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Wellness

Livin la Vida Vegan Day 4 (gray hairs and soybean compost)

September 20, 2017

“Hey girl! How’s that food thing … vegan thing, going?” a friend asked via Facebook messenger.
“Oh my gosh, hi! Good, good. It hasn’t been too bad actually. You just really have to plan” I answered.
“Have you lost weight?”
“I mean, maybe? But I don’t think so. Lol It’s been 3 days, so …”
“So crazy. Good for you tho. And you’re writing about it every day on your blog, right?”
“That’s the goal” I typed.
“Are you worried about losing followers, if they aren’t into the vegan thing?”
“Well, ‘followers’ might be a generous term … but I haven’t really thought about it. I guess I definitely could.”
[pause]
“I’m sure it will be fine. Good luck! Let me know how much weight you lose. Maybe I’ll try it.”
“Yup, thanks for checking in!”

So, I guess I should start by saying that, if you’re reading this, thank you. Thank you for checking in on our progress and showing interest and hanging in there for as long as you choose to hang in. We here at DSS hope you get a new recipe along the way, at the very least, or get inspired to play around with your food a bit, at the very most. We will return to our irregularly scheduled content on September 30.

If you aren’t reading this, I’m sorry you’re a total turd.

Juuuuust kidding, friends! If you aren’t into this vegan journey, I don’t blame you. It’s not on everybody’s bucket list and certainly extreme by certain standards. I realize a lot of people don’t want to look at their plate as a prescription of any sort, and that’s totally cool. There’s a joy in just enjoying what tastes beautiful to you – butter, goat cheese, tender ribs, warm chocolate chip cookies – oh my gosh, somebody slap me across the face and shake my shoulders right now!

This friend’s questions came the night before I started questioning this whole thing myself. I am exhausted. If my energy level was a gas tank, the needle would be at the level where you start searching for your AAA membership. I could have slept forever this morning. I have zero desire to work out. I’m feeling the opposite of everything I was hoping to feel.

Plus, Hank and I are both up 2 pounds. Isn’t that hilarious? I mean just a freaking riot?

7:30 a.m.
I had the same breakfast shake I had yesterday. It’s pretty much a staple for me. I almost always have the ingredients on hand and surprisingly it gets me through the morning rush. No cinnamon this morning though.

“Mom, I used the rest of your cinnamon,” Spike said, when I came downstairs this morning. “I needed it to make a bowl of cinnamon and sugar for my toast. Put it on the grocery list, I guess, K? From the spices store.”

Yup, yup, I’m on it, Chief.

It’s raining here. Zero juice in the tank, plus a gray, cloudy sky and rain streaks on my office window equals struggle bus. This is best illustrated by the fact I forgot my backpack at home, which had my work laptop. I realized this, of course, standing in the office parking lot under an umbrella. I stood in a puddle and pouted for a solid minute. Because I am a grownup.

If anything, it bought me an extra 15 minutes with Rich. This morning he started getting into his actual switch to the vegan diet. His rules are simple: Eat plants, as close to their natural state as possible, at every meal, every day, all colors, all forms. He avoids most processed foods and goes easy on the sugar. Seems totally manageable.

He wrote about the cleanse that initially brought him to this dietary transition, and how he was so sick, down on the couch feeling like shit. Is that what this is? Is this sluggish state my version of his cleanse? (Oh my gosh, you guys, I’m just like Rich Roll!) I’m just 12 days away from running 13 miles, so let’s hope things pick up here, preferably by the time I step to the starting line.

12:15 p.m.
Lunch was a repeat as well. Quinoa/rice blend, mixed greens, salad topper nut and dried fruit mix and Greek dressing. Plus that bomb ass vegetable hummus with tortilla chips. If it ain’t broke …

Hank called to check in. He took a frozen vegetable bowl I picked up at Costco and a whole cucumber from the garden for lunch.

“A whole cucumber?!”
“I’m really starting to get serious, here,” he said. God love this man.
“Do you feel tired?” I asked.
“Yeah! I didn’t sleep well last night. You’re tired?”
“Yeah, but I slept fine. I’m just so sluggish today.”
“You should really think about altering your diet.” he said.

One problem with my go-to midday meal? Those little black bastards in the quinoa love to settle in between my teeth. I had a black bullseye right in the dead center today heading into a meeting. Thank goodness for brutally honest work friends who grab you and say, “What the hell is in your teeth?” It looked like I ate an army of baby ants for lunch.

5:30 p.m.
Another day, another crazy night. My dear friend Kelly squeezed me in for highlights and a trim tonight, but she needed me to come as soon as I could after work. Hank volunteered to pick up the chicks from the sitter so I could rush home and throw dinner together.

I went back to the Vegan for Everybody cookbook by America’s Test Kitchen again. This time Shiitake Ramen. Hank might be a fungi, but he isn’t much for mushrooms, so I was a little nervous about this one. (I know, let’s just move on.)

All was sizzling and poppin’ along until I got to step 4. Simmer for 1 hour. FUUUUUQQQQ!! Who do these test kitchen people think I am that I have an hour to let dinner just hang out on the stove? I turned the burner down to low heat, put a lid on the pot and left Hank a voicemail: “The ramen needs to simmer for an hour … I’m so sorry … please finish it up … I’m so sorry … I won’t be home late … sorry.” That shit better be good, I thought, grabbing my favorite crackers and a pouch of Justin’s angel spread on my way out the door.

The great thing about having your best friend do your hair is that you get an hour and a half to download each other on everything. The kids, work, your foolish dietary pursuits. There are just a handful of scenarios that can sabotage a night like this, and they include but are not limited to, the discovery of a patch of gray hairs and having your stray eyebrow locks ripped from your face like a hundred foot-long carrots from a late summer garden. Coincidentally both of those things happened tonight.

I came home and Hank had the girls up in the tub (a saint, he is) so I started piling the components of the ramen into a bowl. Anything that simmers for 60 minutes on my stove better have unicorns and diamonds in it. It didn’t. The taste was … earthy. Almost nothing. I think the ramen could be dressed up with the right recipe, but this wasn’t it.

“I think I might have put too much miso in,” Hank said.
“What is miso, anyway?” I asked.
“I don’t know. I think it’s compost. Like, soybean compost. It’s aged a year.”

We went down to inspect the label. It had blue ridge mountain well water listed on the label. It smelled a bit like compost … it looked a lot like compost … And the worst part is, I went looking for this. I sought it out. At three different stores. I don’t know what I’m doing to us anymore.

Wellness

Livin la Vida Vegan Day 3 (bad breath and poor protein)

September 19, 2017

We made it through the weekend. Praise be! Now comes the warm blanket that is my routine, and an opportunity to make these vegan habits part of the grind. Of course, the universe couldn’t make it too easy, so our sitter is off on vacation this week. Saint Kay has graciously volunteered to take on Sloppy Joan in her absence, but I’ll need to go retrieve the other two monkeys from the bus stop each afternoon and drop them off. Flexibility is fundamental to parenting, right? Flexibility and cocktails. Flexibility and cocktails and Netflix.

