Date Night

Because of my severe Mother Hen instincts (Ash calls them "issues". Don't know what that's about), I haven't felt comfortable leaving our 2-year old son Ben with a sitter that wasn't related by blood. Because I sensationalize every thing, watch too much Tru TV, and am a product of Cultivation Theory, I just have this fear that whoever we let watch our kid isn't going to pay enough attention to him and he's going to end up ingesting bleach or pretending he's a superhero off the roof.

Ere go, since we moved to Florida 8 months ago, my husband and I have been out alone exactly three times, and all of those times were when family was in town visiting.

Thankfully, my "issues" are somewhat kept at bay by the Child Development Center. I feel more comfortable with Ben in that setting where all the employees have been trained in life saving techniques, he's in a childproof environment with kids he can interact with, and everyone who works there has a genuine love of kids.

As we enter the holiday season, the CDC is open weekend nights for childcare because of all the base Christmas parties. We are taking advantage of this lovely, lovely arrangement and going out THREE WEEKENDS IN A ROW!

We spent this past Friday night at Ichiban having a fantastic sushi dinner. Afterwards we went to a great little self-serve yogurt shop and then to pick up a few things at the bookstore.

As much as I love Child-O-Mine to death, it was incredibly nice not to have to fight him in the highchair or interrupt our conversation with phrases like, "I'm pretty sure there's poo running down his leg." I was able to focus on time with my husband instead of worrying that something bad was happening back home.

I also learned that Date Night time moves at warp speed. We dropped Ben off at the CDC at 6:30. It was almost 10 when I looked at my watch. Hand to God, I thought it was, like, 8.

Click to enlarge.

Next step: get over myself.

Bouncy Balls

It will forever amuse me how much my child dislikes peas. He will not eat them. Refuses to, in fact. Eschews the green monsters with a firm hand....

You expect me to eat this crap? No way, lady.

...but the second you let him pretend that his food is various types of sports equipment, he can't get enough of it. And, upon completion, will then promptly ask for more.

MUST EAT ALL THE PEAS!!!

A Special Thanksgiving Message

With the holiday tomorrow, I wanted to take the time to wish you all a very happy Thanksgiving, to remind everyone to cherish what you have, and to enjoy time spent with family and friends.

Plus, it couldn't hurt to put a smile on everyone's face due in part to my miserable age 7 Thanksgiving, right?

My Grandma Carol was in town for the holiday, visiting from Detroit. She and Mom were preparing yummy goodness befitting the Gods: turkey, gravy, mashed potatoes, green bean casserole, cranberries, some sort of dish comprised mainly of cheese, the works. A feast was lain before us all. Of course, being a naive child, I had no idea that overindulging has its consequences. All I saw was the glorious Turkey Leg.

"IT. WILL. BE. MINE," I thought.

Even to this day, if you ask any of my friends, they would probably describe me as the type of person who is focused to the point of destruction. When I want something, nothing will stand in my way....

...Not my Mom's warning that an entire turkey leg is simply too much food for a tall, gangly 7 year old. Not my Dad's insistence that HE should get the turkey leg (read: BOTH turkey legs). Not my sister's whining that she wanted it toooooo and why does Emily get everything?

Let me tell you... I didn't listen to a darn thing anyone had to say and I ate that entire thing. Plus sides. Then dessert. I rolled around all afternoon like a King, my belly protruding in such an unnatural manner.

Come bed time, the tryptophan was hitting so hard that I could barely keep my eyes open. I was in no shape to be conscious at all. Grandma and I decided to go to bed. I took the top bunk, she took the bottom.

We talked for a few minutes about what we would do the next day, said our goodnights, and passed out.

Somewhere in the wee hours of the morning I woke up feeling... "funny."

".....Grandma? Could you turn on the light?"

".....mfngskdfuha. What? *grumble grumble*. Sure, honey," she said, barely awake.

If she had known what would befall her upon the turning on of the lights, she probably would've just stayed in Michigan.

It was not pretty. I spewed forth an ungodly amount of Thanksgiving dinner all over my poor, dear Grandmother. It was matted in her hair, dripping down her nightdress, squashing into the carpet.

Frantic calls for help brought my parents in to help clean us up.

Two showers, new bedding, and lots of teeth brushing later, we were able to crawl back into bed, both cuddled up on the bottom bunk. I promptly fell right back into a coma. I probably can't say as much for Grandma Carol. She probably slept with one eye open the rest of the trip.

