GTFO Winter!

I can feel it in my bones.

Spring is coming.

It's about fucking time.

Of course, I'm still bracing for another Polar Vortex to come through and freeze us all just as we're beginning to thaw.

But I can see grass! The snow is melting, the birds are chirping, I didn't wear a coat yesterday! It was actually only 40 degrees, but it's all relative. After this winter, that feels downright tropical.

And with the spring, I feel my motivation slowly coming out of hibernation. I've been aching to be outside, and tonight it's supposed to get up to the mid-50s so my girlfriend and I made plans to take a couple hour hike at the park, followed by dinner out. That sounds so magical right now.

I gained again at Weight Watchers (2.8 lbs, which puts me back at 214.8). I expected it but it still pissed me off. I was grumbling about it before all the people getting re-dressed around me (following the weekly weigh-in-public-stripping) joined a chorus of "I gained too..."

Then I didn't feel so alone and defeated. I realized that this winter has been like a huge hurdle to everyone trying to lose weight. It's so hard to eat less when every single biological instinct is screaming, "Eat more! Fatten up or you'll freeze!" Seriously, half of America has basically been hibernating for the past four or five months. We've practically turned in to bears. It's fucking nature, right? We've been forced inside, in the dark. We all hurry to our cars after work, then shuffle inside as fast as we can while wearing snow boots and puffy coats. No one has shown any skin for ages. We've been bundled up in sweaters and arm warmers. We're filling ourselves with warm food, and sleeping in on the weekends because there's nothing left to watch on Netflix except the "Random Picks".

**Side bar: that's not entirely true. Netflix Streaming is a bottomless pit of potentially wasted time. But one thing I'm so glad I found was "The Best Worst Movie" and, by extension, Troll 2. How did I not know about this before?! I just watched both for the first time on Monday and now I can't stop watching Troll 2. It's so fucking awesome. Totally my kind of movie. I've seriously watched it 10 times already this week. It's like when I first watched "An Idiot Abroad" last month and then spent the rest of the month obsessively searching for Karl Pilkington YouTube clips. The man is incredible. Anyway...if you needed an idea of something to watch, you're welcome!**

So we've all been trying to push a boulder up a hill all winter, and the sudden sunshine and growing warmth means we're close to the top of the hill already. Or maybe we've rolled back to the bottom? Either way, we can stop pushing soon. Spring is coming. We can breathe again.

I'm really looking forward to seeing what I can achieve once the obstacle that is winter is finally out of my way.

Come on, spring! We're ready for you!

Fuck Christmas, And Fuck Duck Dynasty

On Weight Watchers, you're allowed 49 weekly Points to use at your discretion so you can supplement your daily Points allowance. This week, I not only blew through those 49 Points before the week was half over--I also went over those Points by 84 Points.

EIGHTY FOUR POINTS.

84.

Fuck.

I get 33 Points per day. (33x7)+49+84= 364. So I've had 364 Points this week.

That's the same as 91 Cadbury Cream Eggs. Or 5.7 gallons of marinara sauce. Or over 7 and a half pounds of grated cheddar.

Gross.

I blame Christmas. I mean, okay, I truthfully blame myself and my weakness and my emotional overeating and my utter lack of willpower. But I do blame Christmas too. Why does it have to be so delicious? Why does everything have to look so tempting and be so easy to grab? And why do I have to put up with my family, mostly my father, while still struggling to push aside all of the hurt feelings and shitty self esteem they left me with after high school?

This Duck Dynasty business has left me feeling really sad because my dad, who claims to love me and who seems to also really love my girlfriend of eight years, is so vigorously opposed to A&E firing the dude. I've written here and there about what a dick my dad is, so my dad supporting a bigot and failing to consider my feelings is definitely not shocking. But it is sad. It hurts when I see friends on Facebook posting pictures rallying against A&E's awesome decision to fire Phil, and it hurts even more to hear my dad saying shit like, "This is great because the pendulum will start to swing the other way now. The right people are going to start taking back the country, and Obama will go back to the ghetto where he belongs." My dad's total ignorance of government and morality aside, it just feels so wrong to have a father essentially telling his daughter, "Hey, I'm so glad that we're going to continue to deny you equal rights, and hopefully we'll be able to take away your rights completely! Oh yeah, and you're definitely going to hell! Sorry-not-sorry!"

