...That's What She Said!

The Pregnancy Diaries, Part II

2011-08-21T12:08:00.000-07:00

So, we left off at 5 weeks, right? Ok, then, here we go:

Weeks 6-8:
Nothing's different. Nothing's changed. Oh, except that my boobs are bigger. A lot bigger. And, I'm sure T would love them...if he ever got close enough to see them. The good news is that I'm not sick. I'm not tired. Nothing. Pfft. Being pregnant is boring. Well, unless you're my husband. He is telling everyone, he's so excited. I'm still in a slight bit of shock. It took about a week after we found out we were pregnant for me to come to terms with the fact that this was actually going down. Then, I realized that I was more than ok with it. I wanted this baby. Hmph. That shocked the hell out of me. Anyway, I was still playing softball (which was not nearly as fun without the beer and the ciggys) and got up every day to check and see if I could notice any change in my belly yet. Nope, still just donuts and pizza slices in there.

Then fear kicked in. In spite of myself, I thought of each one of my friends and family members that had endured miscarriages. I Googled statistics on the probability of miscarriages. I can't say that I've ever been more afraid of anything. T wasn't scared. At all. In fact, he couldn't understand why I wanted to wait to tell people we were expecting. It was hard to explain to him what made up that fear. It wasn't just losing the baby. It was the fear of my body failing, of me failing. What if my body wasn't strong enough? What if there was something wrong with me? What if I couldn't do it? Then, my ever-so-wise (in the most annoying way possible) husband said something that helped me move past it.

"This is one of the most exciting parts of our whole lives. I want to tell people. I want to be excited. If, God forebid, something happens and we lose the baby, I'm ok telling people that, too. But, I don't want to waste this being afraid of something that hasn't happened. I want to enjoy it while we have it to enjoy."

*Rolling my eyes....pfffft. Of course you'd look at it like that, all reasonable and buddah-ish.

Nevertheless, it made sense....in a weird, logical sort of way. Now, I am not a religious person, but I prayed (the first of a whole lot more, it turns out) and I made the first of many promises to my baby.

"You can get as big as you want in there. You can take anything from me that you need. Just stay safe. I will take care of you and protect you and do everything and anything I can. Just stay."

And, wouldn't you know? We made it to 8 weeks, and I was headed to the doctor. Before meeting with him, though, I got to have my first ultra sound. As I lay down (and spread 'em), I started to get nervous. What if there wasn't anything in there? What if my five tests were wrong? I almost confessed to the ultrasound tech that I hadn't taken a "real" test yet, so she may not see anything. I bit my tongue, though, as she lubed up the doppler and stuck it in. (Ok, I know that sounds graphic, but every other wording choice I used sounded even weirder. Should I say she eased it in? How is that any less creepy?)

Tech: "Now, this may be a bit uncomfortable. I'm going to look at your cervix. Now your uterus. Now the right ovary, the left ovary. Oops, let's go back to right one. Is that ok? Is that too uncomfortable?"

After the fifth time she asked me if I was comfortable or not, I responded:

"It's really fine. Obviously, that isn't the first thing that's been up there. We both know how I ended up here, right?"

Funny, she didn't laugh like I thought she would. C'mon, am I really the first person to say that?

And, then I saw it. This tiny, little bean shaped thing, swimming around in my Hilton of a uterus. I saw the flutter of its heart, a strong heartbeat of 160. The tech measured it, saying I was actually a few days further along than my last period indicated.

"Are you sure? Is it maybe just measuring a little chubby?"

Again, no laughter. Where do they get these people?

I just stared in amazement. So, there really was something in there, huh? She printed pictures (Yay! Now, I'm one of those women who walks around with pictures of a shapeless blob that's really a baby, but no one can tell it's a baby!) and let me towel myself off. I literally had to use a towel. Really, do they need an entire tube to lube that thing up? She could've had some hot guy come in and grab my boobs (or dangle a Hershey bar in front of me), and she wouldn't have even needed the lube.

