"Well, look at you! You're just wasting away!" said my childhood best friend before she swooped in for a hug this weekend at a friend's bridal shower.
I grimaced, shot her a look, and replied, "I'm pretty sure that's scientifically impossible for me, but thanks anyway."
"Oh, I didn't mean anything bad by that," she quickly said.
What, my fair readers, do folks actually mean when they say these awkward intended-as-compliments-but-sound-horrific things?
After finally ditching my pesky cold, I can now report on my last two weigh-ins. When last you heard from me, I wasn't at all hopeful about stepping on the scales that day, and yet I lost 2.8 pounds for that week. This past Tuesday, I lost another pound.
I still marvel that when I compare some weeks that had similar challenges (or maybe no challenges) for me, one will result in a gain and another a loss. It could all boil down to how much water I drink the morning of weigh in or too much salt in my supper the night before. No matter, the lesson is that no matter what the scale says, I need to stick to the program and persevere - eventually, I'll get the results I seek.
For the record, I'm .2 of a pound away from a total loss of 10 pounds. I didn't realize how happy I'd be reaching (almost) the 10-pound mark, but it is a milestone in my mind ... enough of a loss for me to feel the difference and for others to notice. And that's with no exercise (no, I'm ashamed to say, I haven't fulfilled my gym promise yet) and a foot-long hot dog thrown in the mix (I attend baseball games, too).
Next week is the last of our current Weight Watchers program, but I'm actually looking forward to continuing and seeing what else I can accomplish. Who could've predicted that?
I crossed two first-time experiences off my list this weekend:
1) I finally saw "The Never Ending Story." Yes, you read that right. We're talking about the movie that was made in 1984. Don't ask me how I managed to have a childhood without seeing it.
2) I read my first copy of Shape magazine from cover to cover. My college roommate (Hi, Alison!) loved that thing, but I always thought it was just for health nuts and exercise/sports medicine majors (no offense, Alison).
It turns out the mag isn't just for fitness buffs; you can actually be a somewhat normal person (and I use that description loosely) and pick up helpful tips for the kitchen, the gym and the closet.
Yup, there's style pointers in Shape. How can you not love a publication that both tells you how to get better abs and better shoes?
Like my fellow blogger I love going to ballgames. Tonight my son is treating me to a Pelicans game in 
one of the suites. I am almost positive that they won't have a nice pre-package meal of grilled chicken and 10 lbs. of broccoli for 5 points. However, they will have all kinds of my favorite things both edible and drinkable. Even with all of that I wouldn't mind sneaking in a foot long chili dog. To top it all off we weigh in tomorrow at our weekly WW meeting at work.
Here is my plan. Have a good time. Yep, that's it. That is my plan. Not too complicated. I have done well so far to the tune of about 20lbs missing and this is something I need to do for the rest of my life. This is where the balance thing comes into play for me in relation to being "on or off" a diet. So I plan to go out and have fun even though the scale will not like it tomorrow. Batter up.
Going into week No.8 of the deflabbing process, I was confronted by an insurmountable obstacle.
Two words: Stella Doro.
I don't care about their dry biscuit-thingies or their sugar-iced biscotti. But the sole reason I don't weigh 500 pounds is because you can't find their fudge cookies in South Carolina. That is, until this week.
Several packages of cookie contraband leaped into my shopping cart and made it home, miraculously still unopened. Of course, four cookies would translate to a 19-pound gain or at least 8 inches of new belly fat -- which doesn't seem fair or even mathematically possible -- but it is. So I placed them in an opaque wrapper on a high shelf and went to the mall to distract myself. But I wasn't in a good mood.
So I'm tromping through the mall with the scent of fudge cookies still wafting through my brain when when some kiosk guy -- who would look like an accountant except for his 3 foot-long dreadlocks -- gets in my path and offers me a nail lotion sample that isn't even chocolate-flavored.
"No thanks," I snort, attempting to mope in peace. But he has been trained by great sales gurus to ask one last foolproof question.
"Can I ask you something?" he calls as I march away.
Good Jan whispers: Be Nice. He has a horrible job and can't afford a haircut.
Bad Jan whispers: Fresh prey. Have at it.
"OK, what?" I ask.
"Do you always wear your nails that short?" This powerful question is supposed to make me want his product and counsel more than I want those cookies. But Bad Jan didn't like the question.
