Just Dance ...

I am a super fan of the blonde trifecta ... Madonna, Britney and Lady Gaga.  A blonde bombshell for every generation ... Madonna for me, Britney for my sister and Lady Gaga for my daughter.  At my 40th birthday party, we represented each superstar ... and for good measure ... my mom dressed as a bombshell from her era as well ... Dolly Parton. 

While I cannot remember what I had for lunch yesterday, I do remember every lyric to Madonna's "Lucky Star."  A song that was released on my birthday, November 12th, 1983!!  For reasons that I cannot explain ... I remember the first time I heard it play.  I was at a local fair with one of my loyal readers, sharrison ;)  We were riding one of the carnival rides ... that, of course, I can't remember the name of.  It was one of those rides that went around and around in circles and was set with a snow or mountain kind of theme ... Anyone?  Anyone?  The Matterhorn maybe?  Like bobsleds?  Oh well ... it doesn't matter.  I'm just proving my point that memory is a funny thing.  Anyhow, sharrison and I were on this ride and "Lucky Star" blasted over the sound system.  I had no idea who was singing ... Madonna was not yet a household name.  I asked sharrison ... she told me.  In that instant ... my life changed. 

If you were a teen aged girl growing up in the 80's, you understand my undying love for "Her Madgesty."  Madonna was my first taste of a truly independent woman.  A woman who marched to her own drum, made no excuses for her behavior and created a multi-million dollar empire.  I wanted to be Madonna ... I wanted to dress like Madonna ... I wanted to dance like Madonna ... I wanted to sing like Madonna.  My biggest obstacle?  My parents.  They were strict.  And that's putting it politely.  Her "Like a Virgin" single pushed my parents over the edge and anything Madonna-like (clothes, music, etc) was forbidden in my household.  The first Madonna cassette tape I bootlegged into my home was one I purchased with my own money at age 16 ... True Blue.  I'd listen and dance to it in the confines of my room ... with headphones ... on my Sony Walkman.  I was like Lane from the Gilmore Girls ... hiding my contraband deep in my closet when I exited the house. 

I graduated, got married, had children.  And along came Britney.  "Hit me Baby One More Time" took hold and another blonde sensation was born.  The infamous Madonna/Britney kiss at the 2003 MTV Video Music Awards solidified Ms. Brit as a superstar.  Her music took over the airwaves and much dancing ensued in the Divine Mrs. M's household ... out in the open for everyone to see ... because I owned the house and my parents no longer had a say.

And then ... Gaga.  With no disrespect to those who came before her ... there is no other artist who inspires me to dance more than my beloved Gaga.  "Just Dance," "Poker Face" and "Bad Romance" can make me break out my moves no matter where I may be ... in my kitchen, at my desk, in the car, in the grocery store.  I am not an elegant dancer ... think Elaine from Seinfeld.  But I don't care ... I dance nonetheless.  Give me some music from the blonde trifecta and my body just has to respond. 

What does this have to do with being Forty, Fabulous and Fat?  I will tell you. 

To be effective, every healthy lifestyle change has to include some form of exercise.  There are a lot of opinions as to how much exercise is required ... but the general consensus is approximately 30 minutes of brisk exercise per day.  Most studies suggest walking.  I hate walking.  As a matter of fact, I hate exercise.  One of the reasons that most of my attempts to get healthy fail is that I participate in activities that I hate. 

I am a member of our local YMCA.  Once upon a time, I lost a significant amount of weight by eating properly and working out with a personal trainer at the Y.  I loved my trainer.  We became the best of friends.  He pushed me in directions I didn't even know my body could go and widdled my middle down to the smallest it had been in years ... defined my arms and legs and there was less jiggle when I walked.  And then the unthinkable happened ... he got a better job offer and left.  I stopped training, stopped eating healthy and put on more weight than I had on me before I started working with him.  I missed him.  He was like my gay BFF ... but he wasn't gay.  He just knew how to be a great girlfriend.  We laughed, talked, had lunch ... we were friends.  And he was gone.  And I gave up.  We still talk on the phone ... we still e-mail each other and he still attempts to train me over the Internet.  But its not the same. 

I keep paying the monthly bill to the Y for a membership.  They have a personal trainer on staff.  I know how to use all of the equipment and my brain is not so far gone that I don't remember the training I received.  I just don't like it.  I don't like walking/running on the treadmill to nowhere.  The elliptical machine is not my friend and biking on a stationary bike bores me to tears.  Without someone to push me, I will lift the least amount on the strength training machines and pick the smallest number from the free-weight pile.  Without the incentive of my trainer BFF being there to greet me, I have no desire to drive or walk into the facility. 

I've tried the water aerobics with the senior citizen crowd.  Boring.  I've tried walking the neighborhood with my IPod in ... boring.  I've done step aerobics ... archaic.  I've attempted punching a speed bag and even kickboxing.  I've never been that into aggression.  I've done TaeBo and The Firm.  I've done Walk Away the Pounds wherein you walk in place in front of the TV in the comfort of your own home.  Once in awhile I even breakout the Cindy Crawford Shape Your Body VCR tape ... originally released in 1992.  Nothing sticks.  Nothing lasts for more than a week or two ... and I'm stretching the truth there a little. 

So now that I'm attempting to change my life and become just Forty and Fabulous minus the Fat ... I need a game plan.  What kind of exercise can I introduce to my under worked, over couched body that it won't immediately reject?  I've been pondering this question for the past month and I think I have an answer. 

DANCE

That's right ... dance.  I don't like to do anything else.  I really don't.  But I love, love, love to dance.  I'm not talking ballroom dance via "Dancing with the Stars" ... I'm talking just losing oneself to the music and dancing ... around the living room ... around the kitchen ... in your pajamas ... like a fool.  I figure cardio is cardio but to aid me in my quest for getting my groove on and achieving 30 minutes of cardio per day ... I have enlisted the help of my Wii.  The Wii offers two fun dance games ... Just Dance and Just Dance 2.  I have also purchased Wii Zumba ... because it's fun and flirty and fun to dance to. 

I'm on my way readers.  Will I look like Cindy Crawford, Elle McPherson or Heidi Klum by dancing my ass off (literally)?  Nope.  But I will be moving ... which is more than I can say for what I was doing before.  I will keep you updated on the progress.  If you're lucky, I will post some YouTube video of my dancing skillzzz ... so you can laugh and be inspired by a self-appointed dancing queen. 

Choose wisely when you pick your exercise program ... quit lying to yourself that you are going to get up at 5:00 a.m. and hit the gym three days a week if you like to sleep in until the last possible second and have a habit of hitting the snooze button 18 times before rising.  Choose something fun ... choose something that is enjoyable and doesn't seem like a chore. 

Or take a cue from myself and my beloved Gaga and ... Just Dance!

 © 2010-2011 Melanie L. Miller All Rights Reserved

Love and Marriage ....

For those of you who read my blog regularly, you know that I reference my husband and my marriage in a lot of my posts.  In order to be a successful writer you need to write the truth (as you see it) and write what you know.  I do both ...

I have stated time and again that marriage can be hard ... rewarding and worth the time ... but hard nonetheless.  This is the truth (as I see it) and what I know. 

When my husband and I were first married we moved into a modest-sized upstairs apartment.  We decorated as most newlyweds do ... with garage sale finds and things our parents were willing to part with.  My husband had a job where he left most mornings before I was awake and he made coffee every morning to take with him.  Every morning when he would make his coffee, he would dump all of the grounds from the previous pot of coffee into the sink.  Which did not have a garbage disposal.  Which meant that I would spend my morning getting ready for work while attempting to clean out a sink full of coffee grounds.  The garbage can was located directly underneath the sink in question and for whatever reason ... he just couldn't bring himself  to empty his used coffee grounds into it.  No matter how many times I asked. 

Approximately one month into this coffee grounds debacle, I lost my cool.  I called my mother.  I cried on the phone (in my defense, I was also pregnant at the time and my hormones were out of control).  I told her I had made a terrible mistake and should never have married this inconsiderate man.  You know what my mother told me?  Get over it.  Learn to pick your battles.  Hmmmm....not what I wanted to hear.  But sound advice. 

Over the course of our marriage we have had several disagreements like the one mentioned above ... some of these disagreements have escalated to a level they had no business escalating to.  It's the nature of the beast.  Disagreements are bound to happen ... one of you is going to have to bend ... going to have to "get over it" ... going to have to learn how to pick your battles. 

From an early age, girls are taught that there is a tall, dark, handsome prince charming on a white horse waiting to carry her off into the sunset where they will live happily ever after.  Boys are taught to be strong, masculine and protector of this beautiful, perfect princess who will bat her eyelashes, smile and follow him mindlessly down whichever path leads to happily ever after without question ... acting loving and devoted the entire way. 

It's crap.  You know and I know that the princess is playing "back-horse" driver arguing with the prince to stop and ask for directions along the path to happily ever after because they seem to have passed the same apple tree three times and are going around in circles.  The prince is staring in confusion at the princess out of the corner of his eye wondering where the flawless beauty he rescued is hiding as the princess's make up is starting to wear off and her hair is frizzing and standing on end.  Eventually the prince gets more and more irritated with the princess's whining and tells her if she thinks she knows so much she can get off the horse and walk herself to happily ever after ... and so on, and so on and so on. 

That's marriage ... Happily ever after, while paved with good intentions, will never live up to the story we have written in our head of how it should be.  Happily ever after takes a lot of work ... a lot of effort ... a lot of blood, sweat and tears.  If you walk into happily ever after expecting it to be perfect ... you are sure to be disappointed. 