Neither of us ate turkey for years.

HAPPY HOLIDAYS!

Tornado Ben

     The problem with having an independent, creative child is that on any given day, he can decide that he does not need to listen to a flingin', flangin' word you have to say. Today just so happened to be one of those days.

     On our drive to the library today for storytime, Ben and I talked about listening, about cooperation, and how we were going into a quiet place where we would need to be polite, obedient, and sit still. "Okay, Mommy," Ben said. "I'll be a good boy."

     He held my hand as we walked in, took in all the sights and sounds, and behaved very well as we waited in the kid's section. I should've been suspicious because THIS is what I was in for:

     Well, maybe it wasn't THAT bad, but that's essentially how we were treated. Of the 8 or so kids in attendance, Ben was pretty much the only one who felt the need to be verbal in his responses to the reader.

     "Are you a horse?" asked the Librarian, as she read a story about ponies.
     "NOOOOOOO!" yelled Ben

     "Are you going to sit down now?"
     "I want to dance."

     "Who wants to hear another story?"
     "Hey, Mom! There's a crocodile!"

     No, really. There WAS a crocodile... it was a stuffed floor mat that all the other well behaved kids were sitting on. In the twenty minutes we were there, Ben changed seats no less than seventy four times, stood during the sitting time, sat during the standing time, clapped during the quiet part of the songs because he thought they were over, and made loud, verbose requests for cheese sticks.

     My whispered pleas for him to please just be quiet fell on deaf ears while we garnered what I consider to be the most intense look of disgust I have ever seen in my life.

     This lady's eyes cut me to my core and her judgement of me hit me square in the face. It hurt my feelings so much that Ben and I actually got up and left. While, yes, I may be exaggerating about the extent of Ben's actions (he wasn't really THAT bad), I'm not exaggerating about this. She was so mean with just a look, when B was only being a kid. He just turned 2 for crying out loud...

    We came home and read our own books. I let him ask as many questions as he wanted.

Terrible TWOS-day...

     My sweet, tiny terror is 2 years old. At this age, friends, family, and acquaintances are asking when he's going to get a little brother or little sister. After our day yesterday, my answer to this question is to laugh in their faces.

     The day started out like any other: Ben woke up at 6am and I coerced him into an hour more of sleep by convincing him that it wasn't time to get up yet because the sun was still asleep, too. After breakfast, we played blocks in his room and then watched an episode of the ever popular "Bubble Guppies".

     Play time resumed after this all-too brief respite, and at this point in the day, "play time" means running around like crazy in an attempt to expel all his energy. In his rush to get into some other kind of trouble, Ben decided he was done with his juice cup and threw it over his shoulder as he ran through the living room. Unfortunately, our *brand new* 51'' Plasma screen TV has a big, fat, target on it.

     B's juice cup cracked the TV in the lower left hand corner.

     In the beginning, it didn't look that bad. While I was screaming inside, "THIS IS WHY WE CAN'T HAVE NICE THINGS!" my calmer side was rationalizing, "You can't even really see the crack when the TV is on."

     ....and then the plasma started to bleed. The center of the crack began to grow big, purple splotches that started to run down the cracks. Again I thought, "At least it's not in the major line of sight. I can live with a small blemish in the corner."

     By nightfall, the plasma had bled into several lines across the bottom of the screen.... and then the picture went totally black. I had to resign myself to the fact that we had an $800 paper weight sitting on our TV stand. Bad news bears all around.

    When all of this tragedy first took place, I had an incredibly firm, VERY serious discussion with Dear Bennett about NOT THROWING THINGS in the house. It took every fiber of my being not to beat the crap out of him because I know deep down that he's like a dog and just doesn't understand. After five LONG minutes with his nose in the corner, I decided that maybe a better "punishment" would be to be removed from the situation and to go directly to bed. And that's where he spent the next four hours.

     By bedtime, even though the state of the television had gone from bad to worse to dead, we remained in somewhat good spirits with Ben. As I went into his room to clean it up for bedtime, I made a discovery....

     While he was serving his naptime sentence, and even though there are NO art supplies kept in his room, THIS is what I found.

     "It's orange, Mommy," he said.

     I cried until I laughed. Thank the Lord for magic erasers and red wine.

Luuuuuuuuucy.....

