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If Only Chandler Bing Were As Smart As Me

Remember that episode of Friends where Chandler laments having a gym membership he never uses? And he tries to quit but is persuaded by some chesty trainer to give it another go? And Joey tries to help Chandler stick to his guns but ends up registering for a membership of his own?

Yeah. The YMCA may not employ booby women, and I don't have a friend named Joey, but I do have a gym membership collecting dust as we speak.

When Luke and I jumped on the fitness bandwagon in July, never had I been more excited about commiting to a monthly sixty-nine-dollar payment. I outlined a four-day regimen that involved strength-training, brisk walks on the treadmill, and one or two step classes taught by a fifty-three-year-old Vietnam Vet who's entire fat index is probably equal to the flab parked in my left buttock. I enjoyed exercising; I'd go right after work and it raised my energy level for the rest of the night. It encouraged me to monitor my food intake and buy cute little ankle socks at Target. High off the fumes of athleticism, I estimated the extra pounds plaguing my mid-section would melt away by fall, bidding a fond farewell along with seventy-degree weather, campfires, and snow cones.

But soon there were problems. Exercising at the Y means sweating at the Y, and by the time I reached home my armpits were emitting a distinct odor not unlike a banana peel that's been sitting in the trash for two days. Luke would say, "Why don't you shower?" So I would shower, but then I was faced with the chore of styling my hair, which requires about twenty minutes of wrapping one-inch sections around my index finger, furious scrunching, and blow-drying with a diffuser. The first time I did it, I thought, "Great! One less thing to do in the morning!" But then I'd wake up to find the left side matted to my ear in a such a way that no amount of fluffing or spritzing or any other -ings could overcome.

This might seem trivial, but it presented a huge problem for me. The only person excited about styling my hair for forty minutes is my stylist, and that's only because I tip thirty percent. So, my options were to a) shower without washing my hair, b) shower, wash hair, allow hair to air dry, and shower and style for real in the morning, thus allowing me to eliminate the stink with little extra effort, or c) not shower at all, light a candle, and hope for the best. None of these solutions were particularly appealing, seeing as the first still left me with sweaty hair, the second put a damper (quite literally) on any activities that required leaving the house, and the third stuck Luke with a smelly wife.

Other excuses to avoid the gym included not wanting to revolve all our week nights around going to and recovering from the gym and my intense digust at the notion of primping for an hour and a half every day just to undo it all before Luke had a chance to fully appreciate my hotness. Yesterday I felt like quite the sass in my New York and Company outfit, complete with f-me boots, and the thought of greeting him after work in a bare face and cross-trainers made me want to cry. The things I do for the sake of my marriage.

There are thirty-one days in October, and I spent maybe five of them at the gym. It was getting to the point where I started to question whether or not it made sense to throw in the towel and give up on the Y altogether. Luke and I are not rich by any means, and we can't afford to throw away almost a hundred dollars a month for a service we're not using. On the other hand, once I get myself there, I love the Y passionately and vow to decimate anybody who even hints that we're no longer meant to be. There's also that pesky thorn in my side called high cholesterol I can't ignore any longer. It's not bad right now, but if it continues to climb, I'll have to take medication, and if I take medication, I can't get pregnant. Which is kind of critical to Luke and I having a baby.

Anyway, to make a long story a tad shorter, Luke and I talked it over last night, and we've decided the best way to overcome all these issues is to hit the gym before we hit the office, which will sadly involve adhering to a strict bed time and calling it quits with the alarm clock's snooze button, but it'll allow us to maintain our health and control our water supply in one fell swoop. Monday will mark the first day of our latest attempt at an active and healthy lifestyle. Wish us luck.

Recommitting to Emptying the Junk in My Trunk

Luke and I spent part of our extended weekend in Chicago to catch up with family. When we stay in Chicago, we usually stay with my sister, and when we stay with my sister, I usually weigh myself because she has a scale and I don't and I have yet to gather the courage to ask somebody how to work the doctor's-office one stationed in the women's locker room at the Y. I'm not sure what I was expecting to see. I've already told you all about the points-counting thing dying a quick and painless death, and though I've been dragging my carcass to the gym, it's two or three times a week at best, where I mostly walk on the treadmill.

As of Saturday night, I weigh 140.5 pounds. I've gained a pound and a half since my last weigh-in.

I suspect the pint of Breyer's I was inhaling minutes before may have been a contributing factor.

To top it all off, Magda's texturizing comb has left my ends as frayed as if I'd just skipped the damn appointment altogether. Maybe she figured out I'm part Arabian?

Anyway, I had a good cry on the drive home but have since steeled my resolve to lose the fifteen pounds I lost through Weight Watchers the first time around. Only instead of counting points, I'm committing myself to three classes a week at the gym and at least one day on the treadmill, where I can give myself a break if/when I deem it necessary. I've also decided that the couch time dedicated to munching on pretzels would be better spent preparing real food. I browsed through some cookbooks on Monday and have created a dinner menu for every night this week. (I'm accounting for yesterday and today, even though Luke and I didn't make it to Super Target until tonight (after coming home from Prep Step--go me), and we'd already started thawing chicken for tomorrow, so things don't get interesting until near the tail end of the week.)