7:30 a.m.
I made my usual shake for breakfast. I’ve been making it for years, so I guess I’ve had a little vegan in me all along. I play around with the spices sometimes, but the base is always the same: PB powder, plant-based protein powder, a generous handful of spinach, cinnamon, turmeric and hemp seeds. Sometimes I add ginger as well. I pour a little bit of water in the bottom, add ice, and top it off with cashew milk before blending. It’s pretty darn good, guys. Pretty darn good. And portable, which is a plus.

I decided to listen to Rich Roll’s audiobook, “Finding Ultra: Rejecting Middle Age, Becoming One of the World’s Fittest Men, and Discovering Myself” during these 14 days. If you aren’t familiar, Rich is a world-renowned endurance athlete known for his astounding accomplishments, all powered by a plant-based diet, his podcast and his zen-like demeanor. He’s fascinating and inspiring and a really great voice to have filling your ears while you’re trying to make a dramatic change.

But the guy wasn’t just born miraculous. Rich was a collegiate swimmer and successful lawyer before losing a good deal of his gifts to alcoholism. Then, the night before his 40th birthday, he had a wakeup call. He was heavy and tired, weighted down by a fast food and television routine that left him winded and disheartened. Although he was sober, although he had a beautiful family, although he had a successful career, he decided it was time to make a change for his body. He began with a cleanse, then a vegetarian diet and eventually landed on a vegan prescription. It was here that it all clicked for him.

Rich recounts his rise and fall and rise again with a vulnerability that can only pull others in. Maybe I could do that, I think, as he talks about setting out on a short run only to find himself logging 20+ miles because he felt so free. It prompts reflection and fuels optimism and I think everyone can find a small piece of themselves in his story. I find myself taking the long way just to get 5 more minutes with Rich. I have his cookbook on hold at the library and my coworker swears by his meal-planning app, perhaps a purchase for another day.

12:05 p.m.
I don’t make a habit of eating lunch at my desk, but I’ll be using my allotted lunch break to go get the girls this week, so sad sack at my screen it is. Today, I had some bomb ass vegetable hummus from Earth Fare, with tortilla chips, and a salad. I tapped my vegetarian friend at work for her go-to mix, which consists of quinoa (I used my leftover rice and quinoa blend from dinner yesterday), greens, nuts and dried fruit (I used the salad topper mix from Costco) and Greek dressing. It was delightful. Garlicky. My breath could kill a vampire.

We’re thinking about camping this weekend, but Hank has one very strong concern.

“Dude, it’s no fun to eat nuts and berries on a camping trip,” he emailed. “What the hell is that going to look like?”
“Let me worry about the food,” I responded. “I won’t let you starve.”

We’re not going to let a vegan experiment keep us locked up at home for the love of Sarah Jessica Parker.

5 p.m.
I’d tucked the last vegan sugar cookie from Saturday’s celebration in my purse, just in case. By the commute home, I was ready for a little sweet treat. I felt like I was doing something incredibly bad eating the little bugger, good as she was.

I went home to start getting dinner around. On tonight’s menu: Baked Buffalo Cauliflower Bites. I warmed up the oil to make homemade french fries, too, because I’m not an animal. And just so no one under the age of 30 would starve, I put two peanut butter sandwiches on sugar-free wheat bread on the table as well, just so there wouldn’t be a revolt. Plus peaches and pears for dessert.

The preparation for these cauliflower bites was fine, simple enough. I even bought pre-cut cauliflower because why the hell not, right? For the sauce, I added a touch more honey than the recipe called for for fear of the heat, which ended up being a wise choice.

They looked amazing! My hopes were high. The flavor was good, but I was disappointed with the texture. I was really hoping the outside would have more of a breading, or a crisp. Which was not the case. They were soft like God intended cooked cauliflower and they had a kick like Jackie Chan, which got Hank’s engine going

“I’m so glad we did this so we could find a sauce that I want to put all over chicken,” he said.

I think vegan dinner is the biggest mystery to me. If you don’t build the meal around a main meat dish, then what do you build it around? We used to have a pork roast, and then everything revolved around that. Or chicken or pork chops. The meat was the leading lady, and everyone else played a supporting role, barely making the credits, often going unplanned until after the protein was on the stove.

But with vegan meals, there isn’t always a “main dish”. Sometimes there are just a bunch of veggie dishes. Plus, when I look at tonight’s dinner, there’s hardly any protein. Google says there’s like 11g total in an entire head of cauliflower. But beans make me barf, so I’m not thinking that’s not the best choice. I can feel I need more power. I’m draggin’ ass like a farmer with a dead donkey over here. Chalk it up to rookie vegan mom problems, I suppose.

Speaking of being a mom, I have to go. Sloppy Joan is hovering next to me in my bed, steamy pee dripping down her bare legs into a 10-inch circle of fluid. Turns out sometimes Bubble Guppies is just too damn good to walk away.

Wellness

Livin la Vida Vegan Day 2

September 18, 2017

Big Breakfast is every other Sunday. I’ve talked about it here before, but basically, it’s a chance for my immediate family to gather together and dip into the best damn sunny side up eggs my pops can fry up. He sweats his ass off for the sake of our gluttonous breakfast guts twice a month. But you know what doesn’t go over well at Big Breakfast? A Livin la Vida Vegan challenge.

I packed some wheat toast, with natural fruit spread from Trader Joe’s, vegan shortening spread, and hemp seeds to dress it up. There were fruit and hash browns (with hot sauce), too. There was also a healthy serving of judgement around the table this morning. Predictable but still disappointing.

I’m really honest when I say that I don’t know if this will really do anything for us.

I don’t know if my body will respond positively to cutting out animal products or it won’t or if I won’t even notice a difference. They’re all possibilities. But, let me ask you this, if someone came up to you and said, “Hey there, young woman who feels like crap and bad about herself a lot of the time, I have something that just might make you feel clear-headed and lighter and all around better. Plus! I’ll throw in a lowered risk of disease.” Then who’s the idiot? The person who gives it a go, or the person who doesn’t because it might not live up to the hype?

If food is medicine, doesn’t it make sense to play with your prescription until you feel better? Until it starts working? No one drops their cookie when a friend decides to add dark chocolate or sweet potatoes to their plate. So why is leaving some hog off of it so ridiculous?

Meats cause cancer. That’s a fact. The World Health Organization deemed bacon, along with his best friends, red meat and processed meats, like salami and pepperoni, carcinogens in 2015. That puts them in the same category as tobacco and asbestos. And your risk for cancer gets higher the more meat you consume. Seems like as good a reason as any to back away from the BLT.

I’m not the type of person who runs away from a challenge just because others don’t get it. I’m curious about the vegan diet, it’s something I want to explore, and it’s something that isn’t going to hurt to try. The criticism is a bitter side salad. And really kind of stupid.