My dad isn't even religious. I've read more of the bible than him. He went to Catholic school so he pretty much just hates God now, and he's never ever expressed any concern about my soul. So why does he care if my girlfriend and I get married? Seriously, my parents like her more than they like me. Why would he want us kept apart? And why does he care so much if some semi-scripted 'reality' tv star lost his job after making totally asinine and cruel and ignorant and intolerant statements to fucking GQ? Really? Why?

 

But talking to him is pointless. I can't even begin the debate because as soon as he starts in, I already feel defeated and close to tears. I start thinking about how many times I thought about killing myself. How many times I came close. He doesn't know about any of it. I think about how truly surprised I was to find I had made it out of high school without slitting my wrists. I think about sitting in my bathroom with the cold blade of my favorite scissors pressed against my vein, debating with myself if my parents would be more disappointed in me for being a lesbian or for committing suicide. I think about the fear and shame I felt before I came out, and the fear I still feel sometimes just holding my girlfriend's hand in the 'wrong' environments. I think about the confusion I felt when I first realized that I liked girls and the terror I felt knowing it was 'wrong' to feel that way.

I think about these things and I can't have a rational conversation with him because it's not rational at all. People are making remarks, right or wrong, that are making young people want to kill themselves rather than live in a world that hates them. Why is that okay? Why wouldn't any rational person want to stop those words from being broadcast to young people who are still trying to understand their sexuality?

So on top of the normal stressful family Christmas, I also got to shield myself all day from Duck Dynasty conversations. Instead, I steered myself to the dessert table to ate until all I could think about was how full my stomach was. I tracked everything I ate, but I didn't even try to moderate myself. I was in a FUCKITALL mood and just didn't care. Now, of course, I'm still stressed and I'm feeling even more anxious about having Christmas dinner tomorrow with my dad and my great uncle who is even more of a bigot than my dad. But on top of all that, I'm also just sick with regret at how much I ate, and disappointment in myself.

Still, even though I want to say Fuck Christmas, I don't really mean it. I love Christmas, I love my dad (way deep down where it's hard to see sometimes), and I'm proud of myself for how far I've come. As long as I get over this pity party and make it through the next 24 hours, I can regroup, lose the Christmas fat, and put all of this behind me.

Fatty Fatty Two By Four

I'm having a fat day.

Make that a fat week.

You know how some girls have bad hair days? Well, my hair is frizzy and I hate it 90% of the time, so every day is basically a bad hair day. And until the past few months, I was always aware of my fat so EVERY day was a fat day too.

Things started changing, ever so slowly. I went from constantly thinking about my size to finally, after so many years of morbid obesity, allowing myself to concentrate on my life instead of my fat. I have fat days, but not single fucking day is a fat day. Not all of my thoughts revolve around being fat. I've been able to go to antique malls and actually shop, instead of spending my time in there carefully squeezing between shelves of glassware and praying that I don't knock over a $500 vase with my gut. I went to the mall and strolled into Victoria's Secret without flushing with the embarrassment of knowing every salesperson was wondering why someone my size was in their tiny store. Last week, I wore a pair of underwear that kept rolling down and I could feel my stomach hanging out when I sat down, but that annoying and uncomfortable day made me realize that I used to feel like that EVERY day. So things have been pretty awesome.

Now, unfortunately, I'm having a fat day and with good reason. I'm getting fatter. Plus, I'm in a rough spot. I'm so close to my next goal of being under 200 pounds, and I'm also right on top of Christmas and New Year's, two gluttonous holidays. Maybe not for everyone, but my sweet tooth really makes Christmas intolerable while trying to lose weight.

Can't...stop...eating...

Everyone around me knows I'm on Weight Watchers and that I've lost close to 100 pounds since last August, so people for the most part have been great about not tempting me with treats. My coworkers and family also know that I am utterly powerless around sweets, so they've even made an effort to have fruit and veggies around, and I offer to bring healthy sides to pitch-ins and family dinners. Still, there's really no avoiding sweets. One of my employees brought a bag of candy--mini Snickers, mini Twix, Hershey Kisses, Rolos, etc. I started off with one piece, then another, and before I knew it...the whole fucking bag was gone by noon today. Less than four hours and I inhaled 12 Points worth of candy.