Monday: Spaghetti
Tuesday: Healthy Choice chicken gumbo and grilled cheese
Wednesday: Chicken
Thursday: BBQ roast beef sandwiches
Friday: steak and pepper fajitas
Saturday: Cantonese beef chow mein
Sunday: wild rice and mushroom soup

Before you criticize my food choices, keep in mind my main goal is to supress the urge to snack. Luke's taking care of the chicken tomorrow, but then I'm on kitchen detail until Sunday night, with the reasoning that if my hands are busy chopping vegetables and slicing pieces of steak, they can't reach into the pantry to wolf down a handful of chips. Also, the fajita recipe was located out of Good Houskeeping's Light and Healthy Cookbook (thanks again, Betty and Brooke!). Also also, minding portion sizes and emphasizing exercise should allow me to eat things like roast beef. Because I know you care, I'll be sure to take pictures and transcribe the more memorable experiences. (Confidential to Isabel: the spinach dip recipe is coming, I promise!)

As if treating you to Frema's Body-Image Chronicles weren't enough, I've decided to answer one of Silly Hily's questions. Don't thank me all at once.

If you could change one thing about your past, what would it be?

The fact that I was so damned insecure in my relationships. The Boyfriend Who Went For Three Weeks Without Calling--well, often went three weeks without calling, and I didn't have the guts to call him on it (pun a little intended). It took five years to end our make-up break-up cycle, only for me to hook up with Mike, only to trigger Trophy Frema for ten months my junior year in college.

I can see my willingness in volunteering my backside as a doormat caused a lot of the issues I faced with both men. Why should Nick have called when I was so quick to excuse his absences? Why should Mike have made an effort to know my friends when I was dropping them to hang out with his? I was so wrapped up in the intensity of our physical attraction and the status that accompanied having a boyfriend that I didn't allow myself to dwell on the quality of the boyfriends I had.

This played out in some of my platonic friendships as well; I was always so worried about what people thought of me and whether or not I was viewed as a good friend. I'm much better now, but that "old" part of me still resurfaces from time to time.

I'd keep going, but it's twelve-thirty in the morning, and Luke is about ready to rip the keyboard from underneath my fingerpads so he can get some sleep. For my sanity and his, peace out.

Next thing you know I'll be vaccuuming in stilettos and falling asleep with plastic rollers snapped to one-inch sections of my hair.

So, the whole Weight Watchers thing? Has not been going so well. As in, I've abandoned journaling and point-counting in favor of Bits-N-Pieces milkshakes and frozen cheesecake goodness, with only occasional trips to the gym. Lately I've been coming home from work hungrier than YOUR MOM (ba dum bum ching) (sorry, the cheap shots are out of my control now) and eating whatever I can get my grubby little hands on, usually pretzel ties and Fig Newtons, even though dinner's just forty-five minutes away. Each day I recommit myself to an attitude of self-control, and each day all efforts crumble the moment I pull into my parking spot, approximately the same time my brain starts taking inventory of what little nourishment remains in the fridge.

However, after sorting through all the literature I accumulated from my weight-watching days, I decided there was one dish I owed it to my budding cooking skills and my cholesterol to tackle: the program's famous garden vegetable soup, known for its tasty, made-from-scratch, zero-points-per-serving, guilt-free attributes. I made it for the first time last week and it went swimmingly, except I forgot to buy the zucchini, and my carrots remained hard as nails even after sautéing them in chopped-up pieces of garlic and onion. Tonight I used the remaining ingredients to make a second batch and strayed from the recipe a little in regards to serving size, opting instead to just start throwing random amounts of shit into the pot--extra carrots, extra cabbage, extra broth, resulting in a soup abundant in carrots, cabbage, and broth, but with slightly less zing, as I only minced the two garlic cloves and half-cup of onion originally called for. It still rocked harder than your mom, though (I really am sorry), and in between hurling vegetables at my stove I even managed to fit in a side of Pillsberry dinner rolls, thus creating the illusion of a thought-out, well-balanced meal. For someone whose idea of gourmet is microwaving the leftover chicken Parmesan pasta from last week's hurrah at TGI Friday's, this is revolutionary. Today, soup; tomorrow, the world.

Anyway, all that extra's about to come in handy, because Luke is abandoning me for a business trip that begins tomorrow morning and ends Friday night, which means I'm on my own in the kitchen for the next three days. I've already purchased the necessary components for my best spinach dip yet, which I promise to share with you, and made a list of the ways I plan to utilize my alone time:

1) Pass out in a bowl of spinach dip.

2) Recover from the gaseous side effects of said spinach dip.

3) Finally tear into the first season of Murder, She Wrote on DVD.

4) Sweat my tushie off for Pam the Vietnam Vet Aerobics Instructor, who actually seeks me out to make sure I'm attending the regular Wednesday step session, which I always totally do, even though last week I saw a beetle crawling in the vicinity of my floor mat.

5) Decide whether or not to continue watching the catastrophe that is Celebrity Duets, the latest reality train wreck slash American Idol knock-off to debut on FOX. On one hand, this program assumes the fuzzy memories you have of jamming to Michael Bolton in fifth grade because rap was forbidden in your house, thereby FORCING you to memorize all the lyrics to "Time, Love, and Tenderness" against your will, is enough to peak your interest in the awkward pairing of B-list personalities with has-been A-list performers without any backstory on the pop-culture significance and/or hopes and dreams of its participants.

On the other hand, "Time, Love, and Tenderness" was a damn catchy album, and Michael Bolton's golden tresses saw me through some tough times. Plus, Little Richard's on the judge's panel, and based on several of tonight's comments, I'm convinced he's channeling the spirit of an inebriated Paula Abdul:

"Boy, you got to pull out the mustard and catch up!"

