Okay readers, I will have to confess that my will power has been put to the test during this week's 40 and Fabulous weight-loss journey. With so many end-of-year school activities that consists of goodies of all sorts, it's been difficult staying on track to say the least.
However, I followed what I ate and was true to recording the good and the bad stuff. What saved me from myself was staying on track with my exercise regime.
As I type these words, a pack of Costco's gigantic chocolate chip cookies sit on my counter. They are left over from a Girl Scout Ceremony held at my house few days ago. I have no problem eating a healthy and balanced meal at every sitting, but sweets are my weakness.
However, the Costco cookies were no match for the Girl Scouts' Samoas, which I thought I was rid of thanks to my son, who pulled off the most successful cookie caper of all times a few months back.
Many of you, who have been on the receiving end of my daughter's sales pitch know that she participates in the annual Girl Scout cookie fundraiser, which always results in me purchasing a case or two to send to her dad and other deployed friends.
And for past three or four years he has been deployed during this time. So we mail some, because it is always a moral booster for the troops. We freeze some, because you can only get them once a year. And of course, we eat some. Here lies my problem.
Remember that weight-loss program through my doctor's office that I told you about? I did not have to follow a strict diet, but it required me eat specific servings of fat, protein, carbs and so on at every meal while staying within my caloric intake.
Every two weeks I go for a weigh in at my doctor's office. They have this special equipment that breaks down how much muscle I have gained and how much fat I lost. It gives me a computer printout with a chart that shows my progress from start to finish.
I dropped 11 lbs. the first month of doing this. It was so easy. I even lost during Christmas time. Who loses weight during Christmas? Me!!
I was on a losing streak until Girl Scout cookie season began. The print out did not lie. I recall explaining how the system worked to hubby after he returned from deployment last year. He noticed the peaks on the chart and asked "What happened here in this January/February time frame," where clearly there was a dramatic rise in fat gain? I could only respond with "It was Girl Scout cookie season." He laughed and understood.
This year I didn't even get opportunity to claim my fat gain from Girl Scout cookies because the boy genius beat me to it. He single-handily pulled off the most successful cookie caper of all time. Over a two-month period, he sneaked and consumed 10 boxes of Girl Scout cookies; eight boxes of Samoas and two Tagalongs. He was just two boxes shy of completing a case. He was well on his way to doing so had he not gotten caught.
The boy genius is not a big junk food eater, so what would possessed him to resort to sneaking and hiding the cookies? I can only chalk it up to a variety of things.
About a year ago, he was diagnosed with Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder and Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. The ADHD I have always suspected, but the OCD threw me for a loop. From the time he was three I would ask his doctors, childcare providers and even school teachers about his behavior, but the frequent responses were "He's a boy," and "he's acting out because his dad is deployed."
After a while, I questioned my own sanity and whether or not I was one of those parents who was determined to find something wrong with my child. Imagine the relief I felt when someone finally listened. I also felt sad for my son because he had suffered for so long without getting the support he needed.
After much agony on how to proceed with this information, his father and I decided to medicate and change his diet to gluten-free. After a series of trial and error medications, we found one that we liked because this particular one did not suppress his appetite. One of the side effects to ADHD stimulant medicine is the loss of appetite, which was not a good thing for my barely 40-lb. eight year old.
For a short while, things were good. He was doing well in school and there was little to no behavioral problems. He was not too happy with the gluten-free diet at first, but he finally adjusted without much complaint.
His diagnosis affected the entire family. It made us think a lot about what we ate, where we ate and how to incorporate these changes into our daily lives without too much disruption. It was difficult and expensive. I stocked up on coupons for gluten-free products and switched to soy milk.
At first the boy genius felt left out whenever there was a party at school and he was not allowed to eat the same treats. I learned to coordinate with his teacher ahead of time to find a gluten-free brownie or chocolate chip cookie mix to make sure he had the same as the other kids.
Just as we had this diet thing down pat, the meds started to go off kilter. His body absorbed the stimulant so quickly that it wore off within a few weeks time. The doctor kept increasing the dosage, despite my protests.
Another side effect was not being able to sleep at night. It was like having an infant in the house again. Long story short, during his many nights of being awake and wondering around the house, he would finally get hungry. I started keeping little things like crackers and cheese, granola bars and peanut butter crackers in a snack jar for him to munch on.
But unbeknownst to me, he had graduated into something much bigger like the secret stash of Girl Scout cookies I had hidden in the deep freezer for hubby and his coworkers.
The time to mail them off had come and gone by the time cookie season kicked off. Samoas and Tagalongs are hubby's favorites, so I loaded up on those with plans to hand deliver them and the kids to Hawaii myself. The kids were riding the ship back home with hubby and I stayed a few extra days for some much needed R&R. He, the kids and his coworkers could enjoy them on their way back to home port.
During my stay in Hawaii, I made the decision to take him off the meds because of the drastic changes in his behavior. I was awaiting the arrival of hubby to provide support to overrule the doctor's decision, to yet again increase the dosage even higher. There were a host of strange behaviors, which I will save for another post.
At night, long after dinner was put away and I was fast asleep, boy genius would help himself to a pack of Girl Scout cookies. One Sunday morning I woke up to the smell of Samoas on his breath, but he denied, denied, denied that he had eaten cookies for breakfast. This stretched out over a period of six weeks.
Because there was so much trading going on between myself and the other moms, I didn't notice that the stash of only the Samoas and Tags drastically disappearing. I just figured I didn't buy as much as I thought and would trade out for more.
I never suspected boy genius of eating them because he never showed an interest in the chocolate cookies. His favorite are the lemon because "No one wants the lemon cookies," he said, whenever we would make our door-to-door cookie sale rounds.
It wasn't until two days after hubby returned from deployment, with the kids in tow, that we discovered the remnants of his cookie caper - empty boxes strategically hidden under his bed. It was a wake up call for us all on just how serious the situation had gotten.
I didn't know whether to be mad that he had cleaned me out of all of the chocolate cookies and that I didn't discover it until one week after cookie season ended. There was no way to replace what he had eaten.
Or, be mad at the fact that he ate them all by his lonesome and didn't gain a pound. Had it been me, it would have certainly showed on the chart. With my luck, it would have gone off the paper and broke the computer.
For weeks, just the mention of Girl Scout cookies left me bitter and brought of memories of a difficult time in our journey with his diagnosis. Although the medicine was the catalyst for his strange behavior, we still had to teach him that there are consequences for his actions. He had to pay for the cookies that he ate; $40 bucks worth. Lucky for him it was his birthday month, so he had the money to cover his expenses.
The other day hubby and I were cleaning out the garage and an unopened box of Samoas fell from a box of items I had set aside for a garage sale. We couldn't believe what we were seeing. It was a blast from the past. The Costco cookies sitting on my counter paled in comparison to the Samoas that literally fell into my lap.
Instead of getting angry, we both laughed at the irony of it all. I had just committed myself to backing off the sweets and losing 40 lbs. and out falls a box of Samoas. If that wasn't a test of my will power, I don't know what is. I tossed it in the deep freezer and continued with the cleanup.
Being able to laugh about the Great Cookie Caper showed just how far we had come in the three short months since this all happened. Experts say laughter is great medicine during times of stress. I would agree with that assessment.
I ended this week's journey without a pound loss, but at least a pound gained in life's lessons and healing. Remember, my Journey to 40 and Fabulous is not just about losing weight, but about the mind, body and spirit. I realized I have to let go of the past in order to move forward in the future. Happy following and God Bless!
Sunday, May 29, 2011
Sunday, May 22, 2011
The Family that runs together ...
I realize I am a bit behind on my blog entries, but life has been crazy. I ended week one of my 40 and Fabulous journey with a 4-mile run that stretched across the Coronado Bay Bridge. How's that for ending on a high note? No pun intended.
Every year for the past 25 years the Morale, Welfare and Recreation Department has hosted the Coronado Bay Bridge Run. MWR provides quality of life programs for military families, such as on-base movies and activities, and access discounted tickets to local attractions.
Although the run itself was tough (only because I hadn't trained in months), the view from up top was remarkable. What's even better is that I got to share it with my family.
Last year I did this run by myself. I signed up because I needed something to keep me focused on running and staying healthy. I signed up while hubby was deployed. And while this race would be a physical no-brainer because I had already ran a half marathon, the thought of doing it alone was terrifying.
You see, when I ran the half marathon, I had a team of coaches, running mates and a mentor cheering me on to make sure I achieved my goal. They taught me the do's and don't of the sport ... how to breathe, run, stretch, and even how to pick out the proper running gear. They held my hand the entire time and I am grateful.
This time, it was all me. There was no one to hold my hand or teach me anything because I had learned what I needed to know; that I can do anything that I put my mind to do. However, I was still a little scared and lonely.
Last year I saw many families walking and running together, posing and taking pictures as they got to the top. Even though this was something that I needed to do for myself, I wished I had my family to share that moment with as I reached the top.
