Here we go again...

Mine is a tale of perspiration, determination, and inspiration...or at least it used to be...no wait, IT WILL BE AGAIN!  And lemme tell you why...

It made perfect sense each year (2014 and 2015) that a couple of the Times Colonist running groups had invited me to speak to before their group run/walks.  After all, I was the contestant in the 2013 TC Health Challenge group who lost 52 pounds in 3 months, and then used the next 5 to lose another 50+ pounds...eventually losing 156 pounds.  At that point, I weighed less than than what I had lost.  Inspiring, right?!

Once upon a time there was a lady who let herself get to 294 pounds.  She was always a good time girl, who could be swayed into going to the bar, sharing pints with friends, eating pub grub...and even going to Le Banquise (she was a Montréaler after all) at 4 in the morning after the bar for some poutine, a Mae West, and an 'ot dog all dressed.  But that was then...this is now...

 

Or is it?!  I think I just described my last trip to Montréal.  And, my recent trip to Hawaii.

And possibly just a couple days ago.

Okay, so a lot of things have changed...but some have not.  I started writing about my plight to lose weight, get fit, and healthy in this blog 3 years ago, and it really helped me get through the tough stuff and see the humour in what I was doing.  Luckily, for dramatic effect, I had a lot to lose.  You see, that makes for a good story.  But what about now?!  Do I still have it in me to make fun of myself trying to get fit and healthy after some indiscrepancies in the food department, exercise regime, and the healthy living area in general?!  You betcha.

  

After all, it's exciting to learn about the 294 pound lady who, with the help of a ninja (Jonathan Carpenter), whittled herself down to a svelte 139 pounds from January 2013 to July of 2014 through a combination of eating right and exercise...because that's pretty amazing...but, I believe that it'll be even more inspiring to find out that lady is a real person.  And, that three years after she started her journey, it continues.  It has its ups and downs and ups (as the case is now)...and dammit, she can't even blame the knee surgery she had in November, because that was over 14 months ago now!

I remember stepping on the scale in front of hunky JCarps, the ninja, when I was 294 pounds and not really caring what it said...not even being embarrassed...because I was never going back there.  Now, when I step on the scale, I'm watching re-runs in reverse and it scares the shite out of me.  Am I slipping back into old patterns?!  Yes.  Am I becoming less active?  Yes.  Am I skipping meals and then binge eating later?  Yes.  Am I eating my emotions?  Yes.  What is happening to me?!  

It took me over a year to "cheat" on my healthy eating plan...on the Super Bowl 2014 weekend, I succumbed to junk food again for the first time...and, you know what!?!  I got away with it.  Lately, it's been a whole lot of junk food eating and not a whole lot of getting away with it.  I just hope the ninja doesn't try and weigh me in at our next session...because I will care and be embarrassed at what I've done. 

Luckily, half my wardrobe is stretchy and I seem to gain weight in all the curvy lady bits...but it's becoming a little more obvious now that its not just 15 pounds that I've gained since my knee surgery, it's more like 30.  And at this point, I cant blame being laid up and limpy...I have to blame myself...AND I can't even do that because my yoga teacher (Taryn Strong) says that you have to let go of blame.  

Letting go doesn't mean we don't care.  Letting go doesn't mean we shut down.  Letting go means we stop trying to force outcomes and make people behave.  It means we give up resistance to the way things are, for the moment.  It means we stop trying to do the impossible - controlling that which we cannot - and instead, focus on what is possible - which usually means taking care of ourselves.  And we do this in gentleness, kindness, and love, as much as possible.  - Melody Beattie

She's right...Melody Beattie and Taryn Strong.  Rather than getting all upset with myself and eating an entire bag of Doritos, which will only make the entire situation worse...I am going to let it go, and be grateful that I know how to do this, that I still have a ninja to help me, and that Illoana called to book me for a talk before her Henderson 10K Run Clinic...because that was just the kick in my significantly more voluptuous arse that I needed to get back at it!

And I should probably sign up and run that TC 10K.

Here we go again.

Are you with me?!

“We ought to get out more...”

A few weeks ago, I was asked to write an article for the Times Colonist's Healthy Living Magazine...exciting...and the only parameter was that the magazine was centred on outdoor living.  With all the sunshine we'd been having, and the fact that I'm stuck in a gym for workouts around 8 times a week, I thought I'd explore the subject of being active in nature.  You don't have to be a ninja-in-training to do it, you don't need specialised shoes or clothing, and you don't even need any money, all you need is a sense of adventure and a fabulous cityscape to get the job done.  Here are my thoughts on getting out more.

