Fat and Jiggly... Like I'm Apparently Supposed to Be

This morning the girls went to Grandma’s house with Daddy. This way I could attend a local gardening class put on by a woman from the mommy group.

I had dreams of sleeping late. (In fact, I was dreaming about lost panties and planting seeds, but you know what I mean. Right?)

Tom brought Fynnie in to nurse around 3:30 this morning. He brought Madelyn in half an hour later to gather up the Fynn girl and get going.

Getting going takes about half an hour, even with my considerable help, and even with the girls heading out in their jams with a bag of clothes for the day.

Only the bag of clothes got left here. And Margaret and I had recently weeded through what she had to remove things the girls have outgrown. They have outgrown a lot. I haven’t replaced those things yet, so I couldn’t tell Tom to just keep going when he called seven minutes after leaving to say he was coming back.

By the time they were on the road again (do do doo do dooo), it was quarter to 5:00 and I was up. Thoughts of what I might do to fill the next four and half hours floated through my head.

I can exercise!

I could use some of those very ripe bananas and learn how to make banana bread!

I could…

The reality was messing around on Facebook, catching up on some banking and an earlier shower than I’d initially planned. Oh, and I used the face file to get rid of reduce the stray eyebrows on my chin. Exciting, I know.

The gardening class was awesome. And by awesome I mean it was freaking fantastic. We have almost 100 starters going already, and it was nice to know that everything but the winter squash mix (doh!) should do well. I am sitting here with a seed catalog that is, as the instructor said, full of gorgeous wall art.

And, because I am admittedly weird about things like this, I will tell you that the catalog smells great, too. There are a lot of modern printings that smell horrible. Nothing smells as good as old books, but this is a very nice alternative to the nastiness that is the modern paper. In case you were wondering.

On the way home, I stopped at the grocery store to pick up a few things. (And to curse my stupid phone that will only hold a charge for about six minutes if I, you know, use it. But that’s another story.)

Came home and reconsidered the list of things I could do. The first one, again, was exercising.

It’s a sad state of affairs, this body of mine. I had started using Jillian Michaels’ 30 Day Shred a few months back. By started using, I mean I used it two days in a row. It was definitely painful effective. But it was hard. One hundred times worse than hard, it was boring. So a few weeks ago I bought a Zumba-like DVD called Rhythmica.

Where Jillian Michaels’ DVD is physically challenging because I’m rather weak and out of shape, Rhythmica is freaking impossible because… as it just so happens… I’m not a hip hop dancer. How did I not know this?!

I realized pretty quickly the Rhythmica DVD is beyond my capacity. (Seriously, I wasn’t even close to keeping up when he was doing what was apparently just the “let me slow it down and show you how we’re going to do this” segments. And then he’d take to triple time.)

Fortunately, one of the moms on my group recently posted a link to a series of free exercise videos on YouTube. And I saved the link in a new Favorites folder entitled Exercise. Because I am going to conquer this fat, jiggly ass. Right?! I stopped the DVD and clicked on the YouTube link.

Started exercising. Thirty seconds in or so, I was feeling confident that this was much more my speed.

And was thwarted by a loading error on AOL.

Switched to Google Chrome and can’t get it to load. (I’ve even tried a few times while writing this post into a Word doc since I can only post on here through Google.

I am beginning to wonder if it’s just the universe saying, “Sure, your ass is fat and jiggly. Keep it that way. I like it! It’s fun watching you stress over which pair of pants will make you least resemble a certain desert animal or TSA worker!”

That's my new story, I look this way for entertainment purposes.

Phew!

This past holiday season I did more baking than in any three previous years combined.  More importantly, I've done more eating of said baked goods than normal.  (But, dude, chocolate chip macaroons?  Easy, fast and delicious before and after baking.)

So it was no surprise when I gained five pounds.

After enjoying myself through New Year's, I put the brakes on and began making some healthier choices.  Lost a couple pounds right away.

A week ago I weighed myself for the first time in maybe 10 days.  I was stunned, shocked and concerned to see that I had gained about 13 pounds.