My comfort was that they were waiting for me at the finish line. They stood cheering me on and holding a sign that read, "Run, Mommy Run. You make us proud, love Curt, Ty and Mique." I promised to sign them all up next year. And so I did.
This year's run was a great family bonding experience despite the silent competition between hubby and myself. Neither of us wanted to be the first to give up and walk, especially as we reached the bridge. The view from up top was worth the sweat. We stopped briefly to take pictures. The opportunity to do this only happens once a year during the Bay Bridge run.
Unless someone is jumping off or there is an accident, the bridge is never closed to traffic. And certainly there is never a time to stop at the top long enough to get that million-dollar shot of the view.
Hubby and I ran at a much slower pace for the sake of the kids, who had to run/walk it. That part was bittersweet because I thought of all of the "old people" comments my son often makes. Both he and my daughter were exhausted on the walk back to the car. Even though they didn't say it, I knew they had a newfound respect for me.
Every day for the past year or so, I would put them on the school bus in the morning and set off on a 5-mile run. They would get to school and wait for me to pass by the playground so that they can give one last wave goodbye before they started their day. Running along the bridge with my husband and children showed me just how far I had come, not just as a runner, but as a person.
There was a time when running brought about the worst in me. Hubby can attest to this because my shameful behavior was at his expense. I behaved like a complete two-year old in front of his coworkers and his chief, which means "boss" in civilian language.
What's crazy is, he married me anyway. Imagine that! He knew what he was getting into and he did it anyway. He's just as stubborn as I am. The story goes as such: We were engaged to be married and with only three months to go, I found this wedding dress that I could not live without.
The problem is that wedding dresses don't exactly go by your normal dress size. It's as if they make them three sizes smaller and slap a size eight on the tag. So to further bruise my ego, I could not fit the largest size that they had in the store. I had to special order the largest size made for the dress out of a store in San Diego (This is a whole other story for another blog entry). Mind you, I was not overweight. I just wasn't a stick.
My option was to find another dress or lose weight to fit into the dress. Well, I chose the latter. Didn't I tell you I was stubborn? Again, with no plan in sight on how to do this, I was invited to run with my fiancee and his PT (physical training) crew after work.
Having never done any running outside of relay races in physical education and that dreadful basketball fiasco I told you about, I was a little scared. But I was sure I would do well. After all, I had attended track races during my time at Arizona State University. A couple of my sorority sisters were track athletes. One of them even competed in the '92 Olympics.
Let's just say that I watched enough track races and knew enough runners to become a great runner, right? In hindsight, I can only laugh at my naiveness
On the day of my first PT session, I showed up straight from the hair salon. That was mistake number one (Here we go with the hair thing again). I was looking too cute. Of all the days to run, it was windy and we were running in the middle of the Arizona desert dodging tumbleweed and rattlesnakes. The combination was a perfect setup for me to make a donkey out of myself.
I will spare you the details. Let's just say that when swearing and being outright belligerent did not work, I subccomed to throwing a tantrum. There I sat in the dirt with my hair looking like Sho' Nuff from the movie The Last Dragon, sand and dirt stuck to my face with my teardrops, refusing to take another step because there was sand in my shoe and my shinsplints were killing me. His coworkers even gave me words of encouragement.
Hubby had every right to disown me and maybe even stop the wedding. But instead, he kneeled down and picked me up. He brushed the sand off of my face, kissed me and told me that he would do whatever it takes to help me fit into the dress, as long as I never attended another PT session. I had been officially banned from any and all PT sessions, per his chief. LOL!
We spent the next three months running on our own. Even his best friends supported the cause and ran with me on the days he had duty in the firehouse. Now that's love!
I lost the weight for the wedding. In fact, the dress was a tad too big. Soon after, I quit running. I was told that running is not for everyone and I should move on to other things. At that moment, it became a bucket list entry.
Someday I will run a marathon, I told my husband. He laughed it off and said, I will run it with you - that was almost 13 years ago. I still have not run the marathon, but I am close. I have a half marathon under my belt, two 4-mile runs and hundreds of miles on my running shoes. Indeed I am close.
I used to say, "I am not a runner, but ..." I did this the entire time that I trained for the half marathon. Now, I can actually bring myself to say, "I am a runner."
Do you remember that sweet and sour thing that I referred to? That's what running is for me; sweet and sour. I did not particularly enjoy it, but I know that it's a sure way to keep the weight off and relieve the constant stress that I feel when hubby is deployed.
It helps that the scenery where I live is gorgeous. There are so many running paths. My favorite stretches along the reservoir and the Olympic Training Center. On any given day you can see the row teams training and rowing in unison. It's an amazing sight to see just like view from the top of the Coronado Bridge. I think I will make this a family tradition.
Although the journey to 40 and Fabulous has been a long and sometimes rough one, the roads taken to get there have taught me a lot. Whether it be the dusty roads of Yuma, Ariz., the rocky paths of Chula Vista or the scenic view from the top of the Coronado Bay Bridge, I know that I am not afraid to run. I am not quite 40, but achieving my goals (with God's help) certainly makes me fabulous!
Every year for the past 25 years the Morale, Welfare and Recreation Department has hosted the Coronado Bay Bridge Run. MWR provides quality of life programs for military families, such as on-base movies and activities, and access discounted tickets to local attractions.
Although the run itself was tough (only because I hadn't trained in months), the view from up top was remarkable. What's even better is that I got to share it with my family.
Last year I did this run by myself. I signed up because I needed something to keep me focused on running and staying healthy. I signed up while hubby was deployed. And while this race would be a physical no-brainer because I had already ran a half marathon, the thought of doing it alone was terrifying.
You see, when I ran the half marathon, I had a team of coaches, running mates and a mentor cheering me on to make sure I achieved my goal. They taught me the do's and don't of the sport ... how to breathe, run, stretch, and even how to pick out the proper running gear. They held my hand the entire time and I am grateful.
This time, it was all me. There was no one to hold my hand or teach me anything because I had learned what I needed to know; that I can do anything that I put my mind to do. However, I was still a little scared and lonely.
Last year I saw many families walking and running together, posing and taking pictures as they got to the top. Even though this was something that I needed to do for myself, I wished I had my family to share that moment with as I reached the top.
My comfort was that they were waiting for me at the finish line. They stood cheering me on and holding a sign that read, "Run, Mommy Run. You make us proud, love Curt, Ty and Mique." I promised to sign them all up next year. And so I did.
This year's run was a great family bonding experience despite the silent competition between hubby and myself. Neither of us wanted to be the first to give up and walk, especially as we reached the bridge. The view from up top was worth the sweat. We stopped briefly to take pictures. The opportunity to do this only happens once a year during the Bay Bridge run.
Unless someone is jumping off or there is an accident, the bridge is never closed to traffic. And certainly there is never a time to stop at the top long enough to get that million-dollar shot of the view.
Hubby and I ran at a much slower pace for the sake of the kids, who had to run/walk it. That part was bittersweet because I thought of all of the "old people" comments my son often makes. Both he and my daughter were exhausted on the walk back to the car. Even though they didn't say it, I knew they had a newfound respect for me.
Every day for the past year or so, I would put them on the school bus in the morning and set off on a 5-mile run. They would get to school and wait for me to pass by the playground so that they can give one last wave goodbye before they started their day. Running along the bridge with my husband and children showed me just how far I had come, not just as a runner, but as a person.
There was a time when running brought about the worst in me. Hubby can attest to this because my shameful behavior was at his expense. I behaved like a complete two-year old in front of his coworkers and his chief, which means "boss" in civilian language.
What's crazy is, he married me anyway. Imagine that! He knew what he was getting into and he did it anyway. He's just as stubborn as I am. The story goes as such: We were engaged to be married and with only three months to go, I found this wedding dress that I could not live without.
The problem is that wedding dresses don't exactly go by your normal dress size. It's as if they make them three sizes smaller and slap a size eight on the tag. So to further bruise my ego, I could not fit the largest size that they had in the store. I had to special order the largest size made for the dress out of a store in San Diego (This is a whole other story for another blog entry). Mind you, I was not overweight. I just wasn't a stick.
My option was to find another dress or lose weight to fit into the dress. Well, I chose the latter. Didn't I tell you I was stubborn? Again, with no plan in sight on how to do this, I was invited to run with my fiancee and his PT (physical training) crew after work.
Having never done any running outside of relay races in physical education and that dreadful basketball fiasco I told you about, I was a little scared. But I was sure I would do well. After all, I had attended track races during my time at Arizona State University. A couple of my sorority sisters were track athletes. One of them even competed in the '92 Olympics.
Let's just say that I watched enough track races and knew enough runners to become a great runner, right? In hindsight, I can only laugh at my naiveness
On the day of my first PT session, I showed up straight from the hair salon. That was mistake number one (Here we go with the hair thing again). I was looking too cute. Of all the days to run, it was windy and we were running in the middle of the Arizona desert dodging tumbleweed and rattlesnakes. The combination was a perfect setup for me to make a donkey out of myself.
