Category Archives: Battle of the Butt

I need a unicorn…

Years ago, when I first started on my successful weight loss journey, I bought myself a Pandora charm bracelet. I was high on life after being able to touch my feet again, dudes…seriously. Sometimes it’s the little things. You can check out the victory here.

Some of the other charms I bought during the 100+ pounds I lost? For starters, I put a blue glass bead on the bracelet for every size I dropped (although I still owe myself a few). I added an airplane charm to commemorate the first time I flew on a plane and didn’t need the seatbelt extender. Yay!!! The bicycle charm came along when I first started riding a bike again. The pedal snags my clothes, though, so it has since been retired. The handbag charm happened when I went from the 300’s to the 200’s…because my reward was a Texas Rangers Dooney & Bourke handbag, so they kind of went together. 🙂

After a while, the Pandora bracelet ended up in the drawer and stopped taking it out again…until recently. I’m wearing it again and it is begging for a new charm. I started poking around Pandora’s website and guess what? They have a freak’in unicorn charm!!!! SHUT UP AND TAKE MY MONEY!!!!

I put the word out on my last Floss Tube video that I needed help setting a goal to get this charm…and I’ve decided to go with an increased step count on my new Fitbit. When I was in London two weeks ago, I was logging about 15,000 steps a day and that was really causing some pain – so I decided to take baby steps when it comes to step goals. I normally get about 4,000 steps a day, thanks to my usually sedentary job. An increase to 6,500 steps a day seems like a reasonable goal. And there we have it: 6,500 steps per day for 30 days…and the unicorn is mine!!!

So…why a step goal? Because I have a theory and I want to see if I’m right.

As most of you know, I’m prone to foot injuries. I usually hurt myself when I’m walking too fast, or too fast for too long. Doctors have urged me to ride a bike, swim, or do elliptical training in order to take the impact off my feet. Here’s what I think I’m missing: in keeping off my feet when it comes to the walking thing, I’m missing on the healthy-ish impact of slow…regular walking. Not walking for cardio doesn’t mean not walking AT ALL….right? There’s a process your body goes through with walking that I’m missing out on, so I am going to carefully increase my step goal and achieve that goal with slow, deliberate walking instead of the arm-pumping cardio walking that comes to mind when anyone things of fitness walking. We’ll see if that helps the horrible fatigue my feet and legs feel when I play the tourist. And then the unicorn charm will be mine!!!

Well, at least it will be when it’s back in stock. Damn it! It’s out of stock!!!

Until then, I’m keeping my end of the bargain. I made my step goal yesterday. Just 29 days to go, peeps. Hopefully the charm is back in stock by the time I’m ready for it.

Wondering what Floss Tube is? It’s video blogging for needleworkers like me – but I don’t just talk about needlework, so if you’re interested in checking it out here are the links to my first four videos:

Do you have a fun fitness goal? Please share it in the comments below. You might inspire someone else to live a healthier life…so why not?

Have a great day today…and be nice humans. ♥

 

https://www.amazon.com/Fitbit-Charge-Fitness-Wristband-Version/dp/B01K9S260E/ref=as_li_ss_tl?ie=UTF8&qid=1537872030&sr=8-3&keywords=fitbit&th=1&linkCode=ll1&tag=batofthebut-20&linkId=9b5994aff5e6f9a77f318c1432bf61f9&language=en_US
Fitbit Charge 2

Well, I did say I was a hot MESS…

I have a very busy life. Busier now than before – and, although it’s just Hot Mess Hubby and me at home, I haven’t been able to keep up with a lot of things that seem natural to the other women in my family…and some of my friends. It makes me feel guilty. Less than. And like I’ve failed in some way. Today, more than ever, I feel that way about the mess in my own home.

A few weeks ago, I made the decision to hire a maid service to come and do a deep cleaning on my home. For at least the last few years, I’ve let myself spin in a vicious circle that begins every Friday afternoon:

  • Get motivated that it’s Friday and I have the weekend to myself
  • Decide to use my weekend to catch up on housecleaning
  • Get home from work, throw on some comfy clothes, and get crazy with the cleaning tasks
  • Go to bed tired, but hopeful
  • Wake up motivated and keep pushing
  • Greet hubby when he wakes up, let him enjoy his time off…keep cleaning
  • Take a break and go stitch or do something else
  • Do a bit more housecleaning, get distracted by hubby, feel guilty that I haven’t done more
  • Begrudgingly agree to leave the house with hubby because he wants to have lunch or go somewhere. Feel guilty that I left the house messy
  • Come home too hot or too tired (or both) to think about more cleaning
  • Wake up Sunday promising myself that I’ll clean, but really need a break…go stitch for a bit
  • Accidentally get sucked into the damn Law & Order marathon on tv
  • Do enough laundry to get us through the work week
  • Possibly make dinner…or bake for work…whichever requires that I make a mess in the kitchen
  • Spend the rest of the night feeling guilty and talking to Hot Mess Hubby
  • Wake up in a house that’s not really clean, feeling like I didn’t accomplish anything, and looking forward to the next weekend when I can “get it all done”

Phew. I suck.

