My little demons

To say that I struggle with my weight would be an understatement.

In addition to changing my diet and exercising, I have tried countless diet pills, juices, and fads over the years. In fact, the first time I lied about my age wasn’t to get into an R-rated movie, impress a boy, or buy cigarettes; it was to buy diet pills at GNC.

About six years ago I decided that the best way to diet was to simply count calories, eat healthy, and go to the gym every day. And it worked. In the course of a summer I lost about 15 pounds.

And I was living off roughly 1000 calories a day.

At the time, I didn’t think I was doing anything wrong. I was thrilled that the weight was coming off like that! And I reveled in the days that I made it all 24 hours on less than 1000 calories. It became a game.

A very dangerous game.

I should have known that it wasn’t sustainable. That summer I was living at home, not going out much (if at all), and working more than 40 hours a week.

I had no life, but by god I was skinny!

And then it all went to shit when I re-entered the real world by studying abroad and going back to college. The pounds came creeping back on and I became more and more frustrated, and more and more restrictive with my diet – an unfortunate method that has had lasting effects.

Not only had I severely slowed my metabolism, according to the nutritionist I was instructed to see, but my entire view of food was warped. I’d eat the occasional cheese fries (because my self-control was also shot), but I’d constantly be thinking about what I couldn’t have because of that indulgence. Or how many miles I’d have to do to balance it out. I thought of foods as expensive (lots of calories) and cheap (not so many), and it was exhausting.

I’ve been dieting for 6+ years without ever again seeing the number on the scale that I saw that first summer. And it made me feel like I was failing.

Until now.

Because now, at the risk of sounding like a commercial, I’m on Weight Watchers. BNF and I have been doing it for the past month (inspiration: less than five months ’til the wedding!) and we’re actually seeing noticeable results. The difference between these results, though, and the ones from six years ago is that I don’t feel like I’m punishing myself this time around.

I’m not so much restricting what I eat; I’m just making better choices. As a calorie-counter, I would have limited the fruit I ate during the day because it adds up. As a points-counter, I’ve been snacking on fruit and veggies so much that the amount we buy never makes it through the week. That’s a good problem to have.

I’m finally happy with this method, and I haven’t really been able to say that since I started my dieting career.

While part of that happiness is spurred by the number on the scale, I ultimately just feel better in my own skin.

And that never happened with the calorie-counting.

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Applying school to life

As a Conflict Resolution student, and an International Affairs nerd in general, I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about methods of reconciliation. And the constant trend is that there can be no reconciliation without an airing of truths.

Then I started about thinking about what truths of my own I would air, and remembered a couple years ago, when I did just that – and how freeing it was.

So why not give it another shot?

I know that we don’t speak anymore and, let’s be honest, we were never really friends, but I am truly sorry for what you’re going through. I wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy.

You’re not as important as you think you are, so please help out when we ask for it.

I understand your desire to want to practice French. I want to do that, too. But you sound pretentious when you do it right in the middle of an English conversation.

I am honestly impressed with your networking skills. But I still won’t ask your advice because I don’t trust you.

I didn’t tell you I’d be in Chicago because you had already let several emails go unanswered. And that’s okay. I hope you and J are doing well.

I really wish you hadn’t moved.

It drives me crazy how we always seem to work according to your timetable. You talk about friendship like it’s an unbreakable bond, but you’d never know it the way you cancel every plan we’ve ever had.

I’m so excited for the both of you! And I can’t wait until May!

Please stop using Facebook as a weapon. You are far too old for that shit.

There may not be any reconciliation to these truths – whether because it’s not needed or will just never happen – but the truth-telling on its own can work wonders.

Maybe I should try this on a regular basis.

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A little behind the times

Guys, I have a confession.

I’m not so good with the classics.

Movies, that is. In fact, I probably should have added a list of must-sees to my 25 in 25 list, just so I’d be more likely to check them off.

For instance, it was only about a year ago that I saw The Godfather for the first time. And a couple months before that was my first Rocky viewing. (Yes, as a Philly girl, I’m ashamed it took me so long.) But that’s not even the worst of it.

Until two months ago, I was even an Indiana Jones virgin. (Still not the worst of it, by the way.)

Why? Who knows? Those movies have everything I love in a story – adventure, religion and culture, a little romance, travel, and a young Harrison Ford. There’s no logical reason why it should have taken me so long to see them.

And given those criteria, it would only make sense that I would love another trilogy, which I’ve yet to see.

You see where I’m going with this, right? I may or may not have seen the original three Star Wars.*

Except more “may not” than “may.”

*Note: I know I’ve seen the first one, at some point, maybe…I just don’t remember a lot. Kind of like this girl.