Next, time to meet with the doctor. But first, the nurse took all my vitals, including my weight. Let me just pause here for a moment. Getting weighed sucks big, fat hairy balls anyway. Having it done when you are a solid size 12/14 (lean more towards a 14 as you picture this) makes you want to shoot yourself. Add to that being pregnant and knowing there's not really a way to start a crash diet of lemonade, cayenne pepper and maple syrup before your weigh-in and during your pregnancy is almost enough to do you in.

The best decision I made was to not look at the scale. I didn't want to know what that number was. Period. I can hyperfocus like nobody's business, especially about my weight. The absolute last thing I wanted was to spend the next eight months beating myself up over something I had such little control over. I had no idea what my body would do through the next 32 weeks. I just knew that to make it through the coming months, I had to make some sort of truce with my body.

"Ok, body, you just do your job and take care of the baby. You can do whatever you have to do and get as big as you need to, to keep it safe and healthy. In return, I promise to not complain about how big you get or stretch marks or huge, round canadian bacon looking nipples that take up my whole chest or anything else. Just keep the baby safe."

I'm skipping ahead a bit, but we're now at 24 weeks and I have yet to look at the scale. I eat better now than I ever did before I got pregnant, and I'm definitely more active. I walk about 45 minutes per day during the week, and I do prenatal yoga twice per week. Some of you may know that I have a vericose vein in my right leg - I named it at a party once, but I was drunk and I can't remember what I named it. Anyway, "what's-his-name-vein" (it's a guy) has actually receded since my pregnancy. It's still there, but not nearly as noticeable or visible. Take that what's-his-name-vein!

Anyway, that decision to not look at the numbers really helped me focus on what was important: not jumping off a bridge because my body had turned on me faster than Judas turned on Jesus. As long as the doctor wasn't worried, neither was I. My blood pressure, vitals, everything was perfect.

And, we were already two months along!

The Pregnancy Diaries, Part I

2011-08-21T10:45:00.000-07:00

Weeks 1-4:
I am completely unaware that I'm pregnant. My days look like this: Work, School, Softball, repeat. Add in some ciggs and some beer -- hey, it's softball season. Don't judge me: I DIDN'T KNOW I WAS PREGNANT.

Week 5:
I'm highlighting this week, because this is the week I found out I was pregnant. And, because it's such an entertaining story, we'll expand.

It was a Wednesday afternoon at the office. As I'm leaving the restroom, my sweet friend Amber looks up from the reception desk and asks me (out of nowhere): "Are you pregnant?"

After the urge to thank her for thinking I'm pregnant with a punch to the face passes, it does get my mind going. My period is a few days late. But, there's no way I'm pregnant. I mean, that's just crazy. But, still...I wonder...so, I finish out my day, and go home to grab one of my stashed pregnancy tests. I usually reserve taking these for when I've had a few glasses of wine, and I think having a baby is the BEST idea EVER. "We would make such GREAT parents *Hiccup*...don't you think? Honey? Troy! You never pay attention to me -- ugh! Why aren't you paying attention to me? *Hiccup*Are you passed out?" And, I'm always a teensy bit disappointed when right away the bitchy tests say, "Better luck next time, but your husband thanks you for playing."

T's in the kitchen, making dinner. I head to the restroom, ready to pee like I've never peed before. Ready. Set. Pee.

One line. Plus sign. All in a matter of ten seconds. Oh. My. God.

Suddenly, everything is blurry. There's a ringing in my ears, as I shake the test, gently at first and then more violently, trying to force my usual reading out of it. Fuuuuckkkk. It's not working. Why isn't it working? Why can't I SEE anything?!?! Oh my god, I'm blind! Why am I only seeing a plus sign?? Oh, whew, I'm not blind! The fucking test is broken. My test is broken!!

I stumble out of the bathroom, test in one hand, instructions in the other, underwear around my ankles. Troy notices the underwear before anything, and a hopeful look lights up his face. Could it be? Is "Skanky Abbey" back, without even any wine? Then he sees the box. Then the test. Then my face. Hope for kinky kitchen sex fades as I hold the test out, shaking it accusingly at him. "Look at this. What does this say? What did you do? What did you do?!?! "

Troy: You're pregnant? You're pregnant. You're pregnant!

