Running high is a myth. Fight me.

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Happy Saturday! I have been on a long health journey of sorts and man do I suck at staying on track with anything. But, I’ve been doing the doctors and medications and programs and all that stuff. There has been quite a bit of success over a long period of time and I was pretty darn happy with it. Unfortunately, I’ve got a long way to go. One of the major things I struggle with is my weight. Swamp monsters tend to be a larger sort of frumpy folk. But, there has been some progress. Mancandy and I have been following the Couch to 5K program. He’s a former marine (you can’t say ex-marine or you will be forced to listen to a really long lecture…save yourself the torment). He ran every day for 8 years and was on the track team before that. He likes to exercise. And his motivational tactics are straight from the military, insulting and annoying. You can probably guess how well I respond to insulting and annoying people.

I, on the other hand, have not really followed any sort of exercise program since junior high. And I hated it then. Being a consistent sort when it comes to hatreds, I hate it now as well. And I’m a crap ton older, so I extra big big hate it. But, I’ve been doing it. He’s so dang happy I’m doing it, and I know he’s trying to help, but I hate his help. Every time he speaks to me while I’m sweating and sore and miserable I want to punch him in his nose. Hard.

The best part of our jogging crap are the bodyguards we’ve now peer pressured into jogging with us. Our two inside/outside cats, Neo and Tsuki, aren’t sure what’s going on but they feel duty-bound to go through it with us. They do not suffer in silence though. We jog to a chorus of meows. They puff up, dance around, fly past, trip you darting between feet, race ahead, run behind, and in general create a fuss. Anyone out walking or jogging ends up laughing at the ridiculous circus we make. We get questions from everyone. Usually, “Do you know there are two cats following you?”

I enjoy their enthusiasm, but I hate jogging. If Mancandy asks me if I “want” to run extra laps, he’s going to end up kicked in the noodle. Who “wants” to run at all? Not me said the flea. It just makes for extra laundry, extra sweat, extra showers, and extra sore everything. But here we are.

Also, no one told me jogging makes you have to pee immediately and desperately. I have to pee immediately before leaving my house and then by the time I get back (not even two miles at this point) I am desperately trying to strip out of wet clothes so I can avoid peeing on myself.

Also also, sports bras were made my a stupid, evil man who’s never worn a bra in his life. And they’re expensive torture instruments! I bought two because I knew I had one here someplace. Three to get through running three times a week. At least while I’m starting. But can I find the sports bra I already own? No. No, I can not. And nothing is quite as miserable as trying to rip a wet sports bra off of one’s person without damaging the stupid expensive torture device. So much worse than wet swimsuits. It’s revolting.

So. That’s the latest adventure. I’m sure there will be many more posts whining about it. You’re welcome.

 

Fancy Pants That Fight Back

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Today is Thursday. It’s a workday. And Monday through Thursday I’m forced to dress like a girl. A professional business gal if you will. I decided I didn’t want to wear any of the clothes I had available, so I started digging into the back of the closet for the things I forget I own. I found a pair of grey pants. I don’t even remember getting them. They’re wide-legged with a wide waistband. That’s supposed to compliment a tall, not-skinny woman such as myself. They looked nice when I put them on and I got a bit excited. I checked them out combined with a blouse and vest. I looked like a professional! Hair in a bun and we’re ready to go rule the world of government.

I was proud of myself for finding a “new” pair of pants to wear. I was stupidly excited my pants match the rest of my outfit. I felt like an adult. And as I sat down in the car to leave, I suddenly felt like I’d made a mistake.

I’d forgotten why I’d shoved those pants in the back of the closet but it all came rushing back when I was in the car with no time left to go change and not much in the way of clean pants to change into. If you have any stomach that isn’t super flat or better yet, concave in toward your spine, when you sit you get a roll. I do not possess a super flat nor concave stomach. My roll exists and we grudgingly coexist. However, in these pants, my roll was restrained from becoming a roll by the wide and not at all flexible waistband.

I made a wheezy sound when the ability to breathe was taken from me. I squirmed and wiggled and adjusted until I finally ended up yanking the pants up to support my bra’s function and scrooching down in the seat so my roll ended up in the crotch of the pants (which, unlike the waistband, was generously oversized and proves clothes are made to fit something other than human bodies). I drove into work concerned about how the day would go.

I work in an office building. I sit in a cubicle. I get up and down a lot to print, scan, go to meetings, etc. Every single time I sat down I had to try to casually pull my pants up to my bra and relax my roll into my pants oversized crotch. It was an odd slumpy position to be forced into for a long period of time. And when I stood up the waistband of my pants was still doubling as a bra so I ended up with the crotch up at my belly button and the mother of all wedgies. I’d have to try and not in any obvious way pull them down from my ears and back into a normal pants position.

