Author: the outside lane

Happy. That about covers it.
2the9s, Beauty, Diet, weight

Waisting Away Again

the outside lane

I just came from the scale, where I weighed in.  206.9.  That’s how much I weigh today.  My favorite jeans are a size 16.  My favorite work trousers are a size 14.  I wear a size L shirt, but prefer an XL because…I do.  I like baggy tops.  Why am I telling you this?  Because it’s not a secret.

I look like this. Only, usually I am not wearing a apron. Usually, I am the one taking the pictures, so I have precious few full-body shots of myself.
I look like this sitting down. Only, usually I am not wearing a apron. Usually, I am the one taking the pictures, so I have precious few full-body shots of myself.

Yes, it’s time for another one of those posts about size because I was made acutely aware of mine once again tonight.  I am one secure woman, so if I was made to feel unsure about myself, it’s time for a reminder that weight only determines size, not worth.

Just to get health issues out of the way: My most recent blood work (2012) shows that I am exceptionally healthy.  I am nowhere near diabetes, and my cholesterol was even decent.  I am well within all the proper ranges for my age group, and at my last work-required physical, which included a mini stress test, I surprised the nurse with my stamina and strong heart.

Actually, I surprised her with my weight.  I stepped on the scale and she gasped, and said, “Oh!  You don’t look like you weigh that much!”  Recently, I had someone tell me I might be attractive, except for all “this”, and that person waved a hand up and down my torso.  Say what–did I even ask?  Tonight, a woman checked me out–actually walked a circle around me–and sneered at my stomach.  I want people like that to understand that their actions don’t say anything about me–I’m already all out there.  I own a mirror.  I own a scale.  I know what size I wear and exactly how I look in my clothes.  They aren’t saying anything about me that you don’t see when I’m crossing the street.  They aren’t adding anything to the conversation, save to inform their characters.

This is what 206.9lbs looks like wearing a fitted, size 16 suit. And save for the dorky pose, objectively I can say to you that it looks pretty darn good.
This is what 206.9lbs looks like wearing a fitted, size 16 suit. And save for the dorky pose, objectively, I can say to you that it looks pretty darn good.

I weigh what I do for several reasons, none of them genetic or medical:

  1. I love tacos.  And nachos.  And bacon sandwiches.  And Coca-Cola.  And chicken fried steak.  And I fully intend to eat food I like, along with fruits and vegetables, which I also love to eat.  Weight Watchers was great for a while, then it made me sad.  I would rather be fat than sad, and as long as Rosa’s is serving up their lard coated love, I will eat there.
  2. I have had a very sedentary job for the past year, meaning I put back on the 25lbs I dropped walking stairs on my lunch breaks.  (My new office has stairs and a lot of great places to walk, and an hour lunch.  I expect my weight will fluctuate accordingly.)
  3. I am not going to get up an hour earlier than I already do (I get up at 5:45 most mornings) to go jogging.  I’m just not.  And, I’m not going to go jogging in the dark.
  4. I am also not going to take one of the precious 3 hours I get each night with Thor, and spend it on a treadmill.  Vogue can suck it.  I only have him for short years before he is off to college.  I have the rest of my life to do sit ups.
  5. I am over 40, and it’s harder to lose weight now.  It used to be that I cut out Cokes and I’d lose 15lbs in 3 months–and that was all I needed to lose.  Now?  I cut out Cokes and I’m just thirsty.

I do not like weighing 206.9lbs.  I don’t.  That’s too much for me.  But I know that weight is a temporal thing, and subject to change, so I don’t get too fussed about it.  I work on myself in spurts.  While I am moving toward more activity (and am excited about that!), I don’t kick myself for my choices.

I don’t apologize for how I look.  I don’t need any outside validation.  I am awesome–just ask anyone who knows me.  Awesome.  And overweight.  And those two things have absolutely nothing to do with each other.

 

A Day in the Life

Get That Camera Out of my Face

the outside lane

A few years ago, I took an exotic dance class.  It was a fantastic workout, a lot of fun, and forced me to take some long, hard looks at myself both figuratively, and literally in the dance class mirrors.  The instructor was a former ballerina, who, when she had grown to hate the dancing she had always loved, had taken an exotic dance class to try to rekindle her romance with movement.  She was a great teacher and I wish I could remember her name.  I’d hook you up with the recommendation.