Marriage is a commitment.  Once you are married, you are not "sort of" married ... just like you cannot be "sort of" pregnant.  You either are or you aren't.  My husband and I have been married for 17 years.  And we have been married for 17 years because we both want to be.  We get up every morning and practice our vows and stay married on purpose.  We have weathered for better or worse, for richer or poorer, etc. and we remain married and are traveling toward our happily ever after. 

Weight loss is a commitment as well.  You can't be "sort of" committed to a healthy lifestyle ... you either are or you are not.  Have you ever been on a diet and allowed yourself a "cheat" day?  You know, the day you can eat whatever you want, as much as you want and nothing you eat that day counts?  Go home tonight and tell your spouse that from today forward you are going to have a "cheat day" once a week wherein you can go out and have a date (and whatever else) with whomever you like and your spouse cannot hold you accountable for your actions.  How do you think that would go over?  Exactly. 

So why do we think it's okay to have a "cheat day" once a week on a diet?  Who exactly are you cheating?  I will tell you who ... YOU.  That's right ... you are cheating yourself out of being successful.  If you eat in moderation and burn more calories than you consume ... would it be "cheating" to have a piece of cake at the birthday party or a popcorn at the movie theater?  No.  It wouldn't.  Because if you truly are following a healthy diet and exercising properly ... the odd piece of cake or movie popcorn won't destroy your efforts. 

If you design your diet around days that you can "cheat," you may as well not bother to diet at all.  You are setting yourself up for failure.  "Cheating" shows a lack of commitment on your part to that which you are cheating on.  If you cheat on a test it shows your lack of commitment to studying ... if you cheat on your spouse you are showing a lack of commitment to your partner ... and if you cheat on your diet ... you are showing a lack of commitment to the most important person in your life ... YOU. 

I am making a commitment to myself that I will take steps to leading a healthy lifestyle.  I started out by saying I would do Meals on Wheels ... the fast track to weight loss.  And I changed my mind.  Meals on Wheels was a lie ... it was an easy but not a long-term solution.  So I'm starting over.  And I'm not going to lie to myself anymore.  I will do what I can do ... and I will get up every morning and be committed to my lifestyle on purpose.  I will weather for better or worse and for richer or poorer ... and I will be a better person for it in the end. 

I'm going to put a ring on my finger and make a commitment to myself and my new lifestyle and I'm going to keep my vows ... just as I have done for my husband these past 17 years.  I challenge you to do the same ...

 © 2010-2011 Melanie L. Miller All Rights Reserved

Chasing Mr. Big ...

My favorite TV show of all time is Sex and the City (SATC).  I have seen every episode of every season at least 4 times and can recite most of them line by line.  I watched and enjoyed the first SATC movie and was sad and disappointed by the second one.  I have gone on the SATC bus tour in New York City and answered every trivia question correctly, had my picture taken on the steps outside of Carrie's apartment, had a cosmopolitan at "Scout," Aidan and Steve's bar, and shopped in show stylist Patricia Field's retail store.  I am a SATC "super fan." 

If you don't watch SATC, you may choose to discontinue reading this because this post may not be your cup of tea.  And if you don't watch SATC ... I must ask, why?  If watching it in its original form on HBO is too graphic for you, there are re-runs to be seen on a variety of different cable channels in a more "sedated" state.  I highly recommend it. 

SATC follows our heroine, Carrie Bradshaw, a New York city gal of a "certain age" and her BFFs, Charlotte, Miranda and Samantha, as they look for, lose and eventually find ... true love.  Carrie is a columnist whose meal-ticket is writing about her "single in the city" lifestyle and her long-suffering pursuit of "Mr. Big."

Carrie is  introduced to "Mr. Big" in season one.  A tall, dark and handsome business tycoon who becomes the bane of her existence as she manages to fall in love with, get her heart broken by and continuously chase over the course of 6 seasons, 94 episodes and 2 movies. 

By the end of episode 94, Big and Carrie seem to have worked past all of their issues and are sent off into the sunset (or in this case, Fifth Avenue) to live happily ever after.  Also in episode 94, we finally learn Big's name ... John.  For me, that was kind of a downer.  Part of Big's massive appeal is that he was not "every man."  Naming him took away some of his sexy mystery.  But ... I digress. 

In the first SATC movie, Big and Carrie are shown living their  "happily ever after" in the Big Apple when they hit a major pot hole in their relationship.  By movie two they are living in domestic bliss.  This is where it gets interesting.  And by "interesting" I don't mean that the movie itself is interesting ... it's not ... at all.  It's one of the worst movies I have ever seen in my entire life and being a SATC super fan, that's saying quite a lot. 

However, what's interesting is this ... after 6 seasons, 94 episodes and 2 movies ... Carrie becomes bored by her life with Big.  Feels as if they are losing their "sparkle."  Big likes to come home from work, sit on the couch, watch Sports Center and order in Chinese.  Carrie, however, wants to go out dancing, have some cocktails and have "fun."  Hmmmmm....what does that remind me of?  Hmmmm....can't quite put my finger on it.  Is it?  Well?  Is it ... marriage?

Yes, Carrie.  That's marriage.  Anyone who has been married for longer than a minute can tell you that after the honeymoon is over, you and your spouse will find yourself settling in for the long haul.  The long haul has its share of romantic interludes ... and it also has its share of boring domesticity.  You see, going to work, taking out garbage, mopping floors and scrubbing toilets is not sexy ... but it is part of being married.  Big's a homebody.  He wants to stay home with his best girl and relax.  Meanwhile, his best girl wants to go out and party like it's 1999.  Carrie has spent all of her time chasing after and finally landing Big ... and now she's bored. 

Fascinating, right?  Carrie misses the thrill of the chase ... misses all of the time she spent pursuing the one thing she always thought she wanted and always seemed just out of her reach ... Big.  And now she has him.  And it's not enough.  I am currently chasing a Mr. Big of my own ... weight loss.  I have been chasing my Mr. Big for approximately 20 years now.  I have had him in my sights ... but he always manages to slip right through my chubby fingers. 

Carrie's boredom with married life to Big got me thinking.  When and if I ever catch up to and capture my Mr. Big ... will it be enough?  Will my Mr. Big be able to live up to all of my high expectations?  What will I do with all of the extra time and energy that I had previously spent on pursuing the forever elusive Mr. Big?  Will finding Mr. Big make me happy?  No.  To all of the above. 

You see, a lot of the appeal of chasing after the "ungettable" is more about the chase than actually catching and obtaining that what you are chasing.  You are chasing after an "idea" and not an actual "possibility."  You need to have a clear objective ... and if you are running on nothing but emotion ... a clear objective is nowhere to be found. 

I want to be thin, healthy and feel better about myself.  This is what I have been telling myself is my Mr. Big.  But if I'm honest with myself and with you, when I picture myself thin and healthy ... I see one smoking hot mama with a tight, flat stomach and killer legs (think Heidi Klum).  That, if I am honest, is the actual Mr. Big I happen to be pursuing.  Will I ever be able to catch that Mr. Big?  Probably not.  I'm 40.  You cannot have the body of a 19-year-old when you are 40.  Especially if you have abused that body for 20+ years and have stretched most of it into lumps of play-doh.  You may be able to slowly mold the play-doh into a smaller more shapely form ... but play-doh is play-doh and no matter how hard you try to convince yourself it can be done ... play-doh will never be cement. 

Carrie was chasing a fantasy ... an idea of who she thought Big was supposed to be.  And she was disappointed when she realized he wasn't whom she thought he should be after she caught him.  I also have been chasing a fantasy ... and the reason I have never caught my Mr. Big is because he was never really there to be caught.  My Mr. Big was nothing but an idea.  If I had actually caught up to my Mr. Big I'm sure I would have been disappointed  ... because he wouldn't have been everything I had built up in my mind that he should be (i.e., looking like Heidi Klum).  I need a reality check ... and if you have been pursuing a Mr. Big of your own (no matter what the case may be) ... you do too. 

So I'm making a list.  A list of goals that can actually be accomplished.  I need to start small ... maybe with eliminating soda from my diet and increasing my water intake.  Once that is accomplished I can move on to something else that is attainable.  After reading all of your comments regarding Meals On Wheels, I trashed the fast and easy way out and am ready to rely on myself, trial and error and the good Lord's guidance to take me on this journey. 

So I'm ditching Mr. Big ... and settling for Mr. Not So Big instead.  I'm hoping you will do the same.

 © 2010-2011 Melanie L. Miller All Rights Reserved

Results Not Typical

These three words seem to sum up the entire multi-million dollar diet industry.  There are thousands of diet plans to choose from ... and the only thing any of them have in common is their disclaimer ... "results not typical." 

Some of the larger diet plans are getting savvy ... instead of using the old stand-by disclaimer "results not typical," they lead with a story about how Janie lost 35 pounds in 8 weeks on (insert diet plan name here).*  Follow the asterisk to the bottom of the page and you will find something along the lines of "most users who follow (insert diet plan name here) can expect to lose 1-2 lbs per week after the first week."  Aha ... do the math.  35 pounds in 8 weeks is much more than the "typical" 1-2 pounds you can expect to lose.  Some diet plans go as far as using the following disclaimer as well ... "promotional discounts were received."  Do you know what that means?  It means that Janie was PAID to lose weight for (insert diet plan name here) and she earned that paycheck by making sure she lost more weight than is "typical" to that of the average program follower. Did Janie starve herself?  Exercise 16 hours a day?  Have liposuction?

If you go to one of the popular fitness fad sites you can find a similar type of disclaimer.  After visiting one particular site that says "results in 30 days guaranteed" ... it sports the following disclaimer (on a different page as the "guaranteed" statement by the way):  "The time it takes to see results depends on several factors, including your current fitness level, consistency, diet and genetics."  Hmmmmm....interesting.  And yet they continue to "guarantee" amazing results. 

