Dropping the Baby Weight- I Hope

I started back on the Weight Watchers. It's time. It's actually WAY past time. I have found some co-workers/girlfriends at work to do it with me- Ghetto style, as one of them deemed it. We are weighing in in the nurse's office. We are reporting our food diaries through school e-mail. We are talking about points and how much THIS is worth and THAT is worth. We are holding each other accountable.
I have only been doing if it for three days- but feel tremendously better already- just to have set the ball in motion. I feel motivated and ready to tackle this fer reals this time.
I attempted to "do" Weight Watchers the day I got home from the hospital with Jake. Those efforts proved futile. I was too tired. Too bloated. Too new a Mommy to really stick to it correctly. Plus, now I can exercise. And sleep sometimes- which helps.
I have never been this heavy before- so the road ahead of me seems long- but I know I can make a difference if I maintain the program. I am uncomfortable and really- feel so much better when I don't have to be so worried about the "draping of the cloth" ( aka- getting dressed ) each morning.
My first goal is Feb. 14- date night for my husband and I. The goal? To feel better so I have reason to celebrate. My next goal is summer weather. I don't want to buy a new summer wardrobe- but will have to if I don't get my weight down. My third goal is July. We are going on a beach vacation and I will need to don a bathing suit. I don't want to spend Jake's first beach outings concerned about my spare handles-
At any rate. The way I see it is that I need to lose 40 pounds by July. Do-able. Just have to keep reminding myself how worth it it will be.

Dirty Tale

Several years ago - while trying to shed a few extra unwanted pounds, I opted to go for a diet that had worked for me once before. The Cabbage Soup Diet. Which primarily consists of a homemade soup concocted with water and cabbage.
Saturday was fine. Sunday was fine. Monday was a work day and despite severe stomach pains, was also, basically fine.
Mid-day, I had my free period- and missing one of my best girlfriends that had moved away to LA on me, I decided to go out to my car in the massive parking lot to have a smoke and a chat. And to divert the attention I was focusing on my belly pangs.
Midway through my cigarette and chat, I felt my stomach do some flip-flops. I figured the gas was setting in. I did my best to maintain focus on the conversation. Suddenly, in a burst of rumbly outburst, and while discussing my girlfriends near tragic car accident- I suffered through my own sort of tragic car accident.
I shit my pants.
At first I didn't know it. At first I just assumed that whatever was happening down there would just require a quick exit and a visit to the ladies. After a tiny investigation, via a glance down at my barely khaki, almost white pants.... So not the case.
I interuppted my girlfriend with the news- and suddenly her tragic incident took the back seat to my suddenly urgent predicament.
There was a lot of repeat questions between her and I...
Me: I shit my pants?
She: You shit your pants?
Me: Did I really shit my pants just now?
She: Did you really just shit your pants?
Me: What am I going to do? I have to go back into work!
She: What ARE you going to do?
Me: Do I need to go or what?
She: You DO need to go... call me later and tell me what happens.
And so I did what any other person would do... I wrapped a sweatshirt around my waist and went into the the closest entrance and knocked casually on the first occupied classroom door I could find. A woman approached and apprehensively opened it a crack and I then realized what I was about to have to say to this woman I didn't know.
Me: Look, I am a teacher here... and I just shit my pants, and I have to go. You really need to help me out and tell someone I need a sub. Here is my phone number in case you can't get ahold of anyone. I am leaving the building.. um... NOW.
And off I ran. I couldn't afford to look back.
Feeling completely disgusted, I got back into the safe confines of my car and called my very best gay guy friend- who I knew would help me laugh and sympathize my way through my car ride home.
Upon hearing my story- he declared a state of emergency- after laughing hysterically, of course, and then also called off work so we could nurse me back to a normal emotional state together.
After throwing out the clothes, showering, and demanding I eat some fiber- things started to feel much better.

Within hours, after getting through the larger part of a twelve pack, we actually went out dancing. Never mind that it was a Monday. To me it was a pant's shitting day and I really needed to get some other notch in my belt in order to take the heaviness out of the fact that my most recent noteworthy event was crapping myself at work.

Somehow- because I work with a fat mouth- this story came out at my NEW teaching job. Just last week. Lots of teaching professionals laughing at me. At my story- about the day I pooed my pants. I quickly turned the tables and asked my colleagues if any such thing had ever happened to them. Shockingly- while guffawing uncontrollably at MY story- nary a soul raised their own hand to admit such a dirty tale.

And I call bullshit. I call a good old fashion shit-your-pants-bullshit- because it HAS. It of course has happened to SOMEONE else besides me.

What the ???

