Archive for April, 2011

weight: 221 (v. bad), alcohol units: 10, dessert intake: 24 (on holiday), calories: 4,000

No, the nod to Bridget Jones is not from a recent voyage to the UK. I just returned from a trip with my son Max, to my hometown of Cleveland, Ohio.

The joy of traveling alone with an infant is that people tend to be nicer; they hold open doors and hand you bags. The sky cab at Hopkins ran down two bays to help me with my suitcase.

The other joy of traveling is that people who haven’t seen me in many months say lovely things like, “You look great!” It is a fantastic confidence booster. It is less helpful in that although I may appear to look great, there are still 18 pounds to lose, and the constant ego-rubbing makes me do crazy things like eat potatoes, kielbasa and pierogi almost every day; not to mention the endless parade of cheesecake, coconut bars and god help me, chocolate Oreo balls. (I promise to post the recipe as soon as my Aunt sends it.)

I did manage a walk or two, and a few brief yoga sessions. None of this I believe was enough to counter balance the two large pre-Easter dinner celebrations and libations. A day after I returned to Florida, a doctor’s appointment showed the awful truth: I now am back to having 21 pounds to lose.

Here’s the problem: since I am crazy tall, if I gain weight, I have the ability to carry an extra 10 pounds or so without much fuss. This seems very forgiving… yet really, I have to work my ass off (literally) to keep myself in shape, but it seems, not many folks notice. So it leaves me wondering; should I even bother being stringent and precise with my calories and exercise? In the end, 200 pounds seems to be the visual equal of 218, um, 221 pounds.

Perhaps the lesson here is that I am the one that notices. I am the one who has to live with it. I am the one with a closet full of beautiful clothes that I can’t quite fit into. I’m the one with the desire to feel and look healthy.

So it’s back to yoga and walks with the stroller. No more potato binging. Or day dreaming of Oreo balls.

The pierogi, however, were totally worth it.


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In the past two weeks, specifically Sunday morning, the following Saturday evening and the following Sunday morning, I have spent about three hours trying to find an outfit to wear to church.

Correction; I have been trying to find an outfit that fits me, to wear to church.

As a family, we are church shopping. My son Max is now seven months old, and we’ve yet to baptize him. Not because we’re bad parents, but because we never joined a church when we moved to Florida. My husband, Ned, and I are both lapsed Lutherans. I started going toward a more spiritual and new-agey path; Ned went a more Sundays-are-for-football route.

So in search for a church that is open enough to suit our style, but still has enough formality so Max can be baptized in an actual church (not like, on a beach with a wand waved over his head), I have been hitting up the neighborhood church circuit.

This has been going on for awhile, long enough that when I started, I was simply able to don my nice, roomy corduroy pants, a sweater, and head off to hear the church bells. Now that we’ve gone from the Florida season of “Christmas” to “Almost Summer,” it’s necessary to pull out the more lightweight church wear.

I mean, gimme at least a nice dress pant, dear closet! Something that buttons without showing my cottage cheese ass. I know it’s far too early in my new weight loss regiment to hope to not look like a sausage stuffed in casing when trying on a dress, or a skirt and a top. I know … but I need something!

See, in everyday life, I can snake by with the few “fat clothes” that I have saved. It makes for more frequent washing to keep myself not naked every day, but I can swing it. Nicer clothes though, are all in my pre-baby sizes, and dammit, I refuse to start running around buying clothes that fit my body with 18 extra pounds on it.

I did find an outfit, and although I had to suck in my stomach most of the morning, I was holding Max, and he covers a lot. After the service we picked up sandwiches for lunch and happily sat down at our kitchen table, talking about our day. My husband smiled and said, “That was good. I got all church-i-fied.”

As he was clearing his place he added, “And, I fit into my pants.” My eyebrow shot up as he continued, “I was a little worried you know, about putting on the good pants, but hey, they fit.”


He went on to explain that he was worried about his pants because he gained a bunch of weight eating and being a sloth while I was busy growing a baby and getting ready to birth him so Ned’s weight was that of a sinner and mine was that of a pure, glowy motherly being.

Nice cover, honey.

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