I will spare you the details. Let's just say that when swearing and being outright belligerent did not work, I subccomed to throwing a tantrum. There I sat in the dirt with my hair looking like Sho' Nuff from the movie The Last Dragon, sand and dirt stuck to my face with my teardrops, refusing to take another step because there was sand in my shoe and my shinsplints were killing me. His coworkers even gave me words of encouragement.
Hubby had every right to disown me and maybe even stop the wedding. But instead, he kneeled down and picked me up. He brushed the sand off of my face, kissed me and told me that he would do whatever it takes to help me fit into the dress, as long as I never attended another PT session. I had been officially banned from any and all PT sessions, per his chief. LOL!
We spent the next three months running on our own. Even his best friends supported the cause and ran with me on the days he had duty in the firehouse. Now that's love!
I lost the weight for the wedding. In fact, the dress was a tad too big. Soon after, I quit running. I was told that running is not for everyone and I should move on to other things. At that moment, it became a bucket list entry.
Someday I will run a marathon, I told my husband. He laughed it off and said, I will run it with you - that was almost 13 years ago. I still have not run the marathon, but I am close. I have a half marathon under my belt, two 4-mile runs and hundreds of miles on my running shoes. Indeed I am close.
I used to say, "I am not a runner, but ..." I did this the entire time that I trained for the half marathon. Now, I can actually bring myself to say, "I am a runner."
Do you remember that sweet and sour thing that I referred to? That's what running is for me; sweet and sour. I did not particularly enjoy it, but I know that it's a sure way to keep the weight off and relieve the constant stress that I feel when hubby is deployed.
It helps that the scenery where I live is gorgeous. There are so many running paths. My favorite stretches along the reservoir and the Olympic Training Center. On any given day you can see the row teams training and rowing in unison. It's an amazing sight to see just like view from the top of the Coronado Bridge. I think I will make this a family tradition.
Although the journey to 40 and Fabulous has been a long and sometimes rough one, the roads taken to get there have taught me a lot. Whether it be the dusty roads of Yuma, Ariz., the rocky paths of Chula Vista or the scenic view from the top of the Coronado Bay Bridge, I know that I am not afraid to run. I am not quite 40, but achieving my goals (with God's help) certainly makes me fabulous!
Friday, May 13, 2011
Boot Camp Baby!!
So it's day three and I am still on my 40 and Fab high, but I was starting to doubt the course in which I would get there. After reading the outpour of emails from supporting friends, the general consensus was that I needed to challenge myself and the usual suspects of cardio would not do. I needed something hardcore like cross fit.
As with any one-income family that lives on a budget, financing such a program can be problematic. Even if I cancelled our gym membership to the Y, we could not afford such a luxury. I was all set to give up, but God had my back.
Oh yeah! You heard me. I said, "FREE!" Anyone who knows me, know that my favorite words are "free," and "I have a coupon for that ..."
But after several scheduling conflicts with the kids' activities, I flaked on her and never made it. She told me I could come out whenever I was ready. Didn't I tell you God had my back?
As faith would have it, she meant what she said. Hubby and I arrived for our first session ready to burn some calories, but my enthusiasm sank with each step that I took towards the bootcampers. As we surveyed our teammates silently, I knew he was thinking what I was thinking. There was not a chunky person in the group. They were all thin and looked quite fit. But I guess that was to be expected if they were on-going boot campers. I'm not really sure what I expected.
Aside from the group leader, no one had bulging muscles or anything, but they looked confident in what they were about to do. What's worse is they were welcoming and supportive.
Angel was as nice as can be and so were her teammates. They all introduced themselves and kept reiterating to "go at my own pace or stop if I need to." I couldn't even use the excuse that they were a bunch of "skinny snobs" as a reason for not coming back after we embarrassed ourselves.
Nope, I just had to keep silently reciting my mantra "40 and fat, err, I mean, 40 and fabulous." We started with a quick warm-up lap around the track. Now you're talking, I thought. Easy breezy. This is my weapon of choice and I am the BOMB!!!!!
It's funny how we can be humbled when we start to get cocky. The run quickly turned into one of my least favorite exercises, "suicides."
Suicides requires a lot of running, except you pinpoint a specific number of spots on the floor, say point A to point B and so on. You run from point A to point B, then back to A.
Then you run from point A to point C, then back to A - that is one full set. You do however many sets the person in charge requires of you or until you pass out (JK).
Our instructor, who was as calm as they come, but yet, motivating, kept telling us, “stop if you need to or lose your breath.” All I could think is “does the same go for if we lose our lunch.”
I can see where this little ditty got its name. You'd have to be on the verge committing such an act if you are trying this out just for kicks.
Just hearing the name of the exercise brought me back to my freshman year of high school when I attempted to try out for girls basketball. I was a bit of a Tomboy and played every sport that you could think of with the neighborhood boys.
Not only did I play kickball, baseball and basketball, I even played many rounds of kick butt basketball, which was sort of like playing horse except the loser got kicked in the butt by all of the players, as many times as there were letters in the word kick butt.
Stubborn and stupid, I'd show up everyday to my neighbor’s backyard determined to win and show the village idiots that girls can do anything boys can do. I never got to ask the question “whose the idiot now?” But I certainly earned the respect of the boys in the neighborhood.
Needless to say, I became very good at basketball and making the team would have been a no brainer for me had they not required us to do suicides. I quit after the first day and never looked back.
Imagine my reaction when I heard the boot camp instructor say we were going to start off with suicides. "Surely God was trying to tell me something - or maybe he just has a great sense of humor."
Here was my chance walk the talk on my journey to 40 and Fabulous -- and redeem my quitting self from years past.
Did I mention that my aunt was the basketball coach? If only she could see me now. I made it through three sets of suicides before jumping into a whole host of other “just-kill-me now” calisthenics.
It was what I like to call sweet and sour. It was sweet to know that I was well on my way to being 40 and Fab because I was challenging myself to do something I never thought I could do. As for the sour - it needs no explanation.
You will be happy to know that I survived my first boot camp workout. I only had to stop once or twice to catch my breath. I didn’t even embarrass my 9-year-old son anytime I finished last in an exercise.
As with any one-income family that lives on a budget, financing such a program can be problematic. Even if I cancelled our gym membership to the Y, we could not afford such a luxury. I was all set to give up, but God had my back.
"I remembered meeting a friend of a friend about four months ago - let's call her Angel because that what she was to me - who invited me to join an informal boot camp."
I met Angel through a play date at the park during the school's winter break. She heard me talk about being bored with my same old running regime and invited me to try it out. The group met three times a week at various parks in my neighborhood. The best part was that it was free.
Oh yeah! You heard me. I said, "FREE!" Anyone who knows me, know that my favorite words are "free," and "I have a coupon for that ..."
But after several scheduling conflicts with the kids' activities, I flaked on her and never made it. She told me I could come out whenever I was ready. Didn't I tell you God had my back?
As faith would have it, she meant what she said. Hubby and I arrived for our first session ready to burn some calories, but my enthusiasm sank with each step that I took towards the bootcampers. As we surveyed our teammates silently, I knew he was thinking what I was thinking. There was not a chunky person in the group. They were all thin and looked quite fit. But I guess that was to be expected if they were on-going boot campers. I'm not really sure what I expected.
Aside from the group leader, no one had bulging muscles or anything, but they looked confident in what they were about to do. What's worse is they were welcoming and supportive.
Angel was as nice as can be and so were her teammates. They all introduced themselves and kept reiterating to "go at my own pace or stop if I need to." I couldn't even use the excuse that they were a bunch of "skinny snobs" as a reason for not coming back after we embarrassed ourselves.
Nope, I just had to keep silently reciting my mantra "40 and fat, err, I mean, 40 and fabulous." We started with a quick warm-up lap around the track. Now you're talking, I thought. Easy breezy. This is my weapon of choice and I am the BOMB!!!!!
It's funny how we can be humbled when we start to get cocky. The run quickly turned into one of my least favorite exercises, "suicides."
Suicides requires a lot of running, except you pinpoint a specific number of spots on the floor, say point A to point B and so on. You run from point A to point B, then back to A.
Then you run from point A to point C, then back to A - that is one full set. You do however many sets the person in charge requires of you or until you pass out (JK).
Our instructor, who was as calm as they come, but yet, motivating, kept telling us, “stop if you need to or lose your breath.” All I could think is “does the same go for if we lose our lunch.”
I can see where this little ditty got its name. You'd have to be on the verge committing such an act if you are trying this out just for kicks.
Just hearing the name of the exercise brought me back to my freshman year of high school when I attempted to try out for girls basketball. I was a bit of a Tomboy and played every sport that you could think of with the neighborhood boys.
Not only did I play kickball, baseball and basketball, I even played many rounds of kick butt basketball, which was sort of like playing horse except the loser got kicked in the butt by all of the players, as many times as there were letters in the word kick butt.
