$4,380 dollars saved...and possibly a life.

Two years ago today (just about to the minute), I finally quit smoking. At the time, I was, like many smokers, waiting for motivation, divine intervention and a whole lot of inspiration to finally kick the habit. And, without delving too deep into my political leanings (which veer into the lilly livered 'sphere), for some oddball reason, the emotion, hope and sheer impossibility or President Obama's inauguration compelled me to suck the deliciously painful spectre of death into my lungs for the very last time.

I won't lie and say it was easy. It was so NOT easy. Cold turkey is a bitch. That said, all of the planets did sort of align to allow me to succeed. My stress level was a lot lower thanks to a great relationship and a much easier job situation. My finances were in order for the first time since I was 22 years old. And, boy oh boy, did that extra $180-$200 in my pocket every month make quitting all the more gratifying!

As someone who has always struggled with weight, and as someone who actually took up smoking because I was told it'd help keep me skinny after my first monumental weight loss - the one thing I feared more than anything about quitting was that I'd gain weight. My mother quit smoking about 20 years ago and almost immediately developed fibromyalgia, rheumatoid arthritis, incessant allergies and multiple chemical sensitivity. She also gained about 200 pounds. As a nice and ironic counterbalance, my father had recently beaten a smoking related cancer (same kind Michael Douglas had) and he smoked for 30 years before quitting many, many years ago.

I was faced with the ridiculous question of which is worse: being an orca or getting cancer?

Fast-forward to today, and it's abundantly clear the path I've chosen.

Sure, I can breathe easier. I feel better. But I don't look better. What's more, with all that I managed to gain in the past two years, I've increased my risk for a bunch of other cancers, diabetes, heart problems, falling and not being able to get up, etc. Ain't that something?

When I think about what I have accomplished for my health in these past few years - losing a bunch of weight, quitting smoking, eating MUCH healthier food, educating myself on nutrition - I can't wallow too much in self-pity. So long as I continue to allow myself to care about my health, there's no limit to what I can accomplish.

Fessin' Up & Let's Go Jets!

Yesterday was a rough day for the diet and a great one for my inner sports fan. After a hellish working weekend filled with stress, little sleep and more stress, I decided that my boyfriend and I would go to Buffalo Wild Wings to watch the Jets game. Instead of the salad I should have had, my PMS-addled brain said, "OOOOHHH! Fried Pickles!" and then, about three beers later, it chimed in again and said, "Chicken Fingers! Nom Nom Nom!"

Considering how much we cheered and jumped around when Tom Brady got knocked off of his pedestal...I figure I burned off about two of the pickles and a bite of chicken fingers.

Oh well. It was a wonderful mental health day and even though the food was disgusting, it was also precisely what I needed.

Today, on the other hand, I've eaten a bowl of cheerios with a banana, a salad with tuna, tomato and Sundried Tomato Dressing, a Pumpkin Spice Flax granola bar and for dinner, I'm making Chili-Glazed pork with Sweet Potato Hash (366 cals per serving - thanks Real Simple!).

Glad the pendulum has swung back into productivity mode. Now, if only I can convince myself to work out at least four times this week...

Maybe I should make it five...the Steelers game is going to be a killer and there will definitely be beer involved.

Eating & Losing Weight - Can I Really Have It All?

Last month, I got lucky. Really, really lucky.

Courtesy of a contest through Relish Magazine, I won just about everything my kitchen was missing: a microplane zester, a new bakeware set, a new ginormous crock pot, a Le Creuset French Oven and...a KITCHENAID STAND MIXER!

(I bet you thought I was going to post about getting lucky...ha! Well, I did, but that's not the point...get your minds out of the gutter, will ya!)

Back to my fully stocked kitchen--

If you have a mixer and enjoy cooking, you will completely understand the rest of this post. If not, well, I kind of feel sorry for you. This mixer has filled a void in my life I never knew existed. It's also stirred up a little panic: now that I'm back on the whole eating to live and not living to eat bandwagon, am I only going to make granola and bran muffins with this glorious machine? Am I never going to be able to experience the joys of the many attachments like the pasta maker or the ice cream maker?

Hell no!

If I am ever going to succeed PERMANENTLY in weight loss and healthy living, I need to figure out a way to embrace my omnivorous constitution. (Can you tell I'm reading Michael Pollen's books right now?) Seriously though...I have tried to deprive myself of sweets, fats, carbs and whatever else has been temporarily relegated to "it'll make you fat and kill you" status by the brilliant diet industry scientists; scientists who know surprisingly little about the complexity of food, nutrition and the constant craving that comes from cutting any of it out of your life completely.