Thirteen pounds.  In 10 days.

I'll just admit that the idea of a tumor popped right up.  But let's be honest, that's kind of my first response to everything.  Missed my period right after Tom and I agreed we weren't having kids together?  Gotta be a tumor!

If the brakes had been put on before, the keys were now removed.

And I gained two more pounds by yesterday.

I mentioned the situation to Tom and Nance, but lightly, like, "Haha, no reason to be frightened, I know what I'd been eating.  I guess it just took a minute to catch up to me."

I started an exercise routine last night that kicked my butt.

Today?  Gained another pound.

Concerned?  Shocked?  Stressed?  Oh yeah.

Then this fantastic little kid of mine who can't seem to get passed the 23 pound mark stepped on the scale.  She weighed 40 pounds.  And her sister, who was very recently right on the cusp of 40 pounds?  Try 56.

Fucking stupid digital scale.  I'll get new batteries this weekend.

I weighed myself at my dad's house this morning.  In full clothes, including jeans.  After breakfast.  On the first day of my period.  And I needed to use the restroom (every ounce counts, people!).  And I was still 15 pounds less than I had been only 90 minutes earlier at my home, naked.

I haven't gained weight.  In fact, in three days I can pretty much guarantee that I'll lose three to five pounds, which will put me right back to my pre-holiday number.

Came home tonight and stuck with my exercise plan, because it is still needed.  No longer secretly wondering if I'm going to die.  Openly feeling kind of stupid because now that the moment has passed, I am forced to recognize that my clothes still fit the same and that the scale had been kind of wonky lately.

Whatever.

Tuesday Night I Had a Date. With a Girl! Nay, a Woman!

And I liked it.

Mm-hmm, that's right.

Sure, Tom and I had a date night scheduled for last night (our first since out anniversary in November).  But I have needs, people.  Needs!

If you've been hanging around for a while, you know that I have not been able to make any friends since moving up here.  Not that I haven't tried.  You can catch a small sampling of my struggles here.

Recently, the alleged mommy group from Facebook went silent.  I don't whip around on there as well as some people, so it took me a  while to realize I wasn't hearing about yet another event scheduled when I couldn't attend.  I looked into it only to learn that "my" group was pretty much defunct and a new group had taken it's place.  The name was almost the same, but with the word Christian added.

I am not Christian.  I am not anything.  In fact, the best descriptor I've heard for people like me is "good for nothing."

I have nothing against Christians (well, except for that hate group that travels to the funerals of dead soldiers... I have a lot against them) or any religious groups.  I am aware that my lack of religion makes people uncomfortable.  (My stance is that I will not attempt to convert you; please do the same.)  And I suppose that the opposite is also true to some degree.  So I'm probably not going to be joining a group with any religious affiliation in the title.  Especially if the group has just been narrowed down from something for all.

I hadn't yet figured out how gotten around to withdrawing from the original group.  About two weeks ago it was suddenly blowing up again.  Yes, there were group activities I couldn't quite attend (an hour before the end of the workday before I go on summer break? really?!).

One woman posted a desperate plea for diapers.  On Monday evening, I met her to give her a box along with some wipes.  It was nice and fits well with my Pay It Forward philosophy.  She's my new Facebook friend and I like her.

Did you know that Tuesdays are "my" night?  Tom's night is Thursday (and apparently also Sunday morning).  He plays tennis.  It's taken me a long time to get to the point where I feel desperate enough ready to have a night of my own and leave putting the girls down to him.  I had gone to the gym three weeks in a row.  There's a fun looking dance class that I've watched each week.  The more I didn't go to it, the more I knew I wasn't going.  By last Tuesday afternoon, I realized that the possibility of going to that class had been a major draw in getting me to the gym at all.  But my motivation (the Achilles heel of my exercising life) was plummeting.

