The age factor

I grew up with a mother who never, ever, under any circumstances, discussed her age.

I’m not quite like that. I am usually OK with discussing my age. I think part of it is because I don’t feel my age. 41. Is that right? Sometimes I still have to count backward. So 41 must be the new 21. Or 31. Or whatever. It’s something younger than I feel, that’s for sure.

I’ve become this person who rolls her eyes at Millennials with their perfectly timed and planned Instagram posts, their uber-catchy phrases and their ignorance of the pop culture influences of my own youth. Get off my lawn, dammit.

But I’m pretty sure it’s not bitterness that plagues me, when I really start searching my soul about it. It’s jealousy. They have something that I don’t.

Time.

Sure, those of you older than I might think I’m young. I get it. I remember dreading turning 28. I was SO old. The 41-year-old me would like to punch that girl, by the way.

I’m plagued with regret about the time I’ve wasted beating myself up, being uncomfortable with my body and planning for a “thin future.” The time I’ve spent thinking of all this seriously would add up to decades.

But now I have a new regret about my wasted time—and I’m even more aware of my age. Because I very much hope one day to be a mother.

I’m not sure how much of this journey I’ll share with you, but considering I lean pretty heavily toward the overshare side, I’m sure you’ll hear more.

For now, I’ll tell this. This week I saw a doctor to talk about my options and how I could increase my chances of being a mother at this later age.

We talked about my age. My past issues with all my…parts. And my family history.

And then we talked about my weight.

The truth is that I knew it was coming. I wasn’t surprised. She was so gentle and kind about it. So lovely. We want to increase every chance of you getting pregnant and then having a successful pregnancy, she said. And then she referred me to a nutritionist.

I mean, look, I have gained some weight back. And even if not, I never got less than 50 pounds away from my goal weight anyway.  So yeah, I expected it. But man, it hurts.

To think that my weight isn’t just holding me back from my life, but it’s possibly holding me back from birth. The question remains—is this enough to compel me to change? Damn, I sure hope so.

Because now, I’m not the only part of this equation. 

I was never good at math, but I’m pretty sure that makes it a hell of a lot more important.

Starting from scratch and a half

Happy 2016, y'all.

Last year was supposed to be the best year ever. The year I got back on track—when I was in the best shape of my life and felt fabulous and healthy on my wedding day.

OK, so none of those things really happened. Except the wedding day.

If you read my last post about six months ago or so, my year didn’t go at all as I planned. And because of that, I really wasn’t able to focus on my health.

This year I’m hoping it will be different—starting with this blog.

I struggle with this a bit. Do you really want to read stuff you already read from me? Because in a lot of ways, I feel like I’m starting from scratch. I have a new name, I’m in a new decade of life, I’m a different person. But a lot of my issues are the same. So at the risk of repeating some of the things I said in 2011 or 2012, I’m going to start again. And I hope you’ll join me.

It’s risky. If you enjoy my posts, you might be afraid to connect with me again, for fear I’ll quit—once again. The truth is that I can’t make any promises. What I can tell you is that I haven’t really quit. I mean, not totally. I fall down most days, but somehow I still get up and try again. I still believe that my ultimate goal is possible.

I hope you guys will join me once again and share your own journeys.I don't want to overpromise, but for now, I'll start with an entry a week. That's do-able. 

I’ll leave you with this: I'm not where I want to be--not by a long shot. I'm not where I was a couple of years ago. But I'm not where I started. And that has to count for something, right?

2010

2015

The worst best year

I have a dress in my closet that I’ll never wear again. I really loved that dress. I liked how it looked on me. I liked the lace. I bought it for a wedding. I celebrated with friends. But now it’s hanging there in my closet, reminding me of the last time I wore it—the reason I can never wear it again.

Obviously I have been fairly absent this year. I’m sorry for that. To be honest, 2015 has been a doozy. And it was supposed to be the best year ever—the one I’d waited for my entire life. The year I, at age 40, finally married the love of my life. 

That’s still happening. But it’s taken some twists and turns to get there. Let’s recap:

In April, I put my 17-year-old cat to sleep. If you’d told me 20 years ago that I’d be so attached to a cat, I’d have told you you were crazy. But I loved my little Timber, who I found just a few months before my mom died in 2000. She was there for every sad and lonely moment from then on. It was heartbreaking to say goodbye to her.

