Fit + Flabuless!

I simply declared myself fit and flabuless.

Declarations rarely have any merit behind them, I've found; especially self declarations.

Case in point: today I made a package of slice and bake turtle cookies, 12 in total. Four went down the hatch. 180 calories a piece. This was after eating three of my nine chicken enchiladas I'd prepared for the week. And a good bunch of those sugary almonds I love more than life. Okay, not really, but you know what I mean.

Then I was really, really thirsty. I drank some water and took a friggin' nap. This was at 2ish. I finally dragged my ass out of bed at 4 and hauled it to the gym for a half-hour of weights and an hour of spinning. Mildly redemptive.

I still haven't eaten anything since the cookies. I put the rest of them in the freezer. Why am I such a cookie monster? My theory is I was forbidden from eating sweets as a child; now I'm making up for it.

But I ain't proud.

I ain't hating myself, neither. And that is a triumph.

I'll just eat me a pile o' veggies tomorrow and call it even. Plus I'm planning a return to running first thing in the a.m. I better get my rest. . . .

Where the hell have you been today?

By the way, having leapt off the wagon doesn't preclude you from leaping back on if you so desire. Have a nice salad. You'll feel better. And a good motivator I've found is to visualize yourself on the dancefloor in San Francisco. What are you wearing, how do you feel? It comes down to how we treat ourselves now . . . and forever.

Better lay off the cookies for me, and the koolaid for you. I see green vegetables in our near future. . . .

Others, say "Aye."

Aye.

So, yeah, the weekend. My brother's birthday weekend. Lotta maki. Ice cream. Pancakes. And then toaster pizza and Koolaid when I got back to the city (I couldn't find the little unsweetened packets, only the presugarfied kind).

Disastrous.

I am fairly certain Ihave regained five pounds, which I will need to spend the next two weeks compensating for, I am sure.

But I am proud of you and your decision! 'Tis best to be healthy as you can, make good choices whenever you can make 'em--which should be almost all the time--and to be happy with yerself.

Talk later--and good luck with all the classes!

I am fit and flabuless.

To hell with scheming and plotting.

Beauty, slimmness, monetary wealth all have little to do with happiness. No, I know there are studies that prove otherwise and being fat and poor sure as shit sucks rocks. But my point is that folks with the looks and the goods don't seem to necessarily attain joy because of said things.

So, my aim is no longer to acquire such things. Acquisition ain't the answer.

I'll have to plunge deeper inward before I can actually deliver THE answer.

And by then I might be dead.

What's the latest whichoo, chica?

Aching hip persists.

So, yoga and slim in 6 dvd must suffice for now. I thought about going to the gym, but made better use of my time by working on a story, my syllabus and re-attempting to create a proper parmesan zucchini loaf.

Story filed and bread success! Still working on the syllabus, but I have until Thursday, thankfully.

Congrats to you on losing four pounds, but I'm mildly concerned that those people cut them off of you. Sheesh. Youse working too much, lady. When's your next day off? Thursday? Shoot. And you know, it wouldn't be so bad if you actually liked what you were doing. . . .

. . . and getting more shut eye. This can't be good for you.

But you know all that, cuz yer livin' it!!

I hope we get a chance to talk soon. I might not be up tonight when you get off work, but hopefully we can talk tomorrow. I'll wait for your call, cuz I don't want to wake you. . . .

Sweet dreams!

How fucking adorable is the little smoking Belfast boy on the Sunday NYT travel section front? With his little buzzed head and pointy nose?

Why do I love the hooligans so much?

Cripes.

I came home from the long work week to find that waiting for me in front of my door (my paper delivery person alwasy fucks up my paper. It arrives all out of order and in a ridiculous heap. The bastid.) and it was such a wonderful welcome home! It made me realize I really do need to get in some more trips abroad in the coming year, and one of those trips needs to be a return to the UK. I miss it! Sigh. I really do need to do a good long stretch of travel. If only I had been brave enough to fuck off a few years ago, when I could have gotten a blue card...

Anyway. I'll go when I'm meant to go, I suppose. But that knowledge won't stop me from being wistful in the meantime.

Thank God.

Oh darlin'. It really is all in the food. I have not had a moment to spare for exercise in the last 7 days (oaky, I squeezed in about 18 crunches, and obviously work involves a lot of physicality) and lost 4 pounds this week. Four. Whole. Pounds.

In a single week.

During my period, when I usually gain that in bloat.

Dear god. Can you imagine?

I hate weightloss attempts. I can pedal my way to nowhere, five days per week, and feel fine but the scale won't budge. Give me a week of tortuous long days and frozen dinners and soup, and I'm my own goddamn diet plan.