Connecting with Kim the night before emboldened me.  I posted on the mommy group wall:

I know it's late notice, but I'm looking for a Tuesday night workout buddy. I have a membership to 24 Hour Fitness, which is great, but I'd really love to do something *with* someone. Could be the gym, walking/extremely slow jogging with lots of heavy breathing and possibly some grunting coming from your partner (I'll try to keep the cursing to a minimum). I'm available any time after 6:30, tonight or future Tuesdays. My ideal partner will generally be able to resist suggestions like, "Why don't we just go to Starbucks and hang out?"

Thirty seconds later and the group that had been humming along was silent.  Dead.  It was all my fault.  I killed it!  My use of the word grunting probably turned them off.  Or that I only said I'd try to keep my mouth under control.
 
All of a sudden there was a response!  A woman was available to work out with me.  At the end of July.
 
And another woman was up for something.  After she heals from an upcoming surgery.  How about the middle of July?
 
*sigh*  Does it seem like I am cursed to never make friends up here?  I thought so, too.
 
But then it happened.  *cue the angels singing as clouds parted and the sun bursts through dark ominous clouds*
 
Someone was available that night.  And she's a member at my gym.
 
And she, Jennifer, arrived on time!
 
And we have the same workout stamina and style!
 
Did you know that half an hour on the elliptical can go by lickety-split if you're chatting and laughing and acting out Bossy Betty's elliptical story?
 
We had so much fun while building muscles (except for that one arm device... that was an instrument of torture) and toning our butts.  Well, my butt.  Thank god I didn't look at Jennifer's Facebook profile or I would have realized I was going to the gym with a pretty, young, thin woman.  I am shallow and easily intimidated sometimes, I'll admit it.
 
For the first time in my month of working out (plus the *ahem* four years before that when I did not go at all), I stayed at the gym an entire hour.  We left laughing and looking forward to next week.  And that class that I've been not attending?  Jennifer is willing to try it, too.
 
When I got home, I couldn't believe all the responses I'd gotten.  No fewer than six people want to get together.  With me.

Pain in the...

I used to listen to Howard Stern.  I was young, whimsical, (not so) secretly rebellious (if you knew me away from work).  And he was kinda cool.  Dorky, self-deprecating, madly in love with his wife. *swoon* 

Plus, there was a good chance that I could learn something.

One time he had a guest who said that certain so-called normal actions were actually little markers of mental illness.

Losing your keys every morning?  Instead of just saying "I don't want to go to work," you're trying to sneak out of it.  Making excuses.  (His explanation was lengthier and more detailed.  You get the gist.  Right?)

As a bona fide morning key loser (and member of a highly questionable extended family), this struck a nerve.  I did not lose my keys for more than a few seconds for years after that.  If I couldn't find them, I would simply acknowledge that I didn't want to do whatever I was trying not to do, remind myself that I had to do it anyway and then *poof* remember where I'd left my keys.

July of 2000, Corey and I were invited on our very first camping trip.  Ever.  My neighbor, Shannon (aka Sha-Nay-Nay) invited us to join her entire family on a trip to Big Bear.  My previous camping experience included "camping" in a huge and well-furnished RV during my teen years.  Oh, and that one time I spoiled the backyard sleeping bag adventure by freaking out about the coyotes that I could hear waiting to eat me as soon as I fell asleep.  (In my defense, we lived in the foothills just outside Los Angeles.  There were coyotes.  I could hear them.)

I bought sleeping bags and enough s'mores components to satisfy a small army.  I was excited!

And then I was intimidated.

What if I made a fool of us?

What if the other people didn't like me?  (No question they'd love Corey.  Just me.  This may be shocking, but I'm not exactly a new people sorta person.)

I did not lose my keys.  Nope.  My back went out.

Now I do have a history of back problems.  Mostly from ages 7 to 14, a time that encompasses almost my entire gymnastics "career" and a year of living normally afterward.  But I was 29 (about to be OLD by Sha-Nay-Nay's nine years younger mind).  I knew what it was.  It was my excuse not to go.  Once I realized this, I got down on my bedroom floor, flat on my back and stretched out while I gently scolded myself.  A few minutes later, my back was magically healed fine. 

Corey and I had a lovely time.  And I learned the correct ratio of people to s'mores ingredients is not two full-sized bars per person, with extras "just in case."

