The Land of Painful Reality

Now that I’ve gone public with my new weight loss goals, I decided to try to find a few weight loss blogs to follow for inspiration.  I want to find recipes, success stories, helpful hints, etc.  I keep looking for someone like me, someone facing similar struggles.  But instead, I keep finding daily food diaries and exercise logs.

I don’t care.

I can’t imagine anything more boring than a blog that lists what I ate, how many calories I burned, or how many Weight Watchers “activity points” I can count for scratching my ass.    And I strongly doubt whether or not anyone really gives a damn that I counted eight points for a Wendy’s Frosty last night.

Worth every tasty point!
Worth every tasty point!

I have lost count of how many times I have tried Weight Watchers before.  I once lost nearly one hundred pounds while following the program, but I was also in the midst of my obsession with running at that time; my weight-loss was due more to frenetic exercise than to my haphazard attention to what I was eating.   I think I can say in all honesty that I have never actually done Weight Watchers correctly.

So I’m not sure what is so different this time.  I just finished one full week on the program and actually did it right all week long.

Of course, I don’t know if it worked or not because my fancy electronic scale doesn’t work and I’ve been in denial for so long that I didn’t realize it was broken until I hopped on it to take note of my starting weight.  Fortunately, the lovely people at Salter have agreed to replace it and will be sending me a new one in 4-6 weeks.  Love those warranties!

There’s an entire blog post in there somewhere about how it felt to realize that I had broken my scale, but quite frankly my ego just isn’t up to that.  If not for my skinny-mini daughter telling me that it’s been broken for months I might have been suicidal when I looked down and saw “Err . . . Err . . .Err” in bright red letters on the readout.

Slim people like my sister don’t stay home and survive on specialty foods created just for weight control.  I’ve watched her, and she eats real food.  My tall, slender daughter eats the same foods that I eat – foods that I have prepared in my own kitchen.  We don’t use fat-free, artificially-sweetened frankenfoods in this house, and yet she maintains her weight just fine.

Granted, both of them are much more physically active than I am. But the point I am trying to make here is that I think the easiest way to lose weight is to eat real foods in more practical portions.  If I had to lose weight by eating pre-packaged, preservative-riddled, mail-order meals, I think I might last a week.  Or if I had to always be set apart from the people around me, eating something different and “special”, I’d be good for about two days.

If I had to accept the fact that I would never again eat another slice of pizza or –God forbid!—a Toblerone, I’d last exactly 4.7 seconds.

The fact is, I am going to eat real food.  Pizza, lasagna, cheesecake, Toblerone, Wendy’s Frosties.   If I’m going to move out of the Land of Bigass Denial and take up residence in the Land of Painful Reality, I’m going to have to do it with the occasional dish of tater-tot casserole and chocolate cake.

The difference is that I am going to have to limit my portions.

Part of my denial was telling myself that I really wasn’t eating that much.  I blamed my weight gain on slow metabolism, a sedentary lifestyle due to my disability, too much snacking, heredity, and so on.  I think I even blamed E.L.  James, not because she had anything to do with it but because I just like blaming her for everything unpleasant in life.

I was appalled this week to discover that I have been eating easily as much as my husband (sometimes more).  The problem with that is that the Big Guy is a six-foot, one-inch man who rarely stops moving.  The man has got the appetite and metabolism of a seventeen year-old marathon runner.

I, on the other hand, am a five-foot, four-inch sedentary woman with the metabolism and activity level of a three-toed sloth.

I’ve realized that the points value of one meal at Pizza Hut was an entire days worth of points.  Holy crap.  I can still eat there; I just can’t continue to match the Big Guy slice for slice.  Seriously, what the hell was I thinking?  I am not a stupid person.  How did I not get that I can’t eat that much?

The past week has been a real eye-opener in terms of my own idiocy and bad habits.  It’s also been a relatively hungry week as I have drastically reduced the amount of food I’m taking in.  I haven’t even started to worry about “activity points” and exercise just yet because I don’t want to overwhelm myself with too many changes, too soon.  That’s something for another week and another blog post.

If you have a weight loss blog and want to share some inspiration or some of your secrets, please leave a link for me in the comments!  I’d love to check it out.

The Land of Bigass Denial

I’ve had a bit of a rude awakening over the past few days.   Rather unpleasant, really.

I saw a picture of myself.

I’ve been “heavy” for most of my life.  An overweight, pleasantly plump, zaftig, full-figured, big-boned, plus-sized, larger than life, big girl.

There have been some times when I was slimmer.  Weight Watchers, Atkins Diet, Richard Simmons, Dexatrim, Adderral, running, Pilates, Jazzercise.  Tried them all, and they all worked.  For a while, anyway.

But my perception of the way I looked was always skewed.  I thought I was the most rotund and disgusting thing on Earth when I was in high school, but that’s not what I see when I look at pictures from back then.  I was actually kind of hot.  I had a great ass.  A small waist.  An hourglass figure.

Okay, a large hourglass, but an hourglass nonetheless.

Not that anyone knew it.  I always hid in oversized clothes because I didn’t see myself as curvy or sexy.  I just saw myself as fat, no matter how many people tried to tell me otherwise.

Now, all of these years later, my twisted perception of my appearance has somehow twisted in the opposite direction.  I no longer see myself as larger than I am; instead, I have moved directly into the land of Bigass Denial.

I thought I was still just “heavy”.  I didn’t realize I had crossed that line.  When I looked in the mirror, I saw that everything was still proportional, just bigger.  I congratulated myself on being a BBW with a curvy, plus-sized, womanly shape.

Then I saw the picture this week of my son’s pre-school graduation party.  There I was, in my favorite lavender top – the one I always feel pretty in — standing in the back of the room.

Fat.

It wasn’t a bad picture or an unflattering angle.  Forget that the camera adds 10 pounds; there is no blaming the camera for that picture.  Or the photographer.  Or the outfit.

Fat.

So, breaking my neck two years ago has slowed me down.  It’s not like I was super active before that point, but at least it was my choice back then.  Now my exercise options are limited.  But that’s still not an excuse for sitting on my ass for the last two years and gaining so much weight.

Of course I covered the numbers!  I'm fat, not stupid!
Of course I covered the numbers! I’m fat, not stupid!

 

Just this morning, I read Fatty gonna lose some weight . . .  by don of all trades.   Great.  Just when I’m feeling really low about how fat I have become, along comes Don to make me feel even worse.   Here he’s got all of these plans to drop fifty pounds and have fun doing it.  And since he’s a guy, you just know he’ll succeed.  Quickly.

Damn it.

Then again, I’ve always had a competitive streak.  And I loved reading all of his plans because he’s looking at his situation with a sense of humor and a whole lot of honesty.  Maybe . . . maybe the secret of weight control is to have fun with it instead of beating myself up about it.

So Don . . . it’s on.  Fifty pounds?  Child’s play.  I can lose fifty pounds, too.

Who else is up for a challenge?