STUPID

I have this dessert leftover from the barbecue Carl missed. It's a low-cal, low-carb dessert from a diabetic cookbook recipe so it's really not supposed to be that bad for you, but I think we need to redefine 'bad.'

I grew up in a family that was pretty poor. We didn't have running water in our house for awhile and I have vivid memories of putting my snowsuit and snowboots on over my nightgown in the middle of the night to trek to the outhouse to pee. A philosophy of not wasting anything is deeply instilled in me. My family values included eating zuchinni with every meal so that it didn't go to waste, and composting any part of anything that we couldn't actually eat. When I first met my husband and we went out on dates, he had to convince me that it was okay to take something home in a 'to go' box instead of stuffing myself sick so that nothing was left on my plate.

I still struggle with the value of not wasting anything, which is in essence a good value. It means we don't take what we don't need and makes it easier to track the pocketbook, but it also means that I eat every leftover we have in the fridge. Most of the leftovers are good, like soup, lean meat, and vegetables.

But right now the leftovers include this dessert that's not too damaging, but not necessary, either. I'm eating it, not because I want dessert, but just so that it doesn't go to waste. I've been consciously eating a bowl a day with the aim of getting it out of the fridge and washing my cake pan. I don't want any, even though it tastes good (especially with whipped cream), but I'm eating it when I'm not hungry and not really even craving something sweet. STUPID.

So I threw the rest of it away and washed the pan. I have to give myself permission to let food I DON'T NEED go to waste if that's what it means. I'll still eat leftover soup for lunch because it's a meal and it's good for me, but I won't shovel a 'healthy' dessert' in my mouth just because I feel guilty if it doesn't get eaten. My duties as Mom might include supervising chores, vacuuming, or bathing the baby, but it doesn't have to include 'eating all of the leftovers in the fridge so that they don't go to waste.'

Enough said.

Holidy Abs

I'm starting out my holiday with a very sore body. It's different eating the holiday cookies that brought by those who fall under the people-who-like-me-but-don't-quite-get-the-contest category have brought to the house (All the cookies have been on red plates--is green out this year?) with extremely sore abs. Being sore takes some of the indulgent pleasure out of the sweets. I didn't work hard with Carl yesterday just to eat cookies. I actually don't have much of a sweet tooth, but I'm also not totally strict about my diet. And sometimes I like to eat cookies.

I'm a little distracted--the Jazz are losing to the Bucks and Millsap just went out with an injured knee. As if the Jazz need another power forward out with injuries.

And the baby is starting to fuss because it's her bedtime.

And I'm trying to blog in a way that makes sense to you people, but it just might not happen tonight, like sometimes workouts don't happen when cookies do, or diet Coke.

So, my point is, a strategy to avoid some of the holiday overeating--work out and get extremely sore and see how it feels to shovel that second piece of cake into those twinging abs.

Good night.

Nostalgia

When Michelle feels out of control, she eats (that's her own confession). When I feel out of control, I clean. It's amazing that during layout, when I should be absolutely glued to my computer chair, my house is the cleanest it is out of the entire month. You should have seen it Saturday night. I can't control getting all of the stuff in for the layout--articles, ads, pictures--but I can control how clean my house is, so I clean it. Well, everybody cleans it when I'm in that mode because I don't give them any other options. My kids suddenly have a chore list that's fifteen items long and we all go at it with cleanser and toothbrushes.

So, Saturday I was feeling out of control and I cleaned my house. (The previous paragraph is simply an extra self-disclosing introduction to this single fact.) And as I was cleaning, I dusted a shelf full of old journals/albums and picked one up and started to flip through it. Well, the journal really isn't that old, just a few years. But the significance of this is....

I was hot!!!

I have been missing my body. I knew when I got pregnant I wouldn't magically still have a six-pack, and I knew I would have to work hard after the baby to get back into shape. But I didn't realize quite how fit I was until I didn't have it anymore. I was, for the most part, pretty satisfied with my body. I worked out hard and didn't worry about what I ate and I looked pretty good. But I still got on myself every now and then about another five pounds or so off of my butt.

For some perspective, here's a sample of the butt I couldn't be satisfied with:

My new perspective is that I looked so good I should have been on billboards. Well, okay, maybe I need another ten inches of height or so to qualify in the model range, but the heels help. My point is that I looked good and I couldn't fully appreciate it because I think in this society we're programmed to think that if losing fifteen pounds is good, losing another five or ten must be better.


