Worth the Weight

I hope I’m not the only woman who struggles with her weight…constantly. Women really get the shit end of the stick. We already have to be pretty, proper, wear make-up and such. We’re supposed to be maternal, sweet and polite on top of it. Society has also cast a shadow upon us in the form of “The Skinny Girl.” If we don’t fit in the shadows, we don’t fit in period.

When I’m active, I’m healthy, and it shows, but a little laziness, a little extra food, and any amount of alcohol goes a LONG way for this girl’s body. I had baby fat for as long as I could remember. I was the resident chubby girl, wait…I am the resident chubby girl. Most days I like my curves, but every so often I get to feeling down and out about it all and I want it all to go away. This is a constant thing for me, and for most women. And it's a LOT easier to put on, than to take off.

In grade school I was adorably chunky with my red hair, and overlapping front teeth. They pushed me into braces, got me some acne medicine and a training bra and my body started to take shape. I played basketball and enjoyed being active. There’s something gratifying about working your body so hard you feel like you might pass out. When I hit 8th grade, the baby fat shifted into curves and I started looking feminine. With little outfits and everything, I quickly learned that my fashion sense and my body didn’t quite agree. At 13, my first pair of jeans was the size of a thicker adult, and had to be hemmed because I’m so darn short.

In high school I joined the tennis team and dropped at least 15 pounds unbeknownst to me. I was oblivious to that kind of stuff back in the day. Any excuse for new clothes and I was happy! I was a brace-faced, friendly super-dork. I was a social butterfly and was; well I still am, always talking. Now let’s make something clear: I’m an eater. I can pack away food like nobody’s business. I was raised under the rule that one was to finish their dinner before leaving the table. I was also raised to eat whatever was in front of me, even if it wasn’t my favorite, without complaint. I never had sweets around the house so any kind of junk food was a serious treat, so I ate it…compulsively. As if I may never again have it! I’m sure I do/have/did overeat. I think that’s one of the hardest things in this world: portion control.

During high school, I kind of fell into having a “figure,” and all of the sudden I wasn’t just ordinary. I did the homecoming and football dates thing, and the totally had the crushes but I stayed within the “friends’ zone.” That is, until I moved to south Florida. Going from a Catholic School to public school was something else. I could wear my cute outfits. I had matching accessories and everything. It was in public school that boys actually found me…and that’s when this whole, body type thing really became an obsession.

I lived with my mom, who freaks out if she's not a size 2 and, who doesn’t know how to cook. She could barely restock a kitchen. She mostly fed me by taking me out to eat or purchasing fast food, if not she gave me money to do both myself. I rode my bike to school all the time, staying active enough but I started to realize that certain body types attracted certain types of boys. I scored the drama geeks, and sweet, goofy nerds with no problem, but the surfer boys and jocks weren’t so into me. Sure, personalities clashed and guys can be fickle but I attracted the guys that weren’t obvious heartthrobs and fell fast for anyone who called me “pretty,” “attractive,” “beautiful,” or “hot.” This is what messes us girls up, the desire to fit into those labels.

After family drama ensued and I was literally dragged across the country to live with my dad, he actually fed me well, so I got chunky right away. I never thought about what to have, what not to have, how much I was eating or not eating. I just ate whatever I wanted. I packed on some weight here and there but when I had my appendectomy, I gained ten pounds in two weeks when I was stuck on the couch, in bed, and sucking down otter pops and three square meals prepared by my dad. He got me a membership to the YMCA, I discovered hiking and things weren’t so bad. I found a classic, cute, jock kind of guy and fell hard enough for him to break my heart. I heard once that he called me fat in front of my friend’s brother, so I started working out more and became a vegetarian. I also barely ate when I was around him. Eventually, I was cute enough for him to ask me to prom, even though he dumped me the week before for a tall, curvy, basketball player with big boobs.

Post high school, I was slightly more aware. I loved working out. It was just part of my schedule to go to step class and weights class and such. Then I found punk rock boys. One in particular had me looped. It was love at first sight. He'd been known to have called me fat a few times. After our first encounter, where he was so obviously not interested, I lost some pounds, put on a cute band shirt, of a band I knew he’d like, and put black streaks in my hair, wore full make-up with too much eyeliner and he paid attention to me all day.