So, your homework assignment of the day is to define "typical."  I will give you an easy answer.  Me.  I believe that I am "typical."  I believe that my abusive boyfriend WW should take a picture of my fat ass and put it on his website and say something to this effect "The Divine Mrs. M lost and gained over 100 pounds while following the WW plan.*"  Follow the asterisk and you will find the following statement ... "RESULTS TYPICAL." 

That's right.  I'm typical.  You may not want to see my full-figured body gracing the cover of the workout DVD that promises that you will lose 10 inches in your waistline in 10 days ... or the cover of a health and fitness magazine ... or on a diet and fitness website as a "success" story.  But I am a "success" story as far as the diet and fitness industry is concerned.  Why?  Because diet and fitness plans have one goal in mind ... to be the company that wins the honor of taking your hard-earned money.  Neither industry could care less if you ever lose a pound or tighten up your abs.  As a matter of fact, they are banking on the fact that you won't.  If the diet plan really worked and the fitness DVD managed to give you washboard abs ... you wouldn't become a loyal and (here's the key) REPEAT customer. 

I am an excellent example of the customer that they want and need.  And yet, I will never land an endorsement deal, write a blog for their website or articles for their magazines.  No.  I am not the inspiration that will encourage their customers to spend $40 a month for the humiliation of weighing in on their scales or $130 per week on their pre-packaged meals or $100 a month on their gym membership or $600 for their ultimate fitness DVD, hand weights and supplement kits.  No, I'm not an inspiration ... but I am "typical."  I am the rule ... girls like Janie are the exception. 

I probably could have paid off the mortgage to my home by now if I had reallocated all of the money I have earmarked for "losing weight" and put it toward that instead.  My 20 years of dedication to my abusive boyfriend WW has left me financially and emotionally bankrupt.  And yet, I continue to spend, spend, spend ... and continue to fail, fail, fail. 

One of my favorite speakers/authors is Joyce Myers.  My sister-in-law and I have an unhealthy obsession with every word that comes out of her mouth.  We read her books, listen to her CDs, attend her conferences and watch her daily TV program.  Joyce speaks the truth and she speaks in a language we understand ... "woman."  Recently at a Joyce Myers conference my sister-in-law and I attended, I picked up her book and CD about losing weight.  My sister-in-law and I listened to that CD on the way home and laughed the whole way.  Joyce is not a humorist ... she's a woman of God and she's a "realist."  She tells it like it is.  In the CD and in her book she laid it all on the line.  Joyce had about 30 pounds to lose ... she was experiencing back problems and struggling with fatigue.  She chalked her symptoms up to the aging process but ended up having to see a specialist for her back problems.  Joyce didn't need surgery ... she needed to lose some of her excess weight and start exercising to strengthen her core. 

Joyce is a millionaire ... a hundred times over.  She has all the money in the world to spend on whichever weight loss plan she chooses.  She chose none.  Instead, she visited a nutritionist (which is covered by most health care plans by the way) and started adding some cardio and light strength training to her daily routine.  She lost that 30 pounds ... and it took her THREE YEARS.  That's right.  THREE YEARS.  To lose 30 pounds.  That's 10 pounds per year for those of you who are mathematically challenged.  She never subscribed to a weight-loss plan although she did break down and hire a personal trainer to help her rev up her exercise routine when what she was doing was no longer getting her results.  She lost 30 pounds in three years ... and has managed to keep it off.  It's gone ...

Interesting ... how many of us would pay to join a weight-loss plan that promises that you will lose 10 pounds per year?  Raise your hand please.  Anyone?  That's what I thought.  Of course you're not going to do that ... you're going to shell out the big bucks to lose 10 pounds in 10 days ... and you may do that.  But will you keep it off? 

That being said, all of you know that I subscribe to a diet meal delivery plan that I refer to as "Meals on Wheels."  I have managed to lose weight.  I have enjoyed being able to lose weight as this is a new development for me.  However, I have been struggling with the fact that I'm not really learning anything.  "Meals on Wheels" is expensive.  I don't always care for all of the selections they send me.  And I don't care for the fact that I have to provide a separate meal for my family while I eat my portion-controlled meal in a cardboard box. 

I mentioned in one of my previous blogs that I know all of the right ingredients for weight loss ... I just don't know how to put them together to make them work consistently.  So, readers, what are your suggestions?  Do I continue with "Meals on Wheels" until at my target weight ... spending a boat load of money ... or do I break down and do the research ... experiment with different combinations of food and exercise until I learn the right formula that works for me?  Is it more important to lose weight quickly ... like the diet and exercise programs promise or to lose like Joyce ... slow, slow, slow but keeping it off for good? 

Opinions please ... my weight hangs in the balance :)

 © 2010-2011 Melanie L. Miller All Rights Reserved

My husband is NOT my BFF ...

Once upon a time, someone sent me a message on Facebook that challenged me to write a note listing 20 things about myself that people would be surprised to know ... or something to that effect.  So, I did. 

One of things on my list was the following:  "Marriage is harder than I thought it would be."  Because it's true.  It is hard.  It's definitely worthwhile ... but hard.  One of my fb friends commented on the list that I had made and said the following (and please read it with the same sarcastic nasally tone I used in my head when I read it):  "I never thought marriage was hard because I married my best friend."  OMG ... Gag ... Gross!  Anyone who tells you that their marriage is "perfect" or that marriage isn't hard is one of two things:  (a) a newlywed or; (b) a liar. 

Now, before you chastise me ... I need you to know that I do believe that my husband is my friend.  But he's not my best friend or BFF if you will. 

I couldn't have married my BFF even if I had wanted to ... she's a gorgeous red-head and same-sex marriage is not yet legal in the state of Pennsylvania.  It's probably just as well.  The best thing about having a BFF is the fact that you don't live together.  You don't have the same stresses that married couples face.  You don't make a family budget together, you aren't sleep deprived and cranky because of a colicky newborn or mouthy teenager, you don't divvy up household chores and worry about how the bills are going to be paid at the end of every month.  A BFF just has to "show up." 

Your BFF is the one that you talk to about your menstrual period, and how much water you are currently retaining and how you ate an entire bag of potato chips and a full container of chip dip by yourself every Friday night for a month and are now wondering why you can't fit into last season's summer wardrobe.  Your BFF goes shopping with you and waits patiently in the dressing room while you try on 100 different dresses to end up buying not a single one.  Your BFF will tell you ... yes, your BFF will tell you that those pants make you look fat and that maybe plaid isn't a good look on you.  Your BFF will sit with you while you dissect every possible scenario that may occur if you choose one plan of action over another.  Your BFF will listen and reassure you instead of laughing at you every time you get a splitting headache and are convinced you have a brain tumor.  Your BFF will give you a makeover and help you color your hair.  Your BFF is the one that you turn to when you want to vent about your spouse.  Your BFF is your stylist, nutritionist, cosmetologist, gynecologist, primary care physician, marriage counselor and therapist all wrapped up into one neat little package. 

Now, my husband has at some point over the course of our 17-year marriage participated in all of the above-mentioned duties.  I know for a fact that he didn't much care listening to me discuss my monthly cycle, mixing the color for my hair, shopping for dresses or discussing the newest fad diet.  He has never once appreciated it when I vent about him to him (I believe that's called nagging) and NEVER in my life has my husband ever told me that I look "fat" in anything (even though I know of quite a few times that he definitely should have). 

My husband is my friend.  I love and adore him.  I love being his wife and the mother of his children.  I love our life together (most days) and I don't want to live my life without him. 

That being said, my relationship with my BFF is equally important.  You see, your husband, if he truly loves you, will give you whatever it is you want within reason and within his means.  Your husband doesn't understand the obsession you have with dieting and will go out and buy you a case of Pepsi and a king size Reese's if that's what you say you want even though you just told him an hour before to not allow you to eat any junk food. 

If you tell your BFF to not allow you junk food, however, she will remove the Pepsi from your house and donate it to a food pantry and slap the Reese's out of your hand, point her finger at you and yell "NO!" as if you were a toddler.  It's called the buddy system.  Every diet plan has them.  I strongly suggest you participate in one.  I also suggest you choose a buddy outside of your own home.  You see, my BFF can get away with telling me what I should and should not do when it comes to eating.  My husband cannot.  If my husband slapped food out of my hand and took away my Pepsi, I would immediately jump into manipulation mode and start crying and saying things like "I knew you thought I was fat," or other inappropriate statements to make him feel bad enough to give me back the candy and soda.  My BFF wouldn't put up with that shit. 

Having a BFF is crucial to a woman's life.  As a matter of fact, I suggest you have more than one.  A BFF will always tell you the truth ... even when it hurts.  They will get up at 5 a.m. (thanks Sargent) and go for a walk with you, they will join you in making an idiot out of yourself at a Zumba class and join you in the shallow end of the pool with the over-80 crowd for water aerobics.  They will go to WW meetings with you and get yelled at for not paying attention and laughing uncontrollably for no apparent reason. 

My husband would gladly do these things if I asked him to ... well, maybe not all of these things ... but a good portion of them.  He just doesn't want to.  Just like I don't want to go sit at antique auctions every Saturday afternoon and Monday evening like he does.  It's not "my thing."  And that's okay.  Weight loss is not "his thing."  First, he doesn't need to lose any weight.  Second, he just wouldn't be as much fun.  It's kind of a "girl thing."  You see Men are from Mars and Women are from Venus ... which means that my husband and I live on different planets and my BFF resides in my time zone. 

So ladies, go grab your BFF (and if you haven't been paying attention ... do not go and grab your husband) and tell her you're ready to make some changes.  Schedule some fun Girls Nights Out or Girls Days Out and take a Zumba class ... on my life I swear you will burn more calories laughing than you will dancing ... or go for a walk ... or maybe snowboarding!!!! *Wink* 

Yes, I love my husband ... but I wouldn't be complete without my BFF and the peeps.  Love you girls!

