Got the bike yesterday. They did not charge me, as they were in error, (duh). But I don't think I will ever go to that shop again- customer service sucked and so did the repair.
But enough bitching- the past is the past and the present is bikedom! This is the official Bike to Work Week here and I'd like to take part but Monday no dice, T, W, TH I'm on course in a remote location that is unbikable. So Friday is the only day I can partake. Perhaps the universe is throwing obstacles in my so I can learn to relax? It certainly feels like I've been doing a lot of waiting/bumping up against walls. Which is hard for me. It triggers my need for instant gratification- which is what so often leads me to binge. "I don't feel happy and I want to feel better now! I think I'll eat, that'll help."
I never learned to just sit with my feelings. And that more than anything is probably the magic ingredient I am missing since I lost the initial weight. For the last year, I've kept trying to pinpoint the magic ingredient to success, right down to thinking that the season, summer, was the pivotal reason why I lost weight, or that I won't lose weight in every other season. Obviously, I have to let go of that magical thinking. And ironically, the way to do that is to sit with my feelings of sadness at having gained weight and sit through them until they pass- rather than eating. Which is what I've been doing.
When I was just sitting through feelings, letting them pass through and over and out of my world, I was losing weight. During those times when things gelled and I was able to let feelings pass without too much "weight" being attached to them, and I was consistently sitting through them, I lost the most weight, and it was easy in the sense that it wasn't a struggle. I would say to myself, "I know you want to eat right now. And I understand that urge. But let's wait 20 minutes, if you still want to eat we'll discuss our options. I need you to sit with me right now though this feeling though, and let it pass. If we act on it by eating, by doing anything destructive we're literally feeding it and it will never go away. We know that, we've done it many times before and food never works in the longterm. If we wait, it will go. And we'll get what we want in the long term and short term."
I'd repeat bits and peices of that over and over to myself as I sat through the feeling. And if I decided I did need to eat I would go to Sbux and get a lite drink- because it was summer and I wanted something icy and refreshing. But not calorie laden.
It wasn't a magic bullet, and as I recall I journaled a lot and had a lot of moments where I was painfully emotional and feeling raw- especially on long days left to myself. But it was hepful.
Am I ready to try again?
Showing posts with label Weight Loss. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Weight Loss. Show all posts
Tuesday, May 12, 2009
Tuesday, May 5, 2009
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.
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.
Sunday, February 24, 2008
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.
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.
Tuesday, July 24, 2007
Shame on Me Redux
Well, first let’s get down to shiny brass tacks: I am out of control around food. I just can’t seem to stop turning to it to ease my sense of general sense of discomfort. It’s like I have an itch under my skin, starting around 5:00 pm each day for the last week, and the only way to scratch it is with food. Large quantities of food.
I haven’t binged like this in a long time.
But if I were honest and prone to peeling away self-subterfuge I would probably say that’s not true, I might even recognize a pattern. I might shake my head and admit that the bingeing is increasing, slowly over a period of months, increasing in frequency and quantity, and as long as the progression is slow, I guess I feel comfortable sighing and saying in a voice of bewilderment, “I haven’t binged like this in a long time.”
But this week, this week takes the cake. A big cake, with icing and layers and pretty piping on the sides. This week I started bingeing to the point where I wake up stuffed from the night before, hung over from the vast quantities devoured.
Yesterday I went to work and I had stomach cramps from all the food I’d eaten the night before. It’s been a long time since I binged to the point of gastro-intestinal upset. This is bad. This is getting back to old, dangerous habits.
There was a time when I would intentionally-by-accident check out and eat a pint of Ben & Jerry’s Cherry Garcia ice cream. Within two hours of a double date with Ben and Jerry, I was usually flushed and bent double, cursing myself for eating dairy when I know I have lactose intolerance. Severe lactose intolerance. Sometimes I would spend hours in the bathroom, shitting my brains out, in horrible pain, only to crawl into bed at two am so weak that my muscles shook.
But it’s been well over a year since I did anything that drastic. That self-destructive. But this week has seen me creeping towards binges of that magnitude. On Sunday night I ate a third of a cherry pie (what’s with me and cherries?), half of a container of 7 layer dip and half a bag of Tostitos to accompany said dip, and, an oyster sandwich (don’t ask). On Monday night I ate the rest of the chips and dip and another third of the pie- after I’d already eaten my dinner. And right now I want desperately to wander into the kitchen, throw the lid off of the cherry pie and eat the rest. That binge-y little kid inside me is whispering, “You have a fresh pot of coffee, what goes better with coffee than pie!” And I am seriously considering it….
