Just a note: at first, this is going to seem like a lot of whining about the mechanics of writing a blog and the politics of being married to a man who is occasionally right…but trust me, I have a point…and it’s a good one. You may proceed with reading about the amazing realization I had last night…
I started having one of my “famous meltdowns” last night. They usually start with me staring at the wall with a far off look in my eyes…and when hubby asks me what’s wrong, my usual reply is “I’m so overwhelmed….” And then I launch into a near hysterical venting session in which he’s tasked with calming me down while successfully managing to not roll his eyes at any of the bat shit crazy crap that comes out of my yap. For the record, he (once again) talked me down off the mental ledge I had put myself on and all is well.
I’ve known married couples who were so alike they were scary, but that’s not the case with the hubs and I. We are polar opposites. I’m very talky, very animated, very silly and snarky…and always doing something. He’s very untalky (it’s a totally a word, trust me), very calm/almost dead, with a touch of sarcasm and is quite talented at the art of making an ass print in his chair. We compliment each other perfectly. He calms me down, I rev him up – unless there’s a crisis, then it’s reversed. For example, when our neighbor “Mr. Underpants” loaned his car to his elderly mother and she crashed it into hubby’s truck so hard that she pushed it through our garage door…I was the calm that kept hubby together. He even told me so when we went back inside after it was over. Then I got all excited because he was so sweet to say that…and was bouncing around and hugging him and being silly…and then he had to calm me down. What can I say…
Whenever I have an extended weekend looming close, my head fills with plans and I start to schedule every minute of every day so that I can feel like I truly accomplished something. My “to do” lists are a mile long. I have one for organizing the house and another for this blog. Last night, they were both freaking me out – but when the hubby asked me what was wrong I jumped into bloggy things first. See, I went to my first ever blogger’s conference last September and I came home with a list of things to do that was four pages long. Since then, I’ve been trying to get control over everything I’ve been told I should be doing and I just can’t seem to get a grip on it.
The blogger’s conference was hella fun, but there was quite a bit of it that was geared towards “Mommy bloggers” and crafting bloggers, coupon sites, and travel related blogs. All of those folks run their blogs for money. Only two of us were blogging our way through a huge weight loss goal – and I never even met the other weight loss blogger.
In fact, I sort of fell into this whole blogging thing ass-backwards. Sorry, asses-backwards. There are things that seasoned, professional bloggers know…like SEO and page ranking. They do HTML coding on their blogs, have editorial calendars for their content, and manage all their social media. They know how to read analytics reports that tell them how much traffic they’re getting. I can barely read my electric bill. Honestly, if it wasn’t for Matt the Webmaster Ninja, this blog would have a solid white background with black type on it and maybe a picture of my dogs…because that shit’s just cute. But now Matt has moved on and is no longer managing the HTML-analytical-hoogy-doogy crazy shit that keeps all this together…and I’m left feeling like a big fat muggle at Hogwart’s.
So there I was, venting frantically to the hubby about HTML and Facebook “likes” and editorial calendars when he has the balls to look right at me and say “Why do you need an editorial calendar? Stop treating your blog like it’s a business. You’re doing this for you.”
That moment when you’re passionately whining about something you know you’re absolutely 100% right about…and then someone pulls your entire argument out from under you and beats you on the head with it? Yeah…there it was.
I sat there for a minute, feeling my meltdown washing away and wondering what to do about it…kind of like the first time I took Ambien and I was torn between going to bed and eating all the dry soup mix in the pantry. It’s confusing and terrifying, but if you sit still long enough the right path becomes clear.
This all started from that blogger’s conference – which was a day well spent, to be sure – however, since then I’ve snapped back into the role of a brainless little sheep and that’s not who I want to be. Once I realized that, the light bulbs really started to go back on…and I think I terrified the hubs a little bit with the wide-eyed expression on my face.
“Are you okay or do you have to fart? I can’t tell…”
He’s charming, isn’t he?
I didn’t have to fart…I was having a major epiphany. I was thinking about the fact that I was 13 years old when my Mom put me on my first diet because The King said I was fat. It was the Scarsdale Diet, I remember…and back then, a healthy diet dinner consisted of a hamburger patty, a few slices of tomato, and a big plop of cottage cheese. Yep. Healthy, huh?