Me: Nope. No. No, I'm not. Nope. These things are wrong all the time. This is not happening.

Troy: Yeaaaaaaaa, these instructions say you're pregnant.

I can't breathe...I can't BREATHE! Somehow, I make it outside, stumbling around like a wasted 19 year-old-girl at her first frat party. I rock myself back and forth, half laughing, half crying -- this is straight out of "One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest". T coaxes me back inside, with promises of dinner and fancy things like mashed potatoes. Thankfully, I'm able to focus and eat, even while my mind goes crazy. Suddenly, with my mouth full of steak, mashed potatoes and corn (the perfect bite), I'm enlightened! A light bulb clicks in my head. I have 2 tests! I'll just take it and put this whole nonsense to rest. This one isn't likely to be nearly as treacherous as the first!

Ready. Set. Pee.

One line. Plus sign. All in a matter of 5 seconds this time.

For the next twelve hours, I can't even comprehend what is happening. I Google to find out how far along I am: 5 weeks, 3 days. I call my sister. I call my mom. I call Erin. I tell them that I took some defunct tests that said I was pregnant, but that I'm really not pregnant, so don't get your hopes up that I'm pregnant. I haven't taken a "real" test at the doctor's office.

Erin: Well, you can go to the doctor and pee on their stick for $300 and they'll tell you the same thing, if you want. But, you're pregnant.

The next morning, I stop at Albertsons and buy a 3-pack of tests, my mind reeling. How is it possible that the one time we have sex this year, I get pregnant? Was I wasted? How did this happen? I must've been asleep. That's it, T did it while I was asleep! I take the tests throughout the day, each one coming back with a plus sign faster than the one before. I start to sense a conspiracy going on. To test my theory, I call the doctor's office.

Me: I've only taken five tests, but they all came back positive. So, I'm not sure if you need to see me at all. I mean, I only took five. I'm not really sure if I'm pregnant or not.

Nurse: Well, after five tests, my guess is that you're pregnant. Let's go ahead and schedule you. The doctor likes to see patients who are 8 or more weeks along, so, we'll see you in 3 weeks.

Me: Wait, that's it? What am I supposed to do in the meantime? What am I supposed to do with it (I whisper and point to my belly, as if she can see me) for three more weeks?

Nurse: Oh, is this your first pregnancy?

Me: Are you fucking serious? Does it sound like I've been through this before, and I just enjoy taking five pregnancy tests ($35, mind you) so I can call and ask you if you think I'm really pregnant? Are you fucking kidding me?

Ok, I didn't really say that.

Me: Yes, it is.

Nurse: Well you should buy a prenatal vitamin and take that every day. Other than that, just take care of yourself, keep doing whatever you've been doing, and we'll see you soon.

Me: (silently) Fuck.

And that, folks, is how we found out we were pregnant. It turns out that there was no conspiracy going on, in case you were wondering.

The Dentist & the Pap Smear

2011-01-31T13:14:00.000-08:00

I recently went to the dentist for a routine cleaning. I have come to the conclusion that getting one's teeth cleaned is an extremely private affair, even more intimate than getting a pap smear.

Laugh if you will, but read on, and I'm sure you'll agree. Getting a pap is easy. You strip down, put on one of the tents disguised as a dressing gown, and hop on up. You slide your ass down to the end, spread your legs, and bada-bing-bada-boom, you're done. I could run a half marathon the day before, not shower, and have a year's worth of outgrowth on my bikini line and still be less self-conscious than I am going to the dentist.

This is where our story begins:

It all starts with the assistant as she inserts those little plastic bits into my mouth for x-rays.

While I unhinge my jaw to allow full access, my mouth formed in an ever-so-slight "O", I can't help but think, Thank God I know how to deep throat.

So, there I am, chomping down on these little insertions, my nostrils flared with concentration. I watch the thick stream of drool that follows as she takes it out of my mouth and has to cup her hand underneath it to catch the seemingly never ending trail that could very well fill a Dixie cup. Twice on the left side. Repeat on the right.