But first, first, I should tell you a few things about me. About why this is so hard, about why I am willing to blow 30+ lbs lost for cherry pie and fresh coffee, but mostly for cherry pie.
I lost that 30 + lbs last August/September. Since then I have been trying in typical OCPD fashion to re-create every detail of those two months, with the (crazy) hope that if I do everything exactly as I did it then, I will restart my weight loss. But from October onwards, no matter how much I tried, how much I fiddled with my food, it didn’t work. I just stayed at my plateau. And when I tried to increase my exercise I ended up eating more because I was hungry like a mother fucker.
And now it’s July 24th. So close to August. I am secretly convinced that if I can recreate every detail from last August and September I will finally unlock the magical secret known as weight loss again and lose another 30+ lbs. Because, and this is key, it happened last August/September and those were the only two elements I have not been able to incorporate in my twelve month expedition of re-creation. (That and having two good friends at work who provided me with wonderful support, but they’ve moved on and even my OCPD brain has accepted they are not reproducible elements).
The pressure!
I can’t do it. I have tried. Every couple of weeks I step on the scale and it’s 266 at the low end, 268 at the high. (Though right now it’s hovering at 271). And then I stamp my foot and goddamnit I’m gonna do something about this. So I get a book from the library, You on a Diet, Fitness for Women. Or I revisit the South Beach Diet. Start the food diary again. Or I buy a fucking bike. Or I re-dedicate myself to the gym and eating at 10 am to keep my blood sugar low. And I try. I really fucking try to do everything right. On schedule, on time, just like last year. And no matter what I do, it gets fucked up. Because quite frankly, it is boring to eat bland salad in the winter what with the cardboard tomatoes and the flavourless cucumbers. And the cooking and the chopping and dicing and the clean up and the Tupperware back and forth to work and all the thinking and planning and doing that it takes…. It makes me exhausted and so I come home and I just say yes, yes, yes when Kevin asks if I’d rather just order pizza than make chicken breast. Again. And so I stay at 266-268, size 22.
And now August looms and the pressure is incredible. Irresistible. If only I could love cottage cheese again. And enjoy those stupid cheese sticks and stick to portion sizes and order salad, not fries. If I could do all of that and more, I could lose 30 + lbs this August/September.
But it’s not just that.
There is always something else. And this week has been tougher than most. And here’s why.
There is a new guy at work (he got the job I competed for but I don’t hold a grudge). He’s okay, a bit of a Cliff (I’ll explain one day, I’m sure), but okay. We work in public relations so he’s a writer, like I’m a writer. And so he googled me using my real name to see some of my articles.
I haven’t googled myself in a while because I haven’t published anything in a long while. And so I didn’t know that the first thing to pop up isn’t an article written by me, it’s an article about me.
So on his third day, new guy pops into my cubicle and says, “I need to talk to you.”
I’m all, “Okay, shoot!”
He sits down in the chair for guests (I mention this only because it’s a major status symbol where I work to have a cubicle big enough to have guests, and a chair designated for those guests is an even bigger status symbol. And, because I am uncomfortable talking about what happens next and I’m stalling…) New guy leans in and whispers, “I googled you to find some articles you'd written.”
Right away I put on my happy, breezy face and wonder what monstrosity of mine he could be referring to. All of the articles on the net by me, (last time I’d checked) had been amongst my earliest. “Oh God,” I said, “I can only imagine what kind of crap is up there. It’s always the shittiest stuff I wrote that lingers the longest.”
New guy says, “Well I just want you to know, I may say some things sometimes and I’m just kidding around. I would never mean anything by it. I’m not a violent person. But I could take something too far, in a joke. Without knowing… If I ever say anything that offends you, let me know. I don't want you to feel scared at all.” He looks serious and sad. He’s trying to convey that he’s a caring person. And my stomach drops.
What the fuck did he read about me? What’s on there?
