Bye Bye, Backfat!

Food Journaling 101

2010-07-08T09:07:00.003-04:00

For dinner last night I had a bloody mary and an ice cream sundae. And lo, along with two "normal" meals, I still managed to come in on target calorie-wise. Go me.

Why does this matter, and who am I reporting to? Well, my curious imaginary readership, I've decided to keep a food diary. For the uninitiated, the food diary is a ~~tortuous~~ helpful diet tool used to keep track of what a person eats throughout his or her day. Ideally, a person keeping a food diary will notice the correlation between what they eat and how their diet progresses. For instance, after a month of not losing any weight, a person might decide that having a daily Krispy Kreme for breakfast is the culprit and subsequently choose to make better food choices.

The upside of the food diary is that your shame is a secret. So you drank a 2-liter of cola with a double order of egg rolls home alone last night? Totally cool! You can fall of the wagon as often as you like. Even better, you can still go to work in the morning with your bag of carrot sticks and be "on a diet." It's judgment-free.

The downside of the food diary, ironically, is that your shame is a secret. So you decided against your Lean Cuisine and split a large Meat Lover's with yourself instead? No problem! The only person holding you accountable is the same person responsible for getting you to the size you are now, and she certainly isn't going to tell anyone.

I'm skeptical about how this will work for me. My current plan is not to eat different foods, but rather eat the same foods differently. Smaller portions, perhaps. Less sugar and salt. Or like last night, I'll skip dinner and combine my cocktail with dessert.

Whatever the results, I'll keep you posted. But I'll spare you the details of my diary.

Guest Blog: Mike's Weight Loss Story

2009-10-28T14:30:00.003-04:00

It’s eleven AM on a Sunday, the sun is stinging my eyes through the blinds as I lay in bed, causing me to wake and sit up. Boom! The hangover hits me like a freight train. I drag myself to the bathroom to vomit up the hamburgers or pizza I ate the night before in order to soak up the seven to ten drinks I had at the bar. My clothes smell like the smoking section at Denny’s. I skip breakfast for obvious reasons, down about five Advil, finish off the pack of six-dollar smokes and head back to bed until about two.

It has been three years since I was unfortunate enough to experience a morning like this. After ten years of drinking, overeating, smoking, feeling depressed and unsatisfied with life in general, I decided I was ruining my life. Now, don’t get me wrong, I am not going to get all preachy and deny that a huge cheeseburger, stiff seven and seven and a smoke after can feel emotionally fulfilling. The problem is, aside from smoking (which should never be done), eating fast food and drinking in excess cannot lead to a healthy life.

I quit smoking cold turkey, stopped going out drinking by about 90% and began to follow a few simple steps. First, I completely removed regular soda out of my life. I know that one day soon the FDA will come out and tell us that sugar free soda is riddled with cancer causing agents, but I will cross that bridge when I get to it. I just cannot give up my diet orange soda. I also went a little further with the soda thing and quit caffeinated soda altogether. Doing so allowed me to sleep better which in turn allowed me to get up early enough for rule number two, eating breakfast. Every morning I eat something before I leave the house. Smoking always suppressed my appetite in the morning, which led to late night eating, and we all know that is bad. Rule three was the hardest part: no eating after eight at night. No snacks, no ice cream, etc. After dinner was complete, that was it for the night. The last rule was easier than I expected. I cut all food intake in half. I would literally order what I would normally order back in the good ole days, minus the mayonnaise (go for the mustard) and reduced cheese and bread to about one slice a day cutting my carb and sugar intake in half. By doing so I had results on the scale almost instantly. In the first few months of dieting, I lost thirty pounds, all with out any exercise plan. Exercise became the final step.

At one time, the only thing I hated worse than working out was being anywhere near a gym. In 2000, I attempted to complete a week at Gold’s Gym, but the big guys kissing their muscles was too much for me. At least that was what I told myself. Until I stopped smoking, started eating less and sleeping more, I had nowhere near the energy required to run on a treadmill, an elliptical machine or lift weights. It was a month or so of dieting and getting my overall mindset back on track before I could step foot in a gym. After the first week I was hooked, and I still am. The combination of working out every other day – thirty minutes on the treadmill, thirty minutes on various machines – and the diet was all it took. The weight just fell right off. Since this time last year, I have dropped from a thirty six waist to a twenty nine. I have lost sixty pounds and I am still losing. The best part about my approach was that it was slow and changed not only my appearance but my lifestyle. The chances that I may gain the weight back are less because of how I did it. I still eat what I want in moderation and my metabolism has been sped up enough that I can burn it off. I used to hate it when I heard people talk or read about their weight loss success, but now I am so glad I can. It is the best thing I have ever done.

Onward and downward!

