I've Got Two Ticket's To Doughnut-ville...

Oh I am the mayor of Donutville proper. Did I mention this before? I forgot to tell you, but its the sad truth. I was elected by a landslide after the 6th consecutive week of buying at least two doughnuts a week. I am in full carb retreat, trying to rally my election team and execute them all. Why oh why am I still here?
Haven't gained any weight, but I haven't lost any either. It seems I'm working to keep from losing. Anyone else feel me on the self-sabotage thing?

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It's been a while, friends.

I've been writing so much on other projects that I can't seem to muster the energy to write it down, right here, that I am feeling so friggin despondent about weight loss. I've been maintaining for damn near a year now, and I'm tired of it. I work so hard, I do so good, and I haven't seen results, so then I think, "Fuck it, I want cheesecake," and then I eat cheesecake and the self-loathing totally messes up the delicious creaminess and the flaky graham cracker crust.

I have not given up. I will not give up.

I'm back on my daily smoothies, tryin' to take it back to the days immediately following my surgery, or at least the days when I drank a smoothie for breakfast, skipped the coffee and had a small lunch and dinner (if I don't eat something early in the day, I simply CAN'T eat much in the evening). I'm frustrated, but I'm still pushing on.

Something must be working...I had two people whom I regularly see tell me today that I look like I've lost weight. So maybe I have. Maybe my scale is stuck. Maybe I'm adding muscle and subtracting fat, and the muscle is taking up the same amount of weight.

Whatever the case may be, it's hard, but if Ruby can lose 400 lbs., I can certainly kick this last 100. I will. I will, I will, I will.

Not a crack but a crev-ass

Last night I fell into a deep dark crevice, and it was lined with homemade apple pie. For three months I have toed the line. I've attended all the meetings, stayed within my daily allotment of points, counted said points religiously and exercised on a fairly regular basis. I made it through several heinously stressful situations without buying a non-stop ticket to a calorie fest. And I finally succumbed. I laid all my willpower on the alter of apple pie.

And damn it was good.

The crust was absolutely perfect, with a little bit of sugar sprinkled delicately on top it's crispy, crumbly goodness. The apples were slightly gooey but still intact enough to hold onto each other and the cinnamonbuttersugar combination that is so rarely done right. In short, that shit was amazing. The reason why I describe the pie chiefly in the past tense is because by and large it is GONE. And we're not talking a mini pie or tartlet. This was a fully grown mature pie, and I ate over half of it. What's more, I didn't even have the couth to slice it into pieces and put it on a plate like I was an adult with dignity and self respect. Hell to the nah. I stood over that pie with a spoon and just had my way with it. I didn't even take it out of its cute little window box.

This morning I have a tinge of a stomach ache, and I am still trying to decide how I feel about the carnage I left behind. If I'm being totally honest, I kinda don't care.

I know I've been preaching that we aren't dead and we can't live in a box where all powerful, great and wonderfully fattening foods don't exist. But I'm wondering if I'll ever get to the point where I don't just go ape shit when I see something like a beautiful golden brown hill of fresh apple pie or any large quantity of something delicious and totally contrary to losing weight.

I have always struggled with compulsive eating. It was the worst when I was in college. I'd buy a box of cookies or a big bag of chips to celebrate something, and then I'd start eating. The more I ate, the guiltier I felt, and then I'd have to eat the rest of the bag/box I'd bought just to get it out of my room. Then I'd beat myself up for being such an incredible failure, and eventually the cycle would repeat itself. Fortunately for me, at that time I had the metabolism to support that kind of destructive behavior. Not so much anymore, yet it appears that awful habit still has the ability to rear its vile, ugly head.

I don't want to do all this work and then just backslide right back to square one. I've lost over 50 pounds before and it didn't stick. I realize I may be overreacting a tad, but I'm trying to decide if I'm going about this all wrong. Should I try to allow myself a slice of pie/pumpkin chocolate chip muffin (the latest food fantasy I've been having - I really miss those) here and there instead of just attempting to abstain for the most part? I have been able to find lighter options to satisfy my monster of a sweet tooth - but man once that pie crossed the threshold of my front door - I was a goner.

If I go to my meeting on Monday and I've gained weight, well I just don't know. I've gained a little and come back from that, but that was barely two weeks ago. And the more I think about it, the more irritable I become, I'm close to irate about it all in fact.