After breakfast, Hank took the chicks up to the lake to snag one final day of summer. Meanwhile, I had just as much fun putting away a million baskets of laundry, mopping and sweeping the floors and going to three different stores to get enough meat- and dairy-free goodies to get us through the next week. If I learned anything from our first day, it’s that having easy things on hand is key. Planning ahead is going to be essential for success.

(Thoughtful aside: I ask you, brothers and sisters, what did people do before Costco?)

I had a training run on the calendar at 6, so I made an early dinner around 4. A quinoa-rice blend (Seeds of Change Organic Quinoa and Brown Rice with Garlic) with a quinoa buffalo burger on top. It was fire! Like, legit, so good. I did the patty in a cast iron skillet with a pot lid over it. It got crispy on the outside, which was a nice contrast to the soft rice.

An hour later I was running. And it was a really, really bad run. It’s hotter than Hades here and there were these tiny bugs dive bombing the pools in the corners of my eyelids. My headphones died in the middle of Keisha’s “Woman”, a badass anthem my sister-in-law introduced me to the night before and I’m entirely obsessed with 24 hours later. All I could hear now was the desperate panting of a girl who had too many pineapple ciders at a birthday party. I went 6 miles, but a mile from home I decided I just wanted to walk. I gave into my legs and let them slow to a stroll. Some battles just aren’t worth fighting. I took a swig of chocolate almond milk when I got home as a reward for lacing up the shoes at all. It’s just 2 weeks now until the half marathon. I’m ready to check that baby off … maybe for the last time.

As I sit here typing this, the girls are discussing lunch for tomorrow.

“Mama, I’m hot – cold – hot – cold – hot this week,” Spike said. “Do you get it? It’s a pattern.”
“Ah,” I said.
“What is lunch tomorrow anyway,” JoJo inquired from the sink, where’s she’s been brushing her teeth for 20 minutes.
“Popcorn chicken.”
“Oh my gosh, I love popcorn chicken. It’s basically shrimp,” JoJo explained. “I haven’t had it since first grade. Like a whole summer ago. Oh my gosh, I’m soooo excited.”

JoJo and I decide to start being pen pals. We’ll get a notebook where we can write notes back and forth and place the spiral-bound secrets under each other’s pillows every night. It will be just between us. A special treat for both.

[P.S. Someone please remind me to pick up notebooks tomorrow.]

Uncategorized, Wellness

Livin la Vida Vegan Day 1

September 17, 2017

“I just took a $70 crap,” Hank declared, ever so eloquently, emerging from the kids’ bathroom. I felt like anyone would the morning after consuming 856 grams of sugar and four courses of beef the night before. I needed coffee. Coffee, step 1. Livin la Vida Vegan meal No. 1, second.

I flipped through the Vegan for Everybody cookbook by America’s Test Kitchen, and landed on Classic Pancakes. I altered the ingredients just a bit … I used gluten-free flour instead of all-purpose, and coconut sugar instead of standard, but these puppies were perfect. The melted coconut oil and the batter danced on the hot iron skillet and created these crusty edges that welcomed us with open arms into this vegan venture.

I spread a bit of Nutiva Organic Vegan Shortening over the cakes, drizzled some organic maple syrup over that, dropped some blueberries on them and let the party in my mouth begin.

The best part, they were ridiculously filling. I couldn’t even finish the two I made. I added some Pecan Caramel Califa Farms Almond Milk Creamer to my coffee and called the first meal of the day good.

I had to help man a booth at a local music and art festival downtown, so I started to get a little panicky about lunch. Do I pack? Do I snack? I filled a baggie with a hearty nut, seed and dried fruit mix and headed out into the 80-degree day.

By 3:45 I was alarmingly sweaty and the 19 year-old hipsters were starting to seem less adorable. Luckily, my coworker is a 10-year vegetarian vet. As I got ready to leave, she told me about her favorite food truck, a vietnamese vendor who does vegetarian and vegan rice bowls. Yahtzee!

I text Hank: “Bringing home a late-afternoon vegan treat! Leaving soon.”

I walked over and ordered two rice bowls, one with lime tofu and one spicy, and put them in my front seat like precious passengers en route to heal a nation. I was starting to get ravenously hungry.

Each had a scoop of rice, cilantro and spinach, shredded veggies, peanuts and fried tofu.

I hated mine …

The interesting thing is, I would have never ordered that. Ever. And it was so perfectly satisfying and delicious. Happy discovery No. 1 and meal No. 2, done.

The challenge of the day was Hank’s aunt’s 55th birthday party. Buffets are built around two things: meat and mayonnaise. Every crock pot was brimming with coney sauce and pulled pork and meatballs. The bowls crowding the island packed with various noodles and shredded cabbages, all dressed decadently in mayo. And of course there was plenty of cheese. You don’t think about it, until you can’t have it.

I packed two kinds of hummus, guacamole, tortilla chips, sliced nectarines and blueberries, and three kinds of vegan cookies I picked up at the local natural grocery store. I was going to be damned if I let a party on the first day be our downfall.

But we made it. Once I had my goodies, walked out of the house and started dancing, I didn’t even think about the spread inside. The ladies of the family standing in a circle screaming Janis Joplin was the ideal distraction. And it’s an interesting case study in how much we focus on the food at social gatherings, instead of the social at the social gatherings. When you focus on the folks around you, stuffing your face carries a little less weight.

I extinguished my buzz on the drive home with half a container of veggie hummus and an everything cookie, and I didn’t feel deprived a bit. In fact, I’d say it was a little indulgent if anything.

Day 2, here we go …

Wellness

Livin La Vida Vegan eve

September 16, 2017

It’s 24 hours before our Livin La Vida Vegan adventure is set to begin. Also, our 10th wedding anniversary.

7 a.m.
I come downstairs to find a vase filled with 10 white roses and 5 sunflowers, a box of 4 truffles from my favorite chocolate place, a $10 lottery ticket (with a 1 in 10 chance of winning), and a dime to scratch it off (from 2007, the year we got married). I’ve mentioned before that Hank has a sordid past with gift giving, but this was the perfect gesture. A beautiful bouquet, a sweet box of sugar, and a little bit of luck. I tuck the box of chocolates into my purse and promise myself this will be a little treat for later.

Everything was just perfect.

7:45 a.m.
I walk into my office and there is a giant pink box on my desk. I lift the lid where the cardboard parts and a waft of sugary glaze erupts below my nose. Cinnamon rolls. A dozen of them. Huge pastries the size of Princess Leia’s buns, drizzled with thick white lines of frosting. Oh shit.

10:30 a.m.
I get a call from the front desk. There’s a delivery for me. Cupcakes this time. A dozen of them. Swirls of thick frostings in pinks and browns and crystal white. Tiny cookies and wafer twills adorn each one, their contents a mystery. I smell peanut butter and marshmallow and strawberry.