As I sit with my mouth wide open, the dentist leans over me and starts poking around with his tools of destruction. Though he's hovering over me, I refuse to make eye contact, averting my eyes to the left and then to the right and then back again. You know that I've never actually seen my dentist? I know he isn't really checking my teeth and gums; he's two inches from my face, for God's sake. He's obviously staring and cataloguing every nook and cranny on my face and in my mouth.

God, this is awkward. I think. I cannot believe I didn't wax those nose hairs before I came in! He's probably staring straight at my nose hairs and wondering how someone can look so much like a lady, yet be so hairy. Oh my God, do I have any boogs in there?

The dentist is now reaching over me, leaning over me, to get to the other side of my mouth. As he's putting bonding on the receding gum line, he puts a cotton ball under the upper lip to keep it out of the way. Now, I look like Elvis. More paranoia ensues.

Oh God, the lips are dry now. They're cracking. I can feel them cracking. Put my lip down, please! He's so close to my face. Can he see a makeup line? Can he tell that I'm actually wearing a shade too dark for me for this time of year? Of course he can see it - he can see everything. He's practically God.

As the dentist begins to scrape, I'm reminded that my last year’s resolution to floss more failed miserably. So much so, that I didn't even think to revisit it this year. Quick! I say to myself. Be witty! Make small talk! He won't notice the chocolate cake in your teeth from last night if you can speak fast enough. And so, I convince myself that is the right direction to go. I mean, I charm myself all the time in conversation. How hard could it be?

Is this the Eagles on the radio? You know, I saw them in concert when they were here.

In my desperation to keep the dentist from delving any further into my mouth, I may have somehow managed to snort a piece of plaque into my throat, but I'm on a higher mission now. This is sure to impress him, as he is from an older generation and definitely aware of who The Eagles are.

Hmmmm.

Silence.

Scrape, scrape, scrape.

Surprise engulfs me. He didn't seem that impressed. Why isn't he more impressed?

It’s then that the realization hits. There is absolutely no way this dentist could ever find me charming or attractive in the slightest. Say what you will, but this man's been in the holiest of holy places. Troy has never even been that close to my face, especially under a fluorescent light, let alone checking out the inside of my mouth with a magnifying glass.

Never mind that my dentist could probably be my grandfather's younger brother and that, as I've never made eye contact with him, I'm not quite sure if he is or has ever been a handsome fellow. The point is that he is completely incapable of seeing beyond my prevalent blackheads, nose hair, and previously filled cavities. I don't necessarily want the dentist to find me attractive, but I'd at least like the possibility to be there.

With a gyno, it isn't nearly as unnerving. That area's been trafficked plenty, let me tell you. If who ever is down there is close enough to see that you really aren't that tight, their face should either be buried in it or the lights should be low enough that all they see is a never ending black hole of bliss.

Ponytails

2009-12-04T05:52:00.000-08:00

Its been a long time since I put my hair in a ponytail for good reason.

The past few months have kept me pretty busy. Ahem. Let me restate: the past few months have kicked me in the ass. I started working full time in August at a new job, I planned (and pulled off!) my wedding in September, and I also thought it might be a good idea - just in case I wasn't busy enough - to tackle another semester of school filled with calculus and macroeconomics. Added bonus: I opted for the honors macroeconomics class. Who doesn't like a challenge, right? If that was all I had to do, I'm sure I would've fared okay - I would've been busy, but okay. As it was, I still had to do all the every day stuff, too: Clean. Check. Grocery shop. Check. Laundry. Check. Five complete sentences to Troy. Check.

Being that busy is great for people to recognize your insane abilities to multi-task.

Someone: "Wow, look at you! How do you pull that off? You're amazing!"

Me (with a shrug of the shoulders): "Eh, it ain't no thing."

Okay, I would never use incorrect grammar, but you get the picture. Back to point: Being that busy is great for productivity. It isn't, however, ideal for taking care of yourself. I had (some) time for the "extras"; I didn't have the energy for them. Work out? Work THIS (middle finger). Do my hair? You're lucky I took a shower. Sex? Not in this lifetime, pal.

