What are you looking at?

Shockingly, no bacon was harmed in the making of this blog entry

Back in January, I saw a great little video from Lean In on rethinking time and the power of multipliers. The speaker explains that multipliers aren't the same as multitasking; instead of doing lots of activities at one time and not being fully present for any of them, a multiplier is one activity that has your complete attention and achieves - wait for it - multiple goals.

Since then, I've been thinking about multipliers in my own life. Here's what I've got so far:

Exercising/girlfriend bonding

I've mentioned a couple of times that I hit the gym twice a week with a friend before work. I met Jen last spring at my previous job, shortly after her move from Kentucky to the same little town I live in on Indy's west side. This was a miracle in and of itself because you never hear of people moving to my neck of the woods. It's the north side where we worked that gets all the props, to the point of being named the Best Place to Live in America by CNN Money magazine in 2012. Once we realized we both belonged to the rec center, the habit was born. We started going once a week at six and have evolved to twice a week at 5:45, with the workout sneakily getting longer over time.

Before you give me too many props, I fully realize this victory isn't so much a testament to my motivation but the power of accountability. Because if Jen texts me to cancel, I bow out and vice versa. In other words, we're now vital to each other's health. I am okay with this.

Workouts with Jen are highlights in my week, and not just for the wellness factor. It's so nice to start the day with a friend, to talk about books and kids and God and work sporting yoga pants and a serious case of bed head. The Lean In speaker would call this a double.

Commuting/audio booking

Until very recently, I proudly identified myself as a book purist - someone who wrinkled her nose at audio books and e-readers in favor of reading the old-fashioned way, with actual pieces of bound paper in your hand, just like the good old days when we walked 20 miles to school uphill and washed our clothes by hand in the river. Which was great except that I wasn't actually reading anything. I worked hard to change this last year and rang in the New Year with 16 books under my belt, but even that was a struggle. I would make extra time for reading and then promptly eat it up with something else - sleep in the morning, work during lunch and more sleep after a few pages at night. But still, no audio books.

My north side job would have been a great time to give them a whirl. On a good day with zero traffic, I could get to work in 40 minutes. On a normal day, though, ongoing construction raised the commute to more than an hour one way. I wasn't happy about spending so much time in the car - just one of the reasons I decided to look for a job closer to home. But alas, it wasn't until a week or two into my new job that I braved the audio section of the library and found something that grabbed my interest - "Help Thanks Wow" by the dear Anne Lamott.

And I was hooked.

I breezed through HTW in a couple of days and moved quickly to "Grace Eventually: Thoughts on Faith." I already loved Ms. Lamott, but listening to her books was even more wonderful, first because of the subject matter, which was thoughtful and funny and inspiring, and second because there are few things as personal as having an author read their book to you. Plus, being forced to pay attention to a steady train of thought instead of bouncing around the jungle of half-baked epiphanies in my head helped me feel less scattered at the beginning and end of my work day.

So I kept going with Randy Pausch's "The Last Lecture," which I had to turn off at least three times over two weeks because I didn't want to leave my car with red eyes and a blotchy nose.

I've listened to a couple more recordings since then, and I'm officially a convert. I still have physical books to pour through, but I've stopped feeling guilty over taking three months to read them because I'm still getting my fix. At six books for the year, I may not hit my #Read26Indy goal - it's too early too tell - but I'm having a blast, and my drive to and from work is a million times more fun.

Volunteering/mother-son bonding

I haven't made any drastic changes in the "giving back to the community" check box, but I do still volunteer in my church's nursery once or twice a month. Reliable childcare during worship was really important to Luke and me when we first started going to church with the kids, and it feels good to help other parents in the same boat. Plus, church is already built into my Sunday, so it's easy to commit to, and the nursery takes kids through two years old, so it's a nice way to spend extra time with Liam.

Before church, fully embracing snuggles and caffeine.

Sunday dinner/family time

I reached the one-month mark on Sunday dinner last weekend, and it might be the best part of the week. I didn't realize how relaxing cooking can be - chopping onions and browning meat feels almost cathartic. Plus, the kids get a kick out of helping me choose a recipe and wandering in and out of the kitchen to see how it's coming and if there's anything they can do. Last week I made brinner, and we had a great time preparing fruit and yogurt parfaits and whipping up some other low-maintenance sides. Luke pitched in with French toast, and the end result was a fun dinner we mostly made together.

Maybe next year I'll work on my presentation skills.

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Between my day job, freelancing, family time and chores around the house, it's easy to feel guilty when I spend time on something that pulls me away from what feels like a more important to-do. I've been having lots of come-to-Jesus moments about the choices I make and the motivations behind them. Over the last year, more times than I'd like to admit, I felt like a victim instead of the willing participant I actually was. I've worn stress like a blanket instead of grace.

I'm still keeping hands in a lot of things, and adapting to a new job to boot, but finally the dust is settling, and it's easier to see things as they really are. It's okay to embrace the pattern of my life as it is right now, and hustle sometimes but not all the time, and not tackle every item on my bucket list in every spare minute I have. That's why I love the idea of spending time in a way that's meeting more than one need at a time.

Would you look at that, only three weeks since my last entry. We're onto something, kids!

Back to basics: exercise and the Internet

Luke and I have lived in our town for almost five years, but it wasn't until last week that we signed up for a family membership to the local rec center. Kara and Nathan have taken various combinations of swim, tumbling and dance there, and we're big fans of the splash park come summer, but now we have full access to workout facilities, indoor and outdoor pools and various aerobic classes.

Yesterday, for the first time in cough cough ahem er mind your own business, I stepped onto a piece of exercise equipment. It was a beautiful day, so running outside would have been the smarter choice, but we are going to get our money's worth out of this membership, believe you me. I chose the elliptical because that's something I can only do at the gym, take that, Mother Nature.

35 minutes, 2.95 miles, 300+ calories burned. I was sweaty and tired and a little dizzy when I was done, which of course means it was awesome.

What is it about exercise that makes you forget how great it feels? It's the opposite of pregnancy amnesia; instead of conveniently glossing over the hard parts, you lose the memory of your positive experiences and focus only on the miserable.

It's not like I haven't buckled down on fitness before. In 2004, after two years of the working world's "ass in chair" lifestyle caught up to me, I found Weight Watchers and lost 17 pounds. In 2009 after back-to-back pregnancies, I hopped on the Jillian Michaels bandwagon and Shredded through 10 pounds of baby weight. When I was training for the Mini-Marathon a year later, I was out the door by 5:30 am two or three days a week to log miles on the treadmill and strength train. I'm embarrassed I let so much time pass before taking this first step, again.

But now is not the time for guilt trips. Every day is a chance to make smarter choices than yesterday. Better late than never.

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In other news that is life-changing only to me, last month I ditched my smartphone. For someone in marketing, this is a big deal.

It started when I changed jobs in September, moving from a position in corporate communications where I needed to have access to email 24/7, to a marketing role where media relations and crisis management weren't part of the equation. Since there was no longer a business need for my data plan, I toyed with the idea of downgrading, but I was quite happy tweeting and Facebooking on a whim, so I let it go all the way until Memorial Day weekend, when after weeks of rapidly declining battery health I was greeted with the red bar of death.

Luke and I are both eligible for phone upgrades, and it was tempting to chase after whatever hip new thing is taking the Droid fanbase by storm, but in the spirit of simplicity, I went the other way.

And I've got to tell you: Not having a smartphone is kind of a pain in the ass.

For one thing, since so many people have smartphones these days, people treat email like instant messaging and communicate information with the assumption that you're getting it in real time. For another, Twitter isn't as much fun when you're spot checking it a couple of times a day. How will I share the wisdom of Sheryl Sandberg's keynote at BlogHer without a smartphone? Lug around my work laptop? Take notes by hand?!

Luckily, there is an upside.

I used to spend the last 15 minutes of my night scrolling through Twitter and liking Facebook updates. I glanced at it during red lights and traffic jams. I kept it within arm's reach when reading to my kids. I didn't download games or apps (I'm still not sure what Angry Birds is all about), but it was still too much a part of my everyday life. Now it's exciting to check email again. My phone will stay in the same spot for hours and I won't look at it once. I'm not saying it's for everybody, but a partial respite from the Internet was definitely the right step for me.

Every street light a reminder

You all will be happy to know I've achieved a new milestone in my sporadic running career: logging miles in the dark.

This accomplishment was made possible by several factors:

• Renewed commitment to improving my post-partum physique; tires belong on cars, not around your waist, amiright?
• Lack of funds for a gym membership/access to a treadmill.
• Lack of funds for surgical reapirs, aka tummy tuck, and intense fear of additional work to my abdomen. Four surgeries in four years is quite enough, AM I RIGHT.

Pair those factors with the knowledge that the sun doesn't rise and set at my command, and there you go. Time to try something new.

Boy, was I in a slump this winter. After coming back from gallbladder surgery, I had little to no ambition for keeping up on my PT exercises or following my training program for the Mini, and it wasn't long before I was avoiding the stairs and wincing in pain during my 40-minute commutes to and from work. Meanwhile, I saw Facebook updates about the race and realized there was no way on God's green earth I was going to be in good enough shape to cover 13 miles in May - not without compromising the little progress I'd made thus far. I was pretty upset by everything and questioned whether running was a good fit for me after all.

Maybe my body's trying to tell me something, I thought. Maybe I've done all that I can do.

Then I picked up an issue of Runner's World and read about a formerly 800-pound man with one leg who qualified for Boston or similar beat-the-odds narrative. I slapped my palm to my forehead. Perspective, Frema. Point taken.

Shockingly, loving running, talking about running, and reading about running are fine and worthy activities, but if you want to actually make progress in your running, you have to run. You heard it here first!  

And that has always been my issue. With everything on my plate - career, husband, young children, budgeting, housekeeping, obsessive planning for the future - I have a terrible time ranking fitness and other "hobbies" a priority (see also: this blog). But as I remind myself time and time again, if I want my kids to grow up believing that exercise is a non-negotiable part of life, and FUN to boot, I have to adopt that same attitude. I also have to remember that I control my day and not vice versa.

I have plenty of time for the things that are important to me. Thank you, Gretchen Rubin, once again, for your simple yet powerful insights.

I am not the only wife, mother, and worker bee on the planet who is pressed for time. Plenty of others in my situation find a way to make running stick. Part of the problem is my tendency to impose arbitrary limits on myself. As in, no running during the kids' bedtime; if there are dishes in the sink; on days I work late; on days I'm late for work; when there's a phone call to return; without adequate daylight. Running is a treat, a reward, too enjoyable to be taken seriously when measured against other to-dos and therefore the first thing to be scratched off the list when it starts becoming unmanagable.

As long as my fitness routine is dependent on a perfect marriage of ifs, I will never get anywhere. I have to be willing to bend some the rules some of the time.

I also have to start over, without pressure to reach what I know is an unreachable goal.

Two Saturdays ago, I e-mailed the wellness director at work asking her to transfer my race registration.

Last Monday night, I set my alarm for 5 a.m., laid out my running gear, and sent what could have been my last few tweets into the universe.

...And success.

Again shockingly, there were no lust-hungry strangers poised to strike at me from behind the bushes, though I did nearly have a heart attack upon seeing a flash of orange streak by at a dimly lit intersection, with jagged movements not unlike the speedier zombies in Night of the Living Dead.

Fortunately, I also encountered non-zombies on the trail, both of them across the street from me, one carrying a flashlight, and watching that single beam dance along the pavement was oddly comforting. Whatever our stories, whatever our fears, we are all in this together.

Rolling away my stone

Let It Be Known that on February 24, 2012, Luke and I submitted a payment of almost five thousand dollars to our credit card company, leaving us with a double-digit balance for the first time since 2010. We celebrated with a cheap bottle of red and nineteen dollars' worth of steak and tortillas from Qdoba. Bring on the cookies, bag up those chips. We can afford it. (Today.)

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After four months of intermittent physical therapy, I can finally run with only minimal aches and pains. Did I ever give you the skinny on that whole thing? A PT evaluation in October confirmed my body was still a mess from my last c-section: severe diastasis at least three fingers wide, weak pelvis and lower abs, compression in the right knee between the kneecap and the femur. It was explained that my core was too weak to absorb the regular impact of running, so the full burden fell to my lower half, which promptly failed the task. PT exercises helped alleviate this until my gallbladder pulled a hissy fit on Thanksgiving, and it wasn't until my birthday I felt like anything close to normal. By then it was January and hello, Mini Marathon training!

It had been my plan to run this year's Mini since being pregnant with Liam, with goals of improving on my freshman effort and marking a return to the sport with a PR. At the start of training, though, I hadn't logged a mile since September.

Here is where I experienced my first lesson in Keeping It Real for 2012 and admitted I couldn't tackle the Mini quite the way I planned. Right now I'm following a run-walk schedule that exists only in my head, and it is this: Get outside three times a week. Run when I can, walk when there's pain, and don't feel guilty if I skip two weeks a day. Just keep on.

To date I'm at three miles, and the official training program hosted their 10K race last weekend. CAN WE SAY YIKES. Moving forward, it's probably best that I focus on races where training doesn't start in the dead of winter, especially when we're not in a financial position to take on a gym membership. But that's okay. The important thing is I'm moving again.

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My kids are growing up so fast. The toddlers are signed up for school in the fall - pre-K and preschool, respectively - and will take swim lessons this summer. They're also displaying an interest in learning how to read. How do you spell "snake," Mom? Daddy, how do you spell "airplane"? Kara holds ballet shows in our living room on a regular basis, inspired by Selena's and Olivia's enthusiasm, and will start her first dance class next month. There is constant chatter from her about turning five and going to kindergarten and next year can she please invite school friends to her birthday party and slow down, child, I'm not ready for this yet. Nathan is making steady progress on the potty-training front and adores all things trains and dinosaurs. Liam is cutting two bottom teeth and pulling up on everything in reach. He was baptised at our church, which we are quickly falling in love with, at the end of February. 

Such the little man.

Their relationship is every bit as adorable as you can imagine.

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I'm not sure how to navigate this new place I'm in, having recently resolved to let the dust settle from several years of activity instead of chasing The Next Big Thing. I've adopted four different life plans since the start of 2012, embracing then abandoning each one wholeheartedly when the sense of peace I waited for didn't come. Taking long-held dreams and examining them under a microscope, I'm faced with hard questions. How much of my goal setting has been driven by an attitude of laziness and a longing for easy? Am I allowing the bottles-and-diapers phase of parenting, which is unique and temporary, to misguide decision making related to the future? Have I been moving towards something or running away?

Then there is this: Who am I holding accountable for my long-term happiness, aside from myself? And where am I left if those people fall short? 

(Can you imagine living with this crazy on a daily basis? I assume Luke has your sympathy.)

I've made a lot of declarations the past couple of months - make that the last few years - about family and priorities and What Really Matters, and it's embarrassing to consider another direction now that the follow-through isn't meeting my expectations. Maybe it's the wrong time. Maybe I had the wrong dream. Maybe the alignment of the two already happened - right time, right dream - and I missed the window. No matter what the case, now I have to admit that it might be time to move on.

(Related food for thought: Linda's post on giving up a dream. Note my passionate monologue on plan one near the bottom. That Frema! So naive four weeks ago back then.)

Picture Linus from the Peanuts Gang being asked to give up his security blanket.

Lucky for me I don't need to act on anything today. Even luckier, there's plenty left to hold onto.

Tuck it in, tuck it in *(belly, not baby)

Six weeks and six days ago, I had a baby. Here he is.

The Beach Boys and hottie John Stamos aren't the only ones who want to go to Kokomo.

At six weeks and six days, Liam:

• Has been diagnosed with and declared healed from umbilical granuloma
• Indulges in self-torture by way of pulling his own hair
• Screams after said hair pulling but requires Momma to free him from his iron grip
• Smiles when you plant puckery kisses on his mouth
• Is drawn to light, especially when it's shining through half-closed blinds
• Cannot maintain a dry diaper for longer than eight seconds
• Is settling into a feeding pattern of four ounces every three hours and is already showing signs that he's ready to ditch his middle-of-the-night feeding
• Spent a half-hour awake and smiling in his cradle swing today. THIS IS HUGE.
• Has perfected several facial expressions, including Zoolander's Blue Steel
• Is already losing his hair. Maybe, son, it's because YOU'RE PULLING IT OUT BY THE ROOTS
• Will probably grow up answering to Luke's and my primary nickname of choice: Nathan

Harbored behind those bright blue eyes and chipmunk cheeks is an ocean of wisdom.

Meanwhile, this is me.

At six weeks and six days postpartum, I:

• Drink a lot of coffee, as evidenced by ninety percent of my Facebook posts
• Call milk and cookies my evening poison
• Sit almost five pounds under my pre-pregnancy weight, despite my brand loyalty to all things Oreo
• Lay claim to one (1) infection-free c-section scar
• Have hosted a lengthy visit from the nefarious Aunt Flo
• Heard the phrases "tummy tuck" and "plastic surgeon" uttered by my OB/GYN during last Thursday's postpartum follow-up
• Feel super awesome about this!

Let me explain.

Early on in my second trimester, I was diagnosed with having diastasis recti - the separation of your abdominal muscles into left and right halves. It felt like a pretty big deal at the time, as I cried out in pain whenever someone so much as brushed against my stomach, but by my third trimester, the discomfort was gone and I assumed I was out of the woods. Prior to my c-section, though, my OB/GYN promised to be mindful of my abdominal area and do what she could to tighten things up during surgery, if such tightening were necessary.

The first few weeks after Liam was born, I was in such hell from my c-section and then so focused on recovering that I didn't think much about the diastasis recti, until a fellow Hoosier blogger posted about her own dance with the condition. I wasn't feeling any of the pain Casey talked about, but my stomach protruded in a similar fashion, albeit saddled with eight extra tons of Frema flab. Now, I've never rocked a six-pack, or even a one-pack for that matter, but maybe at least some of the flab could be attributed to this? I decided to ask my doctor about it at my six-week check-up.

The exam itself went great. Incision healed, vitals normal, birth control taken care of (thanks again, honey), physical activity approved.... All good news. Then I brought up the diastasis recti and waited to hear the recommended course of treatment. Ab splint? Physical therapy? Whatever it is, I said, I would do it. Bring it on.

My OB/GYN was silent as she rested her hand slightly below my breasts.

(Get your mind out of the gutter, you.)

"There's still a slight separation I can feel right here," she explained, her hand still in place, "but most of what we're dealing with is stretched out skin."

Hmm. Not exactly the verdict I was hoping for. "Since I'm cleared for exercise, would that do anything for me?" 

She tilted her head as she considered the question. "It could help some, but typically excess skin, once it's there, doesn't go away without surgery."

Enter abdominoplasty/tummy tuck conversation here.

Before you start railing on my doctor, please note that she did not in any way, shape, or form suggest that I need to have this done. If you had been a fly on the wall for my entire check-up, it would have been obvious to you that the thought of carrying around this amount of skin for the rest of my life made me more than a little uncomfortable. She also went on to say that during my c-section, she added some extra stitches to tighten things up around my abdomen and pointed out that internally I am not completely healed. "It's too soon to make any decisions right now. See what you can do with diet and exercise, and after some time, if it still bothers you, I can give you a referral for a plastic surgeon, and you can schedule a consult to get more information."

So, there you have it. One more bullet point to add to my list of "Things I Used to Scoff At Before I Became a Mother."

Seriously, though, I'm not sure what to think. On one hand, even before having kids, I've always had a bit of a belly overhang that kept me from effortlessly shopping for clothes, being naked in front of other people, and having sex without feeling at least a little self-conscious. After Kara, that bit of overhang turned into a tire gut, and after Nathan, graduated to the dreaded "mother's apron" (a term I just today learned from Shape of a Mother, thank you very much), and now? Well, let's just say even the worst "Before" pictures on Wikipedia's abdominoplasty page don't do my midsection justice. Yet, all this time, I've never before entertained the idea of having it surgically removed. Girl power, love yourself and all that jazz. And now as a parent, in particular a mom to a daughter, I worry about the kind of message I would be sending about self-love and acceptance by submitting myself to unnecessary plastic surgery. How can I encourage Kara to embrace who she is, AS she is, if I'm having my own imperfections hacked off with a scalpel?

On the other hand, it's not as if I'm in danger of becoming the next Heidi Montag. Overall I quite like my body and thank God for all it's been able to do, including but not limited to carrying three healthy babies and running a half-marathon. I have no problems walking out of the house sans make-up, even to work, and I can take or leave coloring my hair. Getting a tummy tuck would be a specific answer to a specific problem that's frustrated me for years. And unless I changed my zero-tolerance policy on bikinis and tube tops, the only person besides me who would even notice the end result is Luke. Which is fine by me, since I would only be doing it for me.

As for Kara and the boys? Well, I may be relatively new to parenting, but even I know enough to appreciate that this one choice wouldn't negate years of consistent teaching and role modeling when it comes to loving yourself as you are. Plus, while I believe in the importance of self-acceptance, I also support making your own happiness and not closing a door out of fear for what others might think. 

On the other OTHER hand, cosmetic surgery is not something to be taken lightly, and after three c-sections, going under the knife a fourth time to basically improve my self-esteem hardly sounds appealing. Also, I'm nowhere near convinced that the benefits outweigh the risks when I've barely scratched the surface when it comes to improving my commitment to physical fitness. I may never eliminate my gut entirely that way, but who knows? I might come close, all on my own, and that may be enough.

Also, dudes. Tummy tucks? Not cheap.  Even if I was resigned to having it done, we couldn't afford it until Luke was back at work, which could be another five years away, and even then I'd have a hard time justifying the cost when the money could be deposited into one of our retirement accounts. 

Maybe one day Liam would take pity on me and HE'D pay for the surgery. We could call it the Mother's Day gift that keeps on giving. You think?

Luckily, this is not a decision I have to make (or can afford to make!) tomorrow. What I can do is run over to Wal-Mart, pick up a new Jillian Michaels video, and draw inspiration from one Marty McFly: "If you put your mind to it, you can accomplish anything."

Now for what YOU can do: Ripped in 30 or 6-Week Six-Pack?

* ETA because I didn't even think about the title indicating that this might be a sleep entry.

Pregnancy fitness fail

Today marks 20 weeks of pregnancy with Baby Brother 2.0, as well as the blessed more-than-halfway! milestone, since my c-section will be scheduled sometime prior to the 40-week point. As of 6:30 this morning, I'm still clocking in about two pounds lighter compared to when I first got knocked up, mainly because I could barely tolerate anything except fruit, yogurt, and the occasional bite of chicken for almost the entire first trimester and some change. Things are back to normal now, for the most part, so in the grand scheme of things what felt like Hell on Earth wasn't completely unbearable, and I know lots of pregnant women experience a far more severe case of morning sickness than I do, but dudes. For serious, I was so damn sick, and useless to my family, and overall just a big blob of miserable.

The blog title, it makes sense now, yes?

I had such high hopes for maintaining an active pregnancy right from the get-go. The week I found out, I was running along the Chicago lakeshore, and at around six weeks I finished a local 5K with only a handful of walking breaks. Running is the only form of exercise I have ever truly loved, and I fully intended to stick with it for as long as I was feeling able. Then, suddenly, BAM! Everything upset my stomach, I was nodding off by 8 p.m., and I was plagued with constant headaches. I couldn't gather the energy to wash dishes at the sink, let alone throw on my gym shoes and log three miles on the trail. And now, at the more-than-halfway! point, sporting a belly that has pretty much collapsed into gestational position and experiencing sciatic nerve episodes, abdominal tenderness, and semi-frequent aches and pains ("You talk like an 80-year-old grandma!" Samantha laughed during a recent phone conversation), I am pretty much thinking that running is off the table until after I deliver. I plan to start walking and hiking outside once the weather gets nicer, and my friend Jen shared with me a prenatal video that I want to try, but I'm still bummed I didn't feel up to doing more when my bodily functions weren't being compared to members of the geriatric population. Back in the fall, I read an article highlighting female athletes who continued running during their pregnancies, and my favorite of the bunch talked about how running eased a lot of the inital discomfort she dealt with in those first few months. I am so impressed with women who manage to do this; it's one thing to push through predictable motivational issues that apply to both sexes, but forcing your body to perform when you physically feel like ass thanks to a HUMAN LIFE feeding on you like a parasite? That is mind-boggling to me.

Not mind-boggling: why I will never be described as an elite anything when it comes to athletics.

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While my prenatal fitness thus far has been nothing to write home about, I'm super optimistic about what I can accomplish during the last six weeks of maternity leave. Delivering in late June means I should be cleared for exercise in early to mid-August; it'll be sweltering, for sure, and last year I learned that my body can't handle long distances in that kind of heat, but I'm already fantasizing about updating my iPod playlist and hitting the trail again, if only for two or three miles at a time. I also remember my initial success with The Shred after having Nathan (I'll take another ten pounds in 30 days, thankyouverymuch) and wonder if it's unreasonable to think I could achieve my third pre-pregnancy weight before returning to work in the fall.

It is not lost on me that at this time last year I was visiting the gym several days a week to train for the Mini, and mentally I'm salivating over capturing that spirit again, of feeling invincible and capable and strong. I watch Luke train for that same half-marathon and hate that I can't show up this year to improve my time. Patience, I tell myself, patience; pregnancy is an endurance race in and of itself, to be approached with the same level of respect to process and self. Once I cross this finish line, only then I can set my sights on another.