10:55 a.m.
The front desk again. She’s just laughing at this point. “I’ll be right there.” Now we’re looking at cookies. A dozen of them. The gang’s all here: Chocolate chip and peanut butter came, and they brought their sister snickerdoodle and her best friend sugar. Oatmeal was lucky enough to get an invite as well, but stands out as the only one in this crowd with a morsel of actual nourishment, dressed in sugar though it may be.

By lunch I was convinced that my husband either loved me so much he couldn’t contain it in just one box of confections, or he was trying to trigger type 2 diabetes so he could collect my life insurance.

“Babe!” I said when I called him at noon.
[He snickers]
“You realize we have to eat all of this stuff by tomorrow morning, right?”
“Well, I just love you,” he said, pretending to be innocent.
“Oh my gosh, you’re so sweet. It’s so much …”
“I tried to find a place to deliver tacos, but I couldn’t.”
“Ohhhhhhh, boy. Well, I love you. Thank you.”

I went out to get a probiotic drink and a trough of vegetables. I could already feel the sugar shock setting in. By now, my coworkers had consumed a total of 4 cinnamon rolls. Just 36 treats to go, counting the chocolates I’d packed from home. This would be my Everest.

3 p.m.
I started doing hot laps around the office, making up reasons to check the printer and interrupt normal people as they finished up their last-minute Friday to-dos. At one point, we used an app to check my heart rate. It was all good. But my eyes were as wide as quarters and my limbs were moving without prompting. Remember when Mike Myers played Simon on SNL, the sweet little boy who wore a harness and, when given chocolate, pulled an entire jungle gym out of the ground and ran down the street with it tethered to his back? Yup.

People started taking baked goods out of concern for my safety. I threw my hands in the air and exclaimed, “It’s the best anniversary ever!”

6:30 p.m.
Fancy anniversary dinner time. We’re all dressed up and I’m still flying a foot off the ground. We debate some mini hamburgers on the menu (these weren’t junior bacon cheeseburgers, guys. These were Mini Wagyu burgers with bacon, jalapeno, onion jam and bleu cheese mousse. Yes, yes we’ll have that.) They came out and looked like they were from an easy bake oven, tiny in an almost did-we-turn-into-giants kind of way. But I assure you they didn’t taste like anything I’ve had from an easy bake oven.

We followed these little guys with a wedge salad and corn soup, respectfully, Wagyu strip steaks on a bed of garden vegetables, a lavender latte, creme brulee and an apple tart. Ohhhhh, the apple tart. As Hank said, many, many times, “It’s like an elephant ear wrapped around apple pie!”

We met some friends for a few beers to end the night because there was just enough room in there for some liquid.

And now, here we are. The morning of Day 1. I’m either set up to fail or so incredibly food wasted that I have no choice but to succeed. Here … we … go …

Wellness

The road to my 14-day vegan challenge

September 7, 2017

Oy … you guys, I could say, “Things have been crazy,” but that would need to be followed by “for the last 8 years,” right? You have a drawer full of big girl pants, too, so you get it. Let’s talk about this vegan challenge.

Oh, wait, two quick things since we haven’t chatted in a bit. No. 1, am I the only parent out there getting d-o-w-n to some Descendants 2 songs? Mel is basically Missy Elliott at this point in my life. It’s sad, but I’m leaning into it. So many ways to be wicked. And No. 2, Sloppy Joan pooped down her leg so bad the other day, it filled her rain boot. Like, to the brim. I have a picture, but I think just typing it is about all anyone can handle today.

Good, we’re all caught up.

So, sometimes I wonder if I’m some sort of masochist, ya know? When someone invited me – me! A woman who has spent hours googling phrases like, “Why do yoga arms evade me?” and “Can a person overdose on sugar?” and “painful upper leg jiggle” – to voluntarily lay down on a table and have an iDXA scan, where a machine runs down your person to reveal your actual body composition, I said, “Why yes! Yes, I would love to.”

Why would I do that? Let me just tell you this, now typing from the other side of the experience, there is no go-get-em TEDTalk, no healthy perspective podcast, or frightening food documentary, or humble blog post or Brene Brown-eque book to prepare you for seeing how much of your body is bone, how much is muscle and how much is straight up butcher shop lard.

None. Nothing. Nope.

So, first of all, they have you lay down on your back for the iDXA scan. You know what happens when you lay down on your back? Everything spreads and settles. Like a batch of thick pancake batter hittin’ the griddle, baby. Then, you can’t move for 7 minutes. Because I had to fast for the test, I hadn’t had a lick of caffeine. So, when they said, “Hold still, please,” I heard, “Now, go ahead and take a 7-minute power nap with your eyes open.” And I said, “OK then.”

After your scan is complete, they hand you four papers and send you down for a consult. This is the portion of the visit where you discuss what the colors and numbers you’re seeing around your silhouette – which resembles Baymax from Big Hero 6 – actually mean. They try to be positive, but it’s basically like being broken up with by a cute boy in high school. “You’re bone density is great, but …” “It’s not your lack of muscle mass, it’s your …”

I won’t drag this saga out, or keep you in suspense; my results showed that I am just slightly into the overweight category. This information, sobering as it was, was no Sixth Sense plot twist. It wasn’t like Rachel choosing Bryan after crying off an eyelash over Peter. Or any of the Game of Thrones murders all you dorks are always freaking out over. The news was just confirmation that the slight insecurity I’ve been silently wrestling is now a full blown enemy, and we must go to war. It’s not about vanity (OK, it’s a little about vanity), but it’s about my health and my mobility and my children.

I’m not morbidly obese, but I’m not in a good place, either, and that’s enough to get me motivated for change. I think we’re often an all-or-nothing culture. People are too thin or too fat. They’re too toned or too frail. They’re too obsessed with their body or entirely negligent. But there’s a whole bunch of people globbed together there in the middle. And that’s where I find myself at the moment.

The problem? I’ve kind of exhausted the familiar weapons in my arsenal. The Whole30s and the half marathon training and the calorie tracking. It’s not cutting the mustard, obviously. So, I’ve decided to try something drastic and new, because, you know what, you don’t know until you try, right?

Several months back, while doing an interview with a cardiologist, I asked him about his diet. He smirked shyly and looked down, as if replaying and reliving months of judgement from his peers. “Well, I’m actually vegan,” he said. “Really?” I inquired. “Yeah,” he said. “Of all the personal and professional research I’ve done, it’s the only thing that really makes sense. I cut things out in stages and now I’m almost entirely vegan. I feel great, I maintain a healthy weight and my cholesterol looks fantastic.”

That was the first time I considered the benefits of a vegan lifestyle.

Then, about a month ago, I got a weird bug. I felt a ton of pressure in my head and completely nauseous with stomach pains and just generally shitty. While hugging my internal organs and sweating profusely, I decided to watch, “What the Health” the trending new food documentary. (A little secret about me: I am obsessed with food documentaries.) As I listened to the testimonials and the research (some of which I’m not entirely sold on), I started to fear that there was some truth to the reports that my sizzling love affair with bacon might not be in my best interests.