Seems I have some 'splainin to do.

     The rumors are true. I'm off the wagon. I haven't done an Insanity workout in a week-- because I am stubborn and I believe that boycotting the system will hurt it's feelings enough to make me start losing weight. I've not totally stopped working out, however. Last Saturday, I opted to go for a run-- something I hadn't done outside in 6 months.

     Feeling my feet hit the pavement was such an amazingly good feeling. If I can say one thing about Insanity, it is that I have definitely become more conditioned. I made it to the end of our street without stopping (nearly a mile-- which I realize means nothing to you, but means the world to me). I have what you may call American Thighs, so running is essentially like dragging tree trunks across the asphalt. Keeping my fatass in motion for any extended period of time is something to celebrate. The fact that I also made it nearly the whole way back is also worth noting.

     The feeling of the sun on my skin had me hooked immediately. The thought of popping in a crummy old DVD in our sparse home office with the single covered window made me want to curl up in the corner and take a nap. If I was going to exert myself, let me commune with nature while doing it. Have I mentioned how terribly dramatic I am?

     I spent the next 5 days riding my bike in the mornings before Ash left for work -- a secret joy of mine since childhood. My bike is rusty, creaky, nearly 15 years old (I got it for Christmas when I was 10), but it pedals fast and gets the job done.

     We live about 3 miles from the beach, but we're somehow tucked in the sweetest country pocket, an enclave of golden sunlight, tree lined side streets, and orchards. Across the street from us are horse farms, large pastures home to fluffy baby chicks, and ponds the house turtles popping up to enjoy the sun. First, I would race the dragonflies flying next to me, then I would race the Blue Angels as they streaked across the sky.

     My legs would burn but it was a burn so good. "Take THAT, Insanity," I thought to myself. Stubborn or not, I love the way my body feels when it is DOING something. I need outdoor exertion to validate my existence. I'm transcendental that way.

     As I went shopping for pants tonight and zipped up that elusive size 12 (score!), I decided that maybe I'd give Insanity another chance.... although this time I'm not going to put so much pressure on it or myself. Scale? Be gone. I'm just going to love the feeling of movement in my bones and sweat on my brow... although deep down I'll only be thinking about the wind in my face as I cruise down a hill at full speed.

"My wrists are sweating!"

My dear friend Mary has joined me on the dark side. She started Insanity yesterday and I want you all to encourage her!

Hopefully she'll  be featured as a guest blogger soon-- as soon as she has enough energy to lift her fingers.

Send her your love, let her know that life is not over.

I'm causing a stack overflow

     This is the part of any exercise program where I begin to get extremely, extremely frustrated. It’s been just shy of three weeks: I’ve been killing myself daily with these crazy workouts, I’ve been drinking upwards of six bottles of water a day, I’ve cut out things like French fries, and I’ve been incredibly sensitive about my diet.

     I haven’t lost as single pound. On the contrary. 18 days into this program, I’ve gained a pound.

     Sure, spout the bull about muscle weighing more than fat or my body just redistributing the fat it already has, but seriously? I want proof positive that all of this Insanity is doing something.

     As a bona fide chubby girl, I’ve spent my whole, entire life with the mantra that it’s just a number on the scale. The number doesn’t matter as long as you look and feel great… but that crap only goes so far. The funny thing is that in taking my measurements (bust, bustline, waist, hips, thighs, calves, arms), I’ve lost a solid inch in every single area (1.5 inches in my calves). So why isn’t the weight coming off?

     Perhaps I’m most frustrated because a measly inch isn’t totally noticeable so I don’t actually feel like any of this crap is working. My Fit Test numbers show slight improvement, but because of my mood, it doesn't feel like it's enough. I honestly just feel like sitting down with a pint and a spoon and finishing it off so I can prove that I can see soemething to the end and be successful. 

Fit Test Week 2:

Switch Kicks—33 (up from 32… wow)
Power Jacks—40 (up from 35)
Power Knees—87 (up from 63, okay, I’ll take it)
Power Jumps—15 (up from 11)
Globe Jumps—10 (up from 5. I’m actually happy with this one because “1” jump is actually a series of four jumps, so technically I upped this by 20 more jumps)
Suicide Jumps—10 (up from 6)
Push Up Jacks—15 (up from 10)
Low Plank Obliques—51 (up from 45)

     I wasn’t as ridiculously exhausted after this workout, in fact, I wasn’t even winded after the warmup. In the long run, I know I’m being healthy. I’m improving my body, making it more fit and healthy… I just so desperately want to see a certain number that I’m completely clouded by it.