Hateful.

Hateful.

Hateful.

Of course, I am torn between sticking to my love of self, commitment to good food and desire to become a force to be reckoned with in the world of food/drink journalism by only eating wonderful things, and the desire to lose another 4 pounds by sticking with bad frozen dinners.

Bah.

Talk in the morning, dahlink.

I hope your crazy-long stretch of sequestered work conditions ends soon. Cuz it'd be nice to talk to you again one day soon. And likely even nicer for you to return to the land of the living. Or whatever Manhattan appears to be at the moment.

I feel that I have entered yet another moment of peace, of calm, of clarity. And I am in pain, to boot, so that's saying something.

And I ain't kidding about no more dieting and no more looking for love. I'm on a new kick: Trust. I am trusting my body to tell me what it needs and trusting myself to listen and give it what it needs; and I am trusting the universe to endow me with abundant joy in the form of a magnificent man while at the same time trusting myself to choose him, and choose him for the right reasons.

My new writing teachers are going to kick my ass for this pseudo-spiritual language I seem to have taken on in most of my writing. Whatever. I gotta be what I gotta be, right?

I'm also on a fabulous cooking jag. Yesterday I created all sorts of marvelous salads. Today I made a white bean dip reminiscent of hummus but made of cannelini instead of garbanzos; eggplant caviar--made from roasted eggplant, pine nuts, lemon juice, parsley, capers, olive oil, sherry vinegar and salt and pepper--to. die. for.; and luscious tortilla soup. I'm officially back into soup.

I am rediscovering the joy of food. No more crazy control and fear of the dang stuff that gives me so much pleasure to prepare, present and eat. I feel like I've turned a corner on this one. But then again, you know what happens as soon as I make a proclamation: SLAM! Back into the land of the lost and confused. I do feel something of a shift, though.

I wish you could somehow taste all of the things I've created in my little kitchen. So fun!

Play is good. I'm hoping to rediscover the fun and playfulness in running soon, too. I've been on hiatus, but I'm looking forward to getting back into it. We'll see what my body says. . . .

So, I hope to hear from you soon about how you are, and I hope it's not devastatingly bad. Cuz I can't stand to see you in such a situation any longer. I hope you're taking good care of yourself!

Lots of love to you!!

More than being spectacularly helpful and encouraging, your inspired post reminded me what a dang spanktacular friend you are and how very well you know me. Thank you, thank you, thank you.

It seems that the fog may be lifting for us both. The challenge now (cuz we know there'll always be one) is the fog seems to be lifting just as a shitstorm is about to dump on us. So much work to do with no downtime. This means the pressure's on to be extra diligent about taking care of ourselves, whatever that means at the moment.

I do believe sometimes that means martinis and ice cream, but more often it means kindess to self in the form of exercise and eating nutritious things. As b.d has said, "Let me remind you, vodka martinis have no nutritional value. Ice cream has some nutritional value."

And as Pam has reminded me from time to time, the impulse to eat when the going get rough just might be an attempt to nurture ourselves. It becomes a problem when the act turns violent, i.e. stomach ache, self-hatred, etc.

So, I'm trying to find that balance, as always.

Which means, I'm back to my McCann's steel cut irish oats and egg whites in the morning. But I found a new delicious way to eat my two favorite things together. I made hard boiled eggs, discarded the yolks, and filled the little holes with mashed avocado. Delish! And replaced the bad fat of the yolk with the marvelous fat of the avocado. I didn't have cilantro or lime, so I didn't bother to make guacamole, but the salted, mashed avocado, was equally perfect. It reminded me that one day I must live in a villa with avocado trees growing in the backyard. I have yet to find a more perfectly satisfying thing to eat than a perfectly ripe avocado.

Remember when Janet Jackson was fat(ish)--circa "Nasty"? I remember reading an interview in Seventeen magazine with her shortly after she became super buff and she said that she was a chubby child because they had a grove of avocado trees on their property in Southern California and she used to go out there with a salt shaker and eat that fatty green flesh to her heart's content.

This is probably why avocados are not the best way to fill myself up and why they should best be enjoyed in moderation. There's that friggin' word again.

My friend Jessica also said she went from a size 6 to a size 12 when she studied in Chile solely because of the abundance of avocados in her diet. Damn.

I'll work on that moderation thing. But down with diets! I know I must eat the way I choose to eat the rest of my life, so I'm working on tweaking that.

Have fun working a short day today, dahlink!

You know, I honestly think the moments of clarity and profundity are so closely chased by a wallowing misery because a) there is no easy truth, my dear, since b) most of us are habitually blind to it, in fact work quite hard at ignoring it, and c) you and I are, on top of all that, bleeding-fucking-masters, er, mistresses, of self-sabotage.