Then I came home and my mom dropped by. She brought me some peanut butter balls (which most people call Buckeyes) and I ate two of them, followed by a fresh chocolate chip cookie. I meant to leave one for my girlfriend but...nope. I ate them all. Eight more Points down.

This week, I'm really ashamed to admit that I've gone over my weekly Points by THIRTY. Seriously. 3-0. I had Olive Garden one day, a pumpkin roll another day, more cookies and candy than I usually eat in a month. It's been delicious but terrible.

My consolation is that I am at least tracking, and tracking honestly. When I step on the scale next, I'll know exactly where each added pound came from. Then I can turn it around, hopefully.

I need to start working on my New Years Resolutions, but right now I'm just trying to make it to New Year's without fucking up all the progress I made in 2013.

So yeah, I'm having a fat day. A fat week. I've gained three pounds since my Wednesday weigh-in, and I'm still plowing through food like a ravenous goat. But at least it's a fat day now, and not a fat life. I've made some progress, even if it doesn't feel like much.

Daddy

I can blame my weight on a lot of things. I know most of the fault is my own. No one held a gun to my head and made me gorge myself on cheese and chocolate for 30 years.

Still, like a lot of heavy people, I believe that a great deal of my weight issues have been tied to my parents. Between the bad genes, setting bad examples, rewarding us with food, forcing me to clear my plate but rarely making me eat vegetables...it's no wonder I was chubby by the time I was in kindergarten. 

My mom is the one who cooked dinner every night loaded with carbs and butter. She's the one who gave us Poptarts for breakfast and Lunchables, Capri Suns, fruit snacks, Cheetos, and Little Debbies in our lunches. She's the one who is overweight and who everyone says I look just like. She's the one who eats stacks of chocolate chip cookies for breakfast every single morning (not kidding) and then wonders why she can't control her diabetes.

But my dad is responsible for more emotional baggage than my mother could ever dream of inflicting.

I called this blog "My Weird Luck" for a number of reasons. I do have weird luck--not necessarily bad all the time, just strange. My life has taken many unexpected turns over the years. I've come through raging fires where I should have burned in my bed, and heart issues that no one expected me to survive. I've lost those closest to me in tragic and mysterious ways. I've been faced with bizarre obstacles and managed to get through one way or another. I would attribute much of it to weird luck. Maybe the stars were aligned strangely the day I was born.

But mostly, the name of this blog is an homage to Sylvia Plath, one of many poets whom I adore and admire. The line comes from her well-known poem, Daddy.

(Go ahead and read it. I'll wait.) That poem sums up a lot of my feelings for my father. He's in my life and still with my mother, but sometimes (okay, most of the time) I think we'd be better off without him. I KNOW my mom would be. 

I think he does love me. I just think his cruelty far outweighs his capacity to love.

Take this as an example: My parents have been married for 31 years. One of my earlier memories is of my dad telling me (around 5 years old) and my sister (2 or 3 years old) that my mother was like a vacuum cleaner because she would eat anything in the house. What kind of man makes comments like that to his children about their mother? That's when I started to learn how highly my father prized physical beauty and despised weakness. Fat, to him, is one of the most disgusting forms of weakness. To elaborate on the scene I just mentioned: this was when my mother was around 26 years old and weighed maybe 140 pounds. He constantly commented on her weight, and she was a third of the size she is now. Now, he doesn't even touch her. He won't divorce her, but chooses instead to keep her with him under his constant judgement. He doesn't even bother to hide his disgust of her.

When my parents were dating, my dad apparently used to sing Meatloaf's "Two Out of Three Ain't Bad" to my mother. He told her every day that it was how he felt. "I want you, I need you, but there ain't no way I'm ever going to love you." I cry every time I hear that song on the radio, because it makes me think about just how shitty it would be to live with that kind of emotional abuse for 31 years. My poor mom. No wonder she loves chocolate so much.

My dad's judgement definitely doesn't end at my mom.

