Caterwauling

So, it’s Day 7 of my diet and I hauled my pudgy pork roast ass back to Weight Watchers. Lost a whopping 3.6 pounds, which would be good if I hadn’t put on 18 in the first place. *snarl*

My leader, Johnny, is awesome. If he isn’t a flaming gay man, he sure as hell plays one on Thursday nights. He asked if I’d talk for a second about my ‘first week’ on the program.

I announced my status as a “two-time loser,” as it’s my second time around. And he LOVED it and referred to me as a “two-timing loser.” Yeah, we’re gonna get along just fine!

He asked how things were different during the past week. I said that for the past year, I was VERY roughly counting points, saying things to myself like, “Oh, that’s about 2 points.” When, in reality, I do the actual math and write it down and say, “Oh, hey, fatass, it was more like 8 points.”

A hush descended upon the room at the “F” word. Johnny loved it and said, “Oh, you say that to yourself, too?” And I said yeah, I suck at the “positive self-thinking lesson” and he said, “I know!”

And I was kind of comforted, mostly because I wasn’t sure he got my reference when I was on the scale and asked, “Did you deduct 16 pounds for the shoes?” (“Romy and Michelle,” in case you’re lost.) So, I think he got it.

Then we broke up into groups to talk about our challenges. I picked the “food pushers” group so I could bitch about the Over-Extended Houseguest who bakes and cooks good food with a stick of butter and then gets hurt that I spurn what little contribution she feels she can make. Which I punctuated with, “No wonder I’m fat!”

And that pissed them off even further. Whoops.

Look, you have to learn at a young age (if you’re pudgalicious at a young age) to deal with people calling you names. Fuck, there are people in their 30s who act like 5-year-olds and address you as such because they’re pissed off that their skinny asses are having a miserable life. (*points and laughs at one in particular*)

Sticks and stones, yo. Sticks and stones. I get the last laugh AND the first one.

I call myself names when I do something stupid. Like eating the whole cake when I’ve already ruined my diet with one piece. Like trying to wear my “skinny jeans” that were a little tight 15 pounds ago, if I’m being honest about it. Or like when my confidence turns to shit and I don’t grab somebody and kiss them when I know perfectly well that I CAN, because I get struck by sudden shyness that they couldn’t POSSIBLY want my pudgy butt.

Anyway, someone in the meeting today called me my nickname (a derivation of my real name, NOT fatass!), with a certain accent in his voice, that reminded me of my friend Vitamin D. And I missed her very much today. (*waves*) And she was my real champion, when I did this the first time.

So, yeah, I’m back. Hopefully this time, it’ll stick. But at least I’m trying. And maybe I’ll find another name with which to berate myself for the dumb things I do in the future: “OK, skinny ass!”

Second time’s a charm, I hope!

For those who haven’t seen my pudgy pork roast ass lately, I’ve found some of the weight that I’d lost. Damn it.

Oddly enough, I maintained my ‘low’ weight for the past year. It was in the past two months of transition (job, apartment, other shit) that I sprouted an extra ass cheek.

I think it’s because the last year was SO BAD, that the only thing that I could control was my food intake. And now that things are getting better, I haven’t exerted so much control about what I’ve been eating — I’ve finally felt more in control of my life, so I could ease up on the eating restrictions.

And so…

I stepped on the scale last night and just about died. So tonight, after a full year away, I dragged all three ass cheeks to Weight Watchers. Since I’ve been paying for it all this time and all.

As I met with the leader (whom I LOVED) after the meeting, since I’m being treated like a total newbie, I started to say what everyone says … that it was a tough year and I thought I could do it on my own and blah blah blah.

You know, the stories everybody tells.

But then I went into details. And my new leader — who has heard everything a thousand times — widened his eyes and indicated that, OK, NOW he has heard it all!

And in that moment, I stopped feeling sorry for myself. I stopped being angry that I let some of the weight return. I stopped blaming myself and everyone else who has sabotaged me — who I LET sabotage me.

He asked what brought me back. I said I’m taking my life back. Which I’ve tried to do a hundred different ways and times, and here we go again.

The first time I went to WW, it was to lose weight. It was through that experience that I gained a sense of control over my life. This time, I’m going back for the control, and the de-pudgifying process will follow.

I’d say the scare on the scale is responsible for about 96% of this new adventure. Wanting to die while climbing stairs might be part of that, too. My favorite jeans not fitting sucks … as does the fact that I bought those jeans another size down, and they’re still sitting in the plastic from when Old Navy shipped them to me. That REALLY sucks.

And I would be lying if I didn’t admit that the other 4% of my motivation came from being with people this past weekend who were, are and will be special to me. Friends, lovers and business partners, past and present — people who ‘knew me when’ and will know me a long time from now.