I wave my hand dismissively, “I don’t know which article you mean…. But I worked with eating disorders for years and in that world, in the non-profit world, your life is an open book. Nothing to be ashamed of. So….” I smile. But inside, inside I am fretting, I am anxious. I am very upset. What article is he talking about and why did he feel the need to come and tell me he read something private, personal about me, and wants to reassure me? I add, “You get used to sharing pieces of your own life in that world because it makes it easier for students, clients—the people you’re working to help-- to relate to you. So they know that you know. So I’m used to it.”
Except, I’m not used to it at my corporate job. And I was creeped out.
New guy left my cube and I resisted the urge to google myself for about 20 seconds. When I did, I found the article he was talking about. It was the first to appear.
It was about a fundraising event I put together a couple of years ago for a women’s assault centre. In the article I talk about the sexual and physical abuse I lived through as a kid (which motivated me to get involved in women’s health issues) and incidentally the article also touched on my relationship with my mother (who did nothing when I told her about the abuse).
It was written a couple of years ago. So I didn’t remember much. I talked a lot back then. To a lot of people. I was in the healing phase where you tell your story, almost compulsively, you put it out there so you don’t have to own it so much anymore, so it’s not a secret, your dark secret.
I tried to read the article, but I felt queasy. I didn’t make it very far. In the second paragraph there’s a quote from me. “They basically used me as a human punching bag.” And I had to stop. I didn’t want to read and remember the rest of the article. The article he read. As he sat across from me. I didn’t want to read the rest of the article he was so horrified by/disgusted about/uncomfortable with that he felt the need to come into my cubicle and tell me he wasn’t a threat to my safety or wellbeing. I didn’t want to know what he knew. I had put that article, that time, behind me. Especially in this new, corporate world where efficiency and professionalism (or the appearance of it at least) are treasured above all else. Everything else. Where you have no past, not even a present, beyond the work you put out. You are a machine, not a person. Certainly not a person who was molested as a little girl, not once, but twice and who’s mother was so cowed by life, by the sheer weight of being a mother, that she did nothing, could do nothing to help you and sometimes even socialized with one of your abusers, her brother. I felt so tawdry and exposed. And so I have been eating, eating and eating all this week. Like I’m trying to rebuild a layer of the wall I had dismantled last August/September. To build up my reserves and shore up the fortification of me. To blot out that moment when I googled myself and saw what he saw and realized that the new guy knew my deepest, most personal details. And I had put it out there. And it wasn’t fair. I put it out there when I needed it out there, a long time ago, for people who would understand. And it’s still floating in the ether. Worse, it’s still floating around in my veins. Always there, inducing shame- injecting shame into everything. Even though I had years of counselling. Years of journaling. Years of talking about it, working with other women who have lived through it, raising funds so other women could access the help I got- I spent years in it- the shame is still here, like a scarlett letter. My shameful secret. And that shame eats away at me in a million different ways, at a million different times, but the source of the shame is always the same.
Me. The shame is on me.
I haven’t binged like this in a long time.
But if I were honest and prone to peeling away self-subterfuge I would probably say that’s not true, I might even recognize a pattern. I might shake my head and admit that the bingeing is increasing, slowly over a period of months, increasing in frequency and quantity, and as long as the progression is slow, I guess I feel comfortable sighing and saying in a voice of bewilderment, “I haven’t binged like this in a long time.”
But this week, this week takes the cake. A big cake, with icing and layers and pretty piping on the sides. This week I started bingeing to the point where I wake up stuffed from the night before, hung over from the vast quantities devoured.
Yesterday I went to work and I had stomach cramps from all the food I’d eaten the night before. It’s been a long time since I binged to the point of gastro-intestinal upset. This is bad. This is getting back to old, dangerous habits.
There was a time when I would intentionally-by-accident check out and eat a pint of Ben & Jerry’s Cherry Garcia ice cream. Within two hours of a double date with Ben and Jerry, I was usually flushed and bent double, cursing myself for eating dairy when I know I have lactose intolerance. Severe lactose intolerance. Sometimes I would spend hours in the bathroom, shitting my brains out, in horrible pain, only to crawl into bed at two am so weak that my muscles shook.
But it’s been well over a year since I did anything that drastic. That self-destructive. But this week has seen me creeping towards binges of that magnitude. On Sunday night I ate a third of a cherry pie (what’s with me and cherries?), half of a container of 7 layer dip and half a bag of Tostitos to accompany said dip, and, an oyster sandwich (don’t ask). On Monday night I ate the rest of the chips and dip and another third of the pie- after I’d already eaten my dinner. And right now I want desperately to wander into the kitchen, throw the lid off of the cherry pie and eat the rest. That binge-y little kid inside me is whispering, “You have a fresh pot of coffee, what goes better with coffee than pie!” And I am seriously considering it….
