Recovery from the Pity-Party

When thinking of my comeback from the pity-party post a few days ago, I considered an apology entry. You know: "Sorry for being such a downer," or "Sorry for not being positive and up-beat." I decided against that, and here's why:

I had a super rough Thursday. After my weigh-in, I tried to stay positive: I repeated positive thoughts in my head, I was productive at work. The day just wasn't getting better. I went running, pushed myself, and ran at a pace I should've been excited about. The endorphins just weren't giving me that, "I feel so good I want to hug everyone" high that I normally feel after a run. Then, I went to a yogilates class. The instructor informed us that the practice that night was to focus on connecting with ourselves and accepting any and all positive and negative emotions we were experiencing.

Wait, what? Accept negative emotions? WHOA.

So, I accepted them. I accepted my frustration, disappointment, and failure right there on my yoga mat. As I breathed, stretched, and strengthened, I constantly felt on the verge of tears. I realized at some point that just because I was meeting my negative emotions head on didn't mean I was letting them pollute my practice or drag me down. I was simply exploring why I felt the way I did. And, while I was doing some emotional exploring, I was physically challenging myself. I feel like I'm beginning to really discover yoga; for me, it means the union of my physical, emotional, and mental self. Anyway...

When I left the studio, I felt wiped out. The work that can happen on a yoga mat is surprising. Did I have the "I can fly" endorphin rush? Again, no. But I knew I was feeling better. So better, in fact, I had a lapse in judgment and decided to go grocery shopping at 9:30 that night. The store was crazy, but I made an incredible discovery:
Quaker Oats Chocolate Chip Oatmeal . . . Only 3 Points!!

After a 4-mile run and an awesome yoga session.

Let me explain: I crave sweets. I will never cut sugar out of my diet because I love chocolate. Lately, I've been feeling deprived (last week my deprivation led to a 3 Musketeers episode that I don't want to relive). I know that WW promotes a healthy lifestyle and is in no way a diet, but I've been struggling with balancing a high-activity lifestyle (training for my half marathon) and eating enough of the right foods to lose weight. It's discouraging. I run over 20 miles a week, incorporate cycling and yoga, and gain weight? Ugh. I called my all-knowing sister, and she suggested that I need to incorporate strength training. I know she's right. Before my 1/2 marathon training got intense, I was lifting weights, and I was losing more consistently. Again, I know she's right, but still--I am active, and I'm starting to feel off balance.

Enter chocolate for breakfast. At only 3 points (I'm in disbelief), I am giving my soul and my body what it needs: (the physical) heart-healthy nutrients, and (the emotional) heart-healthy flavor. Talk about an endorphin rush in the morning: chocolate oatmeal is amazing. It's the perfect post-workout meal.

I'm just now understanding that a journey is never really over--especially one that involves the reconstruction of the body; the process of losing weight is just that--a process that involves constant self-evaluation, the struggle of self-acceptance, and the joys of all levels of success. I'll continue to embrace any and all emotions that this journey awakens within me because, so far, I've been incredibly blessed and transformed.

Frustration, Irritation

Hello, all. My honesty is ugly today. It's sad, it's frustrating, it's negative. I'm throwing a pity party. A journey, though, isn't a successful one without struggles, so I wouldn't be true to my journey if I didn't record the dark times. I'm not a poet or a creative writer, so I feel the need for a disclosure: whatever materializes below is no attempt to make myself seem to be something I'm not.

I tracked.
I ran. cycled. yoga-ed.
I tracked.
broccoli, shrimp, peanut butter.
Oops. a 3 musketeers bar.
I wasn't prepared for hunger.
I hadn't had a banana in days.
Pay day is today.

There was pizza on Sunday.
Today, 1.4 pounds
added to the number on the scale.
I tracked.
I ran. cycled. yoga-ed.
There it was:
pizza, candy bar--
the scale.

I know numbers don't
necessarily mean success.
I know they don't necessarily mean
failure.

I feel failure.
Disappointment.
Frustration.

Wait--I can now run
12 miles.
I'm going for
13.1
I'm down 4 sizes
2.4 pounds away from
a 60-pound loss.

But, last week I was
1 pound away from 60.
I feel failure.
Disappointment.
Frustration.

I can't celebrate.
Not today.

Today, I'll
track.
Run.
Yoga.