So I’ve finally realized that housework is something I’m not great at…and the only time I’m really organized is when I’m at work. My house is never going to look like Pottery Barn. I have a Saint Bernard, a Saint Berdoodle, and a very fat cat…and, less than a year ago, a 21 year old tabby cat that peed pretty much wherever she damn well felt like it. My sweet girl (she really was a sweet girl) went off to Rainbow Bridge, late last year. I imagine she’s probably peeing on it.

As I write this, I feel guilty and disappointed. There are two maids in my house. They’ve been here for three hours…which is the amount of time a deep cleaning is supposed to take. One of them has spent all her time in the master bathroom and the other has spent all her time in the kitchen. When they came in, they went on and on about how my house wasn’t that bad…and yet it’s taken two professional maids three hours to even begin to clean the crud off of the crud that’s on my crud….in only two rooms of my house.

The guest bathroom isn’t done. The blinds aren’t done. Nothing is dusted. I keep feeling like I might hear sobbing coming from the master suite soon. Spray, spray, spray. Sob. Scrub, scrub, scrub. Sob.

I’ll bet right now you’re wondering whether I’m going to finish this blog before they’re done and then you’ll have to go to bed wondering what the hell ever happened. I’m not, don’t worry…but if I don’t sit here and do something while I’m obsessing over what these total strangers think of me as a person, I’ll go crazy. Crazier.

So I guess I’ll leave this here for now and pray these women aren’t ready to poke a Hot Mess Voodoo Doll to death with their cleaning tools…

*Pause while I await my doom…*

Okay, I’m back! Were you wondering what happened? Well…I’m here to tell you.

Although they predicted that 3 hours and 2 maids would be enough to make my house sparkle, it took 2 maids 5 hours to get it to be…presentable. It’s not their fault that my house doesn’t sparkle. It’s the cheap flat paint that needs to be painted over…and the knicked up baseboards from giant doggies running in their sleep…and the horrible carpet that we refused to replace while the 21 year old peeing princess was still alive. Those things must all be dealt with, but for now…

My house smells clean. The kitchen is cleaner than it’s been in 9 years. I know because that’s when my brother and sister in law visited and their house DOES look like Pottery Barn, so HMH and I cleaned for days before they came.

My living room is dusted, everything is wiped down, and the fake plants aren’t dirty anymore (don’t judge me for having plastic plants…I can’t keep anything without a face alive). The carpet under our bed is vacuumed, much to Hemi the cat’s extreme displeasure. She came waddling out from the bedroom with a distinct “What the fuck is going on here!” look on her face. She is now curled up on the bed with her Chewbacca toy…plotting my death.

I still feel guilty. It was $265 well spent, and yet I feel guilty for needing the help. I am not perfect. I can’t do everything myself. And I’m realizing now that life is too short to have such expectations of myself. Going out to lunch with my husband, or curling up in my stitchy chair and enjoying a good storm outside, is worth a lot to me. More than ever.

So I guess I have something else to do now: accept the gift that I’ve given myself and stop worrying about what these strangers must have thought of my disgusting floors…and my skeezy shower. And maybe put my damn laundry away for once.

 

Okay, I’m calling shenanigans!

I’m thinking I need to send Beets Blu a batch of nuclear brownies or something (trust me, I bake some pretty awesome brownies). If it wasn’t for them offering me a free digital scale to review on Amazon, my current situation might have gone on even longer.