But first, first, I should tell you a few things about me. About why this is so hard, about why I am willing to blow 30+ lbs lost for cherry pie and fresh coffee, but mostly for cherry pie.
I lost that 30 + lbs last August/September. Since then I have been trying in typical OCPD fashion to re-create every detail of those two months, with the (crazy) hope that if I do everything exactly as I did it then, I will restart my weight loss. But from October onwards, no matter how much I tried, how much I fiddled with my food, it didn’t work. I just stayed at my plateau. And when I tried to increase my exercise I ended up eating more because I was hungry like a mother fucker.
And now it’s July 24th. So close to August. I am secretly convinced that if I can recreate every detail from last August and September I will finally unlock the magical secret known as weight loss again and lose another 30+ lbs. Because, and this is key, it happened last August/September and those were the only two elements I have not been able to incorporate in my twelve month expedition of re-creation. (That and having two good friends at work who provided me with wonderful support, but they’ve moved on and even my OCPD brain has accepted they are not reproducible elements).
The pressure!
I can’t do it. I have tried. Every couple of weeks I step on the scale and it’s 266 at the low end, 268 at the high. (Though right now it’s hovering at 271). And then I stamp my foot and goddamnit I’m gonna do something about this. So I get a book from the library, You on a Diet, Fitness for Women. Or I revisit the South Beach Diet. Start the food diary again. Or I buy a fucking bike. Or I re-dedicate myself to the gym and eating at 10 am to keep my blood sugar low. And I try. I really fucking try to do everything right. On schedule, on time, just like last year. And no matter what I do, it gets fucked up. Because quite frankly, it is boring to eat bland salad in the winter what with the cardboard tomatoes and the flavourless cucumbers. And the cooking and the chopping and dicing and the clean up and the Tupperware back and forth to work and all the thinking and planning and doing that it takes…. It makes me exhausted and so I come home and I just say yes, yes, yes when Kevin asks if I’d rather just order pizza than make chicken breast. Again. And so I stay at 266-268, size 22.
And now August looms and the pressure is incredible. Irresistible. If only I could love cottage cheese again. And enjoy those stupid cheese sticks and stick to portion sizes and order salad, not fries. If I could do all of that and more, I could lose 30 + lbs this August/September.
But it’s not just that.
There is always something else. And this week has been tougher than most. And here’s why.
There is a new guy at work (he got the job I competed for but I don’t hold a grudge). He’s okay, a bit of a Cliff (I’ll explain one day, I’m sure), but okay. We work in public relations so he’s a writer, like I’m a writer. And so he googled me using my real name to see some of my articles.
I haven’t googled myself in a while because I haven’t published anything in a long while. And so I didn’t know that the first thing to pop up isn’t an article written by me, it’s an article about me.
So on his third day, new guy pops into my cubicle and says, “I need to talk to you.”
I’m all, “Okay, shoot!”
He sits down in the chair for guests (I mention this only because it’s a major status symbol where I work to have a cubicle big enough to have guests, and a chair designated for those guests is an even bigger status symbol. And, because I am uncomfortable talking about what happens next and I’m stalling…) New guy leans in and whispers, “I googled you to find some articles you'd written.”
Right away I put on my happy, breezy face and wonder what monstrosity of mine he could be referring to. All of the articles on the net by me, (last time I’d checked) had been amongst my earliest. “Oh God,” I said, “I can only imagine what kind of crap is up there. It’s always the shittiest stuff I wrote that lingers the longest.”
New guy says, “Well I just want you to know, I may say some things sometimes and I’m just kidding around. I would never mean anything by it. I’m not a violent person. But I could take something too far, in a joke. Without knowing… If I ever say anything that offends you, let me know. I don't want you to feel scared at all.” He looks serious and sad. He’s trying to convey that he’s a caring person. And my stomach drops.
What the fuck did he read about me? What’s on there?