This occurred no less than 2039802937230948.0332 times. My stomach is angry. The pants are angry. I have no idea how to make those pants work. I also feel like my roll has PTSD.

I ended up laying back in my chair groaning and rubbing my stomach by the end of the day. I’m a classy, delicate flower.

As an aside, there is a mystery in the women’s restroom at work. There’s a little credenza type thing at work. I’m super angry that I didn’t take a picture when the oddity began. Someone placed several books on the bottom shelf of the credenza. I wasn’t sure why a library randomly appeared in the women’s restroom for an office building, but I didn’t pay really close attention for a bit. Then one caught my eye because the picture on the front was a stylized drawing of two individuals looking rather intimate for a drawing. It was not written in English, so I can’t know for sure, but I believe it was a rather bawdy romance novel. So, was someone leaving a library for their future bathroom breaks of longer duration? Was it meant as a “free to a good home” situation? It was perplexing. And now they’ve disappeared as suddenly as they appeared. So we’ll never know.

I’m so glad tomorrow is Friday. I’m going to allow my stomach free reign and not care a bit that it’s not flat. At least I won’t suffocate.

Reasons I Should Probably Not be Left Alone…

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Sidenote: I wrote this a long while ago, but it amused me at the time and amuses me still. This is a prequel if you will, a time long before I met ManCandy. It’s bittersweet to remember so vividly a time before Dad was gone, but the event was funny nonetheless.  Ironically enough, I’m wearing the same yoga pants and glasses tonight. Enjoy!

I attempt to do stuff.  It’s a disaster.  I am surprised.  The cycle continues.

Allow me to explain.  I moved into a new place a couple months ago.  There was no slinky looking vent thingy for the back of the dryer.  Apparently, the moving monsters take mine every time I move.

So.  The padre and I get one from Lowe’s and have a long discussion about the particulars of attaching it.  We got a super long one.  Heavy-duty ass-kicking shiny slinky vent thingy.  We were proud of it.

Got back.  Now, just in case you are one of the fortunate who hasn’t had to actually visually see me….I’m not a small person.  Nothing pixie about me. Clumsy + fluffy = small space disasters.  BUT.  The dryer is in a corner IN a closet with a shelf right above it (say shoulder level on me) with the water heater tank on that.  And so I crawl back in there (not gracefully….more like a planned fall into a crevice) and Dad walks me through how to get the heavy-duty ass-kicking shiny slinky thingy on.  This involves a lot of him standing around saying “Put the thing on the other thing with the thing and turn the thing so it stays on dammit!!  This isn’t difficult!  What are you DOING!?”

I eventually differentiated between the “things” he was speaking of and got the damn thing on while contorted so that my fat ass didn’t knock the plug out of the wall and simultaneously tightening the “thingy” around the other “thingy” and attempting to live without air.  So, long story short, I get done, flop out like a fish on the bank of a pond, and listen to a lecture about needing to lose weight while I gasp for air and try not to kill people.

Fast forward to this week.  I notice my dryer isn’t really drying anything.  It’s more of a tumbler.  Which doesn’t really help anything.  So I have a flashback to Padre’s comments about the slinky thingy not needing to be too doubled back on itself or the air couldn’t get through right or…something.  And I have this flashback while I’m looking at the slinky thing that is doubled back on itself 987981623 times because we got the long one.

Sigh.

So.  I get the bright idea to cut the slinky thingy to a shorter length so that it wouldn’t bend.  It would just be a gentle curve.  Plus I’d be able to check for blockages better that way.  Right?  Genius.  So I get my girlie toolbox out (the padre apparently felt color coordination might improve my odds of not making a mess of things….silly darling little man) and keep my cell phone in case of an emergency.  I flop around till I land in the crevice again, and I hack the shit out of the shiny slinky thing.

I enjoy this part.  I also don’t remember slicing fingers up hurts.  So.  I did that some.  But, whatever, I got the hose cut to exactly the length I wanted.

And then it hit me.

The dryer had to come back farther to reach the new and improved short slinky thing.

I had nowhere to go.  I had a moment of total shock.  Then I tried out multiple combinations of curse words.  I started to haul the dryer back and tried out some more curse combinations.

I am now pressed between the dryer, the wall, and am basically standing on my head to reach the vent.  Might I also point out I’m not particularly flexible?  I fall over trying to do yoga…so it’s not my friend.  But I digress.

