The highs and lows

I finally heard back on a job I had applied for- turns out they want more media experience. I do a lot of fielding and behind the scenes work but I don't deal with media much anymore. I think what they really wanted was a retired journalist turned hack. Which seems to be the best way to get a good job in PR around here, writers just don't cut it anymore.

But it was a good experience. The woman running the posting was really kind and just... well, nice. I called her on Monday to inquire about the short-list and she seemed genuinely happy to hear from me, (She actually said, "I am genuinely happy to hear from you!") which is the total opposite of the dreaded "hi, I just sent in my resume two weeks ago and was wondering if you'd ever get around to shortlisting for interviews?" phone call job applicants are hectored to make. I once had to make one of those calls and sit through awkward silence as the gal on the other end actually read a prepared speech to me verbatim about her branch process for selecting interview candidates. That's savvy key messaging!

But like I said, it was a good experience. It got me to thinking about the possibility for something new and better.

Next week is Bike to Work Week here. I called the bike shop and of course they were cheerful and friendly and said that my tire situation would be an easy and quick fix (only I have my doubts, I don't think it's the tube, it's the tire... but I'll cross that bridge later and now that I have spewed all my inner vitriol I feel much better about the whole thing) and shouldn't take long.

Which got me to thinking. Just how long will my new route be, exactly?

Well thankfully my co-worker Emily came to the rescue and sent me a link for Gmap. It's awesome. I was able to map my route, including the bike trails here and I was able to see that my route is 7 km or 4.5 miles. (Funny, I have been here so long that km's have more of a frame of reference for me than miles. That said, I will forever remain a farenheit girl, the idea that 30 is smoking hot is just stupid.)

My diet brain took over and started to do some calculations. That's 14.5 km's a day, or 9 miles. Calories burned round trip is 1862. That's more than I eat some days! (We call those good days). Take all of that over a work week and I've racked up 72.5 km/ 45 mi and 9,310 calories.

7 km's isn't much- I've ridden much more over hilly terrain without an electric motor to help. I find for me that the first 3 km's are a bit of a slog- my body just isn't that warmed up and I feel like it's "work" but after the 3 mark, I'm sailing until about 12-15 km's. But I will have 8 hours to recover between rides so realistically, I probably won't even be that tired. Sure, the first week I'll be knackered from the novelty and my anxiety for doping something new.

And I'll probably need to get there early and shower and do my hair there, but I'm okay with that.
______________________

Okay, the truth is, I'm bummed about the job- not even an interview- come on! But I'm mostly bummed for selfish reasons. I loved the idea of a four day work week and I loved the idea of getting paid $200 more p/month for 4 days less work (work/life balance rules) and doing something with more autonomy. Non-selfishly I really do miss doing something in non-profit land, but selfishly, I don't miss non-profit land culture.

But that's a post for another day.

Grrrr

This probably isn't going to be a very interesting post for anyone but me, but then again I don't have readers so what do I care?!

Picked up the bike in the afternoon yesterday. First red flag: they hooked up the wires wrong so the motor was going- but it wasn't actually working. The tech could have rolled his eyes and seemed more responsive to my request that it be fixed. At first he said something about not having space until May 30. Yeah, no. It took me being polite but persistent (read not leaving as they closed for the day) for them to open it up and fix the connection right then, not May 30th. Semi-satisfied, I head off into traffic without my helmet- which I thought was in the storage box on the bike, but wasn't, so I don't want to accuse them of theft, but, where the fuck is my helmet? I decide to let go of the helmet issue, after all, I could be mistaken and I don't want to charge in their sputtering accusations when so much has already gone wrong.

I start pedaling my way through traffic and right away even with the motor charged up I feel a lot of resistance. But I ignore it. I put it down to my first ride and nervousness (the whole time I keep thinking about the person who will, at any moment, snidely take me to task for not wearing a helmet not to mention all the shitty looks I will get). I ignore the resistance and keep going.