Depriving myself (at least drastically) has never worked long-term - not for me. It's always resulted in me giving up out of frustration and the fear that I will have to shun some of my favorite flavors and textures for the rest of my life in order to be thin. On top of that, I think it propagates the notion that to be overweight is something for which you must be punished. As if looking into the mirror wasn't punishment enough. Society needs to get the hell over it already.

I'm no dummy. I know that veggies are better for me than poundcake. I know that I have to eat more complex carbs than empty calories. It's not even about sweets and fats versus veggies and lean proteins. I can eat a tomato like an apple and enjoy the hell out of raw spinach too. My problem is the compulsion to eat mass quantities of whatever is most pleasing to my palate at the moment of opportunity - that moment of weakness when I'm feeling down and sad or happy and celebratory. I need to learn to recognize why I'm eating, not just what.

The first step: I made a batch of oatmeal banana cookies on Sunday. I ate six over the course of 36 hours and shared the rest with my boyfriend. I enjoyed the cookies. I enjoyed baking them. I tamped down the compulsion to eat more than I should have and survived.  I figured out that I was bored and not hungry at some points when I felt the pull towards the cookie jar. I then got up and found something to do that didn't involve eating. This was easy because I wasn't in an extreme state of mental duress...and it's just the sort of training I need for when that feeling comes calling once again.

I've heard of food addictions being compared to alcoholism and drug addictions. I've had heated arguments about why I think this is an oversimplified assessment. You don't need alcohol or heroin to survive. You need food. Maybe not Snickers bars...but an occasional oatmeal cookie to satisfy a sugar craving? There's plenty else in that cookie that will nourish your body. I need to learn to marry nutrition with the joy of cooking, the joy of eating and the guilt that comes from eating anything at all.  I can compromise, sure - but all or nothing? F*** that!

Instead of bargaining with myself, depriving myself and dancing around the issues at the root of my over-indulgence and self-mutilation (after all, that's what allowing yourself to become obese is!), I need to learn to peacefully co-exist with food...and with my mixer.

My beautiful and glorious mixer.

I'll do sit-ups...DAMN IT!

I, like most people my size, am not the biggest fan of exercise. That being said, once I am exercising, I don't loathe it nearly as much. It just takes me an inordinate amount of time to will my fat behind onto the Treadmill/Nordic Track/Elliptical/Bike/Wii Fit/Mat/[Enter Name Of OtherTorture Device Here]. 

Here's pretty much how the story unfolds inside of my head:

Still, once I'm finally working out, I put in the time and the effort (*smirk*). 

Except when it comes to doing sit-ups. 

What is it about sit-ups that makes me hate them so much? They don't make me sweat profusely. I certainly don't get out of breath while doing them...except for when I'm doing a set of runners, but even those aren't really that bad. 

I also notice the effects of sit-ups fairly quickly. My abs have always been 'receptive' to exercise. I also like having a flatter tummy (who doesn't?). Oh, and stronger abs helps to improve my posture which helps to clear up pain issues from sitting behind a desk throughout the day at work. 

What the hell is my problem? 

Clearly I'm not the first person to decide that sit-ups suck. From the ab-roller to the ab-flex and even that crazy electrode contraption that causes ab contractions (I can't lie and pretend that I haven't considered buying it or that I'm not STILL considering buying it)...we've been trying to find viable alternatives to the good old fashioned sit-up. Heck, even Elizabeth Hasselbeck is pimping some new ab-tastic contraption! 

Alas, like cleaning the toilet on a fairly regular basis, there are just some things a girl has gotta do to keep up appearances. 

Reclaiming The Hotness

I want to be hot again. I used to be smokin. Seriously. That's not to say that with a fair amount of makeup, a lot of black clothing and a forgiving lighting scenario, I can't look like a shadow of my former self...an ominously ginormous shadow, but still, my hot self is buried in there somewhere.

For the first few years that I lived in NYC (especially that first year), I looked damn good. I lived with an actor who really pushed me to wear makeup, dress to the nines (even though I couldn't afford it), get my hair done regularly (with the help of my new friend MBNA) and just give a rat's patoot about how I presented myself to the world. Mind you, my mom had been trying to accomplish this feat for years and years and all I did was resist. I also worked at a diner on the Upper East Side and then a somewhat upscale BBQ joint (yep, there is such a thing) and the time I spent on my feet really helped me to shed the pounds I had put on in college. Waiting tables and hosting also allowed me to get my arse pinched on a regular basis by patrons (including a former superstar Mets catcher), which further clued me in to just how darn good I looked.

