How I love the Olympics! Where else, during prime time no less, do we get to see extraordinarily chiseled bodies swaddled in spandex leaving precious little to the imagination? I dub thee SPORN (sports + porn).
The games do weird things to people. You find yourself tearing up when you see the lone Algerian cross-country skier cross the finish line even though everyone has moved on to the luge. How often do you get to say, "luge"? Olympic games are a time of unbridled, if unnecessarily vocal, displays of patriotism - Go Canada Go! U-S-A, U-S-A!...but everyone still agrees that Swedish chicks are the hottest, and every girl wants the bad boy snowboarder, but will take the nice biatholete home to mom. You find yourself looking up Uzbekistan on a map. Competitors look as though they'll eat each other for breakfast, but will high five one another once the battle is over. Lots of yelling, hugging, fist pumping, crying...good god, it's every emotion, good and bad, magnified and it even has an official song (for the Americans out there, the Canadian network airing the games has a theme song "I Believe" which plays every milisecond. There is a bounty on the heads of the writers...)
For some of the atheletes, this is the moment they've trained for, sweated for, bled away their youth for. For others who've been on this stage before, it is the last kick at the can, the last hit they will get from the Olympic Bong. But look at them at the starting line, the gate, center ice - they all have the same look in their eyes. Focused, determined, ready...and praying to please, please, please don't fuck up.
I've never participated in sports. Well yeah, did all the gym-y like things in school: some track (could run ok, and strangely proficient at hurling myself over a high-jump bar), gymnastics (uneven bars - YIKES, IT'S HIGH! Balance beam - YOW, IT'S NARROW!), and failed miserably at every team sport imaginable. Put a base/basket/volley ball in my hand and you might as well hand me a grenade. WhatdoIdo? WhatdoIdo? There was one "sport" that I did excel at and only one sphere that was my friend. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you...
DODGEBALL!!
Why hasn't this been recognized as an official sport?? It combined two of my few strenghths: my inate sense of bloodlust and the ability to duck. (Bloodlust, you may ask? Remember how I told you of my temper? Dodgeball was a way of getting it out of my system. I never aimed for anyone's head...I don't think). I could whip it at an opponent with crazed accuracy, but I could also take and absorb a hit to the middle no problem. We'd play other schools and I'd stand cocky as all hell, tossing the ball between my hands, looking for potential victims. I wouldn't aim at cowering guys or girls. That wouldn't have been "sporting". I'd take out my fury on the equally cocky, the preeners at the other end. I was deadly and dangerous and fiercely competitive. And admired. Bit of a rockstar, actually. And man, that felt good. Yup, those were good times...and then my girlfriends told me boys didn't like girls who were good at sports. Or more specifically, better than they were at sports. I put down the ball and picked up a mascara wand. My sporting career was over. Grade 7 was just around the corner...
I love the Olympics. I have a mad bunch of admiration for all those guys and dolls who have sacrificed so much, who's families have done without so that they may attain their aspirations. They lay it all out, they take the occassional foolish risk, but only because they want it soooo much. They are wonderful to watch and there is something poignant about their young faces, so driven and hopeful. They live with the pain that their sport may inflict because they know, they've heard, that when you stand on the podium you don't feel the pain anymore. All you feel, they say, is the medal resting on your chest.
LiliLaLarge
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
Monday, February 22, 2010
Scales:Do-re-me-so-scared...
I went out and bought a bathroom scale. It's in a nice box, goes well with my bathroom decor. It...what? Have I used it? Did I mention the box was pretty? It's digital (ooooh). Expensive (ahhhh). It has only one fault:
It's probably accurate.
The doctor's scales at the gym never lie - however I always switch it to the metric measurements so no one can figure out my actual weight, secure in the knowledge that metric conversion is faaaar too difficult a calculation for the masses (I amaze myself with the mind games I play with myself...and lose...) I remember with fondness a scale at home where if you pointed it NNW you'd lose six pounds. Why pointing it towards Frobisher Bay resulted in immediate weight loss I will never fathom, and why I never shilled it on an infomercial remains even more of a mystery.
But now I have a brand-new, fancy-dancy, can't and won't lie scale in my house and it's terrifying. Scary 'cuz I dunno how to rig it. I don't know how to talk to it, to make it like me...
OK, by way of preparation I'll have to remember that my clothes are getting a bit baggy. I've made progress. That's good. What's bad is that I do not know what my true weight was at the beginning of this and just guestimated (I believed myself to be 210...I think.). What if I underestimated? What if I was waaaay bigger, now see a loss, but the number today will be even higher then what I believed my starting weight to be?? Hmmm, not enjoying this...
Right, fine, I've shared everything else with you, there is no turning back. You all have supported me and I have no doubt you will continue to do so. I'm going to have to hang onto you, babies. We'll now be dealing with cold, hard numbers and you know how I feel about them. I haven't eaten yet, so I'm at my (har) skinniest of the day. Here it goes.
215.
That would mean that I must have started over 220.
I'm not going to freak out. Just gonna breathe a little bit here...
I started this plan in the nick of time.
Praise be to the current deities that I had the presence of mind, that I was mindful of my body enough to know something was wrong and took steps to rectify it. Even without the numbers. But now I've got 'em.
And I'm gonna change 'em.
So, let's see - I'm at my happiest, babest weight at about 140. By upping my physical activity and really being diligent with my eating (which I'm already doing anyway, but kicking it up a notch wouldn't hurt), I should be able to lose 1.5-2 lbs a week. Safe and slow. It will therefore take me 37.5 weeks to renew my babe standing. Starting from today, that should bring me to the week of November 8. I'm going to aim for Friday, Nov. 12 cuz that would be a good day to celebrate. What you may ask?
B-Day.
LiliLaLarge
It's probably accurate.
The doctor's scales at the gym never lie - however I always switch it to the metric measurements so no one can figure out my actual weight, secure in the knowledge that metric conversion is faaaar too difficult a calculation for the masses (I amaze myself with the mind games I play with myself...and lose...) I remember with fondness a scale at home where if you pointed it NNW you'd lose six pounds. Why pointing it towards Frobisher Bay resulted in immediate weight loss I will never fathom, and why I never shilled it on an infomercial remains even more of a mystery.
But now I have a brand-new, fancy-dancy, can't and won't lie scale in my house and it's terrifying. Scary 'cuz I dunno how to rig it. I don't know how to talk to it, to make it like me...
OK, by way of preparation I'll have to remember that my clothes are getting a bit baggy. I've made progress. That's good. What's bad is that I do not know what my true weight was at the beginning of this and just guestimated (I believed myself to be 210...I think.). What if I underestimated? What if I was waaaay bigger, now see a loss, but the number today will be even higher then what I believed my starting weight to be?? Hmmm, not enjoying this...
Right, fine, I've shared everything else with you, there is no turning back. You all have supported me and I have no doubt you will continue to do so. I'm going to have to hang onto you, babies. We'll now be dealing with cold, hard numbers and you know how I feel about them. I haven't eaten yet, so I'm at my (har) skinniest of the day. Here it goes.
215.
That would mean that I must have started over 220.
I'm not going to freak out. Just gonna breathe a little bit here...
I started this plan in the nick of time.
Praise be to the current deities that I had the presence of mind, that I was mindful of my body enough to know something was wrong and took steps to rectify it. Even without the numbers. But now I've got 'em.
And I'm gonna change 'em.
So, let's see - I'm at my happiest, babest weight at about 140. By upping my physical activity and really being diligent with my eating (which I'm already doing anyway, but kicking it up a notch wouldn't hurt), I should be able to lose 1.5-2 lbs a week. Safe and slow. It will therefore take me 37.5 weeks to renew my babe standing. Starting from today, that should bring me to the week of November 8. I'm going to aim for Friday, Nov. 12 cuz that would be a good day to celebrate. What you may ask?
B-Day.
LiliLaLarge
Sunday, February 14, 2010
Head over meals in love
Ah Valentine's Day! To honour this *ahem* holiday, I want to share with you one of my most cherished gastro-memories. A love letter to taste buds everywhere, if you will.
It was Valentine's Day in Montreal, -20 degrees or thereabouts and I was going to be treated to a romantic din din a deux by the squeeze de jour. The choice of resto was left to me and I didn't hesitate - Les Halles. It sits on Crescent St. and if you don't know Montreal, Crescent is ground zero for underage drinking, overage drinking and deals of an unsavoury and often illegal mein. But here resides one of Montreal's grande dames of eateries. Its menu has always been classic French, but I hear through the grape vine that they've updated somewhat over the years. However, its calling card remains the basics executed with love and elan.
We arrived at the reserved hour into a room which, though quiet and stately, nevertheless was the most opulent thing I had ever seen. We were gently, so very gently, ushered into a room that contained no more than 4 tables, the restaurant being comprised of several such rooms. The lighting from the wall sconces was low, but a glow emanated from the tables. That glow came from the utensils - silverware, burnished from years of use, sat at their precise and pre-measured positions. As I sat, I picked up the dinner knife. It weighed heavy in my hand. Now, to the average bear this would barely register or merit mentioning, but to me it was overture to what was to come.
The maitre d' took my napkin, snapped it open, and placed the blinding white square on my lap. What the...?! We hadn't been even introduced! I think I may have stiffened or something because he looked at me with a wisp of a smile and intoned, "Madame." Oh. Ok. This is how it's done.
Wine list, or more to the point, wine tome. We hadn't the foggiest notion where to begin, so the maitre d' breathed,"It is cold tonight. May I suggest the Medoc? You will not be disappointed." I have been searching for this wine ever since. It was a meal in a glass, filling every nook and cranny in your mouth with deep richness, finally cloaking it in velvet before sliding down your throat. I would take that wine for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, 'til death did me convey to the rest eternal.
And now to ordering. Our fairy god-waiter arrived, murmured the evening's specials and evaporated. No really, for the rest of the evening he would appear at just the right time and disappear just as suddenly. The only hint that he did indeed serve us was our plates changed during the evening. This is service of the highest calibre.
I am a brisk orderer. I don't ask a lot of questions, I just look at any given menu and if something jumps at me, we have a winnah! Or, I'll switch right at the last moment. I don't know why I do that but I'll be "Oh, the fish, oh the fish, oh the fish" then "Are you ready to order?" "Yes, I'll have the veal." Curious quirk, but there you have it. I'm just warning you in case we ever dine together.
First course - Lobster bisque.
Mother. Of . God. Served in a snowy flat bowl, a soft pink that coated my spoon and tasting it one knew that praise to Neptune was required. Small chunks of lobster were floating around and it took every ounce of restraint not to pick up the bowl and hoist it to my lips. I had no idea if it was ok to inquire of the waiter what was in it, but I threw caution to the wind and asked (and how could he refuse? My lipstick was perfect
and my perfume cost 1/2 my rent. I oozed class...sort of.) He informed me that it was the brandy and sherry that made all the difference. And the lobster was flown in just that day. My family has maritime roots so this marriage of seafood and alcohol suited me right down to my DNA.
Main course - Pork chops
Do not sniff at nor poo-poo the piggy. Two thick, pan seared chops, a barely there layer of fat crisped to Queen Anne lace, with a thin blanket of Calvados creme. Apples and pork. Made for each other. The veggies were simple; sweet baby Jeebus, the mashed potatoes still had wee lumps - they had been mashed by hand. These people loved the spud. Carrots and turnips in a maple glaze, and a dollop of pureed sweet peas. My eyes must have had a wonderful workout because I kept on rolling them around in my head at every morsel. "This is so fucking good". I was almost breathless.
Dessert
A trolley of temptation! Tiers of tantalizing treats! This would prove to be my introduction to that over-used by much loved dessert accompaniment - the coulis. I had a slice of tarte au chocolat with a raspberry coulis. Let me tell you about my love, my nigh on obsession with raspberries. As a munchkin the most magical thing in the world to me was to come upon a wild raspberry patch. My family would take summer holidays somewhere on the East Coast and nine times outta ten, a raspberry patch could be found at any given campsite. I can't tell you how many bushes I may have destroyed, but to this day, put anything raspberry-ish in my mouth and I'm five years old, sitting on the ground in the sunshine. I can't tell you much about that tarte au chocolat, but the coulis sent me into raptures.
That was the first truly stellar restaurant meal I ever had. And it happened on Valentine's Day. And if my calculations are correct, that would have been 16 years ago. He went the way of the dinosaur (and I should mention, though I remember every fork/spoonful of that night I cannot recall anything that he had because he had a "thing" about sharing food. The "thing" was, you don't. Ever. Yeah, dead romantic, he was), but I remember that meal because who ever was in the kitchen that night loved what they were doing. And that was his Valentine's day gift to his customers.
And this has been my Valentine's gift to you. Hug the one's you love, if they aren't with you give 'em a call and tell 'em. And don't forget that while you're spreading that love around, remember to keep some for yourself.
LiliLaLarge
PS - Of course, the title was inspired by this song which has been going off in my head for the last week. To all of us who have been, who are, and who want to be again, I give you Tears for Fears, Head over Heels. Enjoy! http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EMBbJ_l0Tb4
It was Valentine's Day in Montreal, -20 degrees or thereabouts and I was going to be treated to a romantic din din a deux by the squeeze de jour. The choice of resto was left to me and I didn't hesitate - Les Halles. It sits on Crescent St. and if you don't know Montreal, Crescent is ground zero for underage drinking, overage drinking and deals of an unsavoury and often illegal mein. But here resides one of Montreal's grande dames of eateries. Its menu has always been classic French, but I hear through the grape vine that they've updated somewhat over the years. However, its calling card remains the basics executed with love and elan.
We arrived at the reserved hour into a room which, though quiet and stately, nevertheless was the most opulent thing I had ever seen. We were gently, so very gently, ushered into a room that contained no more than 4 tables, the restaurant being comprised of several such rooms. The lighting from the wall sconces was low, but a glow emanated from the tables. That glow came from the utensils - silverware, burnished from years of use, sat at their precise and pre-measured positions. As I sat, I picked up the dinner knife. It weighed heavy in my hand. Now, to the average bear this would barely register or merit mentioning, but to me it was overture to what was to come.
The maitre d' took my napkin, snapped it open, and placed the blinding white square on my lap. What the...?! We hadn't been even introduced! I think I may have stiffened or something because he looked at me with a wisp of a smile and intoned, "Madame." Oh. Ok. This is how it's done.
Wine list, or more to the point, wine tome. We hadn't the foggiest notion where to begin, so the maitre d' breathed,"It is cold tonight. May I suggest the Medoc? You will not be disappointed." I have been searching for this wine ever since. It was a meal in a glass, filling every nook and cranny in your mouth with deep richness, finally cloaking it in velvet before sliding down your throat. I would take that wine for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, 'til death did me convey to the rest eternal.
And now to ordering. Our fairy god-waiter arrived, murmured the evening's specials and evaporated. No really, for the rest of the evening he would appear at just the right time and disappear just as suddenly. The only hint that he did indeed serve us was our plates changed during the evening. This is service of the highest calibre.
I am a brisk orderer. I don't ask a lot of questions, I just look at any given menu and if something jumps at me, we have a winnah! Or, I'll switch right at the last moment. I don't know why I do that but I'll be "Oh, the fish, oh the fish, oh the fish" then "Are you ready to order?" "Yes, I'll have the veal." Curious quirk, but there you have it. I'm just warning you in case we ever dine together.
First course - Lobster bisque.
Mother. Of . God. Served in a snowy flat bowl, a soft pink that coated my spoon and tasting it one knew that praise to Neptune was required. Small chunks of lobster were floating around and it took every ounce of restraint not to pick up the bowl and hoist it to my lips. I had no idea if it was ok to inquire of the waiter what was in it, but I threw caution to the wind and asked (and how could he refuse? My lipstick was perfect
and my perfume cost 1/2 my rent. I oozed class...sort of.) He informed me that it was the brandy and sherry that made all the difference. And the lobster was flown in just that day. My family has maritime roots so this marriage of seafood and alcohol suited me right down to my DNA.
Main course - Pork chops
Do not sniff at nor poo-poo the piggy. Two thick, pan seared chops, a barely there layer of fat crisped to Queen Anne lace, with a thin blanket of Calvados creme. Apples and pork. Made for each other. The veggies were simple; sweet baby Jeebus, the mashed potatoes still had wee lumps - they had been mashed by hand. These people loved the spud. Carrots and turnips in a maple glaze, and a dollop of pureed sweet peas. My eyes must have had a wonderful workout because I kept on rolling them around in my head at every morsel. "This is so fucking good". I was almost breathless.
Dessert
A trolley of temptation! Tiers of tantalizing treats! This would prove to be my introduction to that over-used by much loved dessert accompaniment - the coulis. I had a slice of tarte au chocolat with a raspberry coulis. Let me tell you about my love, my nigh on obsession with raspberries. As a munchkin the most magical thing in the world to me was to come upon a wild raspberry patch. My family would take summer holidays somewhere on the East Coast and nine times outta ten, a raspberry patch could be found at any given campsite. I can't tell you how many bushes I may have destroyed, but to this day, put anything raspberry-ish in my mouth and I'm five years old, sitting on the ground in the sunshine. I can't tell you much about that tarte au chocolat, but the coulis sent me into raptures.
That was the first truly stellar restaurant meal I ever had. And it happened on Valentine's Day. And if my calculations are correct, that would have been 16 years ago. He went the way of the dinosaur (and I should mention, though I remember every fork/spoonful of that night I cannot recall anything that he had because he had a "thing" about sharing food. The "thing" was, you don't. Ever. Yeah, dead romantic, he was), but I remember that meal because who ever was in the kitchen that night loved what they were doing. And that was his Valentine's day gift to his customers.
And this has been my Valentine's gift to you. Hug the one's you love, if they aren't with you give 'em a call and tell 'em. And don't forget that while you're spreading that love around, remember to keep some for yourself.
LiliLaLarge
PS - Of course, the title was inspired by this song which has been going off in my head for the last week. To all of us who have been, who are, and who want to be again, I give you Tears for Fears, Head over Heels. Enjoy! http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EMBbJ_l0Tb4
Saturday, February 13, 2010
Public Shaming
Wow. I have totally gotten this wrong.
I'm reading the paper yesterday, and there was an article about the popularity of blogs (yay!) and how blogs relating to weight loss and then maintenance rank the highest in readership (double yay!). Then this article asserts that the writers hope the humiliation of admitting to a weight problem will keep them motivated to follow through with their dieting. That the shame will light the fire under their rapidly expanding asses and act as a driving force toward better health.
Um...wtf?
I wasn't aware that I was supposed to be ashamed of being a blob. Was I supposed to feel humiliated everytime I went in public, forcing people to have to look at me? Or, are all of you reading this tsk-tsk-ing me in disappointed or are any of you offended by what I write? Did you all recoil in horror when I revealed my measurements? Holy crap, am I supposed to put a paper bag over my head?
Are. You. Kidding. Me.