 © 2010-2011 Melanie L. Miller All Rights Reserved

The Biggest Loser and Week 2

For those of you who watch NBC's The Biggest Loser you are familiar with dreaded "Week 2."  The trainers remind the contestants every day of how horrible Week 2 is while in the gym beating the crap out of them, the contestants walk around with dark clouds over their heads and there is an impending sense of doom and gloom on the BL ranch.  Then ... the weigh in.  Contestants are shaking and near tears before the big scale lights up to reveal their Week 2 weight loss.  What inevitably follows is one or more versions of the following emotions: *GASP * TEARS * ANGER * FRUSTRATION * EXPLETIVES *  And you want to know why these contestants are so upset?  Because Johnny lost 22 pounds his first week on the ranch and this week .... oh no ... he only lost 5!  Janie lost 13 pounds her first week on the ranch and this week ... wait for it ... she lost only 1!  OMG ... whatever will they do????  It's the Biggest Loser Week 2 Curse!!!!  Give me a freakin' break. 

I have successfully completed Week 2 of my weight loss plan and am now knee deep into Week 3.  I didn't lose an average of 7 pounds per week like Janie or 13.5 per week like John.  No ... I actually gained a pound this week and am hanging tight to an average of 2 pounds per week.  I'm happy with that.  Because I don't live at the Biggest Loser Ranch.  I don't have Jillian and  Bob to work my ass out every minute of every day.  I have a job and a husband and kids and, well, a life. 

I will admit that Week 2 wasn't easy for me.  For one thing ... someone helped themselves to my identity (i.e., bank card) and bought themselves what I assume to be a really nice Dell computer for Christmas.  This theft resulted in my having to cancel my card, make another trip to see Jabba at the police station and going to the bank to apply for a new card.  In the meantime, my "Meals on Wheels" (i.e, diet meal delivery plan) order for Week 2 was not able to process due to the canceled credit card.  By the time I received my new card and corrected my billing information with Meals on Wheels, Week 2 was well underway and I was totally and completely on my own. 

I'm not a dumb girl.  I understand how diets work ... eat less, move more.  Easy peasy lemon squeezie.  Right?  Wrong.  The whole purpose of Meals on Wheels is to take the guesswork out of my caloric intake.  The food is edible ... some of it is even tasty.  I know grilled chicken is better than fried chicken (in terms of health ... not taste).  I know that Pepsi is not as healthy or hydrating as water.  I know that fruits and vegetables are better for you than potato chips and ice cream.  I've got the basics down. 

The basics are easy because it all comes down to common sense.  What takes a little more work and where I tend to become confused is what to eat, when to eat it, how much of it to eat and what combination to eat it in.  You see ... I can go to the store and stock up on everything considered to be "healthy."  I can have a cart load of fresh fruit and vegetables; low fat dairy; lean meats and proteins and Lean Cuisines.  I can have all of this in my diet arsenal and still be at a loss as to what to do with it. 

There are too many conflicting reports out there in regard to what to eat, when to eat it and how much to eat.  For example ... my abusive boyfriend WW says that a serving of protein should be about the size of your cell phone.  Well, what does that mean exactly?  I have an iPhone ... my husband a Blackberry ... my mother an ancient "flip" phone.  Whose cell phone should I be referencing?  I would pick the Blackberry because it's the largest ... but that's just me .... or is it? 

There are studies that show that you should have 2-3 servings of dairy per day and it will help you lose weight.  What constitutes a serving?  What kind of dairy should you have?  Is drinking 1/2 cup of whole milk as beneficial as drinking a 1/2 cup of fat-free milk?  Is low-fat yogurt as beneficial as regular yogurt?  Do you still get the same health benefits from a piece of low-fat string cheese as opposed to whole milk string cheese?

Studies say you are supposed to have 8 servings of fruits and vegetables every day ... hmmmm ... what is the fruit to vegetable ratio?  Do I have 4 fruits and 4 vegetables or 2 fruits and 6 vegetables?  Do I just drink a V8 and be done with it?  Probably not, because fruit and vegetables in their liquid form lose more of their nutritional value than when consumed in their original form ... I heard that on Dr. Oz.

Fat in your diet is important to a healthy lifestyle ... yea, I said it ... fat is healthy for you.  If it's the right kind of fat.  EVOO (if you don't know what that is then you should check your local TV listings for Rachel Ray) is an excellent source of the "right kind of fat."  However, when using EVOO for cooking, how much can you use before it goes from being healthy to unhealthy? 

We have heard for years that carbs are bad for you.  My dad did the no-carb diet and lost a lot of weight ... and ended up in the hospital with kidney stones.  His doctor told him by eliminating most carbs from his diet, his kidneys were not able to function properly as his body was working over-time in order to process the overload of protein in his diet and kidney stones developed.  I guess this condition was quite common when the "no carb" fad hit the shelves. 

Did you know that a lot of salads (just the name "salad" makes you think "healthy") have more calories than a Big Mac?  They do!  Read Eat This Not That.  It's my favorite book because it will show you that in some cases a cupcake may be more beneficial to you health wise than a chef's salad.  You see, if you look hard enough and search far enough you can find a diet that looks good on paper but doesn't actually help you lose any weight at all.  It's the search for the Holy Grail ... in my case it's more the Monty Python version but whatever. 

Without my Meals on Wheels I was terrified to eat much of anything at all.  I chose the grilled chicken.  I ordered carrot and celery sticks as my appetizer at a restaurant when my husband and daughter ordered deep fried pretzels and onion rings.  I ate a Lean Cuisine pizza at my son's birthday party while everyone else feasted on gooey cheesy pepperoni pizza from Pizza Hut.  I had one can of Diet orange Crush while everyone else drank ice cold Pepsi (my most favorite thing in the whole wide world and had two bites of my son's ice cream cake after singing Happy Birthday.  Overall, a pretty good week.  And still ... I gained a pound. 

My BFF said that perhaps I didn't eat enough.  That your body can go into starvation mode and slow the metabolism down.  My husband said that perhaps I didn't eat the right combination of food or have the right portion sizes.  You see?  Explanations as to why the weight didn't come off are just as diverse and confusing as diets themselves. 

I'm not upset by that pound but, seriously, had I known it was going to be there come Monday morning ... I would have munched on an onion ring, had a slice of the gooey pizza and ate more of that ice cream cake.  But I guess that's how I got into this sinking ship in the first place ... by thinking like THAT.  I did really well all on my own for Week 2.  No Meals on Wheels as a crutch.  No WW meeting.  Nothing.  Just Me vs. Food.  And I think I did okay. 

For now I think I'll just go the Biggest Loser route and say that I did everything perfectly and my weight gain is just a product of dreaded Week 2 ...

 © 2010-2011 Melanie L. Miller All Rights Reserved

What's Your Due Date?

Okay ... so this has really got to be my least favorite thing about being fat.  First of all, if you have ever asked a woman something along the lines of the following:  (a) are you having a boy or girl; (b) what's your due date; or (c) how far along are you ... and you had no way of being 100% certain she was pregnant ... SHAME ON YOU!!!!  Your mother obviously did not bring you up properly and/or you are a man. 

There is nothing in the world that can pop the balloon of one's self-esteem faster than having a stranger or not-so-close acquaintance ask you one of the above-mentioned questions.  For future reference, unless the woman whose fertility you are questioning has a sonogram picture pinned to her blouse or is sporting a T-shirt that says "Baby on Board," don't even think of uttering any of the above-referenced phrases within that woman's vicinity ... ever. 

The "peeps" and I have numerous names for the layer of fat that a woman carries in her midsection.  For example, my BFF refers to hers as the "bread box," as she believes that this is where all the bread she eats goes to live after entering her body.  Other endearing names for this super attractive piece of fat are ... "pooch," "paunch," "butt in front," "jelly belly," etc.  Women go to great lengths to hide their "pooches."  There are entire industries dedicated to making various forms of knight-like armor to squeeze this layer of fat into in order to create a more stream-lined effect under clothing.  There are girdles, control-top pantyhose and my armor of choice, Spanx.  I believe the act of applying one of these highly attractive undergarments to your overweight body could be an Olympic sport.  It takes a lot of muscle, dexterity and maneuvering to get these things into their proper position.  Most days it is my main source of cardio and strength training.  Once in place, a multitude of sins can be smoothed over ... no more muffin top, a less prominent outline of the pooch and the jelly belly no longer jiggles when you walk.  Well, it does, but it's less noticeable.  It's also a great way to hide the "cottage cheese" dimples of one's buttocks ... just sayin'. 

A man carries his "pooch" with pride.  They call it a "beer belly."  They laugh when anyone makes a comment in regard to its presence.  They say things like, "working on my six pack," while smiling and either patting it lovingly or rubbing it like it's a Buddha.  What the Hell is wrong with them? 

The first time (yes, I said the first time) someone asked me one of the never to be asked questions above was the summer that I was 35.  My husband and I had bought a new home earlier in the winter and I was working on redecorating my son's room.  We were at the mall and I was shopping for curtains.  He went to Ruby Tuesday's to order our lunch while I ran upstairs to the home section of a major department store.  I found the curtains I was looking for and had the salesperson (a woman) get the proper number of panels for me.  She met me at the counter after collecting them and while she was ringing them up she said, and I quote, "So, you must be having a boy ... when are you due?"  Seriously?  I was shocked and rendered speechless.  For those of you who know me, you realize that being rendered speechless is not a condition to which I am accustomed.  I cocked my head slightly to the right, looked her square in the eyes and said ... "Yes, I did have a boy.  He's 12."  She was mortified.  And she should have been.  But actually, my comment made it much worse.  She kept apologizing and apologizing and the more she went on and on about how sorry she was, the more I wanted the floor to open and swallow me up.   