Or bust

I am no longer training for the Chicago Rock 'n Roll Half Marathon.

Despite the month-long inner turmoil I have been experiencing over this issue, in the end it was a pretty easy decision. My outside runs in the heat have been brutal, and finding motivation to hit the gym before work has been difficult; therefore, I can count on one finger hand the number of times I've hit my target mileage since starting in May. Not good when you're just aiming to FINISH a half, let alone improve your time.

Plus, the guilt I've experienced over missing these goals is drastically affecting my overall activity--as if strength training is only a reward to be earned through tempo runs and intervals. It's like I needed to abandon this race before granting myself permission to incorporate other types of exercise into my life.

Do me a favor and smack me in the face (live or via e-mail) if I ever contemplate running 13.1 miles in the summer again.

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It seems like I am constantly locked in battle with my best possible self, fitness-wise, trying to strike a healthy balance between how I want to look and what is realistically achievable. Pursuing aggressive goals without setting myself up for failure. Celebrating my progress without comparing it to others. I know it isn't just me, that lots of people have trouble maintaining their goal weight and a healthy body type, but come on now. I am 30 years old, not some in-the-dark teeny bopper who thinks she can eat a cheeseburger a day and not have it metabolize in her ass. I know that my physical AND mental health benefit when I take better care of myself. And yet, I am constantly surrendering to the same poor impulses, forever digging myself into the same proverbial hole.

And the older I get, the harder the battle. When losing weight in my early twenties, I was able to drop 17 pounds by just following Weight Watchers. There were a couple times where I pulled out my Richard Simmons videos, and Luke and I did the occasional hike on the weekends, but exercise wasn't a regular part of my day. Then I had kids, and everything changed. Even after hitting my pre-pregnancy weight last fall after months of careful eating, dedicated Shred workouts, and a semi-regular running schedule, my body was still different. The by-products of my crappy twenty-something choices were still there, only multipled (damn you, tire gut). Drastic changes to flaws I've been complaining about since high school will involve a higher level of dedication than, say, shredding a few times a week. Semi-related to this is the fact that I want to graduate beyond the point where I'm convincing myself to slip on my running shoes or pop in the Shred - rookie motivation problems that should no longer be an issue at this point in my life (HELLO YOU ARE A GROWN-UP JUST GET OFF YOUR ASS AND MOVE ALREADY). I'm tired of using excercise as a means to a tactical end - a way to drop weight, a method for improving balance or gaining strength. It's necessary right now since my body isn't as fit or capable as it could be, but one day I want to do these things just because I enjoy them. How funny that Linda just published a post on this very concept. Her "now" is my goal.

On the bright side, at least reaching that goal feels possible. Next month will mark my first running anniversary - the longest I've maintained any athletic endeavor - and I am so insanely proud of this words can't even express it. Despite a lack of speed, consistency, and flexibility, I can call myself a runner. If I can do that, I can do anything.

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I've been pecking away at this post on and off for more than a week now, and frankly the original point is lost on me. It's not about dropping out of Chicago or chasing down the body I had at 23. It's just that I feel like I'm thisclose to nipping this thing in the bud, this one-step-forward, two-steps-back mentality that zaps my enthusiasm for wellness and short changes my total potential. It doesn't help that my world feels so small lately, so self-absorbed with short-term goals and material objectives (buy a toddler bed replace our kitchen table fix the floor boards the fridge is on its last leg ahhh), and now that Kara and Nathan are older and our family more grounded, it's becoming more important to me to leave a bigger mark on the world, to contribute in a way that lightens somebody's load and benefits society as a whole. There are certainly more important issues to focus on than the size of my waistline. Believe me, I know this. But right now, that has to be a priority, too.

Part of accomplishing this, I think, is working with my reality and not against it. For example:

The earliest I can get out of bed to exercise is a quarter to six. Not 5:15, not 5:32, not 5:40. Blame it on laziness, insanely late bedtimes, the rain, whatever. Either way, I need to acknowledge this truth and plan accordingly (i.e. no five-mile runs before dawn).

Commuting to the gym does not work long term. Sure, I managed to stay on task during most of my training for the Mini, diligently rolling out of bed half-awake two to four times a week to make the twenty-minute drive, but when motivation is at an all-time low, even the thought of packing a locker room bag is reason enough to scrap a workout completely. Plus, I hate starting my days without seeing Luke or the kids, and when I go to the gym, that's exactly what happens.

Luckily, there is a solution, in the form of a YMCA-like facility within walking distance of my house that has a decent enough fitness center, evening classes that mesh perfectly with bedtime, and reasonable membership rates to boot. Luke and I never explored this option before because he wasn't interested in hitting the machines, so it was easy enough for me to just go with my employer's "in-network" option, which is actually the higher quality gym, and suck up the drive. Now that Luke's been running again, he's more open to strength training and cross, so now it makes sense to go with something that accommodates our entire family. And no driving for me + free childcare for Luke = win-win all around. We'll sign up first thing next month, and I can't wait.

Working out after bedtime is the exception, not the rule, and never to be counted on, no matter how appealing it seems at the time. The longer I have to postpone a workout, the less likely it is to happen. (Running dates with friends aside, of course.)

Willpower is good, but abstinence is better. It's much harder to avoid eating the ice cream in your freezer than it is to refrain from buying it at all.

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Okay, seriously, enough navel-gazing already. To make up for the lack of cohesion in this post, here are shots of my kids from two weeks ago, at a park you've never heard of, where we hung out with people you don't know. Enjoy.

Bird-watching at the park's nature center.

Momma: "Kara, can you see anything?"

Kara (Enthusiastically): "No!"

 

Father and son on the move.

 

Stair-climbing to a lookout point.

 

Girl power at its finest, with friends from our Rensselaer days.

 

It all really boils down to this, doesn't it?

Screw perspective.

I want to run the Mini.

This revelation came to me last Wednesday during a ninety-minute consultation with a physical therapist, who diagnosed my knee problems as patellofemoral pain syndrome resulting from overtraining (too much speed, not enough rest) and switching into a shoe with too much pronation (mid-training, bad Frema!), which threw off my biomechanics and brought my kneecaps out of alignment. So, a little more complicated than just inflammation.

I went into my PT appointment with the same C'est la vie attitude I wrote about last time: There will be plenty more races in the future, missing this one won't be the end of the world, no use pushing myself to achieve a potentially unreachable goal. I was patting myself on the back for being so zen-like and reasonable and not assigning more value to the Mini than it actually deserved.

Then I learned that my physical therapist was a runner. And a parent. Who was also training for the Mini.

Being in front of somebody who knows where I'm coming from on a primal level made it almost therapeutic to talk about my struggles and challenges with training--balancing runs with work and home life, playing catch-up when building mileage defers to marketing deadlines and sick children--that it also reignited my passion. Somewhere between the flexibility tests, strengthening exercises, and random shop talk, I knew that I wanted to see this thing through. Of course I do. It's one of my biggest personal goals for 2010. I've worked so hard already, and in the hands of a healthcare professional more appropriately trained to help me with my problems, I could sense it was reachable. After all, the official goal has always been to simply complete the race. How I accomplish that (run-walk combo? baby-crawl to the finish line?) is up to hard work and fate.

Luckily, after a couple of visits and reviewing my progress, my PT agreed with me.

My first set of instructions were to tape both knees during the day to alleviate discomfort, do some exercises at home to build strength, and bike when possible until I could walk without pain (I think I did that once; cycling is boring at the gym). Once I could walk without pain, then it was time to run. SLOW running, he warned, since overexertion is one of the main reasons I got hurt in the first place, and short distances (no more than three miles), with plenty of walking breaks as necessary (another thing I was called to the carpet for--running through pain). I also have strict orders not to schedule my runs back-to-back; there has to be at least one rest day in between.

In the last week and a half I have been to three PT appointments and seen tremendous improvement. The gazillion exercises are annoying to keep track of, and I'm still not good at sticking to a running schedule, but pain is rare these days, with the primary sources being driving (bent knees in a fixed position) or standing in one place for long periods of time.

Because I've been feeling so much better, I broke the tape rule on Tuesday night when a hellish evening with the kids drove me out the front door the minute bedtime was done, because by then it was already dark and I didn't want to wait one second longer than necessary to hit the road, let alone the five to seven minutes it would have taken for me to properly apply the tape. The during part was okay--three miles, handful of walking breaks, 11.5-minute pace (if that, no Garmin to measure my stride)--but by the time I was sitting on my couch to catch the latest episode of LOST (fellow Losties: !), it felt like "shock waves" were running from my knees straight to my toes. I don't know how else to describe it except that it wasn't painful and 20 minutes of ice and elevation fixed the problem completely.

Needless to say I'll be wearing the tape for my next run.

That run should have happened last night, but even with this abbreviated schedule, training is getting tricky to coordinate. For example, on Monday Keith and I agreed that I would do short runs of three to four miles on Tuesday and Thursday and one long run of six to eight miles on Saturday. Reasonable mileage, adequate rest. Perfect, except on Thursday I came home late from work and Luke and the kids had been cooped up in the house all day and the weather was so gorgeous that we went for an after-dinner walk, which threw off bedtime by almost an hour, which threw off the rest of the night. Now I have to get my run in today and move my long run to Sunday, but that's going to throw off next week because I'm out two days for a sales meeting and there's a 5K walk we're doing for work and...

You see how I got into trouble, yes?

It would be so much easier if I didn't like running. It's time-consuming, unpredictable, hard. It pulls me away from my family, challenges my comfort zone (cross-training with free weights, hold me), and drives me to salivate over expensive gear. It seduces me into setting goals I might have no business contemplating--a marathon, maybe even an ultra-marathan, good Lord, am I crazy? I don't even know how many miles make up an ultra-marathon.

But for the peace of mind I experience while trotting along my trail, for the sense of accomplishment I feel when I hit my goal mileage, for the healthy example I'm setting for my children, is it ever worth it.

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Speaking of family, it's been a while since I posted any mugs of the Frema-Useless Clutter clan. Here we are, in the flesh.

My two favorite boys, with Nathan looking so very much like his daddy.

 

Kara enjoying tulips at the Indianapolis Gardens.

 

Nathan showing off his mad utensil skillz.

 

Are these kids shedding their baby skins or what? I swear they were babies, just yesterday. 

To Mini or Not to Mini?

That is the question, as it's been two weeks since my last run due to intermittent pain in my knees that will not go away, even with medication.

The problems started last month sometime after my weekend mileage went beyond the seven-mile mark. While soreness in my knees and ankles isn't uncommon for me after a long run, it usually resides after two or three days and I can continue with training as scheduled. But at one point it just...stopped going away. Not frequent enough or severe enough to interfere with my day to day, but even after a self-imposed running break, the occasional ibuprofen, and applying ice packs to both knees every night before bed for almost a week, the alternating feelings of pressure, tightness, and discomfort still persisted, so last Friday I finally caved and paid a visit to my primary care physician. She diagnosed the problem as fluid in my knees/inflammation due to overuse and recommended naproxen along with a continued break from running for seven to ten days to get me back on my feet. Well, it's been 17 days since my last run, and today is my tenth day on the naproxen, and nothing has improved; if anything, the pain is more noticeable than ever (though still not continuous). I've already scheduled a follow-up with my doctor to discuss next steps, which will most likely involve a referral to a physical therapist for a more thorough work-up.

All of this non-running just four weeks before the Mini Marathon begs the question: have I totally screwed my chances of participating in this race? Because even if I'm cleared to run in the next few days, I'm not sure that the training I do from here on out can make up for such a lengthy hiatus. Then again, maybe it's just a matter of readjusting my goals. As in, maybe running all thirteen miles is no longer realistic, but with frequent walking breaks, I could still complete the race without further injury.

Running this half-marathon has meant so much to me recently that I feel like I should be more disappointed about potentially missing it, but honestly, it's not the crushing blow I once imagined it to be. Competition or not, the time I spent training brought me back to my pre-pregnancy weight and provided a more structured approach to exercise and fitness. Plus, I want to be a runner for the long haul, not just for this race, and there are a bazillion other halfs I can do once my body is fully ready. No need to mope over this one.

In fact, in hindsight, I wonder if I had any business attempting this race at all, being such a new runner. Most of what I've read has suggested logging 20 to 25 miles a week before committing to such an ambitious undertaking as a half, and at the time I registered, I was barely in the double digits (if that). Not to mention that finding the time to train has been hard, really hard, which is partly the reason I got injured in the first place--constantly falling off-schedule, then scrambling to make up for it by sacrificing my rest days. Not the smartest way to cultivate a life-long habit or preserve any level of motivation.

So, I will see the doctor again, and I will follow her orders, and I will do what I can to get myself completely healed and back on track. But I will also gaze longingly at the runners I spot on the trail as the weather climbs into the seventies. This is my time. This is my sport. And I will get back to it.

Shower the people you love with a long, boring story about locker room politics

Before I left for an overnight business trip to Tampa two weeks ago, I signed up for a gym membership through work with the rationale that the minute I returned I would dive headfirst into pre-training for the Mini. My plan for the next few weeks involves experimenting with all the different aspects of training to smooth out out any potential kinks, everything from keeping pace on a treadmill to defining "cross-training" within the running community. Come the third week in January, I want all of my fears surrounding the logistical aspects of training to be laid to rest so that I'm not thrown off-track by something like operating equipment at the gym. No anxiety over the unfamiliar, no distractions, just me concentrating on my goal.

Except that I never actually made it to the gym. Of course, there was always a perfectly valid reason not to go: waking up late, errands after work, Christmas shopping to do, blah blah blah. Then last night I realized that hey! All these excuses aren't doing my training (or my waistline) any favors. Throw into the mix that I'm standing up in a wedding in September and shopping for bridesmaids dresses commences in four short weeks, and voila! Instant mental kick in the pants.

So on Sunday night I decided that this was the week to get the proverbial ball rolling. Despite the upcoming holiday and consequent onslaught of goodies sure to blanket every surface of my office (who recommits to health and fitness BEFORE the New Year?), despite hosting my sister's family the previous weekend, despite getting under the covers at a quarter to one. This was the week. Monday was the day.

When I set my alarm for just four hours later, though, I had my doubts. Luke was also concerned.

"Maybe you should just push it off until after work," he said. "I can take care of the kids through dinner and even do bedtime."

It was tempting, but too late. My work clothes and shower gear had been stuffed into a backpack. Lunch was made. The iPod was loaded. A padlock had been located for securing my cubby in the locker room. I'd even outlined a brief schedule to account for every major chunk of time between leaving the house and arriving at my office. An extra twenty minutes of sleep after all that careful planning wouldn't add enough to my day to justify skipping the workout, I reasoned. More importantly, the longer I waited to get to the gym, the less likely I was to follow through.

"I'll set the alarm and see what happens," I said. "If I'm too tired, I'll wait. But at least I want to try."

And I did try, first at 4:40 a.m. when my alarm started beeping, then again at five. I felt Luke's warm body next me, sensed the presence of Kara's feet near my hips, and thought how nice it would be to cuddle as a family a little while longer. But I got up, anyway, and thirty minutes after my feet left the mattress, I was following a 5K loop on the treadmill. I ran 3.1 miles in under 35 minutes, gave myself a hearty pat on the back, and made my way down to the locker room, where I would shower and get ready for work.

This is where things get interesting.

Now, I don't consider myself a prude by any means, but when it comes to getting dressed in front of people who either a) don't share my DNA or b) didn't contribute to the conception of my children, I'm a little shy. Love handles, tire gut, back fat--these are parts of my body I'm not exactly excited to show the rest of the world; in fact, I prefer taking any steps necessary (short of surgery) to give society the faulty impression that I am absent of any of these physical flaws. I don't wear bikinis or low-rise jeans, and unless it's a ring-collar tee-shirt, I never wear a top without sporting a control-top shaper underneath. An argument could be made, I suppose, that I should be happy with my body as is and that hiding my natural shape is a slap in the face to women's lib, but ladies, there's nothing natural about my back fat. Not when it consists of french fries, cheeseburgers, and ice cream, and certainly not when, with a moderate dose of healthy eating and exercise, I can make it disappear. Which I totally plan to do. It's just taking some time.

(Plus, my high school may be the only one in North America where showering after gym class wasn't required. There were showers for that purpose, yes, but the instructor always ended class a few minutes before the bell, so there wasn't enough time to clean up without being late for your next class, and washing the stench from your arm pits wasn't a valid excuse for tardiness. And in going to the gym as an adult in years past, I either went after quitting time or, if it was in the morning, went back home to get ready for work. Granted, I did go back and forth from my dorm room to the community showers on my floor wearing only a towel, but I was 18 then, and too blissfully young to be appropriately insecure.)

Anyway, where was I? The locker room. Right. Long story short, I am not a fan of changing in the locker room. But the gym is closer to my job than it is to my house, so overall, getting dressed there is definitely the best solution.

It was around six-thirty that I started pulling out my shower things, and overall activity at the gym was still pretty low. Still, I debated the best plan of action for even getting to the shower. Should I strip down now and just wear my towel or walk over in my sweaty running clothes and strip inside the stall? In the end, I stripped in the stall because the idea of soaking my clean towel with perspiration just didn't seem right to me.

The actual shower was uneventful, even pleasant because the water pressure was good and there weren't any children trying to climb their way in (though I did make a note to purchase some cheapie rubber flip-flops because the ones I had on featured cloth lining and probably weren't intended for full-on H2O immersion). Once I was all cleaned up, I wrapped my towel around my chest, grabbed my clothes from off the floor, and made my way back to my locker, where business casual attire and my trusty black shaper awaited.

At first I was the only woman there, but the thought that somebody could join me any minute kept me from ever letting my guard down. I cursed the length of my towel as it constantly slipped from my grasp, holding it in place with my chin as I slipped on my underwear, then cinching it around my waist by leaning into my backpack so I could quickly fasten my bra. It wasn't until my pants were on and the shaper was in place that I could fully relax and go through the rest of my routine without feeling so self-conscious. And even then I was on edge, as I kept dashing back and forth between my locker and the sink to retrieve my moisturizer, Q Tips, and hair spray.

The more times I do this, going to the gym before work, the more natural it will become, and I won't always care about another female catching an eyeful of thigh. I know this. That's why I'm in pre-training now, so that I can overcome my silly inhibitions and fears before they have a chance to negatively impact my regimen. I've run on a trail and in my neighorbood, in rain, shine, and below-freezing temperatures. I've run on a treadmill. I signed up for a gym and got my first time out of the way, and I'll get a tour of the equipment this Saturday. I earned a $50 gift card to Dick's Sporting Goods for my level of participation (four to five events) in my company's racing circuit, so I'll be getting better workout clothes. And soon I'll have a training program. The pieces are falling into place. It won't be long before they're all working together.

Fireside chat, Internet-style

I think my children are trying to kill me.

For the entire month of October, it seemed, Luke and I were staring into the pit of hell. We slept in couple-hour patches as Kara and Nathan found various reasons to cry their bloody heads off in the middle of the night. Kara was sick three times, the most recent ailment rearing its ugly head over Halloween weekend in the middle of hosting Nathan's baptism. It was especially scary because her highest temperature clocked in over 105 degrees, and she felt so hot I swear I could have fried an egg on her forehead. We debated taking her to an urgent care center or ER but decided the drawbacks of being stuck in a waiting room with the possibility of receiving zero guidance in terms of treatment outweighed any possible benefit. Instead, we made an appointment with our pediatrician for Monday afternoon, where I was privy to the joyous experience of observing my toddler daughter's catheterization to make sure her recurring fever wasn't a symptom of a raging bladder infection. Her culture came back negative for a UTI, so apparently it was just another virus doing a number on her immume system.

So that's (mostly) why I've been MIA 'round these parts, what with the crying from all four of us and no sleep and taking off work to keep a cold washcloth on her face while ingesting hours of Max and Ruby episodes with the occasional Little Bear. As a result, there's a week and a half of unwatched All My Children episodes on the DVR and two layers of dust on this here blog. The hodge podge of images in this entry were uploaded and saved in draft form more than two weeks ago, with the intention of publishing them shortly after my last post. This means you're getting up-to-date content married with outdated photography, which was slightly outdated to begin with. But you're a go-with-the-flow type bunch. You can handle it.

 

Kara, Nathan, and me in the dolphin dome at the Indianapolis Zoo in September. Ah, memories of healthier days.

Let's transition from talk of sick children to my biggest piece of news, an idea that has consumed the majority of my non-parenting-related thoughts almost the entire time I've been away. You know that whole "half-marathon next fall" plan I came up with after my first 5K? Deliberately shelving it until next October so I would have plenty of time to train without overexerting myself? Yeah, well, I've since decided that moderation is for the birds. Not only have I upgraded my registration in the Indianapolis Mini-Marathon from a 5K to the real deal, I also signed up for all three training races that take place beforehand--a 5K in February, 10K in March, and 15K in April--as tangible motivators along the path to race day, set for Saturday, May 8, 2010. According to the Web site, "The Mini-Marathon is the largest half-marathon in the U.S., and overall, the fifth largest running event in America. The 2009 event sold out on December 26, 2008."

And I'm going to be part of it.

When I first learned about the Mini through work (God bless my employer for covering registration fees to such things), I was perfectly happy with running the 5K and absolutely terrified of committing to anything more strenuous than that. I'm new to running and swamped with responsibilities at home and still spotty when it comes to hitting the pavement on a regular basis. Of course I needed more time, right? Surely there were more appropriate endeavors to consider before taking on a lofty pipe dream. Not to mention that it's already November and the race is in the spring and how in the world am I going to train when the sun sets by five and there's snow and ice beneath my feet? It's not like I have a treadmill at home or free time to hit the gym.

So I went for the 5K, and encouraged Luke to do it, too, and that was that. End of story.

Luke and the kids in front of the elephants, Kara doing her best imitation of a stageshow diva.

Except that it wasn't the end. Suddenly I couldn't go a day without learning about somebody finishing their first half-marathon or training for that half-marathon or taking on a half-marathon in New Orleans four months from now or an entire group training for the race together. Marry that with the knowledge that a local blogger was willing to run the race with me, and my coffin was sealed. Suddenly I went from "Oh, HELL, no," to "Why the hell not?"

I've got some programs to review and some races to run before the end of the year, and in January I'll start training hardcore. I have no goals in regards to performance or rank or how much to run and how much to walk, and I still don't know where I'm going to find all this time to train. All I know is that I want to do this. So I will.

These years with young children and modest earnings are full of joy but also limitations. Luke and I won't be tackling an overseas trip anytime soon. We have at least five years before we can think about moving into a nicer house or investing in a better family car, and I don't have the intellectual gumption to focus on learning another language or picking up another degree, despite their attractiveness on my dream list. But completing a half-marathon? That's attainable now. I can run on the trail in my neighborhood or on the streets within my subdivision. I can take advantage of the free gym membership I'm offered at work and come up with a schedule to get myself there. I can train in ratty old tee-shirts and pants or I can pick up some gear from Target. I can change my eating habits. I can cross-train at home with The 30 Day Shred and other videos. I may not win this race, but I can definitely finish it. Is there a better way to celebrate your thirtieth year on Earth?

 

Nathan and I at the White River Gardens, adjacent to the zoo. He's excited about the race, too.

Last week, for the first time since before Kara was born, I clocked in below 140 pounds on the scale. This monumental achievement happened mostly by accident--when Kara got sick this last time I was too busy freaking out to remember to eat three meals a day--so when I weighed myself last Monday and the second number held steady at three, I was like, "Huh. Whadda know," and didn't think much of it. I figured it wouldn't last. Eating and running well enough to stay below 143 pounds is easy; it's pushing myself over the hump to shed another eight to ten pounds that seems impossible. But as of this morning I weighed in at 139.2, so maybe it's not a fluke. My current pair of jeans--size-fourteen, Old Navy jeans that were originally purchased after Kara was born, post-partum transitional jeans that I couldn't button without gasping out loud yet still had to wear to have lunch with my boss the week before I went back to work in March--are distastefully too big. I can put them on and take them off without undoing the button while the butt cheeks sag and reveal the waistband of my underwear when I bend over, so maybe it's not a fluke. There is still Halloween candy in my house a full week after Halloween.

So maybe, just maybe, it's not a fluke after all.

 

Luke and Kara at White River Gardens, admiring some lily pads.

One of my big projects for work last week was to itemize my budget for 2010, and one of the most notable changes from last year is the increased focus on travel. The second half of 2009 has me reaching into different sales territories for field visits and presentations, and that will continue next year, in addition to attending some conferences for my industry and for professional development purposes. Ninety-nine percent of them will be short overnights not requiring even a full day away from home, and I actually enjoy getting out into the field and learning more about what we do, not to mention being able to indulge in a book for hours at a time while I'm waiting at the airport/in flight/passing time at my hotel. Still, though, the thought of missing bedtime even one night a month (roughly) makes me a little sad. I went to Chicago this weekend with Nathan to visit with my sister Ryan, who was in from Germany, while Luke stayed home with Kara since she was so recently sick and also not sleeping well. And even though I had a blast with my family and enjoyed the extra one-on-one with my son, who turned out to be quite the easy travel companion, part of me felt so off because Luke and Kara weren't with us. I never realized how dependent my own personal balance is upon simply having the four of us together.

Kara and I looking for airplanes during one of our after-dinner walks.