Fast forward to modern times.

Did you know that Thursdays are "Tom's night"?  They are.  Sometimes he plays softball.  For the past year or so he's been playing tennis.

Last week I finally got a night of my own.  Tuesdays.

In anticipation of selecting a night, I have driven around with almost enough gym gear.  I set myself up for the eyes of Big Brother had my fingerprints scanned so I can enter the gym I've been paying to be open just in case I care to drop in.

Last Tuesday was the big night.  My dilemma was whether I should go to the gym near work, but then drive for nearly an hour after that when I might be getting sore from my heavy-duty workout, or if I should go to the gym near home.  The big fear about going to the one at home was whether or not I'd actually go, especially since I didn't really know where it's located.

I left my office and drove about a mile to the gym.  And found a decent parking space.  (Not that I care if I have to walk a little.  It's the gym, after all.)

Where I realized I didn't have a lock.

And I had to go to the bathroom.  Which I was totally not going to do at the gym.  I mean, seriously.  Eww!

And I forgot a towel.

And if I did go in and get changed, I wasn't going to buy a lock.  I mean, c'mon!  And really, I wasn't going to schlep my work panties out the front door and come back in to work out.  Who does that?!?

So I drove away.

Went home.  Went to the bathroom.  Nursed Fynnie.  Went to the bathroom again (nerves).  And left.

And realized I still didn't know the location.  So I called Tom and he told me.

Upon arrival, I realized I didn't grab a towel.  I have one covering the passenger seat of my car so a stain doesn't show.  Nope, the baby blue towel is much less conspicuous.  I took it with me.

Went in and did the death grip on the StairMaster for 10 (long) minutes, and did some other stuff, too.  Saw that they have a dance exercise class on Tuesday nights.  I arrived too late to jump in, but I spoke with the instructor later.  She's great, and I told her I'd see her next week.

Tonight.

Only yesterday morning I woke up with my neck all kinked up.  I cannot look to the left, although my head keeps tipping that way.  Limited range toward the right.

This is the kind of pain that takes your breath away.  And, according to my coworkers, is painful just to see.  One of them, Joanie, gave me a deep tissue massage yesterday evening and again this morning.  My chiropractor is just not available during times when I could go the past few days.  Another coworker gave me an Advil.

I don't take pain meds very often, but it worked really well last night, so we bought some more.  Today it has wreaked havoc on my stomach.

Part of me is wondering if this is my lost keys.  I don't know.  I hope not.  I do have a lot of problems with my neck.  The last time I messed it up, it turned out I'd dislocated a rib.  Rolling over in bed.  (I do wish the story had more to it, but that's how it happened.)  This is, comparatively, not that bad, but it ain't great.

But I also have a long history of finding reasons not to exercise, and the flabby ass and giant thighs to prove how effective my excuses have been.

So I've decided that I may or may not go to the gym tonight, but I am going to do something.  It can't aggravate my heartburn or make me turn my neck, bend over or move up and down more quickly than your average post-operative septuagenarian.

It also cannot be here at home.  I'll let you know how it goes, and whether or not I lose my keys.

I Guess It's Been a While

Last week I finally decided to stop in at my gym.  I figure I pay someone to work there a few hours a month, maybe I should check the place out.  Plus, it's been a while since I've seen my gym ID card.  Not, like, decades... I definitely recall seeing it on the nightstand upstairs. 

I walked in to the place and read perused the sign on the door about the "no copies of IDs" rule.  Made sense to me.  Imagine my surprise when I learned that the rule only applies to parents who are dropping off children in the kids' club.  No, the rest of us don't need to bring any ID.  Why not?

They scan your index fingers. 

That's right.  I've been away from the gym long enough for Star Trek to have landed.

Oh, you were wondering how my trip to the gym went?  Totally successful.  Did what I set out to accomplish.  When I'm ready I'll go back and, you know... exercise.  I've even got appropriate exercise type socks in my car as we speak. 

No, I do not think I'll be using the high heels that are also in my car.  I plan to put some tennies and exercise clothes in there, too.  I just can't find the right outfit.