I don't plan on making that mistake again this time. I feel pretty and basically in shape after having lost fifty postpartum pounds and weighing in at 185 (oh, what's that you say Carl? I'm down to 183?). Another twenty pounds from now, at 165 or so, I'll probably even feel a little sexy, and when I get back to 145 or 135 or whatever, I'll be smokin'!


I will not take it for granted this time! I will get in shape and it will be good enough and I will not worry about a stupid five more pounds. I will buy expensive jeans because they WILL be the jeans I plan on wearing for a long time, not just a pair of jeans on the way to losing five more pounds. And I will accept that I am pretty and sexy and woman enough.


Yeah!!!! Time to go see Carl...

Layout

Oh the days of layout. This is without doubt the hardest time for me to avoid the diet Coke. Not like I've completely stopped, anyway, but I am down to one can of the caffieinated stuff a day. Just for some perspective, before I got pregnant I drank the equivalent of a twelve-pack a day. A couple or few refills, and the four or five cans after I got home from work. Ouch. If that doesn't age a woman, I don't know what does.

It's going to be hard during crunch time to work out in the evening, too. It takes a serious number of hours over only a few days to get the layout done, and it all has to be in front of my computer. But I have my next workout scheduled for tomorrow afternoon, and then I'll have to decide if Iwant to try for Monday.

I like having karate in the morning. It means that my workout is the first thing I do, then I can take a shower and be pretty the rest of the day with my makeup on. Evenings are hard because that's when the family is all home. But I'm doing it for me and I love it when I come home and my boys ask how my workout was. Someday I hope they go home and their kids ask how their workout was.

Enough chatting--back to the layout.

Dis-ap-point-ment

So, I had my weigh-in, too. According to the scale, I didn't lose anything. I didn't gain anything either, but I feel more tone and tighter in my core. I spent days over the last week sore in different muscles and I'm sleeping better at night.

I wasn't too surprised, and not even really disappointed. There's a reason I don't own a scale. What matters to me is that my jeans fit the way I like them, I can see muscle in the mirror, and I can do two or more hours of karate at a hard pace without passing out. I'm getting there, and that's what matters.

I do really feel like I lost some inches (or quarter inches, or 1/8 inches) because my gi pants fit a little more loosely. I think Carl was more disappointed than me about the whole thing. He's working as hard as I am to lose this weight. He didn't quite pout on the outside, but I could tell he pouted on the inside.

I usually don't lose the rest of my baby weight until I stop nursing, which will be around March for me. Until then, my body wants to hang on to what it has to feed a growing baby. I'm alright with it. I'm sculpting underneath the momma suit and it will all pay off, just not maybe the way you'd expect. When I stop nursing, I'll lose ten pounds off my chest the first week. That'll be a good week for Carl.

I feel better, I move better, and I'm liking the treadmill a little more every time I get on there. Now I better hit the hay so that I have what I need for karate in the morning and Carl in the evening Yawn..........

Whittling

I've looked at all of our pictures (well, I took the ones of Michelle), and I don't think we look that bad. It's sort of like a sculptor looking at raw clay, in a way (by the hay, how was your day?). Michelle can outlift me on the weights, so I know the Greek sculpture muscle is in there. It's like Carl has to just whittle away our momma suits and find the physical sweetness underneath. Well, we're whittling while Carl works on his own Greek sculpture muscles.

I want to look like that. I want to turn heads and have even guys envious of my guns. And I really, really want the Brooke Burke/Terminator butt.

I look forward to the workouts. The endorphins are a bit of a fix for me, a fix that is going to have to replace diet Coke if I'm going to make it to the guns and the butt. Karate helps, too. I'm sore from working out with Carl and I'm sore from working out in karate. I don't think there's a spot on my body that has been missed this week. In fact, I'm working out harder in karate now that I'm working out with Carl--maybe to make up for still drinking some (not a lot of) soda.

I teach karate for four hours tomorrow. Granted, I won't necessarily be working out myself the whole time, but I should burn some good calories in there somewhere. And then it's back to Carl. I'm excited for the weigh-in on Tuesday or Monday or whatever. I don't know if I've lost Carl's goal of four pounds/week, but I'm sure I've lost some. Getting to that butt.

Whittle away, Carl, whittle away...

Sigh....