That was the second time I considered the benefits of a vegan lifestyle.

And then I flipped through my planner and came across the images from my iDXA scan, tucked shamefully in the back behind a baby shower invitation. Holding them in my hands, I walked into my closet and looked up at the 8 neat stacks of pre-baby clothes taunting me just below the ceiling. I turned to the mirror and I thought about all of the excuses and do-overs and self-loathing I’d racked up over the past eight, likely more, years. And I started to get really angry.

That was last week. That was also the time I decided to try this vegan thing out. Now, before you get all Judy Judgey on me, realize that I’m not buying the Porsche. I’m just taking it out for a test drive for a few weeks.

There are claims out there that a vegan diet can:
Lower risk of cardiovascular disease
Lower risk of cancer
Improve kidney function
Help lose excess weight
Reduce inflammation
Improve bone health
Reduce your carbon footprint significantly

Gosh, if even one of those works out, I’d be pretty pumped. Of course I realize these benefits would take much longer than 14 days. I also realize there’s a good chance my affinity for the Hog Trough platter at my favorite local BBQ place might just crap all over the whole thing. It’s going to be real and it’s going to be tough, and it’s going to be really tough. But, if I can come out meatless even a few days a week after this little adventure, I’d throw a tally up in the win column.

I will start my animal-free experiment on September 16, and end the trial period on September 29. I might keep going. I might make some alterations. I might just take a nap and decide not to decide anything. In the meantime, I’m pinning my panties off and checking out every vegan cookbook the local library has to offer.

Do I think it’s a magic pill? Nah, I’m a little too old to buy into that fairy tale. But do I think it’s going to hurt anything to try it and see how I feel? Nope. Because it’s about the journey. It’s about trying different things and finding the personally tailored prescription that fits. I am certain I haven’t found that yet, so I’m going back to the drug store.

I’ve had this quote from an article I read for more than a year now. I came across it again last week. It’s from Christopher Sommer, a former men’s gymnastics national team coach, who said:

“Dealing with the temporary frustration of not making progress is an integral part of the path towards excellence. In fact, it is essential and something that every single elite athlete has had to learn to deal with. If the pursuit of excellence was easy, everyone would do it. In fact, this impatience in dealing with frustration is the primary reason that most people fail to achieve their goals. Unreasonable expectations time-wise, resulting in unnecessary frustration, due to a perceived feeling of failure. Achieving the extraordinary is not a linear process.

The secret is to show up, do the work, and go home.

A blue collar work ethic married to indomitable will. It is literally that simple. Nothing interferes. Nothing can sway you from your purpose. Once the decision is made, simply refuse to budge.

Refuse to compromise.

And accept that quality long-term results require quality long-term focus. No emotion. No drama. No beating yourself up over small bumps in the road. Learn to enjoy and appreciate the process. This is especially important because you are going to spend far more time on the actual journey than with those all too brief moments of triumph at the end.

Certainly celebrate the moments of triumph when they occur. More importantly, learn from defeats when they happen. In fact, if you are not encountering defeat on a fairly regular basis, you are not trying hard enough. And absolutely refuse to accept less than your best.

Throw out a timeline. It will take what it takes.

If the commitment is to a long-term goal and not to a series of smaller intermediate goals, then only one decision needs to be made and adhered to. Clear, simple, straightforward. Much easier to maintain than having to make small decision after small decision to stay the course when dealing with each step along the way. This provides far too many opportunities to inadvertently drift from your chosen goal. The single decision is one of the most powerful tools in the toolbox.”

The goal is to document every day of the 14 days, including recipes, noticeable changes and my feelings along the way. I’m sharing this now, in case any of you brave souls would like to follow along and try it as well. I promise I will not feel differently about you if you choose to sit back and take bets on my potential failure from afar. You gotta do you.

Try That With Matt

Try that with Matt & Co. The Showdown.

March 5, 2017

My family gathers around food. It’s just our thing. Father’s Day is about Dad’s famous grilled chicken. Christmas is for ham balls, chicken wings and queso dip. The girls, Hank and I have dinner every Friday night with my parents before playing three rounds of euchre (Team Granny Panties vs. Boys). And the granddaddy of them all, Big Breakfast, is a feast of Dad’s dippy eggs, pounds of maple sausage and bacon, mugs and mugs of coffee (with the naughty creamer, of course), pancakes, fried potatoes and cinnamon rolls that takes place around my parent’s dining room table every-other Sunday. In a way, this is our church, and the sermon is always written in shameless digs and sarcasm. The congregation is questionable at best.

I could talk about Big Breakfast for hours. Seriously. It’s all about how much time you have. You’ll have your constants, like Dad dripping in sweat over four pans of food, yelling out in desperation through a potato-smelling smoke, “How many more eggs do we need? Marilyn! I asked how many more eggs do we need?” Poor guy. He’s always just slaving away as the rest of us get our coffee in hand and watch CBS Sunday Morning, which is always, always on. You’re guaranteed a story about somebody, usually my mother, falling down. It seems someone in our family falls down at least once a week. Which is probably some form of karmic justice because we all laugh like idiots at the storyteller’s misfortune. I mean, I’m sorry, but if you don’t think folks eating pavement is a side-splitting good time, we just can’t communicate. I always get the middle cinnamon roll, because, it’s the best. Duh. And there are always babies fighting and biting each other over plastic princesses.

Then we sprinkle in some excitement occasionally for extra flavor. There was the time the girls called 9-1-1 five times, unbeknownst to us, and a sheriff showed up. There was the time the entire family spent an hour trying to wrangle a 200-pound pig named Kevin Bacon into a horse trailer. There was the morning Matt belched so loud (also not uncommon) that Mom startled and instinctively turned so quickly she popped something in her neck. Or the beautiful Sunday morning Mom and I were sitting on the deck while the kids played and I leaned too far back in my plastic chair and flipped over backward. Or – and this is one of my favorites – the time my nephew took us on a Polaris ride and my brother, really, really had to go to the bathroom, so he jumped off the moving four wheeler when we got close to the house, his butt cheeks clenched so tightly he only came down on his toes and then waddle/ran all the way to the door.

And then there’s my tiny white nemesis. My parents have this rescue dog, Josie. She’s one of those tiny things, a mix of two different breeds that both have names that sound like poop, Caca-something or Doodle-other. All I know is she loves my dad’s soft bosom and licks her butt and then licks his face and I’m the only one who finds the entire relationship completely appalling. Plus, just the juxtaposition of this giant man holding a frail little dog never seems normal to me. Big Rog, knowing how I feel about the tiny mutt, refers to her as “my little sister”. “Aw, aren’t you going to say hi to your little sister?” “Your little sister had to be sedated to get her teeth cleaned, poor thing.” And so on. Well, at the last Big Breakfast, my ten-tons-of-fun brother pulled a skin tag clean of her neck with his bare hands because he thought it was a tick. She let out of tiny yelp and the whole thing was over as fast it it began. “What is that?” he asked, holding it up between his thumb and his index finger. “Oh my gosh!” Mom replied. “You pulled off her mole!” As Spike would say, “I was laughing to tears.”

