for the record...

...looking at Sugardaddy's brownies is not helping the carbohydrate cravings. 

I'm just sayin'...

the tenacious ten: day one

After a weekend of carb-loading, today began the attack on the Tenacious Ten.Two months on the "miracle diet" did not produce a miracle, unfortunately. My weight loss stalled after a five to eight pound loss and began to taunt me from there, inching up and down but never getting any lower. I decided I would switch to the lean, restricted version of eating clean, hoping it would take that last five off. But upon weighing myself the day I was to begin, I was shocked to find that the last five was really back up to the last ten. And then, I completely lost it over not losing it.

The last week, wherein I wallowed in my post-weigh-in freak out, was spent half in futile moderation, half in an all-out carb-fest. All gains that were made in the last two months are likely gone. This is what life is like in my body. I won't bore you with how incredibly demoralizing it is to keep going round and round and round with the same ten pounds. Suffice it to say it SUCKS.There was a public service announcement that ran when I was younger that pictured someone holding up an egg. This is your brain, the caption read. Then the body-less hand flung the egg into a skillet and it exploded, egg bits scattered all over the pan. This is your brain on drugs. I don't know how effective the announcement was at preventing drug use, but the phrase became a part of our lexicon. This is your brain. This is your brain on chocolate. This is your brain on milk. This is your brain on chemistry. This is your brain on homework.

My brain on a diet is a MESS. My body on carbohydrates is even worse, though not as graphic as the egg. Rest assured, you don't want to see it, nonetheless. My body on carbohydrates—a smidgen too much whole wheat bread, one too many Kashi granola bars, a bowl too many of high fiber, high protein cereal—and my middle gets squishy and soft and my pants start to cling in all the wrong places. The problem is, as you might have guessed, that I loveloveloveloveLOVE carbohydratey foods. Love. So restricting my carbs for a month, without the tradeoffs the "miracle diet" provided, well, let's just say it's not my favorite idea.At all.

Today is one day down. Egg whites with a half cup oats. A protein smoothie. An apple with two hard boiled eggs. Chicken chili with black beans and a scant amount of brown rice. WITHOUT the tortilla chips and cheese my children used to adorn their own. Sigh. A 30 minute walk, a 30 minute weight work out. I'm not full speed ahead yet, but I'm at least facing in the right direction today. That's a start.Tomorrow brings a 10 hour work day that will hopefully end in a brisk walk. Another step in the right direction.
Provided there are no homemade baked goods in the break room.

still waiting for the miracle

My scale is broken. I stepped on it this morning, and it said 150.4. I moved it. Stepped on it again. 150.4. Moved it again. Stepped on it again. 150.4. Five different locations on the one hundred year old hard wood floor. Which usually render five different numbers on the scale. Five exact same readings this morning. 150.4

Now, let's review. I've been on The Miracle Diet, which enabled me to lose 100 pounds over five years ago. I regained twenty during The Winter From Hell, two years ago. I'd lost fifteen, and was hovering at 145 for about forever. But I was sticking to The Miracle Diet. And I was going to lose that blasted Final Five and be able to wear the clothes that are hanging, lonely and forlorn, in my closet. By the end of February.

I have deviated from The Miracle Diet Exactly three times in the last two weeks since I last weighed myself. I had a piece of cake. Singular. I had two cinnamon rolls. Plural. I had Chinese with rice. Global. If I put all of that together, it doesn't even weigh ONE pound, let alone five. I fail to understand. But then again, that's par for the course around here.

So, here we go. Sunday starts The Diet From Hell. Because I'm sick and tired of going round and round with this last five pounds. I want my pants to fit--the pants I already fit in once before, for five years. Is that so wrong? No. It's not. Two weeks. I'm giving it two weeks.

And if my scale doesn't say something close to 140 by then, no matter WHERE I put it on the stinkin' floor, well, then it's GONNA be broken.

moderation, my fanny

I almost didn't do it. I had been avoiding it lately--afraid of what I'd find and what I'd do once I found it. And so I went for three weeks maintaining total abstinence, in complete ignorant bliss, not knowing what the scale had to say about what my body was or wasn't doing. I'd tell you it was a peaceful, serene three weeks without this constant, subjective feedback, but that would be a lie. Feedback, alas, comes in many forms.

Over the past three weeks, feedback has come in the form of pants that fit better one day, but then clinging exactly the same as they used to the next. It has come in the form of bloating throughout the day to the point of having to peel my pants of at night. It has come in the form of checking my reflection morning, noon, and night, to see if it looks any different. I'm unfortunately no less neurotic simply for having not stepped on my scale.

This morning, however, I am slightly more neurotic for having stepped on the scale. All the feedback over the last few days--pants fitting better, people commenting on how I look, the image in the mirror looking a little smaller--all seemed to indicate that there should be a new number on the scale. And a lower one, to boot. So I took a deep breath, crossed my fingers, and took a gamble. And was immediately reminded once again that what SHOULD be and what really IS do not often line up in my world.