But then I get on the goose. And I just know something is wrong. Even still I don't listen to that little voice. I tell it to shut up. But my back tire is flat. It has to be. It's dragging and bumping and I can hear the rubber smacking against the pavement. I may not be Lance Fucking Armstrong, but I'm pretty sure my back tire isn't supposed to make slapping noises. But I tell myself to shut up. Because I just picked up my bike from the shop and paid $100.00 to get it repaired and tires changed. The little voice whispers FUCK. I keep riding. Maybe I'm wrong, what do I know about electric bikes? Maybe this is normal, I hope. A lady calls out to me. Inwardly I cringe. I just know she's gonna say that I should be wearing a helmet. Instead she calls out, "I think you have a flat. In the back."

I make that helpless 'I know, whatt'ya gonna do face'. Cause really, I'm half way home, I have a flat and the bike shop is closed. So what can I do? Abso-fucking-lutely nothing.

These situations really get the best of me because I find the bike shop intimidating to begin with. They all look very athletic. Like the kind of people who think nothing of pulling a century over the weekend for shits and giggles. (A century, for those not in the know is a one hundred mile ride). And the bike weighs a ton so getting it there is epic. Plus, I paid for a service and they screwed up the connection and gave me 'tude about it. And they didn't change the tire or the tube in the tire correctly. So now I have to go back. I have to lug that heavy bike into the trunk of our car, drag it in and I just fucking know they're going to be dicks about a quick service and a refund. I don't think I should pay for any labour for this fix, and I should definitely be refunded for the last one. Plus, the timing is all fucked because their hours don't fit with mine so that means the weekend, which means who knows when I will actually get to ride my new (fucking) bike.

So why does it make me so mad (aside from shitty customer service and wasted time)? Because, this is screwing with my plans. I had hoped to use the bike as a catalyst for change- forward momentum, man. And the truth is, I have some kind of screwed up way of being that says if I don't exercise every day I am a bad person. If I don't eat right every day, I am a bad person, too.

You combine those two commandments (thou shalt exercise and thou shalt eat right) and I am bound to screw one or both of them up on a daily basis.

But I figured, I have to get back and forth to work, so, building a bike ride into my routine was my crafty attempt to take a little bit of the pressure off myself- and avoid daily jaunts on the smelly loser cruiser. (Plus I desperately want to be one of those sporty people who think nothing of hopping on their bikes for a half century on a weekend for shits and giggles). Commuting by bike would mean I'd accomplished half of my daily "to-do list" 5 days a week. (Imagine the sweet relief of getting at living up to one commandment at least!)

Now though, my plans have all gone to shit. I had to sit through two weeks while the bike got serviced and that caused me to be anxious (unfinished business). Then you add in the fact that I had to shell out $450.00 for the bike and $100.00 for repairs and I feel guilty for spending so much money on myself. Then you factor in my mounting terror about riding in traffic (compounded by the fact that I have to wait to face my fear), and, my embarrassment that I need an electric bike versus a regular bike and I really just feel like... like I am on hold. And the feeling of being on hold is just anxiety- it's like being in a waiting room, waiting to start to feel more in control, to stop feeling like a failure.

Why do I feel like a failure? The usual stuff. I'm 100 lbs overweight, I gained back 20 of the 70 lbs I lost last year. I hate my job and am in a "junior" position, I left a higher paying position due to someone sexually harassing me in an already toxic environment (and I can always just imagine every one's nasty comments behind my back "she couldn't cut it", "she brought it on herself by being too friendly", "she's weak and broke down under the pressure"). What else? I don't have a degree. I don't have sex enough with my husband (anti-depressants take away my sex drive), I'm not a good gardener, I have bad knees, I have cellulite on my calves (who the fuck has ripples of cellulite on their calves beside me?) I don't floss often enough and have gingivitis. I have corns and wide feet. Lately, I can't wear heels because they hurt too much. Oh, and I seem to have permanent camel toe nowadays. (The C-Toe, combined with my "comfortable flats" makes me look about 20 years older than I am, with a big vag, to boot.)

No wonder I feel like a failure. Actually, the wonder is that I actually get out of bed every day and continue to make an effort. But then I seize upon a plan- a plan in the making for a year- to ride to work every day. It took me a full year to devise a means by which I could reasonably attempt to ride to work every day on a bike. It took a whole year- more than a year- to gently cajole myself into braving traffic and other, potentially judgemental bikers, it took me spending money on myself, it took me planning safe routes, contingency plans, coordinating apres bike ride grooming plans and supplies, psyching myself up and god knows what else. It took a year to get here and now the whole fucking plan is delayed (and sullied) because the bike shop made me wait 2 weeks to get it serviced and fucked up the servicing and now I will have to wait who knows how long to get it right. (Plus I have my suspicions that bike people will be like restaurant servers and get back at me for asking for my bike to be fixed and not be charged the equivalent of spitting in my supper- they seem like a petty and vindictive bunch).