I wave my hand dismissively, “I don’t know which article you mean…. But I worked with eating disorders for years and in that world, in the non-profit world, your life is an open book. Nothing to be ashamed of. So….” I smile. But inside, inside I am fretting, I am anxious. I am very upset. What article is he talking about and why did he feel the need to come and tell me he read something private, personal about me, and wants to reassure me? I add, “You get used to sharing pieces of your own life in that world because it makes it easier for students, clients—the people you’re working to help-- to relate to you. So they know that you know. So I’m used to it.”
Except, I’m not used to it at my corporate job. And I was creeped out.
New guy left my cube and I resisted the urge to google myself for about 20 seconds. When I did, I found the article he was talking about. It was the first to appear.
It was about a fundraising event I put together a couple of years ago for a women’s assault centre. In the article I talk about the sexual and physical abuse I lived through as a kid (which motivated me to get involved in women’s health issues) and incidentally the article also touched on my relationship with my mother (who did nothing when I told her about the abuse).
It was written a couple of years ago. So I didn’t remember much. I talked a lot back then. To a lot of people. I was in the healing phase where you tell your story, almost compulsively, you put it out there so you don’t have to own it so much anymore, so it’s not a secret, your dark secret.
I tried to read the article, but I felt queasy. I didn’t make it very far. In the second paragraph there’s a quote from me. “They basically used me as a human punching bag.” And I had to stop. I didn’t want to read and remember the rest of the article. The article he read. As he sat across from me. I didn’t want to read the rest of the article he was so horrified by/disgusted about/uncomfortable with that he felt the need to come into my cubicle and tell me he wasn’t a threat to my safety or wellbeing. I didn’t want to know what he knew. I had put that article, that time, behind me. Especially in this new, corporate world where efficiency and professionalism (or the appearance of it at least) are treasured above all else. Everything else. Where you have no past, not even a present, beyond the work you put out. You are a machine, not a person. Certainly not a person who was molested as a little girl, not once, but twice and who’s mother was so cowed by life, by the sheer weight of being a mother, that she did nothing, could do nothing to help you and sometimes even socialized with one of your abusers, her brother. I felt so tawdry and exposed. And so I have been eating, eating and eating all this week. Like I’m trying to rebuild a layer of the wall I had dismantled last August/September. To build up my reserves and shore up the fortification of me. To blot out that moment when I googled myself and saw what he saw and realized that the new guy knew my deepest, most personal details. And I had put it out there. And it wasn’t fair. I put it out there when I needed it out there, a long time ago, for people who would understand. And it’s still floating in the ether. Worse, it’s still floating around in my veins. Always there, inducing shame- injecting shame into everything. Even though I had years of counselling. Years of journaling. Years of talking about it, working with other women who have lived through it, raising funds so other women could access the help I got- I spent years in it- the shame is still here, like a scarlett letter. My shameful secret. And that shame eats away at me in a million different ways, at a million different times, but the source of the shame is always the same.
Me. The shame is on me.
Friday, July 13, 2007
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.
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.
Saturday, March 24, 2007
Gelling
I had Friday off so I got up, lazed around for a while and then headed off to Thetis Lake by way of the goose. I knew I wouldn't have the energy to go the whole way because I planned on going to the gym afterwards. It was raining softly so the cool water felt nice on my face.
I don't have water proof clothing so I got pretty soaked, but I liked the sensation.
After my ride I cycled over to the gym and did a pretty big workout. My legs were like jelly afterwards. It was just one of those days where I didn't want to stop. I felt strong and capable and surprised with myself, everything felt so easy and natural, I didn't have to fight anything so it made it more enjoyable for me. Today, my calves are aching and actually that's pretty great because no matter what I do, it's hard to get them to feel sore or to see a difference. I have very thick legs, no delineation from the ankle up and I read that if you work your calves and make them more muscular it fools the eye into thinking you have some shape. I've been trying for ages to work my calves and getting nowhere -- who knew the secret was getting on a machine with weights that are too heavy for you!
I was thinking yesterday that the title for this blog, big girl on a bike, really doesn't do it justice and that once you get a good bike, there really is no difference between a larger person on a bike and a thinner one.
When I let Kevin test ride my bike he's just as stiff and uncomfortable on it as I am/was. I thought my unease would be because of the size of my body and it wasn't. Anyone who hasn't ridden in a long time will feel out of sorts and kind of frustrated.