One of the things I liked about the class was feeling safe that no one was going to laugh at me if I stumbled, couldn’t keep up, or was twice the size of the cutest girl there.  So many people stay out of the gym, or out of the fitness world in general because they don’t feel like they can work out, stretch, or move their bodies outside of judgment and/or ridicule.  It’s hard enough to go to a class by yourself, much less go to a class knowing you are going to be at a pre-beginner level, much less knowing you’re going to be the fat one.  A good instructor, a good gym provides more than just a class or a treadmill: they provide security.

I got invited to a special dance class that was to be a buffet of styles.  There was to be some exotic dance, some belly dance, and some Zumba.  I am graceless, a beginner, and absolutely not thin, but I was in!  I remembered how much I enjoyed my old class and hoped it would be something like that.

We got off to a good start.  I was having a blast doing the chair routine along with the instructor*.  He was positive, entertaining, and encouraging, and he had the perfect playlist going.  I was stepping, and rolling, and shaking, and spreading, and shimmying, and swinging my hair, and laughing out loud with my friend because I was having so much fun.  Then, it all came to a screeching halt for me.

First, I realized I was getting slinky to a Justin Bieber song** and wondered if that was illegal.  That shook me out of my choreography chasing haze long enough to realize that two women (the owner of the studio, and a participant) had taken out their iPhones and were starting to video the class in motion.  And I stopped in my tracks.  “Oh, no thank you,” I said loudly.  “I do not want to be on video.”

The owner laughed at me.  I crossed the floor to the only space (right in front of the door) where I could continue to participate without ending up either in frame, or in frame with my reflection in the walls of mirrors.  She criss-crossed me and started to video again from the other side of the room, where I would be clearly in frame.  I said, loudly again, “I do not want to be on your video,” and I hustled back across the room into the corner behind the big fan, where I stayed until I could escape without showing up on some YouTube channel somewhere.  I was livid.

On my way out, I stopped to tell the owner why I was leaving.  She could not have cared less.

When I got in my car, I asked myself why I was upset.  Was I insecure and upset because I was worried someone might think I looked bad?  I think you’ve seen enough pictures of me to know the answer to that.  Was I really just angry that it was unprofessional and bad form to video without permission?  Well, yes, I was angry about that, but there was more.  I was angry that my security had been breached***.  I had trusted this studio owner to provide me with a safe place to be a sweaty, stumbling, blob in yoga pants, working her hardest to build and burn, and she had betrayed my trust with an iPhone.

I wish I’d had the time to suss that out before I made my declaration that she was unprofessional, rude, and had ruined my enjoyment because maybe that would have given her a reason to care.  Maybe not.  All I know is she lost a customer because I was having so much fun, I was absolutely planning to go back.  Now?  She can kiss my laser-cat-butt**** because we are never, ever getting back together.

*I will try to get his name for you because that’s another recommendation I’d like to give you.

**I am disgusted with myself at how much I liked that song.  I blame the producers.

***Also, I worked in the entertainment industry long enough that I understand the importance of a release form.  You don’t get me on camera without a release that tells me exactly what you plan to do with my image.

****This was my favorite move in the ballerina’s exotic dance class.  You do this thing where you bend at the waist, sliding your hand from the tops of your thighs to your knees, then you move your hips in a circle.  She taught us that we should think of how a cat looks with its tail held high, and try to get that going with our backsides.  Then, we were to imagine we had a laser squeezed between our cheeks, and we were cutting a circle out of the wall behind us. Laser Cat Butt was my loving name for the move.  Try it at home.  The backs of your thighs will think you’ve gone mad.

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Downward Dog

the outside lane

You remember that post I just made about striving toward not being embarrassed by your deficits or mistakes?  I had an excellent opportunity to model this for Thor this morning.  That is, I had to make the choice between bursting into tears because I was so embarrassed, or laughing along.