Man, do I feel sorry for the mo'fo's that feel that way. Really. They are making it sound as though admitting to a weight problem is equal to admitting to torturing children or stealing from seniors. Jeez, they are practically demonizing themselves, and perceiving their readership not so much as supporters and friends but as judges and as a "jury of their sneers".
Humiliation? Shame? How much do these poor souls dislike themselves? I've made it a point to avoid punishing myself over dietary missteps, and these cats are practically donning hair shirts and volunteering to be put in the stocks. "Here, dear reader, have this rotten tomato and please aim it at my head. Thank you so very much."
Well, fuck that, because at no point have I ever felt anything but warm fuzzies from my readers. Even peeps that just stop by to leave comments are nothing but helpful and lovely. And as for me feeling humiliated or ashamed of myself - sorry, but I'm too much of a babe for that nonsense. I've heard and read too many things that sound derogatory towards folks of a certain size and the nay sayers can pucker up and lay a wet one on my generous handful of tooshie.
Now that I've vented my spleen, I do want to iterate how disturbed I was by the article. Is that what we've come to, marginalizing the blobs amongst us to a point where they feel they must do public penance? Weight gain happens for a host of reasons - genetics, emotional trials, etc. There is a good chance that our overweight bros and sistahs feel kinda bad to begin with so is it really necessary to make them feel worse? Well something went kablooie 'cuz there are bloggers out there who are dieting as a punishment because somewhere down the line, being overweight became akin to a criminal act. Fat = bad person. I don't understand this. Buddah help me if I ever do.
I blog because it makes me feel better and, due to my overwhelming averageness, I figure a lot of folks can relate and I make them feel better as well. I try to remain postive even when I don't feel too positive at all. Hell, I'll even admit to feeling defeated at times. Because that is human. Last I checked, I am one. I'm not here to be tarred and feathered, I'm not here surfing on a wave of "Oh woe is me"-ism. I don't want you to feel smug or self-satisfied because you are a size 5 and I am not. Just like I don't want me to start hating myself for not being able to wear a pencil skirt. I invited you here not just for me, but for us.
There are a million different beliefs when it comes to the afterlife. But there is only one logical conclusion about the present life: we are here now and this is what it is like. We are sharing this existence right at this moment. Your eyes skimming over these words brings you along on my journey right now. This makes me feel good. And I also feel like I'm doing something good.
And I'm not ashamed to admit it.
LiliLaLarge
I'm reading the paper yesterday, and there was an article about the popularity of blogs (yay!) and how blogs relating to weight loss and then maintenance rank the highest in readership (double yay!). Then this article asserts that the writers hope the humiliation of admitting to a weight problem will keep them motivated to follow through with their dieting. That the shame will light the fire under their rapidly expanding asses and act as a driving force toward better health.
Um...wtf?
I wasn't aware that I was supposed to be ashamed of being a blob. Was I supposed to feel humiliated everytime I went in public, forcing people to have to look at me? Or, are all of you reading this tsk-tsk-ing me in disappointed or are any of you offended by what I write? Did you all recoil in horror when I revealed my measurements? Holy crap, am I supposed to put a paper bag over my head?
Are. You. Kidding. Me.
Man, do I feel sorry for the mo'fo's that feel that way. Really. They are making it sound as though admitting to a weight problem is equal to admitting to torturing children or stealing from seniors. Jeez, they are practically demonizing themselves, and perceiving their readership not so much as supporters and friends but as judges and as a "jury of their sneers".
Humiliation? Shame? How much do these poor souls dislike themselves? I've made it a point to avoid punishing myself over dietary missteps, and these cats are practically donning hair shirts and volunteering to be put in the stocks. "Here, dear reader, have this rotten tomato and please aim it at my head. Thank you so very much."
Well, fuck that, because at no point have I ever felt anything but warm fuzzies from my readers. Even peeps that just stop by to leave comments are nothing but helpful and lovely. And as for me feeling humiliated or ashamed of myself - sorry, but I'm too much of a babe for that nonsense. I've heard and read too many things that sound derogatory towards folks of a certain size and the nay sayers can pucker up and lay a wet one on my generous handful of tooshie.
Now that I've vented my spleen, I do want to iterate how disturbed I was by the article. Is that what we've come to, marginalizing the blobs amongst us to a point where they feel they must do public penance? Weight gain happens for a host of reasons - genetics, emotional trials, etc. There is a good chance that our overweight bros and sistahs feel kinda bad to begin with so is it really necessary to make them feel worse? Well something went kablooie 'cuz there are bloggers out there who are dieting as a punishment because somewhere down the line, being overweight became akin to a criminal act. Fat = bad person. I don't understand this. Buddah help me if I ever do.
I blog because it makes me feel better and, due to my overwhelming averageness, I figure a lot of folks can relate and I make them feel better as well. I try to remain postive even when I don't feel too positive at all. Hell, I'll even admit to feeling defeated at times. Because that is human. Last I checked, I am one. I'm not here to be tarred and feathered, I'm not here surfing on a wave of "Oh woe is me"-ism. I don't want you to feel smug or self-satisfied because you are a size 5 and I am not. Just like I don't want me to start hating myself for not being able to wear a pencil skirt. I invited you here not just for me, but for us.
There are a million different beliefs when it comes to the afterlife. But there is only one logical conclusion about the present life: we are here now and this is what it is like. We are sharing this existence right at this moment. Your eyes skimming over these words brings you along on my journey right now. This makes me feel good. And I also feel like I'm doing something good.
And I'm not ashamed to admit it.
LiliLaLarge
Tuesday, February 9, 2010
BALLS!!!
I don't think anyone has experienced the true definition of grace and poise until they have seen me on an exercise ball. Nor have they fully grasped things like physics or gravity.
I have a butt-bruise, babies! You woulda thunked that my generously padded patootie, sponsored by Sealy Posterpedic, would have protected me. But alas, no. I teetered, then tottered and finally toppled to the floor in a heap. And I was just sitting on it! I wasn't going all Cirque de Soleil over it, I was merely sitting. The smiling and artfully sweaty ball-babe on the dvd just kept right on going while I puzzled to myself, "What the hell just happened?!"
I've had some interesting times with this ball thingy. When I took it out of its package, the list of accompanying warnings was terrifying:
DO NOT OVERINFLATE AS SERIOUS INJURY MAY OCCUR
DO NOT USE IF ROOM TEMPERATURE IS HIGHER THAN 43C AS SERIOUS INJURY MAY OCCUR
DO NOT USE IF YOU ARE OVER 250 LBS OR SERIOUS INJURY MAY OCCUR
DO NOT USE OR SERIOUS INJURY MAY OCCUR
Ok, I made the last one up, but c'mon! I don't have a thermostat in my living room, how the hell should I know what the temperature is? I kept on having images of the thing exploding under me and me going all splat on the floor. Then I had to inflate it with the handy-dandy inflatormabob. I broke a sweat. But hang on...did I inflate it too much? Not enough? Either way, SEROUS INJURY MAY OCCUR. I finally got it to a point where I thought a hospital jaunt would be unlikely and then, tried it out.
Sat. Wobbled. Worked it out. Steadied myself. Attempted a crunch. To the left, TO THE LEFT, TO THE LEFT!!! Steady, steady, steady...one. And again. Ack, right, RIGHT, RIGHT!!! Steadyyyyy...two. Mother of God, this is gonna be a nightmare! Ok, let's try the squats up against the wall.
So, ball on wall, back on ball, roll down wall until knees are 90 degrees, hold, roll back up. Not so bad. Do it a couple of times. At the tenth (heading for 12 reps), I lose the strength to roll back up. In fact, heading in quite the opposite direction. Shit, SHIT, SHIT!! Ball goes over my head, back slams into wall, feet so close to my ass that I haven't got the leverage to hoist my own petard, and so have to roll over onto my side to get up again. The ball has spoken: You are going down.
Right, so let's try this - lie on my back, take ball between my knees, squeeze knees together while raising and lowering legs, keeping lower back on floor at all times while engaging abs. So let me get this straight - you want me to squeeze, raise, lower, engage...all at the same time. When I lower my legs, I arch my lower back, when I'm squeezing the ball, my abs are thinking of something else. I mean, really! Unless I'm getting dinner and a lift home in the morning, you gotta be kidding me. Who are these nameless, faceless devil-spawn who come up with these things?
To be honest, I've gotten better and there does seem an eensy-weensy improvement in the middle kingdom, but all that went crashing to the floor yesterday when I sat on it. I wasn't concentrating, fine, ok, but I thought that by now I would have at least have mastered sitting. But the ball has wicked ways. Its ruse-riddled roundness contains perils. Heed the warnings of the ball. I did not, and look at what happened - now I have a bruise. On my ass.
A not-so-serious injury occured.
LiliLaLarge
I have a butt-bruise, babies! You woulda thunked that my generously padded patootie, sponsored by Sealy Posterpedic, would have protected me. But alas, no. I teetered, then tottered and finally toppled to the floor in a heap. And I was just sitting on it! I wasn't going all Cirque de Soleil over it, I was merely sitting. The smiling and artfully sweaty ball-babe on the dvd just kept right on going while I puzzled to myself, "What the hell just happened?!"
I've had some interesting times with this ball thingy. When I took it out of its package, the list of accompanying warnings was terrifying:
DO NOT OVERINFLATE AS SERIOUS INJURY MAY OCCUR
DO NOT USE IF ROOM TEMPERATURE IS HIGHER THAN 43C AS SERIOUS INJURY MAY OCCUR
DO NOT USE IF YOU ARE OVER 250 LBS OR SERIOUS INJURY MAY OCCUR
DO NOT USE OR SERIOUS INJURY MAY OCCUR
Ok, I made the last one up, but c'mon! I don't have a thermostat in my living room, how the hell should I know what the temperature is? I kept on having images of the thing exploding under me and me going all splat on the floor. Then I had to inflate it with the handy-dandy inflatormabob. I broke a sweat. But hang on...did I inflate it too much? Not enough? Either way, SEROUS INJURY MAY OCCUR. I finally got it to a point where I thought a hospital jaunt would be unlikely and then, tried it out.
Sat. Wobbled. Worked it out. Steadied myself. Attempted a crunch. To the left, TO THE LEFT, TO THE LEFT!!! Steady, steady, steady...one. And again. Ack, right, RIGHT, RIGHT!!! Steadyyyyy...two. Mother of God, this is gonna be a nightmare! Ok, let's try the squats up against the wall.
So, ball on wall, back on ball, roll down wall until knees are 90 degrees, hold, roll back up. Not so bad. Do it a couple of times. At the tenth (heading for 12 reps), I lose the strength to roll back up. In fact, heading in quite the opposite direction. Shit, SHIT, SHIT!! Ball goes over my head, back slams into wall, feet so close to my ass that I haven't got the leverage to hoist my own petard, and so have to roll over onto my side to get up again. The ball has spoken: You are going down.
Right, so let's try this - lie on my back, take ball between my knees, squeeze knees together while raising and lowering legs, keeping lower back on floor at all times while engaging abs. So let me get this straight - you want me to squeeze, raise, lower, engage...all at the same time. When I lower my legs, I arch my lower back, when I'm squeezing the ball, my abs are thinking of something else. I mean, really! Unless I'm getting dinner and a lift home in the morning, you gotta be kidding me. Who are these nameless, faceless devil-spawn who come up with these things?
To be honest, I've gotten better and there does seem an eensy-weensy improvement in the middle kingdom, but all that went crashing to the floor yesterday when I sat on it. I wasn't concentrating, fine, ok, but I thought that by now I would have at least have mastered sitting. But the ball has wicked ways. Its ruse-riddled roundness contains perils. Heed the warnings of the ball. I did not, and look at what happened - now I have a bruise. On my ass.
A not-so-serious injury occured.
LiliLaLarge
Sunday, February 7, 2010
Blue Blob
Meh. *sigh*
Why do they call it "being in a funk"? In the seventies, funk was a good thing as in "Bring on the funk, y'all!" Gynormously-'fro'd guys and gals in polyester jumpsuits of many colours that would've done Joseph proud, calling out to the horn and bass sections to "Get funky!" I've neither the cloud of hair nor the outfit, but make no mistake, the funk has been brung. I've been funk'd.
Could be the hormones in my body ambushing me - great swarms of estrogen ploughing through my veins, swimming like salmon upstream to my tear-ducts and brain. Could be seeing 2 really good movies that shared similar themes of love so strong it can drive one to panic and suicide. Probably not the best choices in my current disposition but Damn You, Oscars! Could be good old fashioned fatigue - trying to remain upbeat and positive and greedy with the small joys that occured everyday. It is tiring and I think I'm pooped. There is no up in my giddy.
I confess I've indulged in a week-end long pity party. I wish I had prepared better - I had a feeling that a wallow was coming on all week and yet made no provisions to greet it. What I should have done was booked a spa day, or planned for a day trip out to a munipal park for some fresh air and a massive sweat-inducing walk. I certainly didn't plan any meals for the week-end. Oh there was some talk of a chicken tangine and a scallop gumbo, but as I stared at my shopping list I was covered in a blanket of "what's the point". I kept thinking of the effort it would all require, only to have it all rest in my belly for a visit until given the bum's rush. Literally. A can of soup would do just as well. And, as the funk had foretold, I couldn't get up the gumption to buy any. So I've spent the weekend living off of tea and cheese. I had an almond somewhere...
AAAAAARRRRGGG!!! This is not good, this is not good...I gotta shake myself outta this. I'm going to beg your collective indulgences to just bear with me while I get a grip and pull up my bootstraps. This is going to require some action on my part and that air and exercise thing might do the trick. Y'know, up until a few seconds ago, I hadn't even thought of that as an option let alone a curative. And hang on, a little lung and leg pumping gets the endorphins coursing through the estrogen clogged veins...it just might alleviate the funkishness.
Well, we'll see. I'm going to have a shower first to wash off the whiff of "ouache" (pronounced "wash" the "a" like "fat" - a french term that means "unpleasant" at the least and "disgusting" the other extreme). Then on with my track togs and out into the -14 C weather, but it's sunny. A little vitamin D couldn't hurt. I'll remember to bring DJ IPod to bring on the funk.
In a good way.
LiliLaLarge
Why do they call it "being in a funk"? In the seventies, funk was a good thing as in "Bring on the funk, y'all!" Gynormously-'fro'd guys and gals in polyester jumpsuits of many colours that would've done Joseph proud, calling out to the horn and bass sections to "Get funky!" I've neither the cloud of hair nor the outfit, but make no mistake, the funk has been brung. I've been funk'd.
Could be the hormones in my body ambushing me - great swarms of estrogen ploughing through my veins, swimming like salmon upstream to my tear-ducts and brain. Could be seeing 2 really good movies that shared similar themes of love so strong it can drive one to panic and suicide. Probably not the best choices in my current disposition but Damn You, Oscars! Could be good old fashioned fatigue - trying to remain upbeat and positive and greedy with the small joys that occured everyday. It is tiring and I think I'm pooped. There is no up in my giddy.
I confess I've indulged in a week-end long pity party. I wish I had prepared better - I had a feeling that a wallow was coming on all week and yet made no provisions to greet it. What I should have done was booked a spa day, or planned for a day trip out to a munipal park for some fresh air and a massive sweat-inducing walk. I certainly didn't plan any meals for the week-end. Oh there was some talk of a chicken tangine and a scallop gumbo, but as I stared at my shopping list I was covered in a blanket of "what's the point". I kept thinking of the effort it would all require, only to have it all rest in my belly for a visit until given the bum's rush. Literally. A can of soup would do just as well. And, as the funk had foretold, I couldn't get up the gumption to buy any. So I've spent the weekend living off of tea and cheese. I had an almond somewhere...
AAAAAARRRRGGG!!! This is not good, this is not good...I gotta shake myself outta this. I'm going to beg your collective indulgences to just bear with me while I get a grip and pull up my bootstraps. This is going to require some action on my part and that air and exercise thing might do the trick. Y'know, up until a few seconds ago, I hadn't even thought of that as an option let alone a curative. And hang on, a little lung and leg pumping gets the endorphins coursing through the estrogen clogged veins...it just might alleviate the funkishness.
Well, we'll see. I'm going to have a shower first to wash off the whiff of "ouache" (pronounced "wash" the "a" like "fat" - a french term that means "unpleasant" at the least and "disgusting" the other extreme). Then on with my track togs and out into the -14 C weather, but it's sunny. A little vitamin D couldn't hurt. I'll remember to bring DJ IPod to bring on the funk.
In a good way.
LiliLaLarge
Friday, February 5, 2010
Kickin' it
I am a creature of habit who also is resistant to change. I take a size 8 cement shoe.
Habits become habits because whatever it is you're doing, you (at first, perhaps) like it. I like doing this therefore I will do it again and again and again. And once it is firmly established in my day to day or week to week or what have you, woe to them who would take it away. The comfort of habits is that, with respect to that one or two or 636 things, you need not think about it/them too much. You know exactly what the habit is, what is required of you, and voila - that habit of yours lives for another day. A habit is not a routine-routine to me is something, an act or methodology, that creates efficiencies. A morning routine is established (kettle on, shower, dry and dress, tea and breakfast) so I can get my tuchus out the door in time for work and thereby remain gainfully employed. A habit is Saturday morning non-fat lattes, reading the paper from front to back, doing the crossword and staring at the cute lap-top mesmerized boy - hardly efficient.
I have habits like putting my keys in my left pocket, throwing salt over my left shoulder and knocking wood,
listening to jazz when I cook, salsa when I do dishes and dance (occassionally at the same time, no wonder
my plates don't match), classical when I read and deep house/techno when I'm blogging. There will be no intermingling of food on my plate. Yo carrot, don't go sliding over to the peas without being asked first. Comfortable, never changing...
Some habits are bad - smoking, an abusive relationship, picking your nose when you think no one's looking (someone is always looking. You can be in Antartica and believe me, the penguin is going to tell his friends. They will not be amused.) Berating or belittling yourself over some triviality. Yup, that's a habit, one that I'm trying very hard to break.
Up until Grade 2, I had always been called smart. A clever little girl. Then I gave someone the wrong direction to a classroom making them late and my teacher, Mrs. Campbell, turned on me and said, "You should just shut your mouth. How could you be so stupid? I'm very disappointed in you." And I shut my mouth and didn't open it again until Grade 8. But I couldn't shake the "stupid" off so easily. I tried, really tried not to be stupid, but whenever I came up against a challenge I'd immediately think "I'm too stupid, I'll never get this." To this day, I break out into a sweat when someone says, "Hey, I got a riddle for ya". I can't do them. Or maybe I can, but I can't think, I'm that terrified. And ah, the sciences - I stood up at the board to do a quadratic equation, just shaking and panicking. Girls in the front row were whispering the answer to me, but I was deaf and paralyzed, until Sister MacAdam said, "You're just showing off. Stop wasting our time. Go to the principal's office." Stupid and a time waster. I failed every chemistry exam I ever got - and I studied relentlessly. But always in the back of my head, "How can you be so stupid?"