That said, I think a key component of 2010 will be placing a stronger emphasis on Luke and I spending more time together as a couple outside of being Mom and Dad. A lack of family nearby and a very tight budget means we haven't solicited baby-sitters unless there's an evening work function I need to attend (awards dinner) or the occasional non-work-related event that doesn't allow for children (Billy Joel/Elton John concert in May, Tori Amos concert in August). And frankly, I am starting to feel the effects. I miss my husband. I want us to spend time together outside of watching Man vs. Food while we fold a load of towels in our pajamas. I want to go out with him wearing boot-cut jeans that fit my ass properly and a little eye shadow and talk over a nice steak and see a movie. Hell, at this point, I'll take sporty sneakers and soup and sandwiches at Panera. I just want us to have the occasional luxury of just paying attention to each other.

Of course, to make this happen, we need a baby-sitter we trust completely who won't charge us an arm and a leg to watch our children, and I still get weirded out at the idea of bringing a stranger into my house. However, the longer we go without spending any real quality time together, the closer I get to believing even that option isn't unthinkable. There are coworkers I know and trust who are willing to do this for us, but they live on the other side of town and, well, they're ADULTS, not twenty-year-olds looking to score extra money for gas or the junior prom. It's hard to muster up the courage to take them up on their generosity, as if they have nothing better to do than keep an eye on kids they aren't even related to. If only we had family nearby to hit up once and a while. If only we lived closer to where they are. But right now, we are here, and we need to embrace it, and I need to stop being afraid of what other people think and start doing whatever is necessity for my family to live a life full of color. And right now? That means finding a baby-sitter.

We have been making an effort to attend church more regularly, and my hope is to find someone there who takes to my kids instantly and is looking to sit at least one night a month. That's not so much to ask, is it? My marriage is worth at least that, right? (God, I'm looking at you. Hook a daughter up.)

Luke and the kids on the way to our walking trail.

There are so many posts brewing inside of me--a nine-month update for Nathan, Christmas shopping, ramblings about my house, more reflections on family planning and life with two children--but on my lunch hour I'm more inclined to click through my blogroll than hammer out a substantial thought track, and when I get home my top priority is to throw on my running clothes, stretch, and get out the door as soon as possible (and it still only happens twice a week!). Then it's bedtime and dishes and tallying receipts and comforting a child who is sick/teething/wet/poopy/determined to see that Luke and I sleep no more than five or six hours a night. I know it'll get easier, but I find myself growing impatient with the timeframe. Will I ever again blog with any sort of consistency, or will it always be feast or famine? Will the puzzle pieces ever just fall into place, or will I always have to work this hard to score any time with myself/my husband/my friends/hobbies, etc. etc.?

 

Don't ask this guy. He's one of them. 

5K Race Day, Part Two

Read part one here.

While flipping through Luke's (most likely outdated) copy of The Everything Running Book, I was informed that I should set three goals for my 5K: one that was easily attainable, one that was difficult but realistic, and one that was significantly more challenging--more of a stretch goal. So I followed instructions like a good little runner and set three goals.

1. Easily attainable: Finish the 5K

2. Difficult but realistic: Run the entire time; no walking breaks

3. Significantly more challenging: Finish the race in under 35 minutes

The rationale behind setting these goals was threefold. First, seeing as I'm young and in good health, I couldn't think of a single reasonable excuse (aside from injury, of course) for not staying on course and (eventually) crossing the finish line. Second, while many runners take walking breaks during races, I believed that for the amount of training I'd completed in the last seven weeks, I was sufficiently prepared to maintain some semblance of a jogger's pace the whole time. Which, in the interest of keeping it real, probably comprises the bulk of my running experience. Third, I remembered Linda's account of her first 5K and reading that she finished her race in 34 minutes (and some change), and if she could do it, why not me? Never mind that she frequents the gym and works with a personal trainer and recently completed her first triathlon. Forget that I never averaged less than twelve minutes a mile in my training sessions. I figured the adrenaline rush I'd get on race day would be enough to bridge the gap between my average and my goal. Plus, I am woman, hear me roar and all that.

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The front runners take off immediately, and the middle of the pack follows suit. It is only a few seconds later that my feet start moving while my eyes scan the crowd for signs of Luke and the kids, my left hand clutching my iPod Shuffle, my index finger still fumbling with the buttons to activate my playlist. More seconds pass as I strain to hear the opening bars of Grover Washington's "Just the Two of Us" over the mass of people pounding the pavement around me, but nothing. I begin to panic. What if the battery is dead? What if I'm resigned to run the full three miles with nary a diddy to be heard? I've run without music before, but it's been several weeks and I'm worried that I won't be able to pace myself without it. I turn the volume up and hit the back button to the last song on my Shuffle, wondering if maybe the song's first few notes are too soft to pick up with all this noise. Sure enough, Rusted Root's "Martyr" pours into my ear drums as I simultaneously breathe a sigh of relief. I skip back to Grover Washington and allow the calm of the music to filter through my body, warning my feet to start slowly, friends, slowly, so that we may finish strong.

We start in the middle of the street adjacent to the outdoor track-and-field complex belonging to one of the local universities, and the course involves running uphill, crossing a bridge, and weaving through several downtown blocks, normally bustling but peacefully quiet on this weekend Saturday morning. As we break off into groups, the stronger runners picking up speed and the novices falling behind, I say a prayer of thanks for the trail that runs behind our subdivision and continues through several area parks; if I had trained on a treadmill, I'm convinced that the steepness of the hill and the uneven distribution of cement on the road would do a number on my ankles.

It's surprisingly difficult not to sprint ahead with the best of the runners. Here it is, race day, and I'm doing it! I'm running! This is easy! But I heed the voice inside my head reminding me that we haven't even finished half a mile, that three miles will be the longest I've run in my whole life, ever, and my pace isn't anything to write home about just yet. So I do my best to focus on the music, time my breathing, and avoid paying too much attention to those who are passing me by. A woman pushing a baby in a jogging stroller comes from behind and continues on with her bad-ass, super-momma self. Steady, Frema, steady. I'm eating the dust of a mother-effing WALKER, for crying out loud. Pay them no mind, Frema. Move along. The Indigo Girls' "Least Complicated" is on now. In training, this is the point where I would pick up the pace, aiming to reach a mile before the end of the song in order to clock a twelve-minute average.

And what do you know. Here comes mile one.

I check the face of my cell phone for the time. 9:12 a.m.

We've crossed the bridge, and there's a big sign, clearly marked, with several volunteers cheering us on. Encouraged, I pick up speed and continue on my way; a couple of minutes later, the opening bars to "Martyr," a song I love more for the beat than the lyrics, hits my iPod a second time. And I keep running.

We're weaving through side streets, running next to parked cars and pedestrians fiddling with their keys. I briefly wonder if any of them are runners who dropped out, but I decide it would have taken too much effort and planning for them to park their vehicles this far away from the starting line on the off chance they chose not to finish. I pass a water station and grab a little paper cup, allowing myself two small gulps and swallowing them with my next couple of inhales. When walking 5Ks, I've tsk-tsked the runners who threw their cups onto the ground, like, Didn't your mother teach you better?, but faced with the choice myself, the idea of running with a crumpled piece of tree in my hand isn't so appealing, so I toss it to the curb (That's what volunteers are for, right?), apologize to my mother for the blatant disregard of good manners, and keep on running.

I can't stop looking around me to measure my progress against the rest of the group. When I first approached the bridge, I remember gasping a little when I saw that the front runners were directly across the way. Now they are nowhere in sight; the crowd behind me is small. Not too far behind them are the walkers. There are runners walking, too. But I keep on running, downhill now, back towards the track-and-field complex.

Here comes mile two. The volunteers are happy to see me. I smile and wave, check the time. 9:24 a.m.

I can do this.

The closer we get to the complex, the more excited I get. I'm not running very fast, still keeping to the light jogging pace that saw me through ninety-eight percent of my training. Liz Phair is on now, a song from her self-titled album, and adds a little spring to my step. There's a grandmotherly-type woman sitting on the curb before I reach the complex, a young girl sitting beside her, and they both clap and cheer as I pass them. I see runners ahead of me pouring through the entrance and think the end is near. A few steps later, though, I realize the course is not ushering us in. Instead, it continues past the complex for several more blocks before winding around and directing us back to campus. My legs are heavy now, and my mind is tired at the idea of running away from the gate only to go back. But I keep on running.

I see one of our corporate officers, a seasoned runner and long-time triathlon enthusiast, securing a spot inside the complex. We lock eyes, smile, and wave. As I approach the cones that direct us to turn around, I find more of my coworkers; one ahead, a few behind. We're happy to see each other. We all keep running.

I'm running uphill again, and I've started searching again for Luke and the kids. I'm forcing myself not to slow down. I don't want to drag this out. I'm ready for this race to be over, but in this moment, I can't run any faster, and I can't walk now, not when I'm so close to achieving my goal.

But suddenly, amazingly, the gate is in front of me--surrounding me--behind me. I can see the finish line. As I sprint towards the huge digital clock fastened to the archway, I notice that we're in minute thirty-five. My boss and her husband are standing on the sidelines, and she's whooping it up for me, shouting "Go, Bree, go!" Rusted Root is on again deliberately, to give me one last extra push. The announcer declares that another employee from my company has just entered the track. That employee is me! I can't stop smiling.

And I run like hell.

My legs are flying, my arms are pumping, and I'm huffing and puffing my way to the arch until the clock is right above me. It's minute thirty-six now, and the seconds are flying away. I'm not sure at which point the electronic chip attached to my left shoe is officially registered, but it doesn't matter because now I'm on the other side, where runners are recycling their chips, eating bananas, and rehydrating with bottles of water.

Official time: 36:15:1, placing me 627 out of the 696 runners in my division (females aged 25 through 29).

Average pace: 11 minutes and 40 seconds per mile.

Boo-fucking-yeah.

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It wasn't until afterwards that I found Luke and the kids. He had trouble getting everyone out the door and didn't even reach campus until a couple of minutes after I finished the race. He felt terrible, but it worked out for the best because he didn't have to occupy them on his own for the thirty-six-plus minutes I was en route. We stuck around to watch my coworkers participate in the tug-of-war competition and walked around downtown for a bit before heading home.

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Because Liz asked, here's the playlist I used for the 5K. It's part-granny, part-Rocky, at least for me.

Frema's 5K Playlist

"Just the Two of Us" - Grover Washington (Reminds me to start slow and tortoise-like.)

"Say That You Love Me" - Fleetwood Mac (For some reason, the opening notes remind me of when Forrest Gump started his cross-country run. Yes, another Forrest Gump reference!)

"The Real World" - Matchbox 20 (I remember our VP/COO once saying that he ran to this song because it reminded him of college and made him feel young. I was a junior in high school when I bought the CD, so now it makes me feel young, too. Not that I'm old. Life begins at 30 29.)

"Least Complicated" - Indigo Girls (The music inspires a fierce, Rocky Balboa-ish attitude.)

"Martyr" - Rusted Root (Insert Rockygasm here.)

"American Girl" - Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers (Very suburbanite, I know.)

"Back and Forth" - Aaliyah (Brings me back to a more subdued pace so I can rest. From white bread to flava!)

"It's Sweet" - Liz Phair (To pump me up again; in training I tried "Jealousy," one of my favorite songs ever from her, but it was too fast and I couldn't focus.)

"Least Complicated" again (To inspire me near the end of the race)

"Martyr" again (For the win)

It's important to note that had iTunes not acted like a total douchebag the night before, the playlist would have included a few more songs just in case it took longer than anticipated to finish the race. "Rain King" by the Counting Crows, "Fighting for My Love" by Nil Lara (thank you, second season of Scrubs, for introducing me to that one), and JT's "SexyBack" were all denied access to my iPod, even though two of them were on there the week before. WTF, Apple?

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So, there it is. My first 5K, with two out of three goals realized and the third not entirely out of reach. Obviously, there's endless room for improvement, but overall I'm proud of my performance and look forward to improving it the next time around. Of course there will be a next time. How could there not? Have I been a runner all my life and just didn't know it? Or does it only fit my personality now that I have two more especially important reasons to stay fit? I don't know, but in the end, it doesn't matter how I got here. The important thing is I'm here now and ready (finally!) to challenge my body in ways that I never have before.

Luke and I will walk with the kids in the 5K associated with the Indianapolis Marathon and Mini-Marathon at Fort Harrison State Park two Saturdays from now. We will both run the 5K attached to the One America 500 Festival Mini-Marathon in May 2010. My goal is to complete the mini-marathon at Fort Harrison one year from now. Luke and I hope to participate in several more races before then, in addition to Chicago's Shamrock Shuffle, an 8K, in March.

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In the last few months, I've heard a lot of sad news. Babies passing away before they had a chance to celebrate a first or second birthday; celebrities dying too young; mothers falling victim to horrible diseases and then being tasked with saying good-bye to their families. Some of these people I never met, while others are casual acquaintances I know only on a surface-level basis. But I have cried tears over them, have closed the door to my office to hurt on their behalf. I imagine what it would feel like to know I would never see my children grow up, or, even more gut-wrenching, to live life without them, and my nose twitches and eyes well up and a rock forms in the pit of my stomach because I can't. I just can't. In religion, there's so much talk about emphasizing the mental and spiritual aspects of ourselves because our physical state is temporary that it can be easy to overlook the fact that God made us human for a reason; that having a living, breathing body is a gift we shouldn't take for granted. So I want to use mine better. I want to make it stronger, leaner, healthier. I want to laugh more with it, cry happy tears with it, tickle Kara until she squeals more often and snuggle Nathan close every time I find him attached to my leg or foot or shoulder. I want to make love with my husband even when there's an opportunity to get more sleep. But I want to get more sleep, too, so I can tackle daily challenges and opportunities with a fresh mind and heart.

In between writing this entry, I clicked through my blogroll and came across Emily's post about running in the Baltimore Half-Marathon this Saturday, and how running made her think of little Emily Mandell, who passed away six months ago from a rare form of cancer. What a coincidence, I thought, that the same activity inspired each of us with the same type of thought track. But maybe it's not a coincidence. Maybe it's just being grateful.

 

5K Race Day, Part One

So! I ran my first 5K on Saturday.

THERE'S a sentence I never thought I'd say.

Even more amazing? I absolutely loved it.

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In the days leading up to the race, I was hella nervous because my training could only be described as spotty at best. The couch-to-5K program I started in mid-August had me running just three days a week, and the first two were okay, encouraging, even, because the intervals were manageable and I was fueled with enthusiasm. But the third week was more challenging, directing me to finish a 20-minute run on day three, and the idea of failing was so intimidating that the entire seven days passed without me completing a single run. It was a turning point, I think, giving me an opportunity to re-examine my commitment; how serious was I about adding this 5K to my list of accomplishments for the year? Was I willing to write the whole thing off as another botched attempt at healthy living? Was I okay with publicly falling flat on my face and looking and feeling like a failure?  

As it turned out, I wasn't. So I gave myself a second try. In hindsight, I am so proud of myself for doing that; for not giving up, for investing myself in this training and identifying it as something worth fighting for, even when I had a long day at work, even when I would have preferred rolling around on the floor with my kids. I wanted it for my health, but I needed it for my own sanity.

That doesn't mean I was perfect. Aside from the first two weeks, I never followed the program to the letter again. But I was running. The first few minutes were always the hardest--my breathing was random, my ankles felt like weights--but then my feet made their peace with the concrete of the trail, and my mind settled down, became quiet, reducing the chatter of the voices in my head, and my eyes functioned as catapults, physically moving me closer to each short-term landmark (If I can just make it to the overpass.... If I can just make it to the bridge...), and I called on the breathing exercises I used when in labor with Kara, marveling at their usefulness in situations outside of childbirth (hee hee hoo...hee hee hoo...) and suddenly I was light as a feather, gliding over the pavement, and sharing Knowing Glances with other runners who passed me by. Ah, another fellow bad-ass. Top of the morning to you.

Most of the time I didn't give much thought to my speed, choosing instead to focus on running for the full seventeen minutes or whatever my goal was for that run, but the closer I came to race day, the more curious I was about my ability to finish in a respectable amount of time. From my reading I knew that the usual goal of a 5K was to average ten minutes a mile, so one Saturday morning I started my run precisely at the 3.0 mile marker of the trail, ran straight to the 4.0 and then turned around and ran back to the 3.5, keeping a watchful eye on my cell phone the entire time. The good news: I completed a mile-and-a-half run in 15 minutes. Hurrah, progress!

The bad news: I had to quit running at minute 18--two minutes short of my goal time--because I felt like I was going to die. That morning was the first that I walked home with a stitch in my side. My timing was good, but clearly I had overdone it. Plus, it was one of my first runs using an iPod, and I learned very quickly that the Black-Eyed Peas and Justin Timberlake were no good to me, at least during training. The songs were too peppy, and being a novice runner, I needed something calmer, music that would drive me forward but allow me to concentrate at the same time.

Speaking of time, my time was running out. The following week I stayed on task and ran two miles in just over twenty-four minutes, but it was a far cry from completing a 5K. Beginning of week five I pulled something in my thigh (not a training injury, but it threw a wrench in my schedule just the same), and between traveling to Orlando for work and playing catch-up at home, a whopping ten days passed before I hit the trail again, just four days before the big event.

Hella nervous.

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The night before the race, my preparation left much to be desired. I filled up on turtle cheesecake and Raisinets and bad episodes of All My Children and neglected to drink even a single ounce of water, staying up until two in the morning attempting to create a musical soundtrack destined to propel me to victory. I obsessed over that playlist way more than I should have, I know, but most of the songs I used during training were pretty tame--anything faster than Indigo Girls or Grover Washington and I couldn't pace my breathing--and I was convinced that come race day, I'd need something stronger.

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The next morning, I woke up to my alarm at 6:15 a.m. and promptly got to work. I threw on my clothes and enjoyed a breakfast of a spoonful of peanut butter and a bottle of water. I stretched on and off for a good forty minutes, Kara smiling at me during my jumping jacks, Nathan sucking on my knee while I touched my toes. I spouted off directions to the race location to Luke, who hoped to make it with the kids just in time to see me off. With a filled-up gas tank and four dollars for parking, I was ready to go.

In case I haven't mentioned it before, this was more than a 5K--it was a full-fledged corporate challenge involving 100 businesses in central Indiana--so the starting area was congested with traffic and Hoosier employees preparing for their respective events. I spent ten minutes waiting for a spot in a nearby parking garage and holding back a unrelenting urge to pee the entire time. I made it to my company's tent with fifteen minutes to spare, long enough to pin my bib onto my shirt, attach a tracking chip to my shoelaces, relieve my poor, overworked bladder, and find a place in the starting line, all the way in the back. I was grateful to have stretched so much at home because I was too self-conscious to do more than hop around and pull on my legs. My CEO tapped me on the shoulder to say hi, and I nearly jumped out of my skin. Have I mentioned how nervous I was?

We all made small talk for a few minutes until I excused myself to get closer to the middle of the pack. Before I was worried about getting trampled on by the pros. Now I'm just afraid of being left behind.

I checked my cell phone. One minute to starting time. Suddenly, we're counting down the seconds, from fifteen to one.

I take a deep breath. My right index finger is hovering over the play button on my iPod, waiting to sync my shuffle with the exact beginning of the race.

Three...two...one.

And we're off.

Freezing that frame

My newfound interest in training for a 5K has resulted in a few other areas of my life taking a backseat on this blog. Well, backseat no more! Here's what's been going on at casa de Frema.

 

My long-anticipated Tori Amos concert took place two Fridays ago at the Murat Theatre here in Indy, with my coworker watching my two sickish children and Luke coming along as my "more enthused than he was for Billy Joel and Elton John but not quite as excited as he would be for, say, They Might Be Giants" date. This was my third Tori concert and definitely the one I appreciated most, seeing as I become a more involved fan every year. I saw my first show as a college sophomore in the Chicagoland area and my second two years ago (again at the Murat) when I was hugely pregnant with Kara. I've loved Little Earthquakes and Under the Pink since high school, but for the rest of her albums my listening strategy has involved latching onto a handful of songs that don't leave me scratching my head or clinging to blankets in fear. For this concert, though, I revisited those older albums to get a better appreciation for them, and that made this setlist much more memorable for me. I recognized almost all of the songs instantly and felt more of a personal connection to ones I was already in love with. I even got a picture of her onstage with my work smartphone! But not so much with the successfulness.

 

I seriously considered live tweeting the show, but Luke just shook his head and gave me a look that said, "You could do that, yes, but then I would have to wear a paper bag over my head to avoid being associated with the likes of you," so out of respect for The Look I passed. However, I did tell him that for the next tour I want to attend more than one show, thus increasing the odds that I'll hear more of my favorite songs and also that I will embarrass myself in public.

For those of you who care (or even those just interested in checking out the "the Amos," as my sister Ryan likes to say, as if her music were a sexually transmitted disease), highlights for me included "Jamaica Inn," "Hotel," "Cooling," "Horses," "Strong Black Vine," "Raspberry Swirl," and "Big Wheel." In hindsight, "Gold Dust" during her solo set was haunting and beautiful, but I didn't know the song until after I reviewed the setlist and went back to the album version, so I appreciate it much more now. The title to this blog post comes from that song. You know, because of all the pictures.

</End of dorky concert recap, you are welcome> 

 

These children are mine, and they're spectacular. Albeit a little crazy.

 

Kara turned 20 months old yesterday, and Nathan is half-way through six months. She's talking, he's crawling, and they're both taking turns waking up in the middle of the night, which is just peachy for their father and me. I'll write a longer post about Kara's language development one of these days, but for now I'm just happy to say that she's finally starting to use speech as a way to articulate what she's thinking and what she wants. She likes to wash her stuffed animals in Nathan's old infant tub, and she can identify numbers one through ten as well as several letters, and she loves the books she got from her cousin about going pee-pee on the potty, and she sat in her brand-new booster seat for the first time this morning, and somebody hold me I am going to LOSE IT right here if I don't start talking about something else.

 

The last time we spent the night at Luke's parents house in July was the last time we would spend the night at that actual house, as they've purchased new property in a more secluded area in a neighboring town. Luke was brought home from the hospital to this house, so naturally he's sad about saying good-bye. I'm glad we have memories of Kara and Nathan here.

 

My nephew. How cute is Danny Jr.? Pretty damned cute, if you ask me. He officially turns one year old today, but his party was the day after our Tori Amos concert, and since the kids were still sick and even Luke himself wasn't feeling well, I made the drive to Chicago myself to shower him with presents and visit with everyone. I never get enough time with him, especially when both sides of his family are together, but I did get to feed him roast beef and potatoes and change a number two, and I was seriously happy to do both. Seriously.

 

Luke and I continue to drag our children to various family walks around town. The above picture was taken at "Circle the City" to raise funds for the Indianapolis Symphony Orchestra. Nathan has time of his life parading through the streets strapped to my chest, while poor Kara sulks over her closeness in proximity to butts, thighs, and ankles. Luckily there are free cookies at the end.

Here's a shot from the "Race Away from Domestic Violence" 5K that started at IUPUI's downtown campus. I walked the whole 5K with Nathan in tow, and yet my son is the one who got all dramatic and passed out before crossing the finish line. What a slacker, that one.

 

Again, Kara was less than impressed with the actual walk, but she made her own fun afterwards. Look, Daddy, a two! And a three! Holy crap, this is awesome.

 

At six months, Nathan can now be trusted to hold onto a lovey without his parents worrying that he'll use it as a possible suffocation device. If this isn't the cutest thing you've seen in ages, then wow, that is one black heart you've got there.

The last Forrest Gump reference, I promise

Yesterday, as I pulled into my driveway, Mother Nature bid me a hearty hello by way of darkening clouds and a cool breeze that sent shivers up my spine. Ever the optimist, I reasoned, At least I'll have a more comfortable time out than Luke did on Monday. Poor guy was dripping with sweat before his feet even hit the trail. The smell of his workout clothes permeated our master bathroom for the rest of the night. THAT was fun.

I walked into the house and promptly into Kara's arms, who knows to associate the sound of the garage door opening with my arrival home from work. Luke got dinner started while I hung out with the kids, and then I thought I really ought to get upstairs and into my running gear. I also wanted to jump online to compare the two couch-to-5K training plans I had at my disposal: the shredheads one and the reader-recommended one offered by Liz and Katie.

I was changing into my shorts when I heard the clap of thunder. I was looking up stretching exercises when I saw the downpour of rain.

My heart sank as I came back downstairs.

"I don't know if I'll be able to run today," I said to Luke, gesturing to the raindrops outside our window. "I can't very well go out in that."

"Well, some people do," Luke replied, "but it's probably not the best thing for a beginner."

"Maybe it'll let up soon," I said, and to pass the time, I picked up The Everything Running Book Luke's been holding onto for years in the event he ever got back into the sport. I skimmed information about safely building a mileage base and keeping a training log and how to buy running shoes and types of running shoes and the PARTS of a running shoe and even running socks. Socks! Why didn't I think about socks? I don't even have a damn wristwatch and now I need to worry about my freaking socks.

And I thought about the couch-to-5K plans and how on one hand the shredhead route seemed really easy to follow but the reader-recommended one was better suited for endurance and I wondered if I knew enough about stretching to avoid injuries the first day out and what if I didn't do the right stretches or stretch long enough and OH MY GOD OH MY GOD OH MY GOD. My running career was over before it began.

