In Which I Take The Lead

I have spent the past two days with my head alternating between being in a toilet, or positioned being over a bucket. I got the stomach bug that's been going around. I had it in my mind to post a picture (tasteful picture of someone's head in a toilet?) but when I searched Google Images, the vast amounts of porn disturbed me so much that I kind of had the urge to barf again.

So no pictures of THAT.

Anywho, the upside of this bug was that I have lost 8 lbs in 2 days. Pretty sure that the reason for this is because there is absolutely nothing left in my digestive system, but hey, we take what we can get. At least this didn't happen:

Also, I got to watch television by myself all day (and yes, Amanda, this means that I was watching "that show" again. Do not come between me and my truckers again!) and eat Ritz crackers while sipping on miniscule amounts of Gatorade. Since Dan was working, I sent him a beautiful picture of my "I am sick" set-up.

Look! It's what every nerdy girl needs when she's ill! Her computer, her glasses, her PS3 controller and rations! The only thing that's missing is the Skyrim strategy guide that was on my lap.

Now I'm feeling back to my snarky, evil self. God help us all. We're heading to a hockey game tonight, and I'm hoping that my stomach will remember how it felt these past couple of days before it starts demanding rink dogs.

In Which I Overindulged

I met my original goal this past year and then promptly gained twenty-five pounds back.

I am ashamed.

Yesterday was Valentine's Day, and I took full advantage of the chocolate, the heart shaped doughnuts, the hibatchi lunch, the steak dinner with a bottle of wine and cake balls dipped in chocolate.

I'm paying for it now.

Not only am I sick as hell from all that fat, but I don't fit in my skinny pants anymore. I have two pairs of pants that fit and don't make me feel like an Ice Road Trucker needs to be putting an "Oversize Load" sign on my rear end.


Why yes, yes I do have an unhealthy obsession with Ice Road Truckers. Disregard this level of nerdiness (more like AWESOMENESS).

In other news, my sister got herself a boyfriend. Even more shocking, I adore her boyfriend. He's at almost the same level of epic as I am. 98% to my 100%. Anyway, the two of them will be visiting next month and so he and I agreed to a friendly bet. Biggest Loser. Let's do this, Evan.

In Which I Dream of Killing Jillian Michaels

There is less than two months until my sister Jessi is getting married. This means that I will be stuffed into a halter style bridesmaid dress and three and a half inch heels, given a bouquet of flowers, and be forced to stand in front of a congregation of friends, family, and people I've never met.

Commence panic.

Now really, I let myself go a little. I put on about fifteen (okay, twenty) pounds since April, just from being lazy and not eating right...and too much beer.

So I planned this whole diet and exercise thing, and the first thing I did was get onto Amazon and find myself a workout DVD. I watched Biggest Loser for the first time this past season, and so I figured I would start there. It led me to Jillian Michaels.

While Jillian's face bothers me, there's no denying that the chick has an awesome body. So I bought it, and started yesterday. I also decided that I'd go back to the Couch to 5K program on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. Match that with a 1500 kcal diet and I figured I'd be good.

Of course, because it's me, it didn't end up that way.

Y'all, this Shred in 30 is HARD. I think I'm fairly in shape, even for being slightly overweight. But Jillian kicked my ass up and down and then made me wish I was dead. Then my stupid ass went to the gym and attempted to do the C25K thing.

I was supposed to start with a brisk 5 minute walk and then alternate 60 seconds of jogging with 90 seconds of walking for twenty minutes.

I FAILED.

I was only able to jog for 2 of the sessions, and the sweat was pooling in that unfortunate spot between my boobs. I got a cramp in my side, and while I tried to do the whole "breathe like you're breathing through a straw" thing, I couldn't do it. I made it 20 minutes, and then had to give up.

And felt like an epic failure.

This morning, I attempted to hop out of bed, but I had to carefully ROLL off the bed, because my abdominal muscles are so freaking sore. During my short walk to the master bath, I realized that my ass cheeks were burning. Squats and lunges and jumping are just hateful to my glutes.

So we'll see how this goes. I am masochistic, so therefore I'll be doing it again when I get out of clinical today. I've packed my lunch for school (apples, cheese stick, half a pb sammich), I'm currently eating some apple and cinnamon oatmeal, and I put fat free creamer in my coffee. I can do this, right? It's only 25 pounds...

Right?

In Which I Decide To Make This A Lifestyle Change

I realize that it's been a week since the new year began.

I also realize that by now most people have given up on their resolutions.

