My Onion Pie

So, here's a fun fact: if you chop up a very strong-smelling onion and put the remaining pieces in a sandwich bag in the fridge, after a few days all the food in the fridge will taste like onion. It's true! Tonight, I decided that I was depressed and wanted something "good" to eat. So, I got a nice big piece of Costco apple pie. But, before I finish this, I have to tell you what led up to this slice of potential goodness.

This morning, a nurse came to my house to take my blood and urine and all that good stuff so I can get a life insurance policy. We had already tried this on Saturday, and the nurse was totally chill. She didn't weigh me, but she let me tell her what I weighed: 264. I was honest too. I physically can't tell a lie. I start to get shaky and it eats at me until I finally come clean. Anyway, she wrote down a "summer weight" as she called it of about 255. I wasn't going to complain. But, then she tried to get blood out of me and my veins are notorious for being so tiny, they are almost impossible to find. I think they are the only things on me that can be described as tiny. She poked me three times and was unable to succeed in getting blood. So, she told me another nurse would come and take my blood this week.

This nurse showed up this morning at 7:30. She is one of those women who is probably 50 years old (you can usually tell by their hands) but is desperately trying to hold on to her youth through plastic surgery and bleached hair and daily gym workouts. Admittedly, she was wearing a really cute outfit, but her lips could battle Angelina Jolie's, and she told me she had been at about five different doctors' offices over the past month to "fix her deviated septum." Uh-huh. Isn't that what Rachel Green said on Friends, too? Deviated septum my cottage-cheesy-butt.

Anyway, she pulled out her dreaded scale and set it on my kitchen floor. I heaved a deep sigh and took off my shoes (like that will help) and stepped on it. 273.6. My jaw dropped to the floor. I almost crumpled up into a ball right there next to the cat food and the dining room table. I turned to her and tried to say, without sounding too desperate, "Um, I think your scale is off. My scale reads 264 and this one is almost ten pounds more."

She said, "Hmmm...I don't think it's off." So, she stepped on it while explaining how she'd been in all the doctors' offices (this is why I found out she had her deviated septum worked on) and had been weighed over and over, so she would know if it was off.

"Nope," she said. "124.6. Huh. At the doctor's office I weighed 127." She was my height, people. 5'8".

I seriously wanted to smack her. Oh, and she had her shoes on. Instead, I smacked her inside my head...in fact, I may have pushed her like a playground bully in my head, sandbox and all. In reality, I just said, "Oh. Okay."

The rest of the day kinda sucked. I've been trying not to dwell too much on how I need to go on a "diet" because I really want to make this a lifestyle change. I want to be able to stay at a healthy weight for good, but it's really hard to change that mindset. It's also really hard to lose weight if you aren't tracking your food and exercise. At least, that's what I've been finding over this last week...

So, tonight after dinner, I decided that I would show that nurse! I would eat a dang piece of pie and I was going to enjoy it too. But, divine intervention showed me the light. Someone inspired me to put a baggie of chopped onions in the fridge. The pie tasted like onion. I don't know if any of you have ever tried onion-apple pie, but let me be the first to tell you...it's not good. And, dude, it was a half of the pie left! From Costco! Those things are huge, and they are not cheap. It kills me to throw food away, but this one had to be done. I even tried to choke down a few bites, but to no avail. I. Threw. Away. The. Apple. Pie. Holy crap.

Moral of the story is this: don't compare yourself to other women (or anyone). Each of us is unique and fighting our own battles. Mine is my weight. Maybe hers is something I could never have handled. Also, a really great way to stop yourself from eating sweets is to store them with a bag of really strong-smelling onions. Try it. You'll thank me later.

My Excuses

So, what are our excuses? Let's list some of mine:

• I'm SO tired.
• I just worked 13 billable hours and I just want to come home and be with my family and sleep.
• It's raining outside (This truly was one - embarrassed about this one).
• But, this tastes so good, why waste good food?
• I'll just eat what I've got in the house and then I won't buy it anymore. (I can't bring myself to throw food away unless it's really, really bad.)
• I JUST DON'T HAVE ANY TIME.