See, what I mean … how much time do you have? It’s a sunny-side-up sideshow at a low-budget three-ring circus, this family.

So, why am I talking about all this? Well, partly because I got sidetracked, but I started because Big Breakfast is now part of a winner-takes-all contest several years in the making. It’s sort of a Try that with Matt … and Hank, and Kirsten, and Rog, and Marilyn. That’s right, we invited the whole kookie clan to join us for an extra-special, family-wide weight loss challenge. The Hupe Heifer Showdown began on Sunday, February 19. Six weeks, person who loses the highest percentage of body weight, wins.

Let’s meet the competitors.

The husband.
Honestly, we’re more allies than anything so it’s really hard for me to be an asshole about this one. I make his food, so sabotage wouldn’t even be a game at this point. (“They’re these weird Swedish nutrition bars. My mom used to give them to the kids in Africa to help them gain weight.”) Plus, I’m pretty sure his heart isn’t in it and he’s only participating to humor the acorns at the nuthouse.

Why he could win: This guy can drop some weight when he wants to. But he also has an addiction to authentic Mexican fare and miscellaneous goodies. Dark horse here for sure.

The parents.
Considering the parameters of the challenge, either one of these clowns could just demolish us if they wanted to. Their plan is to adjust their macronutrients (proteins, carbs) and workout more. Now, this brings up a topic that must be addressed. This is not a joke, you guys. My parents wear denim to workout. We’re talking full-on, chafe-your-nether-regions, unforgiving, tough as Clint Eastwood, 5-0-1 jeans here. I once walked a 4-mile race with my dad while he was wearing jorts, aviators and a ball cap. They just go out there like, “Hey, no big deal. I was just doing some light grocery shopping and decided to pop in for a little workout. What’s this spandex you speak of?” And it just baffles me entirely.

These people also grew up in a time when the shelves weren’t crowded with food and to waste wasn’t an option. When my dad was little, he once ate his entire meal after, af-ter, someone at the dinner table sneezed and skyrocketed a boog right onto the side of my dad’s plate. He just pushed right past it. If he put that type of dedication toward cleaning up his diet and moving a little more, or my mama did the same, this could be theirs for the taking. Although, I did have a tense 20-minute argument with my dad over the benefits of white bread (him for, me against) on Friday, so … I’ve got that goin’ for me.

Why they could win: A lifetime of refined flour and 9 p.m. snacking set these two up for some serious success if they can change their habits.

The brother.
On the morning of our initial weigh-in, Matt was running a few minutes late. As we all started going through the breakfast buffet a la Roger, my big brother walked in the back door, peeled off his shirt, then his pants and then pulled his boxer briefs up his crack before stepping onto the scale. The Chris Farley-esque stunt had Mom bent over clenching all of the pee-releasing muscles. It was bold. It made a statement. It lessened my appetite. I’m pretty sure this dude would sit in a sweat suit hovering over coals in a sauna for 48 hours straight to win this thing. I’ve been seeing him at the gym at 5 a.m. and I know he wants it. Problem is, he also wants deep dish pizza and all of the chocolate cakes. The struggle is so, so real.

Why he could win: I’ve often thought that Matt was missing the chip inside most people’s bodies that says, “No! Stop! This is the most I can take!” He’s lifted a riding lawnmower into the back of a truck by himself. The guy is Thor dressed up as an insurance agent. When he turns it on, he can hammer some workouts. Plus, he sweats like a whore in a Texas church in August.

The sister.
Dear, sweet, chocolate-covered Kirsten. My sister has six, count ‘em, six little girls. She runs ragged on all the days that end in “y” and the past few months in particular have been heavy with stress. To cope, she focused on what she needed to do for her chick-a-dees and less on taking care of herself. (Raise your hand if the lyrics to this tune sound familiar to you?) When you grow up with the nickname “Skelator,” the concept of having to work for a good weight can be a bit foreign. Kirsten has always been long and lean and now she finds herself in unfamiliar, and uncomfortable, territory. She’s rich in knowledge about healthy eating and so, so short on time, so she has her sights set on regaining balance for sure.

Why she could win: In her own words: “Because I’m too stubborn to let Matt win.” One of my fondest memories from childhood was watching Kirsten chase Matt around the island in the kitchen with a butcher knife after he’d pushed her buttons one too many times. What I’m saying is, there’s a history here. If it’s between cutting off an arm and losing to Matt, she’s severing the limb.

The me.
I have spent so many words in this space talking about my love of sweets and lack of control, it would be silly to steal more real estate expanding upon it now. Other than, just for the sake of transparency, i should mention that Hank brought home five boxes of Girl Scout cookies last week, so the cards are somewhat stacked against me. I hope somebody gets a damn patch on their sash for the internal shit I’m going through right now.

Why I could win: If Kirsten and Matt somehow destroy each other before or at the final weigh-in, my odds are pretty fair. Here’s hoping.

Those are the ponies. Ladies and gents, place your bets!

Wellness

How to properly play the shame game

October 27, 2016

Subj: Your race day photos are here!

Pictures are a strange thing, aren’t they? Depending on the angle, the movement, the moment, they can either elevate you or level you. How silly that a simple image – a blink, a blip – can have such impressive power. And the photos in this email were going to be special. Not only would they offer some frameable moments with my bestie and proof I showed up, but they would also capture my epic photobomb of a dear family friend at the finish.

But it was another bomb that detonated that day.

I opened the email. “Oy, that’s a rough picture,” I thought, not overly rocked. I clicked “next”. My face scrunched higher. “That’s not-a … not great either.” As I scrolled, my eyebrows raised and met in a rippled, disgusted collision between my eyes. The cadence of my finger on the mouse quickened. “Next”. “Next”. “Next”. I squinted and tightened my lips, revealing the tops of my bottom teeth. These proofs, all of them, were painful. Sobering.

Now, let’s pause here, shall we? This post is not an easy post to write. It’s also not an invitation for criticism or a passive plea for praise, though I can see how it would be mistaken for such. It is, like all musings on this blog, merely an observation and pitstop on my personal road to self discovery and improvement. I nearly ditched the topic altogether when, on two separate occasions in the past two days with two separate friends, the mere mention of this blog was instantaneously halted by dams of positive praise. “Stop! You look great.” “Oh my gosh, you’re crazy!’ Which, to be fair, is exactly what I would do, because that’s what our friends and parents are supposed to do. They’re trained to do it. It’s what’s socially acceptable. But I wasn’t baiting the hook that day, and I had no desire to go fishing.