"Don't Stop Believing" in Magic (Pardon my nerdiness)

I've noticed the last few weeks that I've been using the word "magic" to describe the events of my life: there's magic happening in the classes I'm teaching, yoga is magic, the points system for WW seems to be magic--it seems to be my word of choice lately. So, like the nerdy English major that I am, I turned to the Oxford English Dictionary for the definition of magic. Look what I found:

Magic, adj, 2a: "Producing surprising or remarkable results, like those attributed to magic (freq. in magic touch); effecting or permitting change, success, etc., as if by magic. Also: enchanting, delightful."

Effecting or permitting change as if by magic.

Now, I know there is science behind WW, and I understand how and why it works. Likewise, I know what's happening in my classroom is a combination of how I created the courses and my students' willingness to learn. So, why am I stuck on the word? Maybe, because I am in control of my life, but all of these other elements have to work together for life to be enjoyable: I can't make my students like class, and I can't make my body perform do whatever it does to lose weight. Sure, I can pick cool readings and assignments for my students, and of course I exercise regularly and eat healthy. But when it comes down to it, I have to have faith in the process. My effort, faith in the process, and getting the desired results = magic to me.

So, this is where the "Don't Stop Believing" half of my title comes in. I've become absolutely obsessed with Glee. The last episode of season one features a medley of Journey songs. No joke: for the last 3 weeks, I've been singing "Don't Stop Believing" every day, all day. It's stuck in my head.

Two days ago, after I just finished telling a friend that magic was happening in my class, I listened to the Glee version of "Don't Stop Believing." I was on the treadmill, completing my last mile of a tempo run when the song came on, and I started sprinting. I envisioned crossing the finish line of my first half marathon with my sister, and I got chills.

See? Magic. Changes are happening in my life that create balance, peace, happiness, and just enough struggle.

The Journey song is, after all, about living life--not just watching it happen to other people: Living just to find emotion.

What is a day without feeling any emotion: happiness, frustration, anger, accomplishment . . . any emotion at all? I've become much more attuned to my emotions since I've been physically active and eating healthy; I can identify what I'm feeling and why--that's pretty powerful.

"Katie, why are you going for your 3rd 3 Musketeers?"
"Because . . . I've watched 3 episodes of The X-Files while grading quizzes."
"Katie, turn of the TV, get off the couch, and go for a walk."

Conversations like that prior to my weight loss journey were nonexistent. Do I always listen to that voice? Of course not. But it's there, and I acknowledge it.

I'll finish with one last thought. I've been asked why I want to run so far, why I want to lose weight, why I've quit drinking. Thanks to "Don't Stop Believing," I can now articulate the answer:

Working hard to get my fill,
Everybody wants a thrill
Payin' anything to roll the dice,
Just one more time.

I don't want to ever get to the point in my life where I'd pay anything to go back. I want to start living now, every day, with no chance of regret in the future. If that means giving up a beer on Friday nights because I have to run in the morning, so be it. Because you know what? To me, nothing feels better than the magic that happens when I'm physically, emotionally, and mentally balanced.

Mere Ounces Equal a Wipe Out

 

So, here it is; the venting blog post.

I'm frustrated and need an outlet because I worked my butt of this week, but obviously not literally. Weight Watchers members earn points for all the activity they do throughout the week; I earned 80 activity points for the entire week (a good amount), and I still had 70 left at the close of my week (meaning I ate a little more than my daily allowance). I ate more carrots and broccoli than I have in the past few months, I've cut down on cheese, and I've been drinking a gallon of water a day. I've added new physical activities (hello, yoga). I've even been getting more sleep.

I've made positive changes, people.

And I gained .6 lbs this week. A. GAIN.

Since summer started, I haven't had consistent weight loss. According to WW, successful weight loss means an average loss over a certain amount of time, not a loss every week. But still, really? I feel like every other week is a loss, then a gain. I know, it's not even a full pound, but I made an effort this week!

Could my gain be attributed the 1/4 cup of frozen yogurt I had (twice) this week? It's only 1 point. Could it be my peanut butter intake? I'm so confused--if I had to confess any missteps, those would be them.

My fear is that my body is done losing weight, which could cause a huge problem because I HAVE NOT ARRIVED AT MY DESTINATION. I'm not yelling at you, readers, but my body. I can't be done yet. I have so much left to accomplish.