2009-10-01T09:50:00.000-04:00

Yesterday, my second day back on Medifast, was absolute torture. Not only was my body adjusting to fewer calories, it also was adjusting for "that time of the month." My brain, the poor dear, was straining under PMS and work stress. It took every ounce of self-control not to staple myself in the face and/or pick up the phone and call Domino's.

Four weeks ago, in the throes of the same feminine ailment, I would have... fine, I -did- call for pizza, breadsticks, french fries, and a 2-liter. I rationalized that while in this state, my body -needed- certain things -- mostly doughy things, cheesy things, things with a side of gravy -- and I was in complete denial about how these things contributed to my steady weight gain. (e.g. "What? I'm on my period. It's just water retention!")

Instead, yesterday, I powered through it. I shook my head to clear the vision of pizza, had another glass of water and got my work done. At home I let myself take a nap and after, rather than hole up with a bag of chips, I made a healthy dinner. Still let myself lay around and watch TV -- Hey! I'm on my period, ok?! -- but I didn't succumb to "the usual." To be honest, "the usual" hasn't really been working for me, from now on, I want my "usual" to include my health, emotional well-being and, of course, a cuter ass.

Hello, beautiful.

2009-09-29T16:30:00.002-04:00

I am in the midst of crafting my comeback post. In the meantime, here's a hint of things to come:

Pile on the pounds.

2008-12-01T12:14:00.002-05:00

After four Thanksgiving dinners in four days, it's no surprise I'm back in the mood to diet. Unlike my previous attempts, I've decided start things off with a stronger support system. So, I'm changing "Bye Bye, Backfat!" into a collaborative project.

From talking to them, I know I have friends, family and coworkers who struggle with the same issues I do: weight and how to lose it. However, the similarities end there. Their size, personalities, methods and goals couldn't be any more different, and I want to reflect that same diversity in this blog. Whether it's exercising, dieting or both (in my case, neither), I think it will help to work together. Not only will the contributors have a place to share, but their experiences will reach (and hopefully inspire) a much wider audience. This is my open call.

Ideally, you're in the process or on the brink of starting a diet or exercise program. Maybe you've got a regimen that's working for you at the gym, or you're a chocoholic trying to kick the habit or a Weight Watchers success story trying to maintain. As long as you're willing to take the journey together and share the results (twice a month, minimum), I'd love to hear your story.

If you'd like to contribute, please leave a comment on this post with your email address along with a little bit about yourself. I'll be sending follow-up emails this week.

Uh oh.

2008-08-29T11:16:00.004-04:00

They are opening a Ben & Jerry's in Valley View in October.

Good news for locals, bad news for my waistline.

'Tis the Season

2008-08-25T15:56:00.015-04:00

I have a confession: I haven't been dieting. Or exercising. For, like, three months.

I know, I know. I am a disgrace. I'd be better off changing the name of my blog to "Welcome Back, Fat!" Except at last check, I'm down approximately eight pounds. (In your face, carbs!) I know that this isn't a big number, but for someone who steadily gains when she doesn't pay attention, I'm pretty pleased. Whatever the reason -- unconsciously choosing better foods, drinking (a little) less, the BM I had before stepping on the scale -- that small loss reminded me that it had been a while since I updated, and of an issue that's been on my mind: Weddings.

From lemonade flushes (don't ask) to simply switching to light beer, my engaged girlfriends have strange and wondrous ideas about weight loss. Personally, I don't see the need on their part, but I suppose when the biggest day of your life is looming -- seriously, in two months, I'll be the last single member of the GSC -- you worry about silly things like the right shade of pink or being unsightly in a size six. I worry with them, of course; as a maid of honor for one bride, and as a friend to all. Only rather than the horror of forgetting to invite an elderly aunt or running out of beer at the reception, my greatest concern is finding the perfect dress for every shower, bachelorette party and wedding I've been invited to in the coming months.

By my calculations, I need three dresses. Each has to be appropriate and fun, fit my budget and, most importantly, fit my frame. Yikes. This is a task that would probably overwhelm a normal-sized girl, let alone someone with my proportions. And then there are the wedding gifts to buy! But what are these too-broad shoulders good for, if not carrying burdens like shopping?

A brulee brouhaha.

2008-06-30T16:37:00.005-04:00

Step One: Go to the Ben & Jerry's Flavor Locator.

Step Two: Use the drop-down menu to select "Creme Brulee."

Step Three: Enter your zip code.

Step Four: "Find It!"

Step Five: If a store/Scoop Shop pops up, proceed to Step Six. If not, don't worry. Keep expanding the search radius until you get a hit.

Step Six: GO. EAT. CLIMAX. Then, thank god for creating cows, as well as two hippies with an insatiable sweet tooth. And don't forget to bring me back a pint, as a finder's fee.