It hit me last night: This isn't just a 2011 resolution. I want to become a healthier person for the rest of my life. It's really hard to take the first steps, but today, that's what I've done.

I started taking my medications again. As an almost nurse, I know I was wrong in stopping them, but as an insecure woman, I didn't want the stigma of being labeled as "crazy". Over the past several days I've come to the realization that depression and anxiety are diseases and I need to treat them as such, regardless of what people think. I'm not crazy, I just have a chemical imbalance and I live a very stressful life between going to school, working, raising two children and being a supportive wife to a husband who works 14 hours overnight in a position that he's very new to. I'm also a daughter, a sister and a friend who prides herself on being there for anyone whenever they need me.

So meds were the first step. Working out is the next. I'm heading to the gym after I get off the computer. Five days a week, no excuses. I'm going to start going to 90 degree yoga once a week. I loved going to yoga when I was doing it with my best friend Dejan, but somehow we fell out of it. I figure that I love yoga, and I already sweat like a pig, so I might as well have a reason for sweating (note to self: buy clinical strength deodorant/antiperspirant).

Yet another step is taking the starches out of my diet. No rice, no potatoes, no pasta (GAH!), no bread (DOUBLE GAH!) and NO BEER (kill me now). It just goes straight to my stomach and since the hubs and I will be going to the beach for our 8th anniversary in May, I'd really like to be able to wear a bikini. Bikini=goal. Add into that that I will be a bridesmaid in not one but TWO weddings this year, it would make me really happy to actually look good in my bridesmaid dresses (though I know I won't be nearly as beautiful as my best friend Christie and sister Jessi, of course).

Mostly, I just want to stop hating myself when I look in the mirror. It was suggested to me that I write a list of 10 things that I like about myself in dry erase marker on my bathroom so I can remind myself of that every day. I came up with three things...that can't be a good thing. I'm hoping to slowly but surely add to that list.

Let the start of self-discovery commence.

In Which I Curse The Holidays

It is what every dieter hates to see. Turkey, mashed potatoes, pumpkin pie. Ham, macaroni and cheese, corn, pecan pie. Chocolate in the stocking. Birthday cake on my birthday, which falls between the two holidays.Tons of alcohol and appetizers at my best friend's house to ring in the new year.

I have gained twelve pounds in the past 6 weeks. And my ass has grown from the size of Rhode Island to the size of Texas. My double chin is coming back and my spare tire has gone from a bicycle tire to that of a monster truck.

Enough self-hatred and beating myself up. Time to do something about it.

The good thing is that right after the holidays, New Year’s comes. I usually make several resolutions, which haven’t always been achieved in the past, but this year, actually got done. I finished my book. I lost a crap ton of weight. Forty-five pounds, to be exact. That’s a lot of weight. The size of a small child, at the least. I started being more active. I got into nursing school and have done well so far.

Even with the weight gain, I’m really only 15 pounds from my ultimate goal. It was suggested to me to try out Insanity, a DVD workout, which I’ve heard can leave people vomiting and wishing to die.

Sounds perfect.

In Which I Start My Journey to Happiness

I heard a saying on the radio today as I was driving to the store.

The three grand essentials of happiness are something to do, someone to love and something to hope for.

I think this is a pretty powerful quote. Think of the ways that it could be taken.

I could do a day:
I will be happy if I clean the bathroom, if I spend time with my best friend, and if I can hope on getting a handle on the pancreas and gallbladder lecture.

I could do a year:
I will be happy when I finish nursing school at this time next year, I will be happy being with my husband for another year, I will be happy if my hope that I can publish my book comes to fruition.

Right now I'm doing baby steps. One day at a time. Maybe I need to start an anonymous group. Though really, if you're reading this blog, you probably know me and I've already broken my anonymity. Shit.

Step 1 on the road to happiness: Attempt to schedule my life a little better so I can get the most out of my day. Perhaps if I have a calendar telling me what I need to do and when (especially when I can waste time fooling around on facebook and when I can take a crap) I will be happier.

In Which I Learn Another Valuable Lesson

When I first started losing weight, I thought that getting down to 170 pounds would solve all my problems. That I'd finally start thinking that I was beautiful, that I'd be able to wear a bikini, that I'd start being able to control myself when it comes to food.

Now two years and eighty pounds later, I realize that being skinny doesn't exactly mean that you will be happy. While it's great to be falling out of a pair of size 10 pants, I'm not necessarily any happier with myself than I was when I was in a size 20. For some reason, that self-confidence is still nonexistent and I still see the fat girl in the mirror.