Later I ended up dating two of his roommates even though he always had my eye. He constantly made me insecure. It wasn’t really his fault, but I was just so enamored of him, I never thought I could be good enough so it became a self-fulfilling prophecy. I yo-yoed from a size 4-8 constantly, with all different shapes and comfort levels. I got new piercings and new hair styles, constantly reinvented my wardrobe and was a total freak about eating around him. It was either too much, or not enough. Needless to say, he didn’t stay around my strange behavior in the end.

My husband is pretty much the only man who doesn’t impose body image issues on me, well, he and my dad. That kind of stuff never registers to my dad. I remember asking him about my weight and he said he never wanted me to feel like he judged me unless I reached unhealthy levels, which, thankfully I did not. My husband is a chef, and he likes being health concious but he also likes being a foodie with me. When we do it, we do it RIGHT! We are amazing eaters, but we've had to learn to curb our appetites and expectations. It's been a long road.

When I studied in London I vowed that I wouldn’t drink, but that didn’t even last a day! Between the potatoes, the amazing Indian cuisine, the cider, wine, and amazing lunches my internship provided, I put on a good 15 pounds just living the good life in Europe. No amount of walking could counterbalance it. When I came home during the holidays it just got worse…I had work to do.
After watching too many seasons of Celebrity Fit Club I caved and bought Dr. Ian Smith’s book about weight loss. I even had the then-boyfriend, now husband’s promise to help me out. We were allowed to have 1-2 splurges per week and he even joined the gym with me. The first week he lost 9lbs and I lost 1.5lbs. We stopped weighing in together after that. So unfair!

I messed around with that diet for three months and lost 5lbs. Then I just didn’t care again and stayed steadily swollen as a chunk of a twenty-something. It was the booze. I loved me some alcohol. And like all young things, I liked the sweet stuff. Cosmopolitans, Disco Lemonades, anything fruity and preferably with vodka, were the ones that kept that tummy protruding from my pants and shirts.

Finally, after I stayed pleasantly plump for a year, drowning my sorrows in margaritas, dinners, desserts, big breakfasts, and snacks, and after watching one of my favorite people lose 40lbs on Weight Watchers, I caved and did the cool thing. I lost 10lbs pretty quick and started fitting into things I hadn’t in a very long time. I liked being healthy. I started carefully constructing my workout schedules and was even allowed to have “cheat” days. I got the man on the plan too and we did pretty well. Then I found spin class, and boy did it change my life for the better. I know it was a crazy kind of fad of a thing but I loved it. It's such an amazing workout.

By the time my man proposed, I was about 12lbs down and rocking it strong. Nothing makes a woman snap to it like an upcoming wedding. I lost another 10lbs and had an amazing friend and fitness fiend whip me into shape. I felt good, I looked good, and I made good choices. It was a great accomplishment, but much like my younger days, I stopped paying attention and here I am: ten pounds (give or take the attack of the holidays) heavier.

Nowadays I’m not so obsessed with how I look, I mean I’m married, so I have no one to impress. Kidding! What has been weighing on me lately, pun intended, is the thought of what the future holds. I’m not classified as obese, although my Wii Fit definitely guilt trips me enough, but I need to get back in shape. If not for vanity reasons and health, for one big reason: babies. NO, I AM NOT HAVING A BABY RIGHT NOW, whew! Take it down a notch people…

But it’s that time. It’s prime baby time. Losing the extra baggage will help us both when the time is really right. Other reasons: I was supposed to do a 5k on Thanksgiving to earn my turkey and people bitched out, now I’ve been challenged to another at the beginning of March and I desperately want to do this. I want to accomplish things! I want to fit into favorite clothes again. I want to feel awesome instead of just okay, and I want to be productive. So even though the holidays kicked my ass and sometimes working out is the last thing I want to do at the end of the day, I ask myself, is it worth the weight?

Is the stress worth the second or the third glass of wine? Was the day worthy of an entire BOX of Raisinettes? Do I really need to eat the whole bag of chips just to get it out of the house? Should I stop when I’m kind of full, or so full it hurts? What’s it all worth? And is the weight worth the wait? The wait for baby, health, LIFE, too much food, or the wait for sanity, is it all worth the extra pounds?