Let's just say I got very friendly with the "rougher" side of my grooming and grew to love the "construction worker/bus driver" ponytail - hair tied up in a pony, wet and unbrushed. No, I'm not kidding.

I had really lost my way when it came to diet and any type of exercise; I've done so many different diets or workout programs that I was....muddled. They were all blending together. I'd start the day with the South Beach diet and then switch to counting calories after my third slice of bread....and then I'd start all over the next day after my 2nd cookie. I'd hit the gym for a day or two, but that passed quickly after the tedium of doing the same routines I've done a gazillion times set in. I was pretty burnt on it all, and I had absolutely zero energy to think of something new.

A few weeks ago, a girlfriend of mine brought up a workout class she'd done, and it grabbed my attention: boot camp. Hmph. I'm not normally the type that likes being told what to do (which one of you bitches knew that already?), but this was different. I was intrigued by the regimine and guidance it offered. Really, though, I liked the idea of not having to do anything except show up and work. No thinking involved. No planning. I'm not afraid of working hard. Bring it. I looked it up online (fitclubbootcamp.net, if you're curious) and signed up for a free week: 5:30am-6:30am, Monday thru Friday. Holy shit, right? Yea, that's what I thought, too. Turns out....holy shit was right.

That first week was pretty brutal (and it still is), but not nearly as bad as you might imagine. I lived, so that's something. There are women of all ages, shapes, sizes, and fitness levels in there - we're all sweating it out. I got schooled running sprints by a 50 year old woman last week. It's a comraderie, of sorts. We're all bonded together by one thought, "Don't die." Okay, kidding. It's really more along the lines of, "Don't quit. Push. Okay, now push harder." And it's one of the most inspiring things I've ever done.

The past few weeks have been amazing. Yes, I wake up at 5am and then go get my ass kicked up and down the gym (or outside at the track) for an hour. Voluntarily. But I have so much more energy through the day. My mind is more focused. My body's stronger, more capable. I'm just....happier. And the sex drive? "Bring it on," is all I have to say about that.

And now, the only time my hair is in a ponytail is while I'm gasping for air, doing bear crawls, mountain climbers, and burpees, at the ungodly hour of 5:30am.

The Mrs....

2009-09-21T13:35:00.000-07:00

I went grocery shopping for the first time as a married woman the other day, and I kept expecting people to stop me and say, "You just got married, didn't you? You just have that married look." You know what I mean, right? The feeling you get when you have big, exciting news that's almost a secret (but not quite) and you just want to share it with everyone?? (I've heard you feel that way when you're pregnant...I felt that way when I discovered Fiber One bars). Anyway....I seriously walked down the busiest aisles just so I could stare and wait for them to comment on my obvious "Mrs." state. Much to my surprise, no one noticed my just married "glow", so I took it upon myself to drop it into random conversation at Winco.

Me: "Excuse me, how much are the canned peas? I just got married, and this is my first shopping trip as a married woman. I haven't had to check prices since I've been married...I'm brand new at doing all this, see, because now I'm a Mrs... And, believe it or not, this is actually the first time I've worn this sweater as a married woman..."
Cashier (grunts): "Canned peas are $.48 per can." (continues ringing me up)
Me: "Oh, why THANK you. I'm just so happy to be married -- can you tell? It really was the most perfect day. My husband is the most amazing man...you really should have been there..."

*Please don't barf...this is completely true*

This is how I've been since Sunday morning...I'm on a married (see, I can't stop) cloud 9...I keep looking at Troy and thinking, "Gosh, were you this good looking before we were married? You sure look HOT with that ring on your finger". Our DJ made us a cd of key music from our reception -- I have listened to it so much, I'm surprised it still works. I keep thinking of people to call so I can relive every moment of the day vicariously through them. "So, what was your favorite part? Oh my gosh, I LOVED that, too!" I didn't even shower until as late as possible on Sunday afternoon because I didn't want to wash off the magic of that day...(or the magic that Keri did to my face and Shasta did to my hair). I've seriously had a hard time not wearing my wedding dress around town....you know, to places like the gas station or the gym or....work -- "Why no, I'm not getting married today...BUT, I did get married on Saturday

Yes, I'm aware of how that sounds and, yet, I cannot stop.