"I can recall my neighbor Charlie drawing his leg back all the way back to what seemed like downtown to kick me."
Stubborn and stupid, I'd show up everyday to my neighbor’s backyard determined to win and show the village idiots that girls can do anything boys can do. I never got to ask the question “whose the idiot now?” But I certainly earned the respect of the boys in the neighborhood.
Needless to say, I became very good at basketball and making the team would have been a no brainer for me had they not required us to do suicides. I quit after the first day and never looked back.
Imagine my reaction when I heard the boot camp instructor say we were going to start off with suicides. "Surely God was trying to tell me something - or maybe he just has a great sense of humor."
Here was my chance walk the talk on my journey to 40 and Fabulous -- and redeem my quitting self from years past.
Did I mention that my aunt was the basketball coach? If only she could see me now. I made it through three sets of suicides before jumping into a whole host of other “just-kill-me now” calisthenics.
It was what I like to call sweet and sour. It was sweet to know that I was well on my way to being 40 and Fab because I was challenging myself to do something I never thought I could do. As for the sour - it needs no explanation.
You will be happy to know that I survived my first boot camp workout. I only had to stop once or twice to catch my breath. I didn’t even embarrass my 9-year-old son anytime I finished last in an exercise.
Winter of Wine
This blog for your mental health and child rearing, just in case you don’t get what this post is about by the second paragraph. I want to back up a few months to help you see how I arrived at my 40 and Fabulous-mind-body-and-spirit mantra.
We were on our fifth deployment in five years and our second consecutive Christmas without hubby. Given the information, there's no question my patience with both children had been running low. I was struggling with a weight-loss program through my doctor’s office and recalled hearing her say, “A glass of red wine a night is good for you.”
So I bought myself a bottle of red wine. It was nothing fancy. It was the $2 buck chuck from Trader Joe’s. Red wine is an acquired taste in my social gathering because most of my friends go for the sweet and fruity wine. This stuff was dry and bitter, but I liked the way it warmed my throat. It definitely had its benefits, like a calming effect to keep me from making verbal threats to the little people that live in my house and try to take over my mind; or worse, make me lose it.
I took up the habit of drinking a glass of red wine as a way to relax and unwind. But, soon I noticed a pattern. It was always followed by a stressful day of helping Tyler with his homework. The average homework workload could be completed in 40 minutes to an hour’s time, but that’s not the case with my son, who was diagnosed with Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder and Obsessive Compulsive Disorder.
ADHD, which basically means not only does he struggle to sit still for long periods of time, he also has trouble keeping his focus. OCD needs no explanation. Does this make my kid some sort of freak? No way!
We all have some sort of disorder. Some people are clean freaks and others obsess about washing their hands. As long as it does not stop the flow of their daily activities, it’s normal. At least, that’s how it was explained to me by a medical professional.
Raising children is challenging. But raising a boy is challenging in a much different way than girls. Trust me! I should know. I have one of each. Believe me, it’s no picnic to deal with those challenges when you mix the two disorders with an intelligent eight-year-old, who has a mind like a 40 year old; minus one spouse who is out on a six-month deployment. It truly wears on your patience. Hence the reason God made wine.
A glass of red wine after a loss of patience with my boy genius seemed quite fitting. Frankly, there are not enough bottles of wine to keep me calm and relaxed for all of the antics my son comes up with. One of which occurred at Christmas and this time I had witnesses.
If it had not been for the presence of my mom and my stepson, who witnessed firsthand what I have been dealing with, no one would ever believe the stories. I am sure they both thought I had exaggerated a bit or was being over dramatic.
After only a week’s stay, I am convinced my mom was starting to worry about my “like clock-work” nightly glass of wine.
Although Ty’s outbursts of inappropriate, but funny comments were nothing out of the ordinary, I am sure mom was thinking I had turned into an alcoholic - and for no good reason!
My mom is from the old school and did not spare the rod on me, so I am sure she was thinking “Give the boy a spanking and call it a day.” I could see the worry on her face as I would pour a glass (just one) each night, per my doctor’s orders.
Surprisingly, I wasn’t at all concerned with what she thought. I was thinking, "Wait for it. Wait for it." Then it finally happened.
The other shoe dropped and the “real Slim Shady” stood up (those of you who’ll admit to listening to the Rapper Emenim will get that pun).
It was Christmas Eve and we were having a terrific family day. The kids and mom were playing the Wii as I prepared dinner. We collectively decided to celebrate a day early so that we could lay around on Christmas day eating leftovers and enjoying each other’s company.
We were getting ready to set the dinner table when the boy genius started complaining about having to turn off the Wii and help out.
Instead of ordering him to do what I asked, I used my top-notch parenting skill that I picked up from various sources, and redirected him. I sent him upstairs to wash his hands. It sounded easy enough and should only take a minute. Heck, I’ll even throw in an extra two.
Hooray! I was shocked when he came downstairs in less than five minutes. Usually, a simple task such as that would warrant 15 minutes easily because he’d get sidetracked by something in his room or the bathroom.
But no, he was back in no time. He quietly sat at the table. His facial expression looked like the cat who killed the canary and knew that he’d be next once I found out what he had done.
I asked him, “What was wrong?” He put his head down to avoid eye contact. That’s when I saw it. It was a tiny drop of blood oozing from his head and three huge patches of missing hair.
He had gotten into his brother’s razor and tried to do some personal grooming. It looked as if he tried to make one clean cut on the right side from front to back, but he skidded along the way and left some patches.
I guess he gave up and tried again from another angle, taking off more hair on the front left side of his head. That didn’t go as smooth as he would have liked, so he decided to try his right eyebrow.
I screamed at him, “What did you do to yourself?”
He tried to pull one of his Jedi mind tricks and deny what I was seeing, but thought better of it. He knew there was no getting out of this one. Instead, he said nothing.
My oldest son Curtis III, who was just about to sit down on the other side of the table, leaped up from his chair and came around to the boy genius’s side of the table. He closely inspected the handy work and repeated my sentiments.
He ran upstairs and returned a few seconds later with the razor he had used earlier that day to shave.
Did you use my razor?” he yelled.
C3 didn’t even wait for a reply. “It still has your skin in it,” he shouted. His hands were shaking as he held the razor up to inspect it.
My mom and daughter sat quietly. I guess they were in shock at what he had done. Then, my mother joined in on the chaos, asking the same questions, but losing her calmness with each unanswered question. “What did you do? Why did you do this? What were you thinking?”
Pretty soon everyone was yelling and trying to understand what had just happened? The whole scene was tragic. Okay, so now I am being over dramatic. But in our minds, it was a tragedy. He shaved off his hair and there was no way to fix the damage.
C3 just kept yelling at him. He was just as upset as I was. I could tell that he felt guilty because it was his razor that aided and abetted his brother in his curiosity.
I don’t think he was trying to physically harm himself. Maybe he was just curious about how it worked? I am sure that’s how all the scientists and engineers got their start - trial and error.
Then I felt guilty about not doing more boy-related things. Instead of teaching him to catch a football, I took him along with me to the nail spa, exposing him to eyebrow waxing and mani-pedis. Where else would he get such a notion to shave off his hair and eyebrows?
As mom and C3 continued to grill him about shaving off his hair, I quietly walked away to compose myself. I locked myself in the downstairs bathroom and counted to 20 before coming out. I think I even said a little prayer to God.
As I re-entered the room, silence filled the air. They stood around the table watching and waiting for my next move. I said nothing. I walked past boy genius who sat quietly with his head down waiting to be punished.
I stopped at the curio cabinet to grab a wine glass. I headed towards the kitchen to get my bottle of wine. I poured myself a glass. Drank it down whole, then poured another before taking my seat at the table with the bottle still in tow. Okay, so I broke my one-glass a night rule.
The mood was tense as they waited for me to inflict my punishment onto the boy genius. But as the wine settled into my system, clearer thoughts prevailed. I realized how fast his hair grew. It will be punishment enough when he has to go out in public looking like a landing strip for airplanes.
In that moment, I couldn’t help but laugh. It kind of reminded me of the patches of land that you see from out the window of an airplane. The view looks like patchwork from a quilt. "Patches" was all that I could manage to get out between the laughter.
At that moment, everyone started to laugh … not so much at the boy, but the situation. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve heard a friend say that her daughter decided to cut her bangs. Or that their kid fell asleep with gum in his mouth and tried to cut it out after it got stuck in the hair. There comes a time in every parent's life when they have a hair cutting story or two to share.
Now I can add myself to the list of those who have gone before me. To be honest, I have to say that I may not have recovered as quickly had it been my daughter.
Truthfully, the moment of clarity came when I went into the bathroom for that few seconds to hide my tears. Okay, it was divine intervention because only the act of God, not the wine, could have stopped me from doing the opposite of what I wanted to do prior to entering the bathroom.