And, it's bike to work week next week, and I signed up for a team. It's a small thing, but being able to drop my participation in bike to work week into casual conversation would have meant a lot to me. And I would have felt like I was part of something- but nooooo that's all over now. That is just dashed. Ruined.

Maybe some people can take these things in stride and shrug their shoulders and say, oh well, it's gonna be fixed eventually. But I'm not one of those people. Besides for me, this is like waiting for a year, not two weeks. This was a series of baby steps on the way to a larger goal and now external obstacles are in my fucking way. And I feel like external obstacles are also in the way of my career. They're beyond my control. I can't change them. I have to be zen. Okay, well I've adopted a zen attitude on my job, but now the universe wants me to be zen about the bike, too?

Come on. Give me a fucking break. Actually, no, give me a fucking bone. Just something. One little thing I could do to feel a little bit more in control, a little less like a fuck, a little more like I won't be 100+ lbs overweight with a gaping camel toe for the rest of my life. One little fucking win is all I need right now.

But instead, I'm consigned to the waiting room.

Emoting

I won’t bother to go into all of the details, suffice to say there are a lot. Instead I will bullet point the last month of my life and attempt to capture the gist of why I am now going into work and coping by disassociating and then binging uncontrollably at home.

• Co-worker verbally attacks another co-worker in my presence
• Same co-worker makes a very inappropriate, creepy remark to me on Valentine’s Day (day after verbal attack).
• I stew for a couple of days, what to do, what to do….
• I decide to document the event with HR- I explicitly say I do not want this to turn into WWIII, I just want it on record in case he does it again or does it to someone else.
  HR immediately launches into action, disregarding my request completely.
• I document, I tell the story, once, twice, fifty times.
• People are called into meetings.
• Tension abounds.
• I call in sick, but I’m not physically sick, I’m emotionally sick, anxious with the entire goings on.
  i. I call HR and tell them this is all impacting me negatively.
• Co-worker is fired.
• Friend quits job after 2 hour interrogation. They have read all of her e-mails and pegged her as workplace poison.
• I am next.
• Two days later I am called into HR. My e-mails are brought before me. They have been investigating me. I still don’t know why or how that came about, but I suppose turn about is fair play? Anyway, they zeroed in on snotty e-mails between me and friend wherein we joke at the expense of others.
• Please note: these snotty e-mails were not exactly cutting a wide swath through the company. Five people were targeted with our “workplace poison” including the sexual harasser (only after he sexually harassed me, mind you). The other four breakdown as follows: my manger, a useless pantsload. And two co-workers of my friend that are notoriously irritating and condescending. The final snotty e-mail was a one off, wherein I called a fucking idiot a fucking idiot.
  i. Oh, and the e-mail I sent to my friend explaining that I wasn’t really sick on the day I called in, but feeling like shit with everything and using the day to gather up my emotional strength to make it through the rest of the week in the middle of a sexual harassment investigation, wherein someone else’s job was at stake.
• I was given a letter of reprimand for my crimes, a letter which will stay on my employment record for two years.
  Note to self: Don’t trust anyone.
  

I have been through the wringer and I know where I went wrong (though shall not diss thy co-workers, especially not on company e-mail). But other than doing something 90% of people do I don’t really have much to be sorry about around my own behaviour. I took responsibility for it, I’ll never do it again and I’m genuinely sorry for using the company e-mail inappropriately. But I feel betrayed. Let’s just put it out there. I came to them and asked them to document a situation which I felt I could work with (as long as I knew I had a documented safety net behind me) and instead of listening to me and respecting my wishes they turned a tense situation into a scorched earth situation. (Tally: 1 person fired because of this, 1 person quit and the person who made the sexual harassment allegation {me} reprimanded for inappropriate e-mail use. Nice).