It was the most amazing, special, out-of-this-world day....my only regret is that I can't marry Troy every day....okay, and after looking at some pictures, maybe I should've worn spanx...anyway, I'd do it again in a heart beat -- I loved every second of my wedding day.

I am thoroughly enjoying dropping the word "husband" into any sentence I can and cataloging everything as a new experience ("Ooh, this is my first time pooping as a married woman! Where's Troy?!"). Yea, yea....I know that the newness will wear off and soon enough, "I cannot believe I have a husband. He is so wonderful," will at some point turn into "*!($&#%@(@!*". So, I'm relishing. And now I have a written account that I actually did feel this way, especially for those times when I'm ready to punch his lights out and bury him in the back yard.

So, here we go down this new road...(by the way, I just had my first diet Dr. Pepper as Mrs. Denton)...and all I can think about is how it feels to call Troy my husband and know that after six years of him willingly (most of the time) coming home, he is now legally required to be there. I just couldn't ask for anything more.

**ps...I can't possibly thank every one who needs thanking for being there with us -- we had so many friends and family that helped us and supported us, not just on our wedding day, but for the past six years. I hope you all know who you are -- we do, and we are so grateful to you. We could never thank you enough.**

Sweatpants

2009-07-05T20:21:00.000-07:00

I cannot pinpoint the exact moment within my six year relationship with T that I started reaching for sweatpants at bedtime instead of taking my clothes off. I might be able to ballpark it within a year....maybe. I really haven't got the foggiest clue when I lost any inhibitions about farting, started leaving the bathroom door open when I pee, and left shaving any part of my body to special occassions....like Christmas. Merry Christmas, you no longer have to wade through the jungle to find the "promised land". Enjoy it, because in two weeks you'll be back to trudging through the brush.

This is what six years gets me: Hello to him loving (and enduring sometimes) the good, the bad, and the ugly of me, indulging any whim I happen to think up this week, and letting me know on a daily basis that he wants nothing more than to watch movies (with the subtitles on, of course) and order take out with me for the rest of his life. Hello to my best friend and future husband. A tiny hiccup: Goodbye to any desire to shave my legs more than once a month, spontaneously whip out crotchless, edible panties, or thinking its adorably "manly" of him when he leaves his clothes all over the floor, his dirty dishes soaking in the sink for a week, and the new toilet paper roll sitting on top of the empty one.

There are so many times I've wished I had written down everything I did during the first phases of our relationship so that I had some sort of master list I could work from for inspiration. Because, quite honestly, between the daily wear and tear, working, going to school, cleaning the house, getting groceries, paying bills - the list goes on and on - the absolute last thing I feel like is sexy. I don't have the energy to think up cute, enticing little ways to rouse libidos. You know what sexy looks like to me? A clean kitchen, a scrubbed bathtub, a fridge full of groceries I didn't shop for, and having absolutely nothing else to do except bask in the fact that I have nothing else to do.

What I've come to realize is that when people said, "Relationships take work," they didn't mean disagreements about money or how to make up after someone spent all night out and the next night on the couch. No, no...it's nothing that Leave it to Beaver, nothing that easy. That's the stuff you're prepared for. What they don't tell you, what you can't even fathom while you're in the throes of a new love, is what comes with time. Pearls of wisdom like one day, things you think are cute now will drive you fucking crazy. One day you'll understand why granny panties were invented, and the most subtle way you can think of to tell him you're not in "the mood" is to throw tampons at his face. Some days you may actually have to Google "How bad is prison, really?" just to scare yourself out of burying him in the back yard. Those are the things you don't expect. Well, I didn't anyway, and I'm sure I'm not alone.