What genius decided that a woman's worth is measured by fingernail length? Do long nails indicate higher IQ? Do short nails get me a discount on mammograms? How does a personal decision that there are better ways to spend one's alloted time on earth than breathing acetone in a nail salon so that some idiot you've never met will be impressed by nails that will never touch him (unless they're going for his eyes) concern you?
I believe that was a run-on sentence, but I didn't write it. Bad Jan did.
"Are you implying that these hands do not meet your expectations?" she asked him. "These hands type more than 100 words a minute, scour toilet bowls, feed hamsters, sculpt masterpieces and paint pine cones? Have you ever tried digging clay out of a French manicure? Have you?"
He slowly backed away with his sample tray, mortally wounded, as we Jans stalked off victoriously. Cookies may not be on my diet, but raw meat is perfectly fine.
There's only one thing I love better than an opening day baseball game: a big ole Sonic Extra-Long Chili Cheese Coney Dog before the game.
As I've been scaling back my bad eating habits, I've realized there's a time and a place for everything. My penchant for Little Pigs onion rings? Fine, as long as it's a once a month or every couple of months kind of thing. My addiction to coffee-flavored ice cream? Awesome, thanks to the fine folks at Weight Watchers who have crafted Giant Latte Ice Cream bars. My devotion to River City Cafe's fried bologna sandwich post-church on Sundays? Heavenly, as long as we're not there every single Sunday (even that sort of fried goodness can get old after awhile).
The beauty in all this? I don't feel one bit guilty about devouring some of my favorite food.
Allergy season is here, and whether it's that or a simple cold, I am feeling rotten. I loaded up on orange juice this weekend, and I didn't count the points. When I'm sick, I need that liquid citrus.
As for food, I've gone back and forth. Either I want something that's totally not good for me - comfort food - or I don't eat at all, and neither is good for the waistline. The greatest thing for a stuffy nose, however, is hot Rotel tomatoes. They really open the sinuses!
Weigh-in is today, and I'll get a verdict on what the last few days have done to me. Wish me luck.
What exactly does losing weight sound like?
Over the past few days, my husband and I started talking about which music fits where. We talked about our taste in breakup songs; my post-romance selection ran the gamut from old school No Doubt to screamo bands to Aretha Franklin.
Last night at House of Blues, we checked out the straight-from-San-Diego sound of surfer-friendly Switchfoot, which my husband said made him want to hit the water this morning.
All of which brings me to my initial question: what music makes me pumped about these healthier choices I'm making? Upon first glance at my iPod, I'll tell you Kanye West, Mute Math and Vampire Weekend get me moving. What about you? What are you listening to?
OK, so I hit the wall Tuesday and thought I couldn't go on, but amazingly, I bounced off the wall, took a little tumble and am back with the program.
I felt so discouraged (and outright cranky) that on my way home that night, I went to the drive-thru and ordered a hamburger and fries, the first fries I'd had since I gave them up for Lent. I made a few concessions -- no onion rings, which I'd found are worse than fries, and no cheese -- but basically just went with the craving. The meal was really good, and I didn't feel one bit guilty about it, either.
And that was it. So far, I'm back to the points and doing pretty well. It was the indulgence I needed. What's yours?
This diet game is getting very old. And very weird.
Here's the thing -- You eat raw vegetables until your blood runs green, then go to bed believing that the Fat Fairy will surely come in the night and drag a pound or two back to wherever that other fairy stored your baby teeth.
So, I leave a note under my pillow just to sweeten the deal: Dear Fairy, No cash required. Just ditch the flab and we'll call it even.
In the morning, as I gingerly ease each toe onto the scale, the numbers announce the impossible: I've gained two pounds overnight. So Honey comes running to see what the naked nut is screaming about and calmly says, "Well, you're a heavy sleeper." He leaves before I can hit him.
From a safe distance, he announces that he's already lost 10 pounds by watching me diet. Sigh.
I've mastered the eating basics: 1- Caramels are not vegetables; 2- Sour cream is not an intrinsic potato part; 3- Some people lead productive lives without Krispy Kreme; (Yeah, right.)
So, the next frontier must be exercise.
Apparently, you need to sweat a lot to lose weight. And, to my amazement, getting your blood pressure up at work doesn't count as cardio. So I've been watching the exercise channel in the morning while I slurp coffee on the couch. They jump around a lot and the big, tan guy with the chunky, gleaming biceps and foreign accent is helping my heart rate accelerate. Look at that, I'm sweating.
This might be cardio. I'd better go weigh myself.
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