"You just made my big toe shoot up in my boot!"

"He's got what it takes and it takes what he got!"

"Woo woo! Umm, ah. Oh!"

6) Catch up on phone calls.

7) Revel in the glory of saving fifteen percent on my car insurance. (I really did!)

8) Pine.

Before I go: I know I've done something like this before, but seeing as I'm about to have oodles of nothing on my hands and Silly Hily's results have been so much fun, I'm asking anyone with deep, burning, personal questions about me (not your mom) to bring 'em on. All I ask is to keep in mind my husband's parents read this blog, and if it's all the same to you, I'd appreciate being able to look them in the eye at my mother-in-law's family reunion this Saturday. That being said, I've touched on religion, birth control, and my fat ass with little to no embarassment, so really, anything goes. Also in my favor, I've got the whole Labor Day weekend before Luke can decide to divorce me.

Edited to add: I now regret turning on the computer again at one o'clock in the morning to add the above disclaimer, as I'm afraid it'll scare you away from asking questions inappropriate for children under thirteen. What's a little thought-provoking discussion among friends, is my new attitude, and anyway, my in-laws are way cool, so now I'm begging you to send me to that reunion with a paper bag over my head. Really. I dare you.

Is It Possible To Get A Buzz From A Banana Smoothie?

No? Must be the wine, then.

The fact that I'm typing this entry means I survived yesterday's road trip intact. Turns out all my worries were for naught, as not only did a third coworker accompany us, thereby upping our chances for lively conversation, both of the guys were cool enough that we spent most of our car time swapping drunk-college stories. My worst drunk-college story dates back to freshman year when I got wasted for the first time off strawberry Boonesfarm, but that would've involved talk of bowel movements, and THAT would've involved the loss of my dignity. 'Twas best to save it for another time.

Tonight was relatively uneventful. I made it to the Y for the third time this week, and I'm surprised at how much I enjoy my time there. Sometimes it's hard to get motivated and out the door, but once I'm there, it's smooth sailing. My new routine is forty-five minutes of brisk walking on the treadmill (enough to work up a good sweat but not even close to a jog) and between twenty and thirty minutes of strength training, alternating between the upper and lower body; my goal is to go through that routine three times a week in addition to one aerobics class, mainly hip-hop aerobics, but I've haven't made it yet because I'm a chicken who's afraid of getting laughed at, although I had every intention of making it today and would have if I hadn't left my pocket book and consequently my membership card at home.

The last couple of hours have been spent racking my brain over what to bring for the lab's summer pitch-in tomorrow, as even people who don't know my last name can somehow recall my inability to boil water. (This MAY be because I told them, but still.) I finally settled on peanut-butter cereal bars because I remembered the lunch ladies at Saint Joe made them all the time and I loved them very much, plus there's no actual cooking involved, so I felt confident that the margin for error was slim to none.

But then Luke had to intervene when he saw I was about to measure one cup of corn syrup into a solids measuring cup, and my hopes for an incident-free no-bake experience were ruined.

They still look pretty damn good, though. I'd show you how good, except Blogger is being an a-hole AGAIN, leaving me no choice but to search for possible domain names right this very minute. Stupid free bastard software.

Tummy Time

When I try to remember a time my stomach didn't resemble a mash of raw dough, the best I can come up with is being nine years old and swimming in a three-foot, air-pump-dependent swimming pool featuring pictures of boys and girls and sand castles plastered to the side. During the summer months my sister and I lived in the pool, if not ours then someone else's, playing games like Marco Polo and Tag and Mermaid Dying At Sea, with an occasional time-out for freeze pops or fried chicken. Who has time to develop a belly bump when you're supposed to be rehearsing your last will and testament, which also includes final words for your husband so he'll remember after your passing that there is indeed beauty in living, even though his beloved has joined that great big aquarium in the sky?

Then suddenly it's seventh grade, and the midsection you never had to worry about has mysteriously taken on the silhouette of a capital B, not unlike the B destined to plague your engagement book fourteen years later. One vertical buttock below the belt and one above the belly button.

Last Monday Luke and I signed up for memberships at our local Y. We've talked about joining a gym for months and checked out Cardinal Fitness back in January, but the place was the size of a closet and they wanted fifty bucks a month as well as sixty bucks up front, for each of us, just for signing up, so we could alternate between their treadmill and elliptical, because God forbid they offer any sort of class, because that would require actual personal interaction with staff. Hard as it was to turn down that stellar offer, turn it down we did. And proceed to sit on our @$$e$ until we were bored enough and bloated enough to look again. At the Y, not only are we free from registration fees and binding contracts, we also have access to every branch in the city.

We each had wellness orientations on Tuesday, where an employee with muscles the size of your head familiarizes you with the equipment and demonstrates how to adjust each machine's settings to your specific height and weight. Wednesday was our first official workout session, and so far we've made it in every day except yesterday, our only full day to entertain Samantha and Dan.

I've tried working out before. Back in my Weight Watchers days, I jumped around in my living room to Richard Simmons with the best of them, flirted with jogging and all of that. But I never kept with it, and I attribute it to the fast pace of my life at the time. If I wasn't working, I was studying, and if I wasn't studying, I was with Luke, and if I wasn't with Luke I was ... well, I don't know what I was doing, Rensselaer wasn't that exciting of a place, but suffice it to say I occuped myself somehow. And then I moved to Indianapolis, where adjusting to my new job and living space was a big enough challenge, and then Luke joined me, and we learned how to co-exist in six hundred square feet, and then we planned our wedding, and then we got married, and then: Nothing. No school, no more volunteering (Annie "graduated" from her treatment facility in March and has fallen out of touch with me since returning home), no more wedding plans. Just the two of us trying to figure out ways to enjoy ourselves and each other. The Y fit in perfectly with our plans. It's an activity we can commit to together while reveling in some quality alone time. And hopefully unearth a smokin' body in the process.