That's the dirty work - doing the day-in-and-day-out ugly of it all (and it gets ugly. If you say your relationship doesn't, you are absolutely full of shit) - and still waking up happy (at least somewhat somedays) that they're beside you. If you can remember in the middle of a knock-down-drag-out fight that you do in fact love them, even when you want to punch them in their fucking face for being so fucking stupid - well, that's what it takes right there. It takes a real, concentrated effort sometimes to look at this person you love - who just happens to have been in your face for the past however many years, bitching at you because he can't find his keys (that happen to be in his hand, by the way) or his shoes (which are in the closet - go figure), asking you to rub his feet or make him a sandwich - and remember that your other half has needs that matter, too. Sometimes, he may even need to matter more than you and have his needs met first.

That's how relationships survive however many years of monogamy and emotionally and mentally beating the shit out of each other....Give and take, push and pull.

However, love T as I do, today is not that day. Tomorrow isn't looking good either.

What's for dinner?

2009-06-17T19:46:00.000-07:00

Sometimes I wish I had the will power to be anorexic.

Scratch that. If it wouldn't cause hemorrhoids, my teeth to fall out, and strokes, I may settle for bullemia. "Excuse me, I'd like to order an eating disorder, medical pitfalls on the side, hold the bleeding ass and scratch marks on the trigger finger."

Yes, yes, I know how deranged and unbalanced that sounds. But for someone who's battled their body's propensity to gain pounds from calories she's even thought about, as well as a mirror image that, at times, seems to rival a funhouse mirror their entire lives, it's simply part of the desperation to wake up one day and not wonder what's for dinner....and what the cost of that dinner will be. Bloating? A 2lb increase on the scale in the morning? "Fat" pants for work tomorrow? I'm talking 28 years of obsessing....that's 10,220 days OR 245,280 hours OR 14,716,800 seconds of analyzing, agonizing over, and dissecting every calorie eaten and every pound gained.

Why yes, that does get tiring. Thank you for asking.

You'd think I would be stick thin with how much time I devote to analyzing, comparing, and salivating over food I don't let myself eat. Ah, no such luck.

This is not to say I think I'm ginormous or whale-like by any means....no, no, nothing that extreme. I happen to have a pretty healthy self image. It simply means I constantly walk the fine line between a single digit size and a double digit size. It means that I start each day determined to follow some semblance of a diet, and end up telling myself tomorrow will be better. It means I wish losing weight was easier, and have to make peace several time a day with being 10-15lbs over my perceived "ideal" weight. And, it means I spend some of my time fantasizing about a body I wasn't born with.

Don't let me give you the wrong idea. Yes, I'm plagued daily by thoughts that make me want to pull my hair out...or at least put on a corset before getting dressed. Really, who isn't? But this body - double digits or not - is strong. It has never suffered a broken bone, and is capable of supporting more than just weight on its back. The girth of my body may span more area than I'd like, but my muscles are firm, lithe, and conditioned. My skin is still smooth - not yet decorated with stretch marks or cellulite. My body keeps up with the softball I love to play and the running I should do more of. I am fortunate enough to be able to hike, jog, run, walk, bike and otherwise entertain or punish my muscles whenever and however I want.

Ideally, my goal is to cherish this body for what it is and not berate it for what its not. I never want to take for granted the simple blessing I have to be able to use my "not-a-size-4, more-cushion-for-the-pushin', donut-loving, pass-the-potatoes, I'll-have-seconds" body however I see fit. I realize that it's something I will strive, and some days struggle, to do....even while I'm wondering, "What's for dinner?"

Office Etiquette

2009-06-12T12:50:00.001-07:00

The office environment is one of professionals; business minded folk who, even if just within the confines of 9am-5pm, behave with dilligence, fortitude, and class.

This is not always the case, however, in the Ladie's Room and in the instances of going #2.

Now, I completely understand the need to go #2 at work. Now and again I've been forced to utilize the facilities for that very purpose. However, nothing grosses me out or irritates me more than the "I'm-not-moving-a-muscle-so-noone-knows-what-I'm-doing-in-here" pooper. You know who I mean: The ones who, as soon as you walk in, get deadly quiet (not even breathing quiet) and practically lift their feet off the floor to avoid discovery.

