Ah, stress, how do I hate thee? Let me count the ways. Oh wait, there's a gazillions ways I hate you. For all the reasons I can think of, including but not limited to: My neck seizing. The tactical targeting of my immune system. Dotting my face with breakouts. Sweating- profuse amounts of sweating. Trouble sleeping. My short temper. I am snappy. I don't like anything about myself or anyone else for that matter. My tolerance and patience is zip! Then there's the stress eating, which just makes me feel worse about the rest of these shenanigans. So, I decided to take a deep breathe, a yoga class, a long walk and a nap...you know, just to see how the Stress with a capital S reacted.
Well, Stress isn't stupid and it's oddly patient. Avoidance doesn't equal Stress-execution. Stress waits, while I am hovering in warrior pose. I awake from my nap to find it staring me in the face. Stress is a Siamese twin joined to me at the heart. Stress you persistent eh-hole (this stress is very Canadian;)) you just won't leave me alone. So, deep breath, I pick up my blog and write a letter to stress:
Stress,
I do not accept you. The way you make me feel and the way you steal my energy for things I should be psyched about. Every time you tag along I feel like I could puke or punch someone out or cry. How do you expect to make friends if you treat everyone like this way? Wouldn't you rather be enthusiasm? Or perhaps butterflies? If you would like to explore alternate careers, please let me know and we can talk it out.
Hopefully,
Melicious
PS You've made my butt look fat in these pants- what's your plan for that?
Dropping this letter sealed with a kiss into the Universal mail box, I hope Stress gets the jist. But like any courier UMS is hit or miss. As for me; I will continue to encourage myself to grow, participate, put myself out there. The more I act like the person I want to be; the easier it is to be that person. Slowly, but surely I have begun to realize the things I was stressing over might not be so bad. The fear of failure was stressing me out- but the need to express myself and live regret free is a way bigger win, well worth the stress. Change is stressful, but it's something I can handle. I'll just catch Stress, then quarantine it, rehabilitate it and release it back into the wild. Otherwise let's hope all Stress needed was a strongly worded letter.
 Alternate titles include: The Resolutionator, My Body/My Self, Everything Old is New Again, You Say Goodbye, I Say Hello and This is Going to be the BEST Year Ever- the Farmer's Almanac said so. Well, jingle my Xmas bell and ring in the New Year! I've missed all 6 of my loyal readers! And am enjoying my new found popularity in the Russian market. Who knew they were fans of the middle of the road humour I am all about. Hmmm*insert shrug. There have been a multitude of changes over the past 2 weeks... For one you might've noticed the image to the right...Why yes, that is my new logo. Oh really? You think so? I'm a big fan too. I am also planning on a huge website overhaul to celebrate my first blog-iversary- Exciting times for those of us on the ground floor. Many more floors planned, but I am awaiting zoning by-law approval. Now, this Year's resolutions include soon to be classics and renewals of the ever popular standards. For example I am taking level 2 Ukeology with my Fav teacher Judy Marshak, a continuation of last year's initiative. There has been significant progress on my YA novels, so that's coming off the back burner and being put onto the mid-burner. I am back to being a pescetarian, which is a type of omnivore. A fancy way of saying meat makes me sad and sick, plus fish can't cry, they don't have tear ducts. Hubby and I have also started juicing. The amazing flavours of cabbage and kale finally in one condensed murky glass...that was sarcasm, though most of his concoctions have been a dis-licious veggie blast. The whole eating right and exercise thing seemed to be working, so that is to be continued with renewed fervour. Which brings me to what I have been worried about...I owe us a weigh in. Sigh. I'll be honest, all the goodies and boozes and baddies caught up with me this holiday season. For example, Hubby and I finished a box of Ferrero Rochers in a sitting, mind you it was a Sons of Anarchy marathon, so it was over a few hours, but still. Those delicious hazelnut nuggets went down like butter... which I also ate a lot of. Looking at myself in the gym wall mirror this week has given me pause. I am definitely up... but just how much is yet to been seen. So, I guess it's time for us to see what comes of bad decisions.
