Waisting Away

I would be downright lying if I told you I got skinny.

 

But if my pants (and the daily look-at-myself-naked-in-the-mirror) are any indication, I am decidedly slimmer.

 

This phenomenon started revealing itself several weeks ago, and my doctor confirmed it last week. I've lost about 13 pounds since mid January.

Considering I went to San Francisco for a Restaurant Week-based trip a few days after that initial weigh in, I'm guessing I've actually lost about 16 pounds.

 

Not exactly chump change.

 

I haven't been on a scale in five days, but I know I've been extremely good since then, and by "extremely good," I mean:

• Eating breakfast every morning (usually Special K and skim milk)
• Taking my Metformin every morning (I'm not diabetic, but I do have insulin issues) 
• Consistently working fruits and veggies into my diet
• Relying on treats like fat free cocoa instead of other decadent sweets
• Restricting my alcohol intake during weekdays

These aren't hard and fast rules, but these are probably a good representation of what I'm doing to trim calories/fat out of my diet.

Next, I plan on working more water into my diet and creating a regular walking program. The weather is turning, after all, and I plan on taking advantage of the sunshine.

No one's gonna steal my sunshine, and thanks to this weight loss, I'm walking on it.

Cinch It

My pants are falling down.

All day long - whether it is my jeans, my cargo pants or my black dress pants - I am hoisting them back up around my hips and bum.

This is a new phenomenon for me. Normally I'm one of those girls who have to do deep knee bends, squats and half splits when I put on a pair of just-washed pants.

You know how tight something can be when you throw it on straight out of the dryer, right?

Well, something happened, and now all my pants are probably a few pounds away from being around my ankles.

Two weeks ago, I had a significant health scare. I was preparing dinner for my dear friend Bluegrass Brit - Taco Night. I hadn't eaten anything for lunch (and the lettuce and veggie salad I did have wasn't that hearty).

There I was, buzzing around a skillet of browning beef, diced tomatoes and sliced avocado, when I started sweating. My dear friend was chatting away, but I just couldn't be bothered to engage in the conversation. I stared around at all the fixings and was overwhelmed to even assemble my own tacos.

That last one was a significant sign, considering I'm a girl who has never turned down a scrap of food.

A trip to the doctor revealed that I may be on my way to developing diabetes.

the doctor put me on a prescription for Metformin and ordered me to test my glucose twice a day for a month.

Apparently, pre-diabetes is completely reversible - once you get the Big D, it's not.

On my own, I started pursuing a healthier diet. No hard and fast rules, other than I insist on eating breakfast every morning. Normally a bowl of Special K with skim milk (the only kind of milk I've ever preferred), I know this little step helps me fire up the metabolism while I'm watching Good Morning America before heading to work.

I'm paying more attention to portion control and the number of fruits and vegetables I'm eating. Like I said, I'm not following any official "diet," and I'm allowing myself to fulfill the occasional craving when they strike. Just yesterday, my busy schedule got in the way of my eating at "regularly scheduled" meal times, and I drove by a Burger King.

The thought of a charbroiled Whopper with cheese made my head spin.

A trip through the drive-thru satisfied a craving that had the potential to snowball into an unpredictable moment down the road. Ever had one of those moments where you've scarfed down an entire frozen pizza on your own? Me, too.

I'm trying to avoid those moments, and that's why it's okay in my book to thwart diet tragedy with a Whopper now and then.

The rest of the time, it's skim milk, cereal, plentiful fruits and veggies, low-fat yogurt and other healthy choices.

And as much as I love a good cocktail/glass of wine/pint of beer, I'm trying to curtail my imbibing, knowing only too well how much those drinks add up to massive calories.

I've got an appointment in the weeks ahead with a dietitian who will provide me with a more concrete plan to drop weight (I need to lose AT LEAST 40 pounds to be back in a place where I can wear all my cute clothes).

A hesitant exerciser - I plan on hammering out a regular walking routine once Cincinnati's wacky weather settles down to something decidedly spring-like.

My pants are falling down.

And I don't mind a bit.

Sweat The Small Stuff

I am drinking skim milk in my coffeehouse-deliciously-flavored-coffee.

Note I said coffee - not latte or cappuccino or mocha or chai. Coffee. Vanilla flavored coffee with two packets of Splenda and a healthy splash of skim milk.

Sans half and half.

This is a significant sacrifice for me.

I like frothy. I like over-the-top. Whether we are talking cocktails or coffee or sandwiches or dessert. You name it - I like my insert consumable item here elaborate. And flavorful. And extreme.

And the wheels come to a screeching halt when one signs up (Renews? Re-ups?) to roll with the Losers.