     Care to send me a pick-me-up? I'm starting to feel like this:

Zzzzzzz....

Well I've been a bad little blah-ger lately, haven't I? I swear, I've been keeping up with my Insanity workouts and I promise to post on my progress soon. Recently, my VisitSouth work has tripled (I'm not complaining, just giving excuses), so all I've wanted to do at the end of the day is this:

And find funny pictures online: 

"It's the hat"

But really, I'll post soon. I had my second Fit Test yesterday and I'm sure you're all waiting with bated breath to read about how far I've come. Which isn't very far at all, my friends.

Zzzzzzzzzzz.....

The Insanity that is my life, Week 2: Days 7 -- 9

     Monday, 8/29: If there’s one thing to be said about Insanity, it’s that the program certainly changes your endorphin production for the better. Yesterday was Sunday, my day off. Surprisingly, I found myself wanting to work out. Part of me wonders if that’s because I knew I didn’t have to, and I always want to do things I arrive at on my own (remember me saying I was stubborn?).

     After several weeks (a fancy way of saying many months) of a basically sedentary lifestyle, seven days solid of daily, hardcore exercise somehow tricked my brain into thinking cardio is a good thing. I had more energy this weekend than I’ve had in a long time.

     Mind you, I still woke up this morning dreading this workout, but knowing that I would love the feeling afterwards. I was right. I’m surprised to feel like this so soon into the program, and I really, really hope it sticks around.

Post-It on my Mirror Day 7: If you get new shoes before a new exercise regime, spend some time breaking them in. K?

     Tuesday, 8/30: Pulled my quad. Bad. Stupid jumping lunges.

Post-It on my Mirror Day 8: ARGH! So frustrated.

     Wednesday, 8/31: I decided to forego plyometrics today because yesterday I pulled my right quadricep something awful. I really, really don’t want to give up on this simply because I have a penchant for ridiculous injuries. (I once pulled my groin playing volleyball. Really? Who DOES that??)

     Instead, I moved on to tomorrow’s scheduled exercise, cardio recovery. I also spent about a half an hour on the elliptical at our apartment complex’s fitness center. I figured that was low impact enough and I feel surprisingly good. Tomorrow, I’ll probably stick with cardio recovery again, then I’ll resume our regular schedule on Friday.

     I’m really finding my body craving a workout when I wake up in the morning. Chances are, my body is just in shock after having been dormant for so many weeks, but if I can get this feeling to stick around, oh, just forever, then I call this a win-win.

     I simply refuse to use this crazy quad shenanigan as an excuse to get out of anything. (Even if I DID stuff myself on bread pudding last night at Five Sister’s Blues Café… Thanks, Heather!!! :D)

   
     Honestly, that’s been my problem all these un-toned years: falling off the wagon because I’m lazy. Not anymore, my friends!

Post-It on my Mirror Day 9: Taken from a friend’s Facebook profile, "You may be surprised to find out how easy it becomes to exercise regularly, eat well, and reach a healthy weight when you stop treating your amazing body as the problem, and start using it as the solution." 

The Insanity that is my life, Week 1: Days 4 – 7

     Wednesday, 8/24: After lying on the floor last night, immobile, during mine & Husband’s marathon Mad Med sessions, I didn’t think I’d be able to do anything today. Mentally, I felt GREAT, but I physically felt like I had sandbags tied to my calves. Thankfully, 1 hour+ of grocery shopping this morning really helped work out the tight muscles.

     Shuan T must have known how we would feel because the middle of the week is your Cardio Recovery workout and it is just what the doctor ordered. No heavy cardio, no profuse sweating, no cursing the workout Gods. Just stretching, breathing, and light calisthenics like lunges and squats.

     I was still shaking like a leaf afterwards but I wasn’t headed straight for the shower, either. And, I’ve already lost 8 ounces! I think maybe I’ll weigh myself at each Fit Test every 2 weeks… those results might be a *bit* more impressive, considering feathers weigh 8 ounces. 

Post-It on my Mirror Day 4: Remember, you’re doing this for yourself. Not for anybody else.