I focused on the arts, my strengths, in college and university and excelled. The little voice went away. I went out into the working world, toured in a couple of productions, was doing great! I was in a snuggly relationship, what could go wrong?
"Ha, Lisa will never get this!"
Trivial fucking Pursuit. I landed on a science question, the question hadn't even been posed yet, and the snuggly creature had just told me I would never get it. The little voice was now made flesh. I was back at the chalk-board, back in front of my Grade 2 class. He offered to help me use a computer (he was a consultant) and gave up saying, "If you need anything, I'll do it, ok?" He would later tell me that when I confessed to him that I wasn't sure what the difference between a universe and a galaxy was, it was then that he started to fall out of love with me.
The little voice left the physical world and went back into my head.
I'm hounded and haunted by those experiences to this day - stupid, not good enough, lazy...someone asked me what 5% of 1,200 was just the other day, and I went cold and ran. And cried in the ladies washroom, all the while repeating the mantra,"Idiot, stupid stupid idiot."
On average, it takes 3 weeks for something to become a habit. I've done yoga 6 mornings a week for the last month and I find it difficult to start the day on the 7th when I don't do it. It's become a habit. So if I can do that, I can take on another habit - I'm going to take on not calling myself names. I'm going to iterate to myself, to my reflection if I have to, that I'm not stupid. I'm going to step up with this brain that I do have and, if I'm so damn fearful of math or science, I'm going to the library to find a text book and start off at the beginning. That will be a very smart thing to do. And though I may need a high school level book, I don't care who sees me.
Not even the damn penguin.
LiliLaLarge
Habits become habits because whatever it is you're doing, you (at first, perhaps) like it. I like doing this therefore I will do it again and again and again. And once it is firmly established in my day to day or week to week or what have you, woe to them who would take it away. The comfort of habits is that, with respect to that one or two or 636 things, you need not think about it/them too much. You know exactly what the habit is, what is required of you, and voila - that habit of yours lives for another day. A habit is not a routine-routine to me is something, an act or methodology, that creates efficiencies. A morning routine is established (kettle on, shower, dry and dress, tea and breakfast) so I can get my tuchus out the door in time for work and thereby remain gainfully employed. A habit is Saturday morning non-fat lattes, reading the paper from front to back, doing the crossword and staring at the cute lap-top mesmerized boy - hardly efficient.
I have habits like putting my keys in my left pocket, throwing salt over my left shoulder and knocking wood,
listening to jazz when I cook, salsa when I do dishes and dance (occassionally at the same time, no wonder
my plates don't match), classical when I read and deep house/techno when I'm blogging. There will be no intermingling of food on my plate. Yo carrot, don't go sliding over to the peas without being asked first. Comfortable, never changing...
Some habits are bad - smoking, an abusive relationship, picking your nose when you think no one's looking (someone is always looking. You can be in Antartica and believe me, the penguin is going to tell his friends. They will not be amused.) Berating or belittling yourself over some triviality. Yup, that's a habit, one that I'm trying very hard to break.
Up until Grade 2, I had always been called smart. A clever little girl. Then I gave someone the wrong direction to a classroom making them late and my teacher, Mrs. Campbell, turned on me and said, "You should just shut your mouth. How could you be so stupid? I'm very disappointed in you." And I shut my mouth and didn't open it again until Grade 8. But I couldn't shake the "stupid" off so easily. I tried, really tried not to be stupid, but whenever I came up against a challenge I'd immediately think "I'm too stupid, I'll never get this." To this day, I break out into a sweat when someone says, "Hey, I got a riddle for ya". I can't do them. Or maybe I can, but I can't think, I'm that terrified. And ah, the sciences - I stood up at the board to do a quadratic equation, just shaking and panicking. Girls in the front row were whispering the answer to me, but I was deaf and paralyzed, until Sister MacAdam said, "You're just showing off. Stop wasting our time. Go to the principal's office." Stupid and a time waster. I failed every chemistry exam I ever got - and I studied relentlessly. But always in the back of my head, "How can you be so stupid?"
I focused on the arts, my strengths, in college and university and excelled. The little voice went away. I went out into the working world, toured in a couple of productions, was doing great! I was in a snuggly relationship, what could go wrong?
"Ha, Lisa will never get this!"
Trivial fucking Pursuit. I landed on a science question, the question hadn't even been posed yet, and the snuggly creature had just told me I would never get it. The little voice was now made flesh. I was back at the chalk-board, back in front of my Grade 2 class. He offered to help me use a computer (he was a consultant) and gave up saying, "If you need anything, I'll do it, ok?" He would later tell me that when I confessed to him that I wasn't sure what the difference between a universe and a galaxy was, it was then that he started to fall out of love with me.
The little voice left the physical world and went back into my head.
I'm hounded and haunted by those experiences to this day - stupid, not good enough, lazy...someone asked me what 5% of 1,200 was just the other day, and I went cold and ran. And cried in the ladies washroom, all the while repeating the mantra,"Idiot, stupid stupid idiot."
On average, it takes 3 weeks for something to become a habit. I've done yoga 6 mornings a week for the last month and I find it difficult to start the day on the 7th when I don't do it. It's become a habit. So if I can do that, I can take on another habit - I'm going to take on not calling myself names. I'm going to iterate to myself, to my reflection if I have to, that I'm not stupid. I'm going to step up with this brain that I do have and, if I'm so damn fearful of math or science, I'm going to the library to find a text book and start off at the beginning. That will be a very smart thing to do. And though I may need a high school level book, I don't care who sees me.
Not even the damn penguin.
LiliLaLarge
Tuesday, February 2, 2010
It's not easy being green
There are some colours in the spectrum that I simply cannot wear: Navy blue, mustard yellow, anything preceeded by the word "salmon" (red and pink, I'm talking to you!). But there is one colour family that takes my deathly pallor and turns it into white and pink and peaches and cream - green. Any shade of green: lime, apple, forest, Kelly, hospital, puke. You name it. But there is a green that I wear that, even under the best of lighting arrays, simply makes me look oooogly. The green of Jealosy.
The green eyed monster. One of the seven deadly sins, dontcha know. It's deadly, alright - it kills any sense of self-worth, confidence, and belief in oneself.
"How come she got a better job than me? I want that job so much...my job sucks."
"How come he's paying attention to her? He should be paying attention to me...but I guess she's prettier."
"How come she has a better body? I want that body so much...it must be genetic."
Your face changes when you have those thoughts - your eyes narrow on the target of your jealosy, your mouth turns down into a bitter sneer, your body caves in around itself as you shrink into self-loathing. Ever notice the villains in cartoons, comic books and the like? They always seem to be plotting to get the one thing they don't have, hunched over themselves, flinty eyes slithering in their heads, waiting for their big chance to snatch away the girl, the bank, the world...
I was visiting a gym the other week, and while I was imagining what my funeral would look like (the occurence of which seemed closer every step on the elliptical I took), I noticed 2 women: one was a gorgeous gal just pounding away on the treadmill, a super fit body working hard and the other was on the next machine, stealing glances at her with a look that said nothing short of "Bitch". The second woman may have been attractive had she not dipped her face in venom. When the first woman got off her machine, the second one stared after her, looked her up and down, muttered something, shook her head and sneered. They hadn't exchanged any words or appeared to know each other at all - all I saw was pure undistilled jealosy.
Do I ever feel jealous of what someone else has? Oh hell, yeah. Yes I do. I can work my heart-rate into its own episode of House (be nasty to me, Hugh Laurie...what was I saying again? Oh yeah..), and I still won't be the girl in the fitness magazine doing the exact same exercise. Even when I was at my thinnest and fittest, I was never like them. And I will never be like them now. I'm very far behind in a lot of aspects of my life in comparison to a lot of my friends, and it's possible I may never catch up. Do I feel jealousy towards them? At times - at my weekest, not feeling myself-est moments. And that's the crux of the matter...jealosy saps, swindles and steals your self from you.
Jealosy gives you no credit when credit is due. Jealosy never rewards, never acknowledges all the wonderful stuff you do for yourelf or for other people. Ultimately, jealousy fucking outright lies. It shows you only what you lack, never what you actually have. It tells you what you aren't while never saying who you are.
I won't ever be a fashion model but I will be the voluptuous demi-goddess that I am. This is what I have, I have my belief. I'll never win an Oscar, but I'll support my local artists in every way I can. This is what I do because I can. I may never find the mate of my soul, the cream in my coffee, my left shoe for my right, but I have everything I need right now. Today.
I have wonderful people in my life who will help steer me clear of the green eyed monster. After my "dating sites" post of the other day, I had a super broad tell me not to give up, to get back on the horse and not to be daunted. She found her husband on a dating site and told me of the slugs she had to go through in order to find him. She told me not to "wait it out" until I had reached babedom - that it was silly and counter to what I have been writing about all this time. I had forgotten about faith and self-worth and all that good stuff. She thinks I'm pretty much of a babe, anyway.
When all is said and done, I haven't any reason to be jealous of anyone. Look what I got in my corner.
LiliLaLarge
PS-If you're my age or thereabouts, you grew up with Sesame Street. I ripped off today's title from one of my earliest memories of the show. It speaks of another shade of green, one I think we all look pretty good wearing. And if you got some, sit a little munchkin with you as you watch this. Or sing it to 'em later. I think I should hum it to myself a little more...
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RIOiwg2iHio
The green eyed monster. One of the seven deadly sins, dontcha know. It's deadly, alright - it kills any sense of self-worth, confidence, and belief in oneself.
"How come she got a better job than me? I want that job so much...my job sucks."
"How come he's paying attention to her? He should be paying attention to me...but I guess she's prettier."
"How come she has a better body? I want that body so much...it must be genetic."
Your face changes when you have those thoughts - your eyes narrow on the target of your jealosy, your mouth turns down into a bitter sneer, your body caves in around itself as you shrink into self-loathing. Ever notice the villains in cartoons, comic books and the like? They always seem to be plotting to get the one thing they don't have, hunched over themselves, flinty eyes slithering in their heads, waiting for their big chance to snatch away the girl, the bank, the world...
I was visiting a gym the other week, and while I was imagining what my funeral would look like (the occurence of which seemed closer every step on the elliptical I took), I noticed 2 women: one was a gorgeous gal just pounding away on the treadmill, a super fit body working hard and the other was on the next machine, stealing glances at her with a look that said nothing short of "Bitch". The second woman may have been attractive had she not dipped her face in venom. When the first woman got off her machine, the second one stared after her, looked her up and down, muttered something, shook her head and sneered. They hadn't exchanged any words or appeared to know each other at all - all I saw was pure undistilled jealosy.
Do I ever feel jealous of what someone else has? Oh hell, yeah. Yes I do. I can work my heart-rate into its own episode of House (be nasty to me, Hugh Laurie...what was I saying again? Oh yeah..), and I still won't be the girl in the fitness magazine doing the exact same exercise. Even when I was at my thinnest and fittest, I was never like them. And I will never be like them now. I'm very far behind in a lot of aspects of my life in comparison to a lot of my friends, and it's possible I may never catch up. Do I feel jealousy towards them? At times - at my weekest, not feeling myself-est moments. And that's the crux of the matter...jealosy saps, swindles and steals your self from you.
Jealosy gives you no credit when credit is due. Jealosy never rewards, never acknowledges all the wonderful stuff you do for yourelf or for other people. Ultimately, jealousy fucking outright lies. It shows you only what you lack, never what you actually have. It tells you what you aren't while never saying who you are.
I won't ever be a fashion model but I will be the voluptuous demi-goddess that I am. This is what I have, I have my belief. I'll never win an Oscar, but I'll support my local artists in every way I can. This is what I do because I can. I may never find the mate of my soul, the cream in my coffee, my left shoe for my right, but I have everything I need right now. Today.
I have wonderful people in my life who will help steer me clear of the green eyed monster. After my "dating sites" post of the other day, I had a super broad tell me not to give up, to get back on the horse and not to be daunted. She found her husband on a dating site and told me of the slugs she had to go through in order to find him. She told me not to "wait it out" until I had reached babedom - that it was silly and counter to what I have been writing about all this time. I had forgotten about faith and self-worth and all that good stuff. She thinks I'm pretty much of a babe, anyway.
When all is said and done, I haven't any reason to be jealous of anyone. Look what I got in my corner.
LiliLaLarge
PS-If you're my age or thereabouts, you grew up with Sesame Street. I ripped off today's title from one of my earliest memories of the show. It speaks of another shade of green, one I think we all look pretty good wearing. And if you got some, sit a little munchkin with you as you watch this. Or sing it to 'em later. I think I should hum it to myself a little more...
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RIOiwg2iHio
Sunday, January 31, 2010
Absinthe makes the heart grow fonder...
So it's been a month and A) I haven't been carted away by the police, B) I've retained some water along with a measure of sanity, C) this blogging thing has proven to be a therapeutic outlet for my grey cells and D) I seem to have a lost a wee iota of blobness. Not much, not exactly noticeable to the naked eye, but there's somethin' goin' on. I'm allowing a soupcon of a smile to play on my lips, but I'm still staring up the sides of Mt. Babe-osa and damn, it's high! But I've started and I'm not ready to beat it back to the chalet just yet...
There has been a tangential project while I've been on this trek (I alluded to it a couple o' posts ago) and that is the wonderful world of dating sites. And by "wonderful" I mean "ego-crushing", "self-questioning" and "soul-stomping". Not weep worthy, to be sure, but jeez...
OK, here's what one site does for you in your search for twoo wuv: after an exhaustive questionaire asking one's feelings regarding everything from "perfect date" to "boxers vs briefs", it then matches you up with likely victims...er...candidates. It would appear that my ideal mates are probably in their 60's-70's, fond of walks (notice how it doesn't say "long" walks), and are seeking a companion for their twilight years. Oh, and I'm not to be shocked by the ventilator. The mere fact that me as the perfect partner might also have the same attributes as a poodle kinda makes me edgy. But I am toilet-trained. Take that, Trixie Foo Foo!!
Now don't think I didn't scroll through the boys myself and tried to make contact with 'em. I sent out short messages along the lines of "Nice profile, nice smile, check out my profile and let me know if you're interested and if not, good luck and all the best." Responses varied from the exhaustive "Nope." to "Wow, you're really smart, what a charming profile shot, you're the funnest profile I've read! Good luck!!"
Good luck? You've just taken the time to email me back, essentially saying that I was a terrific gal but NO? What did I miss here? Oh, maybe they were being nice, letting me down easy. In the most abrupt way possible. I had several responses that paraphrased the above, too. "You intrigue me", "I've a thing for mischievious smiles", "You've made my day" and then BLAMMO "Hope you find that special someone." I hope they find anthrax...(shallow? Mean? A drought of this magnitude requires harsh words...)
The best was one guy - kinda looked like Gordon Ramsay. We exchanged a message (pre-written by the site) and then I asked for his detailed list of "Must haves/Can't stands" (this is a formal questionaire). On his, he couldn't stand overweight people and needed someone who was "attractive by today's standards". Seeing as I am overweight and the poster-girl for "Lovelies of the 1890's", I sent him a message saying that, because of his preference, we shouldn't continue. So I closed the match. Fair I thought. Then I got a request from him to re-open the match. Wow, I thought, maybe he's willing to overlook my poundage and non-super model face. So I re-opened and sent him a message that I had done so. He then closed the match. I got virtually dumped. He couldn't stand the thought of some blob possibly denying him and therefore dumped me. And got his penis back, no doubt...(ok, that was mean. Mea culpa. But it felt good to write it.)
Alrighty, undaunted by the douche baggery of it all, I joined another site. For half an hour. No sooner had I posted but boom, boom, boom, messages came flying back at me like an artillery bombardment. "Hey sexy", "Nice mouth" and "Mmm, I want me some of that" dirtied up my monitor. One of them actually sounded like a reasonable person so I checked their profile. OK, when did the header "Interests" suddenly include things like "Oral", "Threesomes" and "Spanking good times"?? Whatever happened to "Hockey" and "Fine Dining"? "Carpentry" fercrissakes?? This wasn't even in the "Intimate (read: Between the sheets) Encounters" section!! I removed my profile, removed my clothes and took a shower. Ewwwwww....
Then I took one more shot on another site. Now this one could be labelled the "I'm gonna be honest with you" site because almost every message back to my request for a "hook-up", came back with that preamble. "I'm gonna be honest (IGBH), you seem nice and all but you look like my ex", "IGBH, I don't like overweight women", "IGBH, I want a woman with high cheekbones" and la creme de la creme "IGBH, I want a woman I can be proud of."
BARTENDER!!
Another service this site offerered was, by virtue of your profile, they could determine the chemistry that would likely result between you and another member. They would grade it on a percentile. And so I looked up who on the site would at least fall into the 85%+ group. I swear to the Omnipotent, one guy's profile shot was him taking his picture in the bathroom at his black eye. Swollen shut a la Rocky Balboa. His one interest: Stuff. Another bring-home-to mom-eriffic chap listed his interests as 1)cars, 2)race-cars and 3)imported cars. His perfect date night: Let's get wasted and see where it goes. If it "goes" in a car after, we can "go" to the police station. Dreamy.
MAKE IT A DOUBLE!!
And constant with all 3 sites: who said one's site name, handle as 'twere, should end in "'r" as in "Lov'r", "Gambl'r" or "Hugg'r"? A moment of silence for the neglected "e". *sniff*
*sigh* Yes, yes, I know, these are people that don't even know me and I shouldn't take their doucheness to heart (such a flexible word: Douche). I would have thought that my profile posts would've enabled them to see past the shell and into the pearl. Alas, no. And to be perfectly honest, there were some pictures of fellas that were less than agreeable to mine eyes, and yes I skimmed over them without even looking at their profile. I'm not standing on some lofty windswept pedestal. Hmmm, maybe I'll go back and re-join once I get me a helping of humble pie.
Which will taste delicious when coupled with a Drambuie.
So I'm going to focus on one thing at a time - I'll take care of the bod and let the heart go by the wayside for a little while longer. But when Valentine's Day hits, lock up your sons! And Grandpa, bring your ventilator, you're gonna need it!!
LiliLaLarge
There has been a tangential project while I've been on this trek (I alluded to it a couple o' posts ago) and that is the wonderful world of dating sites. And by "wonderful" I mean "ego-crushing", "self-questioning" and "soul-stomping". Not weep worthy, to be sure, but jeez...
OK, here's what one site does for you in your search for twoo wuv: after an exhaustive questionaire asking one's feelings regarding everything from "perfect date" to "boxers vs briefs", it then matches you up with likely victims...er...candidates. It would appear that my ideal mates are probably in their 60's-70's, fond of walks (notice how it doesn't say "long" walks), and are seeking a companion for their twilight years. Oh, and I'm not to be shocked by the ventilator. The mere fact that me as the perfect partner might also have the same attributes as a poodle kinda makes me edgy. But I am toilet-trained. Take that, Trixie Foo Foo!!
