Category Archives: Chubby girl

fat tuesday

One of my biggest blogging pet peeves is weight loss bloggers who don’t lose any weight.

Actually, it’s not the unmoving numbers on the scale that bug me so much.  It’s the purported use of the blog as a source of accountability and support followed by the subsequent bashful admissions of poor eating choices and the gym schedule that never was.  It feels all bait and switch; I want to follow a story.  Stagnation, even if you have tons of excuses for it, ain’t a story.

Which is all a big fat preface to saying that I gained weight in my little weekly weigh-in today and I am feeling really sheepish!

I had some little snarly thoughts about never blogging about weight loss efforts again.  Which isn’t the same as abandoning the efforts, because I’ve still got some purple snow pants to squeeze into.  But maybe it would be better to just not blab about it.  Like any sane person.  Or I will become my own biggest pet peeve.  And that’s too paradoxical for current musing.

Soo… I bequeath myself one more chance.  But, if the scale tells me something dumb again next Tuesday, then I’m just gonna keep that little gem to myself.

Or maybe make Fat Tuesday a once a month occurrence.

Whatever!  We’ll see, shall we?

Right, so.  The dirty details, eh?

October 4:  193.0
October 11:  189.6
October 18:  191.4  +1.8 pounds

RATS.

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fat tuesday

I am too fat for my snow pants.  Again.

As a lovely example of my contrariness, when everyone else is getting all twitchy about readying their bikini bodies, I’m very busy eating a lot of cheese.  Instead, I get all worried about being winter wear ready for ski season, because of these stupid snow pants.  I refuse to buy new ones.  I will use the ones I have!

This year, I ran a half marathon at the end of March and another at the end of July.  Which seems like something that would encourage thinness, I know.  But I get all tangled and weird, using these herculean physical endeavors as excuses to have treats.  And hamburgers.

And then!  After it’s over?  Oh, THEN!  That dreamy period of sloth we call “recovery.”  You’re supposed to do it.  Take a little break after you do something so taxing!

Me?  A break?

Mmmm.  Yeah.  Ok.  That sounds delightful.  I think I need to make some popcorn to go with this recovering.

So Sir Isaac comes along and he’s all “You’re at rest!  Stay at rest!”

Next thing I know, it’s been a month since I’ve put on my sneakers.

Twice this year, then, I’ve gone through periods of it’s-ok-to-eat-too-much-cause-I’m-in-training followed by I’ll-start-exercising-again-soon-but-right-now-I’m-in-recovery.

Which means that now I’m fat again and I can’t fit into my snow pants again.  (Yeah, this happened last year, too.  Not because of the marathons.  Just because of natural proclivities for fatness.)

All of which is to say that I’m on the wagon again now and have about 20 pounds to lose before Christmas.

Hence, there should be a “fat tuesday” post every week, while I try to regain my former levels of svelte-like chubbitude that mean I will be able to fit into my size Large snow pants.  Because Large is large enough, dag nabbit.

Week 1 -3.4 pounds

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the forces of good and evil collide

The official race photos came out.  I was super excited to see them.  Because zomg!
I ran a half marathon!

But then I saw them.  And then a lotta self-beat-uppery commenced.  I could rant and rave an ocean of vitriol about these pictures, but suffice it to say, I’m appalled by the fatness.

This is somewhere in between 9 and 10 miles, I think.

Look!  You smiled!  And you waved!  And seriously!  LOOK!  That is you.  Doing this crazy scary thing that you didn’t think you could.

But it’s like I can’t properly look.  I can only see the bad parts.

I think part of what appealed to me about all the running was that it’s like shirking this woe-is-me fat girl personae.  And I hate that lady.  She’s embarrassing.  I would rather either a) not be fat or b) pretend that I’m not.  So I don’t like talking about her.  I’m not even feeling so confident about writing this right now, because it feels like such a big admission.  I hate that fat lady.

I don’t want to dwell on her.  So let’s move on.  That’s enough looking at the pictures.  I’ll just use this to try and re-focus on efforts of not-fatness, and now that I’ve released this little snarl, just be nice to myself.

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draggin’ behind the wagon

I am so that girl with a curl in the middle of her forehead.  I’m either very, very good or I’m horrid.

No gym.  Fast food.  Smoking.