The “thingy” that sticks out of the dryer is supposed to fit inside the slinky thing.  Well.  When I hacked at the slinky thing it stopped being a perfect circle.  I had to hammer and wedge and beg and pray and scream in frustration for a good 10 minutes before I got the slinky thing on the dryer thing.

SUCCESS!!!  Oh I was excited.  It worked!!  Who cares if I can’t breathe!  I don’t need any help!

But then the next conundrum hit me.

How was I going to get out?

Remember.  I’m in a closet in the corner and the dryer is less than a foot from the wall and all of my Amazonian self is stuck back behind it.  And there’s a shelf RIGHT above me.  And a washer beside me.  And no Dad to help haul me out.  I was starting to take back the not needing help thought.

Now I’m going to paint you a picture.  I’m wearing loose yoga pants and still have my glasses on that don’t fit (I sat on them…several times….don’t judge me).

I decide to just go head first and kinda….dive out.  But when I “landed” I’m kind of beached across both machines.  My feet are tangled in the electric chord.  The back of the washer and dryer has the tall part for the knobs.  The dryers tall part is jabbing my crotch and rendering me unable to have children.  The corner of the washer is doing its best to remove my right boob.  But my feet are tangled, so I can’t get away.  No matter how I moved I was being molested/assaulted by machinery.

I manage to kick out of the cord and start to slide off the front of the machines.  ALMOST FREE!!  Until I caught one foot on the damn cord again trying to kick my way forward.  I’m now stuck from my shoulders and up hanging off the front of the machines, one foot flailing wildly, and one caught.

My glasses fell off.

I try out curses in other languages.

I notice the cell phone was flung across the room in my flailing about.

I just hang there for a bit contemplating my life.

I manage to get one arm back far enough to let me lift up a bit (muscles!!  I have muscles!! Whoda thunk!) and move over enough to get the trapped leg out.  I’m dizzy, and my pants are trying to fall down (while I’m upside down no less…quite an accomplishment in epic failuredom).  I can’t see anything, including my glasses.

I eventually just fall over.  Onto my face.  And lay there trying to avoid dog kisses.

I landed on my glasses.

Eff it.

 

 

Swamp Monster Sunday

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As a certified swamp monster, I have funky skin and features and…well….I’m just an odd duck. So, the fact I have – in my mid-thirties mind you – fallen in love with makeup (especially colorful eyeshadow) is just the weirdest damn thing ever and mildly embarrassing.

I work for the state of TN and as such, I’m supposed to look like a professional human. Swamp monsters with colorful sparkly glitter smeared all over their faces are not encouraged. So, I bought a few really bright, really fun palettes with all these dazzling awesome colors…and have absolutely no reason to smear them all over my face. It’s been bugging me. I’m too old for this; I don’t even know what I’m doing or how to apply makeup, but I am right this moment resisting the urge to buy a palette of nothing but yellow eye shadow. Do I EVER wear that color? No. Would it likely make me look jaundiced and even less attractive? Likely. But my brain has never been a fan of logic, so I just want it. Here’s a picture of it (That I stole from ColourPop’s website. Not sure if I’m allowed to do that, blogging rules are not well explained, but it’s free advertising and I own nothing of value….so let’s just cross our fingers and hope).

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As part of the swamp monster package, I am also the owner of a weird body. It’s overly large, pale, ungainly, and uncoordinated.  I have been telling myself I’d lose weight (and become hot in the process….which is COMPLETELY different from losing weight….but I digress) since around the first time I heard someone refer to someone else as fat. My earliest memories are disliking how much bigger I was than the other kids, I towered over them and outweighed them and had to wear a training bra at like…6. Since my weird body decided to malfunction regularly and I go to various specialists quite often, my endocrinologist is extremely interested in things like…my BMI, my proportions, my insulin levels, my exercise routine (I lied and said I had one of those), etc. I really do want to be healthy. So, I actually have to get an exercise routine (ick). And maintain it. And not eat my feelings. And other people’s feelings.

So. I tell you all of that to tell you that I woke up intending to do none of the things I have done today. I woke up and just wanted coffee. That’s it. But, once I got up and got moving, I wanted to puzzle. Mancandy and I are working on a puzzle because we’re old and that’s what old, boring, antisocial people do. We puzzle and we drink coffee (our version of drinking and knowing things).

Mancandy was not in a puzzling mood. I found that annoying, but it’s hard to motivate someone to puzzle.

“Please come sit with me and be as frustrated and annoyed with 87616814 pieces of cardboard that have various portions of leaves that are all the same color.”

Though he did not want to puzzle at that exact moment, he claimed he would want to puzzle soon. That statement made zero sense to me, but I shrugged and tried to figure out what I wanted to do with my beautiful precious time off. I thought of all my pretty, shiny, colorful eye shadows just sitting here while I slather myself in boring colors day in and day out. I decided to play.