My scale blinked the same flippin' number at me today as it did three weeks ago. Three weeks ago. Are you beginning to see why my body makes me crazy? Three weeks of miracle diet, with very few exceptions, and the scale still reads 145. I don't know what... I don't know why... I don't know how... I can't even complete a sentence. There are so many possible endings to each of those beginnings.

Eight pounds lost, five to go. And the scale is not budging. This scares the crap out of me. Why? Because it's beginning to look like I might need to do something drastic. And I'm just not sure I'm up for drastic.

Over the past three weeks, I had two pieces of pizza and a slice of cake for my son's birthday. I cheated. Yes. I admit it. But I did so in a healthy way. I did so in moderation. I did so in order to not swing from the extreme of legalism to the extreme of anarchy. I felt okay about it. The next weekend was my women's group retreat. I went off the diet for one day--ONE DAY--and ate in moderation what everyone else was eating. And this past weekend, we had a birthday celebration for a friend, and I cheated for one meal. ONE MEAL. I did not binge. I did not go hog wild. I did not go completely off the deep end. I ate what everyone else around me was eating, and I did so in moderation.

Here's what makes me CRAZY. Moderation is not enough. Apparently, a few slices of pizza and a couple of desserts over the course of three weeks, even done in moderation, are enough to completely derail any semblance of progress. That makes me utterly, ragingly insane. If I want to take off this last stinkin' five pounds and fit back into the rest of my "fit girl" wardrobe, I'm going to have to be completely, 100% perfect. I'm going to have to resist eating like everyone else at next week's potluck. I'm going to have to possibly go even more drastic with the diet. And I'm going to have to work out even harder. And I don't know that I have it in me to do that.

Some days, I wish I were just okay with being fat. Some days, I wish I just didn't care. Because some days, I just don't think I have what it takes to fight this life-long battle with a body that wants to be covered in a nice, thick, warm layer of fatty flesh. I know what it takes to do that. And today, I'm sick and I'm tired and I'm just not up for it. Not for today, not for this weekend, not for the month, not for the rest of my life.

Tomorrow will most likely look different. I will try to cling to that and put the blinking number and the swirling thoughts and the raging confusion out of my head for now. As for how I shall succeed with that attempt, well, we shall see...

bread

Today was back-on-track day. Or, it was supposed to be back on track day. Instead, I somehow ended up at Panera, with a beautiful chunk of whole grain baguette on my plate next to my soup and salad. And, well, you know. I just succumbed.

Perhaps it is this upper respiratory crud that has me in its grip that weakened my defenses. Perhaps. I just knew that I was going to end up with carbohydrates on my plate, and I didn’t have the urge to fight it this time.

About six weeks into the miracle diet now, and I’m still not quite there yet. I had kind of thought I would be done by now, which I must admit is a bit disheartening. The results had been so immediate and impressive the last time—I expected a similar result this go-round. As usual, life does not turn out as expected. But I’m okay with that. I can slide into a pair of jeans I could not pull up past my hips before Christmas. That means, slowly but surely, something is changing. As long as it keeps moving in that direction, I will not lose hope. Yet.

The good news is there is not a food event on the horizon for the next several weeks, enabling me to concentrate on sticking to my diet for a good three or four week stretch, hopefully getting me to my goal weight by the end of March at the latest. If I can steer clear of Panera and the magnetic pull of fresh-baked bread, I should be good.

I hope.

And to hope, after all, is progress for me.

a different kind of victory

What do you say when your oldest, closest friend and her family want to try Buca di Beppo's for the first time when you're visiting them out of town, and you're on a low-carb diet?

You smile and say, "Sure!"

And then you don't give it another thought.

You eat your cheesy, carby dinner, and you enjoy it.

You eat your dessert that the husband's went back out into the frigid cold to pick up four hours later, and you enjoy that, too.

You don't eat until you feel sick.

You don't eat until you feel like you can't eat any more.

And you don't obsess about it. Too much.

Then you plan to get back on track tomorrow.

This, too, is a victory.

a new year, a new diet

Subtitled, "You Know You're Desperate When You Begin The New Year's Diet on December 27^th."


Two years and still the same @$#%*@! 15 pounds clings to my midsection. Here is what I know:

1. Dieting at my mother's house is not only an impossibility, it's insane.
   
2. My body loves me some carbs. My figure does not.
   
3. Eating clean and exercising regularly is not enough to overcome the carboholic fanny pack I've accumulated.
   
4. Going low carb has worked for me. It has been the ONLY thing that has worked for me.
   
5. I am going low carb again. For 15 pounds.
   

Bought a big honkin' bottle of Benefiber at Costco, and we're good to go. Literally and figuratively.


Cheers! Here's to getting off this crazy ride!

longing

Been sick again in addition to running around like a chicken with its head cut off trying to get this school year wrapped up. May 29th, here I come! In the meantime, when I can't write the way I really want to, I'm trying to get better at sharing quotes and short little thoughts. Working on slaying that all-or-nothing demon. Not doing so hot so far, but I'm working on it. So here goes.

Gerald May states, in Addiction and Grace, that "we naturally seek the least-threatening ways of trying to satisfy our longing for God, ways that protect our sense of personal power and require the least sacrifice." This truth is behind the title of this blog, which I hope to write more about at another time. Suffice it to say that I believe what I (and all of us, if I may be blunt) am/are really, truly hungry for is more of God--more intimacy, more depth, more power, more real-ness--but I turn to more carbohydrates instead.