After weighing myself this morning, I didn't cry (one way I've already changed). Admittedly, I cussed and then hopped in the shower. I realized I felt ready to fight, instead of breaking into the frozen yogurt at 8:00 in the morning (another way I've changed). I wanted to fight myself, to fight my fat cells, to push my physical limits. Even though I've added activity, maybe something's just not working anymore.

Here's my game plan for the week:

- Run, cycle, yoga. I despise yoga, but I gave it a chance last week. The instructor wasn't annoying, and I felt stretched and relaxed afterward. I'll give it another chance.

- Cut down on my peanut butter consumption. Oh, how I love peanut butter. And, I have it in my head that because I don't eat meat or chicken, I need peanut butter for protein. I never go over a serving a day (I split up the serving throughout my meals), but maybe that's too much. I'll cut back this week, but peanut butter and I will never part.

- The frozen yogurt needs to go. Hopefully, the craving will go away as the cool weather settles in. I wish I could be one of those people who just doesn't need something sweet, but I'm not. I thought, though, if I portioned and tracked, that half a serving wouldn't do me in. We'll see.

- I'll keep measuring and weighing my food.

There. That's my plan.

And, even with the (slight) weight gain, I'm triumphant. I mean, look at my reaction: I'm angry, and I've taken that anger, identified the source, made a plan to overcome it, and now I'm acting on it. The old me--the me before WW--would've taken a day, or two, off of tracking to feed my disappointment with pizza, chocolate, and ice cream. Then, I would've hated myself on some level. Instead, tonight you'll find me at the gym, cycling and hitting the yoga mat.
I suppose I can draw a parallel between losing weight and my surfing experience: both are physically and mentally tough; both involve extreme patience; both knock you down, literally and figuratively. Finding the balance to ride the wave and lose the weight is an incredible challenge, and as frustrating as the journey may be, it's totally worth the work, the wipe outs, and the small gains.

So, I'll keep paddling. 

Sleepy Saturdays

Ever since I was a kid, Saturday mornings meant sleeping in, Saved by the Bell, and maybe some yard work for my Dad. Saturdays, I still believe, are meant for relaxation and selfish purposes. I don't expect my beliefs to ever change. However, I'm trying to start a local running group in town, and the best day for everyone is Saturday. Because it's been so miserably hot and humid all summer, we've been trying to meet between 7:00 and 7:30 am. Ugh.

Who would seriously want to leave this adorable creature?

Throughout the week, I get up way before 7:00 to work out and take care of my domestic responsibilities before I go to work: watering the garden, feeding the chickens, walking my dog, and maybe--if I feel nurturing--preparing breakfast for my husband. But, on Saturdays? No way. I'm almost always a few minutes late meeting the group. There's something about sleeping in, even though my husband snores and takes up half of the bed and my chihuahua/pug magically manages to fill 1/4 of the half remaining space; there's not much room, but it goes against my nature (or conditioning?) to want to get out of bed and put my running clothes on.

                                                    

But I do. As I brush my teeth, I wonder if I can skip out on the group. Trust me, every Saturday I struggle with my commitment to running; even as I'm walking to our meeting place, I think to myself, "Maybe I won't do my scheduled run--maybe just half." Today, as with every Saturday, I completed my scheduled distance. I ran with a friend of mine who I don't see often enough, and thanks to our conversation during the 4-mile run (her first!), I got the idea for this post.

Listen: running's difficult, painful, exhausting, and time consuming. I've been running consistently for nearly nine months, and every mile is still hard to get through. So, why do I do it? Why do I keep getting out of my crowded bed on Saturday mornings and three other mornings throughout the week? Why, oh why is running more rewarding than sleeping in?