I left the department store, curtains in hand, and proceeded down the escalator and into the Ruby Tuesday's where my husband was waiting for me.  Waiting along with him was an order of deep-fried mozzarella sticks, buffalo wings, french fries and a loaded baked potato.  Our lunch.  I slid into the booth across from him, looked at the food, and nearly burst into tears.  I told him what had transpired, collected the car keys and promptly went to our vehicle and cried in peace.  My husband, being the man that he is, finished his lunch, boxed up the leftovers and then decided to come and join me.  My husband is not an insensitive man.  He's really not.  But in his "man" world (remember my "six pack comment) this incident was not quite the Category 6 storm that it was in mine.  I, however, was upset and irrational and proceeded to be mad at him for the rest of the day.  Actually, mad isn't a strong enough word ... furious would be more accurate.  This poor man who was sitting in a booth, minding his own business, eating his lunch, completely oblivious to what was being said upstairs in the department store next door had the distinct honor of bearing the brunt of my anger for the whole rest of that day.  I have since apologized. 

The second time I had an experience like this, I was at a work function.  I work for the state and was at the capital building for a two-day conference.  One of my co-workers and I were sharing a hotel room and were getting ready for the first morning of the conference.  I put on one of the blouses I had brought for this occasion and looked myself up and down in the mirror.  I turned to my co-worker and asked her, "Does this blouse kind of make me look pregnant?"  She said, "Of course not."  Remember that. 

Workers from cities and towns all over the state were in attendance at this conference so the conference organizers thought that they should start with an "ice-breaker" game.  This game entailed everyone receiving a list of identification clues (i.e., find someone who is wearing yellow) wherein you found someone you didn't already know who fit the description and wrote down their name, location and one fact about them to help you get acquainted.  Line 7 of this sheet said ... "Find someone who is pregnant."  Do I even need to continue???

I looked around the room and did not see ONE person that even looked like they might be expecting.  Now, being that women read things like Emily Post and Dear Abby ... not one woman in the room approached another woman in the room regarding the dreaded #7 and left that one blank.  However ... there were 4 men in attendance.  I was approached by all 4.  The first gentleman got a small smile and a shake of the head no, the second a shake of the head, the third got a sharp "no" after asking and the last got a "no, I'm not pregnant," before he even opened his mouth the whole way.  I didn't cry that day ... but I did throw that blouse in the garbage in my hotel room during my dinner break. 

The last time I had an experience such as this was the worst!  I had my identity stolen and someone had used my credit card to purchase electronics at Best Buy.  I had to file a police report before I could have the credit card reimbursed.  While waiting for an officer to take my statement, the woman behind the intake desk who resembled Jabba the Hutt (which sounds mean but you won't think so in a moment), asked me the following statement which is forever burned into my brain ... "Are you pregnant or just fat?"  Yea, "Are you pregnant or just fat?"  WTF???????  I said, "Ummmm ... just fat I guess."  And she proceeded to try and sell me some herbal diet drug she was hawking.  I'm not kidding.  Jabba the Hutt whose fat was hanging down both sides of her office chair and had heavy, labored breathing was trying to make a buck off of me for diet pills!!!!!  Ugh!

My sister-in-law has experienced the same kind of comments since giving birth to her twins 5 years ago.  Her twins were not the tiny 4 to 5 pound babies you would expect ... heck no.  They were both full size babies weighing between 7 and 8 pounds each.  Weeks before delivery her skin had stretched beyond anything I ever dreamed possible and the weight of these precious bundles left her with not only a "pooch" but a hernia as well.  She got sick and tired of people asking her if she was pregnant.  Today whenever someone asks when she is due she responds by smiling and saying "About the same time you are."  I'm told it's very effective.

I can't tell you verbatim how I responded to my particular incidents of horror the days following their occurrence.  I imagine they prompted me to re-enlist in the WW army and/or schedule an emergency visit with my therapist.  Obviously had these comments had any real long-term damaging effects on my ego, I would have shed the paunch for good by now.  I haven't.  I have a loyal reader who messaged me and told me her turning point came when she became tired of looking five months pregnant and has since rid herself of the unwanted pounds.  I applaud her effort.  I'm a little slower to the punch. 

The thing is, the jelly belly is a very small (or very large depending on what angle you are viewing me from) part of who I am.  I may not like it being there, I may torture it on a daily basis by stuffing it into uncomfortable undergarments and I may sigh every time I see myself naked in a full length mirror and my eyes are automatically drawn to that particular area of my body.  But it's there.  I'm working to make it disappear or at the very least dwindle in size. 

There's a wonderful part in the movie Bridget Jones:  The Edge of Reason, wherein Renee Zellweger's character is sneaking out of bed in the morning after spending a particular passionate night with the always delicious Colin Firth.  She's crawling out of bed quietly while wrapping the sheet around her on the way.  Colin Firth wakes up and asks her what she's doing ... she says she doesn't want him to see her "wobbly bits."  His response?  "I happen to be rather fond of your wobbly bits."  She says, "Really?"  He nods yes.  And the next move makes it into my all time favorite movie moments ... she drops the sheet with a huge toothy grin and flashes him her "wobbly bits." 

Go ahead and make the changes necessary for you to be the best person you can be and don't let the "pooch," "paunch," etc stop you from loving who you are right now.  I promise you that the people who matter love you just as you are ... and if they don't, then they don't really matter. 

So my dear friends ... drop the sheets, smile wide and flaunt your "wobbly bits" ...

© 2010-2011 Melanie L. Miller All Rights Reserved

Why I had to end my toxic relationship with WW ...

Let me just start this post by saying that Weight Watchers (WW) works.  I know it works.  I've seen it work for my friends, my mom, and other meeting goers.  That being said ...

I have a long history with WW.  My first experience was when I was 20 years old.  At 20 years old I was 5'6" and 120 pounds and thought I was huge.  Oh, if only I could go back and slap my 20-year-old self in the face and tell her to wise up ...  My mother and her best friend were attending WW and I decided to tag along.  I paid the fee, filled out the paperwork and climbed onto the scale.  The person recording weights promptly looked up at me, told me I wasn't allowed to stay and refunded my money.  In 1990, WW did not allow you to join their program unless you were 10 pounds over the lowest recommended weight for your age/height.  I was only five pounds over.  Today, I don't believe WW cares.  I think they will take even the smallest person you can find as long as they have one pound to lose and are interested in maintaining the loss of that one pound for a lifetime. 

My next tale from the scale came 3 months after the birth of my first child.  If you read my blog you know that I gained a significant amount of weight while pregnant.  I knew I needed to do something when I was getting dressed to take the baby out to a well-baby visit and threw on some jeans ... thought it was weird that they were so long ... took them off and realized that they were my husband's.  My husband is 6'4" and weighed somewhere in the vicinity of 195 pounds at that time.  I had not only put on his jeans in my haste, I had fit into his jeans and they were a tad tight.  I sat on the bed and cried (not the first or last time this has happened in regard to my weight).  That following week I signed up for the WW at-work program. 

For you younger readers and for those of you who have never jumped on the WW bandwagon ... there was no "points" system in 1994.  WW had an "exchange" system.  For example, you had a certain number of "exchanges" for each food group ... dairy, meat, bread, vegetable, fruit, etc.  The number of "exchanges" you received each day were determined by your age, height and weight.  I don't quite remember what my particular number of "exchanges" were for each day ... all I know is that after the first day, I had checked off all of my "exchanges" by luncthime, went home and was in bed by 7:00 p.m.  I did this regularly.  Allow me to let you in on a little secret ... the "exchange" system worked ... because it starved you to death.  I literally went to bed hungry every night.  But I did it and I was pretty successful.  I never got back to my pre-baby weight, however, because I got pregnant with my next child very soon after. 

After my second child was born I was back on the WW program and started attending meetings with my mother at a WW center in Erie, PA.  My mom and I went to the meeting every Saturday.  At this time they were still on an "exchange" system but the center offered prepared foods for you to purchase.  So that's exactly what I did.  I purchased one week's worth of breakfasts, lunches, dinners and snacks.  It was a perfect relationship for me because at the time, I was a stay-at-home mom with a one-year-old and newborn.  I lost a lot of weight.  I really did.  Nine months after my daughter was born I went back to work part-time and was at my lowest weight since my first pregnancy.  I looked and felt fantastic.  And then ...

WW broke my heart.  They stopped carrying the prepared meals.  I had to learn how to eat on my own.  I had a husband who traveled all week for his job, I was working part-time and was basically a single mother to a toddler and a baby.  Without the structure of the prepared meals ... I threw the towel in and let the weight pile back on.

Throughout the years I've tried a lot of diets.  One time I purchased a "patch," kind of like a smoker's "patch" that promised to burn calories (or something like that) throughout the day if you wore it.  I tried HerbaLife diet pills which proved to be the cause of several trips to the doctor and many painful urinary tract infections.  I tried Atkins.  I tried South Beach.  I tried living on rice and beans (that's actually true ... you can ask my poor husband).  I tried everything except eating less and exercising more ... hmmmmmmm.

After moving to Corry and hooking up with my "peeps" (according to my kids, this a very uncool reference to my best girlfriends), we all decided to give WW a go and joined the 12:00 p.m. group here in our home town.  We were all stay-at-home moms of school-aged children.  We had all sat and complained about our weight for years and decided to go together. 

My "peeps" were crazy good at WW.  WW had now changed to a "points" system and they were rocking it out.  Every week they lost 4 pounds, 3 pounds, 2 pounds, 5 pounds.  Me?  I lost every week ... but my losses were a lot less significant.  My average weight loss per week was ... wait for it ... .2 ... yea ... that's not a typo ... I said .2 pounds per week.  A green bean.  I worked my butt off every week.  Stayed within my points balance.  Walked 3 miles, 5 times per week with the "peeps."  And I lost an average of .2 pounds per week. 