I still can't wear a bikini because my stomach is all stretched out from having 2 kids and weighing 80 pounds more than I should. I can't control myself when it comes to food. especially if it's Italian food or sushi.

Now that I'm at my goal weight, I will continue to work out and attempt to make the right food choices (and stay away from Olive Garden), but I'll also start working on trying to get over my self-esteem issues. I want to see the beautiful girl that my husband tells me I am.

In Which I (Stupidly) Listen To My Best Friend

I've been in a funk recently. Between school, work, the kids, the husband, and all the studying, I'm just worn out. I've been having some problems coping with things and today when I told my best friend Dejan that I was feeling icky, he had the brilliant idea that we should go running.

Now, while I did reach my original goal of 170 lb that I had set 2 years ago when I was 250 lbs (I'm actually 166 lbs as of today), I still need to tone the flab. And I haven't worked out in a couple of weeks because of being so busy...and let's face it...I'm lazy.

However, Dejan is not. He goes to the gym almost daily (he has a schedule set up) and is way more buff than I am. He drinks his little protein shakes and eats his tuna and lentil for dinner (it smells like vomit and looks even worse) and is all into working on his fitness.

In my lapse of insanity, I agree to go with him and actually get kind of stoked about the idea of running outside. I run on a treadmill, people. In a climate controlled gym. With filtered air.

What in the hell was I thinking??

It was a beautiful day here in G-ville, temps were in the 60s, sun shining, and there was a pretty boy running in front of me with his dog that I love almost as much as my own children. I was fine...for the first 2 minutes. Then we headed up a hill.

Running outside in the hellacious Greenville allergy-inducing air killed me. I made it for about the first mile before I made my running partners slow it down, then I let Dejan talk me back into running again. He allowed me to stop so he could talk to one of the umpteen million people here in town that he knows and I tried to calm my pounding heart and soothe my aching lungs while attempting to stay in the conversation.

Then the bastard made me run again. AND he made me do stairs, insisting that the stairs would help tone my ass, which in all honesty, could use a bit of toning. And by a bit, I mean a lot. All of me needs toning.

Anywho, so we finally made it back to his house, after 3 freaking miles of running through the park, downtown, and through the historic district...and I died.


I think I look like one of those chalk drawings left behind after a hit and run.

In Which I Feel Better From Looking At Pictures

This is Fat Beckie, from March of 2008. Yuck.

This is skinny Beckie from October 2010.

WOW.

In Which I Get New Pants

These past couple of weeks have been insane with nursing school (last week was aka Hell Week), but I've maintained weight (for the most part, save for Halloween weekend, might have binged a little with my best friend being in town from Indiana), even though I haven't lost any.

I'm okay with this.

More than that, I was told by a friend (read: several friends) that my pants were getting too baggy, especially in the butt area. Now I really don't have much ass to spare and I really haven't wanted to lose it there, but whatev. Taking their words to heart, I did a thing that most women enjoy but I do not.

I went shopping.

I hate the mall. I hate shopping, unless it's for someone else or if I'm buying groceries because we all know how much I like to eat. I hate the sounds of the mall, hate the people who come up to me, wanting me to try their hand lotions or buy a cover for my craptastic cell phone. I hate dressing rooms, I hate thumbing through the plus sizes, I hate salespeople.

So with great trepidation, I walked into a store in which I will not name. I immediately walked to the plus size, then remembered that I'm not plus sized anymore before moseying over to the women's section (I swear, I only stopped at the kid's section for a little bit. My daughter needed a new shirt). So I automatically grabbed my normal size and headed to the dressing room.

They fell off.

Cheered a wee bit, I went for the next size down.

They fell off too.

Getting really excited, I tried the next size down.

They were baggy.

At this point, I was ecstatic. Dropping off the pants and tossing the shirt I'd found for the lovely one somewhere, I headed to one of those stores that has the music pounding so loud that you can't hear anything and the bags with the half-naked men on them...the one I haven't visited since having children.

When I walked in, I was half-afraid one of the teenagers working there was going to ask me what I thought I was doing there, but they just greeted me with a wave and went back to texting on their phone that's way better than mine. <--can you tell that I'm really trying to get my husband to buy me a new phone?

After grabbing a size that I haven't seen since I was eighteen, I headed to the dressing room and pulled them up, praying that I would be able to actually button them without having to suck it in too much.

OH MY GOD, they fit. I'm in a pant size that is HALF of what I was wearing 3 years ago when I started losing weight.

Happiness ensues.