August 11, 2008

A Happy Monday (There’s A First Time For Everything)

So I had this brief fit of panic as I stepped on the scale yesterday morning.  I had gained 3 pounds.  It was devastating, because I’ve been very disciplined about eating right and working out.

This morning I woke up and went to the bathroom because I had to pee like a racehorse and discovered I had received that magical monthly gift:  my period had arrived.  Finally.  I was seven days late.

I have never been more happy to be menstruating than I am today.  Why, you ask?  Because those three pounds are probably retained water.  And really?  I’m not cramping.  At all. This is unusual, because I am the Queen of PMS and Horrible, Terrible, No Good, Very Bad Cramps.  But today?  Not a single PMS pain.  Knock on wood, throw salt over my left shoulder and all that jazz.

If anything, I’m starving.  I’m craving a Big Mac and salty french fries, but the new Dana is not giving in.  She made scrambled eggs and peanut-buttered toast.  It’s delicious and I’ll thank myself for it later.

Honestly, I can’t get past the no cramps thing.  This is kind of awesome.  Also, my flow isn’t heavy.  It’s practically non-existent, yet that doesn’t mean it won’t get heavier later…it’s just that all my life I’ve had to do the tampon backed up by pad thing and this morning I didn’t have to do that.

Maybe there’s something to this healthy kick.  Of course I know that.  I’m just being silly.  Okay, enough period talk.  I’m over it.

Today’s plan includes visiting my doctor’s office to get some health forms signed for the gym, refilling one of my blood pressure medications, hanging the laundry on the clothes line since it’s a bluebird day, cleaning the house (that is, if Dawson will allow me to interrupt his engineering masterpiece of Thomas the Train tracks and such all over the living room floor), and making something healthy for dinner.  I’m thinking grilled chicken breasts and steamed veggies.

Must hang laundry on line.  It really is beautiful outside today.  Happy Monday, peeps!

August 8, 2008

Fifteen Pounds Gone…

…and look what fits:

I hadn’t been able to wear my wedding ring in almost a year. It fits comfortably again, and this makes me very happy.

I know that 15 pounds in less than three weeks is sort of drastic, but I’m not using drastic measures to lose the weight.  I mean, I’ve made big changes….but I’m not starving myself or killing myself.

I’ve cut out soda (the caffeine withdrawals are finally over), no fried foods (this one was easy, I just pictured grease traveling through my veins where blood should be, and the thought grossed me out), lean meats, fresh vegetables whenever possible (although steamed veggies are so damn good) and lots of fruits instead of chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream (my weakness).

The workout regime is pretty awesome.  On Mondays and Fridays I do 45 minutes of cardio (broken down as 15 minutes on the stair stepper and 30 minutes on the elliptical).  Tuesdays and Thursdays I do 30 minutes of the elliptical, followed by 30 minutes of weights (that I do at home because the big scary, steroid-user-type guys at the gym scare me).  Wednesday is my day off from working out at the gym.  On Saturday and Sunday I do 30 minutes of cardio, followed by swimming with Dawson.  I can squeeze about five laps in before he freaks out in the shallow end of the pool (thank God for lifeguards who don’t mind watching him when I do this).  Add to that a daily walking of Murphy and I’m golden in the fitness department.

I know it sounds like I’m working my ass off (which is the goal), and Doug thinks I might be overdoing it a bit, but the thing is, I feel 1000% better after doing this.  If I miss a day I’m a crabby freakin’ bitch and it’s not good.  I think I’m addicted to the endorphins, the adrenaline, the sweat.  I’ve never felt so good as I do when I’m sweating.  Gross, yes, but it makes me feel so damn awesome.  And I think this is why the weight is coming off faster in the beginning.

In just a few short weeks, I’ll be working with a personal trainer at the gym.  She’s going to hook me up with the weight machines to begin toning.  First, I have to get my doctor’s approval because I currently take blood pressure medications.  My goal is to get the weight off and lower the flippin’ BP so that I no longer have to take those pills, but my hunch tells me I will always need them.  Both my mother and father have chronic hypertension and they were diagnosed in their 30s.  It’s just the way the dice roll I suppose.

In other news, my period is now a week late, probably due to the rapid weight loss and exercising.  I know what you’re thinking, but this confirms I’m not pregnant (as much as I wish these were positive, I’m thinking I have 40 pounds to lose before I can conceive):

Disappointing, yes, but I vow not to let this control me, or define me.  It’ll happen.  I have faith.

Fifteen pounds lost and a new outlook gained.  And suddenly, I’m sleeping again.

July 27, 2008

Apparently, I’ve Got Junk in My Trunk

I promise to continue my BlogHer conference recaps, but first I must tell you about my visit to the gym today.

Many of you know that I’m not satisfied with this body of mine. It’s not suiting me the way it once did. I have too many pounds to take off (I’m not revealing how many, but I’ve broken it down into ten pound increments. Smaller goals are easier to tackle, than say, a hundred pounds all in one shot, right?) and I’m doing my best to change my overall health because I do want to become pregnant one of these fucking days (I’m bitter about that subject, and boy, oh boy, do I have a fertility post in the works for you, lucky readers). Holy fricken run-on sentence. Did that even make any sense? I sure hope so.

After attending the conference and being surround by beautiful, healthy women, I realized how unhappy I am with my body and I’ve restarted my insane workout regimen with a personal trainer who should really be called The Drill Sergeant. Anyway. Back to my story.