Exercise in the morning before your brain figures out what your body is doing - that has pretty much been my mantra for the last couple of years. As much as I love Crystal Pool & Fitness Centring, there's something to be said for playing outdoors. It keeps things interesting, it's great for mind and body, it's free, it's fun, and it's nearly impossible to find an excuse as to why you can't fit a little bit of nature into your day. So, when's the last time you tried swinging on the monkey bars in Central Park or wandered through the rose garden at Beacon Hill? When did you last take the scenic route in something other than a car?

Walking or running around town gives you an entirely new perspective on where you live. Go on, really listen to the music being pumped through the Gates of Harmonious Interest, search out the sculpted bronze Hands of Time - first a filigree fan, then the last spike, binoculars - can you find all 12? Take advantage of pedestrian-only pathways, sneak by Fisherman's Wharf on your way to taste the sea salty air as it whips around you on the breakwater, wave at cruise ship tourists then visit Emily Carr and other residents of Ross Bay Cemetery. Who says exercise has to be a chore - hours of gym time logged under fluorescent lights? I say, get out, and increase feelings of well-being, activate your brain, stimulate your senses, raise your serotonin levels, fill you lungs with oxygen, and get some vitamin D.

Hop on a bike and take a spin around the Inner Harbour, Dallas Road, really see where you live, follow the coastline, climb up that hill by the old observatory, catch your breath and then lose it again at the viewpoint as you look out over the Strait of Juan de Fuca towards the Olympic Mountains. Pedal your way through Victoria Golf Course, keep going until Oak Bay Marina, buy some bait, feed a seal, don't stop until you've immersed your feet in the frigid waters off of white, sandy Willows Beach, then take a different route back, explore. Healthy living is loving what you do in life, don't you dare get bored.

All this spring weather and unbelievable sunrises have got me thinking that I should venture outside with my yoga mat to salute the sun as it illuminates this amazing city. It may be that I need to lay off Googling fitspiration pictures of fancy asanas in fabulous places or it may be that I need a bit more fitness freedom. Time to think outside the gym, get active, and smell the roses simultaneously. There are no rules, you don't have to get up super early or even come home when the street lights turn on, just take your time, enjoy, and play in gratitude. There's no place like OM.

The article came out this past Saturday in the Times Colonist's Healthy Living Magazine's supplement. 

All hail the new TIMES COLONIST HEALTH CHALLENGE PARTICIPANTS 2015 (of which Stéphane is not one.)

The Times Colonist Health Challenge changed my life and subsequently changed the life of my husband.  In 2013, he hopped on board the health and fitness bandwagon with me and thereafter got a gym membership at the Crystal Pool & Fitness Centre to support me.  He ate the meals I prepared, honoured my extensive new rules...such as, "No junk food in the house!"  Stéffi put up with my griping about delayed onset muscle soreness and being hungry all the time.  And, without too much effort except for the grueling workouts he set for himself at least 3 times a week and our almost nightly walks through Victoria, he lost weight.  He started 2013 at 217 pounds and by April he was down to a svelte 187 or so...he continued to lose, as I did, and managed to lose 40 pounds in the time it took me to lose 100.  He was the perfect partner in crime, not only did he back me mentally, but he also took on the responsibility of assisting me financially.  Throughout my weight loss he congratulated my success, but reminded me that it never really mattered how much I weighed because he had always loved me and would continue to love me no matter what the future had in store.  That's just the kind of guy he is.  Insert "AWWWWW" here.

In theory, the 2013 Health Challenge afforded me 2 fitness assessments complete with skin fold tests (before and after the 3 months), a basal metabolic reading, a personal trainer twice a week for 12 weeks (though I saw Jonathan much more than that), 2 nutritional consults with a dietitian, a group session and a one-on-one with a psychologist/mental coach, and a free pair of sneakers - a prize valued at over $2000.  Of course, there was also the accountability that comes with being featured from time to time in the paper - priceless!  That, my friends, was a pretty good deal considering I was off work on unpaid medical leave (I'll share that story with y'all later, it's a doozy).