And now for the moment I've been avoiding: Week 12 measurements
Height still 5'8"
Weight 173.6 (-2.6 lbs)
Bust 40 (-/+)
Natural waist 33.5 (+.5")
Hips 44 (+1")
Arm flex r:13.5 (+.5") l:13.5 (-/+)
Arm rest r: 12.5 (-1") l:12.75 (-.75")
Thigh standing r: 25 (+.25) l:24.5 (-/+)
For a total gain of .5 inches but a loss of 2.6 lbs
That is one strange weigh in. I knew that I would be up, but to also be down... It's a wonder that people don't drive themselves crazy with their numbers. From what I understand the muscle I gained before the holidays helped me to fend off some of the weight, though not the bloating. Oh and as had been the pattern no inches gained or lost on my bust line. Surprise, surprise, surprise. I am definitely happy to be back on track, it's not necessarily a fast track, but now I know what direction I am going. So as soon as that Pot of Gold is gone I will be back to my strict no junk regime...I mean who can resist that chocolatey flavour rainbow?
You have high blood pressure, you need to lower your cholesterol, try a no sodium diet. It's like you spend your childhood being told not to eat candy, cake and french fries. Then you grow up and your doctor says don't eat candy, cake and french fries. Well, then why do they even exist? Pure torture. Tempting devils (food cake) that ruin my mind and body. Walking across the city I can smell the grease and fire smoked goodness wafting out onto the street. Teasing my nose with those tantalizing fingers of smell. While undertaking the Starving Artist I have been trying to up my game. Sadly, I am now at the point where I want anything but those crisp and delicious veggies, followed by a cool glass of spring water. I want some garbage.
Hubby and I consider ourselves foodies. Though not the culinary adventure type Foodie, we're more a "Find your favourite and only ever order from there" kinda Foodie. If you want something, we know where to get it. We know what we consider to be the best place for that particular dish. We are open to exploring new places; brunches being the preferred time slot. The comfort of eggs accompanied by coffee and booze. The glamour of dinner in the light of day. Brunch is also way more affordable. And it's the closet you can get to having all the food groups in one meal. But having a partner who loves eating well and tasting good things, while I am on a plan is: Terrible. I am following a health and wellness plan to strengthen myself. But he's just as tempting as those city smells and what's worse, he knows my weaknesses.
So, in an effort to find a happy medium after a night of pizza and beer. I am nibbling on celery. Eating natural peanut butter on 86 grain bread. I am drinking a Delta (Burke) of water. Exercise and clean living. Who would've thought they'd be equal parts great and awful at the very same time. I am not really sure how people become obsessed... but then it could also be my view from here. My gym is on P1, the pool is not even a whole lap, the weather has been spitty and sharp. My dog hair covered floor, the guy at the pool with the heel cracks, my tank top that rides up over my muffin top. These are the things I see when I am sweating. Now, after working out on a Sunday, I am stretching, hoping that one day I'll look into the mirror, at the gym, the studio, in the change room or my bathroom and finally see a girl I am proud to be. The girl my Hubby sees. Plus I would like to get rid of my high blood pressure; the flush is really not a good colour for me.
In an industry where youth is celebrated- sought after and faked, turning another year older can be a lot to recover from. Birthdays are supposed to be special. The one day to feel celebrated. One day a year where you are the number 1, top banana, king of the day; unless of course you're a twin. A day to be doted on. Loved and adored by those who love and adore you. Receiving birthday wishes from all those who think I'm something special. Family and friends eager to enjoy my company. But how does getting older really feel?
