Wednesday, May 3, 2017

A Bunny Trail, Not a Check In

I feel overwhelmed by quantifiable data right now (as a side note, I felt very impressed with myself that I spelled quantifiable right in the first try and even did that thing where you just slam the key board, like so aoishdfalhsdfh, to see if it's working).

What do I mean by that? Not that I am a scientist deep in research (that'd be cool if that's where this story was going). No, that I am constantly trying to gather numbers to support my worth and growth.

I obsess over:

How many clients I see a week.

How much money did I make seeing said clients.

How many views did my blog get.

How many papers did I grade.

How many likes did my Instagram post get.

How much weight have I lost.

How many inches.

Gather, gather, crunch, crunch, gather. Data. Data. Data. Data. Proof. Proof. Proof.

And, shockingly, it's never enough.

Cognitively, I know I could sit there and say, "I saw 522 clients today, made a najillion dollars, my blog and Instagram broke the internet with all my attention, and I lost 100 lbs," and still not feel good enough. Emotionally, I feel crippled by my imagined failure because the numbers just don't seem to say otherwise and I believe if I could just. get. one. more. I'd be able to rest in the knowledge that I'm enough.

I'm bruised and battered by my need to prove my value, my contribution, my goodness. I cut myself up with my scrambling to gather the data, and then rub lemon juice in the cuts with my mental agony when there just isn't enough proof.

It'd be nice to end this on a note of - "but it's okay e'rybody, value isn't quantifiable, it's qualitative and I'm a delightful human being." But, I'm not Barney (which would also be cool if that's where this post was heading), or any other childhood cheerleader. I'm a person, a person who struggles to know my inherent worth. A struggle many other's can relate to.

If you are feeling like I do, know that you are not alone. I'm sitting there in the mud with you, thinking, well hell, I won't ever be able to clean up enough.

But we will. We're delightful. And if I have to go all purple dinosaur on you and myself to be heard, I guess that is where this post is heading.


Oh! Unexpected twist. Go be awesome. Because you are. And so am I, numbers be damned. I, mean, I can spell quantifiable in one try. 




Wednesday, April 26, 2017

Week 1 Was No Fun

Continuing the theme of running around like a penguin with my ass on fire (if you get the reference, high five. If you don't, go get caught up on Doctor Who because the new companion, Bill, is everything), I'm late in posting my promised weekly update.

That actually is thematically appropriate with how the past ten days have gone - I'm making progress and sticking with the plan, but about every third step is a misstep.

OVERALL: I've never known true lust, until I was sitting in Panera enjoying my blessedly allowed coffee while making googly eyes at the bagels. The things I would have done to get a bagel are embarrassing. I get that these changes are suppose to be profound and deep, valuing the energy and life that carrots give you. I don't really care. Carrots will never stir in me what bagels do. Here's looking at you, Asiago Cheese.  

WINS: I stuck with my meal plan the whole work week, even in the face of wanting to throw it all away on Friday.

I went to the gym twice.

That's about it.

NOT SO MUCH WINS: Weekends man. I gotta get a new strategy. Or someone to walk behind me yelling at me about my choices. We had three parties this weekend, including one at my mom's house. And my mom can throw down in the kitchen. I had a tectonic struggle with the queso - words were said, insults thrown. I am proud to say that I won that particular scrimmage, but mostly because I was stuffing my face with tequila lime chicken wings.


I can't even bring myself to tell you about the whooping I took from the margaritas. 

I went to the gym twice.

Based on the fact that I'm suppose to go six times a week (or work outs can be done from home, so really my excuse machine is real delusional), that's a solidly failing grade. 

I also had two EPIC melt downs. I was going to write about them (my mental issues around food are PROFOUND. I'm a professional, I can assess these things), but honestly it deserves it's own post. Just know that my husband is a saint and there's a 75% chance I'm severely unbalanced.

MOVING FORWARD: I'm being hard on myself above, mostly because I respond well to self-imposed criticism. While it's good to reflect, and mildly shame myself with Friends' memes, the important point is that it is about progress, not perfection. And I made progress dang it. All I can do is tackle each second as a new second.

And get a restraining order involving all things tequila. 


I bought adorable gym clothes as motivation - look how cute!

Monday, April 17, 2017

Day 1 - General Discomfort with Discussing Weight

Holy eight months of not blogging, Batman.

Between being gut wrenchingly busy externally, a ball of mess internally, and struggling with wicked writer's block, I've had nothing to say.

There's only so many times you can pop in and say, "hi! I'm a mess!" or "hi! I'm still a mess!" before it moves from transparent and endearing, to whiny, self-indulgent crap. So, I've been keeping to myself with said crap.

Additionally, let's be honest, there's not a lot that's funny in the world these days. Even in the darkest of times, I believe in the value of focusing on the light. That said, I've just personally not been up to the burden of trying to combat the dumpster fire of reality of the world right now with pithy stories of banana costumes and gas leaks (one day I'll tell that tale).

I'm not back at this point to regale you with my humorous retellings of stories (none of the above has changed), but because I'm fat.

GASP. Awkward silence. Uncomfortable mutterings, "oh no, don't say..."

Shut up. I can say what I want. And I have some things I need to say that involve facing the elephant in the room (no pun intended - no need to make this mean).

My blog is called "America Made Me Fat," largely because I'm large (ha! I am still pithy). I've written before about my struggle with weight, the ups and downs, the feelings, the shame, the hope, the embracing of self, blah blah blah. And, really, by blah blah blah, I mean those are good things to write about and process and share and I don't take them back. BUT ENOUGH.

I'M FAT. Full stop.

And I don't want to be anymore. I don't mind being curvy or having a rack that makes everyone envious. I don't need to be a fitness model. But I need to stop having to frame every picture around masking said fatness. I need to feel comfortable on airplanes. I need to feel fine sprinting up two flights of stairs. I need to not avoid the doctor because I know what they're going to say. I need to go on vacation without little girls shrieking with laughter and calling me, "La Gorda."

ENOUGH.

So. This blog is changing directions for awhile. It's going to be a documentation of a journey I'm embarking on. It probably won't be your cup of tea. But, I'm doing this for me.

I'm starting a program called "Fit Girls." Don't worry. I cringe every time I say it, too. It's equal parts endearing, inspiring, and silly. Which, let's be honest, is right up my ally. It's an easy to follow meal plan and exercise plan. It's all about self-love, and part of self-love being get your shit together because you deserve better.

SO! I'm starting with the 28 day jump start program. Today is day 1. I have a whole new Instagram that will also be part of documenting this. The whole point of over sharing all of this, weekly blogging and daily Instagraming (@fitinspiteofamerica if you'd like to follow), is for me to hopefully be accountable.

I wish I had some really on point wrap up paragraph that would make you laugh and inspire you. I don't. Wish me luck.