Looking back, I can't pinpoint the behaviors that led to the development of the pooch I have now. Yeah, I pigged out on junk food, but I was also pretty active. I danced in musicals and played soccer and spent summers walking the entire length of Navy Pier to deliver fresh pretzels to carts along the strip. I'm the only one of my siblings with this particular body shape, just like I'm the only one who inherited my father's curly hair, and though some of my sisters might protest, say they have their own shaping up to do, I've seen all of them in swim wear. I know the truth.

But I'm finally in a place where I have the proper means and motivation to do something about it. I want to transform my capital B into a respectable lowercase l. I want to wear a fitted tee shirt without pulling on the hem of my top. I want to wear a two piece, and I want to OWN it. And it would be nice to walk up a flight of stairs without wanting to take a nap halfway through.

It's not about low self-esteem; logically I know I look fine, and my health is fine, and everything is generally fine. It's just that fine's not enough anymore. Logically, I know I'm capable of better.

Celebrating Blogger's Return to Normalcy

In light of all the thought-provoking text that's been dumped on this site lately, I thought I'd give your eyes a rest by providing some mindless entertainment.

At long last, some actual pictures from Luke's and my honeymoon in Niagara Falls. The below shot was taken from New York State Park's observation deck, and it's one of my favorites. The Canadian side of the falls is so touristy; we counted about six variations of Ripley's Believe It Or Not Museum, including one that featured wax replicas of beloved American gangsters. We also saw a Burger King with a mounted head of Frankenstein who was, of course, eating a Big Mac. A perfect addition to the one of the country's most romantic hotspots.

 

 

Luke took this during our Maid of the Mist boat tour. If I were wearing my glasses, I bet I'd be able to open my eyes, too, but as it was, we were so close to the water I pulled a Helen Keller and simply allowed my body to be overtaken by the w-a-t-e-r.

This is one of the photos I referred to in the post about my journey through Weight Watchers and current layover in the Land of Plenty (Plenty of Fat, that is). Clearly this is the before shot, taken at some ungodly hour in my office at the college because as usual there was some sort of urgent admissions matter to take care of on the Web site, because low deposits are the direct result of a prospective student's lack of knowledge about the institution's flexible meal-plan options.

This picture is kind of embarrassing for many reasons; not only does it mark the beginning of my "too much junk in the trunk" period, it also reminds me I wore wear sweatpants to work. WHEN PEOPLE WERE AWAKE. AND HAD ACTUAL CONVERSATIONS WITH THEM. To be fair, it only happened on the days I had off for school and I would sneak into the office to catch up on paperwork, but still. When I possessed enough common sense to even walk into a New York and Company in between scoping out Wal-Mart's clearance rack for business casual attire is beyond me. Look at my boobs, for cripe's sake! They're so droopy it's impossible to tell if I'm even wearing a bra.

When a coworker nonchalantly remarked that sweatpants are a sign one has given up on life, I should have realized he was talking about me.

The picture also reminds me of the various trials and tribulations I've weathered through with my hair; this stage may have been the worst, as I was so freakin' busy gaining weight in my computer chair there was no time to manage the rat's nest attached to my head. Clips for the bangs and a scrunchie for the length and I was good to go.

Well, maybe not quite the worst, as evidenced by an example of what can only be described as A Perfectly Valid Reason For Luke Not To Have Married Me:

I was a junior in college when this picture was taken and too broke to scrape up the dough for an eight-dollar trim at Fantastic Sam's. Yet I continued to iron and scrunch accordingly because even though I had finally come to terms with my spiral curls, I refused to believe that anything other than straight, "wispy" tresses would attractively frame my face. Also, I was afraid a new style would mark me the latest target of campus ridicule, which is laughable now considering they must've been doing that anyway. Lesson learned: when your bangs start tickling the sides of your neck, they are no longer bangs and therefore must stop being treated AS IF THEY ARE STILL BANGS.

I continued with this look until the spring before graduation, when I got a cut that took off about five inches of length and sixteen frillion inches of bang. During the winter of 2004, I told the woman I wanted a hella-cool style like the one Winona Ryder had in Reality Bites. The woman barely spoke English and therefore had no idea who Winona Ryder was (which in hindsight may not have been a bad thing), but the end result was one I was willing to live with.

The cut is only about a month old in this picture, which you can probably tell by the fact that I have not yet given up on The Sexy Bang Fantasy. Thankfully it wasn't long before I stopped treating my front layers as a separate entity and gave up flatironing altogether.

As an aside, this is the very first apartment I had all to myself, and it remains my favorite to this day. The living room slash dining room slash computer room had charming hardwood floors and intimate lighting, perfect for late nights cuddling in front of the fireplace. If I had a fireplace. Who cares if the lock on the back door in my bedroom didn't work? My bad-@$$ spaghetti-making self can overtake any intruder with just a splash of hot water, just a splash, and a sturdy pair of dollar-store tongs. Was genius, except for the color coordination of my outfits with the stove.