I don’t know if it was any of them per se, or maybe more the idea of living a long and healthy life so that I will know them forever, that kind of kicked my ass. And maybe a small part of me felt regret that I wasn’t able to showcase a supermodel-sized self because I totally dropped the ball on my health-improvement plans.

Good thing they all love me anyway.

But while I’ve never defined myself by appearance, that doesn’t mean I don’t WANT to. Because I do. I so very much do.

So anyway, I’m not blogging to broadcast to the world about the size of my pudgy pork roast ass. I AM doing it to make myself accountable to getting it right this time.

My leader asked us how many of us were first-timers to WW. Two people raised their hands, out of 40. That means I’m not the only one who fell off the bike in the middle of the ride. But I — like so many others — got back on. And walking through the doors for the first time — or the second shot at the first time — is always the hardest part.

Perhaps at my next weigh-in, even if I haven’t lost a single pound, I will be able to say that at least my heart is a lot lighter, knowing that my victories are not limited to the scale, but that the war with the scale is a battle I can win nonetheless.

Thriving Ivory at Sunfest

Originally uploaded by dcwriterdawn

I should be working on my little newsletter, but I am absolutely exhausted and my mind is boggling from learning stuff I never knew from about 15 years ago so, hey, let’s blog!

I wasn’t going to go to Sunfest today. I mean, yesterday was the day I had designated to go. And today was the final day of the four-day extravaganza. I had better things to do today, yes?

Well, I went to church. (Always a better thing to do.) Had lunch. And figured I’d just drive up the A1A and see what parking might be like, since genius here parked six miles away yesterday. And lo and behold, hand a guy $20 and voila! Parking across from the entrance FTW! (In addition to $31 at the gate. Sweet Jeebus.)

I got to see Thriving Ivory, G. Love and Special Sauce, and Candlebox while I was there. Fireworks start tonight at 9 p.m. but alas, newsletter duty called. Besides, trying to get out of West Palm Beach after fireworks and having to sit on I-95 South to Miami with eleventy million others? No fucking thank you.

I had a great time there. It was nicely situated along the Intracoastal, so even though it was hotter than BALLS in South Florida today, the breeze kept it temperate.

There were all kinds of crafts and food booths there, although that crap really doesn’t interest me. I did chortle at the sign at a chicken place, advertising “Jerk in a Cup” for $6. I got a shot of it on my Nikon, although hell if I can find the battery charger and the USB cord to upload this photo goodness. That settles it — when a cord goes MIA, I just buy a new camera/printer/computer.

Why yes, I AM a girl, in case THAT isn’t readily apparent from reading this page!

I am so glad I didn’t stay at Sunfest last night; I think I walked five miles inside of it today. What I fail to understand is that the scale says I’m up two pounds right now; after hiking no fewer than 15 miles in the last two days (including beach time), like HELL that’s true or even acceptable!

I did have a bit of a giggle at Sunfest today when I noticed a number of men looking at me. Don’t get me wrong — I’m aware that I’ve shed a small person’s worth of weight from my frame, even if I don’t really “get it” in my head that I wasn’t beautiful the whole way down.

But I was sort of amazed at the male attention when I realized that I was probably one of the few chicks with real boobs in the county. And I’m sure I’ll become one of those who does become a frequent-flier at the plastic surgeon. In the meantime, though, I was glad I didn’t throw away my “last year’s tube top becomes this year’s sun dress” — it worked very well for me today!

All right, that’s all, folks. Must go do brilliant things or, at least, make them pretty enough to be published at the crack o’ me in the a.m. …

Banner day in Goddess’ world. Really. Outstanding on all accounts.

The day started with some terse words with the OEH and were followed up with a text from her that was reminiscent of someone else from my past (who is not part of my present; draw the parallel).

This just bought someone one-way plane fare to Siberia.

On Oceanic Flight 815.

I texted back a, “Thank you for justifying my frustration.”

The only real low point of the day was attending my city’s Sucko de Mayo celebration. Yes, I typed that right. Paid 10 bucks to enter, and left within five minutes. Four booths and three taco stands and some mariachi music. I seriously wanted to ask for a refund but I figured maybe the money would help them to relocate to Texas before it secedes.

In any event, it was all good from there. After spending my biweekly pay at the farmer’s market (all on fresh, yummy froot), I went to my WW meeting today and found out I was down 4.2 pounds for the week. Yay! Considering that I only dropped a half-pound over the past month, I’m fairly all right with that.

To reward my incredible shrinking ass, I parked that pale butt on the beach for two hours and managed not to get a sunburn while I was there. Hurrah Neutrogena’s 70 SPF cooling mist — especially for a girl who’s as white as the sand upon which she lounged. Of course, now I have sand in very strange places; how the hell does it GET there, is my question. But wevs. Good day at the beach, I say.

