Weight Nonsense

A long, long time ago I got married.  I headed to the Department of Licensing (that’s the DMV for all you non-Washingtonians) with my brand new social security card, ready and excited to get myself a new driver’s license with my new name on it.

When I got to the head of the line, they asked me if I wanted all my information to be the same on it.  Hair: Brown (sure) Eyes: Brown (yep) Height: 5′ 10″ (yep, though if I stand up really straight I can eek out an extra half inch) and Weight: 150 (hmmm).

150.  For a person of my height, that’s pretty skinny.  I’m sure I’d look rather skeletal at 150, actually.  According to the BMI I should be in the 160’s somewhere, but the BMI doesn’t take into account my voluptuous frame.  So, yeah, 150 is kind of a ridiculous number to put on my driver’s license.

But I did it anyway.  Every time someone cards me, they see the number 150 for my weight and I’m sure they scoff (albeit silently).

The 150 was a holdover from my high school days, when I was never 150 but wanted to put a whimsical number on my driver’s license in the illogical hopes that that number would magically manifest if I carried it around in my purse long enough.

I was a usual teenaged girl, ashamed of my weight.  I would rather have stabbed myself with a plastic spork than told you my actual weight were you foolish enough to ask.

Now, though?  Well, I had a bit of an epiphany last night and it was rather liberating.  I was talking to a friend last night about how much I weighed while pregnant and I used the actual weights I can remember.  Eyebrow-raisingly large numbers and everything.

I haven’t been coy about my weight for a long while now, but I never sat down to try to articulate why that might be.  I think I figured it out last night.  It’s because I don’t look any different to you when I tell you a lie about how much I weigh.

If you ask and I tell you I weigh 180, I look the same.  If you ask and I tell you I weigh 210, do I automatically look 30 pounds heavier?  I think not.  If I lie and tell you I weigh 180, I’ll still have the same physique, just with bonus self delusion.

I definitely get raised eyebrows when I’m candid about my weight, though.  210 is a big number.  It’s the kind of number that would make my high school self lock herself in her room to write morose poetry by candlelight (oh yes, that happened).

But, I’m working on it.  I’ve gotten below 200 pounds before and I can do it again.  I’m taking active steps (I joined a gym, had a free session with a person trainer on Saturday) and making mistakes (I ate a delicious brownie while I wrote this) but I’m working on it.  My physique, like the rest of me, is a work in progress.

But it’s not the kind of work in progress you can hide in your journal or stash on your hard drive until it’s perfect enough to let other people see it.  It’s out there, jiggly parts and all, and I see no reason to pretend I’ve already reached my goal.

So there.  I weigh somewhere in the neighborhood of 210 pounds.  And I’m working on it.  I’m jiggling my way to roomier pants, and if you ask me what I weigh I will tell you.  Just please do me a favor and try not to gasp.

The Importance of Dating for Parents

This is a funny comic quasi-related to dating.

That last post was a bit of a downer!  Sorry about that.  I usually stick to my policy of “Step away from the computer if you’re having a rough day” but I didn’t listen to myself yesterday and that’s what happened.

I’m feeling much more sane today.  Wes and I went out for a date for the first time since early December and lo, it was magical.  He called me to say he was on his way home and I asked him to see if his mother was available to watch Aidan so we could go out on a date.  He called, she said she was, and we hightailed it to a local Chinese restaurant (we had a coupon) and feasted in peace!

It’s really incredible to me how important dates are now that we have a child.  Pre-parenthood, Wes and I were really broke and we were lucky if we could go out on 2-3 dates a year.  Now, though, they’ve become more or less a necessity.  It’s just really hard to connect and enjoy your spouse as a spouse when you’re both embroiled in parenting.

It feels like sometimes it was easier to be married before we had kids.  It was still work, what with the communicating and the honesty and the being nice, but we just had so much time to focus on each other.

With Aidan in the picture (which brightens up the whole picture, mind you) there’s just a whole lot more stuff that gets in the way.  A whole lot more fatigue, stress, and general life things.  Making time for one another is now a conscious thing we do, as opposed to being a mere byproduct of living together.

After I had Aidan, my midwife and I were discussing the huge change a baby brings to a marriage.  She phrased it eloquently, saying that before you have kids it’s like you and your spouse are face to face, working together.  When you have a baby, suddenly you and your spouse are back to back, each of you working on something, together but separate.

I think that’s why dates become so important for parents.  A little time to face each other and remember your spouse not as a help-mate or as a parent, but as a person.  An interesting person with funny things to say.  And an attractive one, to boot.

…Crickets…

Whoa.  Hello there, Thursday!

What did you think of my disappearing act there?  One minute it’s all complaining about the gym, the next it’s Bermuda Triangled blog all up in here.  If your imagination were allowed to run rampant, you could almost imagine a treadmill swallowed me whole or something!

Alas, no freak gym equipment accidents here.  Just moving.  Hauling up stakes and plopping them down elsewhere.  Back-breaking, exhausting, disorienting moving.

It was a big move, too.  We moved all of four miles away.  I’m pretty sure the weather is different on this side of the same city, and for sure the people are friendlier!