Okay, okay, I may not be able to see you, but I know what face you’re making. But it’s not like I don’t know anything about the movies. I know the characters; I know the spoilers; I know there’s a gold bikini. And I know that Darth Vader likes to frequent the Deathstar cafeteria.

Aren’t those the highlights?

No?

Well, the Netflix fairy is dropping it off today, so we’ll just see how accurate I am.

But I’m pretty sure I’m right about the cafeteria.

And, while I’m checking off classics, anything else you think is a must-see?

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The TMI that could have been

Keeping with this running theme I’ve got going on right now, I thought I’d share a little story from a race that took place nearly a year ago. Last April I was running the GW Parkway 10-Miler on what turned out to be one of the first really warm days of the season. As in, the temperature reached about 80 degrees by 11:00am.

I’d eaten a CLIF bar before starting out, deviating from my normal routine, but I figured I could use the energy. Around mile 3 I remembered just why I don’t usually eat before a race.

Now, I don’t know if you’ve ever tried running while clenching, but it’s not fun. And it’s not easy. There weren’t very many bathrooms along the way (I remember only one, there may have been another) so, had I stopped, there still would have been a line of people to contend with. And seeing as I was still in my competitive “maybe I can beat my last 10 mile time” mode, I didn’t want to stop.

But, good lord, 7 miles feels like forever when nature’s calling.

Can you tell? I'm concentrating so hard on just making it to the end.

Now, take into account that I was getting dehydrated and the heat was making me loopy, and you’ll understand why I was a mess when I finally crossed the finish line. I was standing in front of the porta-potties, just staring at them, white as a sheet, when one of the friends I’d run with (the now-boyfriend) found me and asked what I was doing.

I whispered, “I have to poop. I’ve had to poop since mile 3!” He looked at me like I was crazy (fair) and gestured to the mostly empty porta-potties, that I’d just been staring at, blankly. “So…go.”

Basically what I looked like when he found me...except I was even more out of it then.

Afterward, and after I restored my energy levels a bit, I admitted to him: “The whole time I was running I kept thinking, if I actually poop my pants, do I have the guts to blog about it?“

Yeah. I don’t think so.

So here’s hoping that something similar doesn’t happen on Saturday (2 days!). Because mile 3 out of 26.2 is MUCH worse than 3 out of 10.

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Not one of my better mornings

This morning was rough. And not the usual I’m-so-tired, or oh-crap-I’m-late kind of rough. But the, well-that-was-almost-a-specatcle kind.

I nearly fainted on the bus on the way to work this morning.

There was overheating, nausea, dizziness and slightly blurred vision (who knew that the whole “swimming before your eyes” expression was actually spot on?). And before I could fall over (which I was trying to avoid mostly because I didn’t want my purse to spill out everywhere), I quickly asked the woman next to me if I could please sit down.

Actually, if I’m being honest, it was more like me panting, “I need to sit,” practically hunched over, and her probably being worried I’d vomit on her. But nevertheless, she ceded her seat to me.

And then, as I looked up to thank her, I realized she was pregnant. Yeah, I’m the jerk who made a pregnant lady give up her seat on the bus.

I feel like I’ve just hit a new low.

P.S. When I emailed my boyfriend the recap of the bus situation, after expressing appropriate concern and laughing at me a litle bit, of course, he sent this little gem:

If that’s not inspiring, I don’t know what is.

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Yet another time suck (in a good way)

I didn’t used to watch a lot of TV. That is, I didn’t have that many TV shows that I had to see each week. I had a kind of on-again, off-again relationship with Grey’s Anatomy, but it wasn’t serious.

And then came It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia. And then The League. And Community. (What is it about Thursday nights?) But I was still okay. While those are all quality programs, they also don’t require a whole lot of concentration or outside contemplation.

Then, just the other week, I started watching 24. I’d seen a couple episodes before, but starting from the beginning of the season this time hooked me. And I was hooked in a sit-on-the-edge-of-my-seat, must-pay-attention-lest-I-miss-something sort of way. And I tried to catch up on past seasons by reading recaps on Wikipedia. Because I’m not that invested that I care if past surprises are spoiled. I know I won’t watch all the previous episodes, so why not just try to have a general understanding?

Enter Lost.

Now, I know that I’m way late to the game on this one. And I probably wouldn’t have gotten sucked in, except for one little thing: we caught a repeat of the season five finale the other night, complete with pop-up-video-esque explanatory subtitles. So it didn’t matter that I didn’t have all the background. It was like a crash course.

After it was over, I had to watch the pilot – just to see how it started. And really, that’s all it took.

