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
Tuesday, November 30, 2010
Monday, November 29, 2010
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
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
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