I Got Some 'Splainin To Do

A few months ago, the ladies of Chairsy’s bridal party ventured to Rhode Island for our initial dress fitting. As the least shy amongst the group, I was led into the dressing room first to strip before my mimosa had fully kicked in. The wedding consultant took my measurements and then sat quietly for a few moments, furiously scribbling mathematical equations on her notebook and eyeing me warily. Finally, she explained (in that tone that you use with your dog when you’re trying to coax out from under a bed during a thunderstorm) that bridal couture runs small. VERY small. Always. Fact of life. Even congress can’t change it. I nodded patiently and smiled in a good-natured way. She told me not to feel personally affronted by the size she was about to suggest for me. I acknowledged that it was just a number and that I was not the type to determine self worth based on clothes tags.

Still, she flinched as she told me I was on the cusp between a size 16 and 18. An 18 would need to be taken in, a 16 would need to be let out. I considered her statement for a moment and explained that I’d lost almost a dress size in the past few months and that I was planning to continue with that diet plan. So, I picked the smaller size with the best of logical intentions… and also the slightest distaste for the number 18 which feels large and cumbersome even when you just say it out loud. Eighteen. Look how terrible it is written out!

Last week, I picked up the dress and two days ago, I finally had time to try it on. I was expecting it to be an extremely tight fit that would need to be let out. I was not expecting a one and a half inch gap circa my rib cage.

Bitch LIED to me.

I shrieked for Beau’s help. After a few earnest tugs he shook his head. I began muttering soothingly, “That’s OK. I’m still losing weight. I just need to keep going. I’ll have it let out as much as possible. Yes. And then it’ll fit just fine. Everything’s going to be OK.” Beau backed away slowly while I wiggled out of the dress and began a Jillian Michael’s video.

I later asked Beau what it’s like to be engaged to the modern equivalent of Lucille Ball. Considering my track record of attempting to kidnap dogs, getting locked in stairwells, convincing myself I was in the men’s room at my new office, and breaking my ass while trying on Spanx, I don’t think the comparison is a far cry. Really, who gets themselves into these situations on a regular basis?!

He shrugged and said I make his life “entertaining.” Which is exactly what I think losing one and a half inches from my ribcage in just over two months will be like.

Speaking of Which, Has Anyone Had A Positive Experience With OxiClean?

There have been recent developments in the ever continuing saga of When-The-Fuck-Did-I-Gain-1/3-of-a-Person, namely me once again attempting to lose the extra 1/3. Did you like how last time I just kind of quietly let it peter out without drawing attention to it? I was all “Hey, look over there! A unicorn!” and you didn’t even notice I was busy eating all the peanut butter.

Now I have a plethora of motivators pushing me towards actual commitment (2 weddings this year, 6-mile charity walk in April that I would prefer to finish without using my inhaler, my own stinginess preventing me from buying new clothes, bathing suit season… shudder). I’ve already massively overhauled my eating habits and curbed my drinking. Thanks to those changes, I’ve dropped almost 10 pounds since the start of the year but my weight loss has tapered off and I’ve been getting frustrated. Jen Lancaster’s latest book, Such a Pretty Fat, reminded me that laying around whining about my weight (albeit while eating carrot sticks instead of cake) is probably less effective than just getting up and moving around.

Much to Beau’s amusement, I’ve began doing aerobics after work using some of the On-Demand Exercise TV videos. I find the biggest problem is not the actual exercise itself, but getting started. When I get home from work, a glass of wine and a log of cheese look much more appealing than this:

As such, I could really use is an automated email reminder sent to me 15 minutes before I leave for home suggesting that I work out. I scouted out a few available options, but was only able to find your standard weekly newsletters with such painfully cheerful ideas as “Crunches are super fun when you use an exercise ball!” That is not helpful. That just makes me want to give dirty looks at the skinny girls in my office and drown my sorrows in mozzarella sticks.

I need something a little less subtle. Maybe something like, “If you don’t go home and exercise, you will have to shop in the fat chick store for the rest of your life” or, “Work out so you won’t eventually need firemen to knock down a wall of your house in order to get you out because you don’t fit through the doorway anymore.” Or even just a picture of Jaba the Hut with BBQ sauce down the front of his favorite JCrew hoody. Not that I would completely relate to that or anything.

Please, Mommy, No More Cabbage

Day 30 of Operation: When The Fuck Did I Gain 1/3 of a Person?