Ah, much better. You can see my roots, but admit it. I look damn cute. Until...

This was taken about two weeks ago, right before my last hair cut, and the lack of shape (and make-up, while we're at it; could I not have spared twelve freakin' seconds to throw on some pressed powder?!) frightens even me. Pondering life's biggest questions had apparently beaten the crap out of me with the fugliest ugly stick The Universe could find. The second my toes entered the boundaries of Brenda's station, I demanded she start cutting, and cutting, and cutting, and cutting, 'til she couldn't cut no mo. Which brings me to the present day.

[11/21/06 edit: the "after" picture was lost in The Great Blogger/TypePad merger of 2006. Woe!]

So I hadn't quite banked on The Little Orphan Annie Comeback of 2006, but seeing as Luke and I are counting every penny and there is no longer the excuse of pending nuptials to justify spending over a hundred and forty dollars at the salon, you better believe I'm gettin' my forty dollars' worth. Oh hells yes.

Well. This entry has been around the block and then some! Mostly I just wanted to show you some pictures. I guess I could've just said that.

Final thought for the night, which also happens to make an excellent segue into my last couple of snapshots, which were actually taken by Luke: it's a good thing I decided to slow down on this whole baby-making business, because our complex already has plenty of new muthas in the hizzouse:

Some bitches have all the luck.

Let's Count How Many Times the Word "I" Appears in This Post

My first year out of school I was kind of a mess; jumping headfirst into a master's degree, arms flailing about wildly as I fumbled through my PR directorship for my alma mater, during which I succumbed to late nights at the office, early mornings slamming "Snooze" for an extra nine minutes, and loooong days clicking away at the keyboard. Because my position was originally intended to be part-time while I went to school, part of my compensation package included free room and board in an administrative suite in one of the female residence halls. While it was a little depressing to admit that I, a college graduate, still lived in a dorm, breakfast, lunch, and dinner were free. Then there was grant money, and a promotion to full-time, but the room and meal plan were still mine for the taking, and since my cooking skills equaled grilled cheese golden brown, I took it.

As evidenced by this entry, I like to eat. When I'm happy, I enjoy going to restaurants and rejoicing in my good fortune. When I'm sad, it's in the ritual of pulling my Breyer's carton from the freezer and scooping out generous portions of strawberry goodness that I take comfort. To put it bluntly, there's a food for all my moods.

Anyway, one winter morning I went to button my dress slacks, slacks I'd painstakingly chosen during my budding relationship with New York and Company, and realized I couldn't get the button through the hole. Forty damn dollars for a pair of pants and my gut was too big to suck in. I suppose celebrating the New Year by digesting a chocolate chip cookie dough blizzard from Dairy Queen every day for the month of January is bound to catch up with you.

I decided to do something about it. The following week, I attended my first Weight Watchers meeting. According to my membership book, which I still hold on to today, I weighed in at 140.2 pounds. According to their handy-dandy chart, that number should've been between 118 and 123. My perceived obesity made me want to throw up a little in my mouth.

So I jumped on the wagon and gave it my best shot. I counted points. I dusted off my Sweatin' to the Oldies videos and jogged with my roommate. I stocked up on those mini fudge bars they peddle at meetings and lived on mushroom soup and slices of bread layered with enough low-fat cheese and tomato that it could pass for a sandwich. I lost weight. Seventeen pounds' worth. And I kept it off.

For a while.

I followed the program pretty religiously for almost a year before I stopped attending meetings. By that time I was at a managable 123 and felt I could keep it off on my own. Who needs a group of women cheering you on to shapely victory when you can model a size-six summer skirt in the dressing room of the local NY&C?

When that dressing room stopped motivating my food choices, I don't know. Last year's move to Indianapolis was hard. I was alone in an unfamiliar city, and there was a month between jobs where the only physical activity that inspired any sort of enjoyment was laying on the couch and shoveling spinach dip into my mouth, one blue-corn tortilla chip at a time.

Luke and I don't have a scale in our apartment, which is mostly a good thing, but occasionally I'll step on the one strategically placed in my sister's bathroom during a weekend visit. I'm careful to submit myself to this grueling examination of the mass only after my morning business has been attended to, just to ensure I'm not stuffing my suitcase with unnecessary cargo. (And to any woman who says she doesn't, I point my finger and say LIAR!) (And also, whaaa?)

At last weigh-in, I was 139.

Why am I sharing this with all of you? To hold myself more accountable to the fact that I've not done enough--anything, really--to get back in shape. Before it was strictly for asthetic reasons, like wanting to see a slimmer face in the mirror. Now I have a doctor to appease, a husband to stick around for, and a baby to incubate (eventually, people, hold your horses, I'm not pregnant yet), as well as the knowledge I've done this once before. I can do it again.

If Luke and I had the money to spare, I'd happily take on Weight Watchers again, but as it stands, we just added him to my insurance, rent went up thirty bucks, and we've run out of CDs to sell. Therefore, I'm prescribing myself a regimen of daily exercise and food journaling. I won't count points and I won't limit myself to bread and water. Instead, I'll opt for moderation and take it one day at a time.