So I got up this morning and did my BlogHer work, and then I told the Hubs that I wanted to go to the gym. I got my workout clothes on, laced up my sneakers and drove to the YMCA.

My favorite training machine is the elliptical. Perhaps this is because when I first started using it I could only survive 7 minutes on it. Over the last year, I’ve built up the stamina and I can now do 60 minutes, no problem.

That’s right. One whole hour. And I’m addicted. I confess: I’m addicted to the elliptical trainer (ET).

The high I get as I visualize my ass melting off is unbelievable. The rush of adrenaline and endorphins, combined with the rockin’ music on my iPod, makes me want to work my body to the max on that beautiful machine. I’d kiss that damn thing but knowing that many, many people have left their sweat all over it keeps me from doing so. Thank God.

I love the ET so much that I often forget I’m working out in public, and sometimes the music streaming through my ears distracts me. Many times, it doesn’t even feel like I’m working out, because I’m having so much fun. I know I’m insane. You don’t have to remind me.

Often when I’m working out, the music practically transports my own heart and soul out of my body. I can’t resist the urge to almost, sort of, dance while on the ET. I know, that’s a visual almost impossible to imagine. But I’ll do my best to describe it.

Certain music makes me want to sway my hips, so as I’m jamming along to Joss Stone (and fighting the urge to sing along, out loud), my behind is kind of rocking in an almost unnatural, yet cheeky, kind of way.

I was pushing myself to the max and suddenly one of my earphones popped out. The words I heard from male voices behind me almost caused me to fall off the ET.

“Daaaaamn, dude. Check out the ass on that white girl!”

I nonchalantly tried to put the earphone back in my ear, but quickly pushed the pause button to hear the rest of the conversation. Then I angled my neck in a way that allowed me to catch a glimpse of the two handsome black men pumping iron at the row of weight machines behind me.

“Ooooh, yeah. She’s got somethin’ goin’ on back there.”

I was desperately trying to fight back the laughter. Then I wondered, which white girl are they talking about?

I casually turned my head to the left to see a young gentleman on the treadmill next to me. Definitely not a white girl. Then I craned my neck to the right and smiled politely at the thin blond with the tiny waist and practically invisible behind. Not the girl they were speaking of, I imagine.

Oh. My. Gawd. Are they referring to me? They can’t be. I’m wearing three year old yoga pants and an old man t-shirt. Not exactly one of my most attractive gym outfits.

I turned my iPod back on and resumed my workout, trying to ignore what I thought was going on. When my hour was over, I went to get the rag and disinfectant to clean my sweat off the machine. When I turned around, the two guys were standing in front of me. I felt my cheeks flush with color (the ones on my face, duh).

“I hope you don’t mind me saying this, but your ass is fiiiine,” the first guy said.

“Daaaaamn baby,” the other chimed in. “If you keep working out like that, your ass will be non-existent.”

I started to stutter. I have never, ever in my life been approached in this way. So I said, “Ummm….well….thank you? I ummm…don’t know what to say. This the first time I’ve been complimented on my butt.”

“Well, big asses are in, girl…” the first guy said.

Did he just say I have a big ass? Oh, my gawd. My butt must be HUGE.

I honestly had to fight the urge to look over my shoulder to see just how big my butt really was. I think they sensed my freak out because, the second guy said, “Don’t be shy, girl. This is a good thing. Don’t hide it! Flaunt it.”

“Ummm, okay….I will.”

What did I just say? Oh my God. Get out of there, Dana. You’re making an ass of yourself. Oh cripey, bad choice of words. Bad, bad, BAD!

I was so nervous that I’d say more stupid things, so I politely excused myself, cleaned off the machine I had used, then ran to the women’s locker room. I took my time changing into my street clothes and when I exited the locker room, my two admirers where chatting and smiling in the hallway.

I tried to be cool and casual as I walked up the steps to the main floor of the gym.

“Take pride in that behind, girl!” one of them called out.

“Okay….thank you!” I called back.

When I got home, I told Doug all about my compliment and he replied, “Well, you do have a cute butt. Big, but cute.”

“Is my ass really that big? Jeepers. What the hell?” I shouted.

Doug laughed.

“Had I known this was my greatest asset I would have had it insured. Like J-Lo.” I continued.

“J-Lo…now she has a great ass.” Doug replied.

“Better than mine?” I asked, half-joking.

“Ummm…errrm..” Doug stumbled.

“Hey now….” I started laughing. “Watch what you say, because if you don’t like my butt, I know two gentleman that do!”

Suddenly, my husband bursts into song.

“What you gon’ do with all that junk? All that junk inside your trunk?”

Yes, apparently, I’ve got junk in my trunk. Who knew?

May 30, 2008

I’m Taking Charge of My Fertility

Hi. My name is Dana, and I’m “Reproductively Challenged.” It’s rather uncomfortable for me to admit that I have difficulty conceiving. Factors like weight, heredity, genes, hypertension and other familial traits have contributed to my fertility troubles.

What’s even more difficult is coming to the realization that I have to make certain the moon is aligned perfectly with Jupiter (…or is it the sun?), chart my reproductive cycles to determine ovulation, have sex on the “right days,” and dance in a circle three times around the apple tree in my back yard, and then maybe, just MAYBE, I will get pregnant.

I’ve been through this ring-around-the-ovaries game before. It was 2+ years before I conceived Dawson, who is now almost four years old, and for the last year or more, I’ve been in baby mode. Conception is on my mind all the time. I want nothing more than to have a second child. Unfortunately my body isn’t cooperating. I’ve ranted about that whole situation before.

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