I cannot tell you how badly I have wanted to taste this flavor... for, like, ever. It is not sold in Roanoke, and when I've been any place with a Scoop Shop, I've been told that it's no longer being made. (Obviously, those B&J employees were WRONG and/or LIARS, but I forgive them. I forgive them because they are one of the cogs that keeps the Ben & Jerry's machine running. And I forgive them because this ice cream makes me want to be a better person.) This weekend, my prayers were answered.

When I went into the store located in Carytown, I only looked at the posted list of flavors. I resigned myself to the fact that I would be limited to Cake Batter, or Chunky Monkey, or perhaps even the Coconut Seven Layer Bar that I had never seen/tasted. While I was deliberating, something called my attention to the cases in front of me. I think I wanted to see what Coconut Seven Layer Bar looks like, but it may also have been the death look I shot at the annoying thugette in line in front of me who insisted on singing along to Rihanna while tapping her three-inch long acrylic nails on the glass. Maybe it was fate. I don't know. I do know that when I looked down the first label that caught my eye caused my heart to stop momentarily and for my body, literally, to jump. (Matt can attest to this.) It was Creme Brulee. CREME BRULEE! The creamy custard ice cream with a crunchy burnt sugar ribbon that I had dreamed about for months on end was right there, separated from my mouth by frigid plexiglass alone. I asked to sample it, knowing full well that I'd have to order a whole scoop. (Free extra ice cream FTW!) After months of build-up in my mind and my mouth, the first bite was like foreplay. It was a seductive tease, offered on an achingly small popsicle stick, preparing my tongue and tastebuds for the ultimate consummation...

With that prelude, I will leave to your imagination the sensations I felt spooning every rich and creamy bite into my mouth, licking up the drops that fell onto my hands as it melted -- suffice to say that when we left, I had to go home and change my shirt as well as my underwear. It was as sublime an ice cream-eating experience as I've ever had, truly.

I am posting an image here, visual evidence to the art of B&J. (Next week: The Art of BJs.) Note that I used a berry sorbet to cut the richness of the Creme Brulee. Heavenly.

I know how this looks, guys. And honestly, I will eventually return to writing about how I'm trying to lose weight. For now, I suppose it is safe to say that this is just another nail in my Goliath casket.

To be filed under: Flattering/amusing/horrifying pick-up lines I've recently heard.

2008-06-25T16:34:00.008-04:00

"I like that bootie. Slow motion for me."

See also: "Miss, the Lord has been -very- good to you."

What's the point in dieting? Someone's obviously got mad love for my bootie.

A little overboard.

2008-06-24T09:02:00.012-04:00

This past Sunday, I went to have lunch with a guy I recently started dating. This was no ordinary lunch date in that it was my first time meeting his best girl friend. Of course, when meeting anyone new I want to make a good first impression, but in a relationship I always feel that his friends are the Randy, Paula and Simon to my dating performance, and a foul note could potentially get me voted off. (Don't worry. I will endeavor to make a more ridiculous analogy by the end of this post to erase that one from your memory.) I do think meals are great for first meetings, but when you've got the hyper-awareness of a dieter mixed with the appetite of, well, a person who needs to diet, there's an intense internal struggle over satisfying your hunger versus appearing "normal."

We got to the restaurant earlier than his friend, and while he knew exactly what he wanted, I appreciated the extra time to peruse the menu. (I am a terribly indecisive orderer.) All manner of cold and hot sandwiches were listed; some on sliced bread, some on rolls, some on wraps, all sounded tasty. But the one that caused my mouth to water most was the French Dip. Oh, French Dip! How I adore thee! You are a sandwich above all others. Your roast beef, so artfully carved into thin slices, piled high with melted provolone on delectable french bread, served alongside your own savory juices for dipping. I cannot deny you! My desire is unfortunate in many ways. Firstly, all that chewy, crusty, delicious bread is off the diet. Secondly, a sandwich that requires dipping is likely going to be a little messy, and extra care must be taken not to wind up with au jus all over my face. And finally, this sandwich, whose description caused my heart to beat wildly in my chest and my jaw to work in anticipation of masticating, had the worst possible name. The utterance of this sandwich's title would be my undoing, for it would inexorably trumpet my size to all within earshot. I hemmed, I hawed, I reread the numerous options in hopes that something else would strike my fancy, but having seen my beloved French Dip, I was unable to alter my tummy's final decision.

His friend arrived. We exchanged warm greetings. Our beverages were delivered. Soft drinks for them, screwdriver for me. (Should I have been more concerned that I was the only one capitalizing on the insanely cheap happy hour specials?) I felt like I was going to be able to get through this without any problems, as I had decided to ask for my sandwich by its secular title, rather than the one they had so ungraciously bestowed upon it. When our waitress arrived, I allowed them to order first, and calmly sipped my drink. Soon, though, it was time to put on my big boy pants and do the deed.

"I'll have the French Dip..."