My progress thus far: On Monday I walked almost three miles in less than an hour on Indy's beloved Monon Trail. Striding in time to my "Breain's Walking Tunes" playlist on Luke's iPod, I thought, "I can do this! This is easy!" Not even the sight of some guy's middle-aged, bike-riding buttcrack could deter my enthusiasm. My euphoria stayed with me until I woke up the next morning to a pain in my legs that argued for a less rigorous follow-up. After scarfing down two ginormous tacos, I walked around the complex for twenty minutes until I was interrupted by a French Canadian who had an appointment to meet with someone she'd never met before in building 4047 and couldn't remember if they were supposed to meet at her apartment or somewhere down the road and she tried knocking on the door but the dishwasher was an older model and apparently loud enough to drown out the sound of her knuckles against wood. After saving the day with my cell phone, I figured I'd had enough excitement for one evening.

Today I slacked off and didn't take a formal walk, unless you count plowing through the aisles of Super Target for the new Dixie Chicks CD, but I did have a light dinner of pretzel logs and a bowl of Cocoa Krispies.

I feel better already.

Also, forty-seven. Contractions don't count.

Also also, I'll be damned if Blogger isn't giving me crap about posting pictures. AGAIN. Like it's a free service or something.

Not Even An "A" For Effort

Are Luke and I the only people who watched Skating With Celebrities? After my baby freak-out the other day, I knew I needed to bring back the funny STAT or risk having you all think I spend every night holding myself in the corner of my closet, mumbling some nonsense about Lucy falling from grace with the local mail carrier is all due to my taking a cashier job at the local Jewel. Only instead of inspiring laughter, I had people scratching their noggins and thinking, "The hell?" Way to alienate your readers, Frema.

Anyway, my cholesterol test. I wish I could say the doctor's weight-loss announcement was true. I wish I could say the ten bowls of Cheerios I had last month were enough to produce satisfactory results. But I can't. In fact, my "bad cholesterol" actually went UP a few points. Because I had talked to Mr. Doctor about getting off the pill and Luke's and my baby-making plans, his nurse explained he didn't want to prescribe a medication, so I need to continue adhering to my diet and start exercising several times a week, something I didn't even try to do before. On the bright side, at least I know what I've been doing wrong: still snacking too much, planting my bottom on the couch after work, etc. Imagine if I'd done everything to the letter and still got crappy news? Which is quite possible, since my mother's mother had a history of cholesterol problems before she died in 2000.

I'm disappointed the results weren't better. I'm disappointed in myself for not taking this more seriously. But it's water under the bridge now. All I can do is try harder.

Back in happier times, last weekend witnessed the rejuvenation of several pampering rituals, most of which should only be done in the sanctity of one's four walls; soaking in a bubble bath, buffing and painting my toenails, and letting my hair air dry, which, lo and behold, is just what it needed to curl properly in the absence of thirteen-dollar styling products. Luke and I also spent two hours uploading songs from old CD's so we could pawn the hard copies at a local music store. Approximately forty discs earned us twenty-seven bucks, but you'd have thought it was twenty-seven hundred the way we rushed back to the car and stared at the bills in awe. The world was ours! What to do with this power? New top from New York and Company? Additional accessories for Luke's iPod? Extra milk and pretzels to hold us over 'til pay day? In the end we treated ourselves to dinner at Applebee's, and I'm telling you, no two people had a better time there than us. We barely even talked--just being together in the presence of processed food was just what we needed to feel more in touch with the universe.

By the way, we also spent the majority of our Sunday browsing through pictures for our reception slide show. Therefore, be on the lookout for Frema's Life in Pictures, because oh, yes. It's coming.

Beauty and the Prick

The beauty is ... well, me. The prick is from the nurse's needle that broke the surface of my skin yesterday because, after two weeks of insurance glitches, I said to hell with Anthem and their refusal to hand over my new insurance card and just kept the damn appointment to follow-up on my cholesterol.

(Or by the time I remembered to call and cancel on Thursday, the doctor's office was already closed and my appointment was the first one of the day and I didn't want to piss off the nurse because she's nice and all but has a bit of a Homie Don't Play That complex. Would you want to trigger the Homie in your health care professional? I didn't think so.)

Anyway. I get to the office and engage in some friendly banter with the receptionist, who's become a kindred spirit through all this insurance nonsense, and then I get weighed, and then I get pricked, and then I twiddle my thumbs until the doctor delivers the verdict.

Turns out he's got good things to say. While the actual test results won't be available until early next week, he reports that I've lost four pounds since my last visit, a sure sign that my cholesterol is on its way down. He said that I'm the exception, because most people who come in for this kind of follow-up have either gained weight or simply refuse to be weighed, a sure sign that they fell off their diets. He congratulated me for making such great progress and left instructions to call on Monday for the numbers.

And the whole time he's talking, all I can think is: there's no way I lost four pounds. No. freakin'. way.

Because at my last visit, I remember the nurse weighing me in at 133, and that made me ecstatic, because on the visit before THAT I was 139, and I said, "I lost six pounds?" and because she has a Homie Don't Play That complex, she wasn't about to patronize me, so she said, "Let me check on that," and then a few minutes later she was all, "You're right!" And then I cried tears of joy into the camera and thanked the Academy for making this miracle possible.

At yesterday's visit, I weighed 135, which at first didn't bother me because I was on day two of my cycle and therefore blamed the extra poundage on Aunt Flo's water-retaining suitcase. That is, until Mr. Doctor started talking about extra weight sentencing patients to cholesterol hell. THEN it totally bothered me, and twenty-four hours later, I still can't tell which of us is the crazy one. Was that glorious visit a figment of my imagination, or did Mr. Doctor skip over the last page in my file?

Who knows. It no longer takes three jean wears for the denim band to accommodate my pouch, so maybe he's on to something. Either way, I'll find out next week. Cross your fingers.