But this isn’t about who did what. This is about how I feel. How I’m coping. Or not coping. Or coping in a way that’s destructive.

To get myself into work and to accomplish anything I have numb myself, so that by the time I get to those elevators all trace of the person I really am, how wronged I feel and how angry I am, are gone. In order to do that I have to sublimate every natural impulse I have, which is to stay home, to yell at them, to send a snotty e-mail to a friend pointing out all their failings as human beings, to say something snide to a friend about how fucked up the place is, but most of all, to leave. All of these impulses, which are essentially healthy, given the situation, have to be shut down. All day long. For eight hours I have to make my face a blank mask that doesn’t betray my despair, my seething rage or my hurt. For eight hours I have to pretend I’m not counting the seconds until I get another call about another job or arrange another interview/writing test. For eight hours I have to pretend I’m happy to be there, that I’m okay with being there and that I accept that they have a right to read e-mails, written during a period of duress, accept the conclusions they have drawn about me and the situation, and meekly accept my punishment. Eight hours of eating shit.

I don’t do well with that, especially since I feel as if I’ve been eating shit for a while now.

But again, this isn’t about them. It’s about me. I have to keep reminding myself of that, I have to stop myself from telling the story. The story isn’t really that important, the Meta story is. The Meta story is the key here. The Meta story is this: I’m in a shitty situation. One in which most people would chew their own toes off to get out of as soon as possible and I am still there, biding my time, playing nice, secretly seething. I don’t actually know if I have any right to feel as wronged as I do, but I feel it and since I feel it shouldn’t I quit, shouldn’t I completely pull up stakes and say fuck you I’m outta here? Is it smart, strategic, to stay until I have another job? And more central even than that is this: why is it that when I am in an untenable situation I not only stay and try to make it work, but I punish myself.

It’s the self-punishment aspect of all of this that scares me. I am doing a lot of this to myself. I have been unhappy there for a while and trying to get out since Octoberish. (hence my snotty e-mails beginning in October according to HR, at least they got the timing right, though the lions share of the reprimand-able e-mails came during the month long investigation period, funny, wouldn’t that be when I was most upset and most needing to vent?). Why did I stay as long as I did and is there a part of me that knew it would have to come to a head like this in order for me to leave?

I’ve never actually cleanly left a job. I’ve never actually left a person or a situation without it being a big thing. (Well, Emma Shram I left without much ado but somehow that doesn’t feel like a sufficient example). I have always held on to things long past their expiry date and stayed and stayed out of a sense of obligation, while also knowing that my seething hatred was crushing me and the other person at the same time. So I bring about these situations where I get to leave with a sense of righteous hatred or I slink away, slapped for my misconduct (coping mechanisms while in a shitty situation). But I never just make a clean break. Let’s look at all my dirty breaks:

• My mother- too much history to sum up in on sentence. Let’s just say it was the mother of nasty break-ups.
• Jen K- never told her straight up that I’d moved on so I avoided her instead.
• Dawn G- never told her how upsetting/hurtful her behaviour was.
• Michelle M- Fired me and broke up on bad terms, similar to this work situation, there were misdeeds all around, all of which could have been avoided if I’d just left sooner.
• V-Day ladies- I would scale a wall with my teeth to avoid running into one of these women. They disrespected me and used me and I hate them for thinking badly of me.
• A K- similar, but not, strange time for me, tainted by M. But I was in the middle of wanting to escape CC and it was a very triggering event for me.
• Tommy’s taxi- lied about starting school to quit there.
• Alan- should have just told him he was a racist pig in the first place and moved on.
  

I don’t want to get into blame the victim thing here, but how much of this would have been prevented if I’d just left? But then common sense cuts in. How exactly could I leave if I didn’t have another job? I mean, that’s stupid. So how can I blame myself for staying? But then again, I could have tried harder to get out as soon as I realized it was getting to that point where I feel taken advantage of and bitter.

(Note to self: When you start to feel taken advantage of and bitter, take drastic measures to get the fuck out of that situation. More on that later.

Alright. I’m trying to get away from the self-destructiveness thing and am going to the gym for a bit. I’ll write more later.