Time slowed, the restaurant grew quiet. I prayed that she would understand, possibly have some mercy and be done with our table. To my horror, her face changed from a warm, inviting smile to a look of confusion that spelled my doom. She was going to need clarification. She was going to force me to say it! But it was worse, worse! Rather than simply ask me to say it, -she- said it. Her mouth formed the words, and my heart fell into my stomach.

"You mean, the Titanic?" Her tiny, blameless hips shifted as she tapped her pen to her pad and waited for confirmation that I was indeed the most gigantic person she had ever served in her entire waitressing career.

"Yes, yes. The Titanic." I waved my hand as if it were nothing, hoping to shoo her away so that the moment would be over and my shame could begin to subside. Thankfully, she obeyed. Her smile returned, and sound in the restaurant resumed.

When our orders arrived, I was both relieved and annoyed to see that my sandwich was the same size as theirs. There was no real reason to think that his friend -- who turned out to be delightful -- would be appalled, but having run that inner gauntlet, I felt like I was entitled to a few more heavenly bites.

Oh, the eternal paradox of the fat girl. I could seriously go for another Titanic.

Little by little.

2008-06-09T16:36:00.021-04:00

Fat-centric worries I have and the methods I employ to combat them:

Showing off my legs - TLC. Hot heels, exfoliating before I shave, and liberal applications of oil and lotion.

T-shirts riding up - Scene points. Recently I've discovered that tattooing your midsection forces some issues. In my case, pride versus shame. Because I love my tattoo, I don't mind my shirt riding up so much. Hell, I've even started pulling it up in public when people ask to see.

Pants riding down - Common sense. I started to buy pants that fit. If your pants are sliding down your hips aided by an abundance of flesh, it's likely you are packed into a size too small.

What I look like when I eat - Logic. Is there anyone out there who -likes- to watch people eat? I choose to believe that unless I am purposely trying to gross out/entertain a table of people with the way I eat, I am probably flying under the radar. The same goes for eating too fast, eating too much and making too much noise when I eat. If someone is paying that much attention, they are probably into feeder porn and don't care how big I am, anyway.

Being on top - Desire/greed. I don't know about other girls out there, but if I am suitably turned on (and if you aren't, tell him to put it back in his pants and get the hell out of there -- have some respect!) I am going to get mines. That means I want to roll around and explore, alternating being on top, underneath, to the side, whatever. No holds are barred. No position is too revealing. And most importantly, no part of my body needs explaining.

Getting naked - With a boy, see above. At the gym, practice for with boys. No, seriously. If you are changing in the locker room, you are already doing more for yourself than the general populace. By working out AT ALL, I think I've earned the right to unabashedly change in front of some people (a lot of whom happen to be in the same shape or worse, so fuck it).

Jiggling/sagging/dimpling - Dieting. Exercise. (Surgery?) I am pretty certain that these rather trivial flaws -- it could be bad hair, people! -- can only be solved by continuing to do what I've been doing (sans the pizza I ate last week and the beers I've been drinking to fight this heatwave). I doubt the validity of claims made by cosmetic companies that they have a cream that will smooth my cellulite or a pill capable of tightening my upper arms. Let's be real. No hand-held device can buff inches of my thighs. I do think that surgery is a feasible option if I have "problem areas" that I can comfortably afford to fix later on in life. For now, I'm still wearing a tankini to the pool, doing what I can to change when it suits me and, as with all of the little things, trying to not let it get to me so I can enjoy the good stuff.

Hold the foam.

2008-06-05T09:42:00.012-04:00

The details of dieting can get a little hazy at times (also: annoying, depressing, soul-crushing). With Medifast, the guidelines are well-defined; the number of supplements, the portion sizes of all the components in your daily meal, right down to the twelve nuts you may snack on a day, it's all spelled out for you. Even when I am being a very good girl and adhering to the program fully -- which recently, I haven't -- my big cheat is coffee. According to Medifast's handy-dandy Condiment Guide, I am allowed one tablespoon of half & half and one packet of artificial sweetener. Unfortunately, my tastebuds, the same that so easily took to the Medifast supplements, revolt whenever I've tried my coffee so sparingly dressed. It won't go down, and I can't change my tastes, no matter how many flavored beans I try. Some coffee connoisseurs might roast me for my unwillingness to appreciate the naked cup of coffee, but I really can't help it. I truly wish I could drink it without, not only for the diet, but so I could sling lines like, "I like my coffee the way I like my men: strong and black." Instead, I need my coffee to taste like candy, with seven packets of Splenda and two pumps of half & half.

(Now that I think of it, the argument could be made that I'd like men to taste like candy, too; though hopefully with more than two pumps in 'em. [HA!] Sadly, even with the magical, flavor-enhancing properties of pineapple juice -- not a myth -- that sweet a taste is probably a pipe dream. Similarly, I wonder, could a man taste like pizza? This might require some field research.)