     Thursday, 8/25: I did not work out today. The morning was spent nursing a headache that just wouldn’t go away. I thought that maybe if I napped while Ben napped, it would leave… but then Ben didn’t nap so my idea was shot. I made the decision to take a break today and then resume Friday/Saturday, rest on Sunday.

     When I’ve had workout plans in the past and come up against problems like this, I usually beat myself up so much for giving in that the entire plan just falls by the wayside. I think that giving myself some flexibility is going to be the key to keeping this up. If there is a day I simply just can’t do it, I’m not going to the throw in the whole towel: my routine will just shift one day.

Not feeling like I’m locked in a box will help see me to the end.

Post-It on my Mirror Day 5: Take care of yourself

     Friday, 8/26: Pure Cardio! And Shaun ain’t kiddin’. After a 9 minute non-stop warm up and about 7 minutes of stretching, you’re led through 16 minutes on continuous, fast-paced, heard-pounding cardio. Coming from someone who can barely jog 16 minutes straight (let alone do things like suicide jumps, power jacks, and the like), it was intense.

I’m absolutely dreading tomorrow… Plyometrics again.

Post-It on my Mirror Day 6: I will not accept laziness.

     Saturday, 8/27: I. Hate. PLYOMETRICS. Every time I see this workout scheduled on the calendar, I know it will take every ounce of willpower to begrudgingly drag my body into our designated workout space.

Post-It on my Mirror Day 7: OH THE PAIN

The Insanity that is my life: Days 1 -- 3

     Sunday, 8/21: Today was my first day of Insanity. I woke up to some frustrating news about a family member and it made me really, really angry. Then I got mad at myself for being angry. Then I wanted to cry, but I knew if I cried, then that would make me tired and I wouldn’t get out of bed. So, I decided to use it as a motivator to propel through my workout.

     The first day of Insanity is just a fitness test. You do a minute each of 8 different callisthenic exercises. “No big deal,” I thought. “It can’t be that bad, right?” Haha. I was gasping for breath after the warm up.

     My furor was enough to push me on, though. Not usually being a violent person, it surprised me how much I was able to get done using frustration as a motivator.

“How dare he?” Kick, kick, kick.
“How selfish can someone be?” Jump, jump, jump.
“Did he really think he could get away with committing a felony?” Push, push, push.

     Thirty minutes later I was done, sprawled out on the floor of our home office turned home workout room. Sweat dripped into crevices I didn’t know I had and I simultaneously cried “Yes!” and “What the hell did I get myself into?!”

This is how I looked after the Fit Test: disheveled, hammy, and inwardly dreading this experience.

Post-It on my Mirror Day 1: You can do ANYTHING for 60 days.

     Monday, 8/22: Took everything I had to lace up my sneakers. After seeing how rough the Fit Test alone was, I was definitely not looking forward to today’s Plyometric Cardio Circuit. This isn’t one of those cheesy write-ups where I say, “But you know what? It wasn’t really that bad. I loved it!” No, it is NOT.

   
     This workout SUCKS. And I could only handle half of the exercises. Thankfully, the guide (Mr. Shaun T—and he won’t let you forget it) reiterates the importance of going at your own pace… which right now is a snail guiding a tortoise through a sea of molasses. And they’re both blind. This is going to be very, very hard for me to complete.

   
     I’m quite possibly the most stubborn person on the planet, so why am I missing the diamond grade willpower that usually comes with?

Post-It on my Mirror Day 2: FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, WHY?!

     Tuesday, 8/23: WOW! I finished my workout about 2 minutes ago and I feel FANTASTIC!!!! There’s not even a hint of sarcasm there, either. I did the Cardio Power Resistance workout today and actually managed to finish ALMOST all of it. There were a few exercises where I had to slow down or just hold the squat instead of jumping with it, but that is such a vast improvement from yesterday where I seriously wanted to tie a rock around my waist and jump into the Gulf.

 
    Today’s workout has me excited for tomorrow, like I can actually finish this thing. I didn’t expect this feeling until the halfway point of the entire 2 months. Here’s hoping I’m not borderline suicidal tomorrow, though.

Post-It on my Mirror Day 3: Remember this feeling and know you’ll have it every Tuesday.

Look for my full first week recap on Saturday!

He's Probably Smiling Anyway

Prepare yourself for the ramble of the century because I’m emotional and tired. That is never a good combination.