Hand over my heart, I’m just trying to start an honest dialogue about the distance between the pins on my map. The ones marking where I thought I was, where I am, and where i want to go. I should be able to talk about that without people instinctively coddling my delicate inner child, or thinking I’m licking rice cakes and crying over Coldstone Creamery, or (the worst) that I brought my ego out for a good stroking only to be put back on the shelf for a few weeks before I prompt them to appease me again. Not that I think these girls thought that, or that I would think that about them if the conversation were reversed. I just think we’re so quick to console and then shut it down, rather than engage and encourage real change in the people we love.

What if, instead of my weight or my shape, I was commenting on my smoking habit. Seriously … just think about it. If I came to someone and said, “Gosh, you know, I’ve been smoking for years and I really think it’s time to reign it in and clean things up around here.” No one would say, “Oh Courtney … it relaxes you and you’re only having 8 a day!” No.

When I was training for that race, I didn’t feel great. I felt amazing after the long runs, yes. But mostly because they were over. I felt empowered by my endurance, yes. But my body didn’t feel like the body of a person who was running 8, 9, 10 miles. It felt weak. Like I was willing it to perform. Still my perception of the changes happening to my body was positive. But to lay it all out there, what I was seeing in myself throughout the 12 weeks was something that far exceeded the woman floundering in front of me on the screen in those post-race pics. And, you guys, that’s OK. l’m OK addressing it. In fact, I feel empowered and kind of on fire because of it.

If Oprah and I were sitting around chatting about our truth and what we keep in our closets and all those hidden jewels she digs up when people perch upon her magic couch, a lot of things would come out. I used my heightened exertion as a free pass to take all foods – sweet, salty, fried, fast – to Pound Town. I was eating to compensate for what I thought I was burning … what I wasn’t burning. And I wasn’t eating to fuel, either. I was eating for fun. And from boredom. And as reward.

But as my new best friend Brené Brown (whose book, “Rising Strong” is currently blowing my mind and should be on your goodreads list right now) says, “Shame cannot survive once spoken.” So I’m sayin’ it, baby: I have not been good to myself.

Again, let’s pause. I want to be clear that this is not a body shaming situation, guys. (When did everything become “shaming” anyway? Fat shaming. Skinny shaming. Bachelor shaming. I actually had a craft beer guy at a liquor store cider shame me once.) That’s not my jam. I love my body. This body carried and delivered three babies. It ran 13.1 miles … twice! It carried me over close to a dozen mountains on zero sleep for four consecutive, very cold days. And it has held up generally well considering my lackluster maintenance regimen. It is flawed, yes, for many reasons, many of which I count as my biggest blessings.

This is not a conversation about vanity. It’s about confronting personal negligence. It’s about acknowledging my sincere love for this body and where I want to see it go, then finding the silence to listen to what it is telling me it needs to get there. I rarely sit in quiet. Do you?

By this point in the post you’ve either bailed (therefore not reading this) or you’re straddling the fence between empathy and exasperation. I get it. I anticipated that. I’ve wanted to write about my come-to-Jesus moment for weeks, but haven’t. I haven’t because body image is icy. Everywhere you look people are either embracing their full figures and shutting down shamers, or collecting criticism for projecting unrealistic expectations onto young girls. You can’t win for waking up in the morning. It’s slippery and juicy with judgement. And because I don’t count myself as obese or emaciated, but somewhere in the soft center, I often feel I don’t have the right to voice my dissatisfaction with what I see. But considering 91 percent of women report being unhappy with their bodies, I don’t think I’m necessarily alone out on this limb, either. I don’t think I’m the only person to ever declare: I have work to do here!

Not only do I often fear it’s unjustified, it also seems baited. Because I have 6 little eyes constantly watching my reactions and listening to my self-deprecating commentary. One day, when I went to pick up the girls, JoJo walked up and handed me a piece of paper.

“Here Mom.”
“Thanks! What is this?”
“It’s the number for Nutrisystem.”
“Ohhhhh … OK. JoJo, can I ask, do you think I need Nutrisystem?”
“Well, you’re always talking about how you ate too much, and they help people who eat too much.”

Boom! Trap snapped.

Standing there, holding that piece of paper, my mind Googled every phrase I’d uttered over the past 7 years that had anything to do with being pregnant with a food baby, stuffed, gross and, yeah, fat. The results were deep.

But that’s more of a word choice issue I’d say. I do want them to see me striving, reaching, working hard to be something more tomorrow than I am today. Again, the war I’m waging is not against my body. It is for my body. I choose to fight it out of my desire to be strong. It is a battle rooted in love and love is nothing without respect. Respect for where I’ve been. Respect for where I want to go, and know I can. I have not been respecting this body. What I saw in those pictures was the mirror I’ve been refusing to buy. (You know the one in the dressing rooms at Target that makes you look green and cellulitey.) It was a face-down moment, and what comes next is up to me.

Brené defines integrity as, “choosing courage over comfort. Choosing what is right over what is fun, fast and easy. And choosing to practice our values rather than simply professing them.” She goes on to explain that people tend to treat you the way they see you treating yourself. You have to stand strong in your integrity.

I carve out at least 30 minutes every morning to move. I have lost 36 pounds since having Sloppy Joan two years ago. I have made great strides and I’m not embarrassed about the way I look, but I have regrets tied to my stalled progress. I have regrets about where I could be compared to where I am. And I’m not mad about that.

Regret is another label with a bad reputation. Why should we pocket regret? Why shouldn’t we listen to it and use it to fire us up inside? In Rising Strong, Brene writes, “To say you have no regret is to deny the possibility of a braver life.” Heck yeah I want a braver life! It’s indifference that really frightens me. Feeling regret is a cue that I want something more. It instigates motivation to change. Casey spoke about her fear of an uninteresting life and I think a lot of us shoulder that same worry. What would happen if we took all the energy we spent mourning and rolling around in regret and instead harnessed it as a fierce catalyst to move in the direction of our dreams?

I was listening to a podcast recently with the blogger from Strong Coffey. She was talking about the power of redirecting our thoughts of comparison. “When you’re about to unleash all the negative things in life, try to hold onto it, regroup and instead share a little more of who you wish you were these days.” It’s an exercise in visualization. Instead of letting yourself be swallowed by feelings of inadequacy, by the regrets, focus on where you, personally, are going. It’s your journey. Keep your eye on the prize and your feet and heart will follow.

Brené also shares, “There is so much knowledge in our bodies and we just have to learn how to listen.” My arms are telling me to lift what’s heavy. My head is telling me to stop sleeping with the sexy excuses. My gut is pleading with me to shed the secret sugar binges and grab what’s clean. My feet are reassuring me they can go further. It’s talking and I’m really trying to quiet down and listen.

