Weighing Matters

my journey to b.e.t.t.e.r

put on your big-girl panties

I don’t know. My daughter is nagging me to post. She says I did so well for the first month, and half of the second month. It’s now been ten days without writing and I can’t post a decent post! I’m down on me [again]. This time with good reason. I am such an idiot. I’m so annoying and so irritating. I’m forgetful and repetitive. I’m just plain doddery and getting as useless as an old broken-down horse.


Why all this petty, self-loathing, self pity? [Well, I’ll just tell you . . .] I just got back from a family reunion and I feel crappy about most of it. I made a fool of myself on so many occasions that I, a lifetime COUNTER of everything from lines and squares and light fixtures, and fence posts, and details [like chandelier teardrops] in temples, and levis going in the washer, and then coming back out again [I mean really, I KNOW washers eat socks, but never levis! — so why do I count them? One time I was annoyed at a co-worker and counted all the drips that his broken garbage made on my commons floor and then proceeded to tell people that there were 109 drips on the floor for Pete’s sake!] [like they care!!!!]

I digress.

Anyhoo, I was saying. I, a lifetime counter, even lost track of how many times I made a total moron of myself. I’m especially horrified about when I tried to share a few of my personal thoughts with family members in our Sunday meeting. I truly am horrified at the pathetic and idiotic [oh, see, I’m repeating] things that came out of my mouth. I felt embarrassed. I am ashamed.

My ‘nurturing me’ — the one with occasional and limited common sense [whose age seemingly fluctuates between about 6-years-old and perhaps twelve, but somehow has my best interests at heart and usually attempts to foster me . . .] — says, “So you’re an idiot. It’s not the end of the world. Don’t go gaining a ton of weight over it! Things will be alright.” My ‘insecure-mean self says, “Wow, you really blew it. Instead of waltzing in there all cool and trim and firm and suave and savvy and full of relevance and value, [like you planned for the past three months!] you pretty much proved, instead, how insignificant and ancient and boring you really are. You sabotaged your, so called, journey to b.e.t.t.e.r health plan for the two weeks immediately before the reunion, you haven’t exercised for as many days, and you are way past prime, honey, so why don’t you just give up the masquerade! You were heaving and puffing and sweating and ridiculously lame and practically pre-Alzheimer’s.” [Admittedly, not very nice self-talk! I have similar on-going conversations inside my head all day long!]

My ‘nurturing me’ says back to ‘insecure-mean self “So, put on your big-girl panties and get over it!”



“Just start a new day, look for the best in people, give yourself a hug, pray for those with heartache, be grateful for all you have, enjoy special moments and appreciate extraordinary friendships,” ‘nurturing me’ continues in a rare, but exceptional moment of clarity.

I love clarity.


July 20, 2009 Posted by | Pot hole! | 4 Comments


My husband is upstairs in the kitchen baking Stouffer’s Cheesy Enchiladas. Isn’t there some law against that? Can I just call the fat-sheriff and ask him to haul hubby off to the city park to cook and eat his dinner? I peaked in the fridge to see what else he bought while I was at church and saw a Marie Calendar Cherry Pie. It serves 10 at 330 calories a piece. So that is about 3300 calories in one disposable aluminum dish. I know there really aren’t ten servings! More like six! So that’s 550 calories per serving. Why does he do that to me? I am frustrated that he’s so insensitive to what I am trying to accomplish in the next few months. Yea! He bought bananas; I AM grateful for that, [in fact I grabbed one and stuffed it in my mouth after Sunday Fast while I was checking out the calories in the enchiladas.] but the fridge is [again] topped with all sorts of gooey things: sticky buns, sweet rolls, Ho-Hos, and Little Debbie Strawberry Shortcake. How dare he! I’ve got my 40-year reunion coming up for Pete’s sake!

If he only knew what it’s like to grill my Orange Roughy or Tilapia and smother it in onions, green peppers, and fat-free tarter. If he only knew how hard it is to enjoy spinach and tuna salad with radishes, kale and hard boiled egg whites when he fills the house with j.u.n.k. and let’s the thousand-calorie aromas waft through the house.

I grabbed my standby, Bruce’s Cereal, [a blend of 7-8 whole grains that I buy in a 25 pound bag at Kitchen Kneads] and steamed an apple to go with it. Delish. But not quite satisfying. I can hear my husband moving upstairs across the squeaky kitchen floor going for seconds. Really, seconds! Squeak, squeak, squeak. He just yelled down the stairs, “Do you want any of this or should I put it in the refrigerator?” Me: “In the fridge; you know I’m dieting [again].” [Little grumpy, annoyed voices in my brain] “More like dying!”

Ok, pep talk. ‘Nothing tastes better than being thin feels.’ [I’m so dang tired of saying that to myself.]
‘Don’t give up what I want most for what
would really taste fantastic I want right now.’
‘Every day, in every way, I’m getting smarter, wiser, and b.e.t.t.e.r!’
Here’s one I just found. ‘Bigger snacks mean bigger slacks.’ Really, that’s just dumb. I’m heading for size 10!
Here’s a much better one. ‘My fat scares me – it’s a ticking time bomb.’ ~
 Carrie Latet. Ok, that curbed my appetite!

Anyhoo, off to read WW’s Book 3 Staying Ahead of Hunger. I’m determined to have a fantastic WI [weigh in] tomorrow night which requires that I eat consciously today and tomorrow until meeting. It requires that I remember how hard the last month has been and how hard it is to lose two pounds but how easy it is to put three back on. It requires that I think well of myself and treat myself with love and respect and that I recognize hunger signals for what they really are –hungry, full, or just right. It also means that I need to avoid eating for emotional reasons — stress, sadness, anxiety, boredom, even happiness. [right out of the book!]

If it isn’t about hunger, food isn’t the solution! I know that! My head knows it. My stomach sometimes often forgets. Squeak, squeak, squeak, oven opening, pie coming out. Uugghhh. I’m going upstairs to have my baby-spinach-whole-orange-fresh-strawberries-frozen-banana smoothie. THAT will show him!

I will work on it one day at a time. “Today I will try not to let myself get too hungry, or too full.” Repeat.

June 7, 2009 Posted by | Pot hole! | Leave a comment


So here it is. My stumbling block. I’m already [after just 17 days] thinking about cheating, going off, making excuses, rationalizing, not caring, giving up, tossing in the towel, justifying, falling off the wagon, making excuses, even lying! I’m tripping over this stumbling block like I’m a visually impaired person and someone put it there on purpose, right in the way of my well-worn, apparent, even obvious, daily path. And I might even know it’s there, might even know how to get around it, might know how to get help to navigate it [might even know who put it there!] but, instead, I fall flat on my face, hit the fridge, hit the cupboards, sneak out to the freezer in the garage, head for the convenience store and start scavenging for junk.


Why is my attention span so short? Why is my commitment to me, my health, my weight and my lifestyle so dang short? I hate this! [Aha, I said the ‘H’ word. It just spewed out of my mouth before I could stop it, so does that mean I really hate . . . me?] 

I can’t go there right now.

May 18, 2009 Posted by | Pot hole! | Leave a comment