Now, fast forward several months and you get the story of my own hair gaff, which was the catalyst for my 40 and Fabulous mantra. Imagine what my son would have thought had I punished him for accidentally cutting his hair and then the same to my own?
He could have reminded me of the Christmas Chaos. Instead, he was the first to support my new change. This has me thinking ... Maybe my metamorphosis of change had nothing to do with my hair.
From the time Ty was five, he has bugged me for a Mohawk and Blue hair. I have begrudgingly given in to his wants, but with stipulations: Not at the same time and "It better be Halloween or crazy hair day at school!"
Maybe he was going through his own changes and fighting his own mental and physical battle with his disorders. At his age, he certainly couldn’t know what they were or how to describe them. But he knew he was different. Maybe this was his way of dealing with his feelings.
Despite the traumatic effect his initial unveiling had on us all, we made light of the situation and decided that we would call him patches until his hair grew back.
By the following week, his landing strips were no longer patches of hair. It had grown back. No one aside from the five of us ever got to see his fancy patchwork up close and personal.
He was not too happy about his new name, but I felt it was truly a fitting punishment for his crime. I know what you are thinking, it certainly isn’t a mature way for a parent to handle such a matter? Probably not, but let’s face it, most of us are just winging it anyway.
Being a parent is one of the toughest jobs in the world and there’s not one book in my many collections on parenting that include a step-by-step manual for raising my child. There are many for raising children with similar characteristics, but the buck stops there.
I have manuals for every little thing I have ever purchased stored in my garage just in case it ever breaks or I forget how to work something. I can refer to it as often as I like. And if I happened to accidentally throw one away, I could look it up online to get the information I need. But there is no manual on how to parent the boy genius.
He is something kind of special. And I mean this in a good way. My problem is, how do you parent someone who is so tiny and dependent upon me for the basic necessities of life, and yet, has the knowledge of an old man who humbles your soul?
Like I said, he’s something kind of special. So while it seems that for the moment no such manual exists, I will wait patiently. I will take detailed notes of everything the boy genius does so that when help does arrive, surely someone will know what to do.
Until then, I will drink wine - twice weekly or as often as needed.
We were on our fifth deployment in five years and our second consecutive Christmas without hubby. Given the information, there's no question my patience with both children had been running low. I was struggling with a weight-loss program through my doctor’s office and recalled hearing her say, “A glass of red wine a night is good for you.”
So I bought myself a bottle of red wine. It was nothing fancy. It was the $2 buck chuck from Trader Joe’s. Red wine is an acquired taste in my social gathering because most of my friends go for the sweet and fruity wine. This stuff was dry and bitter, but I liked the way it warmed my throat. It definitely had its benefits, like a calming effect to keep me from making verbal threats to the little people that live in my house and try to take over my mind; or worse, make me lose it.
I took up the habit of drinking a glass of red wine as a way to relax and unwind. But, soon I noticed a pattern. It was always followed by a stressful day of helping Tyler with his homework. The average homework workload could be completed in 40 minutes to an hour’s time, but that’s not the case with my son, who was diagnosed with Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder and Obsessive Compulsive Disorder.
ADHD, which basically means not only does he struggle to sit still for long periods of time, he also has trouble keeping his focus. OCD needs no explanation. Does this make my kid some sort of freak? No way!
We all have some sort of disorder. Some people are clean freaks and others obsess about washing their hands. As long as it does not stop the flow of their daily activities, it’s normal. At least, that’s how it was explained to me by a medical professional.
Raising children is challenging. But raising a boy is challenging in a much different way than girls. Trust me! I should know. I have one of each. Believe me, it’s no picnic to deal with those challenges when you mix the two disorders with an intelligent eight-year-old, who has a mind like a 40 year old; minus one spouse who is out on a six-month deployment. It truly wears on your patience. Hence the reason God made wine.
A glass of red wine after a loss of patience with my boy genius seemed quite fitting. Frankly, there are not enough bottles of wine to keep me calm and relaxed for all of the antics my son comes up with. One of which occurred at Christmas and this time I had witnesses.
If it had not been for the presence of my mom and my stepson, who witnessed firsthand what I have been dealing with, no one would ever believe the stories. I am sure they both thought I had exaggerated a bit or was being over dramatic.
After only a week’s stay, I am convinced my mom was starting to worry about my “like clock-work” nightly glass of wine.
Although Ty’s outbursts of inappropriate, but funny comments were nothing out of the ordinary, I am sure mom was thinking I had turned into an alcoholic - and for no good reason!
My mom is from the old school and did not spare the rod on me, so I am sure she was thinking “Give the boy a spanking and call it a day.” I could see the worry on her face as I would pour a glass (just one) each night, per my doctor’s orders.
Surprisingly, I wasn’t at all concerned with what she thought. I was thinking, "Wait for it. Wait for it." Then it finally happened.
The other shoe dropped and the “real Slim Shady” stood up (those of you who’ll admit to listening to the Rapper Emenim will get that pun).
It was Christmas Eve and we were having a terrific family day. The kids and mom were playing the Wii as I prepared dinner. We collectively decided to celebrate a day early so that we could lay around on Christmas day eating leftovers and enjoying each other’s company.
We were getting ready to set the dinner table when the boy genius started complaining about having to turn off the Wii and help out.
Instead of ordering him to do what I asked, I used my top-notch parenting skill that I picked up from various sources, and redirected him. I sent him upstairs to wash his hands. It sounded easy enough and should only take a minute. Heck, I’ll even throw in an extra two.
Hooray! I was shocked when he came downstairs in less than five minutes. Usually, a simple task such as that would warrant 15 minutes easily because he’d get sidetracked by something in his room or the bathroom.
But no, he was back in no time. He quietly sat at the table. His facial expression looked like the cat who killed the canary and knew that he’d be next once I found out what he had done.
I asked him, “What was wrong?” He put his head down to avoid eye contact. That’s when I saw it. It was a tiny drop of blood oozing from his head and three huge patches of missing hair.
He had gotten into his brother’s razor and tried to do some personal grooming. It looked as if he tried to make one clean cut on the right side from front to back, but he skidded along the way and left some patches.
I guess he gave up and tried again from another angle, taking off more hair on the front left side of his head. That didn’t go as smooth as he would have liked, so he decided to try his right eyebrow.
I screamed at him, “What did you do to yourself?”
He tried to pull one of his Jedi mind tricks and deny what I was seeing, but thought better of it. He knew there was no getting out of this one. Instead, he said nothing.
My oldest son Curtis III, who was just about to sit down on the other side of the table, leaped up from his chair and came around to the boy genius’s side of the table. He closely inspected the handy work and repeated my sentiments.
He ran upstairs and returned a few seconds later with the razor he had used earlier that day to shave.
Did you use my razor?” he yelled.
C3 didn’t even wait for a reply. “It still has your skin in it,” he shouted. His hands were shaking as he held the razor up to inspect it.
My mom and daughter sat quietly. I guess they were in shock at what he had done. Then, my mother joined in on the chaos, asking the same questions, but losing her calmness with each unanswered question. “What did you do? Why did you do this? What were you thinking?”
Pretty soon everyone was yelling and trying to understand what had just happened? The whole scene was tragic. Okay, so now I am being over dramatic. But in our minds, it was a tragedy. He shaved off his hair and there was no way to fix the damage.
C3 just kept yelling at him. He was just as upset as I was. I could tell that he felt guilty because it was his razor that aided and abetted his brother in his curiosity.
I don’t think he was trying to physically harm himself. Maybe he was just curious about how it worked? I am sure that’s how all the scientists and engineers got their start - trial and error.
Then I felt guilty about not doing more boy-related things. Instead of teaching him to catch a football, I took him along with me to the nail spa, exposing him to eyebrow waxing and mani-pedis. Where else would he get such a notion to shave off his hair and eyebrows?
As mom and C3 continued to grill him about shaving off his hair, I quietly walked away to compose myself. I locked myself in the downstairs bathroom and counted to 20 before coming out. I think I even said a little prayer to God.
As I re-entered the room, silence filled the air. They stood around the table watching and waiting for my next move. I said nothing. I walked past boy genius who sat quietly with his head down waiting to be punished.
I stopped at the curio cabinet to grab a wine glass. I headed towards the kitchen to get my bottle of wine. I poured myself a glass. Drank it down whole, then poured another before taking my seat at the table with the bottle still in tow. Okay, so I broke my one-glass a night rule.
The mood was tense as they waited for me to inflict my punishment onto the boy genius. But as the wine settled into my system, clearer thoughts prevailed. I realized how fast his hair grew. It will be punishment enough when he has to go out in public looking like a landing strip for airplanes.
In that moment, I couldn’t help but laugh. It kind of reminded me of the patches of land that you see from out the window of an airplane. The view looks like patchwork from a quilt. "Patches" was all that I could manage to get out between the laughter.
At that moment, everyone started to laugh … not so much at the boy, but the situation. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve heard a friend say that her daughter decided to cut her bangs. Or that their kid fell asleep with gum in his mouth and tried to cut it out after it got stuck in the hair. There comes a time in every parent's life when they have a hair cutting story or two to share.