Last year my support team at my doctor’s office finally got through to me and convinced me to try NOT getting on the scale every morning when I wake up. Now, before you jump to any conclusions and say “Hey, Hot Mess, everyone knows you’re not supposed to do that” let me explain…

When I used to get on the scale every morning it wasn’t your typical “OMG I’ve gained a pound? Son of a bitch!!!” Not even close. I’m a woman. That means the numbers on the scale are going to swing back and forth. I’ve made my peace with that, within about 5 pounds. I’m really not going to sweat it. Getting on the scale every morning was just a touch base kind of thing. I just needed to see that I was still operating within those 5 pounds. If the scale ever tipped to 6 or 7 pounds, I’d walk a little more…eat a little less. I’d make adjustments appropriately. This is how I maintain my weight loss. The scale is a tool and a friend, not something that I use to punish myself with.

Enter the Beets Blu company. They contacted me recently, asking if I’d like to review their new Bluetooth scale. The Bluetooth idea intrigued me, so I said yes. My review will be coming next week, but let’s just say it’s a pretty sweet scale.

I also have to say that it’s pretty disconcerting when a talking scale gives you bad news. Really bad news. Like…super shitty.

I weighed 270 pounds when my support team told me to stop getting on the scale. They told me to judge my weight by the fit of my clothes…and that’s what I’ve been doing for the better part of a year. I’m still wearing the same jeans and tops. In fact, I’ve lost inches in some areas. So imagine my shock when the talking scale said “294.3 pounds”.

I’m sorry, what???

That’s right, peeps. In spite of the fact that my clothes still fit, I’ve gained 24.3 damn pounds. What. The. Fuck.

Now, I freely admit that some of it could be muscle…but I also know I didn’t gain 24 pounds of muscle. LOL. Let’s not get ridiculous. I’m not an American Ninja Warrior, I’m just a Hot Mess Princess.

I’m all for following the advice of medical professionals, but in this case I should have listened to myself. My relationship with the scale was working for me. It was working well. I never should have gone against my own instincts on this one.

Add to that the fact that I’ve been dealing with a shitload of foot injuries since I started trying to increase my physical activity and we’ve got a problem. I was just getting back into it again. I was getting 10,000 steps a day on my Fitbit. I was starting to shoot beyond that, even. Then I got the stress fracture…and my podiatrist took me off my feet. And, honestly, the injury was so painful that I couldn’t even stand at work (I have one of those sit/stand desk things…and I hate not using it).

The stress fracture heeled and the pain from that was gone, but my foot was still killing me. Why? Podiatrist said there’s a bone out of place in my foot and I needed physical therapy. Well…great. That’s awesome…because I married for love, not money. We’re broke. We have termites to kill, a truck with a broken clutch, and a shitload of other stuff going on. The co-insurance on physical therapy wasn’t really in the immediate budget.

I’ve been sitting on my ass a lot. Sure, there were medical reasons behind it, but the fact of the matter is that I would not have gained 24 effing pounds if I was still getting on the scale every morning. I know that’s true like I know Kardashians are assholes.

24 pounds, y’all. That’s a real dick punch. If I had one. Kinda glad I don’t. HMH probably is too. When it comes to not getting on the scale being the best thing for me, I’m calling shenanigans. Or bullshit. Whatever.

So tomorrow I’m going to wake up and be the girl who gets on the scale every morning. Because that’s my tool to take care of myself and I don’t use it to beat myself up…and no one is going to tell me differently. This is what works for me, so this is what I’m going to do for me.

Shit, isn’t that what I’m always preaching? I really borked this up. I didn’t listen to myself at all.

There is a little good news in all of this: I had my first physical therapy appointment last Friday and it was awesome. I had three different experiences with physical therapy years ago and all of them resulted in the same thing: no results at all. Sure, it was for another foot problem, but it didn’t give me high hopes for the treatment. Honestly, I was expecting the same this time. I’ve never been happier to be proven wrong.

At the most, I’ll need two more treatments to get my foot back to normal…but it already feels so much better. It’s like a brand new foot. They gave me exercises to do to help strengthen my foot and ensure that I keep the stress fractures away. I finally feel like I have a little hope in the whole foot injury department.

And what sense does it make to freak out over this? I’m a roll up my sleeves kind of girl…so here we go. Here’s my plan:

Effective immediately, the scale is my friend again. That’s just who I am.

For the next three days, I’m going to do a good old fashioned reset on my tummy. This is something gastric sleeve patients do from time to time…and my support team actually recommends it. Monday thru Wednesday will be the liquid diet of protein shakes that I was on the week after surgery.

Per my physical therapist’s orders, I’m to try and stress out my foot a little bit after today. Monday I’ll be increasing my steps. Tuesday I’ll be walking all over an airport anyway…and I’ll have water aerobics that night. Wednesday I’m back at physical therapy. Thursday I have water aerobics again…and maybe I’ll try a little elliptical or treadmill before that. I’ll decide on the weekend later. That’s enough to do for now.