I am sure you read that pre-tangent admission with a small amount of disbelief, "Seven packets? Surely not." But I assure you, it's seven. I count them out carefully at Mill Mountain every morning. And every morning I try to conceal this number just as carefully by bundling them together into two groups when I tear them open to dump them in. This way it appears, to the judgmental people waiting their turn, their eyes boring holes into my backfat, that I only used two. Realistically, I am sure that nobody is watching or cares, but at that juncture guilt/ego(?) forces me into doing weird shit like the seven-packet-fake-out.

My only hope -- besides that no one else notices my seven packets of shame -- is that this isn't killing my diet. I've read that you shouldn't deny yourself the small things when you're dieting, because it will eventually send you to to a dark place... like your bedroom closet, with a box of Twinkies and a 2-liter of Barq's. I've also read that it's the little things that undo all your hard work. (Stop jerking me around, internet!) It would be easiest to just follow Medifast's rules, of course. But considering that coffee is like my life's blood, I think I'm gonna have to break them, even while I try to shield the truth from the rest of the world with bundles and sleight of hand.

Cracked.

2008-05-18T08:21:00.004-04:00

I have been very, very good this second go-round with Medifast. I've gotten in my prescribed five supplements a day, I've kept my meals down to approximately the size they instruct (I'm not weighing my meat, so it might be fudged) and I've kept my weight training routine. I've even been told that the results are already noticeable, to which I invariably call bullshit...

I suppose that was the setup for the first pitfall I've come across: Boston.

First of all, let me say that it's really not Boston's fault. (I'm here until Wednesday for the HOW Design Conference, FYI.) It's a great city, it's filled with beautiful people and architecture, and I have really enjoyed myself since I arrived here yesterday. That said, this bitch thinks it is no big deal to have a dozen cozy, exotic-looking restaurants - each with an equally alluring, exotic menu - along either side of its tree-lined blocks.

I thought I was prepared, having previously been out-of-town and on Medifast. I packed all of the supplements needed for five days, as well as my gym clothes, and had plenty of internal dialogue that included motivating reflections on how far I've come, a fashion show in my mind's eye of all the clothing (and shoes, natch) that I want when I am smaller and, of course, trite lines like, "Nothing tastes as good as thin feels." Unfortunately, nothing could have prepared me for Finale.

I should have known when my friend said, "I want to try this dessert place." Immediately, I should have yawned, offered my apologies and made my way back to the hotel under the pretense of being tired from my trip. But it was her birthday - I know, "excuses, excuses" - and so I felt obliged to accompany her, along with some friends we picked up along the way. We had to wait a half an hour or so, and in hindsight, a look at the tables around me should have scared me right out of the place. But rather than dissuade me, it tempted me. It was overwhelming. The desserts were made in an open prep station, right by the waiting area. I grew weaker as plate after plate of chocolate/fruit/cream/pastry pieces of art went out into the dining room. By the time we were seated and our waiter, Casey (delightful!), came to take our order, I had gone from just "wanting some coffee," to "Ok, I'll try the hot chocolate," to "fuck it, I am ordering the fruit with sorbet." It was a relatively quick descent, one that I would have struggled against if I weren't such a sucker for sweet stuff.

The table ordered some other items: a cheesecake (for the birthday girl) and the Fantastia, a selection of mini desserts for the table to share. I magnanimously offered - see? my diet wasn't completely forgotten - to share mine with the table as well. I think, overall, this is probably what saved me from being a total glutton. When things actually arrived, it was open season for all of us, and we managed to pretty much inhale everything that was ordered.

Exhibit A: Finale volleys.

(As you can see, I was helpless once this was laid on the table.)

Exhibit B: Our table responds.

I think we managed to keep from eating the plates, but two words come to mind when I think back on last night: "holy" and "shit." Surprisingly, I feel very little guilt. As I said, I've been very good. And while Boston is a wily, carb-purveying mistress, she is also one of those cities where you gotta walk wherever you want to go, so she's taking it out of my ass (hopefully) as the trip progresses.

Virtually skinny.

2008-05-09T09:23:00.010-04:00

I'm sure I don't have to tell you, but the internet is chock-full of interesting things. Some are wonderful, some are horrible, and some are useful. Whether you are dieting (like me) or a fashionista (like me?), My Virtual Model definitely fits into that last category.

Observe my transformation:

Ok, so I had to work a little Photoshop magic to make -three- models stand next to one another, but how excellent is that? Note that in my future, I will no longer have a double chin! My thighs won't chafe! My boobs... look smaller. Fuck.

If you'd like to see how you'd look minus ten pounds, or maybe after putting on a few, check it out. You can customize your model's facial features, hair, height, etc., to look more like you and even visit a handful of retailers and try on their clothes in a virtual fitting room. Pretty nifty.

It takes all sizes.