I felt a lot like that college-aged kid in Jerry Maguire who shrugs his shoulders (after back stabbing Tom Cruise by going with another agent, the bastard) and says, "I just wanna play football."

Half the time I wait for the ideal moment to begin something new, and the moment never comes. As much as I love organization and structure, sometimes you just have to do.

So I turned on my Shred DVD and did stretches from the first two levels. I butt kicked and touched my toes. Then I grabbed my cell phone--my two-years-old, ancient cell phone with no picture-taking capabilities but was perfect for keeping track of the time--and walked out the door.

The rain had slowed to a drizzle, and the sun was already out. I took my time walking on the path through my subdivision that leads into the trail. At 5:43 p.m., I was off.

I...was...running! My six-month-old, newly crawling son could have outpaced me there and back, but still. I ran for five minutes straight just like I originally planned, and it felt wonderful, so quiet, no music, no conversation, just me and my thoughts and concentrating on getting to 5:48 p.m. And when I got there, I turned around and walked home, which was more than sufficient for a cool down. By then, the drizzle was a welcome relief.

And that was it. I had completed my first run, without so much as even one sore muscle the following day.

I know there are better ways to go about this. I know I might change my mind about how to achieve this goal. But right now, I'm running, and that's good enough for me.

Run, Frema, run!

So! Last week, I signed up for a 5K run as part of a local athletic challenge involving 100 central Indiana businesses. Yes, you read that right. Me, the girl who often gets winded just from climbing up a flight of stairs, the lazy-ass who hasn't run regularly since high school (thank you, varsity soccer) and who has never labeled herself a runner of any kind AND who can't even follow through with a commitment to exercise for twenty minutes a day, has committed to flailing around Forrest Gump style on a 3.2-mile course this September. In front of her coworkers, no less!

I'm nothing if not ambitious. And stupid.

First, some backstory. One thing I've learned in this half-hearted quest to become a healthier me is that I get bored with exercise pretty quickly. For instance, take the Shred. I heart the Shred. I love that as of 5:45 this morning I can say I've lost ten pounds since the end of May. I see the difference in the fit of my pants and the shape of my face. You don't have to convince me that smart eating habits and regular workouts do a body good. I'm living proof, even if on an extremely small scale.

But when times get tough, all this knowing is not enough to inspire the actual doing. So instead of continuing to try and push a square peg into a round hole, I'm simply going to admit that I'm just not into the Shred right now and pursue something that will rejuvenate my interest in fitness again. Which right now is taking the form of a 5K.

Part of me wonders if I'm an idiot to even attempt this. Aside from my above-mentioned stint with varsity sports, my only other experience with running took place about six years ago while I was living and working in Rensselaer and a coworker and I got together on a semi-regular basis to jog through town. On colder days, we ran the track inside Saint Joe's field house. It didn't last long, and I never once progressed beyond the constant huffing and puffing that plagues those at the beginner's level. I never kept track of my speed. Hell, I didn't even LIKE it half the time. But I did enjoy how good it felt to move my body, and I've always admired those actively engaged in the sport--how focused they are on their goals, how dedicated they must be to follow such rigourous training schedules, how effing COOL they look wearing their branded shorts and headbands.

A leaner, stronger body would be nice, too. Running it is.

One thing I've got going for me that I didn't with the Shred is the benefit of a living, breathing partner in crime right in my very own home. Luke used to run in college, and while we can't go out together because of the kids (also, he and his six-foot-four-inch frame would totally leave me in the dust, speed-wise), we've already mapped out a rough, every-other-day schedule to follow, with him starting today and me beginning tomorrow. As Parents draws to a close and we completely revamp our budget to accommodate the loss of income, we can't afford a gym membership or a treadmill, so we'll use the walking trail that curves behind our subdivision. Also a no-go is the purchase of any fancy running gear or clothing, and at first I was fretting over this, because how can I be a successful runner if I don't have a wrist watch to clock my distance or shorts that won't bunch around my thighs or cute little tee-shirts with Nike logos embroidered on them or blah de blah blah blah. Finally Luke was like, "BREAIN. It's called RUNNING. All you have to do is run." Thank you, husband of mine/perspective. At least I have new sneakers, a comfy pair of running shoes I bought last month just before getting the Parents axe.

Like the shredheads before me, I'll attempt to follow the six-week couch-to-5K program outlined here, only it'll be more like seven weeks because even though my first race is slated for Saturday, September 26, I don't want to wait any longer to get started. Luke has one of those Everything Running books I can flip through to figure out what the hell I'm doing, and I'll have the added wisdom from the shredhead archives, too.

Though I haven't even started yet, I already know this endeavor will prove to be a good thing. Not only am I pumped about exercise in a way I haven't been since June, I'm also psyched to do this with Luke. For the last couple of months, we've been allowing the logistics of our everyday lives to get in the way of spending any meaningful time together, and I love that we can use this as a way to stay connected and also get back in touch with our pre-baby counterparts, too. Not that complaining about the size of my ass while watching The Soup in pajama pants and eating sorbet straight from the carton isn't romantic in its own right. (Nothing but love for you, Joel McHale.)

Wish me (us) luck. Or, if you're one of those seasoned runner types, a few tips to stay on track and injury-free.

But I haven't given in to Starbucks

So! I had this brilliant idea yesterday. Seeing as I'm on the cusp of attending a three-day blogging conference where I'll be passing out business cards with my URL on it, I thought it might make sense to--wait for it--BLOG. I know! Am genius. Tell all your friends.

Wonderful things have been happening these last few weeks, many of them related to my job, so that's what I'm going to start with first. If you follow me on Twitter, you know that my employer dropped two happy bombs on us in less than one week: the half-year profit-sharing bonus we received in June and the CEO's decision to transfer ownership of the company to his workers through an employee stock ownership plan (ESOP). You can learn more about ESOPs from our trusty friend, Wikipedia, but basically it means that the founder has given his baby, the business he started almost twenty years ago with his personal life savings, to those of us on the payroll. It translates into additional retirement savings for every one of us and voting rights on major decisions involving the company's future, not to mention a more tangible motivation to continue our current level of success. It was an emotional day when he broke the news, and as I learn more about the specifics, I am blown away by how lucky I am for not only having a stable job in a shaky economy, but a rewarding job with a company that only projects good things on the horizon, not to mention the opportunities I have to advance my skills and challenge myself professionally. As a result, for the first time in my life, I'm taking a proactive approach to my career, assuming new leadership roles and working alongside my boss and other team members to develop strategies for our department that will enable us to work more effectively. I've also been involved with some pretty exciting writing projects that jazz me up like nothing else, even when those projects are equal parts frustrating.

So many women who work outside the home are miserable in their jobs because they are unfulfilled by what they do, making it even harder to be away from their babies. And it IS hard to be away from my babies; I never look forward to Monday even after the most hectic of weekends, I'm always craving more time at home. But I can say with absolute certainty that my time away from them is well spent. Finding myself professionally has inspired me to take a long, hard look at my priorities outside the office and how I want to spend my time (contributing to this is the fact that I'm still reading Eat Pray Love and feeling very connected to the idea of nourishing my personal core). I'm also reflecting on the lessons I want my children to learn from me about finding their passion and also turning raw lemons into lemonade. It's been an energizing process, to say the least, and enlightening, to form a relationship with my company that mirrors a long-term partnership, a marriage of sorts where each side is committed to giving as much as it takes and overcoming obstacles in a way that leaves everyone's dignity intact.

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Things have come to a bit of a standstill on the fitness front, and I can't believe I don't feel guilt about it, but I don't. Even with sporadic exercise and frequent surrenders to peanut butter cup blizzards, I've maintained an average loss of eight pounds, so I can't feel too bad when it's clear I must be doing something right. Unfortunately, an eight-pound loss post-baby isn't the same victory as an eight-pound loss before your body carries a child--my mid-section still looks three months pregnant--but hey, I'll take what I can get. I knew that the more time I allowed to lapse between workouts the harder it would be to get back into a routine, but life is still so topsy-turvy for us right now, and I hate to keep using that as an excuse, but it's also the truth. My girl crush on Jillian Michaels remains as strong as ever, but I'm at peace with sometimes (OK, a lot of times) choosing other ways to spend my time, knowing that life will settle down little by little and a night of rocking my son back to sleep won't always kill my desire to Shred the next day. I did buy some new gym shoes, though; that counts for something, right?

 

Nathan and me at Indy's "Unite to Fight: Race Against Prostate Cancer" family walk a couple of weeks ago. I carried Nathan while Luke pushed Kara in her stroller.

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The continued anticipation of my Tori Amos concert next month along with the recent death of Michael Jackson (and I'll admit it, I am still so sad about that) combined have restored my interest in music. Not that I ever stopped being interested, but most of Luke's and my CDs have been living in a beat-up Tupperware bin in the back of our closet since we moved into this house, and I've been too lazy to dig out stuff as it appeals to my mood. Yesterday I got to thinking about all the songs I've been out of touch with simply because I haven't been able to find them, and it kind of pissed me off to the point that I finally said ENOUGH and organized the CD rack we bought well before Nathan was born. Alphabetized and everything, though I do wish I'd been able to categorize discs for each singer/group in the order they were released. Baby steps, people.

I also made a mixed CD of what I consider to be Tori Amos essentials so I don't have to switch discs to hear all my favorite songs. One of the reasons I'm still attracted to her music after all these years is its ability to become relevant as I gain more life experience. For example, Boys for Pele freaked me the hell out as a God-fearing high schooler, but as a married woman with two kids and a more sophisticated religious and world view, I'm more comfortable with the appeal they hold for me. When From the Choirgirl Hotel came out my senior year, I couldn't get past her new band sound to appreciate the lyrics, but in just the last week or so I found new meaning in a song I had completely written off. The biggest surprise has been my fascination with The Beekeeper. Those who only like Tori when she's angsty have no use for this one, and I understand; I didn't like it, either, not until well after I had Nathan and the softness of those songs found a place in my head. Anyway, all of that to say that the Tori I became enchanted with at 17 is not the same Tori I relate to today. It's pretty awesome when music grows with you.

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I'm drinking coffee now. Me, the woman who swore she would never succumb to the drama that is depending on a caffinated beverage for survival, typically enjoys a thermosful doused with skim milk and sugar on the drive to work. With all the late nights I've had in the last month or two, I've been so tired in the mornings that one day when Luke asked if I would possibly benefit from a liquid pick-me-up I said HELL YES, WHERE DO I SIGN UP. And I said it again and again until Luke was grinding coffee beans as part of his morning ritual while I finished getting dressed. There's something to be said for sitting in my car with one hand on the steering wheel and the other balancing a drink, an act that wakes me up and transitions me from home to work in a way that my sans-coffee routine didn't. Maybe I feel more adult. Maybe the beans are that strong. Either way, I like it.

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Luke spent this past Saturday at a theme park with a friend, so Molly and I took the opportunity to co-host Baby Day 2.0, and the kids had a blast together. They are all at such different stages now that it's hard to believe there's barely a full year between any of them. The Baby Day sequel marked the third weekend in a row that we had company, and it's been so nice to invite people over and watch their kids play with ours. Kara's now getting regular exposure to her peers through the daycare/nursery at church on Sundays, but other than that, not so much. So it was great to have my sister Samantha and her family with us for the Fourth of July and my friend Maia and her two girls the weekend after that. With upcoming BlogHer taking place in the trenches of my hometown, we'll have a straight month of Saturday-Sunday fun.

Here, the photographic evidence:

 

Kara and baby Danny, who will celebrate his first birthday next month. I say this every time I mention him, but I swear he is the spit and image of my sister.

 

Auntie Samantha and Uncle Dan entertaining their first and only nephew, with Nathan loving every minute of the attention.

 

Baby Day 2.0. Kara's all, "Girlfriend, where did you get that awesome striped shirt-dress? Don't hold out on a sista," And Marin's like, "A fashionista never reveals her secrets."

 

Meanwhile, Nathan and Marin decided to pose as if they were attending their first Baby Prom. Nathan may have even tried to grab her hand.

 

Molly loving on her godson. (At least, he will be her godson, once Luke and I can secure the fall baptism date with our pastor.)

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And that's all, folks! I hate that my writing is so sparse here and that the entries I do post have to cover such a large span of time, but that's another aspect of life I'm slowly making peace with. Despite my fallen-to-the-wayside personal blogging, I'm super excited about BlogHer this year and learning new ways to feed my addiction increase my overall knowledge of social media. I'm probably one of the few attendees whose primary reason for going is to actually take part in the sessions. This year is weird, though, in the sense that I'm not part of any big blogger meet-up like I was two years ago, and since Luke and the kids will be with me, I doubt I'll make any of the parties. I'm OK with that, but I really hope to meet at least a few of the bloggers I read and/or who read me so I don't totally miss out on the networking aspect of the conference. I'm also debating whether I should bring my work laptop and try to liveblog any of the events. I've never been good with crafting blog posts on the fly (aka the reason this site so frequently collects dust), so I'm not sure how solid my entries would even be, but I'm definitely thinking about it.

Will any of you be in Chicago? If so, I'd love to say hi. And if you're doing the BlogHer 5K on Friday morning, you'll get to meet Mr. Nathan in person. If that's not reason enough to walk three miles before breakfast, I don't know what is.

Happy is as happy does

It's amazing that even though I'm now a wife, mother, and respectable working professional, I still have the overwhelming tendency to act like just like I did in high school. Putting off major projects until the last minute. Staying up ridiculously late. Pissing my time away because I don't have the wherewithal to focus. Or the ever-popular combo of staying up ridiculously late to finish a major project at the last minute only to piss my time away. Case in point: Last night I brought my laptop home to work on a draft of an article I've pledged to complete by Friday, only I've been so excited about scoring tickets to see Tori Amos in August that instead I fooled around on her Web site, searched for videos of favorite songs on YouTube, and searched for reviews of her latest album, a CD I'm desperately trying to make sense of. Two college degrees and I still don't know what she's singing about half the time. Some things never change.

But some things do. Things at home are still rocky on the maintainence front, and I often wonder if there will ever be a time where two baskets of laundry won't be sitting in our bedroom waiting to be folded, but I've worked on my priorities some to accommodate my new fitness regimen. After the kids are asleep, instead of picking up or working or freelancing or whatever, I've taken to shredding and showering right after (if from that statement you've concluded that before I was going to bed a hot, sweaty mess, you, my friend, would be right). Not only does this new plan have me exercising when I'm likely to have more energy, it's also a tangible way to prove to myself that personal health is more important to me than the state of my house. As of this morning I noted a loss of 8.4 pounds on the scale, and when packing for my overnight trip to Springfield, Missouri, I was able to include a pair of "transitional pants" I bought near the end of my maternity leave with Kara. I couldn't even button them a couple of months ago, so even though they still leave a faint trace of muffin top, I am immensely proud.

Aside from the weight loss, I'm not really noticing any other changes in my body---my arms aren't buffer, and my abs continue to be held hostage by my massive waterbed of a gut--but it's making all the difference in my mental health, I think, encouraging me to look beyond my comfort zone and experiment with new things. I've talked before about my company's willingness to sponsor employees in races throughout the city, so Luke and I participated in a 5K for prostate cancer a few weeks ago. I mainly did it as a way to incorporate a new fitness activity and enjoy some time outdoors; it wasn't until after walking the first mile did I realize this would actually be work, traipsing over hills and around bends and through globs of people who were there to honor a loved one, or even honor themselves. It was a great night, and while I don't count walking 3.2 miles in an hour and thirty-one seconds anything extraordinary, I already have visions of maybe possibly trying to run the Indianapolis Marathon's 5K in October. Many of the shredheads just finished a couch-to-5K program that I might take up closer to the time of the race (at which point I hope to invest in my first pair of running shoes), and to keep the momentum going, I'll also be doing the BlogHer 5K next month. Luke, Kara, and Nathan will be joining me in Chicago while I attend BlogHer Business as well as the general conference, and Luke was initially worried about managing the kids by himself that morning, so I volunteered to take Nathan along in the baby carrier. Quality time with my baby boy while enjoying the Windy City's lakeshore? Count me IN.

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This afternoon, Nathan had his four-month appointment, and typically before he begins his examination of the baby, our pediatrician asks how Luke and I are doing. I talked about exercising and bouncing back at work a little more smoothly than last time, and then I proceeded to talk about everything Nathan's been doing, smiling and cooing and rolling over with a vengeance (so much so that he's waking himself up at night; what's up with that?), and I must have been pretty enthusiastic because he made a point to comment on it.

"You sound good," he said as I nuzzled Nathan's neck and kissed his cheek (my son's, not the doctor's). "You look happy."

And I am. I feel like for the first time in my experience as a parent, I'm making good on my promise to take better care of myself, and I'm no longer using my kids as an excuse to avoid fulfilling my potential. Sure, it'll be awhile before I carve out any significant time away from home, and it's not like I'm running out to accomplish world peace, but it's amazing how a twenty-minute workout video has inspired me to examine other areas of my life. I'm ready to start thinking about the big picture again, the goals I have for my personal life and for my family with Luke and my relationships with other people. I want to be more a part of things outside myself and see how I fit in the world. I want to stop getting angry about things I can't change and be proactive about the things I can. Luke and I have recently started going to our neighborhood Episcopal church on Sundays, which I've enjoyed immensely. We talk about finding baby-sitters closer to home and one day take up running together. Today I opened a book for the first time since January and actually started to read it. It's Eat, Pray, Love, and I can't think of a better way to embark on this new life journey than delve into somebody else's. I really love it so far.

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The first part of this entry was written last night at home, but I'm finishing it in Springfield, where I'm spending the night so I can ride along on some sales calls with one of our reps in the area tomorrow. Once again, it was a bitch to leave my family behind, but on the other hand, being able to read something other than a magazine in a place other than the bathroom for longer than ten minutes? Well, there are worse things in life, let me tell you.

(Still, though, I'd rather be at home.)

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Finally, because you all have been such good sports about my sporadic posting and complete negligence in sharing adorable pictures of my kids, I leave you with this:

  

My little tornado of fun currently clocks in at 14 lb 12 oz, putting him in roughly the fiftieth percentile for weight, and at twenty-six and a half inches, he's close to the seventy-fifth percentile for height. But when it comes to being joyful, he's off the charts.

(I'd upload a photo of Kara, too, but this is all I had in my e-mail. Luke, if you read this tonight, be a dear and send one to me, will you? We're all about fairness here.)

Edited to add: Thanks, honey.

 

Kara turned a year and a half last week. Where does the time go? I swear she was just in my belly.

Working on my fitness...again

At this point last year, I had just learned I was pregnant with Nathan. Kara wasn't even six months old, and I was beginning another round of Weight Watchers. I had finally reached a point in my post-partum existence where I felt motivated to put my health first. But once I learned of my "with child" status, that all went out the window. Suddenly, it was no longer necessary to avoid Oreos or chocolate chip cookie dough or three helpings of french fries. Those calories were essential for my baby's growth and development. And people, I am all about the children.

After I delivered this past January, I'll admit it: I was kind of disgusted with my body. Even throughout the pregnancy I was surprised to see that my basketball belly didn't mask my tire of a gut and smooth everything out like it did the first time around. Instead, the tire just camped out underneath, sagging like an eighty-year-old man's flabby double chin. Once Nathan was out and I was over the initial glee, I couldn't stop looking in the mirror and staring at the mess of skin my stomach had truly become, the fullness in my face, all that extra junk in my trunk. Even after the first few weeks, my weight plateaued around the mid-150s, a number I had never seen before in my life. And on my 5'2" frame, it's just too much. I lost a couple of pounds before I returned to work, but going back after only eight weeks was pretty hard for me, and it was difficult to focus on anything else but adjusting to being away from my family.

Luckily, though, despite a few crying jags here and there, my return to the office wasn't as soul-crushing as it was with Kara, so I finally decided Enough Is Enough and began a new fitness regimen last Wednesday, a few days before Nathan's four-month birthday. Everything I said in regards to wellness after Kara was born is still true; I want to be a fit person. I want to show my kids that being active is fun and natural and easy, even when it doesn't come naturally or easily to me. And I want them to see that I make my personal health a top priority because it's THAT important.

Of course, they will only see these things if I actually do them. Therein lies the challenge.

Because I've gotten on and off this particular bandwagon more times than I care to count (hello, Weight Loss Wednesday), I gave a lot of thought as to how I was going to realistically change my outlook on getting into shape. As far as food goes, I don't have the energy to join Weight Watchers again and track every single thing I put in my mouth, but Luke and I are slowly ridding our kitchen of high fructose corn syrup, hydrogenated oils, nitrates, and other ingredients that get in our way, and I'm being more selective about what I eat and how much. I've also decided to stop eating after eight o'clock, simply because that's when I'm most suspectible to overeating. In regards to exercise, my primary complaint has always been not having enough time, so I'm starting small. As those of you who follow me on Parents know, I've been doing Jillian Michaels' 30 Day Shred, not because I enjoy the workouts but because it's fast. Twenty minutes and I'm done. So when my muscles are burning and I'm huffing and puffing heavier than an extra in a porno, I look at the clock and think, "Only ten minutes left? I can do ten minutes," and keep on keeping on. I'm still modifying push-ups, I'm still constantly reminding myself to keep good form, but I'm pushing through it just the same, and I'm actually seeing results. According to my scale, I've lost 4.6 pounds so far.

I was pretty reluctant to try the Shred because so many other bloggers were doing it and giving up, and I don't even watch The Biggest Loser, so references to Jillian's tough-as-nails personality were lost on me; I also wasn't sure if I could commit to doing a video that took so much hard work when I was barely moving to begin with. At first, I just planned to get walking more with the kids, but I found when I did that, I suddenly stopped going on walks because they weren't fun anymore. That's when I realized I personally need to separate activity intended for weight loss and strength building from that which enables me to spend time with my family. When I keep the two compartmentalized, each one becomes a lot more manageable. Plus, in my experience, it's more feasible to say I'm going to shred every night after the kids go to bed than it is to count on taking a walk every day after dinner. So much of our evening routine is still up in the air; I come home anywhere between four and five, and sometimes dinner is close to being ready, but usually it's not, and sometimes the lawn needs to be mowed and kids need to be bathed and sometimes the weather is bad, and you see where this is going? Not to mention my body is so out of shape that a few walks a week aren't going to give me the results I need to get back to a reasonable weight as soon as possible. I'm not looking to score a size 8 by the end of the month, but as Jillian likes to say, "You've got to push yourself."

So I'm pushing. I've not been able to shred every day--a nasty cold/cough combo I've been fighting (plus pink eye! In both eyes!) left me out of commission for two of the eight days I've been doing this, so even though today is my ninth day on the Shred, tonight will only be my seventh actual Shred. Still, I'm doing it, and I'm proud of what I've done.

My quick bout of success thus far has come from taking it one day at a time so I don't get discouraged and re-evaluating my priorities so exercise doesn't once again get pushed to the back burner. That last one has been the most eye-opening, because the clutter build-up in my house is a direct result of the new time I've carved out for the Shred. So while I'm losing weight and getting fit, my carpets are getting dirtier, my shower stalls are getting scummier, and my CD rack continues to multitask as a clothing rack. But in the end, I ask myself, would I rather be a fit person living in a messy home or an unfit person living in a moderately clean home (because even when I can spend more time cleaning, there's still a lot I have to miss)? And right now, the answer is A. Because really, A should have been the answer all along.

I've also been trying to find other ways to work fun exercise into my day-to-day; lucky for me, my employer is hugely into wellness, so they pay the registration fees for a number of races that take place in the city. Luke and I will participate in a non-competitive 5K this Saturday night and just signed up for a family fun walk in downtown Indy in mid-July. And once I'm done with the Shred, I hope to move on to videos that have a little more zip in their step. I'm dying to resurrect my Richard Simmons videos and start sweating to the oldies again.

Usually when I get involved in projects concerning my health, in the back of my mind, I'm always wondering when I'll fail, since that's what usually happens. But this time, I'm like the tortoise. Slow and steady wins the race. And this time, I will win.

It all started with jelly beans.

Luke and I were at Super Target yesterday, stocking up on important items like diapers, frozen dinners, and hand soap, when we happened to drive through the candy section, specifically the Jelly Belly section, where dozens of miniscule beans bedazzled me with their array of brilliant colors, almost like a rainbow, and suddenly I was overcome with desire for Red Apple Jelly Bellys. "I'll just have a handful every now and then," I promised as I tossed the sack into my cart. "After all, they're fat free!"

Now, at my Super Target, the candy aisle is adjacent to the potato chip aisle, and a variety of Baked Lays beckoned from their place on the end cap. "I'll just have some with lunch," I pledged as I debated between barbeque and cheddar and sour cream. "After all, they're baked!"

Famous last words.

Less than twenty-four hours later, I had consumed approximately twenty points worth of Jelly Bellys, three servings of chips, one Weight Watchers ice cream sandwich, a bowl of Cocoa Krispies, three Fig Newtons, and my weight in defiance, tired of counting points, measuring portions, and turning down a cup of milk with dinner because I'd rather spend the points on cookies (the Weight Watchers ones, of course). It didn't help that today I was home from work, which meant instant access to all things guilt-inducing and an afternoon of Beverly Hills, 90210, the first season, because it was on sale for twenty bucks. (Remind me sometime to talk about how this show has seriously warped my impression of raising teenagers; also, how Jim Walsh is pretty much, "Way to go, son, just use a rubber" with Brandon after he lays his first girlfriend but will fuhREAK out later when Brenda does the nasty with Dylan. Sexism, it is a bitch!). So for now I'm enjoying the goodies and promising to get back on the saddle tomorrow.

