That "Oh Crap" Moment

So...I have successfully run 4 times in 5 days, didn't eat crap (aka junk) all week, and as a result lost 5 pounds. Which is great. I am likely the only crazy person on Earth who chooses to start a diet program on Valentine's Day. Why would I do such a thing? Because I had the "Oh Crap" moment.

People have their "Oh Crap" moments at different times. Maybe some don't ever have their "Oh Crap" moment. Mine happened on Sunday 2/13, when I saw some of the pictures from Bart's birthday bash at EPCOT.

I quite literally did not recognize myself in some of the pictures. I thought I was wearing a somewhat flattering outfit - dark jeans are supposed to be slimming, right? - but I was wrong. As a matter of fact, I don't think there is an outfit that would be flattering on me right now. I just stared at some of the pictures, and could not believe that was actually ME. I don't see that in the mirror, so where does that person come from? Does she burst forth and multiply mass and volume as soon as I leave the house?

The reality is no - she's doesn't. She's me, and that is what I really look like. I weigh more now than I ever have in my life, outside of pregnancy. God bless Bart with his rose-colored glasses...I know he doesn't mind. My kids still love me, although I think they're starting to realize that I don't look like most of the other moms. (Tampa is a very fit community.) If you took 2 pairs of my jeans, you could build a tent to house 4 people (there's a tent tie-in coming in a sec...). It's that bad.

Here's the jest of it all. I am going on a surprise cruise with my kids in a little more than 2 months, and I want to be in some of the pictures. I live in fear that something terrible will happen to me, and my kids will have no record of me being a part of ANYTHING, because I'm always the one taking the pictures. This is not because I'm some accomplished photographer. It's because I hate the way I look in pictures. It's the reality that I don't like to see.

It's like that Jimmy Buffet song line that goes "I treat my body like a temple; you treat yours like a tent." This is me and Bart. He works really hard at staying healthy. Granted, some of it is genetics - his whole family is skinny, and his dad used to be a runner in the Boston Marathon. Some of it is conditioning. For 8 some odd years, he was a diver in High School and College. Those daily practices and 2-a-day workouts became a habit for him - a routine. If he stopped exercising all together, he'd likely feel all wacko. It's too much a part of who he is. He doesn't exercise as much as he did in college, but he still exercises religiously. 4-7 days a week. He doesn't eat a lot of crap. He basically sets a great example for our kids.

I'm the tent. I hate to exercise, I hate salads, and if I could live my life eating Mac and Cheese and drinking beer, I would. I am a bread cheese potatoes and beer kind of girl. My genetics are much harsher than Bart's. I have little willpower, and I set a horrible example for my kids.

That changed last Sunday.

I have been worrying about my weight and how I looked since I was in 7th grade. I can remember faithfully doing the "20 Minute Workouts" on TV in 1982. If I started when I was 12, that means I've been obsessing about this shit for 28 years. And I have nothing to show for it. I am still heavier than ever. I need to fix this now. My own daughter will be 10 this year, and I don't want her to waste 28 years of her life on body image obsession.

I realize that I am 40 years old, and I will never be 20 again. I'm not aiming to be a super model. All I want is to not hate myself so damned much. I want to be in the pictures on our fun vacations. I want to not constantly be disappointed and guilty because I failed again. I want to not cry in the dressing room because I am solidly in the Plus section. I have a wonderful life, a fabulous family, and terrific friends. I just want to spend less time miserable, and more time enjoying all the blessings in my life.

I just want to not hate myself anymore. That's my "Oh Crap" moment. That picture of my fat ass in front of a fountain in EPCOT's Italy.

I can't even post the pic, because I immediately edited out everything below my boobs. But trust me - it's that bad. And don't even get me started on the 3 chins...

A Funny Thing Happened On The Way To The.....

OK, so the weirdest thing happened to me today.

A few months ago, my two hateful evil friends asked me to run the Gasparilla 5K with them. They are both cute and skinny and I'm sure I'll be the comic relief, but I'm game for anything Pirate-related, so I responded with a resounding "maybe!"

Then I had the flu the first week in January. Not the best way to start a training routine.

After recovering, I started this training program that several people I know have used. It's called the "Couch to 5K" plan, and there are several versions of it on the internet. I downloaded a podcast from a dude named Robert Ullrey, and started it mid-January. It's supposed to get you running a 5K in 8 weeks.

First off, I only had 6 weeks. But OK.

It starts off innocently enough. You run for a minute and then walk for 2 minutes, or something like that, for a half an hour 3 times the first week. Week 2 increases to run for 2 minutes, walk for 90 seconds. Week three increases a little more. Then Week 4 hits. All the sudden, he wants you to run for 3 minutes, walk for 90 seconds, then run for 5 minutes, walk for three minutes. And then do it again. You go from a total of 8-9 minutes of running time to a staggering 16 minutes. It sucked.

I actually failed the first time. Couldn't do it. I began to fantasize about Mr. Ullrey, and not in a good way. On his podcast, he says "I'm a 43 year old Southern Californian who decided to start running again on my birthday." I have conjured up this whole life for Mr. Ullrey. I picture him as a cross between Bruce Jenner and the dude that played Cameron in "Ferris Bueller's Day Off." He lives in a post-modern style ranch home in Southern California. He drinks fresh orange juice everyday, and rides his bike to his graphic designer job.

I created this whole fantasy so that I could then fantasize about running him and his bike over with my car. Repeatedly.

Then this week - WEEK 5 - we entered a whole new level of Hell. Day 1: Run three 5 minute intervals, with 3 minute walks in between. Amazingly, even after a weekend of Drinking Around the World at EPCOT, I managed to do it.

Day 2: It got worse. Two 8 minute intervals with a 5 minute walk in between. (That's running for 8 straight minutes with no break, two times.) Miraculously, I did it.

Day 3: (That's today) 20 minutes of straight running. No walking. No breaks. No way. I was sick yesterday, and I have blisters on my feet from wearing heels to the Science Fair Awards 2 nights ago. But I put on my shoes and headed out anyway.

And this is where the funny thing happened. I freakin did it. And it was even almost not painful. I looked down at my watch and had actually run 45 seconds past my turnaround time without even realizing it (yay to my buddies Usher and Taio Cruz.) And I ran for an extra minute and a half, just to compensate for the fact that I had to stop twice and wait on traffic to cross the road. But I did it!

The one mystery through all this has been: even though I run more of the time each week, I never seem to go any farther. It's always between 1.8 and 2.2 miles. Today I hit 2.5. I figure if I can survive 2.5, I can probably run the 3 necessary for a 5K race.

Something clicked with my body this week. It's like suddenly it went "Oh - so THIS is what you want me to do?" Don't get me wrong. It's not fun. It's not easy. But it is survivable.

So I registered for the race. I still have 8 days - time to get through 1 more week of training. It won't get me all the way, and I won't be running fast. But I think just maybe I might survive it without throwing up or passing out.

I think today I will let poor Mr. Ullrey ride his bike to work in peace.