When I was younger, he was more direct in his scorn and derision. He would comment on my weight, on the food I was eating, on how I was dressed. He was cruel. He was violent. He scared the shit out of me. But mostly, he was just kind of a dick. Of course, I never stopped starving for his attention and approval, and I foolishly thought that if I tried hard enough, he'd eventually magically become a good guy. That obviously never happened. Like, true story: when I was 10 or so I was looking for a Father's Day present. He's a terrible person to shop for because he just buys himself anything he sees that he wants (and he still makes my mom beg for enough money to fill up the car with gas, or to pay for her doctor's bills--as sick as she is, he limits how many doctors she's allowed to see and he cancels appointments if they're going to be expensive). Anyway, I couldn't find anything for him so I bought him a t-shirt for Father's Day that said "World's Greatest Dad." I really though that I couldn't go wrong with a gift like that. HA! Not only did he make a point to tell me that it was a dumb present, but he actually returned it and used the money to buy himself a big can of cashews. Not even joking. Ugh, that's a bad memory. So his cruel comments don't stop at my mom, and they don't stop at even my weight. He can make me feel like shit about pretty much anything in the world.

Now that I've learned to assert myself, he makes more passive aggressive remarks about strangers. "Look at that fat pig over there!" or "God, I can't believe that woman is going to eat that whole meal--I'm getting sick just looking at her!" (Oh, yeah, he's fucking racist too. That's a lovely combination, right?) I've stopped even trying to keep my mouth shut--when he's being nasty and rude, I tell him so. But that doesn't stop him, and it never will.

As disgusting as his thoughts and actions are, it's his attitude about weight that's had the most impact on me personally. Everything else I can deal with in my own way--I'm proud to support equal rights for everyone, I loved how depressed he got when Obama won TWICE (!!!!), and I crushed him by pursuing a Women's Studies degree. I've marched on Washington, I came out as a lesbian at age 18, and I never back down now when he tries to pick a fight about anything.

Except my weight. Partially because I know he's right--I am a fat failure--and partially because it's embarrassing to have anyone call me out about it. At least everyone else is polite enough to quietly ignore my skyrocketing weight. But not him.

My dad has always faced his own struggles with weight. When he was in high school, he was fat. According to him, though, he basically 'willed' all the weight off. Determination, willpower, and a jump rope--he claims that's all you need to drop 100 pounds. Well, maybe for him.

When he was older, maybe in his 30s, he started gaining weight again. He had bushy facial hair and looked like a mountain man. Our neighbor called him "Big Daddy" because he looked like a large reproduction of her own dad.

Then, he got self conscious and started working out again, cut back his portions, and lost weight. Now he wears an XL shirt where before he was pushing XXXL--and he loves to remind everyone about it any chance he gets. He never misses an opportunity to talk about how little he eats, how much energy he has, how long his bike rides are.

That just pisses me off. I don't want to hear about how awesome he is or how I just need to have the determination to lose weight. I fucking hate self-righteous people, and even more so when they're such dicks about everything else.

My dad, though, really knows how to jab the knife in.

Listen, this is a person I would hate if I met him on the street. He's obsessed with Nazi propaganda, he's an unabashed racist, he's heartless and cold and cruel. But he's still my dad, and in the way that all little fat girls do, I still seek his approval more than I seek anything else in my life. It's shameful to me how proud I am when he recognizes me when I get promoted at work, and when he brags about my professional accomplishments. I feel incredible guilt every time I smile at his compliments.

He knows how much his approval means, and he knows how much he hurts me. I think in his sick way he thinks he's helping...but he's not. Not at all.

Viva La Cancun

There's something coming up that's giving me a lot of anxiety. Coincidentally (...Ironically? I never use this correctly...), it's a relaxing beach vacation.

I've faced similar fear and apprehension several times since I started Weight Watchers in August. First the State Fair, then my Disney World vacation in mid-October (during the Food and Wine festival...I was like Templeton in Charlotte's Web...a smorgasbord-orgasbord! But I tracked vigilantly, walked a ton, and still lost weight). Then I faced then Halloween, then Thanksgiving, and finally Christmas.