It launched me into a loop of dieting and binging that lasted over 20 years. Scarsdale, Atkins, South Beach, Yogurt, Milkshake diets. Phen Fen, Meridia, Prozac, 5-HTP…I tried everything. I ran with all the other sheep. Every time the diet industry announced another “solution” to my fat problem, I lined up with the rest of the sheep and handed over my money…and failed. Just like all the other sheep.
When I finally decided I’d had enough of listening to people who were making money off of me and capitalizing on my failures, I realized that I had to stop being a sheep. I had to be diligent and spend some time on myself. I had to find out what really works for me long term…and then do it. That’s what this past year has been about: finding real, sustainable change that doesn’t come from a special diet, a magic pill, or surgery. The result? I’ve lost 45 pounds and kept it off for an entire year. I have never kept weight off for this long. Ever. This Princess is on the right track. Finally.
As much as it pains me to admit when he’s right during one of my meltdowns, the hubs was dead on this time. When he asked me why I needed an editorial calendar, I’m ashamed to say that my reply was “Because they said so…” At the blogger’s conference. They said I should have one and, because I have no real idea what I’m doing, I jumped into my sheep suit and ran with the other sheep…never thinking for a minute that editorial calendars make a lot of sense for the mommy and craft bloggers out there and not a lot of sense for me. I’m blogging about a very real, very personal experience. You can’t schedule that shit.
My point? The sheep mentality is dangerous. Don’t let other people make important decisions for you. Don’t follow any plan without examining every detail first and figuring out whether it actually works for YOU or not. And don’t let your husband know he’s right too much or there’ll be hell to pay. Trust me – every time I try to argue a point for the next few months, he’s going to resurrect that moment last night when I realized he was right. Bastard. In fact, as I was spewing out the “Oh my God, you’re right!” of it all last night and he sat there with a self-satisfied smile on his face he had another brilliant idea.
“You know what, babe? This is a blog post right here…what we’re talking about…what you’re realizing.”
Oh shut up already! (He says you’re welcome, by the way…for suggesting that I write about this.) I was tempted to post his cell phone number so that y’all could personally thank him…but I won’t. This time.
We are a perfect match. Total opposites, meant to be. He’s a keeper. Sure, he doesn’t understand that taking out the trash is a two step process…but that just means he’s not perfect.
Step one: take out the trash.
Step two: put a new bag in the fucking trash can…how hard is it!!!
I’m sorry, I was talking about the wonder of marriage and my amazing realization. Yes. Marriage is full of wonder. And also remember not to be a sheep. Finding your own way is the most rewarding thing you can do in the process of embarcing a healthier lifestyle. You only have to answer to yourself. And maybe your doctor. And possibly a spouse who gets a little too happy when you’re wrong and risks getting kicked in the man-snatch.
Perhaps I should put a protective cup in the hubby’s stocking this year. He might need it.
I’m sorry I haven’t been extremely bloggy lately and, judging from the quiet messages I’m getting from some of you (which I’m grateful for), I feel like I should poke my head up long enough to assure y’all that I’m doing just fine. I promise you that the recent declaration of bankruptcy by Hostess, the makers of the Twinkie, did not send me over the edge. You can send the producers from Hoarders on over if you like…you’ll find no partially-hydrogenated stockpile here.
The truth is that I’m busy with holiday hoo-hah, including overnight guests and socializing with friends (which includes forcing Hot Mess Hubby to socialize as well…always a good time). As we get further into December, I’m freshly reminded of the absolute Hot Mess I was this time last year…how much I’ve grown…and how far I’ve come. I have a sort of funky, new-found pride about it. I’m proud, but this feeling is new to me and I resist allowing myself to celebrate the victory that 2012 has been for me. I’ll touch more on that later (probably tomorrow, actually).
Today is about Santa. The nine year old who still lives in my heart absolutely loves Santa. I admit, even though Hot Mess Hubby and I were not blessed with children of our own, I watch NORAD’s Santa tracker on Christmas Eve with all the thrill and wonderment I had back in the days of footed jammies and hot cocoa before bed. I love this time of year.