After all those years of physical and mental turmoil, maybe the comfort food is just a means to an end. Yes, all girls, big and small, are beautiful. Yes, all girls have their hang ups. Skinny girls worry about being underweight, and bony, voluptuous girls worry about being seen as fat and stress about what they eat in public, and medium girls just worry about it all, but is all that worry, worth the weight?

It’s important to find your comfort zone and mine isn’t too far down the scale. Own your curves, own your body and whatever you put into it. Ladies, we have everything going against us, but we are powerful beings so at the end of the day, big, small, short and tall, just make sure you believe and accept the weight of your decisions…in all aspects.

As for me, this curvy redhead has a lot of work to do. I gotta earn me some wine and some new clothes! Here I come 2012, and you’ll see me a’ ‘runnin’ full speed ahead. I expect this to be a great year that's been worth the wait during 2011 so I'm going to make it happen! Weight not, want not, eh?

Domestically Challenged

So I’ve been missing from the internet world for two months, where I have been, you ask? Well, we moved and I’ve been trying my hand at the whole domestic, wifely thing. I’m not so sure I’ve got it down, but then again I’m not so sure I’m a complete failure either.

With the husband working towards becoming the next big Chef in Tampa, I took it upon myself to step up and be a super-wife. I packed up almost the entire old apartment and unpacked nearly the entire new apartment without the help of a man. I did it in less than a month’s time. I hammered, I scrubbed, I sewed, and I laundered. I worked my part time job and took care of our toddler-esque, Pug, Brodie. I think I did pretty well. Even the husband himself, thought I did him proud.

I’ll admit I’m in a work out slump. I’ll admit it’s been a rocky road this fall but we have prevailed, and it’s only just begun. I’ve become pretty crafty with the inspiration of a new “canvas,” also known as our grand, new apartment. I made a tablecloth, a coffee table cover, another cover for a toy chest to match and have arranged it all quite nicely.

The deadline was Thanksgiving. We’d invited over some friends with no other plans just to come hang out. The man loves to cook for others and I am always the hostess. We finished the odds and ends of the apartment that very day and pulled together a dinner for 10 guests, which seemed to be a success. We were beyond exhausted on Thanksgiving night and had to peel ourselves out of bed the next morning.

My next foray into the whole domesticity thing was making a Christmas stocking for the puppy, and making some boring, 8$ stocking holders look cool. I puffy-painted them into adorableness and was feeling pretty strong. I had one more, crazy wife thing for the weekend and then I think I would have fulfilled my requirement for at least a handful of years. Two words: Pampered Chef.

Now let me explain something about myself: I’m not a very “girly” girl in many aspects. Aside from my innate ability to match outfits and my Girl-Scout fed ability to hand sew holes and simplicities; I’m not much of a homemaker. I’m the last person you want in a kitchen, unless I’m hyper-organizing and cleaning. I don’t really cook, that’s why I married a chef. I can barely use a knife, let alone do much else than peel, open and reseal.

When a co-worker’s wife asked me to host a Pampered Chef event I thought, “host,” what I do best, but the whole purchasing of kitchen items is completely foreign to me. I’m pretty sure my husband would prefer for me never to purchase kitchen items. He likes to pick those out himself. But, I thought, “Okay, I’m growing up, time to do the normal wife stuff, bring it.”

It went pretty well, and we made her some money but half the things people bought, I didn’t even know the purpose of, let alone how to use them. I’d asked the man but he said, no kitchen things were necessary. I walked away with two cooling racks for cookie-making and such and called it a night. It was definitely an experience. Having people over to let someone else in the kitchen demonstrating the many ways to create culinary masterpieces as I stayed out of the way downing wine wasn’t too far off from my nights at home with my husband in the kitchen. My job has always been to stay out of the way.

Perhaps I’m just domestically challenged, or perhaps I just don’t care, but certain areas of wifehood are beyond me. My house will always be cleaned and organized, but please don’t ask me to make a casserole. I didn’t even learn how to successfully make coffee until I was 20, but I learned how to use a debit card by 17.