Anyway, Tom just came back from a run.  I feel worn out just thinking about it.

Sticking to My Resolution

... to refrain from making New Year's resolutions.  I'm 10 years in and can report 100% success.  I just have too much self-work to wait until the start of another year.


One thing I've officially been working on since a week after Fynn arrived has been regaining my body.  If you read that I only gained 14 pounds while pregnant, or that I've lost 36 pounds since delivery, you might be a bit jealous.  Don't.  I am one pound away from my interim goal (which was supposed to be met by tomorrow).  That's right, there's plenty more where that came from!


I have, however, lost enough to fit into some pants I haven't been able to wear since the pre-Madelyn days.  Even better, I'm outgrowing (in the correct direction... whew!) the pants I got for those not-quite-ready-for-maternity-clothes days three years ago.  My wonderful husb... er... Santa gave me money for new clothing (along with a not-so-subtly veiled warning that I am not to buy anything for the kids or the house or my husband).


Santa... uh, Tom wanted to shop with me.  It sounds lovely on the surface, even if Fynn weren't going through a phase where seeing Mama requires being held by Mama at all times or loud gulping sobs will ensue (next week's gonna be great!).  I'm eking my way out of the fat girl stores, but am not yet down to a size where I'd want my husband helping me pick out clothes with, you know... sizes on them.  The thought makes me queasy.


And really, isn't shopping stressful enough?  Without standardized sizing, it's nearly impossible to know what will fit.  I would have liked a friend along for the journey, but you all live so far away.  Because I love you, especially certain yous, and because we can all use a good laugh on this last day of 2010, here is what you would have seen if you'd been in the fitting room with me.

My actual thighs.  Don't you love the pulling and bunching?  And the rippling?!  And in pants larger ("size-wise") than the pants I left home in.  Yeah, it's okay to laugh.  (That's my ratty old, bleach- and milk-stained shirt that I wore in public.  Nice, huh?)

And here's the other part of my pants shopping dilemma.  It's hard to tell, but the waist of these pants sticks out nearly two inches all the way around.  And yet the thighs are still stuffed like sausage casings.  (You can thank me now for not posting the full frontal belly version of this shot.  It's bad enough that pretty much is my natural skin tone.  *shudder*)

Oh, and one thing I couldn't maneuver well enough to show you (and you know you're dying to hear about this) is that, even in pants labeled "sits at waist" my underwear bunches up and sticks out the back.  Like a voluntary wedgie.  Regardless of whether the pants are too tight or not.

Somehow I did manage to find some clothes.  No, I don't have pictures of those.  But trust me, I wouldn't embarrass you if we were out in public together (because of my clothes anyway).  Two shirts, including one that is not black or white (okay, it's green and black), a charcoal sweater/jacket so I don't have to snag Tom's lightweight coat, some PJ bottoms that I love, a pair of green fuzzy gloves and a pair of black jeans.  In a size that I'm almost not embarrassed by.  Except that I used a little sizing trick to get them. 

At 5'7" I'm on the cusp of being tall according to the clothing industry.  One thing I learned several years back is that the "tall" pants are also slightly fuller.  So it's a little like cheating because I'm pretty sure that the average length pants would put me straight back into school security guard territory.  Whatever.  I'm off to wash (and never dry) those pants.

Skipping Around

Despite a backlog of partially written posts, I'm going straight to this past Friday. Cuz I'm wild and crazy like that, that's why.

Friday was our fifth wedding anniversary, or what I consider our five year + five and a half anniversary. Just think, next year the number of years we'll be married will exceed the number of years we were together before all hell broke loose and he had to snap me up! Unlike previous years, when getting ready for our date or weekend away was fun and relaxing, this day was chaotic.

I got in the shower about 45 minutes before we were supposed to leave. As I was shaving up to there (okay, my knees, but let's just be glad I got to shave at all, 'kay?), I could hear the kids over the monitor in Madelyn's room. Specifically I could hear Fynn crying, Mad fussing and Corey, after 35 seconds of dealing with it, saying, "Mom, I know you're busy but I need you."