In May, my fiancé spent a week in the hospital. He had a series of mini-strokes that, fortunately, haven’t seemed to cause too much residual damage. But it was a scary, exhausting week.

I also had some other personal issues at the beginning of the year that seemed to suck the life out of me.

In mid-May, I said to my fiancé: “You know, 2015 has really sucked. But I have high hopes for the rest of the year.”

The rest of the year. I’d be getting married. Everything would be fine. All would be well.

But the very next day, my life changed forever with one phone call. My brother called me while I was at work. I knew something was wrong. I didn’t know how wrong. 

My father had died suddenly of a perforated ulcer he didn’t even know he had. 

Nothing was fine. Nothing was well. 

The next few weeks, heck, the next two months or so since then have been a blur. Planning another parent’s funeral. Trying to grasp the idea that neither of my parents would be at my wedding. Wearing that lovely navy lace dress I will never wear again to give the eulogy at my father’s funeral. Holding my baby niece who will now never know either of her paternal grandparents. Making sure others felt comfortable by not crying too much in front of them. Nodding with a weary smile as well-meaning friends told me, “You know your parents will be at your wedding.”

Sure they will. I believe that. That’s what my faith teaches me. But my selfish heart wants to scream at the unfairness of it all. And sometimes, I have to admit, I actually, literally do scream.

How am I doing today? Still a little numb. Still a little incredulous. But also incredibly grateful for the support of the family and friends who have truly held me afloat through all of this.

I’m taking baby steps forward. The wedding, after all, is planned. It’s just around the corner. Last weekend, I had a beautiful bridal shower hosted by the best bridesmaids a girl could ever have. The love in the room was palpable. But I missed my mom. I missed knowing my fiancé and brother could probably be bonding with my dad during those hours the girls oohed and ahhed over my lovely gifts.

Last week, someone told me she was glad that I was doing so well. I guess that’s all relative. Because sometimes I feel like I’m barely holding it together. Still, I’m determined to be as real as possible during this grief process—with myself and with others. I wasn’t when my mom died. And that’s what set me into this whole tailspin. I’ve tried to take this sadness out at the gym. It’s helped some to be active and focus on that, instead of focusing on the fact that there will now be two very empty chairs on the biggest day of my life.

Again, I apologize for my absence. Many of you are real-life friends who know my situation, but I know there are many readers who may have been worried about me. 

I’m doing OK. Some days I’m doing pretty well. Other days I’m still a disaster. But I’m here and I’m inching ahead. It’s sort of all I can do.

My life, as told by T. Swift

Monday was one of those days. Nothing went right. I mean, nothing. And it was kind of my fault.

I have this theory about bad days. A lot of times they start as soon as we wake up. We stub our toe getting out of bed. Our dog jumps on our head while we’re sound asleep (just me?). Our alarms don’t go off. We rip a hole in our tights. It happens. But it’s how we choose to face the rest of the day that make a difference. I think we have the ability to turn them around.

And Monday, I didn’t choose to do that. I just wallowed in my grumpalupagus state. The thing that set me off was not my dog, or my tights, or my alarm or stubbing my toe.

It was the scale.

It’s just not moving. I have counted my points. Watched my carbs. And worked my butt off at the gym. I know my body. It’s just not reacting like it normally does—and I’m frustrated. I know, it’s not all about the scale. I’m trying to focus on other successes, but I’m having a little trouble seeing them.

The day started with the scale. Then I realized, as I was driving to work, that my dress was on backward. Little things like that continued to plague me all day. I was grateful to head to my local Y for my favorite Monday class after work.

Except I couldn’t find a parking space. Not one single parking space in the entire gym parking lot. And people by the dozen were driving around waiting for spaces. I finally gave up. I ended up going to another Y for a later class (but almost left when I realized class was a half hour later than I thought).

But Zumba made it a little better. A little. Because I got some insight from a guitar-playing, golden-haired angel named Taylor.

I’m not going to lie. I have developed a new love for sweet little Taylor Swift. So when I walked into class, I thought, this has been the crappiest day. I hope we do the routine to “Shake it Off.”

And we did.