I borrowed season one and ended up watching, oh, about six episodes last night. Six! I don’t actually have that kind of time!

Laundry needed to be folded; dishes needed to be washed; the apartment needed to be vacuumed…but Lost isn’t the kind of show I feel I can multi-task during. And that says a lot. (I consider myself an excellent multi-tasker.) I just really want to know how the story unfolds.

You’d think I’d do the same thing I did with 24. I’d go to Wiki, read some recaps, and be semi-adequately prepared for the season six premiere on Tuesday. But, somehow, I just can’t bring myself to do it. A recap wouldn’t do it justice.

Which means that I’ll be going through all 103 episodes (well, 95 left now), hour by hour, slowly but surely. Because that’s just the way it has to be done.

I estimate it’ll take about a month.

I’ll see you in March.

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Guilty pleasures

I have always, always been an avid reader.

As a kid, I tore through series after series – Boxcar Children, The Babysitters Club, Nancy Drew, Sweet Valley Twins (and eventually, Sweet Valley High, of course) – never wanting to put the books down. In fact, I used to stay up past my bedtime to read, by hiding under my covers and using a flashlight.

Cool kid. Right here.

I still love reading. There aren’t quite as many series out there for my age group (no, I haven’t read Twilight), but I’ve been open to recommendations from friends, as well as turning to the lists of classics that I should have read by now, but never got around to.

However, there are still some times that I want something that’s as quick and easy (and shallow) as a Sweet Valley read, but on a somewhat more adult level. (Kind of counterintuitive, I know.)

And that’s where my trashy romance novels come in.

I discovered them a few years ago – thanks to my mother. She’d been reading a series by Elizabeth Lowell; I was bored; I picked one up and started skimming. And then I was hooked.

Yes, the books are predictable. There’s always (at least in mine) a leading male who is either current or former military (think Marine, Navy SEAL, Black Ops agent, generic bodyguard, etc), and a leading lady who is smart, strong, independent and (according to Nora Roberts), never stick-thin.

They meet. There’s a mutual attraction (and a lot of sexual tension). There’s a misunderstanding that gets them into trouble. Then they make up and realize they’re in love.

And this is all over the course of a couple weeks or so. You know, the usual.

The thing is, as much as I know that these books are probably rotting my brain from the inside out (and giving me unrealistic expectations about whirlwind romances), I just can’t put them down. Which is probably why I spent all of last Saturday curled up in a chair, listening to the rain, and reading about Troubleshooters Inc. and their mission to protect a female politician while trying not to lose one of their own.

I could try to fight it – replace the trash on my bedside table with a more intellectual read. But why?

My dreams are significantly more fun when I fall asleep after reading a romance novel.

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Maybe one of these days…

Remember those little white lies I wrote about earlier this week? Well, I have a confession: there’s another one that I’ve been telling myself recently. And it goes something like this:

I don’t really want an iPhone of my own, I just like playing with other people’s. I actually prefer my BlackBerry.

In fairness, when I first started saying it, I believed it wholeheartedly. I loved my BlackBerry. I still do, in fact. But there’s something alluring about the iPhone.

Truth be told, the picture is better. The internet access is generally (not always) faster, and easier to navigate. And I do love the touch screen – sliding pages left and right, zooming in and out with a simple motion.

Then there are the apps. So many toys to play with! When I saw that my BlackBerry had its own VZAppZone, I immediately checked it out, curious if it could compare to all the games, light sabers, and Shazaams that my friends have.

It could not.

I was sorely disappointed.

Perhaps there’s a chance that I’m just not using it right. But, I doubt it. I may not be on the super high end of technology savvy people, but I do know a thing or two.

However, even though I can now, finally admit that I do want my own iPhone, there are still three reasons that keep me coming back to my BlackBerry.

1) Service.

I currently have Verizon. I could probably count on one hand the number of times that I’ve been without service in metros, tunnels, middle-of-nowheres, etc.

2) The touch screen.

I know, I said I liked it before, and I do. But my thumbs don’t. While typing on an iPhone, you, of course, run the risk of hitting the wrong letter, usually on either side of the intended one. I, however, end up hitting about five letters in either direction, because my thumbs are so odd. I’ve had small children ask me what’s wrong with them, and I have a friend who affectionately calls them “toe thumbs.” (I have to believe it’s affectionately, or else my self-conscious level would shoot through the roof.)

Yes, this was two separate photos. Yes, my left thumb is deformed. Guess which thumb I used to suck as a child...

Regardless, they are not conducive to typing on a touch screen. Boo.

3) Money.