Let me 'splain. Is it true that we are rather fit, if not flabuless, right now? Yes. Perhaps fitter even than the chain-smoking, rail-thin model types that skulk around Manhattan? Very likely. Is it true that on top of this, we are charming, fascinating, well-educated, wickedly clever bitches? Uh-huh. Now, is any of this linked to the way we are or have been treated in the world? Sometimes yes, but often, sadly, no. Sometimes we get the shit end of the stick for no reason. But being human, we want always to be in control of the way in which we are treated, to master our lives, which leads us to seek the "faulty" areas that we should improve to do so. Like eliminating arm jiggle, or a really quite natural layer of fat in your thighs that you work damn-hard to get rid of, but your body is all, "Nah, bitch, it stays!" Because, hellooooooo, that's where we store the fat that helps us through the physical hell of baby-making and also happens to be what makes us ladies in the first place. It's supposed to be there. Somehow, this has not been making you feel any better. So you beat yourself up about not running 18 miles today when you don't, even though you know you're going to do it tomorrow, and makes you beat yourself up again when you do, because for some ridiculous reason, you aren't impressed with yourself for doing it. Uh, end point A.

Begin point B. Now, why in hell aren't you impressed? Is it not true that running 18 miles in under four hours in a single day, and then not falling down dead and footless at the end, is genuinely impresseive? It sure as shit is impressive. And yet, you are distracted from the fact that this is increible. Why? Because some numnuts scheduled your classes all wrong, against your warnings, and some other numnuts is making you professionally bunk with some irritating chit who has stolen the window-view even though she's bloody blind, and your ex is practicing the asshatery that he has always practiced, you now realize with you and everyone else he's encountered because it's all he is capable of, and because the almighty teevee acts like ain't nobody over a size two exists in any capacity other than mockery or scorn, let alone ever run a race? Well I say bah! Bah to that! "Fuck all y'all," that's what you need to be saying!

What was my point?

Ah yes, truth and beauty, or at least perception thereof. Beauty is one subject which has long since lost any grounding in truth. But we have this idea of it as some sort of ultimate truth. Wait, I don't know where that's going. I start again. Oh hell, let's just skip it and move on to point C.

So, as you know, you and I have a tendency to want to rock our own boats. We are quite adept at it, in fact. So when you are faced with embarking upon a grand voyage, it is only natural that you would be gearing up for a little boat rocking as well. Consider if you will, what you have set yourself up for in the coming months:

a) Continued instruction and guidance of the most insufferable members of society, private school undergraduates. I say this knowing full well what an insufferable undergraduate I once was.

b) Beginning a doctoral program that will more squarely set you on the path to your dream of literary godhood.

c) Running in a single day, several times a week, the ground only covered in a single day by marauding types like Visigoths and Huns on massive campaigns of destruction and whatnot.

d) Continuing to carry the burden of writing dumb-ass stories for your local paper even after you told those bitches you didn't want any more on your plate than you've already got, turning out high-quality copy, and then getting paid arse for it.

e) Approaching the birthday before the 3-0, and deciding you need to have accomplished something huger than what you have already accomplished, which includes a whole roster of goddamned impressive acts like walking across European nations and surviving potentially fatal illnesses before you hit 20. But I guess, when put that way, I get why you might feel unimpressed with what you got goin' on now, having slain those dragons so early on. Hm.

f) Oh, and also putting pressure on yourself to find the Lurve. Which is just nervewracking if everything else is going peachy-keen, so, yeah, hextra hell when you've got a-e to deal with.

When you set such a mission for yourself, is it any wonder that your subconscious is screaming with fear? Because, while I know you will succeed, and you know you will succeed, you can't help the "What if I fail?" reflex. So you start to sink your ship before it sets sail.

This boat analogy has gone on too long. As has this long-winded, crazy post. So I sum up: RELAX! You are being, frankly, human in your fears and confusion. And entirely too hard on yourself for such passing moments of weakness. Keep sight of your newfound wisdom and desire to be happy with yourself as you are. Yes, periods of uncertainty will come, but, as you are a balanced person with lots of love, support and a damned good head on your shoulders capable of intense moments of clarity and self awareness in the first place, you will come round right again.

Now get your ass out there and run.

Love ya!

I don't know, lady. I'm feeling a little lost. Why are the highs and lows, the bits of wisdom and moments of complete confusion so close together?

I feel at war with myself again. The stress of starting teaching and school again is giving me heart palpitations and a strong desire to eat french baguettes with butter and chocolate chip cookies. All natural, of course. Somehow, that doesn't at all feel like a triumph.