5 workouts a week.  Conscientious, wholesome eating.  Smoke free.

But lately, I’ve been doing something weird.  I’m not riding along on the wagon.  But I’m also not slothing out in my log cabin.  It’s more like I’m hanging on to the back of the wagon being dragged along behind.  I’m still working out diligently.  3 runs per week.  3 x boot camp.  1 Body Pump class.  1 spin class. So yay.  That’s good work.

But.  Oh, but.

I’ve been a scarf monster.  The treats I’ve indulged in!

And it’s so dumb.  I’m gulping down enough that I’m negating the impressive amount of exercise I’m doing.

It could be worse.  I could be eating too much AND wimping out on my workouts.  But I do fear that this bad behavior is a slow slide in that direction.

I have been making myself get on the scale each week.  Just to see.  And I think that’s a wise move.  So much easier to let it slip in blissful ignorance.  Instead, I scowl at myself in informed knowingness.

And then?  I don’t know…. maybe writing it down here will matter.
Hello, Blog-Maggie.  It’s me.  Real-Maggie.  I just wanted to tell you about how I’m struggling with my will power lately.  But I would like to do better.  So keep an eye out for me.  I hope that I can report something good back to you soon.
Smooches.

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two miles

Begin preface:

Last year, I was too fat to fit into my snow pants.  I was too fat for a lot of my regular pants, and they’d been banished to storage in the basement.

I was in a non-exercise realm, which extended into a continent of excessive eating, and shamefully, into the ghetto of cigarette smoking.

I don’t remember what the exact tipping point was, but around this time last year, I started making tentative little efforts to get myself back into the Land of Thinness and Exercise.

In May of last year, I started the Couch to 5k training program and on the Fourth of July, I completed my first 5k race.  I did it alone and no one came to watch, by my choosing.  It was very slow going.  I think a little over 38 minutes.

Then I did a 2nd 5k within a month, with a friend, who left me in the dust.  So I ran it alone, but the running was witnessed by others.

And then I met up with a girl friend to run a few times.  I ran with another friend in Seattle when I was there.  Still slow.  But managing to tamp down my shame enough to try and do it with other people.

In November, I ran a 10K with David.  An hour and eighteen minutes. Totally exposing just how slow I am to my super fit boyfriend.  He ran with me the entire time, which I appreciated immeasurably.  I think some little cheater walk breaks would have interloped if he hadn’t been there to keep me honest.

In December, I registered for Bay to Breakers, a 7 mile “race” in May.  David said he’d do it, too, so we’ve been doing a bit more running together lately, in vague preparation for that.  And then!  Very recently, I decided that maybe, just maybe, I wanted to do the Oakland half marathon coming up at the end of March.  Even if it meant planning to walk some of it.  And so we’ve gotten a bit more committed to doing a long weekend run together, completing 6 this past Sunday and 4.5 the weekend before that.

Which ends all the prefacing and brings me to my point.

I had a plan to go to my gym after work yesterday to do an “easy” 3 or 4 mile run on the treadmill.  But then, towards the end of the work day, David says that he wants to do a quick run and that we could do it together.  I agree to this plan.

He suggests that we do 2 miles.  And then he asks what sort of goal should we have.

“I don’t know.  What sort of goal do you think we should have?”

“20 minutes?”

“Um, well… the most I’ve done at that sort of pace is 1.5 miles on the treadmill.  That seems kind of a lot and fast.”

“21 minutes?”

So, with no small dread, I agree to this malarky.

And then we go.  David lets me set the pace.  He’s got the Garmin on.  I’m trying to be fast.  He says we’re doing some kind of pace in the 8’s.  I calm down a little bit until it’s some kind of pace in the mid to upper 9’s.  It’s fine for about 3 minutes.  And then it, along with my wind, just. starts. sucking.

I think about the girls who post their running stats for 10 mile runs with paces like this one for the entire duration and I think vile thoughts about them and about me.

I think about the ginormous cookie I ate from today’s free lunch.

I think, mostly, pitiful little thoughts of woe and desperation.

David, of course, is fine and able to talk to me.  Which he does.  Saying things like:

“You’re doing great!”  (LIE)

“You look really good.”  (LIE)

“You can totally catch that guy.”  (Biggest lie yet)

It was rife with terribleness and a very strong desire to stop.