Sometimes I wish we had a 2-way speaker system. Sometimes it's good we do not.

Getting dressed, the girls ready and the car loaded with people and things took about an hour.  The good news? I was able to wear pants I have only dared to try on since getting pregnant with Mad. And they have these stupid obnoxious "cute" little button details on the waist that I was finally able to tighten back up. My ass may still be fat and jiggly, but I'm making headway.

The major delay at the end was Mad's repeated refusal to use the potty even though she was doing the pee pee dance and didn't want a diaper for the long car ride down to Grandma's. After she finally went and tried to get away with three M & M's for her success, we got out of the house. It was a few minutes after we were supposed to be at my dad's.

I dropped Corey at Mom's and headed to Dad's ("Grandma's house," according to Mad). While carrying Fynn in the carrier, the diaper bag and Mad's jacket, and helping Mad, who had tripped, I managed to tweak my shoulder. The only thing that could have made things worse by then would have been hot, humid weather. Thankfully it was low 50's and I wasn't starting to glisten or smell like a rhino.

My dad and Margaret gave us our anniversary present. It was a card with a note saying that the gift for five years is wood, and wood comes from trees and paper is also made from trees, so it's wood. And they gave us an amount of money that was suspiciously similar to the loan they'd offered two nights before so we could be sure to buy Christmas presents for the kids. (What's that? I didn't tell you how my employer has now decided that they aren't paying half of my pay for the time I'm taking after my maternity leave ended? Or how they decided to take it all out of the only check I'll get between now and Christmas? Reader's Digest version is that, after I expressed to them quite clearly that they put the original plan in writing and that I've been having stress-induced palpitations as we try to prepare for the next in a series of financial hits because of their antics, they compromised, so we will not be destitute for Christmas. Angry and bitter with them, yes, but there will be presents and love amongst mi familia.)

Tom and I went to a Peruvian restaurant we haven't been to since Mad arrived. Dinner was fabulous. We started and finished with beef empanadas and the best chimichurri sauce. Seriously. There's one left over in my fridge right now and my mouth is watering just thinking about it. I'd eat it, but I'm pretty sure Tom wants it. Although, he did eat most of the other one... hmm...

Anyway, the food was excellent, wine was just as good as I remembered and the conversation never lagged. Considering Tom and I were wiped out before leaving on our date, that's impressive. Or maybe it was the wine.

From what I can tell, Peruvian time moves much more slowly. So dinner was nearly a two hour affair. It's always like that at this place, but the food is definitely worth it. However, it meant that our second plan for the night, seeing a current movie in an actual theater, was no longer an option. It was, like, 8:35 people! And the next time our movie started was over an hour later. Add in the time for the movie, getting the girls, nursing Fynn before leaving, getting Corey and the schlep home and that was not happening.

We headed to a bookstore with a coffee shop, where we bought a few books for the kids and some hot drinks. As we sipped our drinks I gazed lovingly into Tom's bleary red eyes. No, it wasn't too much wine. It was 10:00 at night. Almost. I suggested we call it a night. Tom resisted until I mentioned we still had to get the girls and Corey and drive an hour home. We dashed to the car.

While I was nursing Fynn before leaving, my dad gave me one more present that night. He told me he'd had a dream about my biological father, Russ, someone I haven't spoken with in seven or eight years now. In his dream Dad asked him what he was thinking with the choices he'd made and did he have any idea what he was giving up? Most people only get one father, and a lot of people get mediocre to crappy to absentee fathers. I don't even know how I got so lucky.

By the time we got home last night it was about 12:30. Fynn wanted to nurse again, so I sat here and cuddled her in the dark. Tom crawled into bed. We talked for a minute and he told me I looked nice tonight. And then he fell asleep. Forty-five minutes later I joined him. It's not exactly the big shebang I think we'd envisioned for our fifth anniversary even as recently as last year. But it was fun and loving. Last year we made a baby and this year I got to eat a meal with two hands and without someone standing over me holding the baby while they "wait for me to finish." I'll take it.