Every person you have ever come into contact with has created you. There’s no two ways around it: your nuances, turn of phrase, entire outlook on life, can be shaped by your peers, your acquaintances, your family. How they view your existence is wholly wrapped in these things. Without other people, it is possible to lose your own identity. Essentially, you become their projections (this is why it is imperative to surround yourself with positive, uplifting people).  

Consequently, when one of those people is taken away from you, lost, or otherwise removed from your life, you lose the part of yourself that was found in that person. As the anniversary of my Grandpa’s death approaches, I’m realizing that a part of me has been gone for almost an entire year as well.

My Mom married my Dad when I was 4 years old. Right out of the gate I called him Dad, adopted his last name, and spent time doing fatherly-daughterly things like getting puppies and riding bikes. Much in the same way, his dad dove in with both feet. I never got to meet my Mom’s Dad, so Grandpa Mike was the only Grandfather I ever had. Even though I came into the picture a little later, he never wavered. He accepted me with open arms, cans of Chef-Boyardee, and way too many gifts on Christmas morning.

I’ll forever miss his off colored jokes; the way his Christmas gift selections would vacillate between wildly inappropriate and incredibly touching and useful; how he wore ladies sunglasses and we never told him; the way his apartment was littered with half finished crossword puzzle books; knowing he was always good for episodes of Law & Order or Seinfeld... or Judge Judy; shopping on Christmas Eve followed by Mexican food; the classical music in his car turned up way too loudly; his daily email with said off-colored joke, and the way he used to experiment with different fonts, text colors, and sizes because I’m pretty sure it made him feel tech savvy; sitting out on his back porch listening to NPR; the stories he used to tell me of his days at the Plain Dealer or working for the State of Ohio; the way he was gruff about agreeing to go to our sports games or piano recitals but never missed a single one; finding pumpkins to carve on Halloween; knowing not to call after 6:30pm because he was probably already asleep; cribbage; …I’m sad he only got a year with my son, and half of that time he was too sick to hold him.

Will the list of things I miss about him ever end? Probably not. So the only thing left to do is honor the life he had as a means of rebuilding what you have lost.

He left behind a drive in me to see the lighter side of life, to create an eternal goodwill amongst my friends and family, to be giving and providing, but most importantly, to earnestly love those who matter and simply forget those who don’t. And to always, always laugh.

Insanity

I’m not quite fat, but I’m not skinny either. Several years ago, if you’d have used the term “big boned,” I probably would have socked you in the nose… but now, I actually use it for myself. This is how my brain changed:

The struggle with my weight and having body issues really started in high school, when I found myself close friends with some very petite people. Jody was around 5’2’’ and a size 2 (with perfect teeth and hair, she was, and is, gorgeous). Andria, around the same height as Jody, was the “big girl” in her house wearing a size zero (while her two sisters- one older and one younger- wore double zeros). She blamed it on her genetics; A could put away an entire package of double stuff oreos and never gain an ounce. I only wish I were exaggerating. At least I had Elie on my size (side? Ha). She was my height (tall for a girl at 5’9’’), and broad shouldered, but with a flat stomach and thin, toned legs. Even she had her mother’s German metabolism, though.

The cycle only perpetuated itself when I got to college at 17. My roommate and two other close friends swapped clothes and woes if they fluctuated between sizes 4 and 6, yet my roomy would still eat rice drenched in ranch dressing, followed by plates of curly fries and cake. I had salads without dressing, sandwiches without cheese or mayo, vegetables without salt or butter and saw no change in my size 10 self. It got the point where I was so hungry and depressed, that I felt the need to eat in secrecy.

I would go to the cafeteria between classes and get big sub sandwiches to go (thick cuts of bologna with double the cheese), and eat it behind the liberal arts building. I kept bags of chips and Swedish fish hidden in my room and I would only eat them if my roommate was gone to class. Soon, I had blown the Freshman 15 out of the water and descended into the very dark realm of the Freshman 40.

I knew my friends back home would question my weight gain, so I hid from them, making up excuses about why I couldn’t come home that weekend or why I was busy during special parties or birthdays. My abusive relationship with food and my body was causing me to shut down.

After the winter break, I decided to be a recluse. Even my journal entries reflected these wishes, writing about how I couldn’t wait to get back to school just so that I could hide away and have people think I was a loner. My life consisted of going to class and thinking about food constantly- when I was allowed to eat, what I was allowed to eat, how much I was allowed to eat- it was all a game to me. I’d spend hours in the gym followed by downing handfuls of Xenadrin and taking midnight runs in the woods because my heart was racing too much for me to sleep (looking back, it’s a wonder I wasn’t abducted).