My WW Picture

• The Leg Muscles: I'm not one to brag on how I look. I've got a long way to go until I'm satisfied with my physical appearance. But, the other day I submitted a photo of myself to a Weight Watchers Challenge. I'm pretty sure it's my first self portrait, but the prize is $5,000, so I did it. When I looked at the picture, I realized I didn't recognize my legs. I mean, they are no longer shapeless; they look strong. They're not the legs I've grown up with, and I can thank running for that.
• Pretty soon, I'm going to have to stuff my bras. Enough said.
• I've lost 57.6 pounds.
• I do most of my runs outside, so I always have some sun on my face.
• On the days I run and workout, I eat healthier. I hate the idea of undoing hard work, so I tend to consume food for fuel instead of enjoyment when I run in the mornings. I've noticed on days that I don't work out before my days begin, I eat more, and the chances of eating junk food increases. Now, there are days that I know I'm going to eat more than usual, so I run in hopes of creating a balance; those days, however, happen only every now and then.
• Because I'm training for a half marathon (next month!), I realize now, more than ever, that nutrition is essential, which means I've been preparing meals at least three times a day. And, since I don't have a dishwasher, I feel like I'm washing dishes constantly. In fact, I only wash them just so I can make another mess. My husband has one word for me: poof! But hey, a mess in the kitchen means I'm becoming one mean, creative cook.
• There's a pretty awesome community between runners, and it's awesome if you can find it. Just last week, I talked with a woman who ran the Boston Marathon. She gave me some incredible advice, and we spoke candidly about the pains connected to running (think chafing, admitting numbers, and underwear). What amazed me was how supportive she was. I mean, I was sitting across from a human being who ran 26.2 miles! That's incredible and, right now, unimaginable to me. Regardless of her accomplishment, she was congratulating me for doing a measly 10 miles. A former professor-turned-friend has done quite a few marathons, and he too is full of encouragement and positivity. Which leads me to another point:
• Amazingly, I have yet to encounter any judgment amongst runners. I'm still about 30 pounds overweight, my pace is slow, and yet I have marathon runners believing in me. There's something about running that brings out the best in people, regardless of the worst. It's got to be the endorphins that are released, but I think it has something to do with the accomplishment. Running isn't simply about finishing the miles; it's about beginning those miles, and then finding the mental, emotional, and physical strength to keep going. What kind of person would judge someone who's made the decision to stay on his or her feet for an extended amount of time? A monster.
• Before last December, I had tried losing weight since third grade. I've done kickboxing, Tae Bo, the elliptical, cycling, P90X, walking--I've tried it all. But not until I got myself on a running plan did I start making changes, and slowly my changes turned into habits. Simply, running has given my life structure. And I love it. 

So, it's a little after 10:00 am. I ran 4 miles this morning, spent time with friends, have had breakfast, and I'm now completing this post. Thanks to my running regimen, I'm living fuller days, and I wouldn't trade them for anything--not even sleepy Saturday mornings.

Waves: Figurative and Literal

I'm a horrible blogger. Actually, I'm not even a blogger, because I've only written one post in the past 2 months. Since then, I've hit a few walls: I haven't lost as fast as I had been, I went on not 1, but 2 week-long vacations, and I know longer feel smaller than I did when I started Weight Watchers. Needless to say, I'm a bit discouraged.

Does anyone know that feeling? You're losing 1-2 lbs. / week, racking hours of activity, feeling lighter on your toes. They're the glorious symptoms of triumph and renewal. Even if we don't admit it to other people, the physical changes are (slightly) visible--if you stand at just the right angle.

And then nothing. It's like popping a balloon with a chef's knife. All of a sudden, I felt like I don't look smaller (so what if my jean size has decreased--I don't look any different than from my WW beginning!) running 8 + miles is no big deal, and because I've lost so much fat in the chest area, I feel disproportionate. I feel a bit defeated by myself--where's my enthusiasm? Where's my vision?

I suppose I'm simply ashamed. I mean, I did vacation at the beach twice, and the vacations were only a month apart. I did drank more alcohol than I have in the last half year. And, I wasn't consistent in counting points. So, in this post, I'm accepting responsibility and moving on toward success. I learned a tough lesson; I cannot and will not reach my goals without WW. When I don't count points, I feel out of control, as demonstrated here. I feel boarder line crazy and depressed. When I don't count points, I don't feel like my (new) self.

Huh. A light bulb just turned on in my head. I've finally made portion control and healthy eating a habit. When I don't watch my points and check off my fruit/veggie/dairy/water intake, I don't feel normal. I suppose that's an achievement in itself. To further my re-dedication to a healthier lifestyle, I'm going to make 2 lists: my physical accomplishments thus far and my new goals.