Back to basics

I certainly took a long break from blogging. Interestingly, it’s directly attributable to the summer weight loss synchronicity cycle kicking in again. In late July everything started clicking together again, just like last year. I was going to the gym every morning, I was going to Pilates and I was feeling very strong and capable and relaxed. At night I would sit on my balcony in my new chaise lounge and read- despite my discomfort with having neighbors stare at me. And I started to lose weight again. Not as much weight as the year before, but enough so that I was able to make my dearest wish come true- to add one more, crucial clothing store to my bland shopping repertoire. Rickis. I first went in trepiditiously in September and tried on a sweater vest. At the time it was still a little too tight so I returned it. But a few weeks later I went back and I tried on a pair of black pants and they fit! That change launched me into another world in many respects- I finally felt like I was able to indulge my fashion sense in a way I’d never been able to before. September marched on and I began to worry about what would happen when the days got shorter and the cravings kicked in. So I got myself some anti-depressants. By the time October came I was a size 18 and toned and firm. I bought new bras and felt like a lady. I bought new shoes with heels that went with my new clothes. And then October was over and November was long and cold and dark. And then everything started to unravel. The depression wasn’t as bad this year, thanks to the Citalopram, but the exercise dwindled. I could barely wake up in the mornings and in the afternoons I was so drained from work I just wanted to lay on the couch. Mondo got sick and was dying and that broke my heart, another friend left work and I injured myself when I tried to kick my exercise routine up a notch- ironically, in an attempt to stave off depression and routine.

Other things happened, too of course. Work ramped up from busy and unsatisfying to crazy busy and unbearable. We went on a family vacation. Mondo got sicker. Coming home to see him so weak and disoriented was hard for me. I could not watch him suffer for much longer. It was too hard for me to see him like that. And I knew that my decision would ultimately be as much about putting us at ease as it was about putting him to rest. We were there with him as he passed away and it felt surreal to watch my little grumpy buddy slip away from us after the injection. When the vet left, we held him and buried our faces in his fur, touching his belly and stroking him in intimate ways he never let us do when he was alive because he was so “boundaried.” And I felt so guilty for being so curious to finally touch him unimpeded by his usually violent response to any unsolicited and often, solicited, attempts at touch. I wasn’t sure if it was disrespectful to bury my face against his body and breathe him in, but I needed to feel him and experience him; to know him one last time. I think he would have understood the impulse to touch him, finally, at last.

And then December rolled around and work got even worse. I was working late and working through lunch and when I got home I was too tired to do anything and I wasn’t eating right during the day so by the time I got home I was voracious and felt completely justified saying, “I deserve take out and I’ll get my shit together tomorrow.” But I never did.

And then January, work finally went back to just being busy towards the middle of the month and we got a new puppy to help fill the hole left by Mondo and for that first week I was so content and so happy about having a new being to love and know, I didn’t feel out of control around food at all. But that kind of contentment doesn’t last long, and so I was quickly back to feeling like I had before: not quite depressed, but not quite enjoying my existence either. Not able to exercise, not able to take care of myself for anything more than brief bursts (usually brought on by scale-scares).

Now February is almost over and I’ve been yo-yoing between 253 and 257. Sometimes I get as low as 251 and then I blow it. And my stomach is huge. Somehow I manage to fit into lots of 1x’s (18/20) but my waist is 41 inches, technically a size 22. I feel like a freak. I don’t know why my abdomen is sticking out so much in proportion with the rest of me. Fiona went to England in early September so I haven’t been to a Pilates class since then, hence my enormous stomach I guess. And since I haven’t been exercising much at all, including doing core work, all my weight seems to be going to my stomach. I don’t want to be bitchy here, but I am meant to be hourglass shaped, not apple. At least apple shapes usually have the benefit of shapely legs. But I have big, gi-normous breasts, an abdomen that threatens to exceed the breadth of my bosom, and big legs, featuring the ever attractive “cankle”. I don’t need this shit and wearing stupid spanx is a recipe for a yeast infection, but I have to tame this tummy somehow.