Now I can add myself to the list of those who have gone before me. To be honest, I have to say that I may not have recovered as quickly had it been my daughter.
Truthfully, the moment of clarity came when I went into the bathroom for that few seconds to hide my tears. Okay, it was divine intervention because only the act of God, not the wine, could have stopped me from doing the opposite of what I wanted to do prior to entering the bathroom.
Now, fast forward several months and you get the story of my own hair gaff, which was the catalyst for my 40 and Fabulous mantra. Imagine what my son would have thought had I punished him for accidentally cutting his hair and then the same to my own?
He could have reminded me of the Christmas Chaos. Instead, he was the first to support my new change. This has me thinking ... Maybe my metamorphosis of change had nothing to do with my hair.
From the time Ty was five, he has bugged me for a Mohawk and Blue hair. I have begrudgingly given in to his wants, but with stipulations: Not at the same time and "It better be Halloween or crazy hair day at school!"
Maybe he was going through his own changes and fighting his own mental and physical battle with his disorders. At his age, he certainly couldn’t know what they were or how to describe them. But he knew he was different. Maybe this was his way of dealing with his feelings.
Despite the traumatic effect his initial unveiling had on us all, we made light of the situation and decided that we would call him patches until his hair grew back.
By the following week, his landing strips were no longer patches of hair. It had grown back. No one aside from the five of us ever got to see his fancy patchwork up close and personal.
He was not too happy about his new name, but I felt it was truly a fitting punishment for his crime. I know what you are thinking, it certainly isn’t a mature way for a parent to handle such a matter? Probably not, but let’s face it, most of us are just winging it anyway.
Being a parent is one of the toughest jobs in the world and there’s not one book in my many collections on parenting that include a step-by-step manual for raising my child. There are many for raising children with similar characteristics, but the buck stops there.
I have manuals for every little thing I have ever purchased stored in my garage just in case it ever breaks or I forget how to work something. I can refer to it as often as I like. And if I happened to accidentally throw one away, I could look it up online to get the information I need. But there is no manual on how to parent the boy genius.
He is something kind of special. And I mean this in a good way. My problem is, how do you parent someone who is so tiny and dependent upon me for the basic necessities of life, and yet, has the knowledge of an old man who humbles your soul?
Like I said, he’s something kind of special. So while it seems that for the moment no such manual exists, I will wait patiently. I will take detailed notes of everything the boy genius does so that when help does arrive, surely someone will know what to do.
Until then, I will drink wine - twice weekly or as often as needed.
(Disclaimer: While the events in this story are true, no abuse of alcohol occurred. )
Tuesday, May 10, 2011
Day 1 of 40 and Fab
The Morning After
It’s day one of my 40 and Fabulous journey and I woke up feeling a sense of emotional exhaustion. The panic for what I had done 24 hours earlier set in. “Why on earth did I do that?” I thought as I crawled out of bed to wake up my munchkins.
I am exhausted but I can’t even get back into bed because yesterday I was on some sort of high that provoked me to confess to the world, well, a bunch of people that I am going to lose weight, and I am going to do it by the end of the year.
I even preempted the declaration with this embarrassing story of how I came to this insane decision to put my mind, body and spirit through hell.
What was I thinking? I didn’t even have a plan on how I was going do it. I just made the plan all willy nilly like I was some sort of Jedi Knight. “Nicole, you will lose 40 lbs by Dec. 29th” in my best James Earl Jones voice.
What’s even worse, people actually responded. I got this amazing outpouring of support from my friends saying that they too were in a rut and that I had inspired them to jump on the 40 and Fab bandwagon. I even had a friend call me to ask what is my game plan because she and her husband had been motivated to get their “sexy back.”
Now I’ve gone and done it! I’ve got all of my friends encouraging and supporting me on one of the toughest journeys in my life, and it’s on public blast for all to see. This is certainly not like when I signed up to run that half marathon and sent out letters to everyone asking for their support. It didn’t even matter if I actually ran the whole way; who was going to knock me for raising money for cancer research?
People are actually going to be following my progress and holding me accountable. Some friends have even proclaimed me as their leader. What’s my goal again? Oh, wait! To win, by losing.
Well, what’s done is done now. There’s no turning back. I guess I could run or maybe hit a Zumba class today. But it’s raining outside. It don’t want to catch a cold. If I catch a cold, I will be laid up a couple of days and that will delay my program. I certainly don’t want that to happen.
That settles it! I will do Zumba in the morning and then go for a brisk walk or short run in the evening with the family
I am in the zone now. I pulled out my old weight-loss management program from my doctor and did what I needed to do. I had a cup of peach yogurt and a small red apple. This is so easy, I thought. Now on to Zumba.
The Daily Wrap Up
Zumba kicked my butt. I truly thought I was going to throw up. It must have been all of the salt and pepper chicken wings from Mandarin that I ate for dinner last night as part of my last hoorah.
Let’s be clear. This is not going to be a diet! It’s about making better choices. It’s a lifestyle change and I will not deprive myself.
Who am I kidding? If it was as easy as it sounds, I wouldn’t be in this predicament. So for now, I will say goodbye to the oh so yummy salt and pepper wings.
I am proud to say that I survived day one of my journey and I have all of you to thank. Not one of you hesitated to throw your support my way. You'll be happy to know that I ended my day not with a brisk walk, but an hour-long session of playing Just Dance 2 on the Wii.
As far as I am concerned, it was a win/win. I spent quality time with the family and I burned calories.
It’s day one of my 40 and Fabulous journey and I woke up feeling a sense of emotional exhaustion. The panic for what I had done 24 hours earlier set in. “Why on earth did I do that?” I thought as I crawled out of bed to wake up my munchkins.
I am exhausted but I can’t even get back into bed because yesterday I was on some sort of high that provoked me to confess to the world, well, a bunch of people that I am going to lose weight, and I am going to do it by the end of the year.
I even preempted the declaration with this embarrassing story of how I came to this insane decision to put my mind, body and spirit through hell.
What was I thinking? I didn’t even have a plan on how I was going do it. I just made the plan all willy nilly like I was some sort of Jedi Knight. “Nicole, you will lose 40 lbs by Dec. 29th” in my best James Earl Jones voice.
What’s even worse, people actually responded. I got this amazing outpouring of support from my friends saying that they too were in a rut and that I had inspired them to jump on the 40 and Fab bandwagon. I even had a friend call me to ask what is my game plan because she and her husband had been motivated to get their “sexy back.”
Now I’ve gone and done it! I’ve got all of my friends encouraging and supporting me on one of the toughest journeys in my life, and it’s on public blast for all to see. This is certainly not like when I signed up to run that half marathon and sent out letters to everyone asking for their support. It didn’t even matter if I actually ran the whole way; who was going to knock me for raising money for cancer research?
People are actually going to be following my progress and holding me accountable. Some friends have even proclaimed me as their leader. What’s my goal again? Oh, wait! To win, by losing.
Well, what’s done is done now. There’s no turning back. I guess I could run or maybe hit a Zumba class today. But it’s raining outside. It don’t want to catch a cold. If I catch a cold, I will be laid up a couple of days and that will delay my program. I certainly don’t want that to happen.
That settles it! I will do Zumba in the morning and then go for a brisk walk or short run in the evening with the family
I am in the zone now. I pulled out my old weight-loss management program from my doctor and did what I needed to do. I had a cup of peach yogurt and a small red apple. This is so easy, I thought. Now on to Zumba.
The Daily Wrap Up
Zumba kicked my butt. I truly thought I was going to throw up. It must have been all of the salt and pepper chicken wings from Mandarin that I ate for dinner last night as part of my last hoorah.
Let’s be clear. This is not going to be a diet! It’s about making better choices. It’s a lifestyle change and I will not deprive myself.
Who am I kidding? If it was as easy as it sounds, I wouldn’t be in this predicament. So for now, I will say goodbye to the oh so yummy salt and pepper wings.
I am proud to say that I survived day one of my journey and I have all of you to thank. Not one of you hesitated to throw your support my way. You'll be happy to know that I ended my day not with a brisk walk, but an hour-long session of playing Just Dance 2 on the Wii.
As far as I am concerned, it was a win/win. I spent quality time with the family and I burned calories.
The Letter
Okay ladies,
if you are receiving this extremely long letter from me today, it means you are part of my core group of friends and I am soliciting your support, and or, participation in joining me on my new adventure - 40 and Fabulous.
Whether or not you have known me for many years or just a few, you know that there is never a dull moment in my life and there is always something crazy happening.
The latest wacky incident was my desire to do something different with my hair to surprise my hubby for his deployment homecoming. The kids and I were flying to Hawaii to meet his ship. He has always loved my hair long and I have certainly tried to hang on to it to please him.
