Support Me on This

Some facts:

I have lost 50 pounds.

I am still very big.

I love clothes.

I have a very exaggerated curvy figure. My hips, thighs and bottom are disproportionately large in comparison to what is becoming a much smaller waist.

That doesn't sound too bad. It sounds pretty good to a certain faction, I'll reckon.

But it's a very difficult figure to dress.

Loose clothes are comfortable, but they look sloppy and -- more importantly -- hide that waist I've been working so hard on.

Tighter clothes -- well -- that's the direction I was leaning.  Until I saw a full length picture of myself. I'd post it here, but I've already cropped it. It was so distressing. I felt so cute and stylish but I still just looked frumpy and fat. 

DAMN it!

One can't wear wrap dresses every day. (Or can one?)

So I've been thinking about support garments. I haven't worn them in years. You get to a certain weight  and the little bit of help that they offer doesn't really mean anything. Band-aid on a stab wound territory. But at this new -- still large but smaller -- weight, I wonder if they might be just the thing to push me into looking as cute and stylish as I feel.

It sort of feels like a cheat to even be thinking about it.

I don't color my hair.

I don't wear much make-up.

I pretty much am what I am. I'm -- honest about my looks. No secrets. No surprises. Here I am, this is me.

Would a supportive undergarment change that?

Would compression pants make me look and feel better at the gym? Or would they just make me look like a walking sausage?

I had already promised myself that my next big clothing splurge was going to be a trip to Victoria's Secret for a proper bra fitting and a handful of proper bras. Is offering some support to the lower regions as well as the upper really such a huge step? Would I be trying to deceive the world -- or, worse yet, myself -- or is it really just as simple as wanting to look nicer in the clothes I want to wear?

So many questions.

So little money.

What Number Am I Thinking Of?

If you guessed "Sixty-nine, dudes!" you were darn close. 

The correct answer is 67.75.

It is my new temporary favorite number.

It is how much weight I have left to lose.

Now you might be thinking -- and rightfully so -- that is a damn odd number -- plus it doesn't really seem like anything to brag about.

Perspective.  It's all about perspective. Allow me to elaborate on mine.

A woman I've never spoken to before approached me today at the gym. "I just wanted to tell you that I've really noticed all of your hard work paying off. You've changed your shape really quickly."

"Thanks!" I said, laughing a little bit, "But it hasn't really been that quick!"

"Maybe not from your perspective (there's that word again!), but watching you it's seemed fast. You are really persistent!"

"Thank you for that! I've lost almost 50 pounds, but I still have about 100 to go." Actually, to get to the kind of numbers the (EVIL) BMI charts think I should be hitting, it's more like 110 or 120, but 100 is the most most people -- including me -- can wrap their brain around, so I rounded down.  Or so I thought. But I'm getting ahead of myself...

"That's great! A third of the way there!"

My trainer came by then, before she had a chance to say the dreaded "I" word. (Inspiration. I hate that word. I don't know why, but it really rubs me the wrong way. She was headed there I think, but we managed to avoid it. This time, anyway.)

We did my measurements today. Since I started training with her I've gone from 33.5% body fat to 25% body fat. That is substantial! While I acknowledge that 25% body fat is nothing to brag about, dropping 8.5% is inarguably impressive. That wasn't the best part. The best part was when she said I was still carrying 67.75 pounds of fat. I understand if you don't get right away why that is even a good part, much less the best part.

This means that I not only cannot but SHOULD not lose more than 67.75 pounds. Not 100 pounds. Not 110 or 120 pounds. 67.75 pounds.

Not even.

Because 67.75 pounds would put me at 0% body fat and that is not a reasonable goal for anyone.

So.

LESS THAN 67.75 pounds.

I can SO do that.

My muscle mass is increasing more rapidly than the fat is coming off, too.

I didn't commit those numbers to memory but they were good. If this fat comes off, I'll be a beast.

Rawr.

Can We Talk?

I hit some milestones last weekend and I was pretty euphoric about it. As is almost always the case, euphoria was followed by a crash.