We got the keys to the new place on Saturday.  It’s a fantastic place, by the way.  Roughly twice the size of our old house, with an actual master bathroom (our old house had no master suite, just a slightly larger room than the other, by which I mean it was just barely big enough to put a king size bed in so long as you didn’t mind not being able to walk around).

Our new bathroom is almost comically large, though.  The bathroom in this place is almost the size of our former bedroom.  If we ever needed extra income, we could rent out the bathroom to a family of three.

Anyway, tangents aside all our stuff is over here.  We were originally intending to move this coming Saturday, but I kind of got started packing and couldn’t stop, so we moved on Tuesday instead.

And now you know why I haven’t blogged in a week.  I haven’t even typed much in a week.  Heck, I barely remember where the keys are!  Nah, that’s an exaggeration but only barely.  I turned on my computer and glanced at MSN and I was instantly overwhelmed by how much information there was.  I simply could not believe there was so much stuff going on out in the world that did not involve boxes!

In other words, please forgive the absence and also this resumptive, rambling post.  I’ll get better at this coherency thing.  I reckon I’ll get better at it right about the time my back forgives me for rearranging the living room furniture by myself because I was too impatient to wait for Wes to come home and help me.

Ouch

The problem with waking up early to go to the gym is that the whole day suddenly seems longer.  You wake up and schlep out the door half-awake.  You get to the gym, which is loud and bright and filled with perky people.  You wake up when your heart starts crying for mercy as you do cardio on the elliptical, and by the end of your workout you’re wide awake and you come home to find everyone else in your family is still sound asleep.

By the time they wake up, you’ve been up for hours and suddenly your day is split into two parts, and by the time you get to the evening you feel like the morning was actually yesterday and you’re exhausted but you don’t know why because you worked out yesterday not today and…Oh, wait, this morning was today.  Weird.

I have worked out for at least 25 minutes every day for three days in a row.  I know this may not seem like much to people who exercise regularly, but it’s a lot for me.  I’m sore.  Very sore.  So sore, in fact, that I had trouble sleeping last night because I felt like I had a toothache in my legs.

To be honest, I really dislike feeling sore.  Some people like it.  From what I hear, some people love feeling that burn that lets them know they committed fitness.  For me, though, it makes me sad.

I like feeling good.  I love being warm and snuggly, with a full belly and plenty of sleep and maybe a soft blanket to cuddle under (wow, Aidan and I have a lot in common).

This whole soreness business is the opposite of what I like.  I know it’s good, and I’m thankful I have the opportunity and means to attain my goal of losing weight, but if I’m being honest I have to say I really don’t enjoy the process much.

Maybe if I’d been more sporty as a kid, I’d feel differently.  I was one heck of a reader and had an incredible vocabulary, but was painfully awkward and far more comfortable lifting books than balls.

Wes assures me it will get better, that the more I workout the more my body will become accustomed to the abuse.  I sure hope so.  Because I can say with certainty that cupcakes never made me sore (and yes, I know cupcakes make you fat and that makes your knees sore, but I like to think the cupcakes aren’t the problem, it’s the meat and veggies I eat in addition to the cupcakes that are making me fat).

*sigh* There’s really no hope for me, is there?  I have the sneaking suspicion that it’s exactly this kind of self-deluding nonsense that got me into this mess in the first place.

Loathing and Detestability

I’ve decided that I’m not nearly enough of a cliche, so I’ve decided to join a gym.  In January.  Because it’ll be a lot of fun to make the regular gym-goers angry when they watch me ineptly try to get the hang of whatever masochistic exercise equipment they want to use.

I’ve suspected for awhile now that, rather than losing the baby weight, I’ve begun to add new weight on top of the baby weight.  It’s been a gradual gain, but there’s no denying it when your pants don’t fit nicely and you dread sitting on the ground because your tummy rolls get in the way (nice mental image, huh?).

I just think that if you’re breastfeeding AND gaining weight, you’re doing something horribly wrong.  Something I hope to rectify by, oh I don’t know, moving more.  Eating less, for sure, but I think that maybe moving will help.

Wes has promised to be part of the solution by helping me cut desserts out of our daily routine, and I’m sad to say that desserts have been a part of our daily routine.  There’s just nothing nicer than sitting down to watch a show together with something sweet to nibble on.

Those days are over, though.  I dislike very much the extra weight I’m carrying around, and would love to lose it before gaining it all back again whenever we decide to start trying for baby number two.  Which won’t be for a long while, mind you, but weight takes a long while to lose so I’d better get cracking!

What I’m considering now is the possibility of hiring a personal trainer.  They’re almost inhumanely expensive, but if I’m going to get up really early to go work out while the baby is asleep, I want to make sure it’s effective.  I would hate to be losing out on precious sleep for nothing.  Like, really really hate it.  Like, I’d hate it so much I’d probably eat an entire birthday cake by myself just to be vindictive.

I think I get to start my membership tomorrow, and thus will begin the great weight loss project of 2011.  If I remember to measure myself I’ll let you know how my progress goes, but I’m pretty sure it’ll be measured in terms of soreness and pants-fit-ability.  I have a pair of capris I bought right before getting pregnant that I’d love to be able to wear this summer.

So here goes nothing.  And by nothing I mean hours of sweating (which I loathe) and muscle burning (which I detest) and no desserts (which makes me sniffle).

Wish me luck.