But the truth of the matter is, I really could care less about having long hair. It's a nuisance when you are in a hurry to get somewhere but have to look your best. Don’t get me wrong, I want to look good, but with the least amount of effort.
Long-story short, I paid lots of money to my stylist to sew in a hair weave to my hair so that I could surprise my hubby for his homecoming.
Oh yea, a new look, a new setting and some new shoes. It sounded like a good idea at the time. The problem is it didn’t quite turn out like I wanted. Instead of a long and sexy natural look, it was more like a mop sitting on top of my head.
I even had my stylist fix it twice, but it still looked moppy. I descretely found another stylist trim it a little to make it look somewhat normal, but to no avail. Having never had a full head of weave before, I didn’t know that it makes your head itch like a son-of-a-gun. Itching and hot, humid weather in Hawaii did not mix.
Hubby was happy to see me, hair and all, but his reaction was not at all what I expected. I mean really, how could he rush to tear my clothes off at the sight of my sexy new hair when I had this mop sitting there in place of my own.
Let’s face it, after a six-month deployment, he’s not looking at my hair anyway. Lucky for me my sweetie loves me no matter what.
After a few days of reunion bliss, I sent hubby packing with three kids and a father-in-law in tow. The took the scenic route back to San Diego via the aircraft carrier. Us Navy folk call it the "Tiger Cruise."
But one day after ship pulled out of port, I woke up with an itch. That’s it! I could not stand the mop any longer. It should have come off the moment it was put on, but stubborn me did not want to admit that I had wasted our money on the mop. Instead, I wore it as if I was Beyonce.
Now putting it in takes a bit of skill, but surely taking it out wasn’t rocket science. You cut a couple of threads and unravel the braids the thread was attached to, right? Wrong!
There I stood for hours in my girlfriend’s bathroom trying to cut the thread from the weave out of my hair. Sweating like a pig at a luau, I took off my clothing to cool off. I feared that she would come home to find me in my birthday suit, passed out in a pile of hair from heat exhaustion. So there I stood in the buff, cutting away at what I thought was weaved hair. It turned out to be my own. Don’t Ever Try This At Home Ladies!
Hours later when all was said and done, I stood examining my naked, hairless self with scissors in hand. Instead of crying for what I had done, I laughed. I felt a sense of relief, like I had just shed a layer of something that had been holding me down for years. Um, that would be the worry of what people would say or how they would react if I didn’t look a certain way.
Surveying the damage of what I had done forced me to pose the question: What do you want Nicole?
Short hair was on the list of many things that I want out of life. But for the first time since I was three, I wasn’t afraid to say it without careful consideration of what other people think.
And so began the baby-step changes to realizing 40 and fabulous. Needless to say, I wore a borrowed hat from my friend the remainder of the stay in Hawaii. I didn't give much thought of what was underneath until I boarded the plane back to San Diego.
Panic set in. “What have I done?” I tried not to cry. I texted my stylist and told her what had happened. Of course my version went something like this, "I was snorkeling and the weave got caught in my snorkeling gear ...I had to cut it out."
Yes, I know, it’s not very becoming of your friend. But I did it. I lied. She told me that she was on bed rest and would not be able to fix it for a while. It was going to be a long plane ride home. That’s when my seatmate, who clearly spent his hours prior to boarding in a bar, asked if I wanted to go in with him on some bloody Mary's? He had the right idea, so instead of one glass of wine, I asked the flight attendant for two.
I humbled myself and walked right into Wal-Mart and asked for Shayna, the stylist with florescent pink locks. I had been eyeing her for a while. She always seems to be busy and the pink hair scared me away. But who was I to judge? At least she has a license to cut hair.
She said she could help, but I was doubtful because she hadn’t even surveyed the damage hidden under my scarf. As she combed out my hair, I saw my it fully for the first time. I had been avoiding the reality for over a month. I would just brush it back without combing it out to avoid seeing what I had done.
A few hours later, Shayna did what she said she would do, “Hook me up.” She cut, colored and styled my hair. She tinted it with a burgundy color. It looks like my normal color but when the sun hits it just right, you can see a hint of burgundy. As for the cut, there was only so much a girl could do. Let’s just say, I wanted a change, and change is what I got.
Hubby was speechless for days. He finally said it looked like a mullet. My friends commented on my new look and assured me it was cute. But I sensed that whether they liked the style or not, they wanted me to be happy with it. I was not.
A few days later, I had a doctor’s appointment. It seems the skin on my neck and chest had taken on a funky color and texture. To my surprise, the doctor requested that I do a glucose screening.
Apparently changes in skin color can be a sign of diabetes. Here was my little-known-interesting fact for the day. It doesn't help that diabetes runs deep in my family.
In fact, I lost my sister to the disease two years ago. As many of you know, I took up running about three years ago. It started with a cause - to help raise money for cancer.
When that cause was over, I continued running to relieve stress. Hubby was deployed again. But in the midst of it all, my sister died. That motivated me to keep running to keep the weight off because I too was a candidate for diabetes. My doctor told me that I was on the cuff and not to worry because I exercised.
But after eight months of the same old routine, my desire for running and exercise decreased, while my love for eating anything that did not move increased. Before I knew it, I had gained all the weight that I worked hard to lose and then some.
All the cute clothes that I bought for Hawaii fit a little snug in Hawaii. Two months later, they don’t fit at all. I sat in the doctor’s office feeling defeated. My love affair with sugar and all things chocolate is over if the test comes out positive.
I went home and I prayed. The next day, I woke up with a new spirit and new attitude. It was my day and hubby was taking me up to the spa to celebrate Mother’s Day.
As I got ready, I combed out the few strands of hair and I felt something move my soul. A fire and a desire to fight whatever it was that was trying to take over my mind, my body and spirit. I embraced my hair and slicked down the sides and moussed up the top into a Mohawk. I liked what I saw.
Hubby kind of rolled his eyes, but I didn’t care. I loved it. My son who can be brutally honest as they come, runs in and immediately says, “Mommy I like your hair. Dominique, come look at mommy’s hair!”
His approval was confirmation that I was on the right track. Did I forget to mention that he has been asking for blue hair and a Mohawk for years? You see, it wasn’t the hair that I wanted to change. It was my attitude and outlook on life. And now for the reason I am sending you this very long letter.
As you may or may not know, I am turning 40 this year. My goal is to lose 40 lbs. by my 40th birthday - not because I am vain, but because I want to be healthy. I don’t want my life to end as my father and sister’s did at the early age of 47.
The reason I am telling you this is because I have to make it public. The more support that I have, the better the results. I have set the goal and I am asking you to help, and or, to join me on this new adventure to be healthier. The benefits are endless, not just for me, but my family.
What I need from you is some encouraging words or even a quick note every now and then asking me how the journey is going?
Maybe even a workout buddy to help me along the way. Please join me on the scary, but awesome, 40 and fabulous adventure. I know that God is working in me and I just want to share.
if you are receiving this extremely long letter from me today, it means you are part of my core group of friends and I am soliciting your support, and or, participation in joining me on my new adventure - 40 and Fabulous.
Whether or not you have known me for many years or just a few, you know that there is never a dull moment in my life and there is always something crazy happening.
The latest wacky incident was my desire to do something different with my hair to surprise my hubby for his deployment homecoming. The kids and I were flying to Hawaii to meet his ship. He has always loved my hair long and I have certainly tried to hang on to it to please him.
But the truth of the matter is, I really could care less about having long hair. It's a nuisance when you are in a hurry to get somewhere but have to look your best. Don’t get me wrong, I want to look good, but with the least amount of effort.
Long-story short, I paid lots of money to my stylist to sew in a hair weave to my hair so that I could surprise my hubby for his homecoming.
Oh yea, a new look, a new setting and some new shoes. It sounded like a good idea at the time. The problem is it didn’t quite turn out like I wanted. Instead of a long and sexy natural look, it was more like a mop sitting on top of my head.
I even had my stylist fix it twice, but it still looked moppy. I descretely found another stylist trim it a little to make it look somewhat normal, but to no avail. Having never had a full head of weave before, I didn’t know that it makes your head itch like a son-of-a-gun. Itching and hot, humid weather in Hawaii did not mix.
Hubby was happy to see me, hair and all, but his reaction was not at all what I expected. I mean really, how could he rush to tear my clothes off at the sight of my sexy new hair when I had this mop sitting there in place of my own.
Let’s face it, after a six-month deployment, he’s not looking at my hair anyway. Lucky for me my sweetie loves me no matter what.
After a few days of reunion bliss, I sent hubby packing with three kids and a father-in-law in tow. The took the scenic route back to San Diego via the aircraft carrier. Us Navy folk call it the "Tiger Cruise."
But one day after ship pulled out of port, I woke up with an itch. That’s it! I could not stand the mop any longer. It should have come off the moment it was put on, but stubborn me did not want to admit that I had wasted our money on the mop. Instead, I wore it as if I was Beyonce.