2008-05-08T08:42:00.007-04:00

This morning, a friend wanted to make sure that I wasn't offended by a dress size-related conversation we had immediately following yesterday's blog post. She is smaller, and felt perhaps that she was boasting, having just discussed my diet. A quote from her: "I'm not necessarily worried about what I actually said, just the timing... I know you're tough, but just wanted to make sure I didn't hurt feelings."

I assured her - and let me assure you, readers - that I am hardly the type to take offense at that sort of thing. If I blog about a pizza craving, and the following weekend a friend decides to have a pizza party, it would hurt me more to be excluded than to have it trumpeted in a comment on my Myspace page. So, I can't eat pizza (not entirely true, see previous post for details on topping inhalation). I realize that this doesn't put all the local pizzerias out of business. Possible, I suppose, but no.

I have no delusions about my size in relation to other people's. It is partly what drives me. Let's be real. My motivation stems from times I've stood idly in dressing rooms while friends try on armfuls of clothing, generally in stores where nothing would come close to fitting me. Times when I've been half-naked with girlfriends (eat your heart out, boys) and comforted them when they complain about their much-smaller-but-still-"too-thick" thighs or strangely-invisible flabby arms. This is not new territory. Neither party should have to apologize for being the size that they are - you know I sure as shit won't be. Rather than limit discussions outside of this blog to -my- size, -my- diet, -my- issues, I am happy to talk about anything outside of this forum. Even (especially!) how delicious pizza is.

Truly, the decision to diet is a personal one, and neither the diet nor my size should preclude my friends from gushing about their carb-loaded nights out or successful clothes shopping experiences in Charlotte Russe. I'll get there, fingers-crossed, but in the meantime please continue to send me links to sleeveless mini-dresses, openly talk about the Quizno's you had for lunch, -share- with me. Because I intend to share with you whether or not you can relate to what I'm going through.

While I will always strive to be entertaining, mostly so that I can link my friends here without boring them to tears, know that this is -my- journey. All this writing serves mostly for my own education. If it speaks to you, great; if it instigates a conversation between the two of us in which you have to size-drop that you are a 6/8, then FUCK YOU... No, seriously. Bring it on. All of it. To quote Dionne Warwick in the queerest way possible, "That's what friends are for."

Back(fat) in the Saddle Again

2008-05-07T14:15:00.006-04:00

It's been nearly half a year since I wrote anything here about my trials, tribulations and thoughts on being overweight, but I think I am ready to give this blog (and my diet) another go.

For those of you who need some backstory: In July of 2007, flush with a small inheritance and realizing that I was the largest size I had ever been, I decided to invest in myself and begin a weight-loss crusade. My program of choice - having used WW twice with only moderate success - was the much-hyped, highly-priced Medifast meal replacement program. With the help of a bariatrician, through which I purchased my food, I was able to successfully lose 35 pounds over the course of twelve weeks. It was a relatively simple formula that worked for me. Five meal supplements a day with one "meal" for dinner - I use that term loosely, as a meal to me is generally made of three parts starch, two parts meat, with the thought "I should eat some vegetables" before I load down a dinner plate, while these "meals" consisted of a whopping 7 oz. of meat and something green and decidedly un-starchy. I stopped drinking alcohol. I started consciously drinking water. I ate only the toppings off of pizzas (admittedly, sometimes I cracked and would allow myself to chew the crust, but it was promptly spit out when I felt it's doughy goodness break apart in my mouth and the fear of ballooning to my previous size overtook me). I lived for grilled chicken salads and raved about the flavor-enhancing qualities in doctor-approved condiments like mustard and Splenda. Surprisingly, I didn't mind the change. As the pounds melted off, I found new joy in dressing up, going out and giving lengthy orations on the truths, benefits, and wonders I had discovered using this AWESOME diet plan. Some times were arguably better than others. For instance, I dreaded catered events where I was sure to be tortured by the smell of off-limit goodies, but loved the weeks where I met with my doctor and she would allow me to hold the greasy, yellow block which represented five pounds of fat loss (such a thing really exists, and it is at once gross and beautiful to have in your hands). When I actually reached the end, I really don't think I was prepared. Of course I was looking forward to complete gastronomical freedom, but after three months of effortless weight loss, it was sort of depressing to have it suddenly stop. And I was -only- 35 pounds lighter. I can recall times (in the past week, even) where I've called that "a drop in the bucket." Whatever. That's a lot of weight. It's about what I lift when I do bicep curls, and those are pretty taxing around the 30th rep. Back then, I was carrying that around ALL THE TIME. Yikes.

I am so glad to have it gone. In fact, I think I am ready to drop another load.

So.