In other news, I cannot BELIEVE I forgot to mention last week that Amalah answered my question on the Wednesday Advice Smackdown! Here's how it happened:

Last Thursday I was checking my Gmail, minding my own business, when I discovered the following message:

Hello!

So I read your comment AGES AGO about having a question in the July batch of advice emails (Right? Am not hallucinating this?) (Man, I gotta cut back on the shrooms.), and I was all, "Oh! Frema deserves special treatment, because I love her!" So I was decided that your question would be the next one I answered.

Except...um...I don't seem to have it. Which is probably completely my fault -- I may have not labeled it correctly or something. So! I would like to answer your question, either the original one or any other new question of your choosing, since you know, JULY.

Bah.

Amy

And I was like, "Holy crap! The goddess of the Internet is talking to ME!" So I wrote a really long reply that spelled out my question of what to do about sunburnt shoulders, originally submitted because I was wearing a strapless dress in my sister's wedding and needed advice on how to cover them up. I went on to tell her that now is actually the PERFECT time to be answering this because I'm getting married in May and the dress is strapless, thus resurrecting the problem all over again. I may or may not have ended my monologue with, "This e-mail will stay in my Gmail box FOREVER." Nerd.

And then, heavens to Betsy, I was on Amalah.com.

Amalah did a great job of whittling my rambles down into a short and comprehendible read, though there are a few words peppered here and there that only those privy to my original e-mail would understand. But still, me! On Amalah.com! Mine was the last question, so do a little scrollin' and witness the glory for yourself. Also, if you read the comments, you'll notice our own Number Twelve was the first to post. A happy, happy day.

Food, Glorious Food

Every Thursday at work, the lab and non-lab employees are united by one common goal: corporate take-out.

Every Thursday between the hours of eight and ten-thirty, approximately thirty orders are placed for foodie no-nos like high-school style pepperoni pizza, barbequed ribs, quarter pounders with cheese, beef manhattans, and chicken fried steak sandwiches with patties equivalent to the circumference of a basketball with some local diner-food type place. By noon, the guilty-pleasure goodness arrives in droves, each order protected by the sanctity of a styrofoam doggie-bag, and the smells permeate the entire building, announcing its presence better than a loudspeaker page ever could.

I rarely wait until noon to eat--I've usually started munching on the pretzel logs or fruit snacks meant to accompany a sandwich by nine--but yesterday when the clock struck twelve I was feasting over Campbell's Homestyle Chicken Noodle Soup in the break room with a colleague who recently graduated from my last place of employment and just might be my only work friend. Anyway, it was me and my soup and Marissa and her tuna and we could do nothing but salivate over the greasy deliciousness surrounding us on both sides. When lunch was over, I was still hungry, and wondered what harm there would be in dashing over to the nearest White Castle to order a cheeseburger. There's only about a pinky finger's worth of meat on those damn things and the price of one could be paid for with the pennies in my pocketbook. How bad could that be?

Somehow I resisted the urge, and fought the bad voices again when I just happened to pass the vending machine that I didn't just happen to pass at all, because it's actually nowhere near my cubicle, but I still managed to hit C5 for Rold Golds instead of D3 for the Snickers I really wanted.

Since I was informed of my slightly high cholesterol in December, Luke and I have done a good job of keeping healthier foods in the house. We bake instead of fry the majority of our meals, and he makes a special point to include some sort of fruit or vegetable with dinner, something we weren't so good about before. But it's been really hard, and today it hit me how just much pleasure I get from the act of eating. I may not like a lot of stuff, but if I enjoy something, it's hard to digest it in moderation. A half-gallon of ice cream doesn't stand a chance in our freezer because I'll smush seven scoops' worth into each bowl I have. The idea of spinach dip as merely an appetizer is a foreign concept to me, and I'll eat it until the gas bubble in my stomach says it's time to head to the bathroom. Bacon isn't a side; it's the stuff that the best of sandwiches are made of, sandwiches that I don't bother to clutter with lettuce or tomato because they get in the way of the bacony goodness and besides I don't like lettuce.

I was supposed to have a cholesterol follow-up last Friday but cancelled it because of some glitches with my new HSA; now I've got another week and a half to make even more of an effort to cleanse my body of all the fatty foods I stuffed myself with prior to Christmas. I've heard from countless individuals about how just adding oatmeal to my diet should do the trick, but never in my life have I tasted such a heavy, lumpy, tasteless food, no matter how many spoons of cinnamon sugar are shoveled in there. Luckily, God invented Cheerios, which I like just fine, and we've drastically cut down on our meals out, but I'm still scared to see the results. Not because I'm afraid I'll die a premature, artery-clogged death, but because if it hasn't gone down, my doctor will propose medicine, which will lower my cholesterol but also eliminate any immediate plans to get pregnant, and while we're not trying now, we will sometime, whether it be in January 2007 or this August or at the Lees Inn at eleven fifty-seven p.m. on the night of May 12. Anyway, I don't want us to put off our hopes for a baby because the new Mrs. Fatty McFatterson (yes, I'm keeping my name) (no I'm not but I don't want you to think I'm implying Luke is MR. McFatterson) can't keep her damn hands off the Breyer's. Definitely good motivation.

But it's hard just the same.