My life on the lam has lasted more than I care to admit. I've run wild with abandon, gorging on decadent cheeses, drinks and drinks and drinks a plenty. The recent holiday season was the Super Bowl of my decadence, dishing up almost a party (or two or three) for each night of December.

I can just imagine the apron of fat draping over my abdomen growing and multiplying with every bite and sip.

So, despite my affinity for all that tastes good on the tastebuds, it is time for me to regain self control.

My goal? Not a number or dress size. I just want to look good naked.

I want to look good enough to wear a swimsuit at a hot travel destination with zero shame. I want to be confident about my body when I strip down to my skivvies with a man I care about.

I want to be able to admire the body I see when I step out of the shower. Right now, I sigh and throw the towel around my body, trying to cover up what everyone can see.

The plan is not overly ambitious - in the beginning.

Calories in versus calories out. That's the way this game is played, right? I am going to rely on shortcuts that help me indulge in the things I love while making wise choices for my diet.

I am going to drink my water if it kills me - and I'll tote it around in a bottle in my purse if I have to.

I'm going to score some new tennis shoes - kicks that will let me walk and run and jump and otherwise exert some energy, which is definitely in order after a late night New Year's Eve celebration that involved everyone at the party committing to do the. Flying. Pig. Half. Marathon.

What the hell did I just get myself into?

Thankfully I have you all. I have my lovely Losers. I have my wonderful friends.

And I have a vision of how great my naked body used to look oh so many moons ago.

Right now is about sweating the small stuff. Skim milk instead of half-and-half. Five minutes of moving versus five minutes of lummoxing.

I can do this.

Kate: Roadblock

Single girl is my shtick.

Every Cincinnati Loser has her own brand of blogging - some of us are mothers, some of us are vampy fashion mavens, some of us are brides-to-be and some of us are food and wine divas.

I am single. That's my "gig" ~ at least where blogging is concerned.

Most of the time it's great. I go to fun parties and have fun weekend afternoons, and I never have to hire a sitter or consult a man to determine whether his calendar coincides with my designs for decadence.

I sleep in late, I drink cocktails early and I eat whatever I want.

That all poses a problem when you're trying to make a little bit less of yourself in the world.

And that's the rub.

I've talked about this before on my blog, I definitely have a subconscious belief that if I can shed the pounds (or at least a few of them), I will make myself more attractive to a potential suitor.

I'll look good naked - and the men I meet will want to find out just how good.

But after a months-long dry spell (I think we were singing Christmas carols the last time I had sex), I have reached a strange point in my singleton universe ~ I'm ready to throw in the towel.

If my life were a movie, I'd be transitioning from the buxom, blonde main character into the crazy teacher who wears holiday themed sweaters and enjoys a solo home life with her many cats.

Yeah, not so sexy. Right?

And so every time my mother grabs my plump but pretty face, and tries to convince me You would have to beat the boys off with a stick if only you'd just lose some weight, I just want to yell I'm okay with the curve! I'm okay with the size 18! I'm okay with the one piece!

But sometimes I'm really not.

I actually would love to wear a two-piece while tanning along a sparkling, cerulean pool behind one of Vegas' most glamorous casinos. I'd love to wear a dynamite cocktail gown (without a bra) to an elegant black tie affair. I would love to skinny dip in a pool and not be self conscious about the part that comes between wearing clothes and diving in the water.

I am weathering this storm of indecision.

Sometimes it's a season of complacency dotted with determination. Other times it's period of militant commitment laced with brief indulgence ~ and sometimes I think this storm has more to do with my status of Single than it does my health or diet.

Right now I'm thick in the middle of the former - and it kind of sucks.

Oktoberfest (and the preceding days) rolled into my life, complete with goetta balls, fried pickles and the tastiest bier from the Homeland. I am fat and happy.

Or am I?

The scale shows that I have been living life on the lam - and now regret has infiltrated my psyche. For this week, I am taking a "bye" on the weekly weigh in~ even Weight Watchers gives you the option to abstain one time.

I've had my fill of fried food and (solo) reckless abandon.

It's time to get back on the wagon and hit the road headed towards a town called Success - both in weight loss and personal satisfaction.

Kate: Rollecoaster (Week 2)

I think I'm a little bit more sensitive than the average bloke.

I read subtlety between the lines of conversation with friends, and sometimes come away with disappointment, hurt or distrust.

My family has always been a source of emotional conflict - usually relating to feelings of inadequacy, neglect or rivalry.