Where has the time gone?
Christmas and the New Year, come and gone, and me, nary a post to document Jake's first of these. Well, maybe I could do that now- sit, watch, eat bottle, be excited to be held by so many new people, be annoyed to be held by so many new people, sleep fitfully, get off schedule, etc. etc. I guess upon reflecting there is little to document. He's sorta still just along for the ride. And while all the excitement of the holidays certainly didn't get past him- he didn't really have a lot to say about it. And after a few fits and giggles and what not- he was squared away again.
And it's evident that we - meaning his Dad and I, have created a very structure-loving son. I cannot say I blame him. I get it. It's important. It feels good to know what's coming.
He got so many Christmas presents that I ended up spending the majority of my Christmas money on a new shelf for him. And then also read Nineteen Minutes so insisted we buy a gun safe as well to polish off a good portion of the rest of the cash. Is it obvious our lives revolve around him yet?
Then there is me. I weighed myself yesterday morning... after I motivated and did day two of the 5 am wake and tread mill. I couldn't believe the number that glared back up at me- chuckling and menacing. It was like a death sentence. I wanted to muster the energy and garner the sadness it would take to cry like a Biggest Loser contestant- but since I was SO not surprised that was lost on me. Pretty much could only resolve to keep plucking away at it. Anti-climactic if you know what I mean.
In total I have a whopping 35 pounds to shed. That's a lot of weight still hanging on for dear life.
I have to act fast or come bathing suit season I could potentially lock in some unwanted stares. It strikes me as hilarious how the weight I was PREVIOUSLY suddenly seems acceptable. It's all about switching up our standards, no? Because if we were banking on the goal weight from then, well, then I would have a whopping FIFTY pounds to lose! That's like.. a LOT of weight! I would be gaunt... but I bet I would stop bitching. And getting off the couch and functioning altogether- but HEY, I would be skinny!
Anyway- I need to shed a few pounds. I need to post more often and I need to read more books. Resolutions? Maybe. Perhaps. I don't want to go commitment "wild" or anything- as that's never been my thing ( oddly, I tend to rebel against my own SELF ???), but I have some attainable goals.
Life is good.

Realistic Women

You know your life is getting pretty darn small when you almost wet yourself with excitement when you see the new US Weekly laying in your mail pile. Really. I almost wet myself and especially when I have forgotten that it's coming and it surprises me, like a wet lick from a puppy.
You can pretty much bet that the 24 hours following it's arrival will leave me unattentive to pretty much anything anyone has to say... that is unless you have a comment or insight into an article I am reading. My current favorite topic, aside from Lady Gaga's lazy eye, ( please tell me you know what I am talking about? ) is Tory Spelling's eating disorder, I mean, "stomach issues". Becuase we all know that when you drop down to 98 pounds and your upper thighs are thinnner than your knee caps and you get a bad case of the runs you are fine... just need a little imodium is all. Or some LUNCH. But whatever, I actually like her and wish her well.
Anyway, while poring over the photos of the who's who in Hollywood, I must admit that on certain days I find myself wistfully thinking how much I would like to be that rich/that thin/that well dressed/well groomed, etc. And then I take a cold shower, cram my fat butt into some cozy sweat pants, spackle my porous face with expensive make up and I am suddenly brought back to my reality.
But I really do catch myself sometimes, wishing wistfully and all. So it's with great pleasure when I come across some great news... like this German mag, Brigitte. Three cheers for realistic women.

Appointments

I am not so sure how the pregnancy empathy stuff works for the husband, but my sweetie has been waking up in the middle of the night to pee right along with me. This means neither of us are getting a good night's sleep- and last night, when I woke myself up by snoring... ( NO idea how that works ), I went straight to the couch to maintain as much damage control as possible. Needless to say- it was a restless night and very little sleep was to be had. If it weren't for all the acetametaphin scares, I would have been deep into a Tylenol induced slumber- however- all the news shows have me concerned about my liver. I guess.
So today will therefore be tackled with bags under my eyes and quite honestly, I am getting to that tail end of pregnancy where I could really care less. Yesterday, in fact, I found myself wrestling over weather or not to wear sweat pants out in public and a pair of UN-matching flip-flops. If you know me at all, this is INSANE, as I even match my flip-flops with my jammies just to run outside to grab the mail. But I didn't... wear the sweat pants and unmatching flip-flops that is. I suffered through a pair of knee-hugging black capri's and an un-ironed t-shirt that slid up and showed my belly. A declaration of carelessness. It was very liberating until I caught a glimpse of myself in a window. Not so much fun then, as the tugging and pulling became distracting while I was trying to focus on the most important thing in my life right now, which is food shopping.
At any rate- today- ahhh... today. It is appointment city for me... starting off with a routine Dr. visit. Next will be the chiropractor for a leg massage- and yes it is fantastic ( last time the foreign masseuse took one look at my calves and asked, "Ahh! Too much high heels?" ). Lastly, and most importantly will be the salon- where I will sit for two hours straight while undergoing a cut and color that will leave me looking, or at least my hair, like I sorta care about myself. Which will be a good thing, since it's not evidence by my skin, clothes, nails, or basically ANYthing else.
In the meantime, I have begun poring over my Weight Watchers materials and cookbooks- in an effort to get myself geared up for the "diet" that will begin taking place just as soon as I can get my bearings. I can't wait to own my body again!