I think we all remember what it was like to be on a bike, water skis, skate boards, etc when we were kids and then to try them again as adults is, for most people anyway, shocking. Your body no longer knows what to do and really doesn't have that core strength to do it anymore.
So when Kev got on the bike, his shoulders were ramrod straight, his posture was rigid and he head a death grip on the handlebars --- just like me, and he's average weight and at a slightly above average fitness level for his age. And when I told my friends about my new bike all of them felt the same way as I did and totally understood my fear of riding on a road because I just didn't feel comfortable enough yet.
So what I'm saying is, while this is called Big Girl on a Bike it might as well be called New to a Bike because once you find that good bike that supports your weight, it doesn't matter how big you are. Everyone is going to have a different thresh hold for their first few rides. Maybe you're out of shape and can only go around a parking lot for 5 minutes before you're ready to collapse (and let's be real here, I bet a lot of your fatigue also comes from the anxiety of just being on a bike again and all that self-talk in your head - I know that was true for me), or maybe you're pretty fit and can go for an hour. It doesn't matter, each of us will be building up our strength and endurance to go longer and more importantly, ride better.
Which brings me to the whole idea of biking to work. Not gonna happen. I live on one of the worst routes for getting from my house to my job and there just isn't any way around it except over Finlayson or Bay Street. Both have major issues though. Finlayson is a fucking hilly beast (I didn't know hilly from hilly until I moved here from the east coast), and Bay st has whole sections without bike lanes, is still hilly, (though not as bad) and would add an extra 1/2 hour to my route. No thanks. It's not totally off the table, I'd like to revisit it eventually, but for now I'm not putting that added pressure on myself. I'm going to be a weekend, after work, fair weather biker.
I had a pilates class on Tuesday and that went excellently. Not stuffing myself with food beforehand makes a pretty big difference. I'm going to have get really firm with myself about getting something to eat at about 3-3:30 at work with protein. Its not good to starve myself and then I come home after picking up the dog and I am ravenous with only a 1/2 hour to digest what I eat, so I end up eating too much and then going to pilates feeling bloated and full and as disconnected from my core as could be. (I also think I was doing that because I was pissed off at some sizeist comments Fiona made and had some ambivalence about going). But then she announced that the class will end at the end of April, she can't afford to teach anymore, and I realized how much that class has helped me overall. As a person and physically. It showed me that I may completely lack coordination, skill, timing and grace but I am dedicated in my own way. I've been going for over a year and I'm really into it.
Once she stops I'll have to take a core class -- I don't think I would like the pilates instruction around town from what she's described, it's just very move along, move along whereas her class is classic pilates and includes side trips into yoga, meditation and rhythmic breathing, which I really enjoy.
I also looked at my schedule and decided I needed to up the ante exercise wise. I've been doing the gym and pilates thing for a while now. And while I have added biking the reality is with time constraints being what they are, I've been taking away time from cardio at the gym to add time for biking which is a form of cardio so I've probably only added another 15- 20 minutes of cardio a week, max. So in the spring I'll need to find a new core class and I should really get myself into a spinning class. I've always been intrigued by them and I think I would like it a lot. Plus, it would make me a stronger biker.
The other thing I've been thinking about is this: last year I lost the bulk of my weight in July, August and even September. About 30 pounds. I think that's because it was so hot and combined with working out and a diminished appetite everything just came together. And I'm curious to see if anything like that will happen again this year? But I'm also worried there will be some pressure on me, that will lead me to rebel. So perhaps what I need to do right here and now is tell myself that encouraging more exercise is okay, but lets please leave off the food engineering. I don't want to go on a diet and I don't want to mess around with food this year. I get weird. It's too much. Lets just try to enjoy the fruits and veggies, get outside as much as possible and call it a freaking day!! No pressure to lose weight. At all.
I don't have water proof clothing so I got pretty soaked, but I liked the sensation.
After my ride I cycled over to the gym and did a pretty big workout. My legs were like jelly afterwards. It was just one of those days where I didn't want to stop. I felt strong and capable and surprised with myself, everything felt so easy and natural, I didn't have to fight anything so it made it more enjoyable for me. Today, my calves are aching and actually that's pretty great because no matter what I do, it's hard to get them to feel sore or to see a difference. I have very thick legs, no delineation from the ankle up and I read that if you work your calves and make them more muscular it fools the eye into thinking you have some shape. I've been trying for ages to work my calves and getting nowhere -- who knew the secret was getting on a machine with weights that are too heavy for you!