Now don't think I didn't scroll through the boys myself and tried to make contact with 'em. I sent out short messages along the lines of "Nice profile, nice smile, check out my profile and let me know if you're interested and if not, good luck and all the best." Responses varied from the exhaustive "Nope." to "Wow, you're really smart, what a charming profile shot, you're the funnest profile I've read! Good luck!!"
Good luck? You've just taken the time to email me back, essentially saying that I was a terrific gal but NO? What did I miss here? Oh, maybe they were being nice, letting me down easy. In the most abrupt way possible. I had several responses that paraphrased the above, too. "You intrigue me", "I've a thing for mischievious smiles", "You've made my day" and then BLAMMO "Hope you find that special someone." I hope they find anthrax...(shallow? Mean? A drought of this magnitude requires harsh words...)
The best was one guy - kinda looked like Gordon Ramsay. We exchanged a message (pre-written by the site) and then I asked for his detailed list of "Must haves/Can't stands" (this is a formal questionaire). On his, he couldn't stand overweight people and needed someone who was "attractive by today's standards". Seeing as I am overweight and the poster-girl for "Lovelies of the 1890's", I sent him a message saying that, because of his preference, we shouldn't continue. So I closed the match. Fair I thought. Then I got a request from him to re-open the match. Wow, I thought, maybe he's willing to overlook my poundage and non-super model face. So I re-opened and sent him a message that I had done so. He then closed the match. I got virtually dumped. He couldn't stand the thought of some blob possibly denying him and therefore dumped me. And got his penis back, no doubt...(ok, that was mean. Mea culpa. But it felt good to write it.)
Alrighty, undaunted by the douche baggery of it all, I joined another site. For half an hour. No sooner had I posted but boom, boom, boom, messages came flying back at me like an artillery bombardment. "Hey sexy", "Nice mouth" and "Mmm, I want me some of that" dirtied up my monitor. One of them actually sounded like a reasonable person so I checked their profile. OK, when did the header "Interests" suddenly include things like "Oral", "Threesomes" and "Spanking good times"?? Whatever happened to "Hockey" and "Fine Dining"? "Carpentry" fercrissakes?? This wasn't even in the "Intimate (read: Between the sheets) Encounters" section!! I removed my profile, removed my clothes and took a shower. Ewwwwww....
Then I took one more shot on another site. Now this one could be labelled the "I'm gonna be honest with you" site because almost every message back to my request for a "hook-up"
BARTENDER!!
Another service this site offerered was, by virtue of your profile, they could determine the chemistry that would likely result between you and another member. They would grade it on a percentile. And so I looked up who on the site would at least fall into the 85%+ group. I swear to the Omnipotent, one guy's profile shot was him taking his picture in the bathroom at his black eye. Swollen shut a la Rocky Balboa. His one interest: Stuff. Another bring-home-to mom-eriffic chap listed his interests as 1)cars, 2)race-cars and 3)imported cars. His perfect date night: Let's get wasted and see where it goes. If it "goes" in a car after, we can "go" to the police station. Dreamy.
MAKE IT A DOUBLE!!
And constant with all 3 sites: who said one's site name, handle as 'twere, should end in "'r" as in "Lov'r", "Gambl'r" or "Hugg'r"? A moment of silence for the neglected "e". *sniff*
*sigh* Yes, yes, I know, these are people that don't even know me and I shouldn't take their doucheness to heart (such a flexible word: Douche). I would have thought that my profile posts would've enabled them to see past the shell and into the pearl. Alas, no. And to be perfectly honest, there were some pictures of fellas that were less than agreeable to mine eyes, and yes I skimmed over them without even looking at their profile. I'm not standing on some lofty windswept pedestal. Hmmm, maybe I'll go back and re-join once I get me a helping of humble pie.
Which will taste delicious when coupled with a Drambuie.
So I'm going to focus on one thing at a time - I'll take care of the bod and let the heart go by the wayside for a little while longer. But when Valentine's Day hits, lock up your sons! And Grandpa, bring your ventilator, you're gonna need it!!
LiliLaLarge
Friday, January 29, 2010
Hitler flunked art school
Balance. Perspective.
Those two words have haunted me this week. Though they have been ever present, they remained aloof and ellusive. Psyche-teasers, if you will. Everything this week presented a challenge and, for reasons I can't fully fathom, I lost my balance and sense of perspective. Objects in the mirror were faaaaaar closer than they actually were. To whit:
There was not one criticism, large or small, constructive or not, that didn't cut me off at the knees. I'm a grown-up and can take it as well as I can dish it out, but everything to my ears sounded like I had a contracted a bad case of yernotgoodenufitis. This was mirrored in both my personal and professional life and the stereo effect was deafening. I felt pressure building up in my brain, in my heart...and *snap*
I have a violent temper. It takes a while to get stoked, but once the button has been pushed, the Hulk-effect is in full sail. I recognized this from an early age and have worked very hard to contain it. Most people who know me, and I mean really know me, may not have ever seen it. But it is huge, so keeping it "together" or in reality squashed, results in an even greater fury. And this makes me so upset I can barely speak. So I did the next best thing to exploding - I punched a wall with the heel of my hand and now it really hurts. The wall remains unscathed. Stupid wall...The alternative would've have meant screaming in Sailorese with kicking and more punching. Fairly similar to a 6 year old whose mother won't buy them the latest/greatest.
Did I get it out of my system? Well, if I could remember what "it" was, I could probably tell you. I can say it was 1 of a thousand hits I felt I took this week. That's how I felt. And if video replay was an available app for the human experience, I'd bet dollars to donuts that I wouldn't be able to identify the culprit. Because now that I'm feeling a bit more BALANCED...with a better sense of PERSPECTIVE, I can safely assume that it was something that under different stars would have flowed off me with nary a glance. Water, meet duck back.
My personal life is important, terribly important to speak truly and rather obviously, but I cannot sustain 24 hour surveillance as to how I'm feeling. It's unrealistic. Many self-help books recommend "checking in" with your "heart center" to monitor how you are experiencing your...um...experience. I'd lose my freaking mind. And probably not get very much done.
Hmmm, how am I feeling?
This sucks!
And how am I feeling now?
It's still sucking!
My professional life isn't the most important thing to me. It's up there, no doubt, but most? To the exclusion of all else? No. I really enjoy what I do, but there are some moments of sheer drudgery. Every occupation possesses this trait. The CEO of a major company has worked long and hard to get where she/he is at, but are you gonna tell me they looooooove the shareholder's meeting with Mrs. Pleasedieski who wants to know where each nickel of her investment is being used? Do you honestly think that every rockstar chef has a climactic "event" in their pants every time they dice carrots? I wager that every vet adores animals but they'd sell their children into slavery if they didn't have to stare up the business end of a pekinese ever again.
I need my job to pay my rent, keep me productive and to make me feel like I'm actually making a difference on this planet. I've got to keep my personal life if order to make the whole journey worth it. One cannot outweigh the other...well, maybe personal sneaks in a few extra pounds. I kinda like me and my peeps. But I must keep it in perspective. Just weigh things at their true value. Is this worth losing my marbles, screws and other assorted hardware? That's the question I have to ask myself when these crisis occur.
The road to babeness includes not only checking up on your thighs and underarm jiggle - howze your brain doing? Anything make you sad today? Anything make you happy? When you stand on the scales, weigh the other stuff too. Remember, take a look at the whole picture and see if there is balance and perspective in your portrait. Otherwise, you'll wind up like Hitler.
(WTF??ed.)
Why, I thought you'd never ask!
Before Uncle Adolf took out his massacre machine of a mind out for a spin, he went to art school because he truly believed he had the soul of an artist. The young Hitler drew and painted and pasteled his heart out, envious of the other students whom the muse had singled out for her favours. At the end of it all, he got a failing grade. It seems he had an acute problem with balance and perspective. And he never cracked that nut.
LiliLaLarge
PS-This post is dedicated to DF. Thank you.
PPS-There is a perceptible sag in the ass of my jeans. Not my ass, the jeans' ass. yay!
Those two words have haunted me this week. Though they have been ever present, they remained aloof and ellusive. Psyche-teasers, if you will. Everything this week presented a challenge and, for reasons I can't fully fathom, I lost my balance and sense of perspective. Objects in the mirror were faaaaaar closer than they actually were. To whit:
There was not one criticism, large or small, constructive or not, that didn't cut me off at the knees. I'm a grown-up and can take it as well as I can dish it out, but everything to my ears sounded like I had a contracted a bad case of yernotgoodenufitis. This was mirrored in both my personal and professional life and the stereo effect was deafening. I felt pressure building up in my brain, in my heart...and *snap*
I have a violent temper. It takes a while to get stoked, but once the button has been pushed, the Hulk-effect is in full sail. I recognized this from an early age and have worked very hard to contain it. Most people who know me, and I mean really know me, may not have ever seen it. But it is huge, so keeping it "together" or in reality squashed, results in an even greater fury. And this makes me so upset I can barely speak. So I did the next best thing to exploding - I punched a wall with the heel of my hand and now it really hurts. The wall remains unscathed. Stupid wall...The alternative would've have meant screaming in Sailorese with kicking and more punching. Fairly similar to a 6 year old whose mother won't buy them the latest/greatest.
Did I get it out of my system? Well, if I could remember what "it" was, I could probably tell you. I can say it was 1 of a thousand hits I felt I took this week. That's how I felt. And if video replay was an available app for the human experience, I'd bet dollars to donuts that I wouldn't be able to identify the culprit. Because now that I'm feeling a bit more BALANCED...with a better sense of PERSPECTIVE, I can safely assume that it was something that under different stars would have flowed off me with nary a glance. Water, meet duck back.
My personal life is important, terribly important to speak truly and rather obviously, but I cannot sustain 24 hour surveillance as to how I'm feeling. It's unrealistic. Many self-help books recommend "checking in" with your "heart center" to monitor how you are experiencing your...um...experience. I'd lose my freaking mind. And probably not get very much done.
Hmmm, how am I feeling?
This sucks!
And how am I feeling now?
It's still sucking!
My professional life isn't the most important thing to me. It's up there, no doubt, but most? To the exclusion of all else? No. I really enjoy what I do, but there are some moments of sheer drudgery. Every occupation possesses this trait. The CEO of a major company has worked long and hard to get where she/he is at, but are you gonna tell me they looooooove the shareholder's meeting with Mrs. Pleasedieski who wants to know where each nickel of her investment is being used? Do you honestly think that every rockstar chef has a climactic "event" in their pants every time they dice carrots? I wager that every vet adores animals but they'd sell their children into slavery if they didn't have to stare up the business end of a pekinese ever again.
I need my job to pay my rent, keep me productive and to make me feel like I'm actually making a difference on this planet. I've got to keep my personal life if order to make the whole journey worth it. One cannot outweigh the other...well, maybe personal sneaks in a few extra pounds. I kinda like me and my peeps. But I must keep it in perspective. Just weigh things at their true value. Is this worth losing my marbles, screws and other assorted hardware? That's the question I have to ask myself when these crisis occur.
The road to babeness includes not only checking up on your thighs and underarm jiggle - howze your brain doing? Anything make you sad today? Anything make you happy? When you stand on the scales, weigh the other stuff too. Remember, take a look at the whole picture and see if there is balance and perspective in your portrait. Otherwise, you'll wind up like Hitler.
(WTF??ed.)
Why, I thought you'd never ask!
Before Uncle Adolf took out his massacre machine of a mind out for a spin, he went to art school because he truly believed he had the soul of an artist. The young Hitler drew and painted and pasteled his heart out, envious of the other students whom the muse had singled out for her favours. At the end of it all, he got a failing grade. It seems he had an acute problem with balance and perspective. And he never cracked that nut.
LiliLaLarge
PS-This post is dedicated to DF. Thank you.
PPS-There is a perceptible sag in the ass of my jeans. Not my ass, the jeans' ass. yay!
Wednesday, January 27, 2010
Puttin' the "dis" in "discipline"
Snacking for Haiti. I'm burning in hell...fire up the hibachi, boys!
We had a bake sale at work and all the proceeds will be going to help our devasted brothers and sisters currently living in hell. I don't know the final figure, but I'm sure we did quite well.
And I helped. Alot.
*sigh* One step forward, a Billy Cyrus "Achy-Breaky" line dance worth of steps back. You know what my Waterloo is? Anything dessert-like that ends in "ies": brownies, pecan sandies, cookies, candies, creme caramelies (That's not a word. ed. It is in my world...)
But I was doing it for a good cause! But, but...yeah, I coulda just forked over the dough and have done with it, but seriously you know how I feel about cup-cakes and if you don't it goes like this: a cake, in a cup, too small for sharing. What's not to love?
Ah, but I was a good blob - I walked home from work and broke a sweat. Got the workout togs on and walked s'more, and now I'm in the process of catching my breath. And I hated every minute of it. Sometimes when I work out, I get to that good spot when the heat is on, I'm pumpin' away and it feels gooooooood. But this was a punishment workout. Not the same vibe-age at all. Every stride up the hill, I had this wee little voice saying,"That'll learn ya." It reminded me of a documentary I watched the other day.
During the Black Plague in the 1300's (just stick with me here), a group of fellas in Germany, poor monks mostly, had decided that this horrible sickness was due to God being angry - something God frequently was during the Middle Ages by all accounts. In order to atone for their sins, and whatever else God may have had issue with, they decided to mimic Christ's punishing walk on the Via Delorosa on his way to Calvary. And soooo....
They carried large wooden crosses and whipped themselves to bloody, pulpy messes. And as Christ died for all of our sins, according to well-known and oft misinterpreted texts, so they would take on all the suffering of western Europe so God would lift the horrible plague. So there they would go, from town to town, whippin' and bleedin' and pleadin' to God. I swear, it was like a tour (big classic rock DJ voice) "Live for 2 weeks only, straight from the pits of Dusseldorf, on a mission to make you..FEEL...BAD and SAVE...YOUR...SOOOOOOOULS!!...The FLAGELLANTS!"
So rather than praying with their brethren, administering to the sick in their final agonizing hours, or any number of acts of comfort they could have done, they instead beat the bejeebus outta themselves. They'd beat themselves into a frenzy, proclaiming their guilt over and over again with there insane eyes raised to heaven. Or merely clouds. And to no avail. The plague literally ate a third of the total population of Europe in the following year and a half.
So where am I going with this? Guilt. Guilt is a powerful feeling and super-sucks as a motivator. It's a cheat. You are not doing the right thing for the right reason, you are doing it for the wrong reason and that, in a way, is a lie. Lying to yourself. "I will dispel all the bad, all my gluttony, in an orgy of workouts and physical punishment." The bad has not been dispelled - the cookies aren't at fault (blameless cookies...good name for a band. Beats the hell outta The Flagellants...no pun intended...). No, the fault lies in me thinking "One won't hurt". And it doesn't. It's the 9 following that will ultimately "hurt". And so, while stuffing my face, I think, "I'll work out later" and that gives me carte blanche to gourge, and then I feel guilty for doing so, and WHEEEE!! You must be this high to ride this ride. Around and around and around...
Yes, I got the workout in, yay me, discipline thy name is Lili.
Blech.
The head space was all wrong and don't kid yourself-this journey requires some clean and open head space. If you miss a workout because you are sick, don't kill yourself over it. You're sick, fercryinoutloud! Be easy on yourself, but be honest. I wasn't honest and so the discipline of today was kinda sham. And it got in the way of actually enjoying the exertion. Crap. No fun. But, like everything else I've encountered, I learn something from it.
Do this because it does, ultimately, feel good. And it does get better. Don't beat yourself up-look at the bigger picture. You. And you're working to one day be the smaller picture. And at least you're working. And this job has the best benefits ever.
LiliLaLarge
We had a bake sale at work and all the proceeds will be going to help our devasted brothers and sisters currently living in hell. I don't know the final figure, but I'm sure we did quite well.
And I helped. Alot.
*sigh* One step forward, a Billy Cyrus "Achy-Breaky" line dance worth of steps back. You know what my Waterloo is? Anything dessert-like that ends in "ies": brownies, pecan sandies, cookies, candies, creme caramelies (That's not a word. ed. It is in my world...)
But I was doing it for a good cause! But, but...yeah, I coulda just forked over the dough and have done with it, but seriously you know how I feel about cup-cakes and if you don't it goes like this: a cake, in a cup, too small for sharing. What's not to love?
Ah, but I was a good blob - I walked home from work and broke a sweat. Got the workout togs on and walked s'more, and now I'm in the process of catching my breath. And I hated every minute of it. Sometimes when I work out, I get to that good spot when the heat is on, I'm pumpin' away and it feels gooooooood. But this was a punishment workout. Not the same vibe-age at all. Every stride up the hill, I had this wee little voice saying,"That'll learn ya." It reminded me of a documentary I watched the other day.
During the Black Plague in the 1300's (just stick with me here), a group of fellas in Germany, poor monks mostly, had decided that this horrible sickness was due to God being angry - something God frequently was during the Middle Ages by all accounts. In order to atone for their sins, and whatever else God may have had issue with, they decided to mimic Christ's punishing walk on the Via Delorosa on his way to Calvary. And soooo....
They carried large wooden crosses and whipped themselves to bloody, pulpy messes. And as Christ died for all of our sins, according to well-known and oft misinterpreted texts, so they would take on all the suffering of western Europe so God would lift the horrible plague. So there they would go, from town to town, whippin' and bleedin' and pleadin' to God. I swear, it was like a tour (big classic rock DJ voice) "Live for 2 weeks only, straight from the pits of Dusseldorf, on a mission to make you..FEEL...BAD and SAVE...YOUR...SOOOOOOOULS!!...The FLAGELLANTS!"
So rather than praying with their brethren, administering to the sick in their final agonizing hours, or any number of acts of comfort they could have done, they instead beat the bejeebus outta themselves. They'd beat themselves into a frenzy, proclaiming their guilt over and over again with there insane eyes raised to heaven. Or merely clouds. And to no avail. The plague literally ate a third of the total population of Europe in the following year and a half.
So where am I going with this? Guilt. Guilt is a powerful feeling and super-sucks as a motivator. It's a cheat. You are not doing the right thing for the right reason, you are doing it for the wrong reason and that, in a way, is a lie. Lying to yourself. "I will dispel all the bad, all my gluttony, in an orgy of workouts and physical punishment." The bad has not been dispelled - the cookies aren't at fault (blameless cookies...good name for a band. Beats the hell outta The Flagellants...no pun intended...). No, the fault lies in me thinking "One won't hurt". And it doesn't. It's the 9 following that will ultimately "hurt". And so, while stuffing my face, I think, "I'll work out later" and that gives me carte blanche to gourge, and then I feel guilty for doing so, and WHEEEE!! You must be this high to ride this ride. Around and around and around...
Yes, I got the workout in, yay me, discipline thy name is Lili.
Blech.