As an adult, however, I also have to deal with all the grown-up chores that my chronological age has saddled me with – leaving precious little time for believing in jolly fat men and flying reindeer. Hot Mess Hubby and I don’t buy each other lots of presents at Christmas time. It isn’t because we don’t care or we don’t love each other…we’re just the kind of people who don’t wait for a special occasion to give each other presents. For example, he’s been absolutely drooling over some grilling/smoking monstrosity that’s supposed to be particularly badass and he bought it for himself. We were also recently able to replace the hideous piece of crap refrigerator we had for a brand new shiny one. As far as we’re concerned, we don’t need anything else right now. Except for stocking stuffers…because some Christmas traditions should never be messed with. Ever.
I have a special place in my heart for stocking stuffers. When my brother and I were little, we would wake up super early on Christmas morning and sit at the edge of the hallway and stare at all the presents while we waited for the rest of the family to wake up. It was torturous to wait, but we sat there like the good kids we were and we whispered to each other about what we thought was in all those packages. Santa never wrapped his gifts, so of course we drooled over the site of new toys we couldn’t touch yet. New bikes…a new doll for me…or, one year in particular, a brand new Millennium Falcon for my brother. He nearly cried.
Then everything would happen so quickly. Our family would wake up…one of our older siblings would play Santa and pass out the presents while we all took turns opening them. It was always so wonderful and always over so quickly. By late morning, our home was filled with the smells of Mom in the kitchen making Christmas dinner. We would sit around the living room watching tv and playing with our new toys…and just as I would begin to really feel sorry that it was over till next year, something would make me look up towards the fireplace. The stockings!!!! We have to look in our stockings!!!!!
Those stockings were always like having a little bonus surprise after all the hoopla was over (like we needed a bonus). I was always overjoyed when I realized we weren’t quite done yet – and even when I got into my teenage years and it was no longer cool for me to believe in Santa, I was never too cool to turn my nose up at the fun of a loaded Christmas stocking. (For the record, I was 100% the opposite of cool.)
That’s why I have such a special place in my heart for Christmas stockings…and that’s why, even now, I insist that the hubby and I fill each other’s stockings up with little trinkets and baubles…and no candy in mine, thank you. Why poke a dragon with a sharp stick, ya know?
This year has been all about healthy changes for me and, as such, I have seen an awful lot of crazy shit out there. Crazy shit that’s manufactured in the name of health, fitness, or just look’in goooood. Unless it’s jewelry, Hot Mess Hubby’s not extremely talented at gift giving – and we can’t afford jewelry. I’d kill him. He knows not to put any candy in my stocking…and my stocking is too small to fit a Dooney & Bourke in…so I run the risk of getting some absolutely nightmarish gadget in my stocking. I’m a little scared.
Here are a few of my least favorites.
Wonder Sauna Hot Pants! For those days when I don’t feel like I’m quite blown up enough:
This puts the pole in North Pole, baby:
Okay, I know it’s the latest fitness craze but I just can’t see it that way. I’m all for sex’in it up for my man, but I have to draw the line at rubbing Crisco on my ass and gett’in jiggy by wrapping my tree trunk legs around a tiny little pole. Unless they make them in titanium and it comes with a free 5 gallon drum of margaritas.
The Sauna Suit.
Ooh! One size fits all! Really? I’m pretty much think’in if I shove myself in those plastic pantaloons my ass is bust’in out the back like a jumbo pizza box rips through a dollar store trash bag. Pretty damn quick.
The waist trimmer.
I’m pretty sure I’d need two or three of these suckers velcro’d together to cover me. Really, it’s just going make all my extra bits and pieces squeeze out so that I look like a giant chubby hourglass. No thanks. I prefer that my body shrinks proportionately. 🙂
Booty Pop panties. For when your ass isn’t big enough. I have literally never had this problem.
No. Just no. This is where all our crazy shit starts. Well, first it starts with a donut…or a pizza…but it always comes around to some diet book that we’re going to follow and get thin. And it never happens. Why? Because what works for some will not work for others and we have to stop attacking this problem with a cookie cutter mentality. Find what works for you. YOU. Don’t listen to all these people (who are making money off our inability to lose weight, by the way). Don’t listen. Find your own path.
So yeah, Santa…please don’t bless my house with your sack (snicker) if you’re pack’in any of this hoo-hah. I’m enough of a Hot Mess without it. Instead of a plus sized titanium pole or a pair of undies that makes my booty pop, I’ll settle for peace on Earth and goodwill for all mankind. If you could pull that out of your sleigh, I’d surely appreciate it.