I was thinking yesterday that the title for this blog, big girl on a bike, really doesn't do it justice and that once you get a good bike, there really is no difference between a larger person on a bike and a thinner one.
When I let Kevin test ride my bike he's just as stiff and uncomfortable on it as I am/was. I thought my unease would be because of the size of my body and it wasn't. Anyone who hasn't ridden in a long time will feel out of sorts and kind of frustrated.
I think we all remember what it was like to be on a bike, water skis, skate boards, etc when we were kids and then to try them again as adults is, for most people anyway, shocking. Your body no longer knows what to do and really doesn't have that core strength to do it anymore.
So when Kev got on the bike, his shoulders were ramrod straight, his posture was rigid and he head a death grip on the handlebars --- just like me, and he's average weight and at a slightly above average fitness level for his age. And when I told my friends about my new bike all of them felt the same way as I did and totally understood my fear of riding on a road because I just didn't feel comfortable enough yet.
So what I'm saying is, while this is called Big Girl on a Bike it might as well be called New to a Bike because once you find that good bike that supports your weight, it doesn't matter how big you are. Everyone is going to have a different thresh hold for their first few rides. Maybe you're out of shape and can only go around a parking lot for 5 minutes before you're ready to collapse (and let's be real here, I bet a lot of your fatigue also comes from the anxiety of just being on a bike again and all that self-talk in your head - I know that was true for me), or maybe you're pretty fit and can go for an hour. It doesn't matter, each of us will be building up our strength and endurance to go longer and more importantly, ride better.
Which brings me to the whole idea of biking to work. Not gonna happen. I live on one of the worst routes for getting from my house to my job and there just isn't any way around it except over Finlayson or Bay Street. Both have major issues though. Finlayson is a fucking hilly beast (I didn't know hilly from hilly until I moved here from the east coast), and Bay st has whole sections without bike lanes, is still hilly, (though not as bad) and would add an extra 1/2 hour to my route. No thanks. It's not totally off the table, I'd like to revisit it eventually, but for now I'm not putting that added pressure on myself. I'm going to be a weekend, after work, fair weather biker.
I had a pilates class on Tuesday and that went excellently. Not stuffing myself with food beforehand makes a pretty big difference. I'm going to have get really firm with myself about getting something to eat at about 3-3:30 at work with protein. Its not good to starve myself and then I come home after picking up the dog and I am ravenous with only a 1/2 hour to digest what I eat, so I end up eating too much and then going to pilates feeling bloated and full and as disconnected from my core as could be. (I also think I was doing that because I was pissed off at some sizeist comments Fiona made and had some ambivalence about going). But then she announced that the class will end at the end of April, she can't afford to teach anymore, and I realized how much that class has helped me overall. As a person and physically. It showed me that I may completely lack coordination, skill, timing and grace but I am dedicated in my own way. I've been going for over a year and I'm really into it.
Once she stops I'll have to take a core class -- I don't think I would like the pilates instruction around town from what she's described, it's just very move along, move along whereas her class is classic pilates and includes side trips into yoga, meditation and rhythmic breathing, which I really enjoy.
I also looked at my schedule and decided I needed to up the ante exercise wise. I've been doing the gym and pilates thing for a while now. And while I have added biking the reality is with time constraints being what they are, I've been taking away time from cardio at the gym to add time for biking which is a form of cardio so I've probably only added another 15- 20 minutes of cardio a week, max. So in the spring I'll need to find a new core class and I should really get myself into a spinning class. I've always been intrigued by them and I think I would like it a lot. Plus, it would make me a stronger biker.
The other thing I've been thinking about is this: last year I lost the bulk of my weight in July, August and even September. About 30 pounds. I think that's because it was so hot and combined with working out and a diminished appetite everything just came together. And I'm curious to see if anything like that will happen again this year? But I'm also worried there will be some pressure on me, that will lead me to rebel. So perhaps what I need to do right here and now is tell myself that encouraging more exercise is okay, but lets please leave off the food engineering. I don't want to go on a diet and I don't want to mess around with food this year. I get weird. It's too much. Lets just try to enjoy the fruits and veggies, get outside as much as possible and call it a freaking day!! No pressure to lose weight. At all.
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