One particular week I met the peeps at our meeting and I was dressed to the nines.  I had a zebra print skirt, thin black turtleneck, black stockings and hot black high-heeled boots.  I was going to rock this weigh-in.  I had lost .2 pounds per week for 3 weeks in a row.  I had upped the exercise, upped the fruits and veggies and was waiting in line to prove to everyone there that felt sorry for me (because they did) that I could kick WW's ass.  The next thing that happened has gone down in history as one of my "peeps" favorite stories to repeat and made me a legend among WW in this town ...

I pulled all of my 5'6" frame onto that scale looking hot and feeling good .. my WW leader recorded the weight, looked at me and said "0."  What?  "You didn't lose anything this week."  Sorry?  "But you didn't gain either so that's good."  Good my ASS.  I looked up from the scale and screamed (actually screamed), "Son of a .... (paused to look for small children) BITCH."  Got off that scale, put my high heels on, grabbed my purse and without saying another word, "clicked, clicked, clicked" right out of that meeting without looking back, without saying good-bye to my peeps, without passing GO and collecting $200.  You could have heard a pin drop.  I didn't go back for 3 years. 

The fact of the matter is ... I did lose weight.  Just not very much every week.  If your average weight loss is .2 pounds per week ... it's going to take you 5 weeks to lose ONE pound.  Where's the incentive in that?  I decided there had to be something wrong with me medically.  I had my thyroid checked.  I had my sugar checked.  I went through a battery of blood tests and every one came back fine.  So the problem was not with WW ... it was with me. 

I'd like to say that I came to that conclusion after my first battery of medical tests declared me healthy.  I didn't.  I just came to that realization recently.  You see, the points system works.  It basically allows you to eat anything you want ... in moderation.  Well if I could eat everything in moderation I wouldn't be fat, would I?  No.  I wouldn't. 

Did you know that you can stay completely within your "points" balance on WW and eat a chocolate donut three times per week?  You can.  You can also add potato chips and nachos and stay within your points balance.  You can.  You shouldn't.  But you can.  And I did.  As a matter of fact, when the peeps and I used to attend WW meetings together, our favorite part was leaving and going to McDonald's afterward for a "12-point lunch."  Every Friday.  We ate McDonald's every Friday because we could.  For them, adding the junk didn't hurt.  For me, it was a disaster. 

I continued to go to WW on and off for years and years and years.  As a matter of fact, my WW leader keeps my card on file because she knows no matter how long I'm away ... sooner or later I will be back.  It's my addiction.  I've tried WW online.  I subscribe to their magazine.  I cook from their cookbooks.  I exercise to their DVDs.  Nothing works.  Nothing over .2 pounds works.  I may lose a pound per week here or there but I continue to stay at an average of .2. 

So, after 20 years of my on-again/off-again relationship with WW, I finally had to make the break.  WW had become like an abusive boyfriend ... lifting me up only to beat me back down again.  On November 29, 2010 I officially broke up with WW and don't ever plan on going back no matter how many times he tries to lure me back in ... asking for "one more chance." 

Isn't it ironic, knowing my disdain for the "W" clothing line, that I would stay in a relationship with a company that has "WW" as their initials???  Good-bye WW.  It was quite a ride ...

© 2010-2011 Melanie L. Miller All Rights Reserved

Knee Deep in ....

SNOW!!! 

Yep.  It's snowing and snowing and snowing and snowing ...

I spent my morning knee deep in snow, shoveling a path to my car, started the car to warm it up while I brushed it off only to find I had NO snow brush.  So, I used the sleeve of my winter coat and gloved hands to clear off the 2 feet of snow piled up on my car.  Got in the car, soaking wet and freezing cold ... drove to work ... shoveled the 2 feet of snow off the sidewalk, salted it and came inside to warm up and realized that I had forgotten my coffee .... Not the greatest morning in the history of my life, but it is what it is and I'm okay with that. 

Now for the good stuff ... no pithy dialog on the agenda today ... just an update on my progress as today marks my ONE WEEK point and it was time to face the dreaded scale. 

5 POUNDS ... 5 POUNDS ... 5 POUNDS ... 5 POUNDS

Not kidding ... 5 pounds on the nose.  I'm very excited!!!  Over the course of 17 years I have tried every diet you can think of ... Weight Watchers, Atkins, South Beach, etc ... Never have I lost 5 pounds in one week.  NEVER.  So today is a good day ... despite the snow, despite the wind and despite the fact that I have no snow brush and little elves don't show up in the middle of the night to shovel my walk, clear my car and make me coffee.  Today is a good day because I made up my mind to change my life and have started off with a bang. 

I'm going to take time to celebrate this moment.  I just need to learn how to celebrate without the ice cream and cake ...

 © 2010-2011 Melanie L. Miller All Rights Reserved

On the next episode of Hoarders ...

Close your eyes and take a trip ... wander through your closet, peek inside your dresser drawers, climb the stairs and go through your attic, go through the totes in your basement.  What do you see?  Bet you a pint of Ben & Jerry's ice cream (I know.  I'm on a diet.  But that sounds a lot better than betting you celery and carrot sticks.) that you see a myriad of the following:  (a) items you always wear; (b) items you never wear; (c) items you bought and you thought you would wear and didn't; (d) items that are too big to wear; (e) items that are too small to wear; (f) bridesmaids dresses you wish you hadn't ever had to wear; (g) items you didn't know you had; (h) items you wish you didn't have; and (i) maternity clothes ... and you haven't been pregnant in over 15 years. 

Maybe you have some of these items.  Maybe you have all of them.  The question is ... WHY?  What is it with a woman's attachment to clothes?  (I apologize to my readers for assuming you are all women ... if someone of the male gender reads and enjoys this blog, please message me ASAP.  You are my new gay BFF.)  Why do we keep the size 6 when we are currently a size 18W?  Why do we keep the maternity blouse when we are one foot in the orthopedic shoe away from menopause?  Why do we keep the teal-green lace bridesmaid dress from 1987?  WHY? 

My BFF is an organizing mastermind.  She has a whole mini Macy's lining the closet of her master bedroom.  She has sizes ranging from size 8 and up (maybe even smaller).  They are all arranged by size and color-coded.  She has a label maker and uses it to her full advantage so she can spot things easily.  She has fancy drawers inside labeled with things like "lipstick," "lip gloss," "blush," "eye shadow," etc.  You may think I'm kidding ... I'm not.  It's a masterpiece.  She has the clothing, cosmetics counter and shoe department neatly displayed right outside the master bath's door.  It's incredible.  I'm jealous.  And perplexed. 

I understand the color coding as I do that myself.  It just makes my life easier when I'm trying to put together an outfit.  The make-up thing is way beyond my comprehension.  My make-up routine consists of some moisturizer with SPF, some powder to hide the weird red blotchy spots on my face and a touch of blush.  That's it.  Should I do more?  Sure.  Do I care?  No.  But I'm getting off point ... I've asked my beautiful BFF why she keeps all of the clothes that she hasn't worn in, I don't know, 7 years or so.  She says ... "Because I'm going to wear them when I get back down to that size."  STOP ... DO NOT PASS GO ... DO NOT COLLECT $200. 

You, I and my BFF all know that this is a LIE.  A complete and total fabrication of the truth.  For as every woman knows, if you are successful ... if you actually lose the weight ... you are not turning to the inside of your closet to choose an outfit from 1998 to go out and flaunt your new figure in.  No ma'am, you are not.  You are heading to the mall, walking past the stores that sell size "W" and heading into the stores that sell size "SB" (please refer to previous blogs for a complete explanation), and buying a brand new outfit to strut your stuff down the "SB" runway. 

She and I can debate this subject for hours on end.  We have.  As a matter of fact, for the entire 12 years of our friendship ... all things weight-related have been properly dissected and discussed.  However, I have yet to convince her to purge herself of these unnecessary items that are literally "weighing" her down, hanging there as a constant reminder of who she once was and whom she may never be again no matter how many protein shakes she drinks and miles she runs ... because she does.  She's the healthiest, most energetic, most dedicated woman over the age of 40 I know.  If she could see what I see ... she'd stop worrying about fitting into size "SB" and just be the fabulous person she is. 

One Saturday this summer I was shopping in Hell (aka the swimsuit department) when I ran into one of my "school moms" (aka mothers of my children's friends at school).  She told me an interesting story.  She said she was sick of all of the clothes in her closet.  She hadn't gone up a size or down a size ... she was just completely sick and tired of everything she had to wear.  So, she washed every item of clothing she had, packed it into boxes, donated them to goodwill and she and her husband headed out to buy her a complete new wardrobe!  He sat in the car by the way ... but still, he took her. 

I was amazed.  What a concept.  Get rid of everything you're sick of and get a complete new wardrobe.  I went home completely inspired.  I recalled getting ready for work every morning and pulling on a pair of pants and having them not fit and pulling out a another pair of pants and having them not fit ... trying on shirts that had grown too tight in the waist area ... sitting on the bed and crying in frustration because I was so fat I couldn't fit into my clothes and thought I looked old and frumpy.  Not to mention I was late for work 3 out of 5 days a week wasting all this time trying to squeeze a watermelon through a donut hole.  Ridiculous.  A complete waste of time.  Depressing. 

So I followed this woman's lead ... I went through every closet, every drawer, every tote and took out every item of clothing that was not labeled with the current "W" size I was sporting at the moment, boxed it up and donated it to goodwill (and to my mother and all of her friend's at the senior apartments ... they love to say they are wearing the "Divine Mrs M" collection).  I proceeded to the mall and entered the "big girl store" with credit cards ablaze ... and bought myself a brand new wardrobe in size "W."  I accepted who I am and no longer cry before work in the morning because everything fits, everything matches and everything makes me feel good about who I am. 