Now I have an all-inclusive vacation coming up at a five star resort in Cancun. It's for a work function, and my company is infamous for the amount of alcohol we're able to consume in any given situation. This trip is starting out with a private, chartered flight to Mexico with drinks on-board. When we arrive, there's a welcoming party with an all-you-can-eat buffet and an open bar. EVERYTHING is paid for, totally included. There's going to be a mini-fridge in the room that's restocked daily, and everything is free. Seriously. There are restaurants all throughout the resort, all included. They have 24 hour room service that ALSO delivers alcohol to your door...for free! We're having cocktail parties with booze and super fancy feasts, pool lounging days with cabana boys plying us with mixed drinks, beach parties with VIP buffets and private mixologists. As diligently as I plan to track everything I eat, I just know I'm not going to be able to stop myself from taking advantage of at least some of the deliciousness.

The closest I've ever had to anything like this was a cruise early in 2012. There was plenty of food, but we also had activities every day that required a lot of walking, and we had to pay for all of our alcohol. This time, with an unlimited supply and no fees and only a single actual physical activity planned over the four day trip, I can only imagine how much weight I'll manage to pack on.

I'm really trying to think positively, but I don't know how I'm going to react when I get confronted with so much food and alcohol. I've severely cut back on my drinking simply because I don't have enough points to get drunk every other night, but in the past I was a bit of a lush. Of course, once I get a couple of drinks in me I start craving all kinds of fatty foods and my inhibition and self control go right out of the window.

I've got to brace myself for Mexico and try to keep myself in check, but I don't want to miss out on anything either. Isn't that a new name for an old thing? "FOMO: Fear Of Missing Out." It's always been an issue for me, and I definitely don't want to miss out on VIP buffets and open bars.

The problem is, I can't trust myself to turn down free food and liquor.

I'm just going to have to eat like a saint until then, track like a maniac while I'm south of the border, and then fasten my belt again once I'm back home.

And maybe light a candle and keep my fingers crossed that Cancun isn't going to derail me completely. I've come too far to blow it now.

(Oh, and weigh in is tomorrow too. Ay carumba.)

Surving Christmas

This is a ROUGH time to watch your weight!

All week at work I've had to dodge platters of fudge, brownies, cupcakes, divinity, homemade marshmallows, Oreo truffles, cake balls, cookies, peanut brittle, gingerbread, chocolate dipped candy canes, caramels, muffins...not to mention all of the store bought candy! Tree-shaped Reese's, white chocolate Oreos, Snickers, Kit-Kats, Caramellos, Heath bars...there have been mugs and bags of candy left on my desk, bowls and plates full sitting around on filing cabinets and desks, tins and baskets on the counters in the office kitchen. It's worse than my parents' house (although mercifully not as wrought with emotional eating triggers as being at my parents').

I've been strong, and I've actually been proud of my resolve. I passed up the platters, I gave the bagged goodies to my girlfriend and asked her to hide them from me and eat them quickly, and I had her hide the candy and only give me pieces when I ask for them. Last year at Christmas, I ate like I would never get chocolate again. I stuffed my face all day, every day. I did not pass up a single cookie or cupcake. I had piles of empty wrappers around me at all times. I emptied bags of Lindt truffles and gorged on boxes of Ferrero Rocher and chocolate covered cherries. I tried the white chocolate Frosty, the Reindeer Tracks Blizzards, the eggnog milkshakes, the gingerbread cappachinos. I baked rolls of cookies and dipped everything in the house in chocolate (marshmallows, cashews, cookies, Ritz crackers with peppermint flavor--they taste like Thin Mints--, candy canes, cherries, graham crackers, pretzels, everything) and then I ate and ate and ate. I couldn't even begin to guess how much I ate last year at Christmas, or how much weight I gained as a result. I just didn't care. I gorged myself with everything I could get my hands on.

Gorged is a good word. When I think of gorging, I think of ticks. Have you ever seen a really, totally engorged tick? When I first found my old dog on the side of the road on spring many years ago, he had a broken leg and was covered in ticks. The Humane Society guessed he had been outside all winter because his coat was so matted and caked deep with mud. The broken leg and resulting infection were more than they could care for and they were going to put him down if I left him. So of course I kept him, snuck him into my house (I was in college and pets were strictly verboten in university housing), and gave him a bath (I was as scared as he was--here was a strange, wild Rottweiler mix that I was told had been beaten and had his leg broken by a human, not a car, and I had no idea how he would react). He let me wash him and when I was done, I began inspecting him and cleaning his wounds, and I found so many fleas and ticks in his thick fur. I knew the flea shampoo would help with those vermin, but the ticks would have to be pulled out by hand. I started pulling them out, one by one, and then found a dense cluster of them latched in one of his armpits (if you can call it that on a dog). 