Binge eating aside, it's been a wonderful weekend, the highlight of which was a trip to the Indianapolis Zoo. It was Kara's first time, and our first real outside activity as a family (walks around the complex don't count), and as the three of us made our way from the parking lot to the front entrance, all I could say was, "This is what I've always wanted."

The outing was inspired in part because Indy has a few koalas on loan for the summer, so that was the first place we went. Did you know that because koalas live on eucalyptus, a food that's shockingly low in nutrition, they spend anywhere from eighteen to twenty-two hours A DAY asleep? Thus, to capture one awake and on camera was quite a feat. Way to go, Luke.

Next were the seals, where we hung for about an hour because our stop there coincided with Kara's next bottle and she was taking her sweet little time. But eventually she finished, and Luke scooped her up to give her an up-close-and-personal view, and watching them, my heart melted.

As if THAT weren't precious enough, the oceans exhibit was even better, as Kara's eyes were drawn to the brightly colored fish just inches from her nose. It was amazing to see her smile as various forms of sealife crossed her path and Luke beam with pride as he pointed out their features. He's always had a soft spot for nature and animals, so I know this trip was especially meaningful for him.

Of course, I had my turn, too, and took great delight in identifying giraffes, elephants, and monkeys, all of which we see in our favorite bedtime book.

Apparently Kara's hands were far more appealing than posing for a happy shot with Momma.

But not for Daddy!

I could eat them up, I love them both so much.

Afterwards, Luke and I spent some time watching Juno, and when it comes to that movie, I don't know what to say. The dialogue was a cross between Dawson's Creek and every Kevin Smith film I've ever seen, only less believable, but really, it was the act of watching the main characters navigate through the adoption process that brought me to tears, because I couldn't imagine my life without Kara. I felt a new kind of hurt for the moms who choose this process, for whatever reason.

The soundtrack, on the other hand? Totally awesome.

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Check out my latest post on Parents, wherein I contemplate family size.

More options than an Old Country Buffet

While I was busy debating how to address my high school reunion, surprisingly, life carried on. Here's just a sampling of what's been occupying my time:

Great Aunt Flo Watch of 2008
Geez, you might be thinking, is she really still talking about this? Hell, yes, I'm still talking about this, today is day 55 of my cycle and still not a word from that bitch Aunt Flo. I took another test when I came home from work this afternoon because my stomach felt jittery before lunch, but alas, still negative, my fourth one since Mother's Day weekend. It's not so much that I'm freaked out about maybe having children THIRTEEN MONTHS APART, HOLY CRAP, but more like dying of curiosity; however, even that attitude isn't doing me any good, so I've decided to just sit tight until I'm presented with either two pink lines or a bloodbath in my underwear. I've been cramping on and off for days, and my gut feeling is that I'm not pregnant, but my gut also told me I would deliver Kara before her due date, possibly without drugs, and we all know how that went down.

While waiting for the latest test to register, Luke jokingly asked if there was a way to jumpstart my period. "If you can speed up labor, why not this?" he said.

Indeed.

Weight Watchers
Today marks week three of Weight Watchers 2.0, and things are going...okay. I've not been as dedicated as I was the first time around, so there were several incidents involving pancakes, bacon, and chicken strips, but I've lost 4.2 pounds to date--almost two pounds since last week--and that's not a bad thing. I've really enjoyed the ability to track my eating habits and calculate Points values online; it was through the Web site that I learned one point plus one point doesn't necessarily equal two. As in, three of the Weight Watchers one-point chocolate chip cookies are five points, not three, and I'm not sure why that is, exactly, but being off by a couple of points each day definitely makes a difference on the scale. I just discovered this gem a few days ago, and my newfound knowledge is bound to make a positive impact on next week's weigh-in.

I will say that I participated in a free health risk assessment at work the other day, and baby weight aside, I'm much healthier than I originally thought. In 2005 I was diagnosed with high cholesterol, and my efforts to bring it down were half-hearted at best. I was pregnant for most of 2007, and pregnancy raises cholesterol, so it wasn't until now that I was in a position to retest. I'm happy to report that all of my levels are in the optimal or near-optimal range, and I can breathe a little easier knowing I've reduced my risk for heart disease. It was in taking that test that I realized I'm doing Weight Watchers for more than just the weight loss. I've had an effed-up mentality regarding food for years, and I want to put my best foot forward and engage in a healthier lifestyle. I want Kara to look at me and see a strong role model for making good choices about food and exercise, and I want her to think that it's easy. I don't want her to use food to get attention, like I did when I made myself throw up for three weeks in junior high. I don't want her to obsess over supposed imperfections or compare herself to peers with drastically different body types or run to food whenever she needs comfort. But if I want that for her, I have to want it for me, too. And I do.

But hot damn, do I miss my spinach dip.

It's not all bad, though. I've been doing a little more in the kitchen, and on Tuesday night I used my Take Five! cookbook, a collection of Weight Watchers recipes with only five main ingredients, to make Pita Pizzas for five points a piece. And they were delicious. Isabel, you bonafide pizza lover you, they will not disappoint. I promise.

House
After months of hemming and hawing and pouring over Excel spreadsheets to make sure we are really in a financial position to do this, Luke and I took our first major step in becoming homeowners and mailed off an application to the Indianapolis Neighborhood Housing Partnership, a non-profit that helps first-time owners secure their first house. Now, Luke and I both have excellent credit (quick shout-out to myfico.com, where we purchased our credit reports and Fico scores from all three bureaus for forty-five bucks a piece), so we don't need to go through an agency to make this happen, but the INHP has relationships with banks throughout the city that will offer loans without requiring a down payment OR private mortgage insurance to qualified buyers. Plus, I took a (free!) intro-to-home-buying class last spring that they sponsored at a local university, and it was very infomative. It certainly couldn't hurt to see what they can offer us.

Our lease on this apartment is up at the end of July, but we'll definitely need more time then that to get our act together, so the plan is to switch to a month-to-month lease and close on a property sometime in September. We won't start looking until we've been pre-approved by a lender, which should allow us to move forward relatively quickly once we've found the house of our dreams. Luke and I are beyond excited about being able to do this and STILL have someone home with Kara. I know how lucky we are and I thank God every night for it.

My Gorgeous Baby
Kara turned five months old on Saturday, and she is taking the world by storm: scooting backwards, becoming more vocal, and as of Sunday, experimenting with rice cereal. She won't entertain more than a few spoonfuls before she's pushing away the spoon, but she's extremely interested in everything on our plates, so this is a good place to start.

Plus, she looks absolutely adorable in her high chair.

She continues to hold herself up really well and can sit unsupported for about ten minutes before toppling over like a house of cards.

She's also still snacking on her fingers and toes with passionate abandon.

So, to sum up, things are going really well right now, even if I feel a little like I'm burning the candle at both ends. Work is extremely busy, and I'm helping with a baby shower for my sister Samantha in June, which means invites needed to go out like, yesterday, and writing for Parents always keeps me on my toes. (Not sure why me wanting to clean my daughter's toes from a strange dog's germs is basis for telling me to relax, as if I couldn't wait to dip her foot in bleach or something, or why not wanting my five-month-old baby to be approached by a dog I don't know means I'm afraid of all dogs all the time, but whatever.) Sure, there are times I'm afraid of passing out behind the wheel, but really, what's a good night's sleep, anyway?

I can't wait to see what tomorrow will bring.

I just joined Weight Watchers Online, God help me

I go ahead and get you guys all fired up about my intent to tackle deeper, more meaningful topics, and yet the next post you read is going to be all about fitness. Which I have written about before, ad nauseum, without showing any real progress.

That's about to change.

Last night, I joined Weight Watchers Online and blew a hundred dollars on a three-month membership, basic starting kit, two cookbooks, and a calculatorish Points-tracking thingie.

When I first hopped on the Weight Watchers bandwagon four years ago in Rensselaer, I attended meetings once a week, documented my food and drink intake with a paper and pen, and used a hand-held slider to calculate Points on the fly. Now, in an effort to save some money, I'm doing it all through their Web site, which has this elaborate set-up for tracking points and searching for recipes and participating on message boards, and I feel a little bit like a ninety-year-old woman who's being asked to send an e-mail for the first time. These new-fangled contraptions are hurting my brain.

But this morning I measured out a cup of Cheerios and a half cup of skim milk topped with sliced banana, and when making my lunch last night I learned I've been scarfing about eight servings of raisins in one sitting every day.

Like I said before, I won't continue with Weight Loss Wednesday because it stresses me out too much, but I will report my progress and let you guys know how I'm doing. Just for posterity, I'm going to tell you that my starting weight is 145 pounds, and my first goal is to lose ten percent of my body weight, which equals to 130.5--just half a pound shy of my overall goal weight (for now). And while I'm not attending meetings, May is Health and Fitness Month at work, and today kicks off our version of the Biggest Loser Challenge, so I will weigh in with our HR director and track my progress via our internal wellness blog, which I launched yesterday (am corporate pioneer!). She's also going to take "before" pictures of those willing to digitally capture how out of shape they are, so I'll drop that into this post this afternoon.

Edited to add on 5/6/08: Finally, finally, here is my "Before" picture (pay no mind to the crazy bush head that will surely one day devour us all, it was pre-trim):

Now I am ready to do this. Now is the time.

Any other Weight Watchers devotees? I know all about Emily's success with the online program (which was actually part of my inspiration to join in the first place), and Kelly signed up last week. Anyone else? And on a related note, exactly how many slices make up two ounces of deli-style lunchmeat?

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Footnotes:

Read all about my "dads are not moms" rant and yesterday's car trouble on Parents.

Monday was my blogiversary! Every year I think I'm going to make a big to-do, and every year it passes me by like a fart in the wind (thank you, Shawshank Redemption, for the colorful choice of words). As I refocus on my blog as well as my approach to wellness, the timing of my return couldn't be any more perfect.

Or any less perfect. Really, if I'd been on my game, my subconscious would have known to post on Monday, and then I could be telling you that blogging is so ingrained in my personal core that the good Lord in Heaven inspired me to publish on my big day.

Apparently God isn't much into blogs.

Last but not least, here is a picture of my kid. Luke picked me up from work on Tuesday and dressed her in this super-cute outfit, which about killed my coworkers with adorableness. Can you blame them?

Weight Loss Wednesday: Just what I needed

I've drafted the subtitle to this entry about oh, eighty gazillion times since Friday night, the most popular one being "I can explain" because not only did I eat out THREE EFFING TIMES this weekend, Monday saw me eating Luke's famous corned beef and cabbage like a piggy at a trough. I did not have high hopes for the scale.

LAST WEEK'S WEIGHT: 146
CURRENT WEIGHT: 144.5
POUNDS TO GOAL WEIGHT: 14.5

I usually hop on first thing in the morning, right before I shower, so the significance of the numbers didn't kick in until I was conditioning my hair, because the whole time I was focused on a new subtitle, "I'll take what I can get," forgetting I wasn't starting out at 145 like I did last week and thinking I'd only lost half a pound. But then it hit me: Was 146 last week! Was horse with feedbag! Lost a pound and a half this time!

I am so happy I swear I could shit rainbows.

And let me tell you, I worked my ass off for that pound and a half. When Luke and I went to Red Lobster on Friday night to finally redeem his birthday gift card from my sister and brother-in-law, I ordered grilled chicken and a baked potato instead of the fried strips I really wanted. On Saturday, when I met up with some Indianapolis-area bloggers at a restaurant right down the street from my apartment (who were fabulous, by the way), my eyes feasted hungrily on the choices at my disposal: baby-back ribs, steak, big fat juicy burger, even spinach dip! But I already knew I'd be going to Red Robin the next day (Samantha was in town and had not yet been introduced to their deliciousness) so I went for chicken once again, this time chicken fajitas, and what do you know, they were awesome. I had my big fat juicy burger the next night, even some cheesesticks and fries, so my hopes for recording a loss were slowly beginning to dwindle. And after Luke's St. Patrick's Day feast, I assumed all was lost, so much so that yesterday afternoon I even had a Snickers bar because really, when you're convinced that progress is no longer possible, what's one more guilty pleasure?

But all wasn't lost! The only thing lost was weight. I lost weight because I made some better food choices and even managed to take a couple of walks before the rainy weather returned. The size-twelve black pants I bought from Express have more give in the waist, and.... Well, that's about it, no other noticeable differences, but I don't care. Like I said earlier, I'll take what I can get. Especially since I'm still so down about returning to work. It was so heartening to see that I really can do this.

It's going to be a good day.

Weight Loss Wednesday: At least I said "No" to KFC last night; that's like losing three pounds right there

It's my first official weigh-in since announcing my goal weight last week, but not even the pressure of sharing my numbers online was enough to change my ways.

LAST WEEK'S WEIGHT: 145
CURRENT WEIGHT: 146
POUNDS TO GOAL WEIGHT: 16

The first half of the day continues to go well: Cheerios, sandwich, fresh fruit, raisins, yogurt, some 100-calorie Honey Maid crisps, and a mug of hot chocolate for a pick-me-up around ten. It's the after-work hours that slay me.

I know what the problem is. The problem is I go to bed at eleven-thirty, and by the time I come home I've been running around for almost twelve hours on less than six hours of sleep. I'm tired. I'm out of sorts after being gone from Kara all day. Luke's worn out from being WITH Kara all day. My only source of comfort is food. The burger and fries I had on Sunday night made me feel good. The spinach dip on Monday was like chicken soup for my soul.

But both times, after the first few bites, I felt guilty. Guilty for completely disregarding my weight-loss goals and not taking my high cholesterol more seriously. I want to be successful at this. I need to be successful. I just need better motivation.

I also need exercise, and with spring on the way, that will finally be possible. Luke and I are going stir-crazy in this apartment, biding our time until the snow melts permanently and the temperature's high enough to take Kara for a stroll. Indianapolis has some wonderful parks and walking trails; those paired with my early schedule and Daylight Savings Time should mean we'll have no problems becoming one with The Great Outdoors. I'd love to take advantage of the complimentary gym membership now offered by my company as well, but honestly, I don't think I could stand another two hours a week away from home, not when our "situation" is still so new.

I mean, could you hit the treadmill knowing this face was waiting for you?

I didn't think so.

For more health-related goodness, check out the conversation over at Parents regarding the controversial HPV vaccine. It's wicked fun.

Weight Loss Wednesday: Game on!

But only for like eight minutes because my alarm is set for five o'clock in the morning, which means I should've gone to bed yesterday. I promised you a Weight Loss Wednesday, though, and a Weight Loss Wednesday is what you're gonna get.

Minus the actual weight loss.

CURRENT WEIGHT: 145
GOAL WEIGHT: 130

With numbers like those, a sane and rational person wouldn't let the clerk at the Bureau of Motor Vehicles assume she was still a hundred and twenty pounds when updating her driver's license last week. She wouldn't delude herself into thinking her weight gain wasn't that noticeable or that wearing a black tee shirt would totally camoflauge her bowl full of jelly.

God, would I love to meet HER.

And things were going so well, too. Remember back in January when I was all, "Look at me, I've lost all this baby weight, I'm gonna be the best me ever, blah blah blah"? I used to wonder how a new mother could possibly gain weight when she's on her feet for ninety percent of her day, feeding the baby, bouncing the baby, changing the baby, the baby, the baby, the baby. Now I know that stress and sleep deprivation bring on the mad munchies more powerful then even the strongest pot (I'm assuming, I seriously never took more than a drag, and even that I messed up). Somewhere between then and now I forgot what apples looked like and stuffed myself with potato chips. I've consumed Reese's Cups at 9:00 a.m. and Snickers ice cream bars at noon. I'm not proud of this. But I didn't care enough to do anything about it until I was crying in Eddie Bauer's dressing room because I couldn't squeeze my ass into a pair of jeans.

Life is already hella-emotional right now without throwing my body issues into the mix, but I actually think returning to work will play a key role in forming better eating habits, mostly because the lab doesn't stock their freezer with Ben and Jerry's and my fingers will be too busy pecking at the keyboard to open a candy wrapper. That alone should shave at least five pounds off my mid-section, but just in case, I'm also vowing to pack lighter lunches and increase my water intake. Today started strong; I began my morning with Honey Nut Cheerios and sliced banana, had two cups of hot chocolate for a little caffeine rush, and devoured a roast beef deli sandwich, handful of raisins, and one sorely missed apple for lunch. But Luke and I were both so disoriented from our very long day that come dinnertime we said "Screw nutrition" and grabbed a pizza from Papa Murphy's. At least it was vegetarian.

I originally planned to talk more about my fitness plan and how I decided on my goal weight, but seeing as it's already eleven o'clock and I have to get up at the butt crack of dawn, you'll have to make do with my not-entirely-cohesive ramblings and one adorable baby picture.

Friday can't come fast enough.

On the bright side, my socks still fit

First off, last Friday's BFF was so awesome that Luke and I were actually inspired to rent Raising Arizona. My first choice was Good Will Hunting, since the burger bit Fraulein N posted reminded me I've yet to see this movie, but it was out. Out! What are the odds? So Luke called me from Blockbuster and asked for a runner-up, and I pulled up the entry and read through the comments until the glory that is 1987 Nicolas Cage sprang up from the monitor, and there you have it. I hadn't seen it since middle school, and if I were the one sporting a diaper instead of Kara, I'd have changed it more times than I have fingers. (You know, because of the laughing.)

Second, I'll be taking these here Huggies and any cash you got.

Third, did you know 1987 was 21 years ago? GOD.

Anyway, last Thursday was my big back-to-work shopping spree, and it went...okay. First stop? Indy's fancy schmancy Fashion Mall, home to the state's only Sephora. It opened just shy of three years ago, meriting a feature in the city's daily newspaper, and the only reason I knew what it was at the time was Amalah. I'd only really started wearing make-up the year before, thanks to my friend, Kendra, who dragged me to the Clinique counter at the now-defunct Parisian's and got me done up all nice and purty like. I've been a Clinique fan ever since. (Actually, I'm a fan of ALL make-up counters, simply for the fact that I'm horrible at determining things like whether or not my foundation should be Nude or Shell and I'd rather pay twenty dollars on one I've tested personally then three due through trial and error.)

ANYWAY, Sephora. I've been in Sephora a couple of times before to buy primer and lip gloss, but I mostly stick to Clinique because the girls at the counter are always uber-nice and I'm not overwhelmed by thirty-seven million products. However, Amalah's Advice Smackdown column gives testimony to a variety of life-changing beauty essentials, ninety-eight percent of them outside of the Clinique family, so I thought What the hell and decided to branch out. Plus, my skincare regimen, which until three days ago consisted of a horribly drying Clearasil face wash and Clinique's Dramatically Different Moisturizing Gel (the latter of which you'll have to pry from my cold, dead hands, it's that silky on my cheeks), was in desperate need of an upgrade.

Before embarking on my journey, I made a list of the items I planned to hunt down:

• "On A Clear Day" acne starter kit by Philosophy
• Sue Devitt 70% Seaweed Gel Foundation
• Foundation primer
• Eye cream
• Mascara

Originally I thought about investing in some new blush and eye shadow, but seeing as I barely take the time to wash my freaking face, I thought it best to focus on products that'll manage or at least camoflauge my skin problems. Plus, I was already worried about how badly this delightful little trip might dent my bank account. But am working mother! If I have to leave my kid, I'm going to look damn good doing it.

Walking in, I wasn't quite sure where to start, because the products are sorted by brand, not item category, so you can't just head to the foundation section, you have to find the foundation section of every product in the store. Since I was firm on the Philosophy kit, I found the acne gift set first and luckily was approached by a sales consultant who helped me take care of the rest. I told her about my oily complexion and frequent break-outs (which she could tell just by looking at me, how embarrassing), and she suggested Smashbox Photo Finish Light Foundation Primer and LORAC Breakthrough Performance Foundation, so I forgot about Sue Devitt and went with that, but not after frantically scouring through Clinique's partial display for appropriate substitutes, because oh my God, I never thought I'd pay thirty-six dollars for PRIMER, but Clinique doesn't make a primer, and while they do carry oil-free foundation, they don't include SPF, and SPF is a must for long-term skin care, according to Amalah and any dermatologist, and I'm not about to whip out my Banana Boat sunblock when I'm still wearing a winter coat.

After realizing I'd already spent a hundred and twenty bucks without yet buying a stitch of clothing, I almost flaked out on the eye cream, but then I remembered my new working-mother stance and thew in Clinique's All About Eyes because it was the cheapest one I could find. Apparently Clinique is to Sephora what CoverGirl is to Clinique. Fabulous.

End result: one hundred and fifty-seven dollars, but that's OK because I swear I'm already seeing a difference. Plus, I scored a free mascara for signing up for their rewards program, so I guess we know who came out on top there. Suckas.

On to mall number two, where my precious New York and Company awaited my return.

I had high hopes for New York and Company and thus felt no shame in throwing shirt after pant after sweater over my arm, wondering how much I could justify to Luke and also if tears would be necessary to earn financial absolution. But after an hour and a half of looking at myself in the dressing room mirror, sucking in my stomach as hard as I could, and seriously considering hauling ass to Motherhood Maternity, I ended up with three shirts and a sweater, and I returned the sweater and two of the shirts after a brief stint at the Limited, where I scored dress slacks and a collar shirt that gave my squishy mom bod more dependable support. It didn't help that I'd forgotten to wear my shaper from home, one I picked up last summer before Kara began to wreak havoc on my belly button (seriously. I don't think it'll ever look the same) and actually does what it's supposed to do (SHAPE) and not just serve as a cover-up layer for the season's latest boobie tops (hint, hint New York and Company). By the time I made it to Eddie Bauer, Luke called to see how I was doing, and I broke down a little bit right there in the dressing room. Oh, how I long for the days of size-ten pants and small-to-medium tees!

In other words, best shopping spree EVER.

When I got home, Luke gave me a pep talk about how my body was only nine weeks postpartum and still needed time to heal, and I read your comments on this entry and perked up even more. I thought a lot about Christina's Clinton-and-Stacy-inspired remark about how nobody looks inside your pants and wondered why we gals let ourselves get so worked up on the number aspect of our clothing, especially since all the stores follow completely different sizing guidelines. None of the twelves at NY&C fit quite right, but the twelves at the Limited were almost perfect; just a tad of muffin top, but nothing a baggy shirt couldn't conceal.

Then I went to Old Navy and surrendered to a pair of size-fourteen jeans because the twelves were just too effing tight. I would've cried if they didn't fit me so well. Not only was there NO muffin top, they were even a bit roomy.

So today I'm heading back to the mall to exchange my new dress slacks, because I'd rather admire myself in pants two sizes bigger than my pre-pregnancy clothes then settle for the next size up simply because I can lock the zipper. Hell, now I'm questioning whether I was ever a ten in the first place.

Despite my liberating epiphany, though, I'm thinking it's time to revive Weight Loss Wednesday, so be on the look-out for that in a couple of days. Because that won't be depressing at all!

In other news, I finally broke my no-work-talk-on-maternity-leave rule and met with my supervisor for lunch on Friday. It was a nice way to get acclimated on what's been happening in my absence and mentally prepare myself for my return. Plus, I brought up and was approved for a new work schedule, so starting next Wednesday, I'll be pulling seven to three-thirty shifts with half an hour for lunch. I'm beyond excited about this. I'll miss traffic both ways and totally make it home in time for Judge Judy.

Seeing Kara will be nice, too.

142.8

It's amazing how relative life can be. For example, before I got pregnant, the number listed in this entry's title would've been reason enough to hole up in the bathroom and have a good cry, because for my height and frame, it would've pushed me out of all the pants I owned and categorized me as overweight. Now, though, exactly one month after delivering my first baby, seeing 142.8 on the scale makes me breathe a sigh of relief, because it means I've lost all but five pounds of my pregnancy weight. It means I can fit into my tee-shirts again, and my pajama pants, and my bras. It means for the first time since March, I physically feel like myself again.

For several days after my c-section, I was a mess. Stomach ballooned to the size of a volleyball, face and upper body holding enough water to quench the thirst of a high school chess team. (What? Those guys need fluids, too.) Looking at pictures taken during that first week actually make me cringe, because I barely recognize myself, so the fact that I'm posting one here is proof of just how much I love you all. I'm nothing if not about the honesty.

I'm not sure how it happened--a combination of pumping, baby bouncing, and eating small meals faster than the speed of light, probably--but it wasn't long before my uterus began to deflate, my double chin disappeared, and my cheeks stopped fashioning themselves after Alvin and the Chipmunks. I feel very lucky to have lost the bulk of my baby luggage so quickly, and even though I have yet to pull out my pre-maternity clothing, even though there's no way my current ass will make its way into my New York and Company jeans, and even though my stomach looks more like a plate of corned beef hash than my favorite banana pancake, you won't hear me complaining. I'm well aware that some women have a much harder time.

But there are still miles to go before I can call myself healthy.