The thing is I’m unhappy with this body right now. I feel like I’m in transition. I’m not legitimately a size 18 since I usually get horrendous camel toe in size 18 pants and I don’t fit into size 18 jackets. But I’m not exactly a size 20 either, because the pants are too big and the shirts are boxy/big and frankly, I don’t want to be shopping at Addition Elle anymore. I want to be able to shop just about anywhere. I want clothes that will make me feel fabulous. Because I have to say that feeling beautiful, as I have in the last couple of months is probably the most exciting thing I have felt in years. There are times now when I look in the mirror and I know that according to society I’m still a “big girl” but I also know 95% of people would agree, I’m working what I have. Some people might feel like that every day, or feel like that fairly often and so they take it for granted but I haven’t looked in the mirror and genuine enjoyed, let alone appreciated what I see since I was a child. For the first time in my life, I approve of myself. That’s an odd feeling to go from a vague sense of disapproval and disappointment in yourself to approving of the way of you look, the decisions you make (not always but better than the past). I feel like a grown up with choices. But I also feel like a kid playing dress up, trying on different personas and finding out that the way I look can be a fun thing, it’s not a dreary prospect to get dressed and see all the glaringly wrong angles and dashed hopes of outfits that should have looked good but didn’t, couldn’t, because my body didn’t have defined curves and angles as it does now.

So, I’m making a list. To try and get things sorted out so that I’m not hamstrung until August. Maybe I can fix this; maybe knowing is half the battle. Maybe I have some say in this- maybe it’s not beyond my control. Maybe I can get what I want.


1. Buy a light therapy box. Okay, we have two years worth of evidence to back up this expenditure. Every year beginning in August I begin to feel better somehow- more alive and energized and despite the fact that I don’t like the humidity I feel more like myself and I can wake up and get to the gym. I can ride my bike and walk to get runkie and I can play tennis and do so much more without feeling like I’d rather be on the couch with a loaf of French bread, cheese and wine. My hope in purchasing a light therapy box is that it will give me that mood boost and energy and efficiency I seem to have during the height of summer. Odd though, that it peaks in August/September and July and October seem to be transition months. What does that say about me, I have 2 great months, 2 okay months and the rest are just write-offs? And why don’t the good times start sooner, in June, peaking in July.August/September? Could that delayed and short onset of good times be because of how northerly we are up here? I also noticed that my tomatoes didn’t ripen until the end of September, whereas back home, back east, by July you have juicy tomatoes falling off the vines. Hmmm. All the more reason for me to simulate sunlight now, as soon as I can.


2. Make a gym schedule for March, start now. Stick with it. Rewards built into schedule.



3.More protein. No more cottage cheese. It’s boring and I’m sick of it. Switch to yogurt and protein powder mixed with berries. Find protein powder that can be mixed with water. More nuts.

Imaginary This

I have to stop with the long posts. They're killing me. I log onto my own blog and I'm like, "Ugh, it's too much work to mouse through all of this." I can only imagine what a reader would think. Good thing this blog's only visitor is me....

Today is awful. Kevin worked, but he was supposed to be off. After learning that he was going to work I decided I'd wake up when I wanted, go to the gym and spend the day dallying with the dog out in the sunshine.

This is what happened instead: I woke up just as Kevin was leaving for work. There is nothing more depressing than watching your spouse's back, with whom you had hoped to spend the day, disappear through the front door. Then I went onto the computer. And then I stayed there. For eight hours. I went from blog to blog and most of them were about weight loss surgery. Actually that's been happening a lot. I get on to the computer to check my e-mail and then spend two hours reading about protein shakes and hair loss and incision scars and googling the bariatric surgeon in my area, over and over again.

I even sent Kevin a sad, manipulative e-mail about how I hadn't eaten and wouldn't, until he came home. (I had eaten, but I was peckish when I wrote that e-mail). And I really was toying with the idea of not eating and letting him come home to a depressed, pajama-ed, starving and low blood sugar-crazy wife who demanded he soothe her with junk food.

But something stopped me. I ate a sandwich and some wasabi black beans and a peach and then I removed the chipped toenail polish that has been causing me to feel self-conscious and then I puttered while my food digested. And then I decided to break up my pity party pour mois and do something really jarring, really meaningful.

So I put my old tae bo dvd in and made my way through it. Last summer, when I started all of this health and fitnessing I did it a couple of times and it kicked my ass. I think I made it through 15 minutes a couple of times (read 1, maybe 2x) and after I was exhausted and my legs hurt for days. Once, I actually completed the whole thing with Kevin. But that was a year ago and I haven't been as consistent with my working out. So how would I do now?