Whatever the scenario, I have found a friend to help me cope through the heartbreak. I don't know when it started. Maybe over cocoa and Girl Scout cookies. Maybe over a piece of pie leftover from one of my mother's dinner parties.

Food became a tool to fill the void in my heart. When I was young I had no idea I was really filling the void in my stomach (and fat cells).

These days I am acutely aware of this paradigm.

I know that I reach for the ice cream or cookies or chips or cake or you-name-it when I'm feeling empty. That's why I have eradicated any sort of decadence from my refrigerator, freezer or pantry (save for some semi-sweet chocolate chips that are mostly used for baking but sometimes doled out in limited qualities to appease a sweet fix.)

Instead, I relegate my indulgences to one-of experiences requiring a trip to the ice cream parlor, bakery or grocery.

More likely, I fix my need to feed with delicious, sauteed veggies seasoned by whimsy - sometimes flavored with special curries and spices I picked up in Europe, other times I feel like an apothecary finding the perfect cure for the blues in my traditional spice rack. Other times I turn to small bits of cheese and delicious fruits.

That I use food to comfort my mood is the true problem at hand. I know I need to find other ways to address emotion - whether it be with long walks, hikes, bike rides or moments of book reading.

But until I can fix that Pavlovian relationship, I will have to take comfort in knowing I am at least making wiser choices when fixing my feelings with food.

(broke even this week/1.6 lost total)

Kate: Comfortably Numb

Carnie Wilson says she's trying to heal herself from the inside out.

That's the wisdom I gleaned while watching Tyra Banks this afternoon.

I don't normally stoop to this level - watching Tyra, I mean. Talk shows aren't my bag but I do think the former fashion model has done a lot to promote Hollywood's dire need to embrace real women. Remember when she wore that swimsuit on tv - the same one that the paps snapped her in while on the beach? The tabloids made a huge bru-ha-ha about Tyra's thighs and butt, and so she trooped out on the show in the same bathing suit and grabbed her "big fat ass" and essentially dared the world to insult her beauty.

Remember?




Stick with me folks, there's a point to all of this.

So anyway - Tyra. Carnie Wilson. Talk show. The two ladies are chatting about being healthy and the perils of celebrity, and Carnie says something about how she just needs to be happy being Carnie, not what other people want her to be.


And I was like, Hell yeah!!


We've all talked a little bit about it on this blog - some of us have a much higher potential for being skinny. I have slim to no shot of being skinny - I am built to be buxom or bombshell. I have have big breasts and curvy hips - there's no mistaking that I am a woman! I love wearing things that accentuate my assets and I love celebrating my feminine form. I am comfortable with who I am - but I've gotten to the point where perhaps I am a bit too comfortable.

I remember another time when I was curvy and yet there was less of me. Back in the day, I spent more time in my sneakers than I did on the couch. I ate more vegetables and fruit and less ice cream and cheese. I loved myself and treated my body like it was the only vessel through which I can enjoy life.

I don't really know what happened.

Somewhere between the comfort and the stress (I know, odd combination) I managed to let myself go. I forgot that nobody's going to take care of me but ME.

I was numbed by life.

The holiday weekend was rough. It was a nice break from the busy-ness of life, but it was full of late nights with limitless glasses of wine, indulgent dinners of lobster and drawn butter and brunches of croissant french toast, crepes and egg casserole. I tried to tow the line when I could, but most of the time I was more than happy to reach for another sip of sangria.

I can't beat myself up over my past mistakes, the only thing I can do is try to make wise choices next time - and heal myself from the inside out.

1.6 lost

Kate: Final Hours of Debauchery

I really needed this "diet" thing to sink in.

After all, going from eat-and-drink-whatever-you-want to something far more disciplined is, well, a little scary.

So I decided to allow myself a final weekend on the lam.

I haven't really gone buck wild this weekend, but things could change because Sunday isn't even close to being over. Friday night was ushered in with a multitude of sins, including fried calamari and Blue Moon at Black Finn. Then it was on to Newport and my "second residence" in Cincinnati. There, the gang enjoyed bottle after bottle of good wine (and a nice Procecco to round things out) and bags of sinful Sliders from White Castle.

We have no shame.

Saturday morning the Cincinnati Losers gathered for a photo op and then Amy in Ohio and I headed to Findlay Market to scout out the fresh veggies and fruit. We were both limping along with starvation, so I decided to break down and have one of the Taste From Belgium waffles.

I can't remember the last time I had something so delicious.

I stayed in Saturday night and was relegated to my fresh fruit and Lean Cuisines, but am already contemplating my indulgences of today.

Burger Madness at Arthur's? Massive bucket of popcorn at the movies? Maybe (most definitely) a scoop or two of Blueberry Pie ice cream at Graeter's.