After the Health Challenge was over for me...I kept going, kept up with my training sessions with the MIJO Sport ninja twice a week, did at least an hour of morning cardio 6 days a week, and supplemented with once or twice weekly yoga and taekwondo classes.  I dedicated pretty much a year and a half of my life to getting fit and healthy.  And so did the man of the house, Stéphane.  But, it wasn't only about getting into shape for me (and the weight loss that came from all that exercise and healthy eating), but it was about getting well-conditioned, mentally and physically.  Over the course of a year, I regularly saw my family doctor, had a session with a psychiatrist, attended the Eating Disorders Programme weekly, went to my usual physio appointments, and pretty much took the best care of myself ever...full stop.  Fabulous for me, not so fabulous for my partner-in-crime.  Stéphane went a year and a half paying for absolutely everything.  He took no vacations nor could he spend his money frivolously as he was now the only bread winner in the family (mmmmm bread).  How do you pay a man back for that?  Well, I can tell you how I tried.    

I have always been proud and will always be proud of Stéphane.  He is fun, hilarious, enthusiastic, handsome, goofy, clever, artsy, and a bunch of other adjectives as well.  I have always seen him as "L'homme de ma vie" - he and I are true kindred spirits...so how do I reciprocate?  Well, hopefully my clever writing could do something, especially now when I am again on an unpaid medical leave (because of ACL replacement surgery).  I decided I would fill in an application, on his behalf, to be a participant in the TC Health Challenge.  This is what I wrote:

My name is Stéphane Gagnon.  I am a mild-mannered project technician for a local company by day:  I get up way too early in the dark, drive to work with a brown-bagged lunch, and begin my coffee drinking.  I come home (again in the dark) after 8 hours of sitting in front of a computer and have every intention of going to the gym.  Sometimes I make it, sometimes I don't.  Sometimes I just drive my wife to and from.  And if that's the case, I know I can get away with eating 2 packs of ramen for dinner before I have to pick her up.  I like noodles...a lot.  Almost as much as I like poutine.  This is what my weekdays look like, for the most part. 

Don't get me wrong, it's not a bad life.  But, I feel like I need more...where's my energy, vitality, and joie de vivre?  

Enter the weekends.

Come Friday?  Well, I shuffle off this weekday mortal coil and become Deejay Cheeky Tiki - a garage punk spinner with an encyclopaedic knowledge of music that you don't even know you like yet.  Or I pick up my pen and paper and step into the role of Stéffi G - a drawer of pictures and writer of words for my own form of "bande dessinée" - I like to think of it as graphic poetry.  I read voraciously, I get up early on Saturdays and Sundays to sit on the couch with the cat and pour over the countless novels I have stashed in my E-reader.  And then, batteries charged and healthy breakfast eaten, I hit the gym.  I attack the treadmill, the elliptical, I do sit-ups, and push-ups.  I give it my all.  I return from the gym high on endorphins and ready to conquer the world!  I need more of that in my life.

I am the everyman.  I am 47 years old, 5'7", and about 207 pounds, which means I have about 50 pounds to lose, but don't most people?  When I look at myself in the mirror, I see a keg and not a 6-pack and as much as I like beer, I know that has to change for my life to be healthy and happy.  I have it in me to transform from fat to fit, I am determined.  After all, I lost 100 pounds years ago going from obese to manorexic in a matter of months.  But this time, I want to do it right.  I want to eat clean and train dirty, as my wife calls it.  I need the accountability, the resources, the community, and the guidance that the TC Health Challenge provides - I know the effects this challenge has on its participants first-hand, and I want in!  I had a supporting role a couple years ago in HC 2013, but 2015 is my time to audition for something bigger than back stage!  

Guess I should use my stage name for this one.

"Good afternoon.  My name is Stéffi Spitfyre and I will be auditioning for the role of 'Health Challenge participant 2015.'" 

In my experience, the Health Challenge is what you make it.  Stéffi wasn't chosen, and he didn't expect to be, he told me later.  Simply put, he didn't think he had enough to lose.  Don't most middle-aged men have a few pounds to drop?  I guess that doesn't make for as interesting a story, or does it?  We'll see.  In the weeks that follow, I'll post updates on Stéffi's progress...because, frankly, a lot of us out there are challenged with losing around 40ish pounds, and it isn't easier because the number is smaller.  Sometimes it's harder, it's easier to take more liberties when you are faced with a smaller amount.  I buckled down and lost 150 odd pounds in just under a year and a half, but trying to lose the last 10 pounds was the hardest, and it's easy to get complacent.  My husband has regained the 40 pounds that he lost in 2013, and I am currently 20 pounds up from my lowest weight in June of 2014 - in the next 3 months, we will embrace the spirit of the challenge and commit to being losers again.