I was lucky — when I parallel-parked at the shore, the gal in front of me said not to put money in my meter. Instead, she told me to pull up into her spot (she was leaving), as she had two hours left on hers. Score! When I dragged my butt back to the car after two hours, I put some money in the meter to help out the next person. Feels good to get a break every once in a while.

I went home to shake the sand out of my clothes and get a ‘ho bath before heading up to Sunfest, which ended up being an epic FAIL on my part. Since I wanted to get the fuq out of the house as soon as possible, I failed to get directions. I figured, I know my way around (*hahahaha*); I’ll just park at CityPlace and walk from there.

So after walking SIX MILES, I finally found the place. At this point, I was sunburned in very weird patches because I didn’t reapply my sunscreen evenly. And you know what? Fuck Sunfest.

Sure, I was hot to see David Cook perform (he’s performing RIGHT THIS MINUTE *cry*) — I will always be a drooling fangirl for him. But I was hot and hungry and fucking crabby. And I really didn’t want to walk all the way back in the dark, so I decided to turn back while the sun was still scorching my poor shoulders and back.

But I looked cute. Loved my outfit. I’ve been working on building a summer wardrobe, since I’m told it’s gorgeous 10 months out of the year here. My mind is officially blown that not only am I shopping in petites again, but also juniors. So, the day would have been a win for that reason alone.

So, with Sunfest up in smoke, I did something I never do and treated myself to dinner while I was up there. Had several glasses of premium Pinot Noir. Also feasted on crabmeat-encrusted sea bass that was served over a risotto pancake. I went elsewhere for coffee and some kickass tiramisu.

I don’t even want to discuss what I spent on that feast. But for some reason, I felt like celebrating. And by golly, I’m worth it!

Am down 64.2 pounds officially (although tonight’s dinner should have eradicated all of that) and have a ways to go still, but God it feels good to be a gangsta have made all this progress. The finish line isn’t anywhere near being in sight, but I’m more than halfway there.

I figured that 34 would be my year. It so totally was. Now that I’m about to turn 35 34 again (*cough*), there’s no reason why it can’t be better than the last one. I’m in a better place, literally and figuratively. So, you know. Even-more onward and even-more upward.

Work is taking an interesting turn, too. No details to give at this point, but I’m pretty much living the dream right now. Or, at least, that’s the plan. If I could just clear out my guest room, I’d be the poster child for perfection.

I wouldn’t know how to act if all were truly well in my world. Really. But I sure wouldn’t mind having the opportunity. But as it stands, I’m as close as I’ve ever been. And I’m quite OK with moving in the right direction, no matter how long it takes to get there.

When I left work at 10:30 p.m. last night (*sigh*), the plans I’d known better than to fully commit to had already started an hour earlier. So, what’s a girl to do on a fucked-up Friday night? How about taking a prescription refill to a 24-hour CVS Pharmacy? THAT’S always good for a laugh.

So my medicine is usually $20. But we switched insurance carriers, and I almost dropped dead on the spot when they charged me $80. I don’t care that I’m non-functional without these pills. (No, they’re not mind medication, just in case you’re asking. Because I know you are.)

But there ain’t no ‘script on the planet that’s worth that much money, so I left it there. Whee totally non-productive Friday night! Which means, whee gotta go back to the doc to see if there’s something my insurance DOES cover. And yes, I’ll buy the fucking $80 meds in the meantime. Luckily there’s a coupon on the Web site for $20 off. Now to just find a computer with a printer. …

In way better news, I spent the morning cleaning out the two top shelves in my closet. Which sounds like it would take 10 minutes but it involved me trying on no fewer than 30 pairs of jeans and jeanskirts. That’s all.

I work in corporate, buttoned-up America, so most of this shit has been collecting dust over the past four or five years. So I figured, OK, most of it is too big anyway, so it’s time to donate it. And besides, if I want to move when my lease is up (judging from my living situation, that’s debatable), I’d like to not have to carry the dead weight (speaking only of the clothing) to the next destination.

Well, I now have three full storage tubs filled with pants/skirts from my biggest size. That’s it — only one size is represented. And it probably only amounts to six clothing items but damn, that’s a lot of fabric per item.

Actually, I did come across some items from “the old days” — things I kept on hand after the last time I donated clothes that I had “outgrown.” (Sigh again.) And they fit! In fact, they fit better than they did when I left Pittsburgh for the wilds of D.C. in 2002.

Most of the skirts are too short, and many are too trendy for a gal of my advancing (middle) age. But day-um, to be able to twirl around in mah hoochie-wear again? Priceless.

Now, to just rent a crane to haul these denim circus tents to the nearest women’s shelter. …