Tomorrow is my Day of Reckoning, and I am trying to end this last chapter of myself with a bang.

I signed up for Spark People at the endorsement of some of the other Cincinnati Losers, and am already discovering it's an easy way to self motivate and plod along to a diet plan.

Exercise really sucks in my book, but I'm also planning on packing my lunch and using my lunch break to take a quick walk in Eden Park or around the downtown area.

I am visualizing myself 50 pounds lighter, and I know I can do it if I stick to my priorities and weigh my options in regards to eating, drinking and moving.

Introduction: Kate

I used to be hot.

Standing at about 5'8" with a broad frame and the requisite curves (including a huge rack), I used to be the kind of girl that some boys chased after.

But it wasn't always that way.

I started gaining weight as a teen. Genetics is partly to blame, but I also attribute it to an 800 mile move to the East Coast the summer before my sophomore year in high school. Connecticut was foreign territory full of foreign people who were more aggressive, more stand-offish, and more rich than I was accustomed to while growing up in Cincinnati.

I found solace in food - it didn't matter what it was. Heaping aluminum tins of Chinese takeout, tubs of Ben and Jerry's. The bags upon bags of Pecan Sandies and Doritos my mother would stock in the kitchen pantry.

I was the new girl in town and food was my only friend in the world. It was the start of a beautiful relationship.

To make matters worse, my DNA code was predisposed to weight gain. Both sides of my ancestry include a history of sturdy people - solid German and Irish folks who had their differing ways to prepare a potato. To this day, that starchy goodness is my favorite food, but I digress.

The genes got in the way and I was never a track star or a soccer queen. Rather, I was the kind of girl who hid behind books in the library and sang in madrigal choirs - in big, flowing velvet and satin dresses. My particular dress was bigger than everyone else's, and though I wasn't the slimmest girl in the chorus, I probably had the biggest bones, so it didn't really bother me.

Then I got to college.

I saw all the little girls with the little black pants and the tiny tops, and I so wanted to play along. I spent one summer with a pair of roller blades permanently fixed to the bottom of my feet. I carried a water bottle everywhere I went.

I started looking pretty good.

Fast forward a couple years. The Ball dropped on New Year's Eve and the world ushered in 2000. I woke up to watch the parades and had a strong conviction - this would be my year to reinvent myself. It was so cliche - I joined Weight Watchers January 2nd. I started running - slow as a turtle at first. I'd carry one of those portable CD players with me as my sneakers pounded the pavement, listening to Beyonce wail I don't think you're ready for this jelly.

By May I was 30 pounds lighter, running 3 miles a day, between three and five days a week.

Bootylicious, indeed.

I was wearing little dresses and little tops. Short skirts. Everywhere I went, friends would marvel at my brand new look. Men showered me with compliments and advances. I was never denied a date, a drink, a kiss from a man I desired.

Then I got complacent. I'd cheat. I stopped counting points. I'd allow myself one meal off the wagon. That snowballed into one day off the wagon and then one weekend off the wagon. I'd trade my time in the gym for time on the couch or at happy hour. I opted for another margarita instead of a Diet Coke.

A few years later - I was back to the old body.

Since then, I've had spurts of dedication. I've renewed the WW membership more than once and I've picked up my fair share of water bottles, all in the hopes of renewing some good habits.

Three years ago - not my smallest (and not even close to my thinner sister), but better than my current status. Notice how I have the standing to the side thing down pat?

For some reason, I just can't make it stick.

Now I'm in my 30s, and I look like lots of housewives my age - extra padding on my hips, my thighs and my tummy. The catch is - I'm not a housewife. I'm not a mother. I'm still a single girl who should be enjoying the time of her life.

I should still be hot.

Instead, I think I'm just luke warm.

Taken in June at my friend's wedding. I've got my chin cocked upward to try and smooth out the double chin. It doesn't help that my friend is likely a size 00.

So here I am, teaming up with some fellow blogging chicks who want to wage a war on their weight. I'm not at a place where I feel comfortable sharing with you my current weight or size, but I WILL tell you I hope to lose 45 pounds.

I already went out and bought 14 Lean Cuisines, a water bottle and a box of single serving Crystal Lite packs.

The memory card in my digital camera has fewer and fewer pictures of myself - only because I don't want them to be preserved for all eternity.

I consistently ask people to take pictures of me from a vantage point that's above me - because that's more flattering for fleshy faces.

I know how to beat the system. But I don't want to anymore. I want to get rid of the monkey on my back, my waist and my thighs.

I want to be hot.