Maternal Affairs

"Having a baby" is in full effect around here. The spare bedroom/ boxing arena has been completely upended, creating waves of distress throughout the house, including the kitchen, living room, and bedroom. And let's not even talk about the dining room, where all of the furniture, games, movies, clothes, tools, dishes, etc that no longer get to stay in the house have temporarily landed - looking very much like a Japanese style yard sale. In other words, a ton of random shit in a very, very small space.
The good news is that it should all be gone within a week or two, leaving us with a normal dining room again, well, except for the treadmill taking up the one half of it. We are even considering removing the dining room table altogether and purchasing a futon to shove in there for any overnight guests we may have ( MOOOMMMM!!! ) once this baby gets here.
In the meantime, to maintain my sanity I have decided to "take up" something new. A highly recommended pre-natal water class. Before officially making my decision, I figured I better try on the bathing suit. And after staring at my body for no less than ten minutes in the borrowed maternity swimming suit, I figured I shouldn't let it get to me and went for it. I must say, it was one of the best hours of my life. To feel weightless was unreal. Beautiful. Comfortable. Relaxing. There are only three of us ladies in the class, and we became fast friends. When telling a co-worker about it the next day she said, "rub a dub dub, three men in a tub".... and then put her hand over her mouth. A day later she squelched out an apology thinking my ego/ butt would be offended. I don't really care. I just can't wait for the next class.
Plus, that comment was nothing compared to the male co-worker remarking I looked liked I belonged in the Macy's Day Parade as one of the balloon floats. I would have responded back just as smartly had it been someone aside from my boss! Sigh. I keep waiting for this "treatment" I have heard so much about. The one where strangers give up their seats and open doors and wave you through the line.
Not so much for me.

Peaks and Valleys

Friday morning, at 21 weeks pregnant, I finally made it into the Doctor's office for my 20 week appointment( who can blame me for canceling the one on Wednesday after already having spent six hours in the ER? ). Six hours in the ER you ask? Oh, no biggie- just a FENDER BENDER that caused me to lose one day of work officially and then another unofficially in which I pretended to work but really spent the day on the phone with insurance/adjustors/car rentals blah blah blah. And after absorbing the depth of what happened , and getting all test results back clearing us of any concern, I realize that in the truest of Lori fashion I had managed to topple the apple cart exactly one day after I sent out an e-mail to all of my nearest and dearest, bragging about my luck these days...

Anyway- back to that appointment Friday. And I knew what was coming. I saw the scale. It was a big one, the kind they use to weigh folks who have really overdone it. I think someone flipped on Jaws music as I approached it. I whipped off my shoes and contemplated discarding my jewlery as well, because it could weigh a pound or two, right?

I inhaled deeply and hopped on and before I could even consider what an acceptable weight gain might be, a very large and UN-acceptable number showed up on the screen. I may have screamed, but I am not sure. I did ask the nurse for a piece of paper to write down this number. It was so large that I figured I would accidently black it out. Total weight gain at 21 weeks ? TWENTY POUNDS. POUNDS! I said POUNDS! I have now reached a weight I have never reached before. Let's not forget I still have 19 weeks to go AND I am only supposed to gain a grand total of 25 pounds. Doing the math, I am seeing that this is not all adding up properly. Not adding up properly at all.

I managed to make it through the remaining parts of my exam, and bleary eyed- drove from there to the school to teach the second half of the day. As I entered the building in a daze, a few co-workers stopped to ask me about the accident. "Accident? What accident? OH! THAT accident! Yeah, I am fine." In mind that was Wednesday's crisis. And since we have moved on from that- we currently now have some other fish to fry... like the size of my ass. And when I say other fish to fry? It makes me salivate. Fish and chips sounds fantastic.

The accident will be covered by insurance. There are no injuries. Cars can be replaced with just a few phone calls, really. But 20 pounds? Unlike the "accident", this mess was created by weeks of poor decision making as opposed to a more acceptable flash of poor judgement. And eventually I know it will take months to remove. Sigh! Isn't life just a series of peaks and valleys?