The Blue Moon palette was the first thing I saw, so it’s what I decided to smear upon my face hole flaps.

Blue moon

I meant to take a picture to show you how unskilled I am at this. But, I didn’t. I’m going to insert a picture from Pinterest showing what this might look like were I talented. It’s not at all what it looked like, but whatever. It’s my story. Enjoy this much better representation of blue eyeshadow. This is not me (so obviously not me that it’s funny to write it, but please don’t sue me if this IS you, because I’m super jealous and also I don’t have anything worth suing to take).

BM Look

Instead, I went downstairs and announced extremely loudly, “I’m blue and bold, bitches, lets puzzle!”

I found this to be a funny statement. I usually crack myself up. Unfortunately, I had not looked to be sure Mancandy was awake. He was not. But he jolted awake at my declaration and restrained what looked like a fairly strong urge to throttle me. He also looked at my face, which was 1/3 bright blue, and just said: “oh my”. I felt like I should probably be offended by this, but chose not to be. Mostly because he says stuff that could be insulting all the time and I don’t have the time it would take to be offended.

We puzzled for a while. I got 5 pieces into the puzzle and felt remarkably accomplished. Set low goals and you’ll never be disappointed, my friends. We decided we should move the elliptical machine my boss gave us (yay boss!) into the air-conditioned part of the house. As obviously that was the only thing holding me back. So we did. And then he announced he was going to mow.

I hate that moment. I feel like I should do something equally horrible, but I don’t want to do any horrible things. So I declared I would work out. While he mowed. And then I realized I’d said it out loud, the elliptical was inside, and I actually had to do it now. Dread set in.

So I worked out. Put on a sports bra and athletic shoes and everything. I don’t understand these people that say, oh yes, the endorphins, it is a rush, working out is fun, blah blah. I apparently don’t possess endorphins. I spent every single minute of the time I spent on the elliptical screaming internally that I was not allowed to stop yet.

Fun fact, the elliptical is third hand and I am grateful to have it, but it squeaks like you’re skinning something alive. So the longer I worked out, the louder and more aggressive the skinning of the thing became. The cats were horrified. They may be scarred for life. The dog equated skinning alive with thunderstorms and fireworks and started panting and stress whining as if to duet the shrieking machine. So the entire time I’m on the damn thing the dog is singing along to this really annoying shriek squeak, and the cats are running around trying to escape the demonic noise but unable to find a place to do so.

Within 4 seconds I was drenched in sweat. Not just a little glisten, no ma’am and/or sir! I take sweating seriously. So my shirt is stuck to me and my sparkly blue face now has rivulets of blue running down it and on down my neck. It looked like I was painting some sort of river scene across my face, but in my typical “enthusiasm makes up for lack of talent” way. I stopped when I was pretty sure I’d just have to fall sideways off of the machine because I had jelly for legs and was gasping so hard I thought I might pass out. Probably 4 minutes in. No, it was more than that, but not as long as it should have been.

I sat down on the tile floor (likely leaving an impressive butt outline in sweat) to cool my rumpus and contemplated puking. When that didn’t sound like fun anymore I got up and started up the stairs. That was a mistake as I likely can’t go back down now. I’ll just live up here. Please fling food up occasionally. This will be my new diet plan.

I shambled my sweaty, miserable, gasping, slightly nauseous self into the bathroom. Stripped down. Turned on the shower. Turned around to set my hair tie down by the sink and accidentally looked into the mirror.

I looked like I’d eaten a smurf alive…aggressively….in a very messy fashion. My hair was plastered to my sweaty skull and there was blue smeared all over my face. I don’t even know how it was possible to be that gross, but I managed.

A shower has never been so lovely. And now I have to look forward to doing that same thing over and over and over until I’m less horrible at it. Dying young is kind of looking mildly appealing. But that doctor will get to hear all about the “exercise routine” I’m working on.

Just need some W-D 40. Or the cats may not survive it any better than I do.

 

The Great Re-Fattening…

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I look like I’ve been plumping up in preparation for hibernation. A narrator with a lovely accent will voice-over me sitting here saying something along the lines of “this female human has literally stuffed herself stupid with everything in sight for weeks and has developed a lovely layer of fat. Look at those rolls! She’s increased her body mass by nearly 30%! It’s an amazing transformation! She’ll survive the winter slumber with fantastic body condition because of her planning and determination to eat every damn thing.”