This went on until I met my future husband in the fall of 2005. He helped me to feel beautiful no matter what my size was. Around him, I naturally lost about 20 pounds. We would go for walks and talk for hours (not intending on working out, we just wanted to spend time together). My body settled into a natural rhythm of balanced eating and regular exercise. After two and a half years, we were married. On my wedding day, I was the “smallest” I had been in my adult life (and even then I was a comfortable size 12, tight 10. Remember what I said about just being big boned?)

We had our baby about a year into our marriage. Ben just turned 2 and I’m still holding on to baby weight (making me the size I was when I was so unhappy). But my husband has never called me anything but beautiful… I’ve just had a harder time believing it.

 A few months ago that started to change when I became absolutely enamored with Crystal Renn… I saw THIS picture of her in a magazine and she owned her curves.

She looked so happy, confident, secure. Like no one (not men, other women, or her family) could get her down with offhanded comments about how many calories were in that ice cream. Through more research, I found that we were the exact same height (5’9”), weight (ha, not telling), and size (around 14). I even own that bathing suit in black. Knowing she was a super successful model made me think differently about myself, that maybe I had worth, that people didn’t think I was a disgusting cow.

More importantly, I didn’t think of myself as a disgusting cow anymore. I read her autobiography, ‘Hungry’ and actually wrote some of her words on post-it notes to keep on my bathroom mirror. To give a little history: she wanted to be a model so badly that she starved herself down to 98 pounds and STILL couldn’t get work because she was told she was too big. Subsisting on a diet of lettuce, sugar free gum, and 9-hour weekend workout sessions, she broke. After letting her body settle at its natural weight, she began booking gigs left and right. She was happy, healthy, and realized that everyone is beautiful when they’re at what she calls a “set weight” (where your body natural lays). I was hooked.   

A few weeks later, I saw some picture of her floating around on Facebook. She had recently been on the cover of Mexican Vogue… and was back down to a size 0.

Her hip bones jutted out, her collar bones sharp as razors. Her eyes looked dead and I felt betrayed. Hadn’t she just told me I was perfect the way I was? Did this mean she was lying and I really AM a disgusting cow?

The shot to my confidence was almost unbearable. I don’t want to say that some silly model made me lose my mind, but I retreated into a black hole of self pity. My poor husband… I don’t think he knew how to handle it.

It wasn’t until Crystal’s very own sister wrote me on Facebook (we connected through Crystal’s fan page) that I started to climb out of that funk. She commented on a few on my posts and let me know not to read too much into her book, that it was basically a publicity stunt to get noticed by designers, and to not let it break me.

Realizing I needed to take care of myself FOR ME was what started to change my mind. Don’t lose weight to look like someone else, don’t work out for hours on end (if that’s what you choose to do) for anyone but yourself, change your outlook FOR YOURSELF.

I’m starting the Insanity workout plan on Sunday. I’d like to lose the 40 or so pounds I’ve gained since High School because I’m tired of hiding behind myself. My self-worth doesn’t lie in the number on the scale, but doing this for myself is going to create a new love for my body, an appreciation for what it does and why it’s here. Lucky YOU for getting to read about my neuroses. 

Random Acts

I love reading stories about random acts of kindness and people who do genuinely nice things simply because their heart is in the right place. On a recent flight from Atlanta, Georgia to my home in Florida, I experienced such an act.

It had been a long day of traveling with my 2 year old son. He had been staying with my parents so that I was able to go on a 2 week long cross country road trip with my two very best girl friends (and that’s a whole ‘nother story in itself!) We’d been gone from Husband and Dad for three weeks and all we wanted was to be home with him. After a fairly uneventful first leg from North Carolina to Atlanta, Ben and I found ourselves with under 20 minutes to make our connecting flight—at a terminal 2 concourses and a shuttle away in one of the biggest International airports in the country.

It was something out of a movie: here I am, a bedraggled and emotional twenty something with a toddler, a carry-on, and a car seat, lumbering though Terminal A as I hear our names being called over the loud speaker.

“This is a passenger page. Will Emily Smith please report to Gate A13 for flight 1213 with service to VPS, Florida. The gates will close in THREE minutes.”