I did okay. I had to get back to butterfly-ing during some of the cardio kicking sequences (I could usually handle the slow-mo version for the reps of kicking, but once we double-timed it I was like, nuh-uh Billy!). I made it through and it was difficult, but I'm not wrecked and ready to fall over. In fact, I could probably get on a bike for an hour if I wanted to. Though I'm sure I would be more tired if I could actually follow the moves. Maybe all this cockiness is due to the fact that I was mostly flapping around and then falling down with laughter during my favourite part, when Billy says, "Imaginary this, you gotta kick higher!" But still. I did it. I kicked higher-ish.

And it was just what I needed to purge the crazy right out of me.

Imaginary that?

The end of the leash

On Thursday I was walking Runkie on Gorge. I was wearing cute Bermuda shorts from LB and a top from Pennington’s MXM line. {Normally, their tops are too long or too short. When they’re too long (tunic style) it looks like I’m wearing a cape to hide my stomach rolls. When they’re too short (because they’re cheap shit and they shrink like nothing I have ever seen before except Old Navy) they squeeze across my stomach and hit at the just the right height to show off the unavoidable flaring out of loose fabric at my crotch- not quite a camel toe, more like it’s slouchy cousin.} I had on my cute and super comfy aerosoles. And my hair was sassy. I felt hot.

And then the old guy with the stick started waving and smiling at us. I’m not sure if he’s homeless or just weird. He does have a shopping cart filled with things, but he also has the air of someone who is looked after a little bit…. Hard to say. He has waved at us before. Runkie doesn’t like him because he taps his metal stick on the ground a lot, so I generally avoid him. But I was feeling generous so I stopped for a minute to spend some quality time with the peeps in my hood.

I don’t know, maybe it’s because of my mother, or society in general, but I am hardwired to be uber polite. So when he started speaking rapidly in Mandarin or Cantonese I just kept smiling politely and murmured, “I’m sorry I don’t… I’m sorry I don’t speak Chinese….” I figured he just had to say what he had to say and it would only take a second or two and he’s homeless (maybe) and he’s harmless (maybe) and what does it matter if I stand there for a couple of seconds and listen to him talk in Chinese, anyway?

But he didn’t stop. And he got more agitated. And rather than walking away and thinking “Whatevah” I progressed to full on I don’t understand you gesticulation. And then he started to point to his thighs, indicating bigness. And then to his stomach, indicating bigness. And then to my thighs and my stomach, indicating bigness. He said something about my feet or my shoes (not sure which). And I got so flustered I stood there for the longest two minutes of my life while he pointed at his thighs and then my thighs, his stomach and then my stomach, and inexplicably, my feet.

And as he did so, he seemed crazier and crazier and for some bizarre reason, as much as I wanted to go, I was rooted there because this voice in my head kept sing-songing, “Is he saying I’m fat! Oh my god he thinks I’m fat! Oh my god! I must look so horrible, so fat, he feels the need to stop me in the street and tell me I’m fat... in Chinese!”

Finally, sense kicked in and I snapped to attention and realized I was standing there letting him insult me (I think, maybe he was just trying to tell me I look like a white version of Beyonce with my juicy thighs and that my shoes are really cute). I gave Runkie the lets get the hell out of here snap of the leash and the dog was off like a shot; though not before pausing to look at me like I was an idiot for stopping in the first place.

It’s really scary when your dog has better people sense than you do.

Attack of the Boot KKKamp Instructors

I know what I should do. I should start from scratch. 30 minutes, 3x a week would probably be the best middle ground solution to my problem.

Finnito.

But the Boot KKKamp Instructors that live in my head are totally up in arms at the very thought.

All my life I'd been listening to the boot KKKamp Instructor as if it were a perfectly rational part of my psyche. That aspect of my personality is basically my mother, living forever in my head, except she managed to get a certificate for personal fitness training and then split into two distinct personalities: The original Drill Serjeant who's like a mean militray Dad and the Drill Sergeant's tag-along who pretends to be my friend by wheedling me into submission, like a mean, manipulative older sister. Together, they make an awesome tag team.