Those of you who've been following me since my pre-baby days will remember my on-again, off-again quest to lose weight and get back to somewhere within a hundred and twenty-something pounds. You'll remember my successful bout with Weight Watchers almost four years ago, and how I fell off the point-counting wagon, and how in 2006 I started (read: stole from another fellow blogger) Weight Loss Wednesday to monitor my progress. You'll remember how the scale always seemed to fluctuate between the same five-pound range because I was never motivated enough to keep away from that damn (yet delicious, I'm sorry, baby, I didn't mean it) Ben and Jerry's. Truth be told, I was never THAT concerned, because I wasn't THAT overweight, and I could still shop at my favorite stores without wandering into the plus sizes, and there was plenty of time to get down to a respectable number. Really, if I wanted to, I could ditch that weight in a matter of weeks. If I really wanted to.

And then I had a baby, which has completely changed the way I view my body and the challenge of weight loss.

It's not that I'm disgusted with my appearance. For having a child surgically removed from my uterus, I think I look pretty damn good, thank you very much. I won't be wearing a bikini anytime soon, but I wasn't going to do that, anyway, no matter what the scale said. I'm proud my body was able to grow and deliver such a beautifully healthy baby and handle the recovery process so well. And I'm thankful I was able to get pregnant, so easily, without complications. Again, I know not everyone is so lucky.

But still, there are new obstacles for me to face. Like....

I was overweight before I had Kara. Now, there's another five pounds to deal with, which puts me that much farther from my overall weight-loss goal.

I was never a fan of my stomach. I had a gut roll that always poked through my tee-shirts, eliminating the possibility of wearing low-rise jeans, belly-bearing tops, and even belts because they always cut into my waistline, making it hard for me to sit comfortably. Now, though, it's been totally massacred. I have no idea if it's still transitioning back to its pre-pregnancy state or if what I've got is here to stay. I'd post a picture, but even I'm not that gutsy. (No pun intended.)

Before, I had a hard enough time making wellness a priority. I didn't put much effort into making healthy meals, and my YMCA membership didn't last more than a couple of months. Between work and my personal life, it seemed like I was always too busy to put energy into anything else. And now? I still have all of those things, plus a third person who depends on me to feed her when she's hungry and wipe her butt when she craps. If I was busy before, what the hell do I call myself now? How am I going to nip this in the bud once and for all, before I get pregnant with baby number two and gain even more?

Ironically, I think the whole reason I took on this new body shape will be the reason I get out of it: my daughter. I want her to have a fit mother. I want to be able to run through the park with her and go hiking with her and jump rope with her without gasping for breath. I want her to see me and know what it means to live a healthy life. I DON'T want her to look at me and think, "I hope that's not hereditary." I don't want her to see pictures of me in my younger days and wonder what the hell happened.

I want her to love me for who I am, but that means I have to be the best "me" possible. And there's still a long way to go.

I have a confession to make.

I think I thought I could have this baby and not gain weight.

Really! Despite the weight loss I experienced as a result of "morning" sickness in the early part of my pregnancy, my belly continued to grow, Freka continued to thrive, and my doctors continued to tell me not to worry. So I didn't. In fact, I relished it. I was a good ten pounds heavier than I should've been at the time we conceived and in no hurry to put on any more than absolutely necessary.

WEIGHT ON 2/28: 135.6
CURRENT WEIGHT: 136.4
TOTAL PREGNANCY POUNDS GAINED: 0.8

Holy automated scale, Batman! A positive number! I'm totally blaming the two bowls of Cocoa Puffs I had before I stepped on. The Snickers cheesecake I had after dinner last night may also have been a contributing factor.

Seriously, though, it was a little jarring. At my last appointment, my doctor said it's not always necessary to gain the standard twenty-five to thirty-five pounds, so long as I was subscribing to healthy eating habits. Which I was all for. Who doesn't want to be a tiny pregnant woman? But now reality has set in. I cannot gestate for nine months and stay within that coveted one-hundred-and-twenty-pound range I was striving for pre-conception. And that's OK.

Because I have new maternity clothes.

Before our trip to the Cheesecake Factory, Luke and I stopped by a couple of shoe stores and Mimi Maternity to find some things to wear for BlogHer next week. The cute, comfy ballet flats I bought in May are still cute and still flat, but they're not as comfy as I originally thought. Oddly enough, the bottoms of my feet are fine; it's the tops that suffer from the criss-cross of the tight elastic straps. As for clothing, well, I'm not down with the idea of rotating the same four tops for the next four months.

Every time I walk into Mimi, I am hopeful. Their items are classy and sophisticated and totally support the image of the "Don't hate me because I'm beautiful and with child" woman I always hoped to convey. However, they also charge eighty dollars for a damn top, so the most I've walked away with is their underwwear, which I don't even like anymore because they constantly fall off my belly. The high-cut Motherhood ones are much more my style, even if their sexuality is equal to that of a ripe peach.

Anyway, I don't know why I thought last night's visit would be different, because it wasn't, so Luke and I went to dinner and I ate my cheesecake, secretly hoping the sales pieces I found on Gap Maternity's Web site could arrive before I left next Thursday. Afterwards we hit a Target close to the mall so Luke could look for a new wallet, and I actually found some tee shirts that weren't unravelling at the seams or carting an outrageous price tag. So I bought four and wore one to work this morning, and oh my God, did I get the comments about how pregnant I looked!

But for the very first time, I didn't care. For the very first time, I felt comfortable in my new skin, wearing my new clothes and donning freshly trimmed hair. I wanted to get on with my bad mamma-jamma self.

You have no idea how scared I was that someone would walk in and witness me taking a picture of my own reflection in the company john. I suppose I could've blamed it on pregnancy brain.

What? It's Technically Still Wednesday

Geez, with only sixteen minutes left to Weight Loss Wednesday, you'd think there was bad news to report. But actually, I did myself proud.

LAST WEEK'S WEIGHT: 138.2
CURRENT WEIGHT: 137.2
POUNDS TO GOAL WEIGHT: 12.2

Not bad, right? I'm not sure how it happened, really, since not only did I move forward with my plans to indulge in a big, heaping bowl of spinach dip this weekend while my beloved was out of town, I did it TWO NIGHTS IN A ROW. Once on Saturday night while enjoying my long-awaited Sex and the City marathon, and once the night before at a quaint little pub with Jessi, a blog reader who works and attends law school in Indianapolis. I was so nervous about meeting someone whose sole perception of me was based on meticulously crafted entries and goofy pictures that almost always involve Photoshopping some of the acne off my cheeks, so afraid I'd look like an asshole when referencing something from my blog, as if I assumed people had nothing better to do then commit my archives to memory, but the minute I laid eyes on her happy smile outside the Aristocrat in Broadripple, I immediately relaxed and let myself be carried away by good conversation. Which lasted two hours. It was that awesome.

Plus, I felt a little like a rock star when we would delve into a new topic and she knew exactly what I was talking about, like when we were swapping stories about old boyfriends and I'd said only a few words about my second one before Jessi was like, "Oh, when you were Trophy Frema?" And I was like, "Oh, yeah!"

(How many of you have met other bloggers/blog readers? Did you have a similarly awesome experience?)

In other news, I can't deny my feelings any longer. I miss All My Children.

The Bible reading is becoming harder to keep up with, despite my intentionally leaving the Good Book in plain sight on the nightstand instead of tucked away on a shelf halfway across the room, but I still manage to get my time in more often than not. And I still enjoy it and feel like I've learned a lot. However, the absence of AMC from my daily routine is almost impossible to bear. No, I haven't cheated, thanks so much for your faith in me, that is, unless you count desperately flipping through soap mags in the check-out aisle at Target as cheating, which I don't, because I totally didn't learn anything about whether or not Krystal's had her illegitimate baby, Tad knows his own son is (unknowingly) (of course) playing daddy to the long-lost daughter he once thought died in utero, Babe's fake death has been brought to light, or Kendall is still carrying hottie Zach's child. Easter Sunday will indeed be a glorious day, because in addition to celebrating the resurrection of our Lord and Savior, I'll also be reprogramming my VCR to record channel six every week day at one o'clock eastern standard time. Let us rejoice and be glad.

On a related note, Carrisa asked me last week why I decided on AMC as my Lenten sacrifice, which was a perfectly valid question; after all, boycotting daytime television doesn't eliminate disease or help the poor or even make a difference to anyone but me. I really wanted to pick something, though, that hit me where it hurt, and if you had any idea how much time I spent catching up on episodes, lurking on message boards, and combing through character bios, you'd know that by the time Lent rolled around this year I was on the verge of obsessed. For my own peace of mind, I wanted to know that I wasn't as dependent on such a shallow form of entertainment as I thought, and when times got tough, I tried to remember how insignificant my sacrifice was when compared to what Jesus did for us, even though it was an insanely important part of my life. I love the history and the characters and the laughable plots and the inappropriate wardrobe choices made for Susan Lucci (how many times did she wear strapless dresses in November, girlfriends? How many?) and the guilty-pleasure escapism provided by the great and wonderful land of Pine Valley, but I had to prove to myself I could take a step back when that love got out of control.

How about the rest of you fellow Lenten observers? Are you happy with the choices you made regarding your own Easter sacrifice? (If in fact you gave anything up in the first place; I know not every Christian denomination does this.) How did you do? What did you learn?

P.S. Both Bethiclaus and David have decided to take the WLW plunge. Let's show 'em some love, shall we?

Baby Steps Wednesday

Baby steps, indeed.

LAST WEEK'S WEIGHT: 138.8
CURRENT WEIGHT: 138.2
POUNDS TO GOAL WEIGHT: 13.2

I blame the absence of any truly significant weight loss this week on Luke's surprise dessert Tuesday night. The day had been going so well otherwise; me weighing in at a respectable 137.2 that morning, the two of us feasting on a light dinner of grilled cheese and tomato soup, my future plans of nursing a small bowl of berry rainbow sherbet before bed. Then, suddenly, I noticed the oven was on.

Surprise! Luke said. Pillsbury cinnamon bread!

Foiled again!

In an effort to remain content with eating at home, we often pick up fun breakfast items from the grocery store to have on the weekends, like muffins or cinnamon rolls. Who knew one could partake in the joy during the evening hours?

After it finished baking, Luke presented his spontaneous masterpiece on one of our largest Target dishes, along with two forks, and we delighted in the gooey, frosty goodness. Ten minutes later, Luke had stopped with the delighting; meanwhile, I was packing it away like a rabid squirrel on the cusp of hibernating for the winter. The look on my husband's face clued me in that we probably weren't meant to finish it off in one sitting.

And to think I told my new ob/gyn I was giving diet and exercise "an honest try." Ha!

My appointment yesterday ended my journey to find a doctor who could manage both the care of my nether region and the delivery of my first child before either was actually necessary. The first one I met with two Fridays ago was receptive to all of my questions, but Dr. Wonderful (do you think she'll mind if I call her that?) took a more proactive approach in providing information. She initiated conversations about office procedures, equipment capabilities (3D ultrasounds right in their office!), how to time conception, standard L & D practices, and anything else you could possibly think of; plus, the fact that she was a young, healthy woman currently experiencing pregnancy herself--she's due at the end of the month--put me at ease right away. I knew within the first five minutes I'd found the right person.

Before I left, Dr. Wonderful sent me off with a generous sampling of prenatal vitamins, and it's now starting to hit me that holy crap, I'm trying to grow a baby inside of me. For the first time in my life, I'm counting the days on the calendar in anticipation of my next fertile window, Luke and I both so excited about finally taking the next step in our relationship as a family. There's no guessing how long it will be before the little person I'm so in love with already will assume his/her rightful place in the world, but knowing that we're finally OK with putting ourselves out there, well, right now that's fantastic enough.

Not so much that I'm laying off the junk food, apparently, but fantastic just the same. I'll get there, sweet baby, I promise!

A Blush-Inducing Public Service Announcement

The memory of losing my virginity is one that will never lose color. I was eighteen years old and on the verge of jetting off to college, and Nick and I had been dating for three years--not straight through, but steady enough that each break-up led to a passionate reunion, and every reunion foreshadowed an angry shouting match complete with name calling, door slamming, and hot tears running down one or both of our faces. You know, all the elements of a deliciously amateur teenage romance.

In the summer of 1998, we'd been together consistently since prom (another post in the making), and from that night, I remember everything. The positioning of his lava lamp; our spot on the bed; the CD set to repeat on his stereo. I was convinced that melting into each other, in body and soul would seal our commitment to each other and provide Nick with the life-changing revelation that after sharing such an intimate experience with me, he'd never be interested in anyone else.

In the midst of clumsily trying to find our way around the bedroom, we both had sense enough to use a condom, and continued to do so for the first two months of our sexual relationship, but by the time we finally (unknowingly) severed all emotional ties two years later, the only layer of protection in place was my spotty use of the Pill. What can I say? We were both virgins when we started, and I never once thought Nick had been unfaithful. The only thing I cared about was not having a baby.

One month into my relationship with Mike, who was lucky enough to date Trophy Frema for ten months, I still believed that to be true. However, thanks to all the literature passed around in high school health class, I knew the most responsible course of action when taking on a new partner was to undergo testing for sexually transmitted diseases. At twenty-six years old, almost twenty-seven, Mike had been with twelve women, and it strengthened my resolve all the more.

That's another day I'll never forget, driving the two hours with him to a congested Illinois suburb to receive services at a free clinic sporting stark, white walls and rows of plastic chairs littered with outdated issues of the Chicago Sun-Times. We waited another hour and a half to be seen, and during that time we sat silently because, really, is any sort of small talk appropriate when you're waiting to find out if any previous sexcapades ruined your fertility or planted warts on your privates?

Once our names were called, each of us was whisked away to separate examining rooms, and I solemnly spread my legs as a doctor who couldn't pronounce my name performed a pap smear conducted a culture under harsh florescent lights. When it was over, the nurse who assisted him gave me a brown paper bag filled with female condoms, assuring me that "your guy will thank you for these, honey, I promise." After I donned my clothes, I found Mike already waiting for me in the lobby. "How did it go?" I asked.

He was pretty quiet until we were almost to the stairway, where he stopped, placed his hands on my shoulders, and said, "I love you, but I didn't go through with it." Something about them wanting to stick a Q-Tip through his you know and him vehemently denying access. We argued about it all the way to the car, but ultimately he won, because he said he wore a condom with his last girlfriend, and he'd been tested a few times before, and he was positive he didn't have gonorrhea, and that was that. And even though I knew he'd been with four women in the last twelve months because the forms had a spot for listing your number of sexual partners and he commented on 2000 being a pretty good year, I didn't push the issue. Adding to the madness was the fact that I was still on birth control, but we never used a condom. Not even the female ones endorsed by my overly enthusiastic free-clinic nurse. I was in love, and I trusted him. For almost a year I trusted him, until we broke up, and Luke and I started dating, and soon we were asking questions about the other's sexual history. We brought up the idea of STD testing but never took it any further.

Until this year.

While reading through my Kerflop-approved copy of Taking Charge of Your Fertility: The Definitive Guide to Natural Birth Control, Pregnancy Achievement, and Reproductive Health, I discovered a whole chapter dedicated to the correlation between STDs and infertility, and by the end I couldn't believe how reckless I'd been to kabosh testing after Mike and I parted ways. Suddenly all of my former hesitations--Where will I find another free clinic? What if the doctor calls me a slut? What if Luke thinks I don't trust him?--paled in comparison to the possibility of passing something harmful along to our future baby.

So today, after conducting my second ob/gyn interview in two weeks, I explained my concerns to the doctor, and she didn't grimace in disgust or tsk tsk at my careless behavior. Instead, she arranged for me to meet with the phlebotomist and have my blood drawn to test for HIV, hepatitis, and syphilis. I'll see her again in six weeks for a culture, where she'll gather samples to test for gonorrhea and chlamydia.

Do I think I have a sexually transmitted disease? No. Do I think Nick or Mike ever cheated on me? No. Do I think Luke contracted anything from his previous partner? No. Am I experiencing any out-of-the-ordinary symptoms? No.

But do I know for sure?

No.

And my budding family deserves better.

Edited to add: Upon further consideration, I don't think the exam I received at the free clinic was a pap smear, since they aren't able to check for STDs that way and the doctor knew that was my sole reason for coming in. Culture, the term my new ob/gyn used, is the correct term.

Bah Humbug Thursday

Because I can't very well call it Wednesday if I'm posting at 1:12 Thursday morning, can I?

My last official Weight Loss Wednesday entry was on March 7, when I delighted in a lovely reading of 135.8 pounds. Then I went to Chicago and had a grand ole time. Two pounds of grand, to be exact.

It's been downhill ever since.

LAST WEEK'S (SECRET) WEIGHT: 138.2
CURRENT WEIGHT: 138.8
POUNDS TO GOAL WEIGHT: 13.8

I don't know what happened to bring about this new blasé attitude, but for the last two weeks I've eaten whatever I liked without paying mind to the consequences. It all started the Thursday before our Chi-town extravaganza, upon Luke's receiving a totally well-deserved but completely unexpected cash bonus from work and our decision to celebrate with a dinner out; it snowballed on Friday with a trip to Steak 'N Shake after our Jerry Seinfeld show and climaxed several times during the weekend over mushroom pizza, my dad's barbeque ribs, and bagels at Panera to hold us over for the drive back home. The following Friday I gave in to my burning desire for two dollars and forty-two cents' worth of grease and potato at Chi-Town Dogs and Beef, maybe to relive happy memories from the city, I don't know, and then on Monday we dared to step foot in a local burger joint because nothing sounded good at home. The finale last night? Spinach dip. And if you think it's good with one cup of Parmesan cheese, imagine the ecstasy that follows an extra fourth. I don't know which was more offensive to my scale's delicate senses, the extra three pounds or the unabashed flatulence.

We were doing so well there for a while. I thought I'd finally become the master of my nutritional destiny, perfected avoiding the triggers that lead to junk-food cravings that in turn lead to spending money and ultimately credit card balances that give me nightmares to this day. One weekend away and it all went to pot. But for some reason I don't have it in me to muster up the appropriate level of concern, partly because I'm still living off the high you get from a smart hair cut and therefore have convinced myself I can wear the extra pounds so long as I keep my salon appointments, and partly because so many other things are out of wack that reflecting on my life's path over a mint chocolate chip ice cream cone from Baskin Robbins doesn't sound so bad.

What am I thinking about? I'm thinking about how Luke and I have accelerated our plans for family expansion and are curently moving full speed ahead in all things baby. About our very recent decision to hold off on buying a home right now and how this will probably lead to caring for an infant in this eensy weensy one-bedroom apartment, not to mention my dermatologist's "skin therapy" is leaving tiny red dots all across my nose and forehead and I'd much rather use the perscription money for a pedicure. Nothing's wrong, exactly--the baby news is quite exciting!--but it's like someone took the Earth from their gym shoes and sprinkled it all over our short-term road map. Dirt is everywhere. Everything feels unsettled.

Still hanging in there with Lent. I've slacked off a little on the Bible reading but haven't missed more than four nights altogether, and the characters on All My Children continue to manage fine without me, though sometimes I miss it so violently I can't hear. Luckily, Blockbuster Online has filled in some of that screen time; this month alone we've seen The Departed, Lady in the Water, The Night Listener, and two episodes off the second disc of Big Love, which, can I just say, made my night when I saw a Suze Orman cameo and Lionel Richie "Hello?" cover within just twenty minutes of each other. They almost made up for the absence of Bill Paxton's butt cheeks. I'm setting high standards for episode five.

The weather's still exhibiting Sybil-like tendencies, but the recent time change means the sun doesn't set until around eight o'clock here, so I'm sure it's only another couple of weeks before Luke and I can leave our own sneaker dust on the path of the city's various greenways and the trails winding through our state parks, which should increase my motivation to get physical (physical) once again. Plus, I've signed up for a free, six-course home-buying series at the local university over a series of lunch hours spanning March and April, so the more I learn about credit reports and mortgages and escrows and such, the less willing I'll be to blow our down-payment money on smoothies from the mall. At least, here's hoping.

(Speaking of credit reports, OMG. My first class in the home series focused on money management and credit maintenance, which whatever, Suze has so already told me everything I need to know, but it did encourage me to obtain a free copy of my credit report for the first time ever. By law, every individual is entitled to receive one free copy a year from each of the three major credit bureaus, but until now I was afraid to. It's kind of like going to the dentist; nothing's wrong as long as you don't go, right? But suddenly I knew I couldn't be a baby about it anymore. If there's an error on my report, it needed to be fixed before Luke and I stepped foot in a bank to ask for wads of dough. Luckily everything was in the proper order, and the report itself was surprisingly easy to read, but I was still blown away at the sheer amount of detail. I can tell you the highest balance accrued on the Fashion Bug card I had for two years in Rensselaer or what I paid towards my Limited statement in June 2005. I know all the different ways my name's been spelled in U.S. mail and how many different addresses I've had. Twenty-two pages. It's all there.

Have you ever seen your credit report? Because you so should. Really.)

(...And one more: Have you seen Isabel's rockin' post about TLF? If not, GO. Go now.)

Life-Is-Good Wednesday

Seven days in and already I love March. The sun is out longer, there's less ice to scrape off the windshield of my car, and current temperatures are leveling out in respectable double digits.

When it comes to Weight Loss Wednesday, though, I much prefer negative numbers.

LAST WEEK'S WEIGHT: 135.6
CURRENT WEIGHT: 135.8
POUNDS TO GOAL WEIGHT: 10.8

OK, so I didn't lose the pound and a half I vowed to in last week's update, but I'm still impressed because, point-two pounds? Please. That's the (eight) handful(s) of M&Ms I scarfed down over the weekend. It's the fudge pop I had while watching The Departed last night. If I'd kept away from both, I'd be at 135 even. At least.

When it comes to eating, weekends at home are the epitome of temptation. Flipping through the pages of Marie Claire is more interesting with a package of Fig Newtons, and it's incredibly difficult to watch television without feasting on some sort of delectable treat, but I'm getting better. The biggest change in my habits this past week has been my recent befriending of the water bottle, which gives me something to grab on to when I don't know what to do with my hands and keeps the urinary tract sufficiently flushed as I strive to reduce the frequency of my UTIs. We go everywhere together, though his countless attempts to score during our trips to the bathroom have been unsuccessful. He's a fresh one, that bottle.

 

My new, sexually-aggressive BFF. I think I'll call him Wilson.

I'm ready for spring. I'm ready to hit the trails of our state parks and get moving after four months of sitting like a blob on the couch. Our annual pass has been purchased, the gym shoes moved to a more prominent position in the closet. It's time.

Since Weight Loss Wednesday and Ash Wednesday fell on the same day, this time of the week always seems most appropriate for filling you in on my Lenten commitments. Still AMC-free, though I did read yesterday's update in the paper and was surprised to learn Zach and Kendall have come face-to-face with Alexander Cambias, Senior, aka Zach's presumed-dead father, aka Pine Valley serial killer, and my first reaction was to rush to my desktop and pull up the soap's message board to get the full scoop. I didn't, but boy, did I want to. I'm still not sure what I'll do come Easter. I love my show, but I enjoy my newfound free time. Luke certainly doesn't miss it. We'll see.

The Bible reading continues to be one of the best parts of my day. It's a peaceful way to wind down before lights-out, and I'm constantly (re)inspired by Jesus's words and teachings. Challenging myself to put them into practice is another story, but at least I'm thinking about people and things in a way that I wasn't before, even going so far as to seriously contemplate repairing one of the family bridges that was burned a couple of years ago (even though the other person totally started it) (apparently the eight-year-old in me is not competely on board yet). Which raises a question: when you decide to forgive someone, do you have to let them know? I mean, I'm sure she isn't spending her waking hours gazing out the kitchen window, secretly wishing to be part of my life again. I don't even know if she's aware of how much she hurt me. Maybe it's enough to internally put those feelings in the past and plaster on a happy face the next time I see her, which might very well be years away.

On the other hand, I could've behaved more gracefully, and Jesus does talk about "making peace with your brother before offering your sacrifice."

What are your experiences with forgiveness? Have you ever had to forgive someone for your own peace of mind? Has anyone ever forgiven you when you didn't expect it? Or, when you didn't think there was anything to forgive?

This isn't how I imagined ending this post, but now I'm curious. Bring it on.

Oh, What a Beautiful Wednesday

Oh, what a beautiful day!

LAST WEEK'S WEIGHT: 137.8
CURRENT WEIGHT: 135.6
POUNDS TO GOAL WEIGHT: 10.6

I knew a loss was coming. After pledging to stop binging for Jesus exactly seven days ago, I've been stepping on the scale every other morning in anticipation of Weight Loss Wednesday, looking for proof that my efforts weren't in vain. Apparently my Lord and Savior is a more effective motivator than being able to button my pants.

There's so much to talk about, and I've been meaning to blog every day since Monday, but for some reason the words aren't coming like I want them to. I've been pleasantly surprised at my ability to exert self-control, to step away from that bag of salt-and-pepper potato chips, box of Git 'Er Done™ chocolates received from well-meaning neighbors, and coveted package of Thin Mints before doing serious damage to my waistline and self-esteem. (This is good news for Luke, who gave up cookies for Lent. Poor Luke!) (Also, how evil are the Girl Scouts for scheduling their deliveries after Ash Wednesday?) The progress hasn't been huge--turning down a third slice of pizza is grand, but it's still pizza, and dude, two slices!--but I'm happy. To make my ten-pound goal more attainable, I'm setting several mini-goals to help me get there. For example: next week I'll aim for an even 134 on the scale. If I'm successful, I'll have lost my first five pounds since moving forward with this whole "Fitness Schmitness" attitude last November. (Well, it would've been five pounds; either way, I'm counting it as a big deal, seeing as my lowest weight thus far's been 135.) And if that happens, there will most definitely be a picture, which might be scary for all of us, seeing as I'm three weeks overdue for a hair cut. March 10th can't come fast enough.