By some glorious act of God, I made it to the gate. They practically hit me in the ass with the door, but I made it. Every single eye on that plane was upon me as I trekked back to row 38. Honestly, of all days for a flight in Atlanta to actually be on time. 

We made it to our row and found ourselves seated next to a lovely lady with perfectly coifed hair and immaculate clothes, the spitting image of Sofia Vergara. As Ben was traveling on my lap, the quarters were tight. I was so thankful that she was nice. “Sofia” explained to me that she had two kids at home, aged 14 and 17, and just loves babies. I sat back in our tiny seat and breathed a sigh of relief, both because we made it, and because I wasn’t seated next to someone who was going to judge me for bringing a young child on a plane.

Ben occupied himself by opening and closing the window shade. Repeatedly. I’ll admit, it got a little old, but seriously? When you have kids, you learn to not care what keeps them occupied as long as they’re not A)in imminent danger, or B)causing anyone else any physical harm. Whatever keeps them quiet, am I right? I thought quietly to myself that the other passengers must be thankful he’s not screaming.

Well, apparently not.

I noticed the woman seated in front of me had paged the flight attendant. She was requesting a different seat. Her son commented that they were unhappy with the child that was “banging around behind them.” The woman declined the move after she learned the only seat available was a middle seat a few rows back.

“Sofia” helped me distract Ben from the window by graciously offering her House Beautiful magazine and a few highlighters so that he could color. She then let him riffle through her Prada purse looking for more pens.

“I used to travel with my kids when they were very young,” she said. “I was a single Mom and had to travel to keep my job. I remember people not understanding what it was like and being unfriendly towards me. I’ll do whatever I can to help you because this really takes me back.”

Hopefully, she understands how thankful I was to her. Well, halfway through our 45 minute flight, I see this overly-styled pixie haircut and big, saucer like eyes peer up from the headrest in front of me. Apparently, Lady In Front had something to say.

“Do you think you could get your kid to stop kicking my seat?” she said, contempt dripping from her words.

I tried to be polite in saying to her that he was only 2… and wasn’t even moving. She actually rolled her eyes at me, a turned around in a huff.

Not even 5 minutes later, she fully reclined her seat straight into Ben’s head. I can’t make stuff like this up. Honestly, I cracked a smile and started to laugh. Sofia, on the other head, looked at me with eyes full of horror.

“I can’t believe some people,” she said. “This is a 45 minute flight… it’s so short that there’s not even a beverage service. Can she honestly not sit still for twenty more minutes?

“You know what,” she continued. “I’m going to take that empty seat in the back.”

I tried to protest, saying she really didn’t have to do that. The flight was half over already.

“No, I’m absolutely going to take it,” she said. “I remember what it’s like to travel with young kids. Some people are too ugly to care about others.”

The Lady In Front heard this comment and turned around and started to say something. Sofia simply looked at her and shrugged her shoulders with a look on her face that said, “What?… you are.”  

She moved seats, giving me and Ben the row all to ourselves. He enjoyed getting to sit in his own seat and color with the tray table in his lap. I was overwhelmed by how nice Sofia had been, how she had given up her aisle seat to go slum it in the middle. Lady In Front had her seat reclined until the last second possible, obviously enjoying her extra four inches of space.

When we landed and began to deplane, she never once looked back at me. I very briefly contemplated saying something to her, letting her know that not everyone travels for pleasure. What if I had been on my way or returning from a funeral or something terrible like that? Having to worry about HER feelings would have been last on my list. Perhaps she should be a little more understanding.

But, I didn’t. Ethics are lost on some people.

She yammered away on her Bluetooth while we waited to go to baggage claim, driving home the point that her needs were obviously much more important than everyone else’s.

Sofia and I ended up walking through the terminal together. Ben held her hand the whole time.

It’s been almost a month since this incident, and I’m still touched by her kindness. She did not have to give up her seat like that. I made the choice to travel with a toddler in my lap, so it was my responsibility to handle other passengers. I wasn’t kidding myself, either. I know people want to cry when they see babies on planes… that fact is not lost on me. I just figured that people would see me trying and at least cut me a break.

Sofia was the one that cut me a break. Her understanding is something that will stay with me. I can only hope to someday pay it forward in a way that does her justice. I only wish I knew her real name so I could thank her properly. Maybe she’ll find this one day. J