As I shook it off—or at least tried to—I realized that Taylor was singing to me. Ah, the magic of T. Swift. She sings our happiness and our pain. Right? Or something.

But hear me out. You all know the song. Even if you hate it. Even if you try to hate it, but can’t. It gets stuck in your head like a happy little earworm.

'Cause the players gonna play, play, play, play, play

And the haters gonna hate, hate, hate, hate, hate

Baby, I'm just gonna shake, shake, shake, shake, shake

Shake it off, I shake it off

Heartbreakers gonna break, break, break, break, break

And the fakers gonna fake, fake, fake, fake, fake

Baby, I'm just gonna shake, shake, shake, shake, shake

Shake it off, I shake it off

OMG, you guys! Taylor just, like, totally gave me an epiphany. *I* am the player. *I* am the hater.  *I* am the faker. *I* am the heartbreaker. Coo coo ca choo.

But seriously. I am destroying myself with hating and breaking my heart with my own choices. Because when the scale was mean to me, you know what I did? I sabotaged. Ate a bunch of crap. Who does that hurt? Me.

So. I’m just gonna shake, shake, shake. Shake it off.

Because, seriously self, why you gotta be so mean?

Thanks, Tay-Tay.

P.S. Old weight? We are never ever ever getting back together.

Colonial child? Or rapper up in herre?

Nelly/Nellie. It’s what I call her. She’s more a mean girl to my Laura Ingalls than a Band-Aid-wearing rapper from the early 2000s, but she’s there all the time. It’s my fervent wish to rid myself of her for good this year. It’s my top goal. My absolute priority. Be gone, Negative Nelly.

Today Nelly has been relentless. She’s beating me up for not losing enough weight this week. I worked my booty off last week. My food was on plan, I worked out pretty hard several days a week and took my dog for a walk on the days I didn’t. And I let myself have a little indulgence at my best friend’s birthday dinner on Saturday, but only after I went to my hardest workout class that morning. 

And I lost 4 pounds.

Um, yo Nelly (sorry, maybe she is, in fact, the rapper?), shut up—4 pounds is pretty acceptable. More than acceptable, even. It’s kind of awesome.

So why isn’t Nelly letting me believe that?

Instead, she’s reminding me that I changed into workout clothes for this week’s weigh-in, but not last week’s. Those clothes from last week could have added more, so maybe I didn't lose all 4 of those pounds. She’s telling me that 4 pounds are nothing compared to how far I have to go. Oh, and by the way, don’t forget you’re getting married in less than a year, she says. She likes to add a #fatbride hashtag, too. After pulling my pigtails.

I am doing everything I can to combat Nelly. I’m going to therapy. I’m talking it out with friends. I’m reading a new devotional about confidence. I hate that this is even an issue—that I can’t seem to shake her.

Honesty. It’s what I always strive for with this blog. So I have to be honest about my negative voice, while knowing that I can’t let it control me or even this site. I’ve let that happen far too long.

Do you guys have a way to beat your inner critic? I’m thinking duel to the death. Or maybe a dance off.

These are a few of my favorite things—finally

It’s Friday, and I’ve had a good week. I woke up this morning feeling sore, but proud. I’ve managed to get in several really good workouts this week, and am planning to incorporate some activity into the weekend, too. My food also has also been steadily on plan. So far, so good.

I promised you last week to do a favorites post. So, a week later, here are a few things I’m loving.

Incredible! Edible! Eggs!

I love a hardboiled egg. Easy breakfast. Perfect snack. Yummy on a salad. Better yet? It comes in its own natural container. But that container has caused me a lifetime of grief. I’m a terrible egg boiler. Is it possible to screw that up? Well, I do. I have Googled and tried to figure out the best method. I have tried putting the eggs in before the water boils. I have tried boiling the water with the eggs already in it. I have dunked them in ice water. I have done it all, and I’ve yet to find one works-every-time method. I’ll end up with greenish yolks. Yolks not done all the way. And the worst—shells that refuse to peel and take half the egg with it when you finally get it off.

No more.