My Grandma Near; before she lost her mind to dementia said to me: "I don't remember getting old. I was 22 then I was 80, but that 22 year old is still in here."*pointing to her noggin. Then she asked me how babies were made. Strange disease Alzheimer's, forgetting who you are before your done with being yourself. But that's a story for another day. Growing older I have started to understand the importance of making memories. The urge to celebrate and be with the ones you love. Growing up, well, growing taller I can't help but wonder what the future holds for me. And most of all I've realized that just because you're not doing something doesn't mean things aren't happening. You can't stop progress. I think that getting older is a good thing for me. It's hard to admit that I won't be a reckless teen or self-involved twenty-something ever again. I am becoming a responsible adult. I am growing into my hit- acting-wise. Which should be a good thing*fingers, legs, arms and toes crossed. I am digging on being a grown up...except the ever increasing creases.
After all the indulgence birthdays bring, I will be happy to get back to veggies. The day after my party I had a sugar hangover and my tongue was swollen from sour candies. Plus my just-washed-jeans were a little tighter that morning. My body had just started being healthy for reasons of business and pleasure. And was starting to feel good. But now that I am one year older it won't be so easy staying in shape says Hubby who's been (infuriatingly) the same size since we met. Happy Birthday to me. I am glad to make these new resolutions with you. Here's to a Happy New Year of Melicious:)
The adage goes that you are what you eat. Well, I don't remember eating a heaping helping of passive agressive with a steaming side of sad-sack. This whole eating well thing is getting me down. I mean; Hey Ms. Craig, while I've been watching weight, and I couldn't help but notice, I have no idea who you are. I know Jennifer Hudson, Valerie Bertinelli and Kirstie Alley have all benefited from the meal plan mentality, even if only temporarily. But what do I look like a rich and influential spokesperson? (Which I could be if you wanted*insert gleaming smile ting) I can't afford to spend $15 a meal for $6.40 worth of food. And Dr. Bernstein you silver haired slim Jim, you've been around since fat people were invented. But those vitamin B shots are more expensive than Jenny, though I guess you save on the cost of food, cuz you don't buy any. I can't afford your fancy programs! So, here's my plan. Back to basics. Cut out dairy and simple carbs. On the upside, I am allowed as many veggies as I want. But really how many veggies can any one person truly want?
I have been trying to quit meat. With the exception of fish and local organic chicken and this past weekend which went entirely off the rockers. Going out on the road, I ate everything but the pig, with whom I was too busy commiserating our similar silhouettes, though his skin was better. Desperately searching for other sources of protein has me subbing in beans and chickpeas at every meal. Now, all those veggies are delicious. Low in fat. Fibrous and filling. But they also bloat me. It's not the same as the 3 day meatloaf bloat. But the musical fruit has definitely been busy composing, if you catch my whiff. Creating a strange alternate reality where I out toot- Hubby-the-Toots-Magoots...a strange and scary place, don't leave me alone in here.*insert gesture to my head.
With the increase of my physical activity and the slowly but steadily declining junk food intake I am hoping to see results. Not drastic ones, but the slow and steady tortoise kind of results. And am eager to post them for y'all. I am excited to be the change I want to see in the mirror. The greatest motivator? I found a clothing store that is perfect for ME! I mean perfect: A little bit vintage and lot amazing. But knowing it would be a waste to buy anything at this current size, cuz in a couple months I would have to get it altered- fingers crossed. And that if I reach my goal Hubby Warbucks will hopefully, pretty please with a cherry on top reward me. (You smell what I'm cooking Hubby?) Oh and as for this meal plan, I think it really can work! After a bunch of steamed broccoli with nothing except Toronto spice and 4 mini roasted potatoes. I had myself a tight and tidy one pan dinner. Full, happy and proud; I congratulated myself. Then promptly ate a butter tart.*headshake Well, if I am going to become what I eat, maybe I should start eating more awesome-sauce on wicked sticks and a slice of magic for dessert. Mmmmagic.