I am delightfully dyslexic, which means that not only do I need to double check anything with a string of numbers, and not only do I get to read things a few time in a row before clearing up that what I just read did not say, “Kelly Clarkson bought a basset hound (as I read this morning),” but “Kelly Clarkson on her engagement,” but I also have a ridiculously difficult time with knowing left from right, and I have a really hard time with deliberate, choreographed movement.  If you tell me to move my right arm and my left leg at the same time, I really need to stop and think about how that works.  This is why it is so much fun to stand behind me in Tai Chi class, and why it is so dangerous to be on a dance line with me.  I’ve come to terms with this.  I’m okay with it.  I can usually laugh at it.  I know it looks funny.  More, I know how idiotic I look when I am trying to move my limbs to choreography.  I have seen the look on my face in a gym mirror–I look like a slack-jawed moron.  I would laugh at arms swinging around that face!  I would especially laugh at the Frankenstein Monster stomp I do with my feet.

We went to puppy training class this morning, where we were learning the Stay command.  To do that command, the instructor had us hold treats in our right hand, and the clicker in our left hand.  We were to put one foot down on the dog’s leash, raise our right hand to signal Sit.  Then, we were to raise our left hand, give the Stay command, step our right foot back and forward, step our left foot back and forward, and if the dog didn’t move, click the clicker with our left hand while holding the stay signal, and leaning down to give the dog a treat with the right hand.

So, I can do about two of those movements without practice.  The rest?  Oh my lord.

One by one, each of us worked with our dogs while everyone else watched.  I say each of us.  I was pretty much making my moron face and confusing the stay out of Hoo.  The trainer called me out, had everyone else sit down, and spent the next five minutes training me to move.  She was clearly frustrated with the grown-up who couldn’t even do the robot and move her feet at the same time, and everyone had started to giggle.  For the first time in a long time, I felt my eyes tearing up.

I can’t blame the teacher.  I mean, how hard is it to move your right hand, then your left hand, then move your feet?  For most people, not hard at all.  For me, next to impossible without a lot of practice.  She doesn’t know me, or my issues.  I just looked like someone fooling around.  And because she was incapable of making it clear to my brain, she felt frustrated, and she she acted out a little.

Anyway, I really wanted to cry.  I really wanted to cry and leave, and just take my kid and my dog and go home and practice in private, using the internet to guide me until I figured it out on my own.  But I remembered the boy and I tried to laugh along and roll with it.  I never got it quite right, but Hoo did.  As long as he’s smarter than my janky arm movements, we’re good.

When we got out to the car, I told Thor, “That was really embarrassing.”  He asked why.  I said, “Did you notice that everyone was laughing?”  He said yes.

So I asked him, “Do you think they were laughing at me, or with me?”

He said, “With you.  Because you were laughing, too.  And you looked really funny!”

I agreed, and explained I hadn’t felt like laughing.  I had felt like crying.  I asked him, “What do you think would have happened if I had started to cry?  Or if I had gotten angry?”

He said, “They would have laughed more, or gotten upset.”

“Right.  So, I laughed even though I was really embarrassed.  And also, I laughed because I know I looked funny.  It’s okay to laugh at yourself.  It’s okay to look silly.  The important thing is to try hard, don’t quit, and don’t let other people make you feel funny.”

“Sorry I laughed at you,” he said.

“That’s okay.  But remember that when you feel like you want to laugh at someone.”

He said okay and patted my arm.  Hoo licked me and laid his head on my arm.  We went to Whataburger for taquitos.

Listen, I’m still embarrassed about it, but maybe we all learned something.  Thor got some more clarification on laughing with and at, and got to see me in a situation.  I got to remind myself that perfection isn’t possible.  Hoo learned a version of the Stay command.  I’ll practice the Doggy Hokey Pokey, and we’ll get it worked out.

 

 

 

 

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Ooooooooooh Yeeeeeeeeeeeeaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah

the outside lane

I bought myself a pair of Hello Kitty headphones because I figured no one else in the house would take them if they were pink and had a well accessorized kitten on the earpieces.  Thor asked to borrow them, then said he didn’t want them because of the pink, then…well, I’m sure you know how this story ends.  I have no idea where my headphones are now.

And yet,