Accomplishments:
*I've become a runner. I can now run 10 miles without stopping, and I'm training for a 1/2 marathon in October.
*I've lost 4 jean sizes.
*I SURFED. Yes. For over a decade, I've wanted to learn to surf. Thanks to my many push-ups and consistent runs, I was finally able to take surfing lessons. And I stood up. Repeatedly. I. Surfed.

Goals:
*Blog more consistently.
*Run my 1/2 marathon without stopping and come in under 2.5 hours.
*Lose an additional 30-40 pounds. I won't consider my weight loss successful until my belly fat is nearly gone; I just don't want the roll, people. That has to go.
*Lose fat, and therefore inches, in my arms so I can wear sleeveless tops.
*Confront, accept, and enjoy yoga. As of today, I hate it, but I know it will help with my balance, which is essential for surfing.
*Eventually, I want to be a WW meeting leader.

Now, I'm going to go about my day, happy as a clam that I've recommitted myself to my journey.

Thanks for reading. Keep paddling.

Hello, my name is Katie, and I am addicted to pizza.

I love pizza. I know, I know; everyone loves pizza. It's become a staple in America's diet. People love pizza.

I don't simply love pizza, though. I enjoy it; I cherish it; I crave it; I covet it; I want it all the time, for every meal. I'm not exaggerating. I have a relationship with pizza. When I don't see it for a while, I miss it. When we meet again, I'm overcome with joy. I feel like there are no words to describe my love affair with pizza.

First of all, there's no pizza without dough. White, wheat, thin, thick: I'll eat it all, though a light, puffy, chewy dough is the best (unless we're talking my mom's pizza dough recipe--it's thin, but still chewy). Just the image of pizza dough makes my brain cells dance for joy. I've never been one of those pizza eaters who leaves the crust after the sauce and cheese has been devoured. I'm aware of the calories saved if the crust is left behind, but forget it. I leave no pizza crumbs behind.

Think about it; the key ingredients are individually delicious. For me, I prefer red sauce on my pie. The red sauce is made from tomatoes, one of my favorite veggies. The sweet tartness of tomato sauce makes my taste buds jump for joy. And the color--a rich red that screams celebration. Tomato sauce is a staple in my diet; almost all of my key dinners include tomato sauce, and if recipes don't call for sauce, you can bet there's a tomato hanging out somewhere. The best place for tomatoes and tomato sauce to be chillin' is on top of pizza dough.

A pizza isn't a pizza without cheese. Mozzarella, Parmesan, Provolone: cheese. If baked properly, it browns in a few areas; it stretches; it melts; it becomes one with the sauce and the dough. Cheese on pizza is like hot fudge on ice cream and a warm blanket on a cold night. It completes the heavenly union of the dough and sauce. A pizza without cheese would be like Elvis Presley without his signature leg jiggle--it wouldn't be as intoxicating.

I. Love. Pizza.

I'm also trying to lose weight. My love of pizza pie fused with my desire for a healthy, flab-free life creates some tension. I can say "no" to most foods: chocolate, ice cream, cookies, cakes, alcohol--I am able to refuse these temptations like children refuse bedtimes.

Pizza, however, is trouble. I truly believe in not depriving myself. Because I want pizza constantly, I allow myself a Lean Cuisine pizza once a week, or I'll make one out of an English Muffin (my sister turned me onto this, and it works). Last night, dinner for me was polenta with roasted veggies (tomatoes, red peppers, portobellos). My husband threw a DiGiorno's pizza in the oven. Cruel? No. I know that I have to become strong around pizza, so I don't discourage him when he wants one. Besides, I had a delicious meal cooking. And then--

I found myself salivating, wanting the smallest bite of cheese, sauce, and dough. I sat down with my Weight-Watchers-approved meal of polenta and veggies, but my fingers inadvertently moved toward my husband's plate of hot, aromatic pizza. I almost gave in. I almost cut a piece in half.

I didn't. I didn't eat pizza last night. I looked at it, longed for it, and fought against the pull it has on my mind and emotions. I'm proud of myself. I'll forever stand by the moderation tip--everything in moderation and no deprivation leads to healthy eating habits. I'll have pizza this week, guaranteed. But my relationship with pizza is a dangerous, unhealthy one. It's like a drug; it's my drug, and drugs aren't good for diets. I have to learn to say no to pizza sometimes. And I am. But I'll never break up with it. Ever.