I Need an Intervention*

Will someone PLEASE come over here NOW and place a padlocked chain on the refrigerator? Or at least black ball me from all of the local eateries? Please? 'Cause there is some kind of eatin' frenzy goin' on over here and I am afraid I am in the eye of that there storm!
It all started last night with the "big night out"... DAMN those mini crab cakes! They got my sugar and fat free palate all stirred up with emotion. And then today when I woke up and weighed myself I saw that the scale was reading one of the lowest numbers I have, I mean HAD, seen in a long time.
And excitedly, to stay on course, I followed one of the Weight Watcher commandments and ate a sandwich before going to the bridal shower at Maggiano's today- so I would feel satiated and not overeat. Ha ha... satiated my ass! Apparently this person has never been to a bridal shower at Maggiano's.
The bread came. I skipped the butter. Score one for lean me!
The chopped salad came, along with the spinach one, and fried calamari and the bruschetta. I loaded on the salad and bruschetta- and blew off the fried stuff. Scores are tied.
THEN came the lasagna, the cream sauce pasta, some... what was the healthy thing I blew off again? Oh yeah- somewhere among the pasta there lingered some fish. But I feasted heavily on the pasta-particularly the lasagna. Hmmm, let's check the score now... oh yeah...? How about I am down. WAY down.
So by the time the cheesecake came and landed squarely in front of my plate, I knew it was a complete blow out. Bite after delicious bite it went down. Gulp. I couldn't even see straight it was so good. I was like a crack addict, knocking the other well-dressed ladies aside and spilling waters to get dibs on some seconds.
As I lumbered to my car I thought may pants my explode right off of me. Leaving decayed shreds of black cotton schrapnel on windshields everywhere. This walk, while precarious, and thankfully incident free, would be what is henceforth refererred to as my exercise for the day.
Then there were the goody bags. And believe it or not, the smell emanating from the bag tantalized me so much that I actually opened it, because by now I am a complete sugar whore. And I managed to devour an entire coconut brownie on the car ride home.... even though my poor tummy was screaming for my sweat pants, a break, and a couch.
And in the truest of Lori fashion, I decided to say screw it... and ordered up some deep dish sausage pizza for dinner. Oh - and a side salad. To keep it lean and healthy. If that isn't the joke of the frickin day. I mean what kind of facade is that? A SIDE salad?
Did I hear someone mutter the words "addictive personality"? Just be thankful that your fingers were nowhere NEAR my mouth today.

*To spare myself any further humiliation, there will not be any pictures in this post.

And This Little Piggy Said NOTHING

I like my feet. They are not bunion-y or mis-shapen. They are not foot model material. But, when you compare them with the rest of my body they are ranking up there as one of my finer attributes.
The thing I like about my feet is that they are bony. Consistently. Like my wrists. I cannot count on other areas of my body to boast skinniness like my feet can. And they take me places. So the fact that they are skinny and that they work really says a lot.
But something happened.
When I was cleaning my classroom, my five foot four aide and I decided to go ahead and move a desk that is larger than a refrigerator and weighs more than, well, me.
Because we were in a hurry and the desk was actually too heavy for us to move, she heaved the desk with her butt resulting in the desk slamming against my big toe. And the toe nail cracked. Across the middle of it.
And I am terrified to do anything about it. So it's just sitting there, painted with an extra 7 dollar French.
It's disgusting. I stare at it all of the time. I wonder what is going to happen to it. And no matter what I am doing I feel my thoughts somehow go wondering back to it.
Eating a sandwich... mmmm, this is good. My toe isn't though, it's cracked.
Laying in bed.... mmm, this feels great. I hope my toe crack doesn't snag on something and come tearing off. My toe is gross.
Watching TV. mmmm, I love Big Brother. Keesha has big ears. I bet her toe isn't cracked though.
I stare at it and wait for it to talk or fall off or at least hurt. But nada.
So now all I can do is pray that it stays intact long enough to make it to closed-toe shoe season.