In regards to my Lenten commitments, I've been doing well in that department, too. Last Tuesday I deleted the Monday-through-Friday recording of All My Children from my VCR and took my New American Bible down from its dusty spot on my bookshelf, placing it on top of the cheapie plastic filing cabinet next to my nightstand (on top of Christopher Pike's Spellbound, which I found at Half-Price Books for a quarter and am just now reading for the first time, OMG) so that I'm more likely to pick it up before bed. So far I've touched on the first couple of chapters in Genesis and the beginning of Matthew's gospel (including the introduction), and for the first time, I feel like I'm really thinking about the life Jesus lived and what he went through before he died. Also, with all the religious exploration I've done in the last year, I'm more interested in studying this Good Book as a historical text. I used to think the Bible was just the Bible--one universal table of contents, one agreed-upon translation--when really each denomination embraces a particular version and all of these versions have nuances unique to their sect and oh my gosh, it's a miracle Christianity survived when we all can't even agree on the same damn manual.

Anyway, let's move on to the AMC thing, which, let's face it, is probably what you're really most interested in. Logistically speaking, the not-watching part of it hasn't been hard; since I'm not taping it, and I don't have cable, and not having cable means not having SOAP NET, there's no way to cheat on that one unless I make the twenty-five minute commute back home to plop on my couch and catch up on Zach and Kendall's progress with the Satin Slayer (seriously one of the dumbest storylines this show has ever done but I still want to see Alexander Cambias, Senior brought to justice) in real time. And since making two round trips to work five times a day would put a serious damper on my gas budget, there you go. No AMC.

Giving up the message board, however, hasn't been as simple. Before last Wednesday, I was checking that puppy at least three times an hour, reveling in the latest batch of spoilers and enjoying discussions on controversial plot points, like whether or not Krystal carrying Tad's baby and passing it off as Adam's is just as detestable as her helping Babe keep Bianca's baby for ten months, allowing Bianca to believe that Miranda drowned in a river minutes after her birth (close, but the "your baby's dead" thing still wins). I enjoy reading episode threads maintained by various posters and the lively commentary they provide. Those people have no idea who I am, but lurking on that site has been a fun way to stay connected with a show that in 2004 fast became my favorite form of escapism.

As fellow AMC junkie Dawnie can attest to, committing to a daily program is no easy task; forty-five minutes a day isn't too bad, but when you miss Monday's episode, you spend the length of a movie catching up on Monday and Tuesday. Miss Monday and Tuesday and you're going to start your Wednesday two hours and fifteen minutes in the hole. "I'll just skim through the scenes with JR and Babe and Tad and Krystal and ignore the rest," you think, but suddenly it's twelve-thirty in the morning and you're wondering what the hell happened to your evening, and hey, at what point did your husband go to bed without you?

So this boycott, it's been a good thing. Though I was flipping through the entertainment section of the paper yesterday and accidentally glanced at the weekly soap update. Nothing was revealed I didn't already know, but still, it was enough to peak my interest. AMC, what have you done to me?

In other news, today is the last day of the first month of Luke's and my new budgeting system. More details tomorrow.

Double-Duty Wednesday

I was pretty sneaky last week, huh? Going on about my teenage years and former flames, parental trials and tribulations, basking in the afterglow of the Internet's sympathy, all the while ignoring the white elephant that was Weight Loss Wednesday.

I didn't skip out completely--I did submit myself to the unforgiving nature of the scale, and I was neither pleased nor surprised with the one-point-two extra pounds of insulation I seemed to have accumulated watching all those DVDs from Blockbuster Online.

Things aren't much better this week:

LAST WEEK'S WEIGHT: 138.2
CURRENT WEIGHT: 137.8
POUNDS TO GOAL WEIGHT: 12.8

Apparently skipping out on my after-dinner ice cream indulgence last night was just enough to register a loss this morning. Go me.

After work yesterday I abandoned the business-casual khakis I wore to the office and slipped into a pair of my favorite NY&C jeans, and I was horrified to realize how tight they felt in the thigh. I could still button them without cutting off circulation to my brain and legs, but it wasn't a comfortable fit, and I didn't make it further than watching Monday's episode of Heroes before I was rummaging through my dresser drawers, searching for my favorite draw-string pajama pants, pants that probably deserve an Honorable Mention in my hypothetical top five, so often are we together.

As I mull over another week of missed opportunities to become a stronger, healthier person, I also remember that today is Ash Wednesday, the first day of Lent, the first of forty days (forty-six, actually, thanks Wikipedia!) spent in preparation for Jesus's death on the Cross and subsequent resurrection. I can remember going to church after school with my mother as a kid to receive my yearly thumbing of ashes, contemplating a suitable sacrifice to show my thanks, which usually turned out to be something like cookies or chocolate (Chips Ahoy products being the ultimate tester, Mom loved to keep a package in the freezer) and I never made it past week two. Since stumbling blindly into adulthood, I can't remember making any Lenten offerings, but this year, in light of all that's taken place in my spiritual journey and how truly blessed I feel to enjoy this stage of my life with such a wonderful person, I think I have a special responsibiltiy to do something outside of myself, something to show God how appreciative I am for everything He's given me, which includes the body I spend so much time picking apart.

I complain and complain and complain about my rolly-polly belly, my alarmingly round face, my flabby back fat, and yet I continue to gorge myself on cookies and candy and handfuls of shredded cheese when I'm supposed to be washing pots and pans. I'm not thirteen pounds overweight because of a slow metabolism or gestating baby, but rather a lack of self control, and I've been so angry with myself for caring more about snacks than the importance of maintaining a healthy weight. It's not right, especially when I have an actual condition to control. In addition to wanting to be around for my husband and our future children for decades of years to come, I have an obligation to God to make smarter choices with this body He created specifically for me.

So, during this season of reflection, every time I reach for that bag of Keebler Fudge Stripes, every time I think of diving into a mountain of berry rainbow sherbet, I will remember what God has done for me and and treat my body with more respect. I will think before I open the pantry door. And I will remember that my spinach-dip recipe doesn't really need a full cup of Parmesan cheese. (Ah, cheese, both friend and foe!)

I am also giving up All My Children. What, you didn't think I'd take the easy way out, did you?

Since I've been dragging my feet over the weight-loss thing for such a long time, and since it's actually a personal benefit to slim down and eat better, it didn't seem right to offer my harmful caloric intake to God. I thought it would be more of a sacrifice to cut out a vice, something I genuinely love and encounter on a regular basis but doesn't add to my quality of life. Luke suggested spinach dip, but since I only pig out on a batch once or twice a month, that didn't work, either. Then he suggested my blog, and I laughed hysterically. AMC it is.

I also wanted to make a positive commitment during this time and settled on reading some part of the Bible every day. I like hearing scripture readings during church services, and though I studied scripture in high school and college, I don't remember a lot of what I learned, so I'm looking forward to reaquainting myself with the Good Book.

There's still one week to go before March, but already I'm experiencing a new beginning.

Greedy or Not Greedy? (See Also: Could've-Been-Worse Wednesday, But We'll Get to That)

Last week I mentioned several topics I've been meaning to address in upcoming entries, and seeing as tonight I experienced a series of conniptions over a social worker's rejection of almost two hundred thousand dollars, this is the perfect time to discuss Deal Or No Deal, only the best game show to hit television since Ray Combs hosted the Family Feud.

Besides the charming, gloriously bald essence that is Howie Mandel, one of the reasons I'm so enraptured with DOND is that at any given moment, the life of an average Joe (or Josephine) can change forever--if you know how far to push your luck. You're delighted for the middle-class construction worker who can open up his own restaurant, for the Italian retiree who can finally pay off his home and arrange for quality medical care.

(Unless you're the twenty-year-old college student who settled out of the game for a pink Escalade, a vehicle whose value will depreciate faster than you can release your own urine, in which case you deserve every high-interest loan this world has to offer, you stupid, foolish twit.)

Whether the amount is ten thousand or one million, that money is a gift that holds the power to relieve burdens and rectify situations that otherwise might've taken decades to resolve. And of course, it doesn't escape your attention that, one day, that contestant could be you.

Every time Howie relays the banker's latest offer, I think about what I would do with that money, understanding that my priorities will change according to the rise and fall of the numbers. If it's twenty thousand dollars, I'd pay off the Cobalt and set aside the remaining dough for a down payment on a house, which when combined with Luke's and my savings would total that magical twenty percent. With fifty thousand, I'd spend ten on the house, ten on the car, and pay off my private Sallie Mae loan, whose monthly payment fluctuates every quarter and will soon be equal to the price of our new digital camera. With a grand, I'd put it towards the Visa and thank the Lord we didn't have to pull from savings to foot the bill. I don't even entertain the million because seriously, people, nobody on this show has ever gotten the million. You have a better chance of marrying your second cousin than you do winning a million dollars, which is exactly why I don't understand the contestants who turn down offer after offer after offer because they're confident the million is in their case. They're on a mission. They "deserve" this money, and they're going to get it.

Except when they don't. Emika, tonight's audience pick, was a social worker with a small son who admitted her salary was fewer than 50K a year. In the first round she knocked out five amounts smaller than fifteen hundred dollars, thus increasing her chances of toting a significant wad of Benjamins in her case, so she passed on twelve months worth of income. She did it again at sixty-one thousand, and sixty-eight thousand, and again at eighty-four thousand, and once more just for the hell of it at ONE HUNDRED AND SEVENTY THOUSAND DOLLARS. Approximately four times her pay. The cost of one middle-class house. A mind-blowing retirement account that could reap immeasurable benefits via compounding interest. Paid tuition for her son to the best schools this country has to offer. But she said no. And why? Because a two-million dollar figure taunted her from its place on the tally board. Because her mother grabbed her by the shoulders and urged her to open one more case, even though the next highest amount plummeted to fifty thousand bucks. Because even though Emika was visibly sobbing over the thought of saying "No deal" to such a life-changing amount of money, according to her, "I came here to win."

So she opened one more case--the two-million-dollar case--and minutes later received an offer of seventy-five hundred dollars, barely the cost of a used car.

Oh, was I mad, because I so badly wanted this woman to win her some money. I wanted to see her cry tears of joy when she realized she would never lack for anything again, that this money provided a platform on which to build new opportunities, a new life that didn't involve debating over generic versus name-brand products at the grocery store or fretting over how to finance her son's continuing education or even her own. But no. A hundred and seventy thousand dollars is a miracle, but not miracle enough. Thanks anyway, Jesus!

Lucky for her she still made a good deal, eventually accepting 15K before learning her own case contained just two pennies. It could've been worse; last month, some pervy dude from Alabama turned down two hundred and fifteen thousand dollars only to walk away with a fin. Here, buddy; enjoy this White Castle sack with NBC's compliments.

This may sound incredibly naive, but I would never want to win a million dollars, mainly because it'd create more problems than I'm equipped to handle. When you have that much money at your disposal, how in the world do you spend it? Which charities do you support? Which requests do you honor? Should every single relative on both sides of the family get a small cut, even if they already make a comfortable living, or do you reserve it for the ones in danger of having their heat turned off? Will Grandma Ethel bitch about her five thousand because she knows it could've been fifty? Will any amount you offer ever be enough?

I once read in a magazine that it makes Howie physically ill to see so many people casually dismiss six-figure amounts in search of the elusive mill. Well, Howie, if I ever make it to the show, I won't even think about the damn million. If I could get the Sallie Mae monkeys off my back, I'll call it a day and let you touch my breasts and then invite you to live with Luke and me in our new villa in France. As a strictly platonic token of my gratitude, of course. As long as you stay bald.

Not that he's on my top five or anything, or that I even have a top five.

(However, in case you follow the link, know that my last (hypothetical) spot is currently being filled by John Krasinski of Office fame. We could be Frim!)

In other news, thank you all so much for your supportive comments regarding my upcoming leap into academia. So far, it looks like I'll be teaching for two and a half hours on Thursday nights from late August to mid December, with one week off for Thanksgiving. In the meantime, I spend the majority of my waking hours devising the class syllabus and determining my overall goal for the course, which so far is to compare and contrast current blogging styles to personal memoirs and essays and give students a taste of the current blogging culture. I also want to demonstrate the practical application of blogs in fields like marketing and business and their ability to generate income through ads, merchandising, and paid writing gigs. I already know I'll require students to maintain their own blogs and explore non-literary features that can enhance the blogging experience and their place in the blogging community--photography, videos, podcasts, widgets, etc. This means I'll be doing a lot of research and mucho head-banging against my computer monitor because I'll be damned if I even know what a widget is. But that's what books are for.

I'll be especially eager to pick your collective Internet brain. Who are your favorite personal essayists? Favorite bloggers? What attracts you to someone's site? What can turn you away? Be on the look-out for future posts on all of these topics and more as I attempt to tackle blogging in a way that validates its credibility and elevates it to a more sophisticated level. (In your face, MySpace!)

Finally, lest it think it's been overshadowed by a hottie game-show host or trendy online phenomenon, it's Weight Loss Wednesday. (At least it was two hours ago when I started this entry. Whoops.)

LAST WEEK'S WEIGHT: 135.8
CURRENT WEIGHT: 137
POUNDS TO GOAL WEIGHT: 12

Normally I'd be more upset over my set-your-watch-by-it lack of progress, but I received a couple of esteem-boosting compliments from Saint Joe friends over the weekend and Luke complimented my knack for filling out Banana Republic turtlenecks, so I'm gonna take the numbers for what they're worth and appreciate that my husband thinks I'm hot. Whatever helps you sleep at night, you know?

Wahoo! Wednesday

I did it! I lost weight! And all without resorting to bulimic tendencies.

LAST WEEK'S WEIGHT: 138
CURRENT WEIGHT: 135.8
POUNDS TO GOAL WEIGHT: 10.8

But don't pat me on the back just yet. Remember what I said last week about dumb luck? Well, she must've been a lady for every night of last week, because not only did I continue to avoid the gym, but Luke and I finally took official measures to axe our membership. We're both sad about it, because we really do like working out, but the motivation to get us through those blasted double doors just isn't there, and I don't want to flush another sixty-nine dollars down the toilet while we coax ourselves into a better mindset. Fortunately the Y doesn't charge registration or cancellation fees, so we can pick up where we left off any old time we want to. Which helps to lessen the blow--a little.

In the meantime, I'm going wallow in self-pity over the plethora of dental problems currently plaguing our household. You'll recall that two weeks ago a permanent crown fell out of my mouth, requiring another trip to the dentist and the refastening of my silver bling with temporary cement until he could schedule another appointment for an impression. "If it falls out again," he said, "don't worry about it. You'll be back in another few weeks and we'll take care of it then."

As luck would have it, the blasted thing DID fall out again, last Tuesday while I was at work. Because a root canal was performed on the original tooth just six months after the crown, I'm unable to detect sensitivity or pain, so I simply shrugged it off until Monday night, when a piece of said tooth broke off during a marathon viewing of the last four episodes of All My Children (Dixie is dead! Because she ingested poisoned peanut-butter-and-banana pancakes originally meant for her skanky daughter-in-law! If that's not infuriating enough, her 2006 storyline revolved entirely around finding the little girl she gave up for adoption four years ago after receiving substantial injuries from a plane crash in Switzerland and being suckered into signing away her parental rights by her doctor, who told her she was on the verge of death and hinted that Tad would resent Kate for taking Dixie's life. And then she croaks before learning her daughter is now living in PINE FREAKIN' VALLEY. Though viewers were treated to Dixie's spirit realizing the truth and blowing her daughter kisses before ascending into Heaven and flashbacks to all three of her weddings to Tad. Hiccup sob blah).

Anyway, the tooth. I tossed the fragment into the garbage can and indulged in a mini-freak out, because what if they can't save what's left? What if it's so weak and decayed that the dentist opts to pull it and drill another post into my gums? So I called his office in a slight panic yesterday morning, and Betty, the sent-from-above hygenist who held my hand and dried my tears during the whole implant procedure, assured me there were other ways of fastening the crown without replacing what little of the tooth I appear to have left. They'll assess the decay and outline my options first thing tomorrow. Because there's no better way to motivate yourself for a nine-hour work day than a consultation for hundreds of dollars of anticipated dental work, work that doesn't include the extraction of Luke's wisdom teeth OR the minor gum surgery he'll have this spring. Praise Jesus for insurance.

Moving on....

After reviewing yesterday's post, I realized that for all my talk of houses and cars and stay-at-home parenting, I neglected to address the most emotional topic of all: baby making!

Before the wedding, Luke and I had planned to start trying for kids as early as the honeymoon, so eager were we to start our family. However, when forty days passed and we confirmed I wasn't pregnant, we decided to hold off until Luke found a job and we had stabilized our finances. Once that happened, we agreed to start this summer. And even as we bounce back and forth like ping-pong balls over every other issue under the sun, this is the one plan we continue to agree on. It's the one plan that hasn't changed.

I'm not sure why I feel the need to spell that out for everyone. Maybe it's due to the fact that whenever I broach the subject of getting our ducks in a row before making The Leap, many people like to remind me that Luke and I can never adequately brace ourselves for parenthood; there will never be enough money or time or insurance or enough square footage, and we'll never have all the answers. And I know that. I have no intentions of allowing the best part of life to pass me by because I was busy worshipping a spreadsheet.

That said, I also don't like the idea that family, friends, or even blog readers might be calling me naive for wanting to buy a house or have a baby without worrying about foreclosure or having to transform one of my dresser drawers into a makeshift crib. For cripe's sake, I'm only 27 years old. My clock isn't ticking. I have not been diagnosed with a fatal illness. Waiting a few months or even a year to procreate doesn't seem unreasonable or even idealistic to me.

Not that I'm defensive or paranoid or anything. Not at all.

Weight Loss Wednesday

Sometimes I feel silly continuing this weekly update when it's clear I haven't really committed myself to eating better or losing weight.

When I'm at a restaurant, it never occurs to me to choose the grilled chicken and vegetables platter because I'd rather be scarfing down a burger. On the drive home from work, I no longer contemplate taking the interstate exit that leads to the Y. The perky little gym bag I bought at Target last fall was sitting on the floor of my bedroom collecting dust until this weekend, when I finally emptied the contents and tucked it next to the tupperware bins of journals and yearbooks competing for space in my closet. Any weight I lose isn't a result of hard work or will power. It's just dumb luck.

And dumb luck doesn't last very long.

LAST WEEK'S WEIGHT: 137.2
CURRENT WEIGHT: 138
POUNDS TO GOAL WEIGHT: 13

It's in moments like these that I have to remind myself I'm not doing this (solely) for the Internet's entertainment. I'm doing this because my cholesterol is high and I'm fifteen pounds heavier than someone with my frame should be and I want to have a baby and I don't want to carry him/her in an unhealthy environment.

When defending myself TO myself, I grudgingly acknowledge that a few changes have been made to the food Luke and I keep in the house and the way I eat during the day, at least while I'm at work. For example, there are no Wal-Mart fruit smiles or pudding cups waiting to be consumed as mid-day snacks. My lunches have become fairly simple: unless we're trying to finish off dinner leftovers, it consists of a half-cup of Campbell's soup and two servings of fruit (fresh or canned). I stopped stashing granola bars in my desk because the more food I have at my disposal, the more I will eat. I'll never be that girl who can eat whatever she wants and not gain a pound. And when I do lose weight, eating right will never be enough to shave off the gut I've been sporting since the age of eleven.

Instead of losing heart, I need to face my reality and stop pretending someone else's happy-go-lucky diet plan will work for someone like me. I enjoying eating and eating often. My body enjoys storing fat. I need to take this information for what it is and not bitch and moan about how cool it would be to fit into a size six jeans. I need to embrace my eight/ten waist and do what I can to make sure it stays that way. There is no fairy godmother waiting to flick a magic wand and change the way I think about food or how my body processes it. I've got to do it myself.

What's killing me about today, though, is that in light of Molly's weight-loss challenge, I've been weighing myself every other day to monitor my progress, and until this morning, the numbers were favorable. On Sunday, I was still in the 137 range. Monday morning, 136.2. However, after I weighed in I took Luke to the airport to catch a 6:30 plane to California, where he'd spend the next three days on business, and I used his absence to justify devouring an entire batch of spinach dip all by myself. And STILL this wouldn't have been a big deal, except the dip...alters my bathroom habits for several hours, so it wasn't until I got to work that I, um, took the kids to the pool, if you know what I mean, which of course you do because what the hell else could I possibly be talking about?

Molly, I swear, next week there'll be a loss, even if I have to stick an index finger down my throat to make it happen.

But this new attitude will have to wait until tomorrow, because I'm picking up my husband from the airport tonight and he's already requested a stop at Steak 'n Shake. And because I'm such a loving wife, I'm happy to oblige him.

(Just kidding about the barfing part. It's OK to laugh.)

Weight Loss Wednesday

Feelin' good, people, feelin' good! I'm wearing my super-comfortable gauchos, pain-free brown boots, and less weight than I did this time last week. Miracles, they do happen.

LAST WEEK'S WEIGHT: 138.6
CURRENT WEIGHT: 137.2
POUNDS TO GOAL WEIGHT: 12.2

I'm not really sure HOW I lost the weight, since I pigged out on TGI Friday's beef brisket and a Pot Belly's roast beef sub within a twelve-hour timespan, but when faced with a miracle, it's in one's best interest not to ask questions.

Unless those questions are about a costly gym membership. Luke and I have discussed this on and off for the last few days without coming to any real conclusion.

In theory, we're both serious about wanting to commit to a regular fitness program. The Y is a seven-minute drive from our apartment; unless we decide to shack up in the facility's parking lot, you can't get any better than that. The branch is less than a year old, so the equipment's top notch. At the end of our work-out, we always feel better than we did coming in. What is the problem?!

The problem is reality. In reality, we function better at night and stay up too late to put in sufficient time on the treadmill before breakfast without wanting to crash after dinner. In reality, at five o'clock we're more excited about coming home to each other and our pajama pants than spending another hour at a place that isn't home. (OK, so I'M the one who tosses the work clothes aside for pjs. The SexyBack giveth, and the SexyBack taketh away.) When push comes to shove, we're mentally burned out.

But there's something about the gym that keeps us holding on. As long as we continue to renew our membership, there's still hope that one day we'll fulfill our half of the bargain and actually use the machines we pay to access. Continuing our membership gives us motivation to get our squishy asses off the couch. Being open to even the possibility of swiping that plastic card at the Y's front desk means we're not failures.

One option we've talked about is eliminating the Y from our budget and paying for an annual state park entrance permit instead. It's way cheaper--just thirty-six dollars for the whole year--and we'll be paying for an activity we truly enjoy. The majority of our weekend trips revolve around hiking, camping, and frolicking at the beach, anyway, so this would just encourage that.

What do you guys think? Are we awful for giving up before we even really get started, or does it make sense to axe the Y and explore different ways to get in shape?

In other news, the crown is back in my mouth, held into place with temporary cement until the dentist can see me again in February, at which time he'll fit me for a new, permanent piece. Since I was so busy reading through yesterday's entry for typos, I didn't get out of work until forty minutes before my scheduled appointment, which means I didn't have time to pick up my old one on the way. I called the receptionist twice to make sure this wasn't a problem, and twice she assured me it wasn't. That is, until I got to the clinic and waited an hour and fifteen minutes to be seen for my "emergency" fit-in, only to be chastised by the denist for not bringing in the original crown. If looks could kill, some funeral director would be pumping that woman's limbs with embalming fluid as we speak.

Since it would've taken another hour and a half for me to go home, pick it up, and come back, I did what any married woman would do--call her husband and beg him to make the drive himself. Which he did, bless his white little heart, and the doctor took all of four minutes to stick the thing back on tooth number fourteen. By this time it was seven o'clock and we were about to eat our own arms for nourishment, so we hopped over to Bennigan's, home to The Best Spinach Dip In The Universe. I planned on ordering that and nothing else, fully content to bask in the glory that is spinach and artichokes on seasoned flat bread.

Imagine my surprise, then, upon learning that the dip had been removed from their appetizer menu ONE DAMN YEAR AGO. I almost burst into tears right in front of the waitress.

A perfect ending to a perfect day.

Weight Loss Wednesday

Why is it my body decides to malfunction right on the cusp of Weight Loss Wednesday? Last week it was dizziness and vomit. Today? A head cold, a cold that got me into bed early two nights in a row. On Monday I was under the covers by ten and didn't wake up until six the next morning. Yesterday I made it to eleven, but only because I wanted to catch the end of Law and Order: SVU, during which Blair Underwood set his ex-wife on fire.

Unfortunately, the scale doesn't care how stuffed up your nose is or how dangerous Blair Underwood is with a bottle of gasoline. He is just the messenger, cold and heartless.

LAST WEEK'S WEIGHT: 137
CURRENT WEIGHT: 138.6
POUNDS TO GOAL WEIGHT: 13.6

Thanks to my fancy schmancy scale, demicals have now entered the picture, which means I have to record this week as an almost two-pound gain. Crap.