I woke up long before dawn and ate some granola and toast to prepare for 18 miles of running that has yet to happen. I just couldn't haul my ass out of bed again. I guess I'll go this afternoon. It's muggy and threatening to rain, but whatever. Why does running long distances not feel much like an achievement anymore? I feel terrible that I'm not doing more, not working harder, not eating better, but at the same time I feel rotten for feeling terrible about it, not recognizing my achievements, not loving and honoring myself where I am. God Damn.

Maybe shit's just catching up with me. Like the ex's visit.

I know I'll feel better after I run, but getting out there is getting harder and harder. And I know the harder it is to lace up and hit the road, the more I need to do exactly that.

Maybe I need to shake things up a little bit. Maybe I'll take a spinning class tomorrow morning and yoga tonight. Maybe that'll help.

Any ideas what else might help? Or is this one of those moments when I need to not make things happen? Is this one of those many moments when I need to learn to sit with my grief and observe? I'll be surprised if that ever gets easy for me.

And get a massage while you're at it. That's what I plan to do, and that is what I have decided our mutual journey to fitness and flabulessness calls for.

Single people suffer more than most from lack of touch. Especially if they don't have family nearby and especially if they don't have cuddly pets. It's unhealthy in all sort of ways not to be touched. So go get a massage already.

Also, please avoid all advertising. I find that watching tv makes me depressed and miserable, merely from being exposed to people telling me what to do and how to be. I've never responded well to such demands coming from anybody, but those ads are insidious.

I think I'm entering a new phase of my summer retreat. I'll call it de profundis. I'm coming out of the depths and re-entering the world purely. I may finally be reaching the summer of zen.

This means: exercising like crazy, as usual, but because of how it makes me feel, not because of how it will potentially make me look; eating foods that nourish me because they are delicious and I am hungry (what a concept!); and letting the chips fall where they may. I believe that only good can come from these methods, because they eliminate the violence we've been inflicting on ourselves.

Yes, violence.

Because that's what bingeing, starving, eating weird cardboard shit spread with no calorie, non-spreadable spreads is. It's all about loving ourselves enough to allow ourselves to be who we truly are right now, and not get distracted and jolted from the moments of every day by the false promise of what we might become.

You and I are fit and fabulous right now, darling.

But damn if this journey ain't hard.

Please stop hating yourself. And I will try to do the same. If we can accomplish this and only this, we will be so much closer to a true fitness and flabulessness!

Of course, this might be the hardest thing of all.

That is all.

I have decided I will set my intermediate goal at 15 lbs. below where I am now. Once there, I will reward myself with this lovely tattoo, small, perhaps somewhere around my wrists or ankles. I've thought about getting this particular symbol for a while now, and almost just took off and did it today, but then I thought it would be much better to make it part of my goal, especially considering its meaning.

That is all.

This is neat!

You can creat a little profile and track and analyze everything you eat and every exercise you do online every day, and it will track your progress over the long term. You just have to do the little "my pyramid tracker."

It's a whole new way for the government to police our bodies!

Sweet!

The time is now, methinks.

Okay, I haven't actually given up.

But.

I'm stuck, and it's time for me to go into hateful police-everything-I-eat mode. Because I really am not crazy about being me right now. Ugh, that sounded terrible and worse than it should have, but whatever.

And I'se worried about you, because you seem to be having a tough time, too. Maybe it's in the stars? Maybe there are times when we are simultaneously shoveling shit, which ups the desire to sit home and shovel junk into the mouth? Something to consider, I suppose.

I happen to be having one of those shitty existential lows. I had ice cream twice this week--twice--and I don't even really like ice cream. I've only made it to the gym three times. Unless I hit it twice today, there's no way to make my 5-day target this week. Hell. Hell. Hell. And even though I'm goin' all the galldang time, it doesn't seem to be making much difference on the scale. I can see it in terms of the tone of my fatty areas, but they aren't really less fatty.

So. Back to the world of diet.

God, I'm off to the gym. I hope yer doin' okay with the ex in town! Don't let him roll you again! Tumble, maybe, but roll, no.

Love ya!

Okay, I know, that made no sense at all, but that's how desperate I am for something to say.

Boo.

Nothing new or exciting going on. No changes in weight, nothing revolutionary or fascinating in the workout department.

I only have two sessions left with E., though, and that is so much the suck. Because I need to decide whether I wish to sign up for more. I kinda do, but damn, that's a lot of money, and with my pay about to drop, that might not be a good idea, you know? But I like having a trainer. Dang.

Mostly, I'm tired and trying to get my shit together enough for my life not to be so damned exhausting.

How you doin'?