The head space was all wrong and don't kid yourself-this journey requires some clean and open head space. If you miss a workout because you are sick, don't kill yourself over it. You're sick, fercryinoutloud! Be easy on yourself, but be honest. I wasn't honest and so the discipline of today was kinda sham. And it got in the way of actually enjoying the exertion. Crap. No fun. But, like everything else I've encountered, I learn something from it.
Do this because it does, ultimately, feel good. And it does get better. Don't beat yourself up-look at the bigger picture. You. And you're working to one day be the smaller picture. And at least you're working. And this job has the best benefits ever.
LiliLaLarge
Sunday, January 24, 2010
Your cheatin' carb...
My bum hurts. Metaphorically speaking.
I fell off the carb wagon this weekend, but my Sealy-Postupedic of a butt cushioned the fall. Hooray. Let's look at the sirens that lured me with their evil wares:
When: Friday morning
What: raspberry scone
Where: cafe
Why: It's the beginnning of my long weekend!
Was it the right thing to do: I was celebrating the thought of doing as I pleased on a well deserved break.
Was it worth it: Yes.
When: Friday mid-afternoon
What: slice of pizza
Where: cinema
Why: the scone didn't really have anything in it to keep me going so I was famished. Figured a slice had all the major food groups included so it would fill me up.
Was it the right thing to do: Within ten minutes of injesting it, I felt as though I was going to hurl. Too much salt in the processed cheese/meat-like products, too much sugar in the gummy dough. Pizza, why have you forsaken me??
Was it worth it: GAK! No.
When: Saturday morning
What: peameal bacon sandwich
Where: market
Why: after the pizza, I decided not to eat for the rest of the day (with brains like this, who needs looks?), so woke up about to chew my own arm. The pull of the piggy was too much for me, so I succumbed.
Was it the right thing to do: what the hell, has someone dumped a bag of salt on the city of Toronto?? Didn't even bother with the roll it came in. I'd only be heartbroken.
Was it worth it: Terribly disappointed. 'Twas not the bacon of my youth.
When: Sunday morning
What: apple turnover
Where: cafe
Why: Sunday is only every 7 days...
Was it the right thing to do: I felt horrible and defeated by my lapses and tossed in the towel for the weekend. Made me ill enough to be better tomorrow, however.
Was it worth it: as my mood has fluctuated with the spikes of sugar and the accompanying low, I've learned a valuable lesson -
Eating the right stuff makes me, and sustains, a happier individdle.
It's science and chemicals, children. The sugary numminess appeases the craving, only to leave you wanting more shortly thereafter. And when you don't get it, your mood shifts. And swings. The longing for more sugar is akin to Stoker's novel - your blood craves the sugar. And the only way to get back to that wonderful place where all is tickety-boo is to have more. And you do. A vicious cycle with one gear and no brakes.
I've been healthy and balanced all month long, I eat a couple of seemingly innocent bits that everyone else eats, fercrissakes, and I pay for it by crashing quite hard. Ick. Poo. Lesson learned.
So back to the market I went and stocked up on fruit. The fruit that is going into my yogourt tomorrow morning. The bursting bluberries and succulent strawberries will outlast anything a danish can do. My furry kiwi friends will take the afternoon shift.
And we begin again...
LiliLaLarge
PS-My backside also hurts because the walking regime has begun. There is ahill on my street that will be my nemesis for the coming months. Sir Edmund Hillary had a Sherpa. I have an Ipod.
I fell off the carb wagon this weekend, but my Sealy-Postupedic of a butt cushioned the fall. Hooray. Let's look at the sirens that lured me with their evil wares:
When: Friday morning
What: raspberry scone
Where: cafe
Why: It's the beginnning of my long weekend!
Was it the right thing to do: I was celebrating the thought of doing as I pleased on a well deserved break.
Was it worth it: Yes.
When: Friday mid-afternoon
What: slice of pizza
Where: cinema
Why: the scone didn't really have anything in it to keep me going so I was famished. Figured a slice had all the major food groups included so it would fill me up.
Was it the right thing to do: Within ten minutes of injesting it, I felt as though I was going to hurl. Too much salt in the processed cheese/meat-like products, too much sugar in the gummy dough. Pizza, why have you forsaken me??
Was it worth it: GAK! No.
When: Saturday morning
What: peameal bacon sandwich
Where: market
Why: after the pizza, I decided not to eat for the rest of the day (with brains like this, who needs looks?), so woke up about to chew my own arm. The pull of the piggy was too much for me, so I succumbed.
Was it the right thing to do: what the hell, has someone dumped a bag of salt on the city of Toronto?? Didn't even bother with the roll it came in. I'd only be heartbroken.
Was it worth it: Terribly disappointed. 'Twas not the bacon of my youth.
When: Sunday morning
What: apple turnover
Where: cafe
Why: Sunday is only every 7 days...
Was it the right thing to do: I felt horrible and defeated by my lapses and tossed in the towel for the weekend. Made me ill enough to be better tomorrow, however.
Was it worth it: as my mood has fluctuated with the spikes of sugar and the accompanying low, I've learned a valuable lesson -
Eating the right stuff makes me, and sustains, a happier individdle.
It's science and chemicals, children. The sugary numminess appeases the craving, only to leave you wanting more shortly thereafter. And when you don't get it, your mood shifts. And swings. The longing for more sugar is akin to Stoker's novel - your blood craves the sugar. And the only way to get back to that wonderful place where all is tickety-boo is to have more. And you do. A vicious cycle with one gear and no brakes.
I've been healthy and balanced all month long, I eat a couple of seemingly innocent bits that everyone else eats, fercrissakes, and I pay for it by crashing quite hard. Ick. Poo. Lesson learned.
So back to the market I went and stocked up on fruit. The fruit that is going into my yogourt tomorrow morning. The bursting bluberries and succulent strawberries will outlast anything a danish can do. My furry kiwi friends will take the afternoon shift.
And we begin again...
LiliLaLarge
PS-My backside also hurts because the walking regime has begun. There is a
Saturday, January 23, 2010
GOOOOOOOOAL!!!
So if you were paying attention, the last post shoulda hit you right between the eyes - Lili La Large needs some lovin'.
To be brutally honest, my desire for babe-ness is, along with health considerations, a nod to the indisputable fact that my perpetual and almost pathological singleness has become...well...perpetual and pathological.
I've taken responsibility for my body and I'm doing what it takes, in a rational and informed way, to get back to the babe I was. However, I neither have this goal emblazoned on a t-shirt nor tatooed on my forehead, so what men see is just me. Or they don't see me at all.
And it ain't right. T'ain't fair, neither.
I'm not going to bore you with the litany of lovliness that is me. Mostly 'cuz there isn't one. And it's not to a point of desperation (boys can smell desperation. That and grilled meat from 15K away. Don't ask me how...). It's really because I'm having a good time on this planet and gosh darnnit, it would just be the bee's knees to share it with a co-conspirator, as many of you have, no doubt, discovered. I'm not asking for the Holy Grail or the last Zhu Zhu on the shelf. Can it really be this hard?
I work in an industry that is estrogen-heavy. Not that I don't love my sistah's, and there are a few fellas in the office, but we're talking a ratio of 1-10-ish (me and math again...oi veh). I work looooong hours and going to a bar tocruise is, as I've stated in an earlier post, nigh on becoming "that" girl at the bar, waiting to pounce on anything that carries the faintest whiff of testosterone; very popular and very barred. And so, what have I done, actively done to alter this situation? Why, I read some men's magazines, of course, to get the skinny on fat girls and dating.
Fat girls are kryptonite.
And here's a kicker - I'm too fat to be attractive, but not fat ENOUGH to be a fetish. Wow. I'll now buy that condo between a rock and a hard place. What's odd too is that (and I'm not the first person to point this out) on TV, you see fat guys and babes all the time! Grrrrrrr...You never the reverse. Double standard grrrrrrrr......Fine, fine, whatevs...Sheesh.
*sigh* I look at me sometimes and think, really? Am I that repugnant? Then I think, c'mon, I don't look that bad...do I? What's so frigging wrong with me?? I'll walk away from the mirror and come back to it, give it and me a good hard stare and think, no. I don't look that bad. It can be made better. That's all. My hips will still be the same, my butt equally so, just on a smaller scale. No, I am not repulsive. There is nothing wrong with me. Deep breath...
I'm not going to go on the "oh, but I have a great personality" rant here for the simple reason that I'm talking about what people see. It's about the perceptions honed and marketed in the pages of those magazines. Oh, and in those articles (I'm talking Pulitzer prize winners like Maxim here), the general perception is that fat girls have *gasp* issues. They have no confidence, they're lazy, they have baggage, etc. And so, the Hot 100 feature gorgeous gals that are, natually, skinny. But some are scary. No really, Dr. Mengele scary. But they are perceived as disciplined and working hard to maintain their sexiness. The budgetary discipline derived from not buying, hence eating, any food and the work it takes to bend over a toilet every few hours. But thank God they're not fat! Whew! Nope, no issues there. A baggage free zone. Yikes...
I'm not saying all guys read this crap and buy it outright. Hell no! But when you have "Sexy" "Hot" "You Want This" flashed like so many Christmas lights next to those images, what's a person to do? And women's magazines show the same images with the same flashing lights. And we buy. And we're fucked.
So here I am. I'm working my way to babeness (and skwidgy, cuddly babeness, not the clackety-clack of bone hitting bone), but no one seeing me on the street knows that. So I have to suck it up for the nonce and wait for that first completely spontaneous smile aimed in my direction. Or hit the dating sites.
(tick-tock-tick-tock-tick-tock)
AAAAAARRRRRGGGG, I can't wait for the smile!!! Dating sites it is!
And oh my goodness, and what have I found there...?
LiliLaLarge
To be brutally honest, my desire for babe-ness is, along with health considerations, a nod to the indisputable fact that my perpetual and almost pathological singleness has become...well...perpetual and pathological.
I've taken responsibility for my body and I'm doing what it takes, in a rational and informed way, to get back to the babe I was. However, I neither have this goal emblazoned on a t-shirt nor tatooed on my forehead, so what men see is just me. Or they don't see me at all.
And it ain't right. T'ain't fair, neither.
I'm not going to bore you with the litany of lovliness that is me. Mostly 'cuz there isn't one. And it's not to a point of desperation (boys can smell desperation. That and grilled meat from 15K away. Don't ask me how...). It's really because I'm having a good time on this planet and gosh darnnit, it would just be the bee's knees to share it with a co-conspirator, as many of you have, no doubt, discovered. I'm not asking for the Holy Grail or the last Zhu Zhu on the shelf. Can it really be this hard?
I work in an industry that is estrogen-heavy. Not that I don't love my sistah's, and there are a few fellas in the office, but we're talking a ratio of 1-10-ish (me and math again...oi veh). I work looooong hours and going to a bar to
Fat girls are kryptonite.
And here's a kicker - I'm too fat to be attractive, but not fat ENOUGH to be a fetish. Wow. I'll now buy that condo between a rock and a hard place. What's odd too is that (and I'm not the first person to point this out) on TV, you see fat guys and babes all the time! Grrrrrrr...You never the reverse. Double standard grrrrrrrr......Fine, fine, whatevs...Sheesh.
*sigh* I look at me sometimes and think, really? Am I that repugnant? Then I think, c'mon, I don't look that bad...do I? What's so frigging wrong with me?? I'll walk away from the mirror and come back to it, give it and me a good hard stare and think, no. I don't look that bad. It can be made better. That's all. My hips will still be the same, my butt equally so, just on a smaller scale. No, I am not repulsive. There is nothing wrong with me. Deep breath...
I'm not going to go on the "oh, but I have a great personality" rant here for the simple reason that I'm talking about what people see. It's about the perceptions honed and marketed in the pages of those magazines. Oh, and in those articles (I'm talking Pulitzer prize winners like Maxim here), the general perception is that fat girls have *gasp* issues. They have no confidence, they're lazy, they have baggage, etc. And so, the Hot 100 feature gorgeous gals that are, natually, skinny. But some are scary. No really, Dr. Mengele scary. But they are perceived as disciplined and working hard to maintain their sexiness. The budgetary discipline derived from not buying, hence eating, any food and the work it takes to bend over a toilet every few hours. But thank God they're not fat! Whew! Nope, no issues there. A baggage free zone. Yikes...
I'm not saying all guys read this crap and buy it outright. Hell no! But when you have "Sexy" "Hot" "You Want This" flashed like so many Christmas lights next to those images, what's a person to do? And women's magazines show the same images with the same flashing lights. And we buy. And we're fucked.
So here I am. I'm working my way to babeness (and skwidgy, cuddly babeness, not the clackety-clack of bone hitting bone), but no one seeing me on the street knows that. So I have to suck it up for the nonce and wait for that first completely spontaneous smile aimed in my direction. Or hit the dating sites.
(tick-tock-tick-tock-tick-tock)
AAAAAARRRRRGGGG, I can't wait for the smile!!! Dating sites it is!
And oh my goodness, and what have I found there...?
LiliLaLarge
Friday, January 22, 2010
Thursday, January 21, 2010
Giddy up!
I'm not a great reader of self-help books. Call me biased (You're biased. ed.), but whenever I see the authors on talk shows, they really have a cookie cutter look about them. The women have impossibly kempt hair. The men use too much spray tan. And they all go to the same cosmetic orthodontist - not so much a mouthful of teeth but looking as though someone had surgically implanted a white picket fence on their gum line. And strange, whatever magic pill/philosophy/claptrap they yammer on about, be it getting out of debt, having a successful marriage, wearing the right clothes when, how to be happy, etc., they mostly all seem to have the same preamble:
"I used to be fat."
The implication is, to my mind, that being fat is the common denominator of failure with regards to debt, marriage woes, no sense of colour coordination, attaining true and lasting happiness and the rest. And it hints of ignorance as well. "Fat people must be dumb. They can't count calories, how can they possibly balance a cheque-book?" "Fat people have a high risk of divorce because they repulse their mate. If they'd only lose weight it would spark it up again!" "This year, the look is tight. Fat people will be ugly and therefore not advance in the social strata." You get the idea.
And so, these gurus go about fixing their woe of choice and they discover something amazing: wouldn't you know it, it was the weight that was holding them back all along! They weren't irresponsible with money, their ass was too big! They didn't get promoted because of their shoddy work, it was their chaffing thighs that did them in! Oh glory, halleluia, Nirvana was attained and now they can take their place amongst the financially sound, well dressed, happily married happy people! And you can too! Purchase the book/video/audio cassette/magic change purse, and you can join them in the rarified air of the blessed! And you will be happy!
Fuck. That.
I'm not saying that everything in my life is bon-bons and puppies in baskets, but I've just spent the last 24 hours or so in a soaringly good mood. I'm a fat gal that paid all her bills yesterday, got thanked by her superiors for doing a great job, expertly applied a new shade of lipstick, and got a hug. I ate my healthy homemade lunch, went for a power walk after work, and have a long weekend to do whatever I choose. And I am fat - with less than spectacular hair, skin of an indistinct pallor and teeth that are mine. And I woke up giddy!
With every depressed phase I go through, I've been through enough that I know that it too shall pass and I will once again enjoy the kinda day I've had. It's that faith thing again, but it's also allowing oneself to look at one thing, any thing, that brings a smile to your face and try to have that feeling touch on the spaces in your heart or soul that need a little brightening. I'm telling you, that one seemingly miniscule particle of "YAY!" can be contagious. It can spread. And it makes things so much easier.
Misery pushes people away from you. A wee bit o' glee pulls 'em right in. And you gotta have people with you for this journey, our journey here and now, because it's hard to stay focused and convinced and, well, happy with it all sometimes. Frustration, anger, negative Nellies that crawl out of the woodwork, these things have to be held at bay, and if they do breach the barricades, your peeps can help you stem the tide.
And babies, seriously, sometimes you just gotta fake it. Here's what I do on those ick days; I force a smile onto this face and look in the mirror while I'm doing it. I look like an idiot. And then I giggle...
The gateway to giddy.
LiliLaLarge
"I used to be fat."
The implication is, to my mind, that being fat is the common denominator of failure with regards to debt, marriage woes, no sense of colour coordination, attaining true and lasting happiness and the rest. And it hints of ignorance as well. "Fat people must be dumb. They can't count calories, how can they possibly balance a cheque-book?" "Fat people have a high risk of divorce because they repulse their mate. If they'd only lose weight it would spark it up again!" "This year, the look is tight. Fat people will be ugly and therefore not advance in the social strata." You get the idea.
And so, these gurus go about fixing their woe of choice and they discover something amazing: wouldn't you know it, it was the weight that was holding them back all along! They weren't irresponsible with money, their ass was too big! They didn't get promoted because of their shoddy work, it was their chaffing thighs that did them in! Oh glory, halleluia, Nirvana was attained and now they can take their place amongst the financially sound, well dressed, happily married happy people! And you can too! Purchase the book/video/audio cassette/magic change purse, and you can join them in the rarified air of the blessed! And you will be happy!
Fuck. That.
I'm not saying that everything in my life is bon-bons and puppies in baskets, but I've just spent the last 24 hours or so in a soaringly good mood. I'm a fat gal that paid all her bills yesterday, got thanked by her superiors for doing a great job, expertly applied a new shade of lipstick, and got a hug. I ate my healthy homemade lunch, went for a power walk after work, and have a long weekend to do whatever I choose. And I am fat - with less than spectacular hair, skin of an indistinct pallor and teeth that are mine. And I woke up giddy!
With every depressed phase I go through, I've been through enough that I know that it too shall pass and I will once again enjoy the kinda day I've had. It's that faith thing again, but it's also allowing oneself to look at one thing, any thing, that brings a smile to your face and try to have that feeling touch on the spaces in your heart or soul that need a little brightening. I'm telling you, that one seemingly miniscule particle of "YAY!" can be contagious. It can spread. And it makes things so much easier.
Misery pushes people away from you. A wee bit o' glee pulls 'em right in. And you gotta have people with you for this journey, our journey here and now, because it's hard to stay focused and convinced and, well, happy with it all sometimes. Frustration, anger, negative Nellies that crawl out of the woodwork, these things have to be held at bay, and if they do breach the barricades, your peeps can help you stem the tide.
And babies, seriously, sometimes you just gotta fake it. Here's what I do on those ick days; I force a smile onto this face and look in the mirror while I'm doing it. I look like an idiot. And then I giggle...
The gateway to giddy.
LiliLaLarge
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
Push me/Pull me
We all like a challenge. That's what we say: on our resumes, to each other...I love a challenge!
Really?
OK, straight up, I abhor challenges. Can't you just accept me as this, can't you accept my thoughts as they are? Nope, want to see how you react to a challenge.
Fine. You wanna see? OK, that's what I'm bringing...
The above is the conversation that I have with myself on a daily basis. Everyday is a challenge. Getting up is easy, what happens afterwards is the hard part.
I get up and I do yoga. I haven't found my "zen" point, I haven't found the point wherein I feel at peace and all that good stuff. I do it as a discipline for now. Maybe one day I can feel the breath in my elbows, but for now, I'm just doing it for the "cod liver oil" effect: it's good for me. And it's a fucking challenge.