For my first day back at it I decided to take it slow. I pumped my tires full of hot air, literally and figuratively. And this fat bottom girl got on her bike to ride. Huffing and puffing before my hula hoop class even started! And stinky with the shame of looking at myself standing awkwardly in a room with a solid wall of mirror. Trying to keep it fun and easy, I registered for a hoop burn class. How hard could it be to hula hoop? Not hard for the first 5 mins- then for the rest of the 55 mins- very hard. Add onto that the tricks and spins and doubles and turns and all that jazz I was out of my depth. But teacher says I am a natural- plus my classmates were nice! But I'd be surprised if hula hooping had drawn a bunch o'jerks. I mean it's a sparkly ring you dance inside- not exactly MMA. I am confident that my bum, abs and thighs will scold me tomorrow- but that's always a day away.
Getting back on my bike I headed to the rec centre for a swim. My non-athletic brain thought that if I doubled down on the fitness plan I was more likely to stick to it. I spent 15 mins in the fast lane being harrumphed at by men who wish they were Michael Phelps and 40 mins of arm and leg isolation in the medium lane, where I was the fastest and harumph-free. Until a fast- laner felt like slumming it in the medium lane and while passing people, he kicked them! Dude C'mon! Wouldn't you rather be challenged by the fast lane instead of shaming the mid tempo swimmers? But I guess he needed the ego boost or an excuse to kick people. My oh my, my neck is strained from only breathing one way during my strokes- ah hello, muscle memory, where were you on that? You were trained to go both ways. Either way I was pooped, my goggles were fogged up and I was sweating- in water- weird.
Then in the changeroom it hit me. An omg- I haven't used that muscle in a millennia arm cramp. Just at the moment when my shirt got twisted over my head, locking me in a kama-shirtra death grip. Standing there blind and topless, waiting for a helping hand when who should be the first responder? Why yes, it is a 64 year old naked polish lady. Asking sheepishly for a helping hand while trying to cover my totally exposed boobies, she drops her towel and brazenly untangles me. With a polite thank you, I dress myself and hop back onto my bike. My bottom feeling less fat and my body already sore. So much for taking it slow. I fully expect to wake up tomorrow with a sore everything, but I think I'll register for the noon hula class anyhow. If there's one thing I've learned is that I've told you that we won't stop. And now that I've got this giant rock rolling down the raider's tomb, it's time to get the idol, wait it's time to be the idol.
Procrastination, complacency and a short attention span. Have you ever met someone who just wasn't quite reaching their potential? Someone with great ideas and no follow through. Maybe a talented loved one who won't take a chance on themselves. The uncertified baby yoga instructor who doesn't want to spend the time for certification. A close friend who's holding themselves back from the successes they could attain. The biggest difference between success and complacency is actually doing it. And the hardest part of doing anything? Is doing it. It's no accident that some people succeed, contrarywise, it's no coincidence that others fail.
My fear of failing myself (or the standard to which I hold myself) has garnered me a semi popular blog, super amazing awesome wicked friends, a matching set of under eye baggage, a loving Hubby, a pair of saddle bags and the satisfaction of a job done- not always particulairly well, but I am completing my tasks and I am continuously challenging myself. With persistent motivation, I am like a dog with a blog. I have recognized how varied and difficult my goals are and I am confident that my stamina will be recognized- fingers crossed. Even if it is just by my Momma. I've decided that I am unhappy being anything less than the person I want people to see me as. Keeping it together is hard work, I am tired, but everything, good or bad, comes at a price.
Working in an artistic arena I have had oppurtunity to meet all types of creative people. Key root of the word being create. But within the ranks of the creative there are people who sabotage themselves and others, for fear they will be left behind. Writers who've never reached a climax. Dancers who don't stretch themselves. People who fall short of their potential. Playing it safe because the fear of failing is more powerful than the possiblity of success. In my endeavors I have made an agreement with myself that I won't be 'a day late and dollar short' to my own life.