I'm tired of constantly thinking about food all the time. I'm tired of having to work so hard when there are people in the world that don't have to. I'm tired of still looking in the mirror and being disappointed. And I'm REALLY tired of taking a minor mistake and turning it into an excuse to be pissed off at the world, short tempered with my family, and your garden variety nasty bitch. I'm tired of being so hard on myself. And I just don't know how to stop. I've have spent my entire life putting insane amounts of pressure on myself to be perfect. Countless people have told me I need to stop beating myself up. And that's it. It stops there with the recommendation to let go of that behavior. Nobody has offered a suggestion as to how to stop that habit, and I haven't a clue as to how to do it on my own. Maybe some people can just stop, but I can't.

I know it is all tied into some seriously deep-seated anger that I have decided to direct at myself, but again, no idea as to how to empty that barrel of monkeys. I'm truly at a loss.

At least I didn't eat the entire damn pie.

Thereby hangs a keychain

It's official, I'm a sucker.

Weight Watchers is promoting exercise with a walk a 5k in six weeks program, and if you walk or run a 5k on June 6 you get a charm for your WW key chain. I got the key chain when I hit 10% of my weight lost and got a charm (that seriously looks like a washer for a tub drain) when I hit the 25 pound mark.

I slid that cheesy ass key chain with the washer on it right on my regular key chain with the thought that the more I see it the more motivated I'll stay. Seems to be working. Although I don't really find myself staring at my key chain any more than I did prior to being awarded this faux copper little beauty. And I'm not rubbing it like Uri Gellar attempting to bend a spoon on my bad days. Nevertheless, there it hangs.

The charm for the 5k is a big silver '5k' - it's actually kinda cool, and I want one. BAD. Who knew that some star shaped stickers and key fobs could actually help to keep a fat chick on the road to Wellville.

And then there's the fact that Jennifer Hudson is now the new spokesperson for WW - who needs Duchess Fergie when you can have Effie from Dreamgirls cheering you on?

When did this happen?!? How did I become Little Miss Yay Rah Go Establishment??? Now I'm certainly not broadcasting the fact that I've joined WW to anyone other than you fine folk here, so it's not like I'm gunning to dethrone JHud. I'm just not sure if I'm entirely comfortable being so involved with something so corporate.

But it IS working. Hmmmmm.

Not My Best Idea Ever

Work has been slow these last couple weeks. And by slow, I mean, the entire office clocked 2 hours of on-the-clock hours yesterday.

Our solution for that freedom? Go out and day drink. For hours. Before playing kickball. That was the fun part. Lotsa laughs, good times bonding with the people I spend most of my time not-talking to, since we all wear headphones at work; they're a funny group of folks.

Yeah, not such a great idea, the five pitchers before kickball. In addition to the ridiculous caloric intake from allllllll the beer I drank, I totally gnarled up my ankle when it was my turn to kick. I can hardly walk today. I'm not sure if I can stay in the league, which is heartbreaking to me, because I was really looking forward to this.

Why does beer have to taste so good? Why is drinking such fun?

The banana and the dog

Well I know it's been a long time since I chimed in, but I gotta say I have a pretty good excuse. It's called March Madness, and I don't mean that basketball shit.

The Reader's Digest version bullet point list goes something like this:

Week One: Second child's first birthday - fun celebration chez Puckett. Crappy ass party at my parents house where I discover I rank lower than the dog (LITERALLY - more on that later) Parent/Teacher conference where I start to cry because...

Week Two: Ultrasound on three year old to look for pancreatic tumors. None found. Thank Jeebus. One year old has uncontrollable vomiting episode. One year old has bronchialitis. I get a pap smear because the last one came back bad.

Week Three: One year old to hospital for chest x-ray - no pneumonia AGAIN thank Jeebus, next day three year old to hospital for stitches next to his eye - 10 hours of waiting for less than 30 minutes of service. Thankfully I only had one tube of Ritz with me to power down - I'm pretty sure the stress could have driven me to chew through the drywall. One year old gets put on albuterol (yeah that's a steroid) breathing treatments for suspicion of early onset asthma. Riding a fat sow is easier than trying to get a one year old to inhale cool steroidal mist. Full on toilet reverse action. Colossal Meltdown.

Week Four: Supposed 'friend' outs some deeply personal information about me at a random party (the last in a long list of crap she's put me through) bu-bye friend. Prescription numero dos of mood stabilizer on board - which was good because then we come to the ACTUAL shitstorm. Every Puckett man Small, Medium AND Large comes down with uncontrollable vomit/diarrhea virus, for FOUR DAYS.