I'm back! Since October and my last weigh-in meeting with my bariatrician, I've managed to, surprisingly, keep the weight off. In a fit of healthfulness, I joined a gym. But I went back to my pre-Medifast eating habits. And I picked up drinking again. I suppose these things have canceled one another out, and now I am back in that headspace. All serial dieters know what I'm talking about. That "God, I need to do something about this" thought that comes when you have a Fat Day. I'm there. But having had success in the past, I know I can be successful again, and now I know where to go to arm myself for the long battle ahead: Medifast.

Today after work I'm planning on dropping by the doc's office and stocking up. I worry that they'll chastise me for not adhering to their post-program rules, but I think I've done a pretty damn good job just maintaining, if not continuing to lose. I will avoid Orange Creme (arguably the nastiest flavor concocted) and buy up lots of Hot Cocoas and Peanut Butter bars. Yum.

Hopefully, if I manage to show the same strength of will and harden myself against temptations like pizza and cocktails, I'll be able to continue this blog/journey for an indefinite period of time. I think I'll know when I'm -there-, but I'm definitely not there yet.

New resolve.

2007-12-14T11:38:00.000-05:00

I know I have a couple of weeks to come up with mine, but I'm starting to think about the tradition of New Year's resolutions.

In years passed - that is to say, at every New Year's juncture in my life where I have been at all self-aware - I have made at least one resolution based on my weight. "Stop eating candy" is one, or "stop eating pizza" (WTF was I -thinking-?) is another. "Eat healthier and workout regularly" has definitely been written into required journal entries throughout middle and high school, not to mention spoken out loud to friends as an adult. There have been years I'll even attach a number, whether it's an amount to lose, or my goal weight, to be reached, presumably, within the 365 following days. Strangely, none of these "resolutions" have ever stuck. Not that I don't speak them, write them, or wake up on January 1st with the intention to stick to them, I just can't seem to get beyond the initial barrier of enthusiasm. I probably still have holiday leftovers in my fridge and crack around lunchtime that first day. Or conveniently forget them the next time someone wants to go out to Maggie Moo's. Or, assuming I was drunk on New Year's eve, when I made any of the above statements, I'll chock it up to being an unrealistic dream of a drunkard, and shrug it off as I bite into my first slice for the year.

The likelihood that I will make this same proclamation at some point this year is good. I'm still fat. I'm still unhappy with my weight. I still yearn for a better wardrobe and the respect and admiration that comes with having a fit figure. I just don't want to fool myself anymore into believing that all my un/happiness is wrapped up in that promise to myself. That by sticking to it, my life will be perfect; or that, conversely, by falling off the dieting wagon, I'm assuring that I'll be miserable for the rest of the year. That's retarded. Ridiculous.

This year has been pretty fucking excellent, but it's also had some crap bits. I landed my first agency job. I got my first new car. I made it through without any pregnancy scares. My hair is as good as it's ever looked. But I also went through a painful break-up. My last grandparent died this year. I'm find myself as lonely as I've ever felt at the onset of the holidays. These things all happened, or are happening, regardless of what I weigh.

In the past year I lost 30 lbs., and while I had added confidence and enthusiasm enough to talk about it constantly while I was losing, in reality, it hasn't helped me become a better person. I haven't grown any - mentally, emotionally, spiritually - because of it. It never made me laugh, or got me through a rough patch, it's not a memory to fondly recall later in life. It was just weight I lost. Admittedly, I feel there's more to lose, but that's no revelation. It's certainly nothing I should cyclically promise and beat myself up over.

So, this year I'm going to try something new, I think. And as I said, I've got some time, so this is subject to change.

My single resolution in 2008... *drum roll*... is to do something fun every day. Something that reminds me why I love being who I am, where I am, and what I am. Whether it's decorating cupcakes, working on an illustration, being slaughtered at Scrabble by one of my infinitely more clever friends or walking my dog. Whatever it is, I just want to enjoy myself. That's it. I don't want to give up anything, or force myself to do anything I don't really like doing. This year, I want to shift my focus to what's truly important: me, and my happiness. Not anyone's perception of who I should be, or what I should look like, but my own doing-what-I-damn-well-please, laughing, boisterous, chunky or slender, what-the-fuck-ever self. I think that's a good promise to make, and one that I can easily keep. And one that I can live with through the next twenty new years - if, god-willing, I should survive without choking on a bite of delicious Buffalo Soldier pizza from Humble Pie.

EDIT:

Listen, I realize that gorging on foods is unhealthy, and pizza, cupcakes, Sour Patch Kids... all of these things pile up on my mid-section, but c'mon! Without cupcake-baking, there'd be no cupcake-decorating and that means no:

My Story

2007-08-07T11:44:00.004-04:00

Hi, my name is Ariel, and I'm ... chubby. Eh... overweight? Curvy? Voluptuous? Oh God, please don't make me come out and say the "F" word.