So, here's my challenge to you cyber folks. Encourage all those under-estimaters to a challenge themselves. Then challenge yourself! Make a plan. A marking post to measure yourself by. It's amazing how achievable dreams become when you break them down into bite sizes and add a dash of healthy competition. Today is the perfect day to be brave, be bold. Take your dreams by the procrastinators and hold on tight for a wild ride. Instead of complacency, how about y'all come play with me! I can probably pack your things in my under eye baggage:)
I have done it. I have measured. From where I sit it doesn't look good. I knew things had gotten off track but I didn't realize that they had gotten so far off track, careening down a steep rocky slope, spontaneously combusting, only to come to rest at the bottom, upside down; a swollen smoldering wreck. That sounds dramatic but that's how I felt upon completing my measurements. I then promptly had a panic attack.
I knew things were rough, the tell tale sign? Doing surface repairs; expecting to feel better about myself. Hair cut. Which was much needed and welcomes a chic blossom of blonde bangs. New boots. That make me feel like dancing and kicking sass, in equal parts. Schmancy new jeans- and herein lies the rub-they are a size bigger than I have ever been. Hello McFly! I've been eating meat and cakes and pies. Deep fried anything and butter soaked regret. And trying to convince myself that it's okay. For the last 9 months I have been bragging about my blog stick-to-it've-ness and how determined I am. Well, turns out writing a daily blog is easier than rearranging my diet or exercising. But enough is enough, the way things have been isn't working, quite obviously. I've promised to make things better. Why aren't I actually doing it? I think the thought of climbing this mountain is scary. So scary I've been grinding my teeth. Since the idea of this whole self-improvement thing started I have been putting off the numbers. Sizes, measurements and inches chasing me around-stressing me out. I've been losing sleep over it. The desperate need to pull myself up by the boot straps and pull myself together. But really who do you know that's really pulled together? We're all effed, at least a little bit. But I would rather be effed in the head, than effed in a pair of giant jeans.
What a strange way to feel- recognizing things need to change and knowing I am the only one who can do it. The very scariest part is that I might fail this experiment. Though it's not an experiment at all, it's an important part of my dream career path. Sadly, looking great is one of the crucial components. So, here we go- the hardest, scariest and most honest thing I have ever posted.
My numbers:
Height 68 inches or 5'8"
Weight 174.4lbs
Following measurements are in inches
Bust 40
Natural waist 33
Hips 44
Thighs sitting: r:25 l:25.75
Thigh standing r:24.5 l :25
Arm rest r: 13.5 l:13.5
Arm flex r:13.75 l:13.5
These are my starting measurements and I will keep you posted with changes periodically. My hope is to also find out my resting heart rate, BMI and endurance. I am hoping for a swift shift to being on track again. But first I have to put out a few smoldering fires.
There have been more than a few times this past summer when upon catching an image of myself in a shiny surface I've been disappointed. I look tired and worn out. All used up and puffy. My smile is tight and quite clearly needs a long winter's nap. And I look fat- not cartoon fat, and not obese, just scrunchy. So I harumpf and then take a deep breath and encourage myself to go on. Though thinking lesser of yourself is the worst kind of torture. Every step being taken is a drip in an already full bucket. Step- you're ugly. Step- everyone sees it. Step- you should be better. Step- you've given up. Until I turn my feet around and head back towards home. The only place I can hide away in my jogging pants and loose fitting t-shirt. I know where the mirrors are here and I can go for days without really looking at myself. Tricky part is, not every mirror is telling the truth, and not everyone can spot a lie.
I remember hearing that you're never as fat as you think you are. Which is as true for people with low self esteem as it is for prima ballerinas. But some people are exactly as fat as they think they are. I am just not sure which category I fit into. I know that my skinny jeans are tight...but that's to be expected. They are skinny jeans...how skinny they should be is a different question entirely. I know that I spend a lot of time yanking and pulling and arranging my clothes, but tiny little movie stars have a wardrobe person doing that to them as well. It's a strange and infuriating juxtaposition.