Another mini-confession: I still haven’t completely severed financial ties with Mom and Dad. I pay for everything…except my cell phone bill. Yay for family plans! I’m sure that one day (probably sooner than I’d like) they’ll kick me out – or at least demand payment. But for now, I’m taking my breaks where I can get them. And if that’s X amount of money that I save every month, so be it.

Plus, as a bonus reason, my BlackBerry would never try to censor me like this:

(857): seriously iPhone. Stop autocorrecting all my fucks into ducks. You’re making all my strong worded texts look harmless and adorable.

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That green-eyed monster

I’d love to be able to say that I’m not a jealous person, but that would be a lie. I’ll settle for saying that I’m not usually a jealous person, and that I’m not nearly as bad as I used to be. It’s something that I’ve been working on, and something that I’ve only just recently had a breakthrough about.

I don’t get jealous of the things that other people have. Sure, I may want his car, her outfit, their apartment, etc, but overall I’m content – happy and satisfied, even. I don’t get jealous if my friends have plans with other friends because, well, I’m not in middle school anymore.

I do, however, get jealous, from time to time, in relationship-y situations.

And it’s not something I like to admit, for obvious reasons.

I don’t know why it’s taken me so long to realize why I get jealous, but it has. Maybe because my jealousy isn’t an across-the-board thing, so the reason was harder to pinpoint. When dating someone, I’d never want him to give up his girl friends. I don’t constantly think that every girl is making passes at him. I’m not that crazy. What I’ve realized, though, is that there are some situations, some people, who just get under my skin.

But it’s more than feeling jealous; it’s feeling like they could replace me.

(That sentence is, at once, one of the hardest things I’ve written/admitted, and possibly one of the more embarrassing, as it makes me feel petty. I can feel my cheeks blush as I even think the words.)

I wish I knew where it came from. Because 98 percent of the time I am confident in myself and ergo in my relationships. But then that two percent sneaks in and starts whispering in my ear, Look at that. That’s the same thing he said to you when you first started hanging out. She’s better than you at [x, y or z], and that used to be your thing. Look at the way they act – you recognize all of those moves.

Basically, that inner two percent is a bitch. And I recognize this. But I still can’t stop it all the time. Who knew that two could have such sway?

So I have two questions:

1. Is it possible (and if so, how?) to shut up your inner bitch? I’m not proud of the fact that I need to, but I’d rather be aware of it than not.
2. Do you think it’s possible to not get jealous at all? I posed that question to friends and came up with most ladies thinking it’s not possible (everyone gets jealous about something, at some point), and most gentlemen saying, of course it’s possible. What’s there to be jealous of?

Thoughts?

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“The Boy Who Lived”

I resisted Harry Potter for a long time. The first book came out in 1998, but the series wasn’t on my radar for another two years or so. One night, I was babysitting the kids next door and they started to rave about it. Given that they were all in elementary school at the time, I chalked it up to a good way to keep kids interested in reading, but figured it wasn’t for me. I mean, a boy wizard? A whole other magical world? Muggles? Don’t be ridiculous.

Then, in the fall of 2000, I was on a plane to California for a cousin’s wedding and I realized that I had forgotten to pack reading material for the six hour flight. Fail. My mother saw this as her golden opportunity to force Harry Potter on me, as she’d been swept away by the stories, as well. After just a few chapters of Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone, I was hooked. In a way, I felt lucky that I’d started the series later, because by that point the first four books had already been published. I could tear through them without waiting impatiently for the continuation of the story. Waiting is torture when you’re so engrossed in a plot – as I found out during the time between the fifth, sixth, and seventh installments.

Ron might be my favorite...look at that face.

I distinctly remember reading the fifth book on the beach; the sixth on a plane; and the seventh book over the course of about eight hours – all of them within a day or two of being published. And when the movies started coming out? I can’t begin to explain how excited I was. (I may or may not have seen the first one on opening night.)

But I confess: while I continue to be able to read the books over and over (and over) again, the movies have started to leave me slightly disappointed. I understand that it got harder and harder to fit everything into two hours – or even three – which is part of the reason why movie number seven is rumored to be released in two parts. But I cannot understand why it’s necessary to change the sequence of events or who said certain key lines. And there was something about the last movie, Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix, that just felt off. I left the theater upset because my expectations were unmet and frustrated that the directors couldn’t see that they hadn’t stayed true enough to the original story.

I fear that the next movie, which comes out on Wednesday, will be another source of disappointment. I will see it. Don’t get me wrong. The trailers look phenomenal.

But I’m almost afraid to be even cautiously optimistic; I’m just plain cautious.

That doesn’t mean, however, that I don’t want to be pleasantly surprised. Plus, I still kind of wish that I could Apparate.

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