On to part 2 of this amazing tale of tired feet, sore backs, and shattered dreams. I feel duty bound to tell you at this point that there may, indeed, be a part 3. I didn’t deliberately deceive y’all yesterday when I said I had to break it into 2 parts, I’m just a real wordy bitch. Apologies in advance if that happens.
So I left off yesterday as we were ushered to the hospital cafeteria, goodie bags in hand, to fill out our official Biggest Loser applications. It was well after lunch by this time and, to add insult to serious foot injury, the grill was closed. Either that or the 684 contestants who were in front of us ate all the food and they had to close up shop. I didn’t ask – partially because I was trying not to gag over the stench of the only food they were still serving: Subway. Sorry, Jared…your food smells like vinaigrette mixed with ass.
None of us had thought to bring snacks either. Imagine that: over a thousand fat people in the same place and no food. Well played, Subway. I’d brought some carrot sticks with me, but they were long gone. Normally I would have brought a backpack full of partially hydrogenated nummies, but ya know, I thought I needed to bring rabbit food to show the producers how good I was at liking healthy food. Because my giant ass was proof that I loved nothing more than a good salad after a stressful day, right?
I sat there with my 8 new BFF’s, feeling more hungry than I could ever remember, trying to keep my hand from trembling as I filled out my application (just in case they were also judging on penmanship). I didn’t even think about the goodie bag until one of the guys in my group grumbled, “Oh great…I bet these taste good.” I looked up to find him holding a bag of something called Protein Crisps. The look on his face was priceless.
Volunteers were stationed at the cafeteria entrance, calling out contestant numbers in sets of 5 every few minutes. They called out #548 and I looked down at my contestant number. #649. Awesome. I was going to be in Subway Stinkland for a while.
After a while, we became restless. Our applications were completed with what we were all certain were perfect, heart-wrenching answers to all the producer’s questions. They were bound to pick at least one of us. Our goodie bags had been plundered. Protein Crisps, a pen with the hospital’s logo on it, a message pad that said “Biggest Loser’ on it. Nothing fabulous. And no, no one touched their Protein Crisps. Later that night I would carefully open the packet of crisps and offer one to our dog, Kokopelli. She turned her nose up at it. That dog would eat her own yard biscuits, but those Protein Crisps were just gross.
Before long, sitting hurt just as much as standing. Every part of my body was throbbing and in pain. Finally, they called #648…which was one of my BFF’s. Then #649. We were told to stand in a hallway, which we did with barely concealed excitement. The rest of our friends soon joined us and the line began slowly moving. We had no idea where we were going, but we were certain that our final destination was just around the corner. Then we rounded the corner.
At least 200 people were lined up down a long hallway in front of us. Jesus. How long was this going to go on? And now we were standing again, feet throbbing, with clunky goodie bags and applications to hold onto. At least this line seemed to be moving faster, though. The line seemed to end at a pair of elegant wood doors at the end of the hall. I pictured a poshly decorated doctor’s conference room on the other side with a shiny black table, around which were seated a handful of Biggest Loser casting directors and producers. The Promised Land.
We were positively wiggly by the time we got to those doors. They were letting in groups of 10. We were next. They opened the doors and we rushed forward, but instead of finding ourselves in front of a bunch of Biggest Loser casting honchos we found ourselves in a huge auditorium. A volunteer just inside the door told us to find seats.
We found seats off to the side in a little overflow section of folding chairs. I looked around and my heart sank. There had to be at least 600 people in that auditorium. We looked at each other in disbelief. We were exhausted and hungry. I would have cut a bitch for a half of a granola bar. We thought we were at the end, yet there were still hundreds of people in front of us. At that point, it felt like we were in the middle of some cruel joke. Morale was starting to fade.
At least there was something to occupy our thoughts this time. There was a woman on stage at a podium, speaking about her amazing weight loss success. Everyone was riveted by her story. Her “before” picture was projected on the screen behind her along with the Biggest Loser logo. It was hard to believe that this skinny woman speaking to us had ever been overweight. When her presentation ended she opened things up for questions and hands shot up all over the auditorium.
“What did you do to lose that much weight?” Girl-in-green-dress asked.