Net Loss: 2.4 lbs

Frustration Level: Chewing on my lip

After one month of eating high-fiber English muffins with non-fat cream cheese for breakfast, salads for lunch (involving red cabbage which I am coming to loathe since it makes me try to sneak farts at the office AND THAT ALWAYS ENDS BADLY), one small portion-controlled snack in late afternoon, reasonable dinners of mostly veggies and chicken, and one pathetic, miserable serving of reduced-calorie ice cream for dessert, I have lost approximately 10 pounds (or for the math-retarded, about 2.5 pounds per week). And then every weekend I convince myself that my increased activity level of leisurely strolls, badminton, and doggy-paddling is enough to merit a break. That’s when I screw myself by consuming everything in sight, which has thus far included: entire logs of cheese, bottles of rum, bags of Doritos, and big fat hamburgers with the works. So every Monday morning, I find myself just about returned to my previous week’s weight. Lose 2.5 pounds, gain 2 back. That’s my motto.

The important part here is that I realize what the problem is. I gave up on the food journal after day three, but it doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure this one out. I need to stop binging on the weekends even though it’s probably one of my favorite activities. It’s negating all the boring salads I’m suffering through [Tangent: Salads are my only option. It takes at least two Lean Cuisines to fill me up so I end up supplementing my Salisbury steak/desiccated broccoli with a bag of Chex Mix and it’s all downhill from there. You think I should just bring a bag of carrot sticks to keep myself away from the vending machine? Well, I think you should mind your own business.]

While I grumble to myself in a corner, Beau, who actually has some restraint, has lost six pounds. Not for long though, because I’m going to start pouring molasses in his mouth when he sleeps. Also on a lighter note, despite what the scale says, my pants are fitting looser. Either those were the fattest 2.4 pounds on my body or I’ve lost fat and gained muscle, which I find completely acceptable. Our fancy scale has a body fat percentage function (determined by sending a light electrical current through your feet – how awesome is that?) that I’m going to start tracking.

All in all, I think we’re off to a good start. I’ve revamped many of my eating habits in a way that didn’t seem possible before. I’ve stopped snacking incessantly when bored, I’ve stopped eating cookies from Bell’s desk at work, and I’ve encouraged Beau to pump up our dinners with veggies instead of cheese. This month I’m going to work on not completely dropping the ball on the weekends, tracking my body fat percentage, and (most frightening of all) exercising more. This is particularly scary because Beau’s sister has invited me to join her and their cousin on a split-triathlon. She’s going to take the biking portion, their cousin will take the run, and I’m theoretically going to swim 1/4-mile. That’s nowhere near as much distance as those two need to cover, but if we consider this in terms of fitness level, it’s probably proportionate to what we all can handle. Since I never got a gym membership (color me guilty) I’m trying to find a reasonably priced pool in the area so I can begin training. I would swim laps when I'm on the Cape but I’m afraid to swim more than 10 feet from the boat due to rip tides, jellies, and gigantic man-eating fish. Especially now that I’ve just reminded myself that I am a juicy morsel of human flesh that likes to splash around like a small animal in distress.

Then I'll Slash Your Tires With Bacon

While I was posting pictures of the cruise, Beau’s BFF simultaneously posted some lost photos from college. If my chocolate cheesecake and gouda flavored burps weren’t enough to remind me that I’ve, er, let myself go a bit, comparing those images side by side certainly were. I give you:

Exhibit A: Circa fall 2005. Note chin definition.

Exhibit B: June 10, 2008. Note general roundness.

So, for the first time in my entire life, I have put myself on a diet. A real adult diet. In the past, I’ve tried the unrealistically restrictive Atkins/South Beach type regime (which lasted about a month before I saw a loaf of bread, blacked out from excitement and woke to find myself covered in crumbs. Now I’m not allowed back in Stop & Shop). Then there was the frightening Xenadrine/iceberg lettuce/vodka diet which lasted approximately 2 weeks before the dining hall ran out of vinegar one day and I started uncontrollably sobbing at the salad bar.

In a new venture that I like to call “When the Fuck Did I Gain 1/3 of a Person?” I’ll be doing things the right way. Since Monday, this has included making healthier food choices, starting a food journal, and buying a scale for last night’s big reveal which was such a shocker for Beau, he’s joined the band wagon. Tonight we’re getting gym memberships so that I don’t have to sheepishly write in the exercise portion of my little log, “Walked to train station; did lap around office; held door for old lady.”

You are welcome to place your wagers on how long I’ll last on this one, but to be fair you should know that I once quit a serious drug-habit overnight and that doubters tend to motivate me to work harder in order to prove them wrong. It also motivates me to find out where they live and egg their house. With low-fat liquid egg-substitute.