Clothes hanging in your closet or taking space in your attic and/or basement are a constant reminder of who you used to be ... not who you are now.  Maybe you're one of the lucky ones who have successfully shed those unwanted pounds and still keep the bigger size hanging in your closet to "remind" you of who you were and who you don't want to be again ... or maybe you keep them "just in case" the weight returns.  I'm begging you ... get rid of them!!!!  Get rid of every piece of clothing that makes you long for a girl that no longer exists.  You may mourn each piece as you pack it away ... but once you have done it, you will not only have more room in your closet, but more room in your mind as well.  You will have more time to focus on and enjoy the fabulous person you are right now and not dwell on the person you once were.

And think of all the money you'll save on your taxes ...

 © 2010-2011 Melanie L. Miller All Rights Reserved

38, Overweight and Snowboarding

Yes, this is a blog dedicated to the fact that I am 40 and fat. But, I was also fat when I was 38 and 37 and 36 and so on.  When I was about to turn 38, my husband asked what it was I wanted for my birthday.  In all of my infinite wisdom, I asked for a snowboard. 

All of my life I had wanted to try snowboarding.  Skiing didn't appeal to me and I had a rather unfortunate experience on skis at around the age of 35.  My children were taking skiing lessons and I was stuck at the ski lodge every Tuesday night for 4 hours so I thought I'd give it a whirl.  My trip to the rental counter was uneventful until I tried putting the ski boots on.  I was huffing and puffing, trying to squeeze my feet into the darn things and had to have someone about the age of 12 help me.  After they were strapped on nice and tight, I had to walk to the counter to get the skis.  Now, if you ski, you won't be surprised to learn that you have to kind of "lean forward" in order to walk in these death traps.  I was, however, surprised.  It's uncomfortable, awkward and was making my underworked shins ache and burn.  I grabbed the skis, the poles and proceeded out the door and headed up to the instruction hill to meet the poor sap assigned to me as an instructor.  It took me awhile to get there.  I was bundled up in my snowpants and winter coat newly bought for just this occasion, was wearing a hat and gloves and could barely make it up this tiny little hill without gasping for air ... really cold air.  By the time I made it, I was sweating like Whitney Houston on crack (seriously, have you seen her Diane Sawyer interview?), out of breath and felt like I couldn't walk another step because the ridiculous boots were killing me.  All of that after only going approximately 20 feet.  Now it's important to stress here that I was not meeting my instructor on the bunny hill with the lift and other adult students.  I was simply meeting him at the "instruction hill."  You know, the one with the magic carpet for the all the toddlers to ride up and learn how to ski?  That one.  Okay, scene set.  My instructor was, I don't know, 16?  Took my hand, managed to strap me into my skis, took my hands and was guiding me down the toddler hill.  Meanwhile, I'm sweating buckets, my legs are screaming and the last thing I heard was the pimply-faced 16 year old boy say ... "you don't look very well."  Down.  Like a sack of potatoes.  Blacked out and fainted on the toddler hill!  I wasn't out for long .. but long enough that he thought he should call the ski patrol to come have a look.  On the toddler hill.  Can you imagine that call of distress through the walkie talkie?  Old woman down on the toddler hill!!  We need a medic ... STAT!!!  Never to fear dear readers, I'm alive and well and aside from a very bruised ego and becoming a legend among the ski instructors, I'd like you to know that I took those damn boots off, dropped my skis at the rental counter and spent every Tuesday evening in the lodge, reading a book and eating nachos.  You might find that story entertaining ... I do.  It's funny.  I laughed about it the next day and it makes for a great story at parties.

Believe it or not, I have A LOT of stories like this one.  One year for my daughter's birthday we were at an indoor water park.  I went down a water slide called the "cyclone" where you sit on a small raft and the slide takes you around and around and around and drops you through a hole and into a pool.  I got stuck.  I did.  I literally got stuck on my raft with the suction from the slide pulling me to the side so that I couldn't move.  I tried and tried to push away but I couldn't.  I panicked.  I'm sure I looked ridiculous.  I'm sure if you asked someone who was there on this unfortunate day they could tell you I looked ridiculous because apparently there is an observation deck directly above this particular ride where people go to watch riders come down and get dropped through the hole.  How do I know this?  After they sent my husband down the slide to grab a hold of me and set me free, I promptly returned to our table (to eat nachos of course) and my daughter and her friend came over laughing to tell me that they heard an "old lady" got stuck on the cyclone.  Yep.  An "old lady."  I've never been back. 

What does this have to do with snowboarding?  Nothing.  Just thought I'd share.  So, anyhow.  My husband obliged me and bought me a great snowboard that was just my style ... white  ... painted with a hot pink lipstick and lipstick kiss.  I got the boots (which are much more comfortable than ski boots I'll have you know).  The snowboarding outfit was not so easy to find.  If you've ever seen the X games or watched Shaun White at the Olympics you know snowboarding calls for a "look."  Let me tell you something ... that "look" doesn't come with a "W" behind it.  So it was off to the men's shop for me.  Should have been my first clue that maybe this wasn't for big girls. 

My daughter and I dressed in our gear and headed up to the instruction hill for our lesson.  Yes, it's the same instruction hill.  No I didn't faint.  Yes, the instructors are still 16.  Anyhow, we made it to the instruction hill and introduced ourselves.  A funny thing happened.  They were psyched!  Like really really psyched that I was taking a lesson.  As a matter of fact ... I managed to shake off my skiing disaster and became another kind of legend ... the OLDEST person to ever take a snowboarding lesson at this particular lodge at that particular time.  Yes, the OLDEST.  At 38 ... I was the OLDEST.  And I had only been 38 for like 11 days.  Now, I wasn't the oldest snowboarder by any means ... just the oldest to take a lesson.  I was actually proud and felt a little cool. 

The lesson progressed.  I learned how to glide over to the lifts, learned how to balance, how to tip the board to make an edge in the snow in order to slow down or speed up.  There were two things, however, that I could not learn.  (1) how to get up after being strapped in; and (2) how to glide from side to side while going down the hill. 

I quickly graduated from the instruction hill and went to the bunny hill.  I managed to get on an off the lift with no incident.  I glided over to where I could safely sit and strap my other foot into the board.  After that moment, my instructor said, "Now hop up."  What???  "Hop up."  I'm sorry?  "You know, hop up."  Yea, that wasn't going to happen.  There was no way this ass was getting off that ground by "hopping" straight up onto my feet.  So, since necessity is the mother of invention, I had to invent my own technique ... I call it the "beached whale."  The beached whale is tricky.  You strap yourself into your board which is long and kind of wide.  Then, with all of your might you turn over so your butt is facing down the hill and then push as hard as you can with your arms so you are upright.  It's attractive.  You can ask my daughter.  But it is effective. The biggest flaw in this technique is that once you are up, you are not facing the bottom of the hill.  You have to turn and as I mentioned earlier, I wasn't much of a turner and could not glide from side to side.  So, I invented another technique ... super fast.  Which basically means you get your fat ass turned around and point the nose of your snowboard to the bottom of the hill and go straight down, as fast as you can until you fall or stop by the grace of God before hitting the fence. 

I had fun.  I snowboarded for the whole of that winter.  I had some pretty unintentional "gnarly" crashes that earned "oooo's and aaaaa's" from bystanders.  I had a ball.  And I never once left the bunny hill.  Most of my companions were of the elementary age.  I didn't care.  I have since retired from my snowboarding career and my neighbor's daughter is enjoying my fancy white board and is much better suited for it than I ever was. 

My point (and I do have one) is that I may be aging and I may be fat.  However, I have never allowed either factor to stand in the way of something it is I have wanted to do.  Never.  I ride the tallest, fastest roller coasters I can find ... hands up and laughing the whole way.  I have wake boarded in the ocean, snorkled with the sea turtles and hiked through the rainforest.  Well, the hiking thing wasn't exactly something that I wanted to do.  It was something I had to do because my husband and children wanted to.  I now refer to it as my Biggest Loser challenge.  It was Hell. 

I have done all of these things and I have loved them.  Even when it was a disaster.  I loved them because I tried.  And that's all any of us can do ... part of enjoying life is trying to do things we can't and finding out that we really can.  Maybe we can't do them well ... but we can do them. 

The thing is ... had I been healthier and more fit than fat,  I could have done these things better.  I may have enjoyed them even more.  My husband and children are athletic and fit and I may participate in all of the activities they do but it takes me longer .. I slow them down. 

My daughter and I have always wanted to go parasailing.  We want to do it together.  On a recent trip to Hawaii we planned on doing it.  Unfortunatley, we couldn't because with my weight being what it is, we exceeded the limit and couldn't go as a twosome.  She didn't want to go without me.  We went whale watching instead.  This Spring, come Hell or high water, I'm going to go parasailing with her.  I've never let my weight stop me from doing something I've wanted to before and I'm not going to let it stop me now. 

So, do me a favor.  Make a list of everything that you've always wanted to do but were too scared or embarrassed to try.  Then make a pact with yourself that this is going to be the year you give it a try.  Please share it with me.  And do it even if you look ridiculous.  Who cares?  Live the life you have right now to its fullest.  It's a blast. 

See you on the bunny hill ...

© 2010-2011 Melanie L. Miller All Rights Reserved

I'll Start Monday and Other Lies ...

I've said it.  You've said it.  You may be reading this right now and I may never have met you in my entire life ... but I know as sure as the sky is blue that if you are a female over the age of 12 ... you have uttered these words. 