But the Boot KKKAmp Instructors really don't mean to be so mean. They just want me to have what I think I want (to be thin, to have more options, to be admired) but they just go about it in the most all or nothing fashion imaginable. There's no grey here- unless we're talking about a pair of grey sweat pants. And actually, come to think of it the Boot KKKamp Instructors do not approve of grey sweat pants on me, only black. Because, according to them, if I wear grey we run the risk of looking more fat than usual.

The KKKampers are driving me nuts, refusing to budge. I either work out hard or I don't work out at all. The KKKAmpers don't want to look at the deeper issues at hand: my sadness that I've stopped losing weight, my fatigue of battling something, anything- they just want to keep on fighting the good fight and get my ass into the gym and back into a 2 hour 3 time a week routine.

They think this hunger problem is as simple as just refusing to eat more then I need.

But how do I do that if I feel like a gaping maw of never ending hunger ready to swallow a cat whole when I do what they say?

And how do I that when I know it will only lead to bingeing? The KKKampers hate bingeing, but they hate introspection and compromise even more, apparently.I wish I'd just have some amazing revelation and get this over with already. The solution is so tangible but it's lost on me....

Muscle Bound Lady

I was walking back from dinner tonight with my fabulous friend Jenn when I realized, I am slightly out of breath!

Strange...

Especially considering I workout 3x a week.

Like last week, I went to th gym on... oh shit, I only went once. And then it sunk in: I haven't been to the gym on a consistent basis in 3 months.

How did this happen?

Well, looking back, it started with getting the bike. I felt defeated by how much hills slayed me and I couldn't seem to legitimately find time to bike and working out at the gym so I thought I'd bike more. Except somehow I never got around to biking during the week, only on weekends.

And then there was the pilates avoidance. I wisely decided to give myself some time away from pilates because Fiona was bugging me.

And then... I don't know. There were parties and drinks and travel for work and drinks and somehow three whole months have gone by with only a handful of sessions at the gym to show for it.

But as much as it just "got away from me" I also know I was doing it on purpose.

When I was working out really hard, (1.5-almost 2 hours 3x a week in the gym) I stopped seeing results. And those more intense workouts left me ravenous. "Rip someone's head off and eat it" kind of ravenous.

I thought that after a couple of months my body would adjust and the intense would abate. But no, I had having a really hard time feeding myself. I would go from a 2 to an 8 on the hunger scale really rapidly- sometimes within in a half hour. And I felt self-conscious, eating at work, all the time and not losing any weight. At first I told myself it didn't matter because I was gaining muscle-- which would translate to weight loss.

But that never happened.

Instead, I was getting more toned, which was great. But I was also bingeing more because there was less room for error with my intense hunger and my low blood sugar swings. Then I would feel guilty for eating so much. And then I would just shrug my shoulders, say fuck it and have more cheese and crackers.

And now that I'm not working out, knock on wood, I don't feel so out of control around food. In fact, I'm in a really good place. There's no angst. It's so nice.

And here's why 3 months have gone by with no consistent exercise... I'm afraid that if I do get back into a routine I'll slip into long workouts again. And then I'll eat more. And then food will take over again and I'll be miserable and obsessed.

I hate being obsessed with food. It is so exhuasting and I can't turn it off. And the irony is I don't even lose weight when I get like that because I'm seesawing between extremes.

So why does that prolonged, extreme hunger happen? Is it physiological, psychological, a combination?

I think it's both. There is a genuine increase in real physical hunger.... and man is it big! Uncomfortably so. It borders on being extremely "unfeminine" and I think I may have some issues around bulking up. I saw that wild hunger as a precurser to being some muscle bound lady freak.... I just couldn't get satisfied. It was so frustrating. And God forbid I missed my afternoon snack, watch out-bitch alert! And then I'd feel guilty for needing so much food so I'd punish myself the best way I know how, by eating something shitty and fattening so I can hate myself even more and then I'd go to the gym and work out for 2 fucking hours and gnash my teeth because the scale hasn't budged in nine months and I'm really fucking hungry and if I don't eat in 20 minutes I'm going to have a headache that will turn into a migraine and why am I able to leg press more than half the men in this gym? Am I a genetic freak who is meant to be big and muscle bound.

Fuck. Must think about this.