Let me break it to you easy, honey: We ALL know what you're doing in there. And some of you are FAR from being quiet. Just go. You're already your own worst enemy and your idiocy and body are conspiring against you: the dead rodent smell eminating from your stall, the ass-flapping escapee farts and grunts you try to hide under the sound of a flushing toilet, and, oh yeah, the locked freakin' door. Oh right, NO ONE's in here...wink, wink.

I understand the embarassment that accompanies having to go #2 in the possible midst of strangers, especially when you're dottin' cotton and HAVE to get it out. Yes, yes, I can see how that could be disconcerting. You are, however, somewhat well protected by a fairly sturdy stall, and guess what? We don't have x-ray vision, sweetheart. No one will know it was you.

My advice (yes, you were asking): Just let it all go. I'm getting awfully close to calling you out and telling you, "I know what you're doing in there! Just do it already." I've also considered waiting until you've conducted your final flush and left the safety of your stall, and then confronting you. There goes your anonymity. Really, it's completely obnoxious and unnecessary. I'd rather that you were an honest pooper...not some scaredy-cat hiding behind a door, clenching your cheeks together and praying to whatever god you believe in that no one discovers your dirty little secret.

You know, if it really bothers you that much, maybe you should clean those pipes before coming to work.

The Smack Heard 'Round the World...er, Gym...

2009-06-08T15:48:00.000-07:00

This is one of my more popular blogs from Facebook, January 17, 2009....

Saturday morning started out as any normal weekend day. I woke up, got some things cleaned up around the house, ate my banana, and headed out to the gym. For your reference, I work out at the Gold's Gym on Park Center. There I was, enjoying a nice run on the treadmill at about 5.7 mph, when it happened. Out of the corner of my eye, not more than 10 feet away from me, a woman probably in her late 30's walks up to another woman (probably around my age) and SMACKS her right across the face. (From the point on, they will be referred to as the smacker and the smackee).

Moving on - It wasn't one of those smacks that you experience when you're dreaming. You know, the one where no matter how hard you try, it comes off as kind of a pussy-ish smack. No, this was one HARD smack that I could hear, even with my ear phones blasting Irene Cara's "What a Feeling". I was so startled by what I'd just seen - I almost fell off my treadmill. I actually had to stop running for a minute to digest the violence I'd just been exposed to. I began glancing around to find out who else had seen what I'd seen. Sure enough, the women occupying the treadmills to the right and left of me are in an equal state of shock as we look at each other wondering, "Did that just happen?" We watch, our jaws on the floor, as the smacker says to the smackee, "You're so evil." The smackee then walks around the smacker, down the stairs, and out the door without ever saying a word but with a huge red mark across her right cheek. The smacker then jumps on a treadmill, makes eye contact with noone, and commences her workout.

Since there appears to be no imminent danger, I resume the last 10 minutes of my run, never taking my eyes off the smacker. After all, I don't want her sneaking up on me. I finish my run, do some stretching and cool down exercises, and then proceed to the front desk so I can, in true good Samaritan form, inform the proper authorities. As I recall the tale to the 18 year old pop tart working the front desk, I am increasingly aware of her lack of concern. I suggest maybe talking to the smacker to determine whether or not this was a random act. The pop tart then laughs and says, "Hopefully she's working out her frustration so she doesn't smack again." Unimpressed with her lack of action, I tell her, "Hopefully this isn't a random act of smacking because who knows who'd be next? And what about her comment of the smackee being "so evil"? Perhaps she is a religious random smacker? I don't go to church - how do I know I'm safe? I will say that if the next random smackee turns out to be ME, there will be a problem." I leave the gym, slightly disappointed that my dilligence in reporting the crime hadn't spurred them into immediate action...and, consequently, a level of gratitude for my bravery in coming forward.

Anyway, with the act of the smacker behind me, I will once again brave the gym tonight. I will, however, be keeping an eye out for the smacker. I tell you this in hopes that you will stay alert to any strange happenings in your gym so that you, too, aren't a victim of random smacks.