I like to talk about -- and especially to write about -- the euphoric parts. I need to talk about -- or at least to write about -- the crashes.

I committed a super faux pax last week and used Facebook as a forum for writing about the euphoria. It was not the proper venue. It came across like bragging. I meant to share a small triumph -- a small milestone -- a small hurdle managed -- and instead I was alienating and obnoxious.

I don't want to do that anymore.

But I need to talk.

So I'm opening this blog up again.

I will whine here.

I will pat myself on the back here.

I will be brutally honest in my journey towards fitness -- the good, the bad and the ugly.

Because I need to.

Sometimes things need to be said, even if they don't need to be heard.

So.

The euphoria.

I shopped in a straight sizes store. Old Navy. Not just jersey shirts -- which I've pretty much always been able to buy there. Jeans. Straight size jeans. First time in a very long time. So long I can't remember when the last time was. I know a lot of words, but none of them could accurately convey the way I felt when I zipped up those jeans. Without lying down. Without jumping up and down. Without Spanx. Just me and a pair of jeans from Old Navy that zipped easily.

This was a triumph, and I presented it as such.

A lot of people celebrated it, too -- the people who weren't too turned off by the obnoxiousness of it all, anyway -- and I panicked. I had presented myself as some kind of success story and I am NOT. I have lost almost 50 pounds -- and that is undeniably an accomplishment to be proud of -- but it is not a fait accompli. I still have over 100 pounds to go before anyone sane would consider me a success story. Hell, even THEN most would still think I could benefit from dropping a few more pounds. I just wanted to share my joy at my little milestone. I didn't mean to imply that I have succeeded. I have  merely begun. 

The crash.

A small triumph in the dressing room lead to a small set-back in the gym and on the scale. I could not begin to tell you why. My limited background in psychology doesn't offer an explanation, although I'm certain that there is a simple one. But I didn't want to go to the gym. When I got there, I didn't want to work. And when my trainer missed our session yesterday I cut out early and had pancakes.

What.

The.

Bloody.

Fucking.

Hell.

I haven't had pancakes in over 9 months.

They tasted good.

And I felt like shit the whole day. 

Just like my doctor told me I would if I ate carbs for breakfast.

Just like I knew I would.

And I ate them anyway.

I had to force myself to eat a healthy lunch, snack and dinner -- all I wanted to do was crash. I felt awful and I couldn't concentrate. And gassy? Oh my Lord. What an awful, yucky, and completely self-imposed and absolutely deserved day.

And my back hurt. That wasn't because of the pancakes. Carbs are bad for me, but they are not the source of ALL evil. (everyone knows THAT title belongs to the diet industry. Another post for another day.) I went to the gym anyway. Friday is normally a cardio day, so I was plugging along on the elliptical, watching the seconds tick by and pissed at the world when I decided to cut cardio short, call it a warm-up, and lift. I'd missed my session with my trainer yesterday and I was going to miss my usual Saturday session -- not a reason in the world not to.

I kept my sore back in mind as I chose my starting weights. It would have been hard not to, the pain was such that it was difficult even to breathe. Check this out -- I was doing a reclined bench press. I started out with nothing on the bar to warm up. My nose itched in the middle of a lift and I took one hand off of the bar and scratched it, continuing to pump with one arm. It was light, so this was no great feat of strength, but it cracked me up. Look, Ma...

I increased my weights slowly and got myself to a point of reasonable respect.

I was breathing easier and my back hurt less.

I moved on to weighted squats. About halfway through my second set I realized that my back didn't hurt anymore.

I felt good again.

Lifting is magic.

I can't deprive myself of it -- it is just too wonderful -- too overall great for me.

I don't -- and never will -- look like someone who enjoys lifting. 

I am 50 pounds lighter but still ridiculously overweight.

I don't get to enjoy the benefits of a beautiful muscular physique.

But I get to wear jeans from Old Navy and my back doesn't hurt.

I ate a healthy and delicious high protein breakfast this morning.

Today is already kicking yesterday's ass.