weight loss

Sweet Potato, Celery, Ginger and Orange Juice 3of3

Image by Food Thinkers via Flickr

It’s day two of a juice fast that I foolishly suggested to my husband a few weeks ago. We’d meant to do and be done with it before our holiday before the May Long weekend, but time, space and another plague kept us from it. So I find myself juicing and hungry today.

For me, it’s day three of limited intake. The “rules” of the fast stipulate that a person should slowly eliminate foods from the diet and gradually decrease intake for about a week-ish prior to juicing. I held back on Monday and journeyed into yesterday with a half-empty tummy.

As I packed Rob off to work yesterday, I did my best imitation of a cheerleader,

“Aren’t you excited?” I said. “At the end of the week, you’ll feel light and revitalized. All those toxins flushed away.”

He regarded me quietly. His tummy rumbling in protest against a breakfast of orange juice and herbal tea.

“I don’t feel excited,” he said. “I feel hungry.”

By lunch, when we spoke again, it was, “I don’t care about being light or ridding myself of toxins anymore.”

And by the time he strolled in for dinner, “I am betting whatever smells really good isn’t the juice we are having for dinner.”

It wasn’t. I’d made veggie chilli for Dee.

“Why does she get to eat?” he asked.

“Dad! I’m too little to juice fast,” she chimed in quickly because the child’s self-interest is never far from the surface.

“Sweetie,” I needlessly pointed out, “she’s barely 50 lbs soaking wet. She can barely sleep through the night without chewing her own foot off.”

“A likely excuse,” he grumbled as she souped and he slurped back another glass of green goo.

Later at Dee’s soccer game, he asked,

“So, how long are we juicing?”

“Until Friday.”

“What?! Who decided this? I’ll be the husk of man by Friday.”

“You decided,” I reminded him.

“I think not.”

“Yes,” and I dug back in my memory for the tape of the conversation that basically had me pointing out that we should fast a couple of days and him over-ruling me in favor of the end of the week.

“I don’t recall it that way,” he said.

“Can you say that with certitude?” I asked.

When I spoke to him today right around lunch, he sounded like Frodo as he was slipping into the land of the Ring Wraiths.

“We can quit tomorrow night,” I offered. “Jade says that the body knows when we should eat food again and it should be listened to.”

“No,” he replied listlessly, ” I am committed.”

And I am involuntarily so.

Happy New Year 1910!

Image by Puzzler4879 A Blessed New Year To All via Flickr

As the last days of 2010 speed by, some of us are plotting new courses for a new year, and this means – naturally – making those awful, and often fruitless, resolutions.

Most people concentrate on the concrete. Resolving to lose weight, which more often ends up with the health club having a fatter wallet and no significant body improvements for them save a skinnier bank account. Diet improvement or renouncing counter-productive habits are biggies, as is the ever popular “getting organized”.

Make-overs are big because of the broad applications. Nearly anything can be “made over” and “improved”.

A smaller portion of the population tackles the interior with goals intended to improve, cultivate or jettison relationships.

Typically, I don’t make resolutions anymore. I have goals but my success is not measured by how quickly they are achieved. Rather I look at how they incorporate into my life and I would say that my goals are in a constant state of refinement as I pursue them in a non-manic way.

One thing I have noticed about myself as I head into my fourth year living in Canada, is that I am more and more myself.

In my old life back in Iowa, there were obligations and responsibilities that obliged me to stifle who I am more often than was good for me (though it probably benefited a small group of others). I don’t employ many of the checks by which life was precariously balanced. Nor do I masque myself.

Oh, I can still be inscrutable, but more often, what you see is who I am.

This year, I resolve to continue being more and more myself.

Perhaps you might too. It would certainly be easier and more inexpensive than a lot of other superficial options.

In case I don’t see you again before the new year, have a joyous and peaceful one, dear reader.

You were not meant for crawling, so don’t.
You have wings.
Learn to use them, and fly.


Just to prove the muffin top is not limited to LA

Image by Malingering via Flickr


Though there are likely more than 12, I am guessing that the number one bad fit is some sort of trouser. It gathers unflatteringly at the crotch and produces a muffin-ish roll at the waist. It’s too long or a tiny bit too short depending on the female in question’s inseam because in America it’s 30″, 32″ or 34″. Period. With 31″ being the inexplicable default when manufacturers’ feel that catering to girth is duty enough.

What strikes me as amazing is that pouring ourselves into pants that obviously don’t fit has been in vogue for so long that women, more or less, can’t tell when they are wearing the wrong size.

Take muffining for example. Most young women spill over the waistband. Even those who are thin – by real life standards or Hollywood ones – feel that unless they are being squeezed up and over the top of their pants – they must be too big.

What a fantastic bit of salesmanship! Fashionista Americana must still glow pridefully for pulling off that neat trick.

A recent U.K. study* revealed that women, generally, have at least 12 outfits in their closets that don’t fit them at all. Too big.  Or, more likely, too small. And the decades old nonsense of buying something too small to encourage yourself to lose weight or get in shape is still one of the culprits behind this unsurprising revelation.

