The Tides Have Turned

When returning to work ten weeks ago, I never believed during the huffs and gasps of my luncheon run there would come a time when running would again be pleasurable. However, over this past week, my brain clicked, my legs strode and it all seemed so right. Today is Friday, marking the fifth time I have run this week. Every day of this week I have gotten out there and spent twenty-five minutes enjoying the views of the Embarcadero, concentrating on my breathing and feeling absolutely amazing. The thing about exercise is that it totally and completely sucks donkey balls, but it totally and completely also makes you feel wonderful. So even if some strange lady walks up to you with advice on a sports bra able to contain your behemouth breastfeeding boobies, it is all worth it since your pants fit again and your mind runs ecstatic with endorphins.

When Boobs Attack

Yesterday while running a woman stopped me. At first, because I see this woman a bunch when running, I thought that she was going to compliment me on my success with the weight loss. Oh yeah, I have not told you? Hopped on the scale last Friday to find out that in 9 weeks I have lost 16 pounds. Take that pregnancy bed rest! So she grabs my arm and starts to run in step with me and says “You should really check out Title 9, they have great sports bra.” What! Did this woman just stop me running to inform me of a sports bra. Whatever could the reason be? Flustered, I mustered “Ah okay, I uhhhhh, just had a baby, and am breastfeeding.” As if this was an appropriate response. She said “Me too.” “Title 9, trust me”. Needless to say I spent the rest of my run looking down checking the bounce of my boobs. Below is a photograph of the sports bra I was wearing.


It is not pretty, and could double for a straight jacket, but still I have boobs that offend a stranger so much so that she had to take the time to let me know that I need to contain my assets. Now what am I to do? I think I will just wait until she brings me the catalog.

Fox’s More to Love

It was Friday night, John was out of the house (seriously), the kids were asleep and I was bored. Flipping channels, I reached Fox’s More to Love. Typically I would not watch this show because the premise is basically The Bachelor for a bunch of fatties - The Fatchelor. (As a side note, I am quite surprised of my highfaluting reality TV watching ways, since I still watch the Real World). Considering that I have not slept more than four hours in a row in almost five months and if you were to jiggle something shiny in my eyes I would follow you like a rabid dog, I started to watch.

That being said, joy of all joys, this show kicks a whole bunch of ass for the following reasons:

Kristian. Hello insane. This woman has stalker written all over here. I am pretty sure that if a man were to smile at her, it would constitute to her an undying eternal bond. I think it is funny that the Fatchelor is still keeping her around, but fear when they are off the show and she kidnaps him ala Kathy Bates Misery style he will see the error of his Fatchelor ways.

Holy Low Self Esteem Batman. Never has there been such a display of low self esteem ladies. It is like FOX went to a bunch of fat camps to see who was picked last, assembling them into a freak show of pity. “I have never been on a second date.” “I have never been kissed.” “I have always been bigger than the guys I date, so they cheated on me.” Personally I think the issue here is not your weight, but the fact that you have absolutely zero confidence. Group hugs.

Bathing Suit Date. One date required all the attendees to be in BATHING SUITS. I think any woman no matter what size views the term “bathing suit” in the same context she views the word “c*nt”. But thank you FOX for going there. First there was the horror on the faces (see low self esteem above), then the crying (again, see 2 above), then the bathing suits. I truly enjoyed the fact that the girl who had the most trouble with the date, came out in a bathing suit that was leopard print with red accents. Note to self: when as big as a house, do not drape yourself in a bathing suit that might get you killed in an African safari.

Fatchelor. I don’t even remember this guys name, all I know is Fatchelor is a whore. I think he has kissed everyone at least six times. And dude, has game. Basically he sits there listening the girls complain about their weight, and how ugly they think they are, and he says “Oh no, (insert fat girl’s name here), you are beautiful, your eyes, your skin.” Cock head to one side and go for the kiss. You think it is uncomfortable watching people kiss? Try watching it on this show. It is like a car accident, you can’t help but watch in horror and carnage. Who needs birth control?

More To Love. FOX, Tuesday nights. Be there, or be you know, normal with a good head on your shoulders, and not easily persuaded by reality rejects.

She's Back . . .

I am back from vacation. I will be posting a photo blog of the loveliness that occurred, as soon as I down load the photos. You excited bitches? But until then, a few things:

1. There is this homeless man that I pass each and every day on my way to my run. His legs are wrapped in ace bandages; before they were rapped they were really swollen, like elephantitis swelled. Can ace bandages really remedy something like this? I think about this every day.

2. If you are a fan of True Blood, then you know of this vampire named Eric. Let me say that in all of my almost thirty-six years of breathing, never have I have been so enraptured by a blonde man. I am firmly on Team Eric. And also became a fan of his on Facebook, and yes, that sound you hear are the dork police arresting me right now.

3. I am going to be an Aunt (Part Duex) (brother-in-law’s spawn. I have not mentioned my soon to be born nephew in this blog because I don’t like to jinx, but the kid was due 8/10 and still has not arrived. Personally, I feel it is because his parent’s are naming him Floyd, and he is staying in there until they change their minds. That being said:

4. DID I TELL YOU THAT I HAVE TO HAVE SURGERY TO REMOVE AN IUD THAT IS SOMEWHERE IN MY PELVIS IN 25 DAYS? I just want to mention that because I will be walking down the street, or looking at my kids, or watching TV and this pops into my head. However, truth be told, I am really looking forward to the anesthesia. Oh, and the possible pain pills given after, because if they try only motrin, I might just kick someone’s ass.

Vacation

Please let it be know that I will be leaving for the great and wild Chester, California. I will be sure to regale you with tales of the swimming hole and Owen’s rock throwing (which should border on 10,000,000). Also, we are not taking Maggie’s swing. We are so stupid.

Oh Dear Lord

You want reality? Try being pregnant twice in three years and then trying on an outfit you bought ten years ago. Uh-huh. Actually, you want a quick trip to the nearest mental hospital? That is what I did this weekend. Dear readers (all three of you) know that I have been running and dieting, my Goal of 30 slowly progressing. But there is nothing better to snap you back from any weight loss delusions you may start to have than trying on a skirt and top made of silk santung from Ann Taylor circa 1999 that you bought when you were twenty-five (the fit year). Forget what I said the other day about fitting into my pants, the road ahead, she is long. I don’t think words could quite describe the carnage that lay reflected in the mirror. Hot dog and sausage factories, much acquainted with casing and overstuff meat products, would provide a better description. Estimating high, two pounds a week will have to be lost by November for this dress to be worn. Breastfeeding makes this a near impossibility. However, forge on I shall. Because let’s face it, The Goal of 30 has pretty much been met, and motivation continues to be needed. Yesterday, I could not zip, could not button, but could get the dress on. A good starting place considering the skirt was over my hips and my arm flab contained in the shirt sleeves with not a single burst seam or material rip. It occurs to me that I should snap a photo of my progress week to week, but I don’t want to horrify you. Or myself. Wish me luck.