Why? Because they are safer. And they taste better. And I know that, as long as I've been to the grocery lately, they will be there. They are immediate. They are satisfying. They demand nothing of me. What's not to love?

I know the Truth. I know it will set me free. But I don't know what to do with that unsatisfied longing May talks about in the mean time.

outrageous!

I once described, with a great deal of bewilderment and, I must admit, the slightest bit of disdain, my husband's bizarre and mysterious ability to not eat a piece of cheesecake simply because he was not hungry. I likewise marveled, within this same post, about his ability to reside within the same house as that piece of cheesecake without devouring it immediately. Such things are, truly, beyond my comprehension.

It appears my daughter has not fallen far from the proverbial tree. On Sunday, my father-in-law treated us to Cheesecake Factory for dessert on Mother's Day. My daughter, or at least the part of her that is like her mother, insisted on having HER OWN piece of Chris' Outrageous Chocolate Cake. The part of her that is like her father could not finish it, and brought it home.

Where it sat in the refrigerator until last night. When I ate it. Because I couldn't stand it anymore.

I refuse to feel guilty about it. She was clearly not going to finish that piece of cake. And it was simply too outrageous, truly, to go to waste. I mean, com'mon—a layer of rich brownie, topped with coconut-pecan frosting, topped with chocolate cake, topped with chocolate chip coconut cheesecake, topped with more cake, more frosting, and more brownie! How could you NOT eat that?!?!

I waited for FOUR days. Granted, I did not remind her it was in there. But, for crying out loud, who needs reminded they have a piece of cake in the fridge!?!?!

So yes, if my daughter asks, I ATE HER CAKE. And it was darn good, too. But here's the scary thing—I think something is going very wrong within my internal wiring. I did something I NEVER do.

I didn't finish it. GASP.

The last three bites—the part where the back of the cake was drizzled with chocolate fudge and huge chocolate chunks—it was too sweet. I threw away the last three bites of Chris' Outrageous Chocolate Cake. Did you hear that?! I THREW AWAY THREE BITES OF CAKE!!! Either something is very, very wrong, or, well, hmm… or something is finally getting right. I'm not sure which, but I'd better go finish the Dark Chocolate Cookie Crumble ice cream before some weird manifestation of my husband rises up in me and decides I'm not really hungry!

too much yes

Alas, there can also be such a thing as too much yes.

Despite several years of working toward finding that point of moderation, I still find myself in situations (notice the passive terminology there—part of the problem perhaps?) where my intake valve gets stuck in the “on” position. This weekend was the perfect example. Burger and fries on Friday. No problem. A little no, a little yes. S’mores by the campfire on Saturday. No problem. A little no, a little yes. Cookout at my brother’s on Sunday. Big problem. All yes. Yes, yes, and more yes. To the point of complete and utter discomfort for the rest of the evening. Too much yes.

I used to swing wildly and widely between the extremes of too much no and too much yes. Diets. Vilifying foods or groups of foods. Counting calories obsessively. Too much no. Binging. Unable to step away from the potluck table. Ordering too much out of an uncontrollable fear of not having enough. Too much yes.

Over the last several years, I have worked toward an all-things-in-moderation mentality. I restrict, but don’t outlaw, sugar, gluten, and dairy 90% of the time because I just feel better when I do. But I also eat a piece of sugar and white flour laden cake at a birthday party for the exact same reason—I just feel better when I do. I eat clean, I eat healthy, I eat a reasonable amount. Most of the time. Most.

Somewhere in my spirit I can’t break this classic starve-binge cycle, particularly the binge loop, no matter what I do behaviorally. At least 85-90% of the time I eat moderately and happily. I eat things I enjoy, and I enjoy the things I eat. I don’t feel deprived, I don’t feel hungry, I don’t feel compulsive or anxious. I just eat. At home. At work. At a friend’s house. At Chipotle. I just eat, and I’m fine.

But then I go to a cookout. To a potluck. To a sit-down restaurant. A switch is flipped, the intake valve turned on, all restraints removed. Why? My mind begins rationalizing. I just want to eat like everyone else is eating (although I’m not—I’m eating much, much MORE). It’s a special occasion (like a Friday… or a Saturday). I won’t get the opportunity to eat this/like this again for a while (like until NEXT Friday or Saturday).

The classic model would suggest I’m binging in these situations because I am starving myself in others. But that is no longer true, at least not in a dietary sense. This same model would also suggest that I’m vilifying the foods that trigger me, therefore causing me to gorge on them from time to time in rebellion. This is also no longer true—I don’t treat these foods as “bad” any other time, I simply eat them in moderation.

So what causes the “safety” on my intake valve to come off? Why, when unlimited options are placed in front of me, do I become a pistol cocked and fully loaded? And why can I be reasonable and healthy at one place during one moment in time, but be completely unable to restrain myself the next?

What am I hungry for that causes me to eat in such a way? These are the questions I am seeking to explore.