When I posted a link to the article on my Facebook feed, my sis, DNOS, replied that she probably had more outfits than that. Her husband is forever imploring her to thin the unwearable herd.  If I lived closer, I’d offer to help.  Some of the flock is mine.  Things I grew weary of or decided didn’t suit me. I bet that a good portion of my college days wardrobe is currently huddled together in my sister’s closet, discussing their days of yore – when someone actually wore them.

My youngest sister still wears a couple of my old pre-Dee pair of jeans I gave her during one of her many cash-strapped periods. Whereas DNOS will accept much of what I offer (though she considers my style and colour preferences fuddy-duddy), BabySis – a beggar if ever there was one – is choosy as hell. The only items she’s ever accepted were jeans and sweatshirts.

I pruned my own closet again mid-summer in anticipation of a garage sale that will have to wait until spring now. As I glanced through the closet the other day, I realized that Rob takes up most of the space. I would be hard put to find 12 ill-fitting outfits, but I could probably rid myself of four or five that I don’t truly love anymore.

True love is my criteria for keeping or purchasing clothing.

Which brings me to a list of sad statistics about women that this study also (re)discovered:

  • most women own at least three different sizes of clothing to accommodate their yo-yo dieting
  • Just 2% of women were happy with their looks
  • Most women think they are “frumpy”
  • 1 in 10 women thinks she is fat

I accidentally discovered I’d gained a bit of weight and am farther over my “happy weight** than I have been in a long while. The interesting thing is that I didn’t have much of a reaction. I happen to think that I look pretty good at the moment. The yoga I am doing has added a bit of muscle – which accounts for some of the weight – but it’s also changed how I “fill out” so-to-speak.  First time in my life that the number on a scale hasn’t sent me into a dieting free-fall. It was kind of nice.

It is nice.

I am whittling down my fabric possessions. It doesn’t have much to do with ill-fit. Much of what I sell or donate doesn’t fit my life-style anymore and what I can’t garage-sale, I have to pitch because it’s simply worn out. I have so few pieces of clothing that I am actually wearing them out – like I did when I was a kid.

*Boggles me a bit what people get paid to study.

For most of my life adult life I have weighed roughly 160lbs and have ranged from a 10 to a 12 in size depending on my level of fitness (which, of course, was far greater when I was single and could devote hours and hours a week to exercise). During a year long bout with gallbladder disease followed by food allergy issues, I was unable to eat much at all because of the pain and consequently I lost most of my muscle mass and dropped to an all time low (and I mean all time that includes my adolescence) of about 145. I was actually able to squeeze into a pair of size six capri’s. How scary is that for a woman nearly 5’ 10” tall? And though I freely admit to having loved being celebrity magazine skinny for the only time in my life, I was frustrated by my inability to eat much of anything and by my lack of physical strength which kept me from being very active. Having now identified most of my food triggers – a lengthy and nonsensical list – and taken up weight lifting again (about four months now), I am back up to my pre-illness weight and, dismayingly for me, size. A size twelve most comfortably in pants as I loathe form-fitting anything and a size ten in some other styles – notably my Lululemon gear. Like most women my age, especially if they have had children, my tummy muscles are not what they were and I don’t have the same ambition to tame them that I did before (or the time – who has two hours a day for exercise?). As long as I keep the tummy covered, I look really good for an older woman. But I know that I am not quite fit and it bugs the heck out of me. When did I get so effing vain?


Yesterday we were in the city to shop. We stopped at Earth’s General Store on Whyte Ave because Jordan had given us a gift certificate to the place as a wedding gift and as we are hurriedly arriving at our first anniversary (June 26th) we needed to get it used. The store is just a room upstairs from street level that has a peculiar odor that stops sort of foul and though it carries a few eco-friendly things (soaps of all kinds, cleaning products, toiletries, baby products and free market coffees) it is mostly a purveyor of over-priced, feel good about yourself without having to do much, tree-hugging, pseudo/wanna be activist stuff. We stocked up on laundry stuff mostly and then after another quick stop at Planet Organic for toaster pastries, we hit the MEC.


The Mountain Equipment Co-op (MEC) is really a place for the hardcore outdoor sports enthusiast to gear himself or herself up. It is also a Mecca for the dilettantes. I am not quite the former but not exactly the latter either. I needed a pair of hiking pants for our upcoming honeymoon trip to Shawnee National Forest in southern Illinois. The kind that dry quickly and zip off at the knees if one gets overheated. Lots of over-sized pockets and such. While I was there, I also tried on a few pair of shorts and sports tops. One thing I noticed is that there were a plethora of small sizes. XS, S, and M/M. Larges and X-larges were non-exist or picked to the point that only the bright yellow or neon pink colors were left. And if you were a larger size? Shop somewhere else. Preferably a fat chick store and I say “chick” because the men who shop at MEC are allowed to be more than large but like so many places, women are confined to acceptably size limits.