The answer was something like “Blah blah blah, portion control, blah blah blah…eating healthy food…”
Yeah. That’s not what we wanted to know. We’re professional fatties. We’ve read a million books about portion contorl. Besides, it felt like she was side-stepping something.
“How did you lose the weight?” came the next question from chick-with-red-hair.
“Blah blah blah…get in the right mindset…blah blah blah…hard work…”
No. That’s not what we’re asking. We’ve heard this shit a million times. We’re still fat.
Finally, someone with balls stands up. Blue-shirt-guy says, “How specifically did you succeed this time after so many failed attempts to lose weight?”
He got applause from the crowd. We were all losing patience with this chick and her sketchy answers. You’re in a room full of your fellow fatties, lady…spill the details already. We eagerly awaited her reply.
“I had gastric bypass surgery here at the hospital.”
She clicked the remote in her hand and the slide changed from her “after” picture to one containing information about the hospital’s weight loss surgery programs.
My chin just about hit the floor. Everybody’s chins just about hit the floor. I was wrong about blue-shirt-guy having balls…because this chick had big brass ones. So did the hospital. What marketing genius.
No wonder the hospital volunteered to host the auditions. What do you do with a thousand captive fatties, most (if not all) of whom are not going to get picked for the Biggest Loser? You make them sit and listen to presentation after presentation about gastric bypass surgery. Well played, you sneaky-ass motherfuckers.
The auditorium booed her. Loudly. She tried to recover by continuing to talk over the booing. Eventually the crowd quieted down. Off to the side, a Biggest Loser production assistant approached the stage and the auditorium went wild. He stepped up to the microphone.
“We need numbers 438 through 447 out here in the hall please.”
What? They’re only in the 400’s? I was #648. Son of a bitch. Some of us were ready to cry. It was the day that never ended.
Back on stage, gastric-bypass-chick introduced the next presenter. Guess who it was? Dr. I-Forget-Her-Name, Chief Resident Hoo-Hah over…you guessed it…Bariatric Surgery.
Sigh. It was like being trapped in a timeshare meeting for fat people.
It was a collective slap in the face. The doctor gave her presentation. I didn’t hear much of it. I started texting Hot Mess Hubby in disgust. We had waited all eff’in day for a chance to have the shit kicked out of us on the Biggest Loser. We wanted to learn from top nutritionists, chefs, and personal trainers. We were auditioning for a reality show called The Biggest Loser, not Surgery Island.
The wheels of change finally began to turn in my rusty noggin when the next speaker was introduced. A psychologist came to speak about the mindset you need for success. She wasn’t pitching weight loss surgery, she was pitching something that every weight loss seeker needs whether they seek it through surgery or not: change. I wanted to hear the presentation…but I couldn’t. Because two of my fellow fatties, seated in front of me, wouldn’t stop chattering.
Between the two of them, I’m sure they had at least 600 pounds to lose. I was (and am) a pretty big girl…and these folks made me feel small. Each of them was seated across two folding chairs and they filled up the space. They definitely needed to be here with us – but they sat there laughing and chatting with each other, making fun of the doctor as she spoke. In fact, when the doctor started speaking about change management, the woman looked at the man and said “Yeah, yeah, yeah already. Too much work unless it’s for $250,000.”
Wow. Not ready for change. At all. I sat there, half listening to the presentation and half listening to them. I was heart sick for them. Maybe they were just as beat down with exhaustion as we were. Maybe they were just venting. But I wanted them to want to be there for more than just a $250,000 grand prize.
Their numbers were called and they stood up to go. Our section applauded for them and they both turned to us and smiled, saying thanks as they picked up their belongings. My heart really went out to this woman. Her weight was everywhere. It was pushing her cheeks up against her eyes. Her neck was a giant roll. Her face was so full that her chin had a tennis ball sized protrusion at the end of it. She wheezed when she moved to gather her things. I wanted to hug her and tell her to kick some ass when she got in front of those producers.
As I sat there watching her slowly waddle away, I realized…she’s me. She’s me.
Since I was a little girl, one of my most prominent features have been my “big, brown eyes”. Everyone has always complimented me on my eyes. But at 381 pounds, my eyes had stopped being a prominent feature. My face was puffy. My body was huge. If I kept up living as I was, my body would only be getting bigger. As my new BFF’s chatted easily with each other, I sat there feeling ashamed of myself. What had I done to myself? I was on the wrong road. Whether I miraculously made it on the show or not, something had to change. I sat there with my mind reeling, knowing there was more for me to discover in this new realization, but not wanting to think on it too much in this huge room full of people. I needed quiet time to really think this through.