While I was pulling out all of the outer ticks, this disgusting thing was slowly uncovered at the center of the cluster. It was a tick, but it was the size of my thumbnail and a sickly yellowish-orange. Once I had pulled away all of the others, I had to get that monster. It had been sucking this dog's blood for so long, it was engorged to the point of almost bursting. I was using tweezers to gently detach the ticks head-first so there wouldn't be anything left inside the dog's skin, but this tick was so huge I couldn't easily get to the head. I used my fingers to pull the tweezers apart and released them around the tick--but it was so full and fat that it was soft, and the tweezers sank in like it was a marshmallow. I finally pulled it out but it was so gross and pale and full of blood that I never forgot that sight.

I ended up rehabilitating the dog and he became the love of my life. I named him J (J. Edgar Hoover) and I spent all of my time with him. And on more than one occasion, the thought of leaving him with no one to care for him saved me from killing myself. Not to be too grim, but I have dealt with suicidal thoughts pretty much as long as I can remember. There were several times after college in the lonely years that come with graduating from school to living alone and drinking alone and living as a drunk, unhealthy slob with no direction, that looking into that dog's eyes was literally the only thing that kept me from slitting my wrists or swallowing the handful of pills. I saved him and he saved me. When he died two years ago, I thought I would die with him. And when Rob died last year, I felt lonelier than I ever have before and I considered killing myself with the very slim hope that I might see Rob and J again if I did. But I was in a better place, and I had a girlfriend who loves me and got me through, and now I'm committed to living a healthier life and giving myself a chance again. In the year after moving in with my girlfriend I had begun to eat healthier and work out, and J loved going on the trails with me as I walked and jogged along. Then I got sick, had my open heart surgery, and we stopped jogging or even walking together. I wish I had been more active with him in the years after my surgery and before he died. But now I have another dog--as very different as a dog can be from another--and I hope to give him the active time I took away from J.

But back to what I was saying. Last year, I gorged myself until I really felt like that nasty tick I pulled out of J. I could barely move and I knew every part of my body was swollen with fat. I'm determined to not let that happen this year, so I'm doing that I can to control my sweet tooth. Besides passing up the treats and having my girlfriend hide my candy, I also decided not to make sweets this year. I gave my employees little gift bags instead of the usual cookies and chocolate-covered-everything, and I invited my parents over here to visit instead of going over there to help them bake. I'm also proud of this little change: I had volunteered to contribute to a charity bake sale, but instead of baking human food, I made dog cookies. I've made them before and they're so easy--it's 2 cups of wheat flour, 1 tablespoon of baking powder, 1 cup of milk, 1 cup of peanut butter, 1 tablespoon of vanilla, and 1/4 cup of honey. I mix the dry ingredients, mix the wet ingredients, combine the two, and then knead. I rolled it out thin and used a small Christmas tree cookie cutter and baked them for 20 minutes at 375. They turned out beautifully, and I divided them into snack bags. I made little "Merry Christmas" tags with a label saying they were peanut butter cookies for dogs, and included "To" and "Love" with blank spaces so people could give them to their dogs as presents. Some curly ribbon tied to each bag made them really cute--and they were a huge hit! They made money for the charity, and they kept me away from temptation. Plus, my dog really enjoyed the cookies I made him out of the scraps :)

So I'm finding little ways to sidestep the Christmas treat landmines that are planted around my life. I'm still staying on Plan and finding ways to be more active, and I have to say that this year feels more like Christmas than last year did. It's really nice to enjoy Christmas, instead of watching it pass by the television screen while I gulp down food without thinking about it. I miss J, I miss Rob, and I do miss making plates of goodies for everyone--but I'm slowly learning to replace those gaps with healthy food, meaningful activities, and spending time with the people I love who are still with us. I don't want to be a tick this year. I want to be a Christmas elf, spreading cheer instead of sucking it all away. That was super cheesy. But the point is, I'm having a wonderful Christmas and I think I'm helping the people around me have a good Christmas too, even if I'm not handing them cookies.