Oatmeal in the Hizzouse

Oh, Internet, how I've missed you! I've thought about you daily, reading your updates, tossing around ideas for possible posts. And yet, I have not actually done anything until today. Here's why:

Tuesday: Receive a call from my new doctor's nurse, which initially scared the bejeezus out of me because she said she wouldn't call unless the results were abnormal. Am told the results were abnormal and that I have elevated cholesterol. Am ordered to reduce my intake of fast food, greasy food, bread, cheese, and pasta and load up on fruits, vegetables, oatmeal, and other not-going-to-kill you items. Cry because I suddenly hate my body with all its digusting internal problems that are meant for old lazy couch potatoes like Archie Bunker, not young and vibrant couch potatoes who put a cup and a half of Parmeasan cheese in their spinach dip like me.

Wednesday: Try oatmeal for the first time in my life. Gag reflex is reborn.

Thursday: Visit Annie. Am witness to Kroeger Night, in which workers from the local chain of the national grocery store stop by the facility with a stocking for each resident. Stockings are filled with oranges, electronic Uno, and sample sizes of shampoo, toothpaste, and deodarent. Cry at home when I realize that's all some of these children will get this year.

Friday: After two days of soup and fruit, throw caution to the wind and bust out with a frozen pizza for dinner. Indulge in season-two episodes of Scrubs. Provide shelter for Ryan and her boyfriend, Jason, en route to Chicago from IU in Bloomington. Spend forty-five minutes inflating new queen-sized air mattress with bicycle pump. Never actually finish inflating mattress.

Saturday: Spend the day with Luke's sister-in-law and baby niece, now ten months old. Against my will, order garlic chicken from Chinese place. Spend Saturday night scatching the skin off my thighs, bottom, and stomach, because, they itch! my God they itch! Get out of bed at 2:00 a.m. intending to catch up on soaps "until I fall asleep." Finish soaps. Don't fall asleep until 8:30, after wonderful Luke has purchased Aveeno cream for my skin and Benadryl to finally knock me out.

Sunday: Sleep. Shower (I think). Sleep again. Repeat non-sleep sleep cycle.

Monday: Try to work at home but the itching! my God the itching! won't let up and I'm exhausted and now sick to my stomach. Visit idiot dermatologist, who is an idiot because he dares to talk smack about Proactiv, which I have not personally tried but want to because my siblings and Jessica Simpson and Vanessa Williams are doing it and achieving marvelous results. Same idiot hypothesizes that the itching is caused by an allergic reaction to the meds for my bladder infection, orders blood work, and makes weird lines on my back with a popsicle sick. Submit myself to blood work from rival lab. Think twice about naming my employer on their information forms. Pass the evening in an oatmeal bath, in which I sit for nearly an hour. Surprisingly, no urge to vomit. Instead, sleep peacefully. Hooray!

And now, today: Update with a guilt-filled frenzy that cannot be denied. Will most likely be late for work. Promise the Internet to check for typos at lunchtime.

You Better WORK!

Dear God, help us all. Because on September 7th? This body will find itself on a Parisian runway. The chances of that body looking like the one on the right? Not so good.

When Indianapolis Ambassadors first sent out a request for models for its fall style show, I didn't give it a second thought. A Carrie Bradshow fashion icon I am not. The promotion indicated the show was in good fun and provided an especially creative way for new members to acclimate themselves to the group. Not scary! Fun! But still. No.

Until this morning, that is, when I received a frantic e-mail from the social activities coordinator saying that five women and three men were still needed for the style show. So, out of guilt for not having attended a single volunteer event yet, and out of responsibility to this blog ("that night will SO make for a killah entry!"), I offered up my services.

For the most part, I don't really suffer from low self-esteem. Even with all its blemishes and rolls, I'm pretty satisfied with my body, as long as it's dressed in pretty clothes that properly disguise what I don't like (stomach and thighs) and accentuate what I do (collarbone?). But it took me a long time to get this way. Growing up, I can remember flipping through The Big Bopper and Teen Beat with my sister Samantha and telling her confidently, "All the singers and actors in here have, like, 600 people working to make them look pretty. Every normal person has stomach rolls and love handles." I truly believed this until I went bathing-suit shopping in college and saw one of my friends sport a bikini. Her stomach was flat as a rock, and as far as I knew, she didn't live on a bread-and-water diet or have a personal trainer stashed in her dorm. I took a harder look at myself, thought, "Maybe a person's gut ISN'T supposed to hang over her jeans." Interesting concept.

It didn't help matters that, in the same year, a guy I was dating patted my belly and said, "I don't remember you having this when we first started going out." The day after "the incident," his mother cooked pancakes for breakfast (yes, he was 28 years old and living with his mother, I GET IT now), and I couldn't handle more than four bites. I was too embarrassed to eat in front of him.

Things got better, though. In 2001 I met Luke (actually bought him, but that's another entry), who has never made me feel inferior or ugly or unlovable in the four years we've been together, just one of the many reasons why I want to him father my children. In 2003 I joined this program and lost 22 pounds. (It really does work!) I also made it a point to visit my ex the following summer, "just to hang out," when my ultimate goal was to hear him say, "God, you look great! Don't you ever eat?" Which he did, so IN YOUR FACE, EX NUMBER TWO.

In the last year, I've slacked off. I will not tell you how many of the Weight Watchers pounds I gained back, and there are moments when I look into a full-length mirror and understand how anorexia is so popular among women. But I am doing my darndest to take better care of my body and also quit placing such high expectations on it. Sometimes you just gotta have that Ben and Jerry's fix and move on with life.

In the meantime, though, I've got a style show to prepare for.