I push myself to manifest the positions, I push myself to waken my body to poses that my thighs wish to go on strike over...push.
My work life is a non-ending challenge. Despite the fact that I can complete the tasks given me, it is always a challenge to live up to the (sometimes) crazy, unwarranted demands of my superiors. Push.
Moving forward, driving forward...this requires resilience and a stubborn belief that I can do it. Another semi-push-up...push. Another document checked and re-checked...push.
But where is the pull back? When does it come back to me?
I was out this evening with DF (dear friend, for the newbies) and he is in a push me/pull me situation. He is pushing himself (a challenge) into a new relationship. He'll go as far as working his heart and brain, but if it's wrong and it hurts, he will end the challenge. He knows the difference between a twinge and a throbbing pain. And so he is all about pulling himself back to him, back to his own needs and wants. And this is good.
Push yourself into a bit of ache, but when it starts to hurt, like "oh my god, what's the number for nine one one", stop. Pull it back to you. We should challenge out bodies, but let's be reasonable. You cannot go from moribund to Usain Bolt in a day. Yeah, the hot chickies on the video are doing 18 reps, but if you can only do 8, fuckit it's better than the zero you do on the couch. My math is sketchy, but I'm guessing you've just done 8 times more than zero.
Pull it back to you. You are allowed, and indeed encouraged to go back to you. You are the only one looking at you in the mirrow at the end of the day. It's not selfish - hell, ask your friends and if they say things like, "You always think of the needs of others" or " You are always there for me", it's gotta make you wonder; when was the last time you were there for yourself? Just you, and your wants and your needs.
You want slimmer thighs? Challenge them for yourself. You want to keep up with your kids? Move yourself. You, my friend, you can get all grrrrrrr and clench your fists and say, straight to your face, "Bring it!" We are sometimes our worst enemies. For the next little while, be your best friend and demand nothing but what you can optimally give.
It's just you. You won't beat yourself up after recess.
LiliLaLarge
Really?
OK, straight up, I abhor challenges. Can't you just accept me as this, can't you accept my thoughts as they are? Nope, want to see how you react to a challenge.
Fine. You wanna see? OK, that's what I'm bringing...
The above is the conversation that I have with myself on a daily basis. Everyday is a challenge. Getting up is easy, what happens afterwards is the hard part.
I get up and I do yoga. I haven't found my "zen" point, I haven't found the point wherein I feel at peace and all that good stuff. I do it as a discipline for now. Maybe one day I can feel the breath in my elbows, but for now, I'm just doing it for the "cod liver oil" effect: it's good for me. And it's a fucking challenge.
I push myself to manifest the positions, I push myself to waken my body to poses that my thighs wish to go on strike over...push.
My work life is a non-ending challenge. Despite the fact that I can complete the tasks given me, it is always a challenge to live up to the (sometimes) crazy, unwarranted demands of my superiors. Push.
Moving forward, driving forward...this requires resilience and a stubborn belief that I can do it. Another semi-push-up...push. Another document checked and re-checked...push.
But where is the pull back? When does it come back to me?
I was out this evening with DF (dear friend, for the newbies) and he is in a push me/pull me situation. He is pushing himself (a challenge) into a new relationship. He'll go as far as working his heart and brain, but if it's wrong and it hurts, he will end the challenge. He knows the difference between a twinge and a throbbing pain. And so he is all about pulling himself back to him, back to his own needs and wants. And this is good.
Push yourself into a bit of ache, but when it starts to hurt, like "oh my god, what's the number for nine one one", stop. Pull it back to you. We should challenge out bodies, but let's be reasonable. You cannot go from moribund to Usain Bolt in a day. Yeah, the hot chickies on the video are doing 18 reps, but if you can only do 8, fuckit it's better than the zero you do on the couch. My math is sketchy, but I'm guessing you've just done 8 times more than zero.
Pull it back to you. You are allowed, and indeed encouraged to go back to you. You are the only one looking at you in the mirrow at the end of the day. It's not selfish - hell, ask your friends and if they say things like, "You always think of the needs of others" or " You are always there for me", it's gotta make you wonder; when was the last time you were there for yourself? Just you, and your wants and your needs.
You want slimmer thighs? Challenge them for yourself. You want to keep up with your kids? Move yourself. You, my friend, you can get all grrrrrrr and clench your fists and say, straight to your face, "Bring it!" We are sometimes our worst enemies. For the next little while, be your best friend and demand nothing but what you can optimally give.
It's just you. You won't beat yourself up after recess.
LiliLaLarge
Monday, January 18, 2010
Snacky-whacks
Is it any wonder we're a nation confused when it comes to food and dieting?! Three square meals a day, they said. Whoops, change that. Six smaller meals, they tossed in. But wait! Don't forget snacks! After all, we have to make sure our tum never gets to a point where it might make BAD CHOICES. For the love of all that is good and holy, I was always told, in every conceivable diet book/mag on the market, that snacking was a BAD CHOICE. But now snacking seems to be the only thing keeping a potentially mountainous person of lard at bay. And yup, I'm confused and flummoxed. Confoxed and flummused. Snacks, as I understand them, is a different food group and it exists for a different reason than feeding our bodies. Allow me to elaborate...
Snacks. When I was a kid, a snack meant one thing: a cookie. Kindergarten snack time meant a chocolate chip cookie and an apple. Not the most healthful of snacks, the apple notwithstanding, but my mom along with many other moms didn't consider this. It's a snack, fercrissakes, a treat! More importantly, it was an enforced treat, that's why it had its own "time" just like "lunch time" and "dinner time". It was the perfect mixture of both natural and industrial sugars which would keep us just jittery and awake enough to ensure a glowing academic career. Once we learned how to spell our names.
Snack time was also a reward. A reward of food? you may gasp in horror. Hell yeah! Bravo, you didn't wet your pants when you couldn't remember the letter after "R", have a snack. Well done, you didn't bite Suzy Glockenspiel, you deserve a snack. My brave little soldier didn't throw up on the gym teacher during dodgeball, this snack's for you. People on diets are always told to reward themselves with other things: clothes or a mani-pedi. What do they really want? A snack. A proper, hardly-good-for-you snack.
Back in the Middle-class-Ages, moms would even make snacks for when you got home! Could anything be more wonderful, after a day of addition, subtraction, and *shudder* sharing, than a cupcake? A cake...IN A CUP!! Little person sized and too small for sharing! It makes me weep just to think of it. My mom's love for us was in every multicoloured sprinkle on the frosting. This stuff didn't come in boxes or squeezeable plastic tubes; she made these from scratch. The time she put into them, into these snacks, was her way of making sure we knew she was thinking about us. She was a busy lady and tired after a long day, but the cookies or cupcakes or muffins reminded us that we were in her thoughts. Always.
I'm, therefore, fond of snacks. The proper kind. Not the kind currently using the name of "snack" when in fact, it is a ploy to weasel in more of the stuff we should be eating in the first place. A carrot stick, even the little baby ones made to look like some sort of veggie-candy, is not a snack. It is a vegetable that we need as fuel. We need it's vitamins and nutrients. "Have some yogourt with nuts mixed in". Again, unsnack. We need calcium, protein, and even the nut oils as a wee bit of fat. This is stuff we need. It's not a snack. It's a sneak. A snack is, by definition, something we don't need.
It is something we WANT!!
It should be made of fabulous, outrageous, should have laws against it yumminess dwelling in every bite. Now here is the kicker about dieting and snacking - just like when we were kids, it should be a reward only and it should be the very best, and made with love. We may think we deserve a reward everyday (Hey, I didn't shed someone's blood today! I deserve a snack!). Wait until you are really proud of something. Wait until you've accomplished something - it doesn't have to be big. Just use some sense; you are trying to lose some weight after all.
Go for the highest quality chocolate, the perfectly constructed tiramisu, the sublimely soft souffle au citron. And just a bit. Now we have to share. You'll want to because you're proud of whatever it is you've done and hell, who wouldn't want to crow over it over a $14 piece of cheesecake?
And this good stuff is made by people who love what they do. They take the time to assemble all the best bits for the perfect oatmeal cookie. Hershey Kisses are made in a factory. Ditto Doritos. Historically loveless places. Bakeries, and even butcher shops with their dried sausages (a favouite snack o' mine) are peopled with people who love what they do and want you to love it too. Oblige them. Sparingly. You'll appreciate your snack even more.
So by all means, enjoy your celery and peanut butter sneak. And when you can finally zip up those jeans, have a snack. Because really...
You should love you, too.
LiliLaLarge
Snacks. When I was a kid, a snack meant one thing: a cookie. Kindergarten snack time meant a chocolate chip cookie and an apple. Not the most healthful of snacks, the apple notwithstanding, but my mom along with many other moms didn't consider this. It's a snack, fercrissakes, a treat! More importantly, it was an enforced treat, that's why it had its own "time" just like "lunch time" and "dinner time". It was the perfect mixture of both natural and industrial sugars which would keep us just jittery and awake enough to ensure a glowing academic career. Once we learned how to spell our names.
Snack time was also a reward. A reward of food? you may gasp in horror. Hell yeah! Bravo, you didn't wet your pants when you couldn't remember the letter after "R", have a snack. Well done, you didn't bite Suzy Glockenspiel, you deserve a snack. My brave little soldier didn't throw up on the gym teacher during dodgeball, this snack's for you. People on diets are always told to reward themselves with other things: clothes or a mani-pedi. What do they really want? A snack. A proper, hardly-good-for-you snack.
Back in the Middle-class-Ages, moms would even make snacks for when you got home! Could anything be more wonderful, after a day of addition, subtraction, and *shudder* sharing, than a cupcake? A cake...IN A CUP!! Little person sized and too small for sharing! It makes me weep just to think of it. My mom's love for us was in every multicoloured sprinkle on the frosting. This stuff didn't come in boxes or squeezeable plastic tubes; she made these from scratch. The time she put into them, into these snacks, was her way of making sure we knew she was thinking about us. She was a busy lady and tired after a long day, but the cookies or cupcakes or muffins reminded us that we were in her thoughts. Always.
I'm, therefore, fond of snacks. The proper kind. Not the kind currently using the name of "snack" when in fact, it is a ploy to weasel in more of the stuff we should be eating in the first place. A carrot stick, even the little baby ones made to look like some sort of veggie-candy, is not a snack. It is a vegetable that we need as fuel. We need it's vitamins and nutrients. "Have some yogourt with nuts mixed in". Again, unsnack. We need calcium, protein, and even the nut oils as a wee bit of fat. This is stuff we need. It's not a snack. It's a sneak. A snack is, by definition, something we don't need.
It is something we WANT!!
It should be made of fabulous, outrageous, should have laws against it yumminess dwelling in every bite. Now here is the kicker about dieting and snacking - just like when we were kids, it should be a reward only and it should be the very best, and made with love. We may think we deserve a reward everyday (Hey, I didn't shed someone's blood today! I deserve a snack!). Wait until you are really proud of something. Wait until you've accomplished something - it doesn't have to be big. Just use some sense; you are trying to lose some weight after all.
Go for the highest quality chocolate, the perfectly constructed tiramisu, the sublimely soft souffle au citron. And just a bit. Now we have to share. You'll want to because you're proud of whatever it is you've done and hell, who wouldn't want to crow over it over a $14 piece of cheesecake?
And this good stuff is made by people who love what they do. They take the time to assemble all the best bits for the perfect oatmeal cookie. Hershey Kisses are made in a factory. Ditto Doritos. Historically loveless places. Bakeries, and even butcher shops with their dried sausages (a favouite snack o' mine) are peopled with people who love what they do and want you to love it too. Oblige them. Sparingly. You'll appreciate your snack even more.
So by all means, enjoy your celery and peanut butter sneak. And when you can finally zip up those jeans, have a snack. Because really...
You should love you, too.
LiliLaLarge
Sunday, January 17, 2010
Fear and Bloating
Ow, ow, OOOOOOOWWW!
GodDAMmit, that hurts. How in blazes is this supposed to be good for me again?
I'm speaking of a particular yoga pose: the plough. Essentially, you're on your back with your patootie high in the air and your feet behind your head. I used to be able to do this at the drop of a hat - both solo and accompanied (man, did it come in handy...hee-hee). But now that I've revisited it, I don't recall being this blasted uncomfortable.
No. 1 - My larynx is being crushed by my own boobs. What the hell did I ever do to them?? Spent a small fortune on lingerie (and kids, it's far more fun to pronounce that word with a hard "g"), massaged creams into 'em, all sorts of treats...and what do they do? Flop over and try to strangle me. Thanks a lot.
No. 2 - Did I lose a vertabra somewhere? My back is really rebelling against the stretch here and I think it has to do with all the sitting. Somewhere down my spinal cord, two back bones got so smushed together that they are now one, or merely refuse to let go of each other. Touching, but I want to leave this world with the exact same number of bones owed to me. Greedy? Really?
No. 3 - I'm tensing because I'm worried I'm going to damage something, namely me. I'm scared to hurt bad, or yikes! seriously injure myself.
This is something I'm discovering during all my excercises - I'm worried that if I twist something, it won't untwist. If I tear something, the tearing won't heal. My knees are calling "foul" whenever I go for a walk. I'm wearng the right shoes and all that good stuff, but I'm not a spring chicken. A late-summer hen of the non-laying variety is more apt.
When I was in theatre school (and dinosaurs roamed the earth), we would spend almost 80% of class time on the floor. During rehearsals, you'd sit to wait your turn, and you'd invariably be stretching to make sure your body was warmed up...at all times! Movement class, improv, some voice classes, all of these did away with desks and we'd loll about. We'd lie on each other, massages were given and received with nary a request either way. Our bodies could, and would, do anything.
I did a production of "Romeo and Juliet" wherein I played 3 characters, maybe more I forget, but I remember rehearsals being marathon fitness classes. Running around, dancing, we'd be on stage all the time. Every now and then, we'd actually say something from the script but it was an incredibly physical show and my body went along for the ride. I think I lost 30 lbs in the month and half of rehearsals and performance. (BTW, it was an all-female R&J, with only Romeo being cast gender-correct. All the women PMS-ed at the same time. Poor bastard, I wonder if he ever recovered...)
And of course, the gold standard of flexibilty was the splits. No problemo. I could go in a forward split, move my body towards the floor and have my legs fan out back and behind me. Yup, I believe my popularity took an unprecedented spike at that juncture...
Now I'm scared of a groin pull. Or, worse, a tear. I'm willing to accept that in order to succeed I'm going to have to push myself, challenge my body again, but if something goes awry, my body won't snap back. Ah age, what fun are you!
This won't deter me, of course. It can't. I must really start paying attention to form and do my excercises right. And not throw myself with gay abandon into every new move. Slow and steady wins the race, and keeps my ass outta hospital.
If only because the food's horrible...
LiliLaLarge
PS-So, did anyone buy Michael Pollan's "Food Rules"? I did and it's a treasure. A $14.99 Cdn treasure. He's my new imaginary boyfriend, so play nice!
GodDAMmit, that hurts. How in blazes is this supposed to be good for me again?
I'm speaking of a particular yoga pose: the plough. Essentially, you're on your back with your patootie high in the air and your feet behind your head. I used to be able to do this at the drop of a hat - both solo and accompanied (man, did it come in handy...hee-hee). But now that I've revisited it, I don't recall being this blasted uncomfortable.
No. 1 - My larynx is being crushed by my own boobs. What the hell did I ever do to them?? Spent a small fortune on lingerie (and kids, it's far more fun to pronounce that word with a hard "g"), massaged creams into 'em, all sorts of treats...and what do they do? Flop over and try to strangle me. Thanks a lot.
No. 2 - Did I lose a vertabra somewhere? My back is really rebelling against the stretch here and I think it has to do with all the sitting. Somewhere down my spinal cord, two back bones got so smushed together that they are now one, or merely refuse to let go of each other. Touching, but I want to leave this world with the exact same number of bones owed to me. Greedy? Really?
No. 3 - I'm tensing because I'm worried I'm going to damage something, namely me. I'm scared to hurt bad, or yikes! seriously injure myself.
This is something I'm discovering during all my excercises - I'm worried that if I twist something, it won't untwist. If I tear something, the tearing won't heal. My knees are calling "foul" whenever I go for a walk. I'm wearng the right shoes and all that good stuff, but I'm not a spring chicken. A late-summer hen of the non-laying variety is more apt.
When I was in theatre school (and dinosaurs roamed the earth), we would spend almost 80% of class time on the floor. During rehearsals, you'd sit to wait your turn, and you'd invariably be stretching to make sure your body was warmed up...at all times! Movement class, improv, some voice classes, all of these did away with desks and we'd loll about. We'd lie on each other, massages were given and received with nary a request either way. Our bodies could, and would, do anything.
I did a production of "Romeo and Juliet" wherein I played 3 characters, maybe more I forget, but I remember rehearsals being marathon fitness classes. Running around, dancing, we'd be on stage all the time. Every now and then, we'd actually say something from the script but it was an incredibly physical show and my body went along for the ride. I think I lost 30 lbs in the month and half of rehearsals and performance. (BTW, it was an all-female R&J, with only Romeo being cast gender-correct. All the women PMS-ed at the same time. Poor bastard, I wonder if he ever recovered...)
And of course, the gold standard of flexibilty was the splits. No problemo. I could go in a forward split, move my body towards the floor and have my legs fan out back and behind me. Yup, I believe my popularity took an unprecedented spike at that juncture...
Now I'm scared of a groin pull. Or, worse, a tear. I'm willing to accept that in order to succeed I'm going to have to push myself, challenge my body again, but if something goes awry, my body won't snap back. Ah age, what fun are you!
This won't deter me, of course. It can't. I must really start paying attention to form and do my excercises right. And not throw myself with gay abandon into every new move. Slow and steady wins the race, and keeps my ass outta hospital.
If only because the food's horrible...
LiliLaLarge
PS-So, did anyone buy Michael Pollan's "Food Rules"? I did and it's a treasure. A $14.99 Cdn treasure. He's my new imaginary boyfriend, so play nice!
Friday, January 15, 2010
Is this a daquiri I see before me?
Before you get the idea that my...ahem...grandeur is as a result of "so many plates, so little time", allow me to disabuse you of that notion.
I'm a binge drinker.
Ooooh, how I love that first sip of beer, and all 7,032 subsequent sips. And look! I have people all around me, socializating and nattering away about the important and not so important news of the day. Wheeee! Let's have another round! Oh, I'm sorry that your boss is a cretinous beastie, tell me all about it. Barkeep! I'll have...oh I dunno...a Guinness and oh! a double Jameson's with that and my friend here will have another. Hi Krista! I loooove that skirt, where did you...? OK, yeah, great, I'll have another. Sweet Jesus, did you see that? Here comes the highlight reel. I'm sorry? Sure, maybe one more...