Four Sticks

So if you are "in" Weight Watchers you have to go and get weighed every single week. Or not, but I would say it's a huge part of success. Or not.
My first couple of months I was all over it. I counted points for everything and was religious about writing it all down. Then mid-summer hit and between camping and camping again and a visit to the parents I became more and more aloof about the structure.
I wasn't too concerned, however, because while I was wondering about the number of points my delicious juicy cheeseburger held mid-bite ( as opposed to knowing in advance, which generally works out better ) I continued to lose weight. Not as rapidly, but to be expected. My tiny little .2 and .4 weight losses resulted in many the comment of, " at least you didn't GAIN". Which is a huge catch-all phrase in the Weight Watcher world. But then I had THIS week.
THIS week is the week before school starts as well as my birthday. Oh, and did I mention my biggest hurdle? PMS. Between the stress and the celebrating and the out of control cravings for salt and chocolate, HIDE your candy people, Lori is coming in!, you could say that the points were as obvious to me as a meteor in the sky at two AM. In other words, NON-existent.
And it's funny how it works, becuase now, just six days later, I cannot even recall the crap I fed myself. These morsels that in the moment seemed so... important! I think I remember fried potatoes and breaded chicken at the wedding. I definetely recall the Mexican that I am still belching up. I KNOW the pizza was absolutely FANTABULOUS.
But now, here I am, right after weigh in, and digesting the biggest mistake of all. I GAINED A POUND.
A WHOLE POUND. Which, according to the Weight Watchers home page is equivalent to about four sticks of butter.
It's my first GAIN since being on a weight-LOSS program.
What will I hear now? At least you didn't get MORE??
I should have seen it coming. Every week I get major weigh in anxiety and pee about 367 times( which is my bodies response to stress) right before I step on the scale. I breathily mutter to anyone who will listen, " I know I gained this week". But I don't, and I walk away smiling, laughing at my stupid body for letting me trick it yet again!
As I was walking out the door this morning, after the requisite 5 trips to the ladies' room, my husband mentioned that I shouldn't be upset this week if I gained weight. He is nothing but supportive of the process and doesn't complain when I fix meals that seem a little thick on the fiber and a little light on the red meat. He also never says a word when I am inhaling my fourth piece of deep dish topped with blueberry pie. But this should have been my green light that THIS time the anxiety was legitimate.
I suppose this is where I admit to myself that I am normal and that I should use it as a motivator and that I should try harder. In reality, this is normally about the time where I would quit. Say to myself this is bull****, when I know better. But, with the Olympics and all, I am feeling a little like aiming to be a champion. Go for the gold.
So I will forge ahead. It's gonna be Point -city around here for the next couple of weeks. Ladies and gentlemen, bust out your fiber-filled bread, because I am American, and I watch the Olympics! And perhaps I might even consider particpating in an athletic event instead of laying down in my bed while making fun of the outfits?

Swimsuit Season

I haven't needed to wear my swimming suit all year yet and thoughts of an upcoming weekend at a water park is giving me some anxiety. Well, some is like, not even close to being true. More like major anxiety and that is being cautious. Think about how you feel right after you trip and you are midway between the ground and standing in your upright position, feet firmly planted.

I have been doing Weight Watchers since June. I really like what it does for me.... but counting points get OLD. I have lost at least 12 pounds, and don't have to do any back to school shopping because all the pants I had "outgrown" last year fit this year and look as good as new. So, a fully covered ass isn't really the issue here.

The big question is the clearly-out-there-for-the-world-to-see uncovered ass. The swimming suit.

I mean, at this point, I am 12 more pounds away from my normal weight. And when I say normal I am talking about a weight that I have been at many times in my life and keeps me a solid size 10. It's a reasonable an attainable goal to aim for. But I have tasted the sweetness of some success and was sort of thinking, heck, why not GO for it? How about a size 8? Or a 6 even? It would be nice if people forced sandwiches on me. That NEVER happens now. I tell people I am on Weight Watchers and they say... Oh that's good. WTF? Screw you! I am not THAT fat, am I?

Anyway- I am obsessed and have drifted off to sleep many a night envisioning pulling myself out of a swimming pool in a cute bikini with hips jutting out and butt cheeks like two 16 inch softballs - and in a suit I just picked up off the rack because I LIKE it vs. considering the way the side straps will create bulges like pinched water ballons on my sides.

It would also be nice to have enough confidence so when people look at me I don't automatically assume they are wondering why that fat ass is trying to look good in a suit that is way too small... and unflattering. I mean, and then there is the eating. I don't dare even nibble on a salad while "in suit"... I mean, I have seen some rather large chicks eating right out of a Doritios bag while "in suit", and we are all thinking the same thing. She has just given up. And who knows? She could also be on Weight Watchers and has just lost 80 pounds and feels great and has earned that snack, but swimsuit season is tough- and mercy is hard to find.

Anyway- there is nothing I can do to speed up the weight loss process so I will just have to go on, business as usual. Make sure I place my sarong as close to the pool steps as possible. Eat a decent size meal before I go to avoid snack bar anxiety. And make sure that when I am standing waiting in line for a water slide that I am never next to a 20 year old with taut skin, making me, in comparison, huge.