I was reading some blog about some woman who was fat-shaming moms (I've never heard of her) with some campaign showing her with her three kids and having six packs on her abs and whatever. It doesn't make me mad because if fitness is her priority, more power to her. I think that's really what it is: priorities. Some of us have different priorities than others. You also have to figure in genetics, of course, and what kind of schedule we all have, etc. But, what it really boils down to is this: If you WANT to exercise and eat healthy, you will. It's really as simple as that. 

     

My most recent excuse was that it was busy season (tax season and I am a tax accountant) and I was working too many hours, getting used to a new schedule, missing time with my family, the firm was providing meals, so constant eating out...all the stuff that led me to rationalize that when busy season was over, I would start exercising again because I would have more time. But, will I? Was that just another excuse in a long line of excuses and when busy season ends (which was yesterday, by the way) will I come up with another one? I'd like to think not. There have been times in my life where I was able to lose weight and be fit and feel really great about myself. What was the difference then? What did my mind do then that it can't seem to do now? That's what I've been trying to figure out.

I am on the right with my inspirational friend, Becky

Back in 2010, I trained for a half-marathon. It's kind of a long story that I'll save for another blog, but I ended up losing about 40 pounds through the whole process. I had started at a much smaller weight than I am now, but at the end, I was 183 pounds and about a size 12. More importantly, I could see muscle definition in my legs and I didn't feel bloated or tired all the time. Ironically, even though I was pushing my body every day to exhaustion, I hadn't felt as alive in my life as I did during that time. I was sleeping better at night, I would wake up feeling refreshed. I ran through rain, snow, whatever weather came. I would run on an indoor track if it was too horrible outside. I lifted weights on the off days and I swam and rode my bike places. I was on fire!

But, then when the half came and went, I decided I would "take a break." Biggest mistake of my life. As soon as I stopped, it started getting harder and harder to get motivated to do things. I think that one of the biggest pitfalls for women (or men, or anyone trying to get healthy) is calling something a "diet" or making it a goal to reach a certain weight for a certain event. What happens after that? Do we let ourselves go back to the way we were? Do we find a new thing to shoot for? Why isn't it enough to say "I deserve this, so I'm just going to do this because I want to be my own inspiration for the rest of my life." 

I feel like bodies are an incredible gift from God. We have been given something and we need to take care of it. I want my kids to be well-taken-care-of. I would kill someone if they abused my kids! Why in the world is it okay for me to abuse myself? It's not, and I highly doubt that Heavenly Father likes the way I speak to myself on a regular. I think that is the thing that needs to change first--my mental image of myself. Do I accept myself the way I am? Do I try to change? Can I do both? I suppose the answer is different for each individual. For me, I like the person I have become. I feel successful in most areas of my life, but I know that I would feel even better if I was healthy too. It would be nice to be able to climb the three flights of stairs from my parking garage to the lobby of my building and not feel like my lungs are going to burst. It would be nice to get a good night's sleep again. It would be nice to look in the mirror and feel like I can conquer anything. I already know that I can get my Bachelor's degree and my Master's degree (with a good GPA to boot) while being an officer in a school organization, raising four kids, and being a counselor in a church youth organization. I can work 60 hours week at a large firm, and still find time for the counselor position and my family. Why can't I toss some exercise in there too?

I can! For the past two mornings, I have woken up early and gone for a walk with my 11-year-old daughter. We have talked about life and what she is dealing with. It's quiet in the mornings and it gives us some rare time together, just the two of us. It has been so nice. I'm killing two birds here: exercising and getting QT with my kiddo. Life is good. Now, let's make it better.