(3 hours later)
But, but, no, like, no seriously, I'm a really ni-ni-nish pershon and so are YOU! No, no, ok, like, oh my god, are you, like, KIDDING ME! Ok,ok, listen, LISTEN, LISTEN to me!! You and, like, him are like, fuck...
(*crash*). I'm ok! I'm ok! No, seriously, I'm totally fine. I'm so...where did my drink go?
Yeah, you can just imagine the pretty, huh? And if I'm really lucky, if all the stars are aligned just so, I'll even start to cry. Over just about anything.
"But that was my favourite lipstick!" (sniff)
"I'm so useless I'll probably get fired." (gulp)
"Why aren't you holding my hand?" (WAAAAAH!!)
Once upon a time, in the halycon days of youth, I would get to a certain point and stop. In mid beverage if necessary. I worked in bars for years and never, EVER, wanted to be THAT woman at the bar that starts off ok and then rapidly descends into a female version of Jabba the Hutt. And I held out for the longest time and remained a civilized drinker, decorum intact. And then my firewall came down a couple of years ago and WHAM, bring me Han Solo and the Wookie.
Do I drink because I'm depressed? No, not that I'm aware of. I suppose if we all sat around and thought, and I mean really thought of all the stuff we could be depressed about we'd all be basket cases. But no, I don't think myself a depressed person. Do I drink to loosen me up, to help with the unburdening of the days travails? Hmmm, that's interesting...I'd hafta say yes, that there has been the thought of "Oh dear Christ, I so need a drink" round about 4 o'clock when a particularly heinous day is just about over but...not...quite. I've thought it, but frankly rarely do I follow through (there is only one bar I go to in my neighborhood and nobody speaks to me there, which brings me to....)
If I happen to go to a bar with a friend, or back to my old watering hole in my old neighborhood, then it is drinking time. I'm having a good time and I'm around people and I don't want it to end and I will stay until, by law, I can't. Because I drink to give myself a break from being alone. No, no, don't suddenly go all "Awww!" on me. I am by myself, certainly not by choice, but I'm comfortable with me and don't get attacked too often by the lonelies. But when I do, a-drinking I will go. And that, as a method to go out and meet the world, doesn't work anymore. Case to be made whether it actually ever did in the first place.
Along with trying to live a physically more healthy life, one has to come to grips with the fact that it is a psychological excercise as well. And emotional. And it stands to reason that, along with junk food, there must be junk thoughts. "She really needs for me to be here for her, so I'll stay and have one more drink to help her out." That's a justification I've used for getting royally ripped. "He's staying longer so I'll stay too and maybe he'll notice me." Oh yeah, he notices me alright; I'm the drunk broad who can barely keep her eyes open.
Alcohol makes me introverted. Not in a quiet-as-a-church-mouse way (trust me, that ain't gonna happen), but I get so wrapped up in my booze addled thoughts that I get confused and really lose focus on who I'm with or why I'm there. And that's when the emotional garbage starts spilling out - miniscule snippets of a feeling, a dust-bunny of angst can get blown waaaaaay outta proportion 'cuz I'm hammered and the internal editor we all possess has gone home to the wife and kids. And I made it a point to get to that point. Nope, that my friends must be the definition of "junk thoughts".
So, what does this amount to? What I want to try and do is make sure that a drink is an accessory, not the full outfit. I'll try not to fill my calendar with dates like "Drinkin' Night" I'm going to try to meet the world in different ways - go to lectures and galleries and the like. And just hang. My body will thank me for it. My brain and its still functioning cells will thank me for it. And maybe my heart and soul will too.
Though I was looking forward to Han Solo...
LiliLaLarge
I'm a binge drinker.
Ooooh, how I love that first sip of beer, and all 7,032 subsequent sips. And look! I have people all around me, socializating and nattering away about the important and not so important news of the day. Wheeee! Let's have another round! Oh, I'm sorry that your boss is a cretinous beastie, tell me all about it. Barkeep! I'll have...oh I dunno...a Guinness and oh! a double Jameson's with that and my friend here will have another. Hi Krista! I loooove that skirt, where did you...? OK, yeah, great, I'll have another. Sweet Jesus, did you see that? Here comes the highlight reel. I'm sorry? Sure, maybe one more...
(3 hours later)
But, but, no, like, no seriously, I'm a really ni-ni-nish pershon and so are YOU! No, no, ok, like, oh my god, are you, like, KIDDING ME! Ok,ok, listen, LISTEN, LISTEN to me!! You and, like, him are like, fuck...
(*crash*). I'm ok! I'm ok! No, seriously, I'm totally fine. I'm so...where did my drink go?
Yeah, you can just imagine the pretty, huh? And if I'm really lucky, if all the stars are aligned just so, I'll even start to cry. Over just about anything.
"But that was my favourite lipstick!" (sniff)
"I'm so useless I'll probably get fired." (gulp)
"Why aren't you holding my hand?" (WAAAAAH!!)
Once upon a time, in the halycon days of youth, I would get to a certain point and stop. In mid beverage if necessary. I worked in bars for years and never, EVER, wanted to be THAT woman at the bar that starts off ok and then rapidly descends into a female version of Jabba the Hutt. And I held out for the longest time and remained a civilized drinker, decorum intact. And then my firewall came down a couple of years ago and WHAM, bring me Han Solo and the Wookie.
Do I drink because I'm depressed? No, not that I'm aware of. I suppose if we all sat around and thought, and I mean really thought of all the stuff we could be depressed about we'd all be basket cases. But no, I don't think myself a depressed person. Do I drink to loosen me up, to help with the unburdening of the days travails? Hmmm, that's interesting...I'd hafta say yes, that there has been the thought of "Oh dear Christ, I so need a drink" round about 4 o'clock when a particularly heinous day is just about over but...not...quite. I've thought it, but frankly rarely do I follow through (there is only one bar I go to in my neighborhood and nobody speaks to me there, which brings me to....)
If I happen to go to a bar with a friend, or back to my old watering hole in my old neighborhood, then it is drinking time. I'm having a good time and I'm around people and I don't want it to end and I will stay until, by law, I can't. Because I drink to give myself a break from being alone. No, no, don't suddenly go all "Awww!" on me. I am by myself, certainly not by choice, but I'm comfortable with me and don't get attacked too often by the lonelies. But when I do, a-drinking I will go. And that, as a method to go out and meet the world, doesn't work anymore. Case to be made whether it actually ever did in the first place.
Along with trying to live a physically more healthy life, one has to come to grips with the fact that it is a psychological excercise as well. And emotional. And it stands to reason that, along with junk food, there must be junk thoughts. "She really needs for me to be here for her, so I'll stay and have one more drink to help her out." That's a justification I've used for getting royally ripped. "He's staying longer so I'll stay too and maybe he'll notice me." Oh yeah, he notices me alright; I'm the drunk broad who can barely keep her eyes open.
Alcohol makes me introverted. Not in a quiet-as-a-church-mouse way (trust me, that ain't gonna happen), but I get so wrapped up in my booze addled thoughts that I get confused and really lose focus on who I'm with or why I'm there. And that's when the emotional garbage starts spilling out - miniscule snippets of a feeling, a dust-bunny of angst can get blown waaaaaay outta proportion 'cuz I'm hammered and the internal editor we all possess has gone home to the wife and kids. And I made it a point to get to that point. Nope, that my friends must be the definition of "junk thoughts".
So, what does this amount to? What I want to try and do is make sure that a drink is an accessory, not the full outfit. I'll try not to fill my calendar with dates like "Drinkin' Night" I'm going to try to meet the world in different ways - go to lectures and galleries and the like. And just hang. My body will thank me for it. My brain and its still functioning cells will thank me for it. And maybe my heart and soul will too.
Though I was looking forward to Han Solo...
LiliLaLarge
Thursday, January 14, 2010
Hurry up and weight
Today at work, we had a lunch meeting whereby a supplier came in to pitch their goods. And they brought lunch. Those bastards...
They set up the piles of evil in our boardroom - 2 massive platters of assorted sandwiches and a fashionably rectangular plate of dessert cake things. There may have been salad and fruit, who knows...
We have these meetings every now and then and it's nice that lunch is supplied, but when a girl has been soooo good for a mere 1-1/2 weeks, she's weak. Really weak. Like "oh my god, it's focaccia" weak. And a funny thing happens when you start cutting back on the carbs; you can smell them. All of a sudden, your olfactory nerves go into hyper-drive and you can sniff the yeast, inhale the sugar and herbs and salts. And those smells act as conductors for other smells - cheese and roast beef, pastrami and arugula, temptation and sin. The visual impact is enormous as well. Fresh and colourful, the olive oil still providing a glisten to the purely ornamental leafy greens housed between marble rye. Ever really look at marble rye? It's trippy.
These meetings last an hour and it's rude to munch while someone is talking so, without even a thought, I ploughed through 2 full sandwiches. It may not sound like much, but each half was the size of my hand and piled at least 2 inches high. Deliciousness was registered for a mere second as I shoveled the Devil's deli into my maw. Good, good, good, more, more, more. And then I was done. The meeting started at 12:05. I wiped my mouth at 12:12.
What had I done?? I looked around the table at my colleagues and they were still taking dainty bites of their sandwiches (one per person. Grrrrr..) Then I looked down at my empty plate and carried my eyes down to my tummy. All the goodies I had just consumed would soon be reaching their destination and would take up residence in my flotation device of a stomach. And they would start calling their friends, "Hey fettuccine! She's ready for us, man. Gather up the boys and bring some beer. Part-ay!"
I felt crappy and miserable. The pitch meeting over (they looked like nice people. A PowerPoint presentation. Something about telephones...), I went back to my desk and dwelled on the lunch meeting all freakin' day. And I'm still dwelling on it now. Ok, lesson, lesson, what do I do here on out? Aw gee, I so know this...
Conscious eating! Slow, chew-it-for-godssakes eating. Your brain needs a little bit of time to register that it's tasty (and enjoy that bit. Some higher power put thought into that tomato) and that there is actually food going into you and the slower and more mindful you are, the more receptive you'll be to your brain saying, "OK, you've had enough. Put the fork down, Tiny."
You know how I've been having lunch away from the chair? Well, I've been having it in our lunchroom (I thought it was an area built large enough for the coffee line-up...hey, there's a table and chairs and everything!). I go there to eat, no distractions, and I actually take time. I'm joined by some of the gang, we talk between bites and *POW*, it takes me 35 minutes to eat a salad. And I hear my brain saying, "Damn that was good!" and "Yow, I'm stuffed!" All those scientists and nutritionists were right. Who woulda thunk?
I just gotta slow down and think. And be mindful. And to help me on my way, I'm going to bring along Michael Pollan. The author of "In Defence of Food" and "Omnivore's Dilemma" has just come out with a slim volume entitled "Food Rules-Tips for Eating Healthily". I love this guy - he doesn't speak from a gastro-pulpit. He's tall and kinda looks like Michael Caine - if Mr.Caine was bald. To my mind, he is one sexy beast 'cuz he's smart. And he makes nutritional advice make sense. For instance - if it comes through your car window, it's not food. Sounds reasonable to me. Here he is talking with George Stephanopolous:
http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2010/01/14/michael-pollans-food-rule_n_423393.html
I'm buying it.
That's right, I'm gonna get me a present for being bad. And why? Because I'm being kind to myself and there's no better way to take care of me than to arm myself from future pitch meetings.
LiliLaLarge
They set up the piles of evil in our boardroom - 2 massive platters of assorted sandwiches and a fashionably rectangular plate of dessert cake things. There may have been salad and fruit, who knows...
We have these meetings every now and then and it's nice that lunch is supplied, but when a girl has been soooo good for a mere 1-1/2 weeks, she's weak. Really weak. Like "oh my god, it's focaccia" weak. And a funny thing happens when you start cutting back on the carbs; you can smell them. All of a sudden, your olfactory nerves go into hyper-drive and you can sniff the yeast, inhale the sugar and herbs and salts. And those smells act as conductors for other smells - cheese and roast beef, pastrami and arugula, temptation and sin. The visual impact is enormous as well. Fresh and colourful, the olive oil still providing a glisten to the purely ornamental leafy greens housed between marble rye. Ever really look at marble rye? It's trippy.
These meetings last an hour and it's rude to munch while someone is talking so, without even a thought, I ploughed through 2 full sandwiches. It may not sound like much, but each half was the size of my hand and piled at least 2 inches high. Deliciousness was registered for a mere second as I shoveled the Devil's deli into my maw. Good, good, good, more, more, more. And then I was done. The meeting started at 12:05. I wiped my mouth at 12:12.
What had I done?? I looked around the table at my colleagues and they were still taking dainty bites of their sandwiches (one per person. Grrrrr..) Then I looked down at my empty plate and carried my eyes down to my tummy. All the goodies I had just consumed would soon be reaching their destination and would take up residence in my flotation device of a stomach. And they would start calling their friends, "Hey fettuccine! She's ready for us, man. Gather up the boys and bring some beer. Part-ay!"
I felt crappy and miserable. The pitch meeting over (they looked like nice people. A PowerPoint presentation. Something about telephones...), I went back to my desk and dwelled on the lunch meeting all freakin' day. And I'm still dwelling on it now. Ok, lesson, lesson, what do I do here on out? Aw gee, I so know this...
Conscious eating! Slow, chew-it-for-godssakes eating. Your brain needs a little bit of time to register that it's tasty (and enjoy that bit. Some higher power put thought into that tomato) and that there is actually food going into you and the slower and more mindful you are, the more receptive you'll be to your brain saying, "OK, you've had enough. Put the fork down, Tiny."
You know how I've been having lunch away from the chair? Well, I've been having it in our lunchroom (I thought it was an area built large enough for the coffee line-up...hey, there's a table and chairs and everything!). I go there to eat, no distractions, and I actually take time. I'm joined by some of the gang, we talk between bites and *POW*, it takes me 35 minutes to eat a salad. And I hear my brain saying, "Damn that was good!" and "Yow, I'm stuffed!" All those scientists and nutritionists were right. Who woulda thunk?
I just gotta slow down and think. And be mindful. And to help me on my way, I'm going to bring along Michael Pollan. The author of "In Defence of Food" and "Omnivore's Dilemma" has just come out with a slim volume entitled "Food Rules-Tips for Eating Healthily". I love this guy - he doesn't speak from a gastro-pulpit. He's tall and kinda looks like Michael Caine - if Mr.Caine was bald. To my mind, he is one sexy beast 'cuz he's smart. And he makes nutritional advice make sense. For instance - if it comes through your car window, it's not food. Sounds reasonable to me. Here he is talking with George Stephanopolous:
http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2010/01/14/michael-pollans-food-rule_n_423393.html
I'm buying it.
That's right, I'm gonna get me a present for being bad. And why? Because I'm being kind to myself and there's no better way to take care of me than to arm myself from future pitch meetings.
LiliLaLarge
Wednesday, January 13, 2010
None
Haiti is happening. Support the relief agency of your choice with your cash or time. If you know someone, or know someone who knows someone who's on the ground there, reach out to them. Hug the people you love. Remember - we are not guaranteed the next 5 min.
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
The middle kingdom
This will be brief.
I can still see my toes.
Read an article today whereby, after some serious mathematical calculations (ah, me and numbers again. The love affair continues...), it has been determined that, for my 5'6" frame, I am obese and in serious risk of dropping dead within...oh, I dunno...a day or so.
Hmmm...I don't see myself as obese. I see myself as fat, to be sure, no illusions there, but obese? Well, I guess if the World Health Organization sez so...
I've pictures in my head of what "obese" looks like - the mom in "What's Eating Gilbert Grape", the contestants on that heinous reality show "More to Love" (so wrong on so many levels...How can I feel empathy and a burning desire to acquire the license to carry a fire arm all at the same time?!), and the entire audience of Springer. Am I them?
I see women of a certain size walking around in outfits that surely to God must be halting the flow of oxygen to their brains, or at the very least impairing their eye sight. Muffin-tops? Spare tires? Bakeries squished into jeans and the winter tire set of a semi encased in a tube top! Do they own mirrors? Friends? Who told them that looked alright? And is that what I look like?
Angry women on talk shows yelling and screaming at the top of their lungs, "That's right! I'm sexy! Look at my fine ass (I'd love to, ma'am, but you're blocking the sun)! Uh-huh, you wanna get you some of this! You skinny-ass bitches just jealous! Don't hate! Don't hate!" (I don't hate you, so please give me my eardrums back.) Is this what people think I'm like because I'm fat?
I've looked at obese people in many ways, sometimes with understanding and a charitable thought (genetics, may be going through a rough patch, etc.), and with a OH MY GOD, ARE YOU SERIOUS??? So I can't help but wonder if people, strangers, look at me the same way.
And now that I really think about it, do I give a flying f*ck?
I'm stretching and coiling and squatting and lunging and doing just about every contortion this body can accomplish and if they don't see it, who cares? I'm eating better and trying to drink more water, which I hate with the white hot intensity of a thousand suns. I'm trying to maintain a positive attitude and if all of that is not encased in a size 2, and people give me a look or ignore me altogether (the stunning irony of being big - I'm the largest target and yet some people don't see me) does it really matter? Hmmmmm...wait for it...uh...NO IT DOES NOT!!
I do not look healthy, but do I look good? Yes, yes I think I do. And I'm going to get healthier which will make me look even better and if I'm already starting with looking good then...you guessed it - the next step is BABE!!!
But that's later. Right now, I must focus on my middle. The vast region, this waist-land, my domain, that is my middle. And if that expanse gets whittled away I can assure that this monarch will be more than happy to part with it. And I invite you all to lose some of your realms as well. We rule over ourselves and must accept this responsibility. Look at it this way - just consider it: Noblesse oblige.
LiliLaLarge
PS-I feel I must iterate something here - for all my bombast, it is disturbing to me that I'm clinically obese. I do not take this lightly. And nor should you. Please, if you have any doubts or wish to know your BMI (body mass index) just for kicks or bragging rights, please go online to:
http://www.exrx.net/Calculators/BMI.html
And if you don't like what you see, set up an appointment with your doctor. That's what I'm going to do. Despite looking horrible in those gowns...
I can still see my toes.
Read an article today whereby, after some serious mathematical calculations (ah, me and numbers again. The love affair continues...), it has been determined that, for my 5'6" frame, I am obese and in serious risk of dropping dead within...oh, I dunno...a day or so.
Hmmm...I don't see myself as obese. I see myself as fat, to be sure, no illusions there, but obese? Well, I guess if the World Health Organization sez so...
I've pictures in my head of what "obese" looks like - the mom in "What's Eating Gilbert Grape", the contestants on that heinous reality show "More to Love" (so wrong on so many levels...How can I feel empathy and a burning desire to acquire the license to carry a fire arm all at the same time?!), and the entire audience of Springer. Am I them?
I see women of a certain size walking around in outfits that surely to God must be halting the flow of oxygen to their brains, or at the very least impairing their eye sight. Muffin-tops? Spare tires? Bakeries squished into jeans and the winter tire set of a semi encased in a tube top! Do they own mirrors? Friends? Who told them that looked alright? And is that what I look like?