And then I did stop, ’cause it was over.  2 miles completed.  And it was less than 20 minutes.  I wish I could feel proud of this, but it was so heinous.  How can you feel proud of 19 minutes of heinous?

So while not proud, I might say that I’m amazed.  Amazed that I didn’t give up and start walking in a snarl of vituperativeness.  Amazed that somehow David made me do it.

I’m also amazed, in a full of absolute dreadful sort of way, that this may happen again.

 

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I scoff at intuitive eating

I see mumbo jumbo about intuitive eating all the time, these days.  It seems like it’s just everywhere.  Or maybe I’ve just fallen into a really intuitive blog roll.  Whatever it is, it’s definitely starting to get my goat.   Just today, I wanted to virtually poo-poo at some blogger* who was writing about just how clever she was to be eating intuitively.  She details out all these plans to stop and assess her satisfaction level throughout the meal.  I was imagining this and realized just how impractical that would be.  If you ate JUST enough to not be hungry, how long would that last?  I was reading her post while I was eating my 10 am oatmeal.  A meal that I always have right at 10 am and that I’m usually pretty darned hungry for when it’s time to have.  So half way through it, I had a think.  ‘Am I still hungry?  Well, no.  I am not actively hungry right this second any more.’

I had some more thinks.

Should I stop eating this now?

Will I make it to lunch if I don’t finish this?  I totally doubt it.

Maybe I could have little spoonfuls every 30 minutes, just enough to abate the slightest twinge of hunger, but no more.

Because I could spend my entire day just eating little mini meals. Kind of like hooking myself up to a constant stream of nutrients with an IV!

And then I turned back into myself.

I get that no one’s really suggesting that we dose ourselves with little tastes of food just to satiate the edges of hunger.  Really, the whole idea sounds nice.  It sounds very normal.  Just eat when you feel like it.  Whatever.  No big deal.  But when you’re like me, it IS a big deal.  I can’t unmake it a big deal.
It seems that the origins of the idea are logical and well thought-out, but then begins spiraling into various states of disarray as it falls into the hands of women, looking for a way to stop forcing themselves into certain behaviors.  Looking for a way to not feel bad.  To not be undone by a foe, like the pint quart of Somoas special edition ice cream that I ran afoul of last week.
I would like to believe that one day I can get to that state of normal.  That it will be like that “fake it until you make it” saying… if I follow a plan and guidelines (created from information and math and not intuition) that mimics normal eating, maybe one day I can do it without having to think so much about it.

But until then, I just don’t think it’s realistic to suggest that we should just go around talking to our heads and bodies to access what we need.  While I don’t want to go haranguing strangers on my blog, I will say that *this blogger did recently talk about starting to eat a brownie and then decided that because it wasn’t The Best Brownie Of All Time, she spit it out.  She chewed it up and spat it out.  This was an intuitive eating victory for her.  People commenting on her post were all congratulatory of her wise decision there.  But I actually think that’s crazy.  And if that’s a demonstration of just how normal intuitive eating can be, I click the Dislike button.

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Exercise exorcisim

I went a little overboard on the exercise this week and maybe now I need a life preserver thrown to me.

I ate a lot on Thanksgiving. A painfully lot.

There were a couple of social outings with friends and there was more eating.  And drinking.

And even though I did run a 10K (for the first time ever) on Thanksgiving morning, I only worked out one other time over the 4 day weekend.

So my weight was only down 0.2 pounds as my last weigh-in.  Which is fine.  I was glad not to have gone up a little bit, really.

But I got all motivated to make sure that the next week would be better, and ended up doing 8 workouts in the past 5 days.  Boot camp at 6 am every morning before work, two running workouts and 1 Body Pump class after work.

The plan also included a spinning class today and a long run, probably 5 or 6 miles, tomorrow.

I am exhausted.  My knee feels like a balloon full of jell-o.  I’ve been getting home in the evenings in a state of collapse.  Being a horrible crank pot because I’m just so tired.

And now I am fighting with myself.  I really should not work out today.  I could use a rest.  But I could just go to spin class.  It wouldn’t kill me.  I could just do it and it’d be done.

The fact that I’m having this fight in my head is proof that I have gotten crazy.  Or is it just proof that I’m making excuses to not go to spin class?

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