Stay tuned to my Facebook fan page for updates on how this is going. I’m trying not to think about the 24 pounds and just focus on fixing the situation. Once my foot is fixed I can really ramp up the exercise and hopefully soon I’ll be in the 260’s.

For now, let’s just focus on kicking this goal in the ass. 🙂

No drama…or know drama!

When I was very young…and even as I grew older…I was a magnet for unavailable men, screwed up people, and drama. Then I finally found a therapist who could get through to me and I soon learned how to establish healthy boundaries. I learned to ensure that the actions of the people I let into my life met the words that came out of their mouths…because I was a sucker for liars.

It was many years before I built my boundaries up strong enough to keep the drama out, but I worked and worked at it until the only drama in my life was the shit I caused myself. When you cut the trouble causers from your life, it leaves a peace behind that only you can disturb. Sometimes you still disturb it, but in many ways it’s a lot easier to deal with yourself than some unpredictable shit of a person that can come at you from left field.

The fingers of dysfunction still have a tiny hold on some who are close(ish) to me…and one of them has recently been in need of help. And HMH and I let them into our lives and offered our help.

It’s only weeks later and we’re finding that we’ve been lied to. And manipulated…because this person knew what to say to us and how to say it in order to get something they wanted. There’s been plenty of drama around our normally boring, drama-free household. Drama stirs up the ghosts of the past. At least it does for me.

I worked so hard to eliminate as much drama as possible from my life. I married a drama resistant man, at least in all ways other than the occasional “Hey, y’all, watch THIS!” crap he gets up to. He does, after all, own a t-shirt that says “WARNING: I do dumb things!”. It’s all true.

So now we’re in a position of having to remove this person from our lives, which will involve to some extent a little kicking and screaming on their part as they’re shown the door. More drama. But our boundaries are declared and this person will be made to make tracks. And me? I’m finding that the entire episode is causing me a huge amount of stress.

What do I do when I stress out? What does any compulsive overeater do when they stress? They eat the world. I’ve had gastric sleeve surgery to stop myself from eating a large pizza and a pint of Blue Bell ice cream in one sitting…but I didn’t have brain surgery, so eating is still what I’m driven to do whenever I need to cope.

I can’t physically eat enough to calm myself down, but my head still wants me to. So I end up with my soul in a riot when there’s drama. I’m already an insomniac, so this makes it worse. I have nightmares. I don’t sleep much. But there are things that help:

  • Stitching. I’ve said it a million times, I know…but having a hobby that is just for me does me a world of good. It makes me count. It makes me focus. And I end up with beautiful creations when I’m done.
  • Venting. It’s not healthy to keep it in. Whether it’s Hot Mess Hubby, a friend, or just writing it down…I have to vent.
  • Being kind to others. Yeah…sometimes I catch myself feeling like everything is terrible. Doing nice things for others with no expectation of anything in return renews my faith in life.

The thing is…you can’t let it in. The drama. You can’t let it get inside your boundaries, and if you don’t have any boundaries it’s time to get some. I’m not talking about hardening your heart to the world and declaring everyone the enemy. That’s easy and stupid and not at all healthy.

  • Build healthy boundaries. Find a good therapist. Read some books about it. It takes time to learn, but you’ll learn.
  • Surround yourself with good people. How do you spot good people? Words are cheap. Do their actions meet their words? That’s the quickest way I’ve ever sniffed out an asshole. Okay, that sounded really gross, but you know what I mean.
  • Vent your frustrations in a healthy way. Get a hobby. Get away from the drama. Have good friends. You have to be there for yourself.

You’ll be amazed at how little drama you put up with once you accomplish this…and how little drama you have to put up with because you made good choices.

Ultimately, I made good choices in this situation. I knew the risks of allowing a person like this into my life, but I wanted to have faith in them and believe that they were changed. They were not. That doesn’t change the fact that I did a kind thing and tried to help someone I thought was in need. The fact that they were manipulating me is no reflection on me. It’s a poor reflection of them. The fact that I won’t fall for it again is a testament to those healthy boundaries I’ve worked so hard to build.

And so I have to do a little extra sweeping to clean the drama out of our lives…but I’ll sweep it, trust me. Soon HMH and I will be back to our fabulously awesome, boring-ass drama free lives. And loving every minute of it.

My glass is always half full, peeps!