It’s true I’ve inherited some scary qualities from my domestically challenged mother, who didn’t even know we had two ovens in the house until 10 years, later and considered making the salad a worthy contribution to the meal, but as my husband always says, “You CAN cook, you just don’t.” I plead the fifth.

I’m still figuring things out. It’s tough to be a domestic goddess, especially when you have to live up to all the other womanly expectations, like dressing well, not looking like a homeless person when you leave the house, and being maternal. For me it’s one step at a time, and if puffy paint, bedazzling, and sewing some patches can be my stepping stones to full on domesticity, it’s just one small step for womankind, and a huge step for me and my freakishly small feet!

"Chriss-Mas" Time

“Your excitement for the holidays is creeping me out a little bit,” says my husband the day after Thanksgiving, as I order a Starbucks Christmas Blend and ask which radio station is playing Christmas music for the rest of the year. I looked at him with crazy, childlike Christmas, eyes and whine, “But it’s Christmas, and this year we’re staying home!”

Don’t get me wrong, I love me some big family Christmas celebrations. For the last two years we’ve been lucky enough to fly up north, see snow and our relatives and nestle up by the fire, exchange gifts, laugh, eat too much food, drink too many festive cocktails, and even paint cookies. But this year, we are having our first, married “Chriss-Mas,” at home!

My bestie and her beau are “Grinch's.” They hate Christmas, and that’s okay but for some reason this year I’m on some strange Clark Griswold, circa “Christmas Vacation,” “You-MUST-be-cheery,” tangent. I’m making the puppy a stocking, and even making and filling stockings for the “Grinches” too. I’m trying not to go spend $50 on Christmas movies because I’m sure they’ll all be on TV and Netflix soon enough, and I’m fighting every urge in my body to just keep “Elf” on repeat, 24-7.

Perhaps I caught the Christmas spirit bug, or perhaps I’m just excited to be with the people I love, but we are planning a truly, awesome Chriss-mas. My dad was coming to visit and we were going to get a tree, I’ve been crafting things left and right. I was determined to make this year perfect.

The image was already imprinted in my mind, along with ideas for other projects: Christmas morning with coffee, a grand breakfast with mimosas, lazy in our pajamas opening presents, watching “A Christmas Story” and “Elf,” all day, later having a big dinner with the bestie and her man complete with ham, pie, carbs and everything. It just has to happen this way.

Christmas is one of those holidays that come with mixed memories and drama, but even without my dad staying through the holiday, we’ve managed to keep it pretty relaxed so far. We got the biggest tree we’ve ever had and decorated it while watching, “Christmas Vacation,” and laughing. It was the first time I’d decorated a tree with my dad in over 5 years. Those are the moments that make me want to have an epic Christmas. We made cookies and my cousins bought us Christmassy flowers, someone even bought me a poinsettia, even though I truly hate those things it certainly makes the house have a holiday feel.

I majorly cut back on Christmas shopping this year. I had some strange crisis of conscience where all of the sudden I was guilt ridden for not being able to afford gifts for everyone and their brother, sister and mailman. I had to stop myself: this is exactly how the Grinch came to be. Christmas shouldn’t make you feel bad. It’s harder and harder to get in the spirit each year. Sure when you’re around kids it’s contagious, but why feel bad when you should be concentrating on what it’s all about: the togetherness, tradition and family, not just presents, or lack thereof.

My best friend has three amazing girls all under age 10. Somehow, unbeknownst to her, she’s managed to instill the idea that Santa only brings one gift. Family shares plenty of gifts but Santa only brings one. As you can see, my best friend is a genius. This makes Christmas even more special. I want that feeling; of asking for something that really means something, instead of more crap to call your own, and hoard.

My husband kept asking if I could have anything, what would it do, and I got depressed because all I could come up with was appliances but really, all I wanted is exactly what I was getting: a genuine, “Chriss-mas:” Me, the man and the pup, a tree, food, Christmas movies, a few gifts and bliss. Because as much as we miss everyone we are far away from, it’s really about this little family, and it’s about time we had our first “Married” Christmas!