Last Hurrah Half Week: Three year old has multiple blood draws to try and determine why his pancreatic enzyme lipase is through the roof - no explanation. It is determined that three year old has astigmatism in both eyes but they can't give him corrective lenses until he is old enough to tell them which lens makes him see better.

Annnnd scene.

But I'm back in black, finally under the two bill mark - though of course I hit 197, then the next week promptly went back to 200 and now I'm back down to 195. The swing back up came after the two trips to the hospital week - talk about kicking a gal while she's down - and it was the first week I'd gained weight since joining WW, and it really threw me for a loop. It's such a slippery slope for me. I felt like if I gained, I failed and maybe I should just hang it up. Screw this weight loss thing. Seriously. Over a measly 2.4 pounds. But that's where I was. And the whole next week (that would have been Vomitgate if you're keeping track) I pinned my hopes on losing weight and knew if I hadn't I was a complete and utter worthless failure.

Even making good dietary decisions came at a price. Remember that comment about being lower than the dog?

The story you are about to read is true. Wish it could have been an actor in my place, but alas, no.

The setting: My parents house.

The time: Not important.

The characters: My Momster and Yours Truly.

Me: Hey Mom, can I have a banana? (the fact that I know I have to ask for a banana in my parents house is a whole other chapter in my great American novel right there)

Mom: Welllll...how many are there? (My parents live in a 3000 sq. ft house and they don't pay a mortgage - one banana isn't exactly sending them to the government cheese line)

Me: I dunno - looks like five.

Mom: Wellll, let's see...

Me: Nevermind, just forget it.

Mom: Well your father has a nightly ritual where he shares a banana with the (wait for it) DOG. And we don't go to the grocery again until Saturday, so I guess it's ok.

Me: Gee thanks, it's good to know where I rank.

And I sometimes wonder why I have occasional bouts of low self esteem.

Despite all that, I have learned a few things over the last month that have come in kinda handy in the self-worth department.

For instance, I can leave food on my plate and not die. I've done it three times now and have yet to keel over like Wallace Shaun in The Princess Bride. A regular at my WW meetings can buy a bag of Lindor truffles and only eat two a day. This is a skill she ACQUIRED. She was formerly of the Wholebaginonesitting tribe, which means escape from that clan is POSSIBLE. Hell, I have NEVER left food on my plate unless I was severely ill. I mean something has to taste pretty fucking awful for me not to eat it, so when I managed to eat only half my caprese panini this weekend, I fully expected the clouds to part and the hand of God to reach down and give me an atta girl pat on the back.

And the other thing I learned? That one day at a time shit really does work. Ben and I usually hang out on Sunday nights and talk about the upcoming week and what's happening and I would start to think about every last little thing that I had to accomplish and before the night was over I'd be counting the pills in the Xanax bottle. I would start thinking of the epic laundry list of tasks and then think "I have to do ALL of that AND lose weight?" No fucking way. And then I'd muddle through it all rather ungracefully and would keep a death grip on my weight loss like a flag I had to plant atop Mount Skinny. I just sucked the ever loving fun out of everything. So yesterday I decided I'd just stick to making it through Monday without considering anything else coming down the pike, and wouldn't you know it, like one of those annoying motivational seascape posters at work, I had a great day.

All hail today!

Um, ow.

Mistress Dina, perpetrator of fitness brutality and strengthening/toning torture had at me again today. My lands, babies, it was intense. The front desk staff came into the small, sweltering back room to watch me toil, and tell me how good I was doing, along with a peppering of how glad they were that they weren't me. It's nice to feel so supported in my doctor's (chiropractor's) office. Truly. Even as I was sweating and shaking and making funny noises and contorting into all kinds of unladylike positions, I was feeling good about it, all because I know that they really want to help me feel better and be healthier, and that no one is judging me because I have boob sweat stains or jacked-up hair.

Today is my first day symptom-free from the carpal tunnel in a month. I love my chiropractor. It is incredible how much I took for granted the fact that I lived my entire life free from chronic pain, before this little hiccup. Feeling good is a blessing.

Now I'm going to go sit in a tub full of hot water and epson salts and pray that when I stand up out of bed tomorrow morning, I don't want to throw up on the floor because my thighs burn so bad.

Big love. xoxo