I will never be skinny. Ever. I’ll never know what it’s like to put clothes on and not obsess about the fabric clinging across my gut or the cellulite showing through the thinner fabric of dress pants. While I can and do, look at other people and am not fazed by less than svelte forms (I think Ashley Graham is gorgeous and her body is perfect and if you don’t like her cellulite you’re stupid), I can’t look at myself with anything but hatred and loathing. It’s a thing. I know it’s not healthy or productive or whatever, but it’s honest. I absolutely hate my body. I hate myself. I am a fat, pale wad of hatred and neurosis.

I’ve spent most of my life in various forms of dieting but the weight comes off of me so slowly it might as well be a sloth in quicksand. Low-fat diets, low-calorie diets, low-fat AND low-calorie diets, exercise, combinations of types of exercise and types of diets and don’t eat after 7 and fast and only eat after 7….you name it I’ve tried it. I’m still fat. I could give you lectures on nutrition and still…I’m fat. I could tell you a surprising amount of information about exercise for one so ridiculously unathletic but still…I’m fat. And while I love that people are accepting themselves when they don’t have the body shape you’re supposed to have (supermodel thin yet giant boobs and perfect, hairless skin…do you feel me?) I can’t. I am too old and set in my ways I guess, but I’ve never been able to view myself as anything other than grotesque. I’m the palest Italian I know, I’m blessed with super dark body hair that makes me so self-conscious I could throw up thinking about it too much yet an inability to do much about it as I also have the MOST sensitive skin on the planet and react to shaving, waxing, bleaching, lasers, etc., as if I’ve had acid poured on me. I’m obsessed with my arms. I stare at all of you people with no hair on your arms. Or blonde, barely noticeable hair on your arms. You are all so lucky. You jerks. I could knit a sweater with my arm hair alone. A very dark, very noticeable sweater. So, in case you are not keeping up, I’m fat, pale, fuzzy, and there’s more. I have horrible skin and allergies and I’m getting tons of gray hair that is, again, extremely noticeable in extremely dark hair.

So I’m not living my best life.

I decided a little over a year ago to try the keto gig. There’s a ton of debate about the health benefits vs risks, but as someone who just does not lose weight with conventional diets (and I’m pretty sure I’m rocking some PCOS)…I thought, whatever. I don’t have to do the super high-fat stuff. I don’t have to eat bacon for every meal. I can eat healthy fats like avocados (my love for those fat green little morsels of deliciousness is out of control…I’d slap a baby to get an avocado) and cutting out most sugar and starch doesn’t seem like it would have a negative impact on nutritional intake as long as I’m smart…blah blah blah.

I lost weight. But I have had all sorts of stupid health junk going on and sometimes I just don’t have the energy to think about it. And sometimes I just want a damn donut. And for the past couple months work has been insane and life has been insane and I just didn’t care. I am so used to hating myself it didn’t seem like it was something I needed to focus on. And even though I feel better when I stop eating sugar, the unhealthy relationship I have with food says “go sit outside Walmart and eat a huge bag of Reece’s by yourself before going home because hiding your binge eating is super healthy and okay”.

Today I put on jeans that were pretty loose a month ago. They hurt my feelings. They were so tight I thought I’d picked up the wrong pair. Nope. I just fattened up like a grain fed steer. My blubber is doing well. It oozes. I’m thinking about naming it.

I thought about sitting down and crying but my rosacea/eczema/allergies are all acting up at the same effing time and I don’t have any redness to give to a weeping session. Plus I get all snotty. Plus, it’s my fault. I knew I was out of control. I just didn’t care enough to stop.

I’m getting back on the sugar-less wagon this week. I’m going to just feel strange about it and prioritize my health. And I’ll still hate myself. Even if I lose enough weight to feel okay about my body (let’s be really honest here, I’ll never be cool with my body but I’m hopeful I can hate it less) I’m still going to have a bright red face and a pale, fuzzy body and skin that’s trying to divorce me and weird features (why are my eyes so very small…no one else in my family has little tiny beady eyes…and where the hell are my cheekbones?). I will still find plenty of details that disgust me. I’ll still have an unhealthy relationship with food. But the only thing I know to do is to keep trying. And I’m hoping that trying will calm the loathing. And I’m also hoping that knowing I’ll screw up will keep it from being impossible.

If it doesn’t work I’m hoping I’ll morph into an actual bear and just be considered adorable and deadly when fat. Plus I’ll get to sleep all winter. Win-win.

 

PS. I couldn’t stomach (pun intended) taking a picture of my fat gut and stock photos are a pain to come by and I don’t want to be sued because I don’t have any money anyway so the featured image is me making a stupid face. It does show off my very squat, fat nose and double chin highlighted in green though. So…it’s kind of equivalent to a gut pic. You’re welcome.