I can't remember a time in my life that I could say... that word in front of other people and not hesitate. If you know me, you know that I like to talk. And talk. And talk. For some reason, though, when I'm talking and -that- word is about to come out of my mouth, I'll pause and, in what I'm sure is a barely perceptible instant, worry. I worry that by saying the word "fat" (You have no idea how hard that was) I am going trigger a reaction in the person I'm talking to, and they will realize that I am fat. As if by avoiding saying it, or somehow deemphasizing the word in a sentence, it will go unnoticed.

That teeny, tiny word has had a huge impact on my life. It has been used as a default adjective - by bullies, by strangers, by my parents, by myself - when describing who I am. Not that I don't realize that I'm more than that. Of course I am. If you're reading this, and are even mildly entertained, then there you are - I'm also an OK writer. I'm intelligent. I have a job. I have a boyfriend. I have a decent wardrobe. The reality is that most people don't know those things; however, the one thing that they do know, right off the bat, is that I'm fat. It's ok. It's ok. I've been alternately coddled and chastised for it my whole life, and I think it's safe to say at this point, because I've been "the fat kid" my entire life.

OK, maybe when I was five or six I would have been labeled "normal"-sized... for an eight year old, but my most of my childhood memories, and certainly those of my teens, are riddled with events during which I was singled out as the chunky kid. At the roller rink, during gym class, at the mall, at friends' slumber parties, whatever. I don't want to detail the rejection and horrors of when I started to like boys in the fifth grade, or the humiliation of being the only girl in middle school who wore XL gym shorts. The look on [name redacted]'s face in eleventh grade Sociology class when I showed her a picture of my real (I swear!) boyfriend, and her voice when she said, "Why would a guy like that...?" before she turned around in her seat. That cunt. Suffice to say, it sucked. It sucked then, and it sucks now.

Only now, I'm going to try and do something about it, and now I am going to try and wrap my brain around "fat" as a concept. I want to be able to say it aloud without considering my pant size, and hopefully shed some of it, so I can live a fuller life without that most-hated label.

In other news, two weeks on Medifast with my bariatric program and I am down ten pounds. My new-pair-of-shoes-for-every-ten-pounds-lost reward system is out of my budget right now, and my previous reward of dinner out is frankly unappealing, so I will just enjoy this small success in itself. It's a start. And that's where I am.

More on me, my history of weight gain/loss/gain and reasons why I am torn on my decision to start such a life-altering program later. Right now, some facts about Medifast:

1.) It is effective.
2.) It is expensive.
3.) It controls your appetite.
4.) It's easier than shopping/cooking for yourself.
5.) It causes constipation.

For those of you who still can eat carbs, I'm sure you would enjoy Matt Armendariz's latest blog post, A Cupcake Haiku, more or less, and you'll take more satisfaction from his alfajores than I can. Speaking of cupcakes, though, I'd like to bake some. Anyone willing to eat whatever I concoct? (I promise not to add chipotles like last time.)

Let's Begin

2007-08-07T10:05:00.000-04:00

I've been asked why I'd want to blog my dieting experience, and the more I think about it, the more complicated that answer becomes.

Initially, I just wanted a place to post a succession of weekly stats and photos of my dream wardrobe, as well as a soapbox to stand on and sound off about my food cravings. However, since I've started seriously considering my weight - and there is a distinct difference between my thoughts now and the fog of awareness/avoidance I was in before, but I will try to touch on that later - I've also begun considering just how biased society is against fat people. TV, movies, magazines, advertising, the things that are marketed to us, the many product lines that exclude us - it's everywhere. From infant to adult, the differences in thin v. fat, pretty v. ugly, and right v. wrong, are ingrained in our minds and those ideas are so pervasive that a barrier has been erected to keep those who don't measure up, literally, down.

With this blog I want to address some of those issues that weigh heavily - ha! - on me, as a fat person, and as someone who is trying to change that very thing about herself. The idea of losing weight excites me as well as terrifies me. I've read other fat and once-fat blogs detailing the negative, even appalling, attitude changes in people that lose weight; and while I understand that a person's evolution requires change, the only parts of myself I want to lose are inches in my arms, thighs, waist and body fat percentage points. I think discussing fat-specific issues and challenging society's idea of physical perfection - even as I strive to fit its mold - will keep me grounded, keep me from getting too wrapped up in my successes, and keep me evolving.

With all that said, I still plan on linking to the Louboutins I want and the David Meister printed silk dress I -will- fit into... and let's not even get started on the beauty, tragedy and diet death that is Humble Pie's Buffalo Soldier pizza! (Chicken, bacon, red onions, mozzarella, blue cheese dressing and buffalo sauce on the best sourdough crust you could ever imagine, just FYI.) Really, I just want this blog to function as motivation - whether it's for myself, as a reminder of where I've been and the things I hope to achieve; for someone else who uses it as a supplemental guide on their way to a goal; or even for someone who isn't concerned with weight so much as society and its flaws (or even just shoes and food).

For thinner, fatter or worse, this is my story.