Now putting it in takes a bit of skill, but surely taking it out wasn’t rocket science. You cut a couple of threads and unravel the braids the thread was attached to, right? Wrong!
There I stood for hours in my girlfriend’s bathroom trying to cut the thread from the weave out of my hair. Sweating like a pig at a luau, I took off my clothing to cool off. I feared that she would come home to find me in my birthday suit, passed out in a pile of hair from heat exhaustion. So there I stood in the buff, cutting away at what I thought was weaved hair. It turned out to be my own. Don’t Ever Try This At Home Ladies!
Hours later when all was said and done, I stood examining my naked, hairless self with scissors in hand. Instead of crying for what I had done, I laughed. I felt a sense of relief, like I had just shed a layer of something that had been holding me down for years. Um, that would be the worry of what people would say or how they would react if I didn’t look a certain way.
Surveying the damage of what I had done forced me to pose the question: What do you want Nicole?
Short hair was on the list of many things that I want out of life. But for the first time since I was three, I wasn’t afraid to say it without careful consideration of what other people think.
And so began the baby-step changes to realizing 40 and fabulous. Needless to say, I wore a borrowed hat from my friend the remainder of the stay in Hawaii. I didn't give much thought of what was underneath until I boarded the plane back to San Diego.
Panic set in. “What have I done?” I tried not to cry. I texted my stylist and told her what had happened. Of course my version went something like this, "I was snorkeling and the weave got caught in my snorkeling gear ...I had to cut it out."
Yes, I know, it’s not very becoming of your friend. But I did it. I lied. She told me that she was on bed rest and would not be able to fix it for a while. It was going to be a long plane ride home. That’s when my seatmate, who clearly spent his hours prior to boarding in a bar, asked if I wanted to go in with him on some bloody Mary's? He had the right idea, so instead of one glass of wine, I asked the flight attendant for two.
I humbled myself and walked right into Wal-Mart and asked for Shayna, the stylist with florescent pink locks. I had been eyeing her for a while. She always seems to be busy and the pink hair scared me away. But who was I to judge? At least she has a license to cut hair.
She said she could help, but I was doubtful because she hadn’t even surveyed the damage hidden under my scarf. As she combed out my hair, I saw my it fully for the first time. I had been avoiding the reality for over a month. I would just brush it back without combing it out to avoid seeing what I had done.
A few hours later, Shayna did what she said she would do, “Hook me up.” She cut, colored and styled my hair. She tinted it with a burgundy color. It looks like my normal color but when the sun hits it just right, you can see a hint of burgundy. As for the cut, there was only so much a girl could do. Let’s just say, I wanted a change, and change is what I got.
Hubby was speechless for days. He finally said it looked like a mullet. My friends commented on my new look and assured me it was cute. But I sensed that whether they liked the style or not, they wanted me to be happy with it. I was not.
A few days later, I had a doctor’s appointment. It seems the skin on my neck and chest had taken on a funky color and texture. To my surprise, the doctor requested that I do a glucose screening.
Apparently changes in skin color can be a sign of diabetes. Here was my little-known-interesting fact for the day. It doesn't help that diabetes runs deep in my family.
In fact, I lost my sister to the disease two years ago. As many of you know, I took up running about three years ago. It started with a cause - to help raise money for cancer.
When that cause was over, I continued running to relieve stress. Hubby was deployed again. But in the midst of it all, my sister died. That motivated me to keep running to keep the weight off because I too was a candidate for diabetes. My doctor told me that I was on the cuff and not to worry because I exercised.
But after eight months of the same old routine, my desire for running and exercise decreased, while my love for eating anything that did not move increased. Before I knew it, I had gained all the weight that I worked hard to lose and then some.
All the cute clothes that I bought for Hawaii fit a little snug in Hawaii. Two months later, they don’t fit at all. I sat in the doctor’s office feeling defeated. My love affair with sugar and all things chocolate is over if the test comes out positive.
I went home and I prayed. The next day, I woke up with a new spirit and new attitude. It was my day and hubby was taking me up to the spa to celebrate Mother’s Day.
As I got ready, I combed out the few strands of hair and I felt something move my soul. A fire and a desire to fight whatever it was that was trying to take over my mind, my body and spirit. I embraced my hair and slicked down the sides and moussed up the top into a Mohawk. I liked what I saw.
Hubby kind of rolled his eyes, but I didn’t care. I loved it. My son who can be brutally honest as they come, runs in and immediately says, “Mommy I like your hair. Dominique, come look at mommy’s hair!”
His approval was confirmation that I was on the right track. Did I forget to mention that he has been asking for blue hair and a Mohawk for years? You see, it wasn’t the hair that I wanted to change. It was my attitude and outlook on life. And now for the reason I am sending you this very long letter.
As you may or may not know, I am turning 40 this year. My goal is to lose 40 lbs. by my 40th birthday - not because I am vain, but because I want to be healthy. I don’t want my life to end as my father and sister’s did at the early age of 47.
The reason I am telling you this is because I have to make it public. The more support that I have, the better the results. I have set the goal and I am asking you to help, and or, to join me on this new adventure to be healthier. The benefits are endless, not just for me, but my family.
What I need from you is some encouraging words or even a quick note every now and then asking me how the journey is going?
Maybe even a workout buddy to help me along the way. Please join me on the scary, but awesome, 40 and fabulous adventure. I know that God is working in me and I just want to share.
40 and Fabulous
Yesterday was Mother’s Day and I woke up with this new attitude. I was feeling so inspired to make a change in my life from the inside out, I decided to share it with those whom I care about. I sent out a mass email to all of my friends, titled 40 and Fabulous.
The purpose of the email was to share my 40 and Fabulous mantra and how I came to be on a journey of losing 40 lbs by my 40th birthday. Lucky for me I have until Dec. 29th.
For months I had this restless feeling about my life but could not put my finger on it. Was it my career or lack of one? Being married to a military man, we move about every three to four years and that makes it hard to advance in my career when I am constantly having to start over.
But that was not it. Was it my weight; my hairdo; my clothing? I got it, it was my choice of shoes. So I ditched the flip flops and bought a gladiator style shoe with a stiletto heel.
Now you’re talking. If that doesn’t say sexy and new, I don’t know what does - except for when I tried wearing them to the mailbox and slipped and fell. The fall wasn't because I couldn't walk in the stiletto. It was because I was trying to avoid dog poop and ended up taking a knee slide right into the puppy surprise.
"This is absolutely ridiculous," I thought as I limped away trying not to let the poop spread to any other party of my body. And certainly don’t let it get on the shoes!
But the truth of the matter is, I was feeling restless because it was time for a change. Unfortunately for me, the change was not for any of the above - well, sort of, but mostly for a new outlook on life. I go about my everyday life interacting with people and being friendly on the outside, but inside I was just barely hanging on.
The stress of dealing with the worries that go along with having a spouse deployed to a war zone, not once, but three times in a short period of time, and a child who is diagnosed with ADHD and OCD was taking its toll.
I was tired of putting on a front and keeping this secret of pretending to be fabulous, not just with my physical appearance (as if anyone couldn’t notice the weight gain), but my mental and spiritual state as well.
So I decided to fight the urge to give up and accept the current state of affairs. Giving up is not in my nature no matter how challenging life may be.
The purpose of the email was to share my 40 and Fabulous mantra and how I came to be on a journey of losing 40 lbs by my 40th birthday. Lucky for me I have until Dec. 29th.
For months I had this restless feeling about my life but could not put my finger on it. Was it my career or lack of one? Being married to a military man, we move about every three to four years and that makes it hard to advance in my career when I am constantly having to start over.
But that was not it. Was it my weight; my hairdo; my clothing? I got it, it was my choice of shoes. So I ditched the flip flops and bought a gladiator style shoe with a stiletto heel.
Now you’re talking. If that doesn’t say sexy and new, I don’t know what does - except for when I tried wearing them to the mailbox and slipped and fell. The fall wasn't because I couldn't walk in the stiletto. It was because I was trying to avoid dog poop and ended up taking a knee slide right into the puppy surprise.
"This is absolutely ridiculous," I thought as I limped away trying not to let the poop spread to any other party of my body. And certainly don’t let it get on the shoes!
But the truth of the matter is, I was feeling restless because it was time for a change. Unfortunately for me, the change was not for any of the above - well, sort of, but mostly for a new outlook on life. I go about my everyday life interacting with people and being friendly on the outside, but inside I was just barely hanging on.
The stress of dealing with the worries that go along with having a spouse deployed to a war zone, not once, but three times in a short period of time, and a child who is diagnosed with ADHD and OCD was taking its toll.
I was tired of putting on a front and keeping this secret of pretending to be fabulous, not just with my physical appearance (as if anyone couldn’t notice the weight gain), but my mental and spiritual state as well.
So I decided to fight the urge to give up and accept the current state of affairs. Giving up is not in my nature no matter how challenging life may be.
And so, I poured out my heart into an email and hit send. Thus began my new life of being 40 and Fabulous.
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