My Introduction

April 16, 2017

     When I was eight years old, my mom took me in to the doctor for a well-child check. We did the typical stuff: height, weight, temperature, blood pressure...growth chart. Ugh. The growth chart. Like standardized testing or BMI, it's supposed to predict one's growth patterns and whether or not they will be short or tall, wide or narrow, or every other category a child can be shoved into.
     Seriously, who can tell how smart your child is by making them take a test and deciding whether or not they will be able to succeed in life? Or, who can say that because they are 5'8" and 164 pounds, they are just barely on the verge of being obese, so watch it, man. No, just ignore the fact that you have 4% body fat...BMI gives you everything you need to know. You're a big, obese turd. Lose some weight.
     On this particular day at the doctor, I don't remember what my height and weight were. I'm sure they were slightly high--I was a bit of a chubby kid, but nothing alarming. I remember exactly what the doctor said, though, like he told me this morning instead of 30 years ago: "Lindsay, if you aren't careful, you are going to end up about 5'7" and around 175 pounds."
     I remember looking at my mom for reassurance, but she was looking at me, head cocked slightly, with a look of disappointment on her face. "Oh, Lindsay, my sweet little chubby girl. What ARE we going to do with you?" Ever since that day, I got it in my head that I was fat and I needed to fight my destiny with every ounce of my being. It didn't help that I was constantly bombarded with pictures of skinny women on magazine covers or in commercials and TV (but this isn't a story about the evils of society). It didn't help that I was bigger than the majority of my friends (but that certainly wasn't their fault!). Regardless of these things, what it really boiled down to was that I let something get into my head and it began to fester. "Lindsay, you are not good enough. If you are going to end up fat, you are probably fat now. Why not realize that you are ugly too, while you're at it? You may be smart, but no boy is going to want the smart girl who can't fit into anything under a size 12."
     These thoughts plagued me, but like they start, they were small and unassuming. They would only come every once in a while and I was usually able to make them go away. But, I would hear my mom talking about herself negatively and maybe I just thought I should too. She would then take sweets away from me, not really saying why, but I knew she just wanted to protect me from a sweet tooth that was constantly raging. Mind you, she was skinny and gorgeous and had nothing to worry about, yet she still did. Don't all women?
     As I entered high school, the thoughts became more controlling, leading me to attempt to binge and purge, or to not eat at all, none of which was successful, thankfully. It led me to realize that boys could never like me and I wasn't fit to live. One particular boy in my life made me feel like dirt on a regular, so one day I decided I had had enough. I went into my parents' room, tears streaming and took my dad's revolver out of his closet. There were some bullets there too and I took those to my parents' dresser along with the gun. No one was home but me. It would have been easy. I took the gun and pointed it at my head (no bullets yet--they were still on the dresser). Through great heaving sobs, I yelled at my reflection, "You're fat!!" Click. "You're ugly!" Click. "It's no wonder boys laugh at you and make fun of you!" Click. "I hate you!!!" Click, click, click. I looked down at the bullets and thought about loading them into the thingy that holds the bullets (can you tell I know nothing about guns?). Something told me not to. I know it was God, but to those who are not religious, call it conscience. Whatever you call it, something told me there was so much more to live for and if I end it now, I would end up missing so much.
     So, long story short, I let myself continue to live, and although the negative thoughts still plague me to this day, I have ended up doing some pretty amazing stuff. I have four beautiful kids, I have an amazing husband (who I actually met a few short months after that horrible day), I have my Master's degree, I work at a successful accounting firm, my family is healthy and happy, and I have had the opportunity to influence and be influenced by some pretty amazing people. Yet, I am still struggling. I think my weight will be an issue that I will struggle with for the rest of my life. But, I hope that this blog will serve as a tool for me to not only lose the weight, but go on a journey to finally accept myself the way I am and quit seeing that small eight-year-old yearning to be told that she is just fine the way she is. Every large journey has to start with a first step.
     I will be brutally honest here. I will share the embarrassing pictures and I will share the horrible stories because when we are the most honest and the most vulnerable, it helps us to be strong. It teaches us to rise above what others think and it teaches us to put ourselves out there and "get comfortable with being uncomfortable." That is the only way we can grow. So, here I go.
     The picture at the beginning shows my measurements and weight. Upper arm, chest, waist, hips, thigh, weight. It's the highest I've ever been in my life. I could blame it on so many things: stress of getting my degrees, going through tax season, depression, whatever. But, it really boils down to laziness. I just need to get up off my duff. I need to change where I'm at mentally before I can begin to change where I'm at physically. I can do this and I can show that doctor that charts don't mean a damn thing. Besides, I'm 5'8.5", Dr. S. So, suck it.