud?). I stayed away from the bread. I only drank half of my glass of wine.

But there was something I couldn't pass up--the molten chocolate cake with ice cream. It was one of the baked-to-order desserts and let me tell you...it was so heavenly even Mr. CCC, a man who can take or leave sweets, was scraping the plate for the last bits of chocolate. It was wonderful and well worth all 30 of my remaining flex points.

For the rest of the week, I'm going to have to make sure I exercise and am obsessive about my points. After all, Saturday's weigh-in day will be here before I know it.

But the chocolate craving will re-emerge. I know that. So I'm preparing myself...by adding Hostess 100-Calorie Pack Chocolate Cupcakes to my grocery cart this evening.

These little treasures have small packets with 3 small chocolate cupcakes. Add a cup of skim milk and it's the perfect dessert...especially since 1 packet is just one point.

No, I'm not kidding. One point. (They're super high in fiber!)

A much more reasonable indulgence than the aforementioned molten chocolate cake, but I must admit--last night was one of those nights that reminded me why I love Weight Watchers. I was able to really enjoy a special night out and know I didn't blow my weight-loss efforts.

Gotta love that. Now off to find me some teeny tiny cupcakes...

The Secret? What secret? I have my own secret...

2007-05-12T10:31:00.000-07:00

So Oprah's hyped up another book--The Secret.

Everyone I know is reading up on The Secret. They tell me to visualize, to think positive, to see myself losing weight. Sounds feasible enough but I know myself.

Thinking positive isn't going to be enough. I need a little bit of fear, maybe just a touch of negativity. But more than that, I need action.

Wait, that sounded bad...

What I mean is that I need to be pro-active about my weight loss. And that's why I'm loving my own secret discovery--a book by Lisa Delaney called Secrets of a Former Fat Girl

I know what you're thinking. You're not about to walk into a bookstore, pick up a book that has "Fat Girl" in the title, and pay for it. Heck, I thought the same thing. I can't buy a book about fat girls.

But let's be real.

The person behind the counter knows what I do--that I'm fat. I can wear all the makeup I want, do my hair as nicely as possible and wear the cutest clothes I can fit into. But there's no hiding the fact I'm fat. And instead of running from that word, I'm choosing to embrace it. Because I'm not going to be fat much longer.

What I've really loved about the book--and I admit, I'm not finished with it yet--is that it's very real. It's very and the author has been there. She's overcome her weight issues, lost the pounds and isn't afraid to talk about the struggle.

There's something to be said about candor like that and reading Secrets of a Former Fat Girl has taught me that losing weight is something I have to challenge myself to do. I can't think the pounds away. I can't dream them away. I have to chase them away.

The only way to do that is to suck it up and work hard--sacrifice and fight through cravings. Pass up the greasy, unhealthy food. Exercise. Realize it is within my control.

Hey...was that positive thinking? Am I visualizing myself thinner? Maybe I need to go get that other book after all...

Hello? Hello? Anyone out there?

2007-05-11T17:03:00.000-07:00

I hope so.

Cause I am...

There's always been so much I've wanted to do with my life...wear Manolo Blahniks every day, write about something other than sports (which is what I spend most of my life writing about), lose weight.

On this blog, I get to do two out of three. And if I don't mind wearing the same two pair of shoes, I can shoot for that first goal too.

In all seriousness...I've been the chubby girl all my life. You know the one--the one you always wanted to sit next to in class because she'd have all the right answers. And most days, she was nice enough to share.

You called her a friend, you invited her to parties, and felt COMPLETELY comfortable letting your boyfriend talk to her....but deep inside, you always thought she was a little off...I mean, she was FAT. (Hence why you knew your boyfriend was safe with HER!)

Well guess what...I'm tired of being that girl. (Although I promise, you can still let your boyfriends/husbands/girlfriends talk to me. I may be chunky, but I'm not vicious. And I happen to be happily married myself....)

For as long as I can remember, I've been trying to lose weight. My mom has been yanking cheeseburgers out of my fingers since I was 7. By the time I was 10, I'd already tried my first diet. By 14, I was a Weight Watchers regular.

I knew how to lose weight. What I didn't know--and frankly, didn't really CARE--to know, was how to keep it from coming back. Until it hit me, right before I got married, that never in my life, had I known what it was like to be thin.

I hadn't put on a two-piece bathing suit since I was a toddler (when belly fat was cute). Tank tops...I would never wear tank tops. Maybe that seems minor, but I was born and raised in South Florida. I think it's a requirement you spend half your life unclothed down here.

So 14 months before I walked down the aisle, I joined Weight Watchers. Again. And wow oh wow, did I make it work. I lost 60 pounds. When I got married, I looked about as good as I could remember. My wedding pictures were FABULOUS.

But I came back from my honeymoon so blissfully happy I forgot to get back on my diet. And for three years, I barely thought about it or the fact the pounds were creeping back on.

Not true. I thought about it often, but while my mind worked, my body was determined not to. I convinced myself that crying on the bathroom floor after seeing an ugly number on the scale would cause the weight to magically come off.

Ha, guess not. So I half-heartedly tried the South Beach Diet. Gave Weight Watchers another crack. Got desperate and told myself pre-packaged meals from Jenny Craig were the answer. I lost a few pounds, but it wasn't the progress my body (or MIND!) needed and eventually, I realized it was going to take actual work on my part (who knew?)

So I re-joined Weight Watchers. I dusted off my sneakers and got to exercising and here I am, down 6.5 pounds in three weeks.

Sure I've still got a long way to go, but I figure with a little encouragement from you (and my mom, and my husband, and my friends and anyone else willing to offer it!), this time, I'm going to make it work.

And I promise. I'll even wear a tank top when it happens...