I actually was mistaken for Britney Spears in Central Park once...and this was before she descended into madness and frumpiness. Back in high school and even in college (before I discovered binge drinking), I was told that I looked like Kelly McGillis and Elizabeth Shue.

These are the silly and superficial things I cling to when I look into the mirror now. As I survey the damage I've done to my once fabulous form, I keep reminding myself that there will be plenty of catcalls and objectifying in my future.

All I have to do is to reclaim my hotness.

(Note: I know there is more to weight loss than the exterior, superficial crap. I know being drop dead gorgeous won't solve all of my problems. I know beauty is in large part on the inside and that I am a damn fine human being underneath all of this flab. I'm good enough. I'm smart enough and blah, blah. That doesn't change the fact that I want to be the object of every jealous woman's scorn and every neanderthal's desire.)

Day Two Of The Rest (Of My Life?)

Today, I cycled to the estrogen indulgent brain candy that is General Hospital. After 36 minutes with the tension cranked up, I was done. 6 minutes better than yesterday and 9 minutes from next week's goal. Yippy skippy. Then, I did free weights (arms) for about five more minutes. Stretched a little before and after. Really getting back into the swing! Tomorrow, I'll do abs...heaven help me.

Since the workout wasn't all that interesting, let's talk about the silly little daytime drama. Can I just say, Carly had better check herself! If memory serves, she was quite the skank when she first landed in Port Charles. Her son might be dating a stripper, but at least said stripper isn't trying to boink her step-dad. I'm just sayin. Besides, the stripper is studying to be a paralegal. She's going places!

Anyway, here's to tomorrow! ...and hoping I'm not in this oh-so-familiar headspace:

Pleasantly Plump?

Hardly. But I was pleasantly surprised this morning to learn that I only gained 6 pounds and not the 8 I originally guesstimated yesterday. That's the thing about weighing yourself midway through the day after breakfast and lunch - since your body weight fluctuates as you go through the day, you have to divine the numbers. How divine that I was wrong!

Also, what a difference a day makes in terms of 'tude. I don't know if it's the workout I finally did yesterday, the fact that I allowed myself to sleep a full 8 hours or that the psychological torment of wondering how much weight I've re-gained and if I'd ever get back on the wagon is over - I'm guessing it's all three - but man, I am feeling like a new woman today.

Here's to making the feeling last for more than a day! I think I can. I think I can. I think I need more coffee.

The DVR Makes Biking Suck Less

Managed to use my exercise bike for just over 30 minutes today before my muscles were angry. Simultaneously caught the first installment of the new season of V. The workout was definitely better than the ep.

While my thighs were a bit worse for wear, I am happy to report that my lungs didn't mind at all - that's a nice change! This past year has been tough on the whole breathing while working out front - some good days, some bad - all reminders that quitting smoking is only the first step in being a true non-smoker. Whhhheeeeeezzzzz!

Anyhoo, today's was not as stellar a workout as I'd like, but for the first day back in a while, not a failure either. By this time next week, I intend to manage 45 minutes on the cycle in a sitting. Heck, I might make it there tomorrow. Still, there's only so much time you can spend cycling in place. Will have to add more back into the regimen. Bit by bit.

Down 42 and Up 8

This is not a blog born out of a New Year's Resolution. I've stopped making those. This is a blog born out of the ownership of a mirror. We'll just leave it at that (for now).

Last year, I dropped 50 pounds. This year, I appear to have gained 8. (I'm sure it wasn't ALL in the 4 and a half days that make up this year, but in the spirit of marking time and seeing as I haven't bothered to weigh myself from late September until today...)

10 years ago I lost 75 pounds, give or take, since I was too poor to own a scale at the time. A year and a job that paid me enough to eat more than two meals a day later, I slowly and steadily began gaining it all back. Three years ago, I lost 40 of those pounds. Two years ago, I gained all of that back. The year before last I quit smoking and started eating. REALLY eating. I also learned that I really love to cook (and enjoy the spoils). By November of 2009 I found myself 185 pounds away from my ideal weight. After freaking out, giving up, getting angry and finally becoming resolved, I started to slowly chip away at that mind-boggling and impossible to truly fathom number.

And by September of 2010, I finally achieved a major milestone - a 50 pound weight loss.

True to form, of course, I slowly slipped into ambivalence, laziness and defiance - yet again.

To say that I was mortified to weigh myself today is an understatement. I expected the tears to flow and the self-loathing to set in. It was like pulling a bandage off of a hairy arm to actually will myself to stand up to/stand on that scale. Then I looked down.

Huh. 8 pounds? That's it?

I can do this.  

The only question left to answer is whether or not I actually will.