They called our numbers and we bolted up and ran for the door. Finally. We were ushered down another hall and told to wait. The volunteer in charge of us assured us that we were almost there, but I was hesitant to believe her at this point. I wouldn’t have been too shocked if the next room included a panel of plastic surgeons to pitch tummy tucks for when we all hit our goal weights. This was not the day of promise and possibility that I thought it would be when I woke up. It was a day of exhaustion, realization, and hard lessons.
We stood in the hall together, excitedly chattering and taking pictures of our group, vowing to keep in touch. Some of us lived quite far from each other, but we promised to get together when we could – especially if one of us made it on the show, as we would want to have a watch party some night. It seemed our time together was finally coming to an end and it made me a little sad to think of it.
The volunteer came back to us, this time with the air of a boot camp drill instructor.
“Everyone in here, quickly!” She pointed to an open door that led to a small meeting room.
As we rushed towards the door, she stepped in before us. There was a lone man, very young, sitting at a small conference table. He had a Hollywood hipster look about him, one I was all too familiar with since I’m from southern California. He didn’t even look up. The volunteer drill instructor spoke next.
“Quickly, put your things on the floor against the wall and have a seat. Bring your applications. Hurry up now!”
We dropped our shit and ran to the table and sat. It was time to win a spot on the hottest reality show on tv. The volunteer stepped out and closed the door behind her. Finally, hipster boy spoke.
“Welcome, everyone. We only have two minutes together today, so I’ll make this quick. My name is (insert hipster doofus name) and I’m a casting assistant for the Biggest Loser. Going around the table, tell me your name and where you’re from.”
He pointed at the person on his left and said “Go.”
Like military recruits, we spouted off our names and where we were from. The only thing missing was “Sir, yes sir!” at the end. He sat there, slouched in his chair, unimpressed. Inside, I was thinking “Two minutes? Did he say we only have two minutes???”
“Pass me your applications.”
We passed them. What happened next was a real eye opener for me.
“Okay, I just have one question for the group. Why do you want to be on the Biggest Loser?” He made an open gesture at all of us and said, “Go!”
Like a crazed pack of monkeys, everyone started chattering at him at once. They were almost yelling over each other, each vying for his attention. It wasn’t a discussion, it was a shouting match…and he sat there slouching in his chair with a slight smile on his face as this display went on before him. I sat there with my mouth hanging open in amazement as my new BFF’s threw all decorum out the window and just yammered over each other like this was normal every day behavior. I started laughing. I couldn’t help it. Our group went from being BFF’s forever to a bunch of screaming degenerates who’d stab each other in the back for a shot at this guy’s attention. And he sat there gloating…as if we were all on Atkins and he had placed a single cupcake in the middle of the table. I can’t imagine that he was able to hear much of what any one person said. I couldn’t stop giggling to myself over the absurdity of it all. I couldn’t think of a single thing to say that warranted yelling it above everyone else. About 45 seconds into the melee, I heard myself say in my head “You are not the Biggest Loser.”
He held a hand up and there was instant silence. Hipster doofus had the power.
“Okay, we’re almost out of time. Quickly around the table: would you want Bob or Jillian…and why?”
Each person blurted out their answers one at a time. It was the only time I actually spoke while I was in that room.
Hipster boy explained that if we were selected to continue further we would get a call by 9 pm that night. I already knew the phone wasn’t going to ring at my house…and that was okay. I have a low threshold for crazy.
We hugged each other goodbye in the lobby and promised to let each other know if we got called. That night, I waited for the call that wasn’t coming and emailed the group at 9:05 pm to let them know I wasn’t selected. One of our group was chosen to go to a casting callback and another was asked to make a video tape and submit it. Despite that, neither was selected to go any further.
I spent the rest of the day overwhelmed with everything I was feeling. I was happy that I went, angry at the insensitive marketing done by the hospital, and absolutely aghast at the 2 minute brawl that ensued in that tiny little conference room. As much as I tried, I couldn’t fathom how anyone could glean enough information from that 2 minute shouting match in order to narrow down the contestant field. It seemed to me a process that was as ridiculous as it was futile. I would rather have been pitted against others in a more civilized forum – or even a physical challenge.