Enter the Egg Genie. Yes, it’s an As Seen on TV product. Yes, there’s a silly infomercial for it. And yes, it seriously works. I LOVE this thing. You simply poke a tiny hole in your egg with the little needle attached to the egg tray. Fill up the water to the appropriate line of the enclosed cup, pour in the water, plug it in and wait. The result is eggs perfectly cooked to your liking. They always peel without any trouble, and I don’t have to watch them or worry about them in the pot. I love this thing. I got mine on Amazon, but I think I’ve seen them in a few stores in their As Seen on TV section. Trust me. You need one. Fair warning—when the eggs are cooked, it gives off a weird sound. Not like a typical alarm. It freaks my dog out every time. But maybe your dog isn’t as prone to fits of barking as mine is.

Arugula

Could this be the most boring favorite ever? A type of lettuce? No! Arugula is NOT boring. It’s a little bit spicy and yummy and a perfect addition to salads. Lately, I’ve been buying arugula just to sprinkle in my normal spinach salads. I find the taste of arugula to be a little strong on its own, but I love the peppery punch of flavor it gives to a blah salad. A little spinach, a little arugula, a few blue (or bleu, if you’re fancy) cheese crumbles, some dried cranberries, a few toasted almond slivers and some olive oil and balsamic vinegar and you’ve got my perfect salad.

Shrimp and Grits

True confession: I’ve never really eaten grits. Though my birth roots are in Michigan, I moved to Georgia in fifth grade, and am, therefore, mostly Southern. But I’d kind of resisted grits all the same. When I go to brunch places, I pick the potatoes over the grits. One night, my precious mother-in-law-to-be, a tried and true Southern lady (with a lovely accent, to boot), had us over for dinner and made shrimp and grits. I am still winning points, so I didn’t say I wasn’t a fan of grits or hadn’t really eaten them, like, at all. Instead I smiled when she told me what we were having. And then? I gobbled those suckers up like it was my last meal. Holy delicious. I decided I needed this dish in my life immediately. Since then, it’s been my restaurant go-to, and I’ve found a healthy recipe to make it at home. Bless my sweet li'l heart.

Bonus Beauty Fave!

I love being a girl. We get to surround ourselves with so much prettiness (though I know and love a few boys who also do this, so no gender disrespect meant). I’ve always been a bit of a product junkie, and nail polish is one of my favorites. I’ve made a little resolution in 2015 to work on my nails, which are typically weak and peeling, to make them stronger. I’m pretty OK at painting my own nails and rarely get manicures (but bring on the pedis!), because it ends up peeling off so quickly and seems a waste of money.

Day four of my manicure. Still perfect!

Enter Gelous. You can only find it at Sally Beauty Supply, and it’s meant to recreate the look and staying power of the uber-popular gel nails that are all the rage these days. I, a self-proclaimed sergeant in the Sun Police, refuse to get these kinds of manicures, as you have to put your hands into what are essentially mini tanning beds. No thank you. The trick with the Gelous is to sandwich your polish with it. I do a base coat (right now I’m using Nailtiques for the strengthening factor), coat of polish, Gelous, coat of polish, Gelous, and finally, top coat (loving Out the Door right now—also found at Sally). 

I went FIVE days without so much as a chip on my polish. Pretty incredible for someone like me who can barely go two hours without chips and peels. This stuff is amazing.

Do tell. What are you loving right now?

Food envy

I've started back in earnest this week. This week. As in yesterday. And already I want to eat all the things.

I went to lunch with some co-workers. In an effort to be healthy, I had a side salad and a small cup of soup.

And you know what? I'm kind of mad at it.

I make myself laugh. I mean, I'm on Day Two. And I'm dying. But as I watched a co-worker eat a burger, and another eat tator tots (I stole one of those), I got mad at my body. Mad that I have to deal with this. Mad that I've already done this once and have to do it again. I hate it. I want to be that person who never has to watch what she eats. Who never has to worry about exercise or whether something will fit.

But I'm not that person. And I've got to start accepting it.

So. Today at Weight Watchers, I weighed in—and I'd stayed the same from last week. This is a blessing. Trust me. I didn't have the greatest week food-wise. I felt a little under the weather, so I didn't really exercise. So I didn't really earn a loss.

Next week will be different. Even if I'm mad. I'm on it. It's 2015. I'm getting married in 2015. And I'm not about to do that with regret.

Even a burger and tator tots isn't worth that, right?