The brain changer

I truly, truly believe it.  You don't get better if you don't see a problem, so hating your body is entire essential to changing your body.

Unfortunately, I don't hate my body that much anymore.  I mean, I'm not posing for any magazine covers here, and I'm not prancing around town in a bikini to show this off, but there's no more screaming when I look in the mirror. Well, there's some screaming of course, but markedly less, that's for certain.

I used to have this tendency to fiddle with the chub on my hips, absentmindedly throughout the day.  Instead, now I find myself flexing my stomach and playing with the muscles that run up and down my sides, where my waist has now, well, become a waist.  This is an unfortunate turn of events.  My hip chub is still there.  I know.  I just checked.  So what made me change my mind about what I think of myself, and how can I go back to loathing myself entirely?  Not sure.  But a nice long masochistic run sounds like just the ticket.  Because remember Ashley, you've got a 1/2 marathon coming up in less than 2 weeks, and at this point there are most assuredly people who will walk faster than you can run. 

Now if that's not a fact that should bring on absolute buckets full of shame and self-loathing, I just don't know what is.

Well, that bit the big one.

So today was the "big run" I've been building towards for a bit now.  As my mom's house is about 13 miles away from mine, I thought it'd be a fun practice at the 1/2 marathon.  So I tracked out a route, stuck some bandaides in my ipod armband (blisters have become a frequent problem), and hit the road.

Things did not start off well.  My ipod seems to be having some play back issues with podcasts.  When I attempted to listen to these, they would randomly stop, which would for some reason also turn off my Nike+ tracking.  That was annoying, and it meant I had to just random shuffle through my music, or choose to listen to nothing for like, a million hours.  I chose the music, but had a terrible time getting my mind of my discomfort.  Bleah.

The first 3 miles were rough.  Not sure if it was the running along side of traffic, or the intimidation of knowing how far I had to go, but it was rough, and felt  pretty impossible.

But then Mile 3 hit, mile 4, 5, 6, and so on, and it got a little better.  I got into a groove, a long slow run to be sure, but progressing decently.

Everything was going just peachy until about mile 9.  By mile 9, things got hairy.  My legs were already exhausted, my knees and ankles ached, and I had a persisting pain in my chest.  Don't worry, I thought, you've done better.  You've gone farther.

And that's how I felt until about mile 11.  By that point, the hard was getting harder, and I had a completely disheartening realization.  I was too far away from my mom's house.  There was just no way I'd make it in two measly miles.  And this realization was crippling for me.  My ipod calibration, which I'd thought was rather good, was significantly off.  I had no real idea how much farther I needed to run.  I hadn't actually run 11 miles yet.  In fact, I'd never run 11 miles.  And my speed, which was already disturbingly slow, was actually even lower than I'd thought.  Here's another thing about running, about most things, probably:  Most of it seems to be in your head.  Knowing that I haven't been doing even as well as I'd thought, knowing that I was wrong about how far I'd come, well, it was a pretty wicked blow to my psyche.  After that, all I felt was my pain, my exhaustion, and the fact that I was stuck out in the boonies with no help, phone, or water.  Suckage.

But I kept running.  I ran through all the pain and internal whining, right up to where the nice lady who lives in my ipod suggested I'd "met my goal of 13.1 miles".  About a minute after that, somehow I wasn't running anymore.  I'd slowed to a walk, a walk which I maintained for a few minutes, ran a couple minutes, the back to walking.  Total walking time was about 7-10 minutes, and that was it for the quitting.  The last heck-if-I-know-how-long-it-was, I ran.  Dang the end always hurts.  For so much of this trip, my body screamed to stop.  But eventually, I was there.  Collapsed on the front lawn while I regained my ability to stand upright, certainly, but there.

The total trip took 2 hours, 40 minutes.  That trip included 3 stops at lights, 2 stops at drinking fountains (the walking trail had drinking fountains, that was great) 10 minutes of walking, and well, 2 hours and 40 minutes of pain.  I don't really want to know how slow I run.  I am so freakin exhausted.  My knees are killing me.  The arches in my feet ache.  Oh, and I have the WEIRDEST looking sun burn I've ever seen on a human.  Pictures to come, but as a spoiler, I don't need to wear my armband anymore to get the cool prestige of constantly wearing my armband.  AWESOME.

So I guess I kinda did it.  I don't know.  I went from my house to my mom's house.  I tortured myself, and I can't say I feel great about it.  Far too much disillusionment for one day.

Ah well.  You live, and you learn.  And you've still got 4 more weeks to get a little better for that Half.  Oye.  Time for some aloe, ice, and a few days of rest before any running happens again.

And shoot, at least I'm getting skinnier.  That's a thing.

My belt is stretching.

This thought may not be the most logical one I've had lately, but just the same, I find I have it quite a lot.  When I got down from around 190 to about 175, I bought myself a new belt.  Now according to this belt, I've lost at least 3-4 inches around my waist since its purchase.  It seems like nearly every time I put the belt on I'm able to pull it a smidge tighter.  And my automatic thought every time this happens?  Wow, I'm really stretching this belt out.

Cuz that's the thing with weight loss.  It's hard to internalize the change happening to you.  It's hard to really believe, for example, that I went from someone who was considered "Obese" (Sorry, I still have a hard time with that word), to someone who is, as of this morning, a mere 1.6 pounds overweight.  (Oh right, today also marks the end of the weight loss posting hiatus, and this morning's weight in was 156.6, in case anyone is curious).  It's sort of like, it looks great on paper, or on the scale, as it were, but it's hard to actually change one's picture of herself in any real way.  Throwing my jeans back in the dryer to get that same "shrink-effect" I'm used to, complaining about bagged-out sweaters, and a stretching belt are easier ways for my brain to explain any change.