Why have I lost my motivation? I attribute part of it to the shopping sprees I had in December. Wearing new clothes can make you feel like you've lost five pounds, when in real life all you did was purchase some cute t-shirts whose hems you don't have to yank on every eight seconds to cover your pot belly. It also helps that my hair's been on its best behavior and my feet are sporting a different pair of shoes every day. Why pay attention to my expanding waistline when I can admire my heels or the curls I was able to shape with only two of my three styling products?

It might also be due to the fact that my weekend was bookmarked with trips to Longhorn Steakhouse and Ted's Montana Grill. I suppose a gain shouldn't come as a complete surprise.

It's been a month and a half since I walked into the gym, and if the YMCA wasn't a Christian organization, I'd feel like Luke and I were throwing our money away; as it currently stands, it's just like making a sixty-nine-dollar-a-month contribution to a local charity. We're not lazy, see? We're just making the world a better place.

Last Saturday I visited the Indiana Bureau of Motor Vehicles to finally update my license and state IDs to my married name, and while the attendant was reviewing the paperwork, she asked, "Is your weight still 120?"

"Yes," I replied. Then I went home and had a good laugh before my spirit burst into tears, because really, people, the last time I was 120 pounds was probably my sophomore year in high school, and yet I continue to give this number when any government official asks for my total poundage, even though I'm terrified they'll raise their eyebrows and shake their heads to let me know I've been caught in a blatant lie. I can remember renewing my license in Rensselaer and almost having a heart attack over the clerk's listing it as 125, even though I done told the bitch it was 120 (and even though I actually weighed 132. Whoops). When I moved to Indianapolis, I changed it right back, despite my failed attempts to button my size-eight jeans. In those situations, I always think, "This extra flab is just temporary! Any day now I'm going to slim down and become the number I feel on the inside!" Which I apparently think is eighteen-point-five pounds fewer than my mortal shell. I'm also a fan of assigning blame to the water retained during my menstrual cycle. Even if it's day six and the womanly blood is nowhere in sight.

Tell me I'm not the only one who does this. How much cushion (no pun intended) do you allow yourself when reporting your weight?

Also, that city clerk probably knew I was lying, didn't she?

Let's face it. She totally knew.

And for those of you wondering about last night's dessert choice....

Was there ever any doubt? Although I wish I'd asked for the brownie sundae. The banana was actually sort of bland. Luke was quite pleased with his tiramisu.

Weight Loss Wednesday

When I was lying on the living room floor last night, clutching my stomach, begging God to make the pain stop, all I could think was, "Please don't let me throw up, please don't let me throw up."

Of course, that practically guaranteed a quickie with the porcelain throne, but it was upon remembering the return of Weight Loss Wednesday that I realized regurgitating my lunch of spaghetti and Italian sausage just might work to my advantage.

WEIGHT FROM TWO WEEKS AGO: 136
CURRENT WEIGHT: 137
POUNDS TO GOAL WEIGHT: 12

I'd like to think it was self-control that kept me from gaining more than one pound over the course of two weeks, but getting sick the night before your weigh-in helps, too.

Bad foods consumed over the holiday; where to start? Since last week's gluttonous report, there's been more Baker's Square goodness in honor of my mother's forty-sixth birthday, for which I generously scarfed down two slices of Oreo pie, pizza and chips in honor of Jack's big Number One, beef sandwiches drenched in gravy, and plenty of Mike's Hard Lemonade to bring in the New Year.

Needless to say, I never made it to the gym.

I can't tell you how pissed I am for forking over sixty-nine dollars of Luke's and my hard-earned money to a facility I didn't step foot in for a whole entire month. I can't tell you how many times I've considered ending our membership and vowing to kick this junk-food habit on my own, or join Weight Watchers again, or read Fast Food Nation, or just stop eating so damn much. I love the idea of the gym, but I don't love the gym. I don't like getting up at five o'clock to go, and I don't like going after work, and I don't like coming home sweaty and I don't like showering more than once a day. Sometimes I don't even manage the one.

If this were October or November, I might just say "Fuck it" and spend the extra dough on cable. But it's January, the third day into a New Year, and I'm not going to give up. At least not today.

As Shoe Like It

I'm a little late in sharing, perhaps, but there will be no installment of Weight Loss Wednesday today. There will be no Weight Loss Wednesday because all the greasy KFC, crappy Jewel cheesecake, melt-in-your-mouth-tender steak tacos, Baker's Square pies, and gooey cheese pizza I consumed over the course of the last six days guarantees a significant gain on the scale, the likes of which I have no desire to become more intimately acquainted. Luke's parents, who are both faithful readers of this blog and therefore well aware of my analog-scale woes, were kind enough to present to me a new scale for Christmas, so I'm holding off on a fitness update until the New Year, allowing me to fully utilize a fat-measuring instrument that won't tack on an extra three pounds to my rolly-polly midsection and maybe even show my face at the Y. Plus, Luke was able to get today off, so we spent last night in Merrillville and I totally forgot about hopping onto the scale until the drive back home, at which point I'd already wolfed down a hot dog and small fry from Portillo's and a chocolate-chip cookie dough Blizzard from Dairy Queen. No way was I sharing numbers with you all after THAT.

However, I will share the fact that I received a holiday bonus from work and it was three point five percent of my salary, which may or may not have played a role in the purchase of five pairs of shoes since Thursday, an act that originated from a simple quest to find the perfect brown boot.

On Wednesday Luke and I tackled the mall in search of new clothing for his parents' post-Christmas/fortieth-wedding-anniversary party, and while I found several darling items from Banana Republic, I left the joint still unsure about what to wear. On the way home I reflected on my favorite gray gaucho pants and a khaki-colored, knee-length corduroy skirt that's been collecting dust in my closet since the spring of 2005 because I normally pair it with a chunky brown turtleneck and sassy brown boots, both of which were no longer in my possession. I got to thinking it was high time to reclaim my right to own a kick-ass pair of brown boots, especially since I was finally able to replace the turtleneck during my shopgasm in the Republic. The next day after work I ventured into the JC Penney branch across the street from my apartment complex and discovered all women's boots were thirty percent off. (These babies were fifty. Bucks. Off. How thrifty am I?)

That explains shoe number one.

...And shoe number two, because it was Christmastime, and my boots were members of the Brown family, and how could I keep family apart at Christmas? Also, buckles! Who doesn't like buckles?

Another Penney's find, discovered in the Merrillville mall the day after Christmas, after deciding my black boots needed updating, too, because the ones I had were super cute but also a half-size too small, which didn't pose to be too much of a problem until Luke and I found ourselves wandering downtown Indianapolis in search of our car after his company Christmas party and the boots and I had to walk the equivalent of ten city blocks. I found four pairs of shoes I liked, including two boots, but these were the only ones available in a nine and they were twenty dollars. I would've been a fool to walk away from that deal, I tell you, a fool, a FOOL!

After another two hours in the mall, during which time Yankee candles, Clinique goodies, and a jumbo Cinnabon were added to our list of credit-card purchases, Luke was eager to check out the DSW that just happened to be on the route back to his parents' house, so determined was he to add a new black boot to my shoe collection. How could I say no? What kind of wife would squelch her husband's dreams and walk away empty-handed?

Just to make sure he knew how much his thoughtfulness meant to me, I bought these, too. Nothing says "I love you" like black patent leather Steve Maddens.

These are the Simple shoes I received for Christmas--a nice contrast to all the heels I'll be sporting for the next eight billion years. Thanks, Santa.

That was way more interesting than a little ole Weight Loss Wednesday update, right?

Weight Loss Wednesday

Since my last weigh-in, the lab's client newsletter has been shipped off to the printer, I made a whirlwind trip to Chicago to assist with my friend Gina's first dance recital since opening up her own studio this summer, Luke has gone to and returned from South Carolina, and my body has survived various pokes and prods from three different doctors wanting to check my vision, update my "skincare recipe," and evaluate my special place. We also attended Luke's company Christmas party at a fancy schmancy restaurant in downtown Indianapolis, where in the presence of his coworkers I managed to splatter steak sauce all over my (of course) white blouse.

I also gained one pound.

LAST WEEK'S WEIGHT: 135
CURRENT WEIGHT: 136
POUNDS TO GOAL WEIGHT: 11

Is anyone really surprised here? I've abandoned the Y the entire month of December to inhale Steak 'N Shake burgers after eleven-hour work days like it's my job or something. (Eat burgers like it's my job, not work like it's my job. Work IS my job. Whatever, you know what I mean.) Confusing things even further is the fact that, on Monday, the Homie Don't Play That Nurse assisting with my annual exam weighed me in at 134. This indicates one of two things:

• My analog scale is no good, useless, absolute crap
• I gained three pounds in two days

It's totally the first one, right? Totally.

This sobering news was thankfully balanced out a couple of hours later after a follow-up phone call from the nurse, armed with the results of my latest cholesterol test. You'll be happy to know my LDL has dropped five points since February and my overall total is finally (just) under the two hundred mark. General Mills was right: eating Cheerios really CAN make a difference!

In other news, it's during times like these I'm truly grateful for weekly columns, because otherwise I might've been tempted to opt out of blogging for the remainder of 2006. As it currently stands, though, you can depend on at least two posts a week dealing with the contents of my caboose and the consequences of premarital sex. Still working on the master love song play list, but there are a few people I haven't heard from, and at least one of the play lists were incomplete, leaving me to search for song and/or artist information. My goal is to post whatever I have before Christmas. Seeing as the Word document storing all these cheesy gems is already six pages long, I'll post it as a PDF, but not before I curse out all of you who requested a master list in the first place. Seriously. That wasn't very nice.

Weight Loss Wednesday

Oh, how I love my new little Web site. For this Web site I would spoon in the mornings and blow out my hair and whisper dirty, inappropriate things I've never even uttered to my husband. TypePad and I, we are a match made in Heaven.

I almost love Weight Loss Wednesday just as much.

LAST WEEK'S WEIGHT: 137
CURRENT WEIGHT: 135
POUNDS TO GOAL WEIGHT: 10

When Luke read the numbers off the scale for me this morning, I rejoiced over a one-pound loss; it wasn't until typing this entry I realized last week's weigh-in was 137 and not 136 like I mistakenly thought, which means FOUR POUNDS have melted off my carcass since last month's Thanksgiving pig fest. And if I hadn't gone to Steak 'N Shake after retrieving Luke from the airport last night, it totally could've been three. But it was so worth it.

Perhaps even more impressive than the loss is that I've been able to do it while continuing to boycott the gym. My work projects aren't disappearing as quickly as I thought they would (really, do they ever?), so my return probably won't happen until sometime next week, right before Luke and I dash off to Merrillville and Chicago for the holidays, resulting in yet another week-long hiatus. So far the month of December has been anything but fitness-friendly, but somehow I'm still managing to produce respectable results. It's a Christmas miracle!

But enough about me. You want to hear more about the blog, don't you? At least, Kristie does. She posted a comment to yesterday's entry asking for more information about my decision to switch from Blogger to TypePad. It's a good question, too, especially with the launch of Blogger Beta, which allows users to customize their templates without having to dig through various lines of HTML.

I guess it comes down to your own personal comfort level. For me, ever since I started reading Amalah back in 2004, I've wanted a TypePad account. I liked that she had separate pages reserved for biographies and links and archives, and I liked that her blog didn't look as cookie-cutterish as some others I'd seen. If subscribing to TypePad was what it would take to create something similar, so be it. Plus, I had an embarrassingly hard time with Blogger. In addition to the frustration that often accompanied uploading pictures, I couldn't figure out how to create a banner with the proper specifications and was unable to customize little things like the color of the border of my profile picture because I couldn't locate the code. Even with the introduction of Beta, I'd had enough.

Compare it to dating a guy who constantly forgets to do little things like open your car door and chat with your mother before you take off for the movies and remove the cigarette out of his mouth before he tries to French you good-bye. Even if he promises to change, are you really going to pass up the opportunity to go out with someone who will not only ditch the cigarette but promise to never smoke at all? You have to shell out fourteen bucks a month to keep him clean, but still. Another case of "It's so worth it."

And so far, it has been. I was pretty confused in the beginning by all the different screen windows, but Lost A Sock had recently gone through this whole process herself and thankfully dealt with my vast bank of Stupid Questions with a patient and gracious hand. Since then, I've learned that many of Amalah's template options aren't standard TypePad features at all but clever CSS code she wrote her own damn self, but one thing at a time, my pretties. One thing at a time.

Weight Loss Wednesday

When I woke up this morning, I was not pleased about the arrival of Weight Loss Wednesday. When I got on the scale, I was on the verge of tears over it being Weight Loss Wednesday. However, after Luke read the numbers, I was suddently quite joyous because, hey! It's Weight Loss Wednesday! Now with actual loss!

LAST WEEK'S WEIGHT: 139
CURRENT WEIGHT: 137
POUNDS TO GOAL WEIGHT: 12

Is it wrong to want to celebrate this achievement with a banana split? I'm thinking yes.

Because things are so busy at work, I'm taking this week off from the Y to wrap up some loose ends and delight in an extra thirty minutes of sleep each day, so I'm both surprised and glad to see this change in plan hasn't materialized on the scale. It also helped that I depleted my corporate stash of pretzel logs and granola bars last week. (Did you know I can eat an entire bag of logs and four trail mix squares in one day? I so can.)

When I started this column back in November, I pledged to post a new picture of myself on the first Wednesday of every month. Since the last few weeks have pretty much canceled each other out, I'm going to save that portion of the program for the day I announce my first five-pound loss. Hopefully I can manage that before Christmas, but I'm already salivating at the mouth over plans to whip up my spinach-dip concoction next Monday, when Luke abandons me for a two-day business trip to Colorado. I'm not making any promises.

Today I received two more cheesy CDs, bringing my current grand total to ten. This means the last three days have featured a running musical soundtrack with song after song after song of delectable feel-good romance. By the time the swap is over, I fear I'll have digested so much cheese that I'll be forced to combat the constipation with liberal doses of Tori Amos and Eminem.

In addition to my grand weight-losing announcement, you'll also be happy to know the Coin Watch of 2006 was officially laid to rest last night, freeing me to take my rightful place on the first stall's porcelain throne once again. However, on my way into the lab this morning, I discovered an unwrapped maxi pad fastened to the sidewalk. At least it wasn't used.

Weight Loss Wednesday

Let's just get this over with.

LAST WEEK'S WEIGHT: 136
CURRENT WEIGHT: 139
POUNDS TO GOAL WEIGHT: 14

No, I never made up for last week's lost gym days. No, I didn't refrain from eating three biscuits during Thanksgiving dinner number two. No, I didn't make it to step class last night. Yes, I still managed to devour a steakburger and Bits 'N Pieces milkshake at my favorite diner. Yes, gaining three pounds in one stinkin' week is downright embarrassing.

Luckily, my Internet Exercise Buddy is too busy wetting her pants with excitement over her new engagement to dole out an appropriate punishment.

I know I shouldn't be too hard on myself; it's not like I boycotted the Y in order to sit in front of the TV with a bowl of spinach dip cushioned between my thighs. It was a HOLIDAY. A holiday centered around FOOD. Food I am expected to EAT, which required placing many miles between my fatty fatness and the building where people go for optimal healthy living. Who am I to deny the power of tradition? But it's still disappointing. Three pounds? Am I padding my @$$ for the winter? If next week brings no signs of improvement, I'll have to take the Loss out of Weight Loss Wednesday and replace it with a carved ham. I mean, Gain.

Weight Loss Wednesday

Even after taking yesterday off to tinker with my soon-to-be-released TypePad blog, today was still the longest work day of my life. I am ready to sleep in, get my hair cut (because it's been six weeks already and my bangs are on the verge of poking out my eyeballs, OMG), and just generally enjoy time away from a professional corporate environment.

Before I start packing my bags for our trip north, though, I suppose I should 'fess up that on Frema's third Weight Loss Wednesday, there was no actual weight loss involved.

LAST WEEK'S WEIGHT: 135
CURRENT WEIGHT: 136
POUNDS TO GOAL WEIGHT: 11

I wish I could say I was surprised, but I ate a ton of crap over the weekend and I figured it was bound to manifest itself on the scale. Alcohol on Friday, brats and burgers and fries and shakes on Saturday, pancakes and burgers (but it was made from bison!) and fries and half a chocolate kaluha brownie from my new favorite restaurant on Sunday. You see, food and I, we share an unbreakable bond. It's impossible to just remain friends.

I will say, though, my gain probably would've measured out to more than one measly pound had I not adhered to my exercise routine. I continue to make it to the gym according to schedule, except for a tiny glitch on Monday in which I found myself unable to get out of bed before six-thirty, but I made up for it with an hour's worth of quality treadmilling later that evening, so I'm calling it even. Of greater concern is that Luke and I will be breaking bread with my family in Chicago tomorrow and his in Merrillville the following day, meaning we won't be in the vicinity of our gym until we return to Indianapolis, meaning I'll miss the final two days of this week's work out. I hope to get my flabby self to the Y over the weekend to compensate, but it's Thanksgiving, people. I'm not making any promises.

I will also add that committing to Weight Loss Wednesdays has provided ample motivation to meet my fitness goals. Yesterday I was in no mood to tear myself away from the computer just to trip over my own two feet in step class, but I did it, simply because I couldn't imagine "facing" my Internet Exercise Buddy and the rest of you guys after blatantly disrespecting everyone's encouragement and support. I'll try to keep that in mind when seated at both dinner tables, in an effort to prevent bearing bad news two WLWs in a row.

On that note, sensible meal portions to all, and to all a very happy Thanksgiving!

(I don't know why I wrote that last line, as if you don't know I'll be posting tomorrow and the day after that and the day after that and the day after that and then five more times after that. NaBloPoMos of the world, unite! Plus, somebody's got to post the second installment of Tragic Love Friday, right?)

(Also also, how crazy am I to even think about participating in this?)

Weight Loss Wednesday

Welcome to our second installment of Weight! Loss! Wednesday!, where exclamation points run amuck and strangers around the world come to witness Frema blab about the junk in her trunk and pose for "before" pictures modeling generic aerobic gear and black dress socks. If you're looking for HOTT, my friends, you've come to the right place.

Let's get down to business.

LAST WEEK'S WEIGHT: 139 137 (?)
CURRENT WEIGHT: 135

Remember when I said I bought a cheapy scale from Target to monitor my progress? Well, I neglected to mention it was an analog scale, a contraption that abandons state-of-the-art digital technology in favor of the traditional white reading window, black number wheel, and little red arrow. It didn't bother me too much because it was only six dollars, and the digital scales were twenty dollars, and I liked that I could own a scale I never wanted to own in the first place and still have fourteen dollars in my wallet. Hypothetical dollars, as the total was charged to my credit card, but still. A smart purchase nonetheless.

For the inaugural WLW edition, I weighed myself in the privacy of Luke's and my bathroom wearing nothing but the skin I was born in, and according to the scale, I weighed 139 pounds. Since the scale is mechanical and therefore All Knowing, I took it at its word and scheduled my goals accordingly.

This morning, I had a hard time reading the scale and requested Luke's assistance. "137," he reported at first but frowned when my Big Foots reconnected with the tile floor. Together we peered at the reading window and noticed the little red arrow was leaning two pounds toward the right. He made some adjustments and told me to try again.

"134."

As much as I wanted it to be true, I knew that was wrong, too. Such a significant weight loss would've been much more noticeable, and yeah, my slacks were a little loose, but they weren't falling off the ass or anything, you know? So he did some more adjusting and told me to try once more.

"135."

I still wasn't convinced until he explained that if the scale was effing up today, it most likely effed up last week, too, which means my weight was closer to 137, which means I've lost two pounds up through today. Not too shabby for a girl who digested the following health hazards over the course of three days:

- Chocolate cake
- Baker's Square banana cream pie
- Steak tacos
- Tortilla chips
- A Ben and Jerry's Chunky Monkey milkshake (Like their half-cup, eighteen-grams-of-fat ice cream wasn't evil enough? Why does God hate me so?)
- Butterburger, fries, and chocolate-chip cookie dough concrete mixer courtesy of Culvers

My saving grace has been the pre-work fitness routine, which I've continued to follow to the letter. I never thought I'd enjoy exercising in the morning as much as I do. It's painful for the first three minutes after the alarm rings, but by the time I've turned on the Cobalt's ignition, visions of the treadmill's mile counter increasing in point-one increments are dancing in my head, and I can't get to the Y fast enough.

My downfall has been the fatigue, which hits right after lunch time every day without fail, even on the non-morning-work-out days. This could possibly be attributed to the fact that I'm still not slipping under the covers until midnight, leaving me with roughly five hours of sleep on which to function.

H2O intake has been decent. I don't meet my goal every day, but based on the water jug I suck on during work hours, the various juices I drink at night, and the percentage of my afternoons spent in the company john, it's safe to say I'm sufficiently hydrated.

So, overall, things are going well. The biggest challenge will be to cut back on the amount of fatty foods I continue to gravitate to, a challenge I've struggled with my entire life. When you grow up with four other kids in a house where money and treats are often scarce, there's no such thing as restraint. Restraint means your siblings scarfing down five of the six fruit snacks packets, half the Oreos, and all of the drum sticks, and you'll be left with nothing, so you better eat it while you can. Why I continue to have this mindset ten years later, when the only other person occupying my living space is a man who could go an entire month abstaining from all three of those "nutritional" groups, is a mystery to me. Much like America's obsession with MySpace and James Blunt.

This Is Strictly Hypothetical, Of Course

Does polishing off a bag of Rold Gold pretzel rods in two days count as an inappropriate serving size? A...um...friend wants to know.

Stay tuned tomorrow for a post consisting of more than two sentences and a topic other than my fat @$$. And it's a good one. I promise.

Weight! Loss! Wednesday!

When read with the exclamation points, it sounds just like the opening shout-out for Wheel of Fortune, doesn't it? Which is good, because I like Wheel of Fortune, and I want to learn to love Weight Loss Wednesday, a day that'll inspire healthy eating and fitness habits all the live-long week.

Since this is my first post, there are a number of topics that need my attention. But first things first.

CURRENT WEIGHT: 139

For the first time since I left my parents' house for greener, more independent pastures, there is a scale in my bathroom. I went to Super Target last night and grabbed one for six dollars, and I did it all for you, dear Internet, because I despise the idea of having a scale in my bathroom. I don't want to become one of Those People who weighs herself every time she sits on the toilet, or after every meal, or before she breaks the container of Edy's calling to her from the freezer. (I wasn't kidding about the raspberry sherbet.) However, in order to accurately track my progress, I need to utilize some sort of pound detecter, and since I don't know how to use the doctor's-style one in the locker room at the Y, the decision was practically made for me.

Anyway, 139. Seeing as I'm normally one pound heavier, not a bad weight to start out with. According to my (admittedly older) Weight Watchers materials, adults with my height (5'2") between the ages of 25 and 45 should fall somewhere between 125 and 131 pounds. The maximum weight is 136. Last time, I got as low as 122, but that lasted for all of one week, so my goal will be a more realistic number of...

(Drum roll, please)

125. A collective loss of fourteen pounds. That would very much rock the house.

GYM PLAN

I have to admit, when I decided to implement a gym routine into my pre-work morning, there were a lot of things I didn't take into account. Like missing both of Pam the Vietnam Vet Instructor's step-aerobics classes, or dealing with a husband who isn't always in love with leaving the house at ten after five. What happens if one day he just doesn't want to go? The idea of walking to and from my car alone that early in the morning, when it's still dark outside, freaks me out more than a little bit. I also never considered how often I wanted to go in the first place. So, now there's an updated but still very cool plan, one that goes a little somethin' like this:

Monday: morning work-out; treadmill, strength-training
Tuesday: afternoon work-out; step class
Wednesday: free day (which I happen to be implementing today! Coincidence?)
Thursday: morning work-out; treadmill, strength-training
Friday: morning work-out; treadmill
Saturday/Sunday: optional

I went to the gym five days last month and now I'm aiming for four days a week. I'm nothing if not ambitious. However, it's working out splendidly so far; I've already followed it to the letter. Luke wasn't feeling well yesterday, so he skipped exercising altogether while I went to Pam's class after work. This morning we unanimously agreed on sleeping in, although I still jumped out of bed at six to begin this entry. I was a tad worn out from yesterday's work-out, anyway, so running back to the gym after a ten-hour break didn't sound the like the most loving thing to do to my body.

FOOD 'TUDE

Despite Lost A Sock's amazing progress and my own successful track record, I just don't have it in me to do the point-counting thing. That's not to say I won't keep an eye on what I eat. Just today I was on my own for lunch, and instead of running to Chi-Town Dogs and Beef for a hamburger and fries, I opted for the Jared-approved Subway, where I devoured a deli-sized roast beef and a bottle of orange juice. One thing I will have to commit to is water consumption. I've never been a particularly thirty person, so it's not unusual for me to go the entire course of the work day without ingesting a single liquid. I know water intake can be critical to weight loss, though, so my goal is to down the recommended 32 ounces a day and pray I don't wet myself when running to the bathroom every eight minutes.

Also, as a way to goad me into making healthier choices, I vow to record every "bad" food I eat on this blog, including but not limited to inappropriate serving sizes, Steak 'N Shake milkshakes, candy, fried chicken, cookies, etc., the logic being that I'll eventually embarrass myself into subscribing to a cholesterol-friendly diet. That being said, if I'm doing well, I will not vow to avoid them altogether.

As a visual motivator (and also part of the embarrassment-submission psychology), I've decided to post a picture on the first WLW of each month.

Please don't laugh. My fat rolls are doing that already.