In the weeks that followed, I sent a few emails to my BFF’s to check on them. No one responded. We were strangers again as quickly as we were friends, which only added to the weirdness of the entire experience. Quite some time later, one of them found me on Facebook and we’ve stayed in touch…but everyone else is long gone. I wish them well.
I ached to the bone the following day from all the hours of standing on my feet. I was curious about the experiences of Biggest Loser contestants in a way I hadn’t been before. The casting call was an eye opener for me. I waited all day thinking I would have the chance to speak to a casting assistant for the show and instead I was thrown into a ridiculous situation. In this case, the reality of the reality show did not meet with my expectations – and I wanted to see if there was anything else about the Biggest Loser that I had misconceptions about.
There was, indeed – but that’s a story for tomorrow. It’s taken me over 3,000 words to tell you about the remainder of an amazing day…and I hope you’ve enjoyed it somehow. Tomorrow I’ll tell you what I learned in my search for answers. That will be Part 3. I doubt it will take 3,000 words…but like I said: I’m quite a wordy bitch.
I learned I wasn’t the Biggest Loser, but I also connected with the fact that I was on a dangerous path…and that I needed to find a way to change direction once and for all. This was the beginning of my beginning. This experience sent me looking not only for answers but solutions as well.
This was an incredibly busy week for me at work and an even busier weekend. Of note: I was inducted into the Daughters of the American Revolution on Saturday. It was an incredibly special moment for me, symbolizing the end of years of research.
Being the daughter of a highly decorated World War II veteran and the wife of a Marine Corps veteran, I have always wanted to be of service to our nation’s veterans. The Daughters of the American Revolution do a lot for our veterans – and I plan to honor my Dad’s memory by donating as much of my time as I can. Now that I’ve proven that I’m directly descended from an American patriot who fought in the Revolutionary War, I can join my fellow Daughters in supporting our veterans through some amazing programs.
I also had a bitch of a migraine today, which isn’t good any day, but really put a cramper on my style today…because our new refrigerator was delivered and I desperately wanted to rejoice. For the last 5 years, we’ve used a fridge that came with the house…and our freezer has always smelled like other people’s food. Gross! Plus the ice maker and water didn’t work. And it was so old the white plastic trim was yellow….EEEW!!!! My new baby is much nicer, much cleaner, and just more awesome all around. Now if only there was a switch inside the door that removed the calories from naughty foods. Seriously, we can land a rover on Mars but…ugh! Don’t get me started.
This is my little mini update today. Sorry I don’t have more for ya, but I hope to this week. This should be calming down.
This is going to be ninja quick. Things are absolute cray-cray at work right now and I’m struggling just to keep up with everything once I get home. But my war on the holidays? I got this.
Here’s the skinny on how I’ve been doing: 10 wall push-ups every other day, a couple trips on the treadmill, and I LOST A POUND!!!
I laugh in the face of fun-sized evil!!
We had trick-or-treat day at work yesterday. One of my co-workers (a total sweetheart with, of course, not an ounce of fat on her) shared her giant bag of chocolate evil with me 5 minutes before the kids started showing up. (See, I’d told her about my food issues.) You know that old saying…give a girl a blog and she’ll never shut the hell up.
The children of my fellow employees at the giant mega corporation I work for are eff’in adorable. I met Bat Girl, several Ninja Turtles (are they popular again? wtf??), Iron Man, and several other awesome critters. I even met Hermoine Grainger. The absolute best were the 1 year old twin boys dressed as 1960’s astronauts. So cute!
I passed out the chocolate without ever being seriously tempted to eat it…even when little Neil Armstrong tried to pass me a Twix bar. I’ve been walking around with a little swagger ever since…until I got home from work tonight and found this on the kitchen counter:
Right in the middle of my war against holiday temptation, Hot Mess Hubby brings magically delicious into my house. WTF!
To be fair, after I called him and berated him with my opinion for 10 minutes, he didn’t realize that this was such a temptation for me. So we’ve agreed to compromise because, apparently, this is what married couples do. I told him I’d just put a note on the box to remind myself that no good can come from me eating a bowl of it…