Angry women on talk shows yelling and screaming at the top of their lungs, "That's right! I'm sexy! Look at my fine ass (I'd love to, ma'am, but you're blocking the sun)! Uh-huh, you wanna get you some of this! You skinny-ass bitches just jealous! Don't hate! Don't hate!" (I don't hate you, so please give me my eardrums back.) Is this what people think I'm like because I'm fat?
I've looked at obese people in many ways, sometimes with understanding and a charitable thought (genetics, may be going through a rough patch, etc.), and with a OH MY GOD, ARE YOU SERIOUS??? So I can't help but wonder if people, strangers, look at me the same way.
And now that I really think about it, do I give a flying f*ck?
I'm stretching and coiling and squatting and lunging and doing just about every contortion this body can accomplish and if they don't see it, who cares? I'm eating better and trying to drink more water, which I hate with the white hot intensity of a thousand suns. I'm trying to maintain a positive attitude and if all of that is not encased in a size 2, and people give me a look or ignore me altogether (the stunning irony of being big - I'm the largest target and yet some people don't see me) does it really matter? Hmmmmm...wait for it...uh...NO IT DOES NOT!!
I do not look healthy, but do I look good? Yes, yes I think I do. And I'm going to get healthier which will make me look even better and if I'm already starting with looking good then...you guessed it - the next step is BABE!!!
But that's later. Right now, I must focus on my middle. The vast region, this waist-land, my domain, that is my middle. And if that expanse gets whittled away I can assure that this monarch will be more than happy to part with it. And I invite you all to lose some of your realms as well. We rule over ourselves and must accept this responsibility. Look at it this way - just consider it: Noblesse oblige.
LiliLaLarge
PS-I feel I must iterate something here - for all my bombast, it is disturbing to me that I'm clinically obese. I do not take this lightly. And nor should you. Please, if you have any doubts or wish to know your BMI (body mass index) just for kicks or bragging rights, please go online to:
http://www.exrx.net/Calculators/BMI.html
And if you don't like what you see, set up an appointment with your doctor. That's what I'm going to do. Despite looking horrible in those gowns...
Monday, January 11, 2010
Rise and Whine!
There is a percentage of the population that hates me and people like me. Not because of how we look or how we dress. Not because of how we think or what we say. But we carry with us a blemish so despised by some that if looks could kill, me and my ilk would be six feet under. And it is simply because we are...
Morning People!!!!
I am a out of bed bounder, a singin' in the shower while brushin' my teeth kinda gal. Always have been: an early memory is me sitting in our living room as a child, the whole house still asleep, the sun rising over the rooftops and splashing onto the floor while I fiddled with the stereo to "make it go" - which I am sure were the words my siblings uttered to my parents while pointing at me. "For heaven's sake", I thought. "It's 5:30 in the morning, half the day is already gone!! What's the matter with these people? Slackers."
Yup, it was like that all through school, into adulthood, and to this day. Regardless of how late I stay up, my eyelids will flicker with the sun. I would make the lousiest vampire ever.
And you know what makes morning extra-extra special? BREAKFAST!!
I am in love with breakfast. If breakfast were a man, I would do whatever he wanted and would pay for any accessories needed with my own money (are you following me with this? I don't need a laser pointer, do I? Good.). Breakfast is eggs and toast, ham and croissants, fruit and cheese, not all at the same time but why not? Nobody else is awake, says the morning person. I'm alone! Mwah-ha-ha-ha!
I am a firm believer that your breakfast fires you up for the day: no fuel, no fire. And never more so than when you are trying to lose weight. You're already cutting and counting calories, why deprive yourself of an entire meal? I don't trust people that skip breakfast, anyway. They are the ones most likely to mooch snacks from you during the day or may steal your sandwich from the office fridge. Some folks don't like a lot of food in the morning - that's just fine, but baby get a little somethin' in ya or you will be no fun for the rest of the folks you have to deal with. I'm getting used to yogourt, fruit and green tea to start the day. It's fresh, wakes my mouth up and it's good for your insides as your stomach gets busy with digesting.
That's work week breakfast. Weekend breakfast is a totally different kettle of fish, or a different bagel of lox. Which, by the way, is a perfect weekend breakfast - bagel, lox, onion, capers, cream cheese, coffee and you are ready to go-go-go for hours! If a whole bagel is too much, split it with your sweet baboo (this may lead to all sorts of things that require go-go-go. I don't need the pointer, do I?). Energy, people. Food groups, my friends. You gotta mix 'em up and have a bit of everything. Real babes eat all of 'em 'cuz they need the juice to move their bodies about and keep the heart pumping. And real babes eat real food.
Blobs eat crap. They buy food-like substances in boxes, bags or cans large enough to contain all the ingredients. If an ingredient sounds like the final word at a spelling bee and the astonishing 8 year old, who spelled a 14 letter word because he recalled the Estonian root, can't spell it, don't eat it. Blobs do their grocery shopping at convenience stores. Babes lounge in the produce section. Wonder Bread is manna to the blob. A babe will eat, sparingly, of the seed-packed loaf she bought at a bakery. And she may have it with real cheese, not "an edible oil product" which to my mind is probably Vaseline with food colouring added (now in Jack o' Lantern orange!), hardened into a square and then wrapped in plastic. Why wrap?? It's not like this crap can go bad. It's not food!!
I like having breakfast at farmers' markets in the morning. I go to one that has wonderful fair trade coffee brewing, roasted on the spot - I saunter around and pick up a roll or a muffin and it smells soooo good and warm (no, "warm" isn't a smell, it's the feeling you get when you get a snootfull of homey yum). Sellers and buyers are all a bit sleepy or tousle-headed, but there is energy both in the air and waiting in baskets to be taken home. There's usually a lot of munchkins, wee kiddies, running around being nuisances and adorable. These are morning kids. I like them. They are fascinated by the food they see at the market because it's the real thing. They look at some of it quizzically-why is it dirty and lumpy and that strange colour? I've seen kids play with the stuff, having never seen a purple carrot for instance - but it appeals to their Crayola coloured imaginations. I like that too. If you can, go to a market for breakfast, that's how to start the day right.
Now mornings for me also mean a little stretchy yoga-ness and work-outy stuff. I must be honest with you, I haven't arrived at the "Oh I just LOOOOOVE working out when I wake up!" And frankly it's cutting into my breakfast time. I could graze over breakfast for a good hour before even thinking of work. Now, it's down to only 1/2 an hour. T'isn't fair, but I will share my breakfast time with workout time.
Just not on weekends...
LiliLaLarge
Morning People!!!!
I am a out of bed bounder, a singin' in the shower while brushin' my teeth kinda gal. Always have been: an early memory is me sitting in our living room as a child, the whole house still asleep, the sun rising over the rooftops and splashing onto the floor while I fiddled with the stereo to "make it go" - which I am sure were the words my siblings uttered to my parents while pointing at me. "For heaven's sake", I thought. "It's 5:30 in the morning, half the day is already gone!! What's the matter with these people? Slackers."
Yup, it was like that all through school, into adulthood, and to this day. Regardless of how late I stay up, my eyelids will flicker with the sun. I would make the lousiest vampire ever.
And you know what makes morning extra-extra special? BREAKFAST!!
I am in love with breakfast. If breakfast were a man, I would do whatever he wanted and would pay for any accessories needed with my own money (are you following me with this? I don't need a laser pointer, do I? Good.). Breakfast is eggs and toast, ham and croissants, fruit and cheese, not all at the same time but why not? Nobody else is awake, says the morning person. I'm alone! Mwah-ha-ha-ha!
I am a firm believer that your breakfast fires you up for the day: no fuel, no fire. And never more so than when you are trying to lose weight. You're already cutting and counting calories, why deprive yourself of an entire meal? I don't trust people that skip breakfast, anyway. They are the ones most likely to mooch snacks from you during the day or may steal your sandwich from the office fridge. Some folks don't like a lot of food in the morning - that's just fine, but baby get a little somethin' in ya or you will be no fun for the rest of the folks you have to deal with. I'm getting used to yogourt, fruit and green tea to start the day. It's fresh, wakes my mouth up and it's good for your insides as your stomach gets busy with digesting.
That's work week breakfast. Weekend breakfast is a totally different kettle of fish, or a different bagel of lox. Which, by the way, is a perfect weekend breakfast - bagel, lox, onion, capers, cream cheese, coffee and you are ready to go-go-go for hours! If a whole bagel is too much, split it with your sweet baboo (this may lead to all sorts of things that require go-go-go. I don't need the pointer, do I?). Energy, people. Food groups, my friends. You gotta mix 'em up and have a bit of everything. Real babes eat all of 'em 'cuz they need the juice to move their bodies about and keep the heart pumping. And real babes eat real food.
Blobs eat crap. They buy food-like substances in boxes, bags or cans large enough to contain all the ingredients. If an ingredient sounds like the final word at a spelling bee and the astonishing 8 year old, who spelled a 14 letter word because he recalled the Estonian root, can't spell it, don't eat it. Blobs do their grocery shopping at convenience stores. Babes lounge in the produce section. Wonder Bread is manna to the blob. A babe will eat, sparingly, of the seed-packed loaf she bought at a bakery. And she may have it with real cheese, not "an edible oil product" which to my mind is probably Vaseline with food colouring added (now in Jack o' Lantern orange!), hardened into a square and then wrapped in plastic. Why wrap?? It's not like this crap can go bad. It's not food!!
I like having breakfast at farmers' markets in the morning. I go to one that has wonderful fair trade coffee brewing, roasted on the spot - I saunter around and pick up a roll or a muffin and it smells soooo good and warm (no, "warm" isn't a smell, it's the feeling you get when you get a snootfull of homey yum). Sellers and buyers are all a bit sleepy or tousle-headed, but there is energy both in the air and waiting in baskets to be taken home. There's usually a lot of munchkins, wee kiddies, running around being nuisances and adorable. These are morning kids. I like them. They are fascinated by the food they see at the market because it's the real thing. They look at some of it quizzically-why is it dirty and lumpy and that strange colour? I've seen kids play with the stuff, having never seen a purple carrot for instance - but it appeals to their Crayola coloured imaginations. I like that too. If you can, go to a market for breakfast, that's how to start the day right.
Now mornings for me also mean a little stretchy yoga-ness and work-outy stuff. I must be honest with you, I haven't arrived at the "Oh I just LOOOOOVE working out when I wake up!" And frankly it's cutting into my breakfast time. I could graze over breakfast for a good hour before even thinking of work. Now, it's down to only 1/2 an hour. T'isn't fair, but I will share my breakfast time with workout time.
Just not on weekends...
LiliLaLarge
Sunday, January 10, 2010
Faith Value
Sundays. Love 'em. The good lord said it was a day of rest and who am I to argue with a deity? Saturday blew big furry chunks as I dwelt on the events of the last week and decided that it was, by all definitions, a bad week. In fact, blogging was my only respite throughout and offered me a great deal of solace. I could not, however, get "it" up yesterday (and had no one beside me saying, "It's ok honey, you're just stressed.")So I woke up this morning, put on a happy face and tried to keep this mantra looping in my brain, "This week will be better, this week will be better..."
Because, I have faith.
Faith is, according to the Oxford, "complete trust or confidence" as well as "firm belief without logical proof". I can speak to both these definitions.
In what do I have complete trust or confidence? Well, my family for one, and my friends for another. This faith is based purely on logical proof. I'm not going to go into molecular detail (40+ years of molecules is a heck of a lot), but I have faith that my family will always support me and be there for me when I need them. They have in the past and, as far as I know, have no reason to discontinue this excellent mode of carrying on. More power to them.
Ditto my friends, my posse. Weeks and months can go by without touching base, but if I need to make that 3am phone call, it will be picked up. A cab will be called, taken, and my doorbell will ring with my "life-preserver" dressed in questionable jammies. Of this I have no doubt. And I would do the same for any one of them. And there ya go; logic.
Now then, what about "firm belief without logical proof"? Know what I have faith in? I swear, I still think, despite all indicators proving otherwise, that people are instrinsically good. And nice, too, if you give 'em a chance. Now logically speaking, that simply can't be the case but damn if I haven't encountered the contrary. F'rinstance, I'm polite and patient with customer service cats and I get treated really well, and the problem I had gets solved. I've been thanked for being nice. Thanked! Like it's a chore or something! Sure, I'll mutter under my breath as some dough-head lets a door slam in my face without holding it for me, but his head is so far up his ass that you gotta feel sorry for the mo' fo'. The view can't be pleasant.
There is no logical proof that love exists, but you're damn right I have faith in it. The proof I've seen may not be logical, but it's all the proof my heart requires. Quick story - dad was super late coming home one night and my mom was beside herself with worry. She called the office, called his friends, and stopped short of calling the hospitals in case...I saw so many emotions cross her face that night - panic mostly, but also the fear buried in the unspoken questions: what will happen to us? What will happen to me if he's not here? She begun to wring her hands. I never saw anyone do that before. It was the motion of someone totally at sea. I had just begun to reach for the phone to make some dire calls, when in he walked. I was so relieved I don't remember much, not even the reason why he was so late, but I do remember my mom yelling very briefly, and then launching herself into my dad's arms. And she held on for dear life.
That's why I have faith love exists.
I have faith that I will be on the receiving end of that same kind of love because I've seen it and felt it directed at me. A face lighting up when I walk in, the communication of the eyes over other people's heads, waking up in the morning with their mouth still open in a kiss on my shoulder. There is no logical proof that this will ever happen again, and yet I have faith that it will. God/the cosmos/the spark of life - they are kind, again, if you give 'em a chance.
They've given me the chance to try and revert to the babe I was and I have faith in myself embarking on this journey. Heaven knows, I haven't any logical proof to back this up, but man I gotta believe that I have the strength to carry this through. Hard? Hell yes, it's going to be hard. Bear in mind, I'm a card carrying member of SA (Sloths Anonymous) so this kind of required discipline will not be a cake walk...mmm....a walk with cake. Where was I? Oh yeah, how in tarnation am I going to sustain the belief, the faith in myself? I'll do it by being kind to myself, by being patient...and by holding on to this idea for dear life for my life is dear to me. As far as I know for certain, I've only got the one.
So, what about you, huh? Struggling with the "faith in yourself" theme I got going on here? Well ok, tell ya what; I'm more than happy to share some of my faith with you. I don't know you from a hole in the wall (by the way, who the hell does?), but because we may be doing this blob to babe thing together I'm gonna reckon you're not all that different from me in that respect. So here, have a little faith in yourself. Sometimes, it's so small it's hard to keep a hold of, but tuck it somewhere where you won't lose it. Little by little, it should grow. Just be kind and patient and hold on for dear life.
LiliLaLarge
PS-Ah, I know what will help. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lu3VTngm1F0&feature=fvst
George Michael! Faith! Shaking his money-maker in a pair of Levis! I b'lieve, Lord Jesus, I b'lieve!!
PPS-Come to think of it, he may know a few holes in the wall...Like you weren't thinking it!!!
Because, I have faith.
Faith is, according to the Oxford, "complete trust or confidence" as well as "firm belief without logical proof". I can speak to both these definitions.
In what do I have complete trust or confidence? Well, my family for one, and my friends for another. This faith is based purely on logical proof. I'm not going to go into molecular detail (40+ years of molecules is a heck of a lot), but I have faith that my family will always support me and be there for me when I need them. They have in the past and, as far as I know, have no reason to discontinue this excellent mode of carrying on. More power to them.
Ditto my friends, my posse. Weeks and months can go by without touching base, but if I need to make that 3am phone call, it will be picked up. A cab will be called, taken, and my doorbell will ring with my "life-preserver" dressed in questionable jammies. Of this I have no doubt. And I would do the same for any one of them. And there ya go; logic.
Now then, what about "firm belief without logical proof"? Know what I have faith in? I swear, I still think, despite all indicators proving otherwise, that people are instrinsically good. And nice, too, if you give 'em a chance. Now logically speaking, that simply can't be the case but damn if I haven't encountered the contrary. F'rinstance, I'm polite and patient with customer service cats and I get treated really well, and the problem I had gets solved. I've been thanked for being nice. Thanked! Like it's a chore or something! Sure, I'll mutter under my breath as some dough-head lets a door slam in my face without holding it for me, but his head is so far up his ass that you gotta feel sorry for the mo' fo'. The view can't be pleasant.
There is no logical proof that love exists, but you're damn right I have faith in it. The proof I've seen may not be logical, but it's all the proof my heart requires. Quick story - dad was super late coming home one night and my mom was beside herself with worry. She called the office, called his friends, and stopped short of calling the hospitals in case...I saw so many emotions cross her face that night - panic mostly, but also the fear buried in the unspoken questions: what will happen to us? What will happen to me if he's not here? She begun to wring her hands. I never saw anyone do that before. It was the motion of someone totally at sea. I had just begun to reach for the phone to make some dire calls, when in he walked. I was so relieved I don't remember much, not even the reason why he was so late, but I do remember my mom yelling very briefly, and then launching herself into my dad's arms. And she held on for dear life.
That's why I have faith love exists.
I have faith that I will be on the receiving end of that same kind of love because I've seen it and felt it directed at me. A face lighting up when I walk in, the communication of the eyes over other people's heads, waking up in the morning with their mouth still open in a kiss on my shoulder. There is no logical proof that this will ever happen again, and yet I have faith that it will. God/the cosmos/the spark of life - they are kind, again, if you give 'em a chance.
They've given me the chance to try and revert to the babe I was and I have faith in myself embarking on this journey. Heaven knows, I haven't any logical proof to back this up, but man I gotta believe that I have the strength to carry this through. Hard? Hell yes, it's going to be hard. Bear in mind, I'm a card carrying member of SA (Sloths Anonymous) so this kind of required discipline will not be a cake walk...mmm....a walk with cake. Where was I? Oh yeah, how in tarnation am I going to sustain the belief, the faith in myself? I'll do it by being kind to myself, by being patient...and by holding on to this idea for dear life for my life is dear to me. As far as I know for certain, I've only got the one.
So, what about you, huh? Struggling with the "faith in yourself" theme I got going on here? Well ok, tell ya what; I'm more than happy to share some of my faith with you. I don't know you from a hole in the wall (by the way, who the hell does?), but because we may be doing this blob to babe thing together I'm gonna reckon you're not all that different from me in that respect. So here, have a little faith in yourself. Sometimes, it's so small it's hard to keep a hold of, but tuck it somewhere where you won't lose it. Little by little, it should grow. Just be kind and patient and hold on for dear life.
LiliLaLarge
PS-Ah, I know what will help. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lu3VTngm1F0&feature=fvst
George Michael! Faith! Shaking his money-maker in a pair of Levis! I b'lieve, Lord Jesus, I b'lieve!!
PPS-Come to think of it, he may know a few holes in the wall...Like you weren't thinking it!!!
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