At Canada's Wonderland after a day of being soaking wet and half drying and then getting wet again, I dragged myself into the washroom as night fell. The harsh florescent lighting revealed that the fun I was having had taken a toll. My mascara had dripped and caked under my eyes trapped under the long day's sunscreen. My shirt was clingy and mishappen from being soaked by white water rapids. My skin looked greasy and yellow. The shorts I had on, welcome to Camel toe town. I was a nightmare. And just like that- all the fun I had been charging up on all day was drained. I felt stupid and ugly, fat and I wanted to go home. So, I walked my soggy running shoes out to the parking lot and said g'night with a growl. Looking terrible ruined my eve, and here I was thinking I wasn't superficial.
This past weekend after dancing my tail feather off at my bro-in-law's wedding and receiving compliments on my pretty dress and nice hairstyle and 8 Likes on a photo posted on FB; I was feeling alright about myself. That's when nature called again. So, heading from the dark dance floor where I was feeling hair-tossingly sexy, I went to the very bright bathroom. As I washed my hands I caught sight of a sweaty forehead, raccoon bandit style eyes, girl with hair stuck to her face and a flush that only colours someone with high-blood pressure after exertion. And after taking all that in, I realized it was me. Les Sigh. Even when I feel like I am at my best I fall below my lofty standards. BFF is quick to say that I expect too much of myself. But I am quicker to respond, Why would I allow anything less than my best self to be the person I am? So, starving for something can be good, but it sounds like it might be a bigger commitment than just change of diet. I need to put myself on a life diet, and cut out the shit. Because I am tired of feeling I can do better without actually doing it. And I know too many people who regret not being their better self, without knowing they can be. So, Mirror, Mirror, expect to see a lot more of me. I may not like you now, but soon enough magic will make you work for me. And we'll both see the change.
On my last trip home, 3/4 my parentals mentioned Jilly looked fat. But what this neurotic girl heard was: We said your dog looks fat, but what I really want to say is YOU, Melicious are a fat. A fatty fatty fat pants and even those are too tight. Since the wedding I have gained weight. But I can't stop eating. I mean it, I sit and think about food. If I am not spitting words out, I am shoving food in. This blog is sorta like talking but I've taught myself to type one handed... For many reasons*insert nervous collar pull. The worst part? My loving Hubby and my brand new saddle bags remind me- I'm not 20 anymore. Which in and of itself is a problem, I've just gotten a handle on being 29 and it's my first year of being 30! Roddammit. What do they say? A year late and a holler short? Alright nobody says that.
I have never been a slim person. When I got super stressed out last year planning a wedding to my Hubby (who else) I lost weight all year. It fell off, mostly too quickly, mostly because I wasn't eating anything but fingernails and biting my lip. Oh and booze, every weekend there was a party, for me or Hubby or both. I wasn't planning on losing all that weight. I just didn't think to slot eating into my schedule. Oh boy, did I get compliments. I still had pale untoned arms, but the untone had a much smaller sense of motion. Now, I am more like a flapping pterodactyl, but they're extinct right? Perhaps I am the missing link. Let's not even bring up the bottom half. Okay, in the spirit of journalistic transparency. It's big, it's a big problem. A big, wide, spreading butt with no joke. It's like the Monster Cheese. As we know I exaggerate, which literally means misrepresent as being bigger; convenient but not entirely untrue. The biggest problem isn't just that I've been eating. It's that I also eat the wrong things. Take Mae West snack cakes for example. A golden cake with white icing (icing: a fancy word for sugar paste) wrapped in a sweet chocolate embrace. Mae West is a trampy grown up version of little Debbie, taunting me from the box in her pin up pose, laughing at me. And her cakes hurt my teeth but I love them. So I eat them, in packs of 8 over a week and 2 days... But I feel guilty. I feel guilty and that b*%$h Mae just keeps smiling at me wearing a skimpy outfit. If there is one thing that the film industry has taught me it's that advertising and reality are often worlds apart- Mae West has never eaten one of her disgustingly delicious cakes. Surviving on a strict diet of cotton balls, two finger sandwiches and self loathing. Also, she might have a slight advantage being a cartoon.
PS this may have also caused this On the edge of my seat, hanging by a thread
|
RSS Feed