I found this to be true of Lululemon too. The sizes stop at 12. Yes, you read that correctly. Women over the size of 12 must shop elsewhere (though I have noticed when I am there that plenty of my middle-aged sisters are willing to endure muffin top for the sake of the Lulu trademark on their back or bum). And I have gotten to wondering once again, why the insistence by clothing manufacturers and retailers to ignore the obvious? Most of us are not small. We are average (size 14 or 16 depending on your source of information) or larger. At the Lulu store, the 10’s and 12’s are always out. The larges (there are no XL women in Lulu’s world) are picked to the ugly colors and less aesthetic styles.


I find this annoying and, oddly, patronizing. At a 12 I am considered a plus size. Remember Anna Nicole in her Guess jeans days? A 12 and referred to as a gorgeous women – for a plus sized model. Huh? Last year I was a bony size eight. Bony. Seriously. Sure, I could slide with ease into just about any piece of clothing but it didn’t disguise my protruding collarbones and the fact that you could see my ribbed chest. And I was an eight. According to the test I took at the Self magazine sight, my “happy” weight is 157lbs. I am a bit over that, but the accepted weight range for my height is 127 – 171lbs. At 145 I was veering on dangerously thin and if you look at the fashion and celeb magazines there are women my height who are routinely about twenty pounds less than I weighed when I couldn’t eat. And that’s the key to being on the lower end of those oddly figured weight ranges. Not eating. You just can’t do that for long and of course that is why diets don’t won’t as well as changing food habits and exercising (although that isn’t as quick-fix or easy).


I have to admit that I am struggling with the return to my natural weight. I dislike the in between period of getting toned again. I don’t like feeling encased in my own body even when the reality is less about being buried in fat (which is what I feel like) and more about not being in shape with which I am most contented (and just as an aside – between pregnancy, childbirth, care giving and widowhood – it has been years since I reveled in my own body). At present, my weight training level is now about satisfactory but my cardio level has dropped because I am so effing board with circling an indoor track everyday. I long to run outdoors and I know I am strong enough now to do it again but the winter drags on and on.


Mostly though, I am tired of society and its sexist imposition on women via fashion. Although this is hardly the only way in which women are still oppressed in our world, it is one of the most effective ways of keeping us in our “place”. Despite my progress – I have no interest in make up, shun bras and aside from hi-lighting (I love being blonde) don’t fuss with my hair at all I am still a slave.


I was reading an interview with Lisa Delaney, the author of Former Fat Girl, today as I hunted down blogging ideas. The title of her book caught my eye because I too am a former fat girl and being such felt an immediate kinship. It may not be easy being green according to the song sung by a rather famous amphibian Muppet but his portly pink companion could have warbled an entire opera on the downside of being “pleasingingly plump”.

In the news this last week there have been many articles about a recent study that found, unsurprisingly, that diets do not work. There are no long term benefits for the vast majority of people who attempt to lose weight using the array of dieting methods that proliferate like e. coli on Canadian beef. Only a very small percentage of dieters will lose weight and keep it off for more than a year. The majority will gain it all back and then some. I didn’t need MSNBC to tell me this though. I know from firsthand experience. I was put on my first diet by a….I would like to say “well-meaning” pediatrician, but I think in retrospect he was a sexist pig. I was twelve and almost as tall as I am now and maybe about only about 10 lbs heavier. Which is to say, I wasn’t fat as much as in need of more exercise. I was pretty much at the weight my body has always gravitated towards regardless of my level of fitness. But in 1975 the baby boomers had yet no need of Lycra in their Levi’s and the clothing industry had not begun its vanity “re-sizing”, and I was shit outta luck. I didn’t lose much weight. 10 lbs maybe. Putting me curiously at about the weight I am now and which my mother, ironically, thinks is much too thin. At the time I wouldn’t have found the irony amusing even if I had known what irony was. I was the “fat girl” at school. The “unattractive sister/daughter” at home. I wore big clunky plastic framed glasses, and my mother commanded me to keep my hair as short as a boy’s because long hair “makes you look heavy”. I was forever being told that I had such a pretty face if only I would lose some weight. The backhanded compliment of choice for fat girls.

So I lost 10 lbs. My father was pleased. My mother “rewarded” me with a trip to the mall for new clothes (a dubious reward as I hated to shop for clothes) and my younger, thin as a stick sister got her nose bent out of shape when boys began to notice me. Older boys. I gained the weight back. And thus the pattern for the vicious circle of the next 15 years or so began to spin.

You see, you are always a fat girl inside. It doesn’t matter how much time has elapsed. The memories of taunting and name-calling. The dances you never got asked to. The horrible shopping experiences that would have reduced you to tears, if you were the kind who cried in front of people, and left your mother grim and tight-lipped. None of that ever goes away.

I started to lose weight when I went to college because I walked everywhere I went mainly and I was free of the meat and potato diet that my father’s preferences imposed on our family. At some point I started running and began to toy with weight lifting on and off. In my mid-twenties, I picked up martial arts and began to run in earnest despite the asthma that I was developing. By my thirties I exercised nearly every day of the week for a hour or two a day and recently, certain health conditions have compelled me to explore organic, meat-less and nearly dairy-free eating. I do all of this because I want to. Not to be thin. But. There is still a part of me that needs to check my weight often. That panics a little when clothes feel a bit snug. And that mentally shudders at the thought of gaining weight. Because you are always a fat girl inside. Always.