So…this happened.

 photo stress fracture june 2016_zpszo49usxq.jpg

Yes, folks, this is the sixth stress fracture I’ve had in 12 years. You read that right: SIXTH. This is what happens when I finally get up enough resolve to start working out again. Although this specific type of injury is directly related to me stomping around with 100+ extra pounds on my body, in my defense I’ve had foot problems since I weighed less than 100 pounds soaking wet. My feet have always been assholes. They just have it in for me.

I thought my feet might be super happy about the 116 pounds I’ve already lost, but no. They’re pouty jerks who just don’t want me to walk. At least not for fitness. And, because of that, I found myself recently realizing that I’m sort of being an idiot about this. I keep doing the same damn thing:

  • Avoid exercise because I hate it
  • Feel guilty about not exercising, but do nothing about it
  • Admit I need to exercise, but still do nothing about it
  • Start wondering what kind of an idiot I am for not exercising and try to make myself want to do something about it
  • Finally work up the will to exercise, hate every damn minute of it
  • Actually get into a groove and start making it a habit, get a stress fracture and can’t exercise anymore

You know what they say about doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different result? Yeah, I’m a bloody genius, right? Well, I’ve already fixed the issue…but you’ll have to wait for the next blog post to find out how. Suffice to say it has a lot to do with self-acceptance in the face of un-hidable cottage cheese thighs.

Obviously I went to the podiatrist, who took x-rays and determined what I already limped in there knowing: stress fracture. I’d brought the extremely expensive boot that I got about 3 stress fractures ago so that he could approve it, which he did. But then he did something I didn’t expect. He started checking out my cankles.

I don’t have ankles. My calves just disappear into my shoes. Calves + ankles = cankles. I hate it. It’s uber embarrassing, but I’ve always believed I’ll see my real ankles again once I lose enough weight. In my experience, the smallest parts of the body are the ones that lose weight the slowest…so my giant tree stump cankles weren’t setting off any alarm bells.

According to my podiatrist, it’s a hereditary condition that should not be “this bad” in someone as young as me. While, I wanted to hug him for the young comment, I totally freaked about the hereditary thing. Like…what? I may not get rid of this? These cankles might haunt me forever? Screw that, dude! I have dresses to wear someday. Don’t I? Please??

My mother is a petite little thing, as was my maternal grandmother…but my maternal grandfather’s mother (keep THAT straight in your head if you can) was a BIG woman. BIG. And quite mean from what I hear. Like Jerry Springer talk show guest mean. Like throwing knives at her grandkids mean. She wore men’s house slippers because her giant feet couldn’t fit into regular shoes – and she had to slit them with scissors in order to get them around her cankles.

Great. I’ve inherited my great grandmother’s cankles of evil.

What’s worse, my doctor prescribed… *sigh* …compression socks. Yep. Old lady compression stockings/socks. That’s exactly the image that I get when I hear the term “compression socks”: some little fat old lady in a house coat, shuffling through the kitchen looking for cheese and miscellaneous snacks.

I’ll do whatever I need to for my health, but honestly…this was kind of a dick punch to my pride. Not that my pride would have a dick because I’m pretty sure my pride is a girl since I’m a girl. But maybe my pride identifies as a…oh, fuck, never mind. It hurt a little. That’s all I’m saying.

I had to go to a special pharmacy to get measured for them. *sigh* I did it, though, and I have to admit…my cankles are smaller at the end of the day when I remove the…things.

*sigh*

When I remove the compression socks.

I really hate the old lady image that pops in my head whenever I say it, though, you guys! I hate it!! It festers and tortures me more than Taylor Swift grates on that dillhole Kanye. I’m torn between the horror of my cankles and the amazing cozy socks that hug my cankles and calves into submission. The cankles must be stopped…and so…

I hereby declare that compression socks will forever be know as SPANKLES!!!!

When you think about it, compression socks are really just SPANX for your cankles, right? You know I’m right! We don’t say “compression underpants”, do we? No. Because that sounds like something you need an air hose or special permit for. We say SPANX. Well…I’m not calling my special cozy socks anything that doesn’t say how awesome they are.

From now on, when people stop me and say “Hey, HMP, where’d you get those super awesome cozy socks?” (Because you know they will…). I’ll reply “Oh THESE? These are my SPANKLES!”

This shit’s totally catching on faster than jeggings, peeps. Mark. My. Words.

SPANKLES: this year’s hottest Christmas gift. You’re welcome.

My eff’in glass is always half full…preferably with Rumchata.