I’ve covered miles and have miles to go. I’m just giving my shame a name in an effort to shut it down and make it something that waters my soul instead. Something that feeds and fosters growth. I want this for the little ones watching my example, of course, but mostly for the me I haven’t met yet. I want to find her, years from now, on a sun-lit peak just inches from the clouds, with a big smile on her face and nothing but light and love in her heart. I’m not asking for your sympathy or for you to talk me down off the ledge. But if you ever want to meet me at the top of the mountain, I’ll save ya a spot.

Thoughts

Idle chit chat with my chunkier self

June 8, 2016

First, I must be clear when I say that I actually go to great pains to avoid being a self-loathing turd. There’s a special kind of depressing that goes with watching perfectly lovely people wallow around in sloppy puddles of their own regrets and poor decisions. We’ve all danced and delighted in the cheap thrills of excess at some point. Personally, I’ve been obnoxiously open about my struggles with sugar, food in general really, and stubborn baby weight.

I, like you my splendid reader, have a general notion of what I should eat. Or, should I say, what will nourish my body without turning me into a moody porpoise. The knowledge has never been my problem. The willpower has. I run out of give-a-damns daily, usually somewhere between the powdered sugar donuts and my ice cream nightcap.

But as much as I wrestle with my sucrose-sucking inner feen and disapprove of her dwindling discipline, I certainly don’t hate myself. Lately, since the scale hasn’t moved any direction but up in 4 months, I’ve been trying to focus on the humor of the internal conflict. For example, I giggle at the dialogue that results from the two opposing sides of my conscious. I literally picture a physical clash of my two personas; the Jillian Michaels maven and a female Augustus Gloop. If I were to give them a sitcom, the script would include lines like* …

[After eating a dark chocolate and peanut butter sundae]
I think maybe if Hank doesn’t mind, I might just settle in to being a little fat. Not like bed-ridden fat, but fluffy.

[After working out for 4 days consecutive days.]
How have I not lost 10 pounds?

[When my new pants are tight.]
This brand’s sizes always run small.

[When it’s time to wear a bathing suit.]
It’s not that hot. Maybe I’ll just wear a dress.

[When it’s the weekend.]
The hard work starts Monday!

[On Monday.]
Why the hell did I eat that shit all weekend?

[When someone brings in donuts.]
Look at me. I’m so good cutting this delicious little devil in half.

[At 3 o’clock on the day someone brings in donuts.]
I’ll just eat the other half. It’s just a half.

[When I step on the scale.]
C’mon! Seriously? Bitch.

[When I order Culver’s.]
That’s all. … And cheese curds, please! Sorry.

[When I eat my kale salad.]
This could really use more goat cheese. Goat cheese and bacon.

[Consulting my Fitbit after a run.]
Only 171 calories burned my ass!

[Holding an empty bag of peanut M&Ms.]
Oh, 220 calories. Wait … there’s more than 1 serving? There are 3 servings in this mother clucker?! And I ate them all, so … I guess I multiply by 3 … carry the … and then … well, shit. Why do they do servings any way? Like who eats 1/4 bag of candy and calls it for the day?

[Talking to Hank.]
So, if we just agree to both eat ice cream, we’ll stay on a similar weight gaining trajectory and we won’t care about each other’s chubby bits.

[After the first bite of a cookie.]
OK, Courtney, savor it for a minute and decide if it’s really worth the calories. [Blacks out for 10 seconds.} Yup, I guess it was!

[On Pinterest]
I’m only going to pin healthy recipes with dates and apricots and avocado and … Oh! Snickers Ice Cream Pie!

[Standing in my closet.]
That makes my stomach look like an elephant’s face. That’s too tight around the arm holes. That waistband leaves a red mark around my midsection. That dress is too short, but only when I’m heavy. Do I feel heavy? That pushes out my muffin top. Black pants and a black top wins again!

[Looking at group pictures.]
I’m the only one without my hand on my hip. Is that why my arm looks so flabby? Gross. It’s like a twice-baked potato up there. If I put my hand on my hip would it look like I was trying to look thinner? Or younger?

[While running]
Go one more lap. One more lap and you can put creamer in your coffee. Gah! Am I dragging a dead body behind me or what? Please make the next song a good one. No, Nickelback. You’re not welcome here. One more lap and you can eat a a mini candy bar at 3.

*These are actual words that I have actually heard in my actual brain.

Tune in Today, Wellness

Collecting dough from DietBet

September 7, 2015

Update: Tune in today to see if she can … take her DietBet to the bank.

The emotional roller coaster that was the game of DietBet ended on Tuesday with a touch-and-go finale. On Monday, I was .8 of a pound over, and by the next morning, I was 1 pound below my goal. I’m sure I dropped the weight by stressing it straight off my body, but that’s neither here nor there.

I received the text with my “code word” on my drive to work, so a sweet coworker brought in her scale so I could hammer down my final number. It felt a little like the start of a super-secret Weight Watchers meeting in a back alley. (I look so short and shiny in this picture. Like a toddler who rubbed coconut oil all over her face. What the …)

The process is much like a first date. You submit your results pics and then they have to be “accepted” by the DietBet referees or officials or whatever title you give to a bunch of interns who sit around in a room all day evaluating photos of either delighted or defeated human beings standing on scales. Body Shot Surveyors? Anyway, you have to patiently delay gorging on your frozen Snickers in anticipation of their reply. Do they need to see you again? Are they good with what you put out there? It’s an agonizing holding period.

Finally, the response:

The next stage was one of extremely exaggerated and unrealistic speculation. How much was I going to take from the pot? A “splurge” would indicate something of great value … like treating myself to a new dress, or fancy dinner with friends, or a car. I mean, what if I won like $20,000, you guys?! This is both a testament to my ability to sensationalize mediocre events and also my grossly disappointing mathematical intelligence.

On Friday, this one came:

Which, as my husband so Hankly put it, makes sense when you figure about 50% of the contestants made their Bet. Math is stupid.

Final thoughts … I’d do it again. Sure I would. It was fun and my pants were slightly baggier by the end and these days, I count that as something to celebrate. I did it by maintaining my workout regimen and tracking calories. I then toasted both my victory and my buns with a sloppy butterburger that blew the whole point of the competition right out of the water. Maintain, Courtney … Main-freaking-tain.

Thoughts from the peanut gallery:

“Originally, I thought it was hugely motivating, because hello, money. but then I thought that the small amount of weight would come off easily after having a baby and I kind of forgot about it. Plus you don’t know how much money you’re going to get, what if you just get your $30 back and that’s it? Fast forward to the end of the challenge, I still have a pound to go and I’m spending the entire morning peeing and pumping milk so I can hit my weight. I would do it again, but only when I’m really ready to overhaul the diet and exercise regimen.” – Nissa

“Fuck. That. Shit. I say this because I just wasn’t ready. Looking for one to start on Tuesday. I like beer.” – Kathy
(Editor’s note: In addition to beer, Kathy, like Shazzer from Bridget Jones’ Diary, likes to say fuck a lot.)

Until next time …

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