But of course, I'm cool with that.  My brain make take convincing, but the facts don't lie.  I'm still overweight, but hopefully by the end of the week, I won't be able to say that anymore.  I'm still above my goal weight by about 15-20 pounds, but that's peanuts compared to the 50+ pounds I was staring down the barrel of only a few months back.  I have by no means finished the journey, but despite how I may feel about it, I KNOW that good things are happening.  And that, in itself, is worth all the work.

This is an '81 Honda, HOW DARE YOU?!???

The title above is by far the best line in a pretty lame movie, which I had the chance to catch a bit of again this past weekend.  In Employee of the Month, as the villain checker is attempting to sell his crappy old car to his loyal box boy, Jessica Simpson accidentally hits a golfball through the window, knocking the box boy in the side of the head.  This causes our villain to assume he is, for no reason we can tell, under attack, and to respond by sticking his head out of the window and yelling the line into the night, with a voice that just drips with righteous indignation.

I love the line.  It makes me laugh.  I seem to find an abnormally large amount of reasons to do the voice and quote the line in my everyday life.  I don't believe, however, that the line is funny because it's so strange.  I think I find it so amusing because the idea is so ridiculous, and so true to our own experience.  Because I have this feeling that this amusing and rather outrageous line mirrors, in a lot of ways, what we must so frequently sound like to God.

So many times I find myself demanding things of God, and then frustrated, embittered, doubting, and angry, I turn away when I don't receive what I request.  Basically, I pout.  I pout to God for not following my plans, or giving me what I "deserve".  I flail about angrily in the same way my daughter does when I pull her finger away from the light socket, or deny her a second piece of cake.  I'm indignant, indignant for my own glory, my own righteousness.  Side note:  Praise God that He has so graciously chosen to deny me what I actually deserve.  Seriously.

Sometimes I think God needs to grab me in his hands and shake me, yelling back "Who the hell are YOU?!?" and "Who the hell do you think I AM?!?"  Kinda like he did with Job.

I guess this will just give me something to think about, the next time I find myself, fist in the air, shouting belligerently at a holy and omnipotent Creator, "I am an '81 Honda, HOW DARE YOU?!?!?"

Shopaholitis... it's a real problem.

First off, I don't generally consider myself a shopaholic.  I generally buy maybe 2 pairs of shoes a year, and buy myself clothes no more than a couple of times a year.  I'm sure part of this is related to weight, (it's just not that much fun buying clothes you don't feel good in) but honestly, shopping in general has never really been my thing.

Or so I thought.

But now we're on a budget, and I feel sort of like a little piece of me has died.

Because of this budget, I've dyed my own hair from a drug store box, and been okay with that.  We're buying off-brand everything and keeping our grocery budget under $50 a week, and I've learned to enjoy the challenge of this.  The most we've eaten out in weeks has been a couple Sunday evening fast food grabs.  Shane and I haven't even gone on a date in over a month and we're doing great, finding free stay-at-home ways to spend additional time together when the baby goes to sleep.  All in all, we're sticking well to the budget, with amazingly little pain and suffering.

Except for this one little thing, in that I am actually a shopoholic.

Not big stuff.  Candles.  Christmas decorations.  Hair products.  Makeup.  A new shirt for Shane.  Purses and earrings (I shop at Target, these things are not "big" purchases).  Yarn.  Point is, I see things, I think, this would be nice to have, I buy it.  And with these "little things" I realize now I was easily spending 50-100+ dollars a week.  So although my wardrobe is tattered and our food is all store-brand, it turns out I am a bona-fide shopoholic, just about as bad as it gets.

The truth is, it feels good to shop.  It feels like life will be improved in one way or another by the item's presence in my home and life.  Picking out nice things to bring home makes me feel happy inside.  But I started realizing this was a problem when I noticed I would buy things and not even take the bags in the house.  The things I assumed would "truly enhance my life" spent more time enhancing the clutter factor of my backseat.  So right there, I was able to target the issue.  I didn't really "need" the stuff.  When it came down to it, I only marginally wanted it.  And the stuff I reallyreallyreally wanted, well, even that ends up being useful and exciting for an entire five minutes, and then it's just another old thing around the house.

I think I've done a good thing though.  I've made a deal with myself:  I can buy one thing, for around 20 bucks, every time I lose 5 pounds.  So now I've got a belt, a wallet (my old one had been run over by a car, but true to my budget, I waited until the next weight loss milestone to replace it), a pair of black dress pants, and a sweater. (I was a bit into weight loss when the deal started).  It's SOOO STINKING DIFFICULT to say, "that's really cute, I'd like that" or "Shane would look nice in that" or "Madelyn would LOVE that" and turn around and walk away.  I've actually picked things up, walked around the store, and put them back.  I'm a dirty dirty addict, and this is my confessional.  I work to remember how little I care about the things the days and weeks following their purchase.  I remind myself when I haven't "earned" a thing, and put it down.  I remember how many clothes the baby has, and how great Shane looks in the clothes he ALREADY owns.  And I keep on walking.  Apparently weight loss, budgeting, "control, control, you must learn control!"  It's all some crazy form of rehab.

So there we go,
Crazy lady out.