What is it with Monday?  No one likes a Monday.  People say things like "I've got a bad case of the Mondays."  Songs have lyrics like "just another manic Monday" and "rainy days and Mondays always get me down."  My husband loves his job.  Loves it.  Still, he never leaves for work on time on a Monday morning.  NEVER. 

Let's put this into perspective.  Let's say you're a kid ... you're "Monday."  Everyone in school says mean things to you and about you, no one will sit with you at lunch, no one will play with you on the playground.  You're the one with the "cooties."  Tuesday doesn't have a lot of friends but more than you do and Wednesday even more than Tuesday.  Thursday has friends but is not nearly as popular as the Prom Queen ... Friday.  Everyone loves Friday.  Take a moment and remember "that girl" in high school.  You know the one I'm talking about ... everyone had "that girl" in their class.  The one that all the boys worshipped and tripped over to talk to.  The one who had the best hair, the best smile, the best clothes.  She was the head cheerleader and everything she touched turned to gold.  Do you remember her?  I do ... she was my best friend.  I was the "funny" one ... or "Thursday" in this scenario ... because you have to get through Thursday to reach Friday.  Friday is celebrated weekly.  There are phrases praising Friday ... TGIF.  There's a restaurant named after Friday.  Friday is cool. 

I recently saw my "Friday" at our school's homecoming parade this fall.  They were celebrating 20 years of homecoming queens (or something like that) and, of course, you guessed it ... "Friday" was homecoming queen 1989.  I hadn't seen her in 15 years and she was still as lovely as she was the day she was crowned.  Like me, she has two children.  Unlike me, she just gave birth to her second child ONE year ago and I didn't see a bit of baby weight lingering anywhere on her petite frame.  Now, you would think that I might resent that ... that I might hate her just a little bit.  But you know what?  I didn't.  Not even a little.  Because no matter how hard you try ... you just can't hate Friday!

So, the question of the day is ... why in the Hell do we tell ourselves we will start our diet on Monday (the most hated day of the week) and not Friday (the most celebrated)?  Is it because deep down inside we want to hate it?  We want to put ourselves in a position to fail?  My husband says I have a tendency to over analyze everything and I may just be proving his point here but I'm sure he's not reading this so I'll let him be right this time.  WHY?  Why not Friday?  I will tell you why ... because Friday is fun.  Because Friday has half-price appetizers and $1 draft beers.  Because bars hire bands and DJs on Friday nights so people can come and dance the night away while eating their half-price appetizers and drinking their $1 beer.  Fridays are fun.  Diets are not. 

On that note, I'd like to let you in on a little secret.  I started my new diet plan yesterday ... MONDAY.  That's right.  I decided to go sit with Monday, the stinky kid at school and make him my new best friend.  I thought long and hard and planned on when I was going to start this new endeavor.  I'm following a meal delivery diet plan with fresh food that expires after 10 days of receipt so my timing had to be impeccable.  I chose a date ... it was a Monday.  One of my friends asked why I didn't wait until after the Holidays?  My response ... I've been waiting for 17 years.  A hundred Mondays have come and gone.  I've used every excuse in the book .. I'm too busy, it's my birthday, it's Nick's birthday, it's Chloe's birthday, it's Christmas, Thanksgiving, Easter, Martin Luther King, Jr. Day, President's Day, I'm going on vacation .... The point is that there will always be a reason NOT to do it.  You have to just throw in the towel and pick a date.  Maybe that date will be on a Monday. Just do it! 

A recovering alcoholic doesn't like the fact that he/she can't drink anymore ... not even one drink ... ever ... even after he/she has been sober for 20 years.  They don't like it ... they just do it.  One step.  Every day.  Recovering addicts feel the same way.  Alcoholism is a disease.  Drug addiction is a disease.  Obesity is a disease.  There are support groups for the pleasantly plump.  Think Weight Watchers, TOPS, etc.  One of my favorite TV sitcoms is "Mike & Molly," who are two chunky monkeys (mmmmm.....Ben & Jerry's) who met at Overeaters Anonymous.  I'm not that different.  I find myself to be powerless over junk food.  I admit that I'm powerless.  I accept that and am working one day (sometimes one minute) at a time to change that.  This blog is my outlet because quite honestly it really irritates me that I have to eliminate some of my favorite foods from my diet because if I have just one it will lead to another and then another and then another and ... well, you get the idea. 

I have attempted the diet route a million times over.  I have "relapsed" a million times over.  That's fine.  I'm just a girl.  But if I don't have the power to say "no" to a cookie then I let the cookie control me and quite frankly I don't want to be controlled by a cookie, or a potato chip or a mozzeralla stick. This blog is my way of holding myself accountable ... because I know you will be reading (or maybe no one will be reading) and watching to see how it goes.  It won't be easy ... it won't be fun ... it won't be pretty ... but I have an incredibly easy time laughing at myself so I'm thinking it will probably be amusing. 

"God grant me the serenity ...."

 © 2010-2011 Melanie L. Miller All Rights Reserved

0 to 18W in 60 seconds ...

Okay ... so that's not really the truth.  It wasn't 60 seconds but since life seems to fly by in the blink of an eye, it kind of feels like it.  As I mentioned before, I was always a really skinny kid.  As a matter of fact, people used to tease me about how skinny I was and it really offended me.  The only clear explanation for my being a thin child/teenager is that I must have had a monster metabolism.  I didn't eat healthy, was not then nor will I ever be an athlete and I believe food comes in three food groups:  (1) Deep fried; (2) Sweet; and (3) Salty.  I have abided by these food group rules for as long as I can remember and while that diet seemed to work for me in my teens, it took a drastic downward spiral in my 20's, 30's and now my 40's. 

My weight crept on gradually ... a short time after graduation in 1989 I lost the big hair and gained a bigger physique.  Quite frankly, when I graduated high school I was 5'6", a whopping 98 pounds and needed a little meat on my bones.  At the ripe old age of 22 I married, was four months pregnant and had reached a size 6.  I assumed (as all naive young mothers assume) that I would have the baby and leave the maternity ward wearing the same jeans I wore before conceiving this little bundle of joy.  What I hadn't counted on was the fact that the aforementioned three food groups (deep fried, sweet and salty) would bring about gestational diabetes and turn my slim, size 6 figure into that of a small NFL linebacker.  At 8 months I was put on bed rest, had grown out of the largest available maternity clothes and could no longer drive myself because in order to fit behind the wheel I had to put my seat so far back I could no longer reach the pedals. 

By Thanksgiving 1993, I was a week past my due date, fat, miserable and resembled a balloon from the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade.  Pregnancy was not the joy everyone claimed it to be, I was not "glowing" (although I did have a sticky kind of sweaty look to me) and just wanted to meet this child of mine and get back to "normal" (aka ... thin).  My first child did finally make his arrival a full two weeks after that Thanksgiving, my second child a mere 15 months later and truth be told ... I'm STILL trying to lose all of my "baby weight." 

As easy as it would be to blame my pregnancies for my current predicament, I'm pretty sure there's a statute of limitations on weight gained during pregnancy.  Although I recently discovered a pair of jeans from my size 6 era and have since donated them to goodwill (more on that subject at a later date),  I never recovered my 1993 size 6 figure.  I went from a 6 to a 12 in 9 months.  I did a lot of yo-yo dieting and sporadic bursts of exercise but size 12 carried me through my 20s.  Once I even squeezed into a pair of size 10 shorts ... I shouldn't have. 

Then along came 30.  I spent the afternoon of my 30th birthday alone at a Weight Watchers meeting.  I've had a love/hate relationship with Weight Watchers throughout the whole of my 30's.  That's a story, however, for a different day.  The number on the scale on that particular day terrified me ... I hadn't weighed myself in ages.  None of the Weight Watchers staff realized it was my birthday when they filled out the paperwork and I left feeling old, fat, depressed and hungry.  My solution ...treating my 30-year-old self to a deliciously fattening lunch at the mall after buying a pair of jeans ... size14.  From this point on, the sizes go up, up, up and away. 

I fancy myself to be fabulous ... however, the latter part of my 30's were a lot less fabulous than I would have liked.  As all married, working moms can tell you ... life is hard.  I had my share of ups but I also had a lot of downs.  While I don't particularly like to focus on the downs, they are part of my history and no matter how hard I try ... I can't rewrite it.  Your life experiences mold you into the person you are so you have no choice but to accept the good with the bad and move on.  That being said, the bulk of my weight gain came during a particularly dark period of time after the age of 35 ... catapulting me from a size 14 to a size 18W.  I believe the "W" stands for "woman."  So, I guess if you are female and wear any size that doesn't end in a "W" you aren't a woman.  I'm not sure what you are ... you can let me know. Perhaps clothes should all be labeled with numbers and letters.  For example, a size 00 could be 00I for "invisible."  Sizes 1-5 could be 1-5SB for "skinny b*tch," size 6-10 could be ... well I don't know ... and size 12-14 could be marked A for "average."  But I digress ...One day my daughter was helping me shop for clothes when I graduated into a size 14W ... she said "Mom, I found a 14 Wide."  So, ever since then, I like to call it a "wide" size for every "woman." 

I still fancy myself to be fabulous.  I'm a pretty girl. I'm a fun girl.  I know how to have a good time, how to hide a multitude of sins with Spanx and the proper cut of clothing and I love with my whole heart.  This journey is about finding and unleashing the most fabulous version of myself I can find.  Heart disease is not fabulous.  Diabetes is not fabulous.  Climbing one flight of stairs and finding yourself out of breath is not fabulous.  18W is not fabulous.

I am not laboring under a misapprehension that a size 6 is or ever will be in my future.  I am not 20 (thank goodness) and youth is not on my side.  This journey is simply to find the girl I once was and find others that would like to bring their "Pretty Back" as well ... thanks Molly Ringwald.

 © 2010-2011 Melanie L. Miller All Rights Reserved