Let the countdown begin!

Less toys than I expected in Surgical Day Care...

I am not fond of rules, I seem to always break them...nor do I tend to follow instructions to a tee, I improvise a lot...but after I printed off the ANTERIOR CRUCIATE LIGAMENT RECONSTRUCTION REHABILITATION PROTOCOL from the ReBalance website, I read the 20 or so pages line for line and took notes, used a highlighter, and bought the appropriate supplies.  

I guess I should have printed them out a lot sooner, but I chose to do it the Sunday before surgery so as not go into full anxiety attack mode.  The next day, I tried to do everything I normally do, I biked to bootcamp, bootcamped, biked back.  Then I had a bit of a panic, not knowing what condition I would be in the next day, and I called up Mama Spitfyre and went emergency grocery shopping.  We bought tonnes of veggies and I made a huge vat of Spitfyre Chipotle Chili.  Okay, I may be ready to actually do this.  There was food in the fridge and the freezer, my husband had the rest of the week off to play nursemaid, and all I had left to do was scrub my entire body with a rather scratchy sponge (with plastic nail brush neatly attached and pink surgical soap built right in)...oh and wash my hair.  Done and done.

The next morning, I had to do the same thing, save the hair wash...with a brand new hive-inducing rough sponge on one side and nail scrubber on the other, smothered in gooey, hot pink, antibacterial goodness.  Great, I was squeaky clean...with an afro and a lovely red rash all over my bod.  Did I mention no moisturisers, deodorisers, or hair products allowed?  I tried to drip-dry my hair in ringlets, it worked...kinda.  Anyway, that didn't matter, as I piled all my hair up on my head and threw it into a fun bun (using a rubber elastic with no metal), and I may have straightened my bangs.  I can't relinquish all control, after all...I'm a rule breaker, right?  So why not look somewhat presentable with just a hint of "lunatic newly escaped from the asylum."

After a very quiet car ride to the Royal Jubilee, we parked the car on the fourth floor of the parkade, and I skipped down the stairs...relishing ever flight.  I took Stéphane's hand and asked for the directions to Surgical Day Care.  A lovely volunteer lead us up to a nondescript waiting room, gave my name to someone out of sight and instructed us to hang tight.  In my INNA NINJA t-shirt, jeans and jacket, I waited.  There were people with take-out coffees all over the place, damn them...damn them and their non-fastingness!  I may have even fantasised, just a little, about Tim Horton's coffee.  You know you're delirious when...and I have to say, surgical day care has far fewer toys than I expected.

After half an hour or so, Nurse Ratched called my name...I got up and followed her zombie-like to the door of doom.  Then I realised I hadn't said goodbye to Stéphane, so I turned around and motioned for him to come over.  

"Oh my gods, I forgot to kiss you...and say goodbye, or see you later or whatever!" 

A rather dramatic Hollywood kiss ensued in the middle of the waiting room...followed by some sappy, lovely dovey words.  I half expected the waiting room to erupt into applause, it was that good.  The nurse then told Stéphane to go home and he refused,  

"I'll be here waiting until you're done." 

5-6 hours, that's what the surgical notes said...good luck with that, Stéffi.  What a guy!

I passed through the door and was asked to take off my clothes.  I told the nurse to at least buy me dinner first; to my surprise, she laughed, and gave me a very sexy blue gown and equally stylish blue robe to match.  It's at this point that I realised I still had my purse which was packed with books, magazines, my MP3 player, phone etc. etc. etc.  I put my clothes and purse in a blue drawstring bag, did up my robe, popped on my fancy blue foot bags (slippers) and threw back the curtain.  To add insult to injury (literally), the nurse promptly weighed me in.  What am I a jockey?!  I'm short enough, maybe she sensed my horsey background?!  Anyway, it wasn't weigh-in Wednesday, but she didn't know that.  156 pounds of nerve-wracked Spitfyre.  Great, still up...despite my best efforts.  And I'd been fasting since the night before.  Now what?!

Deep within the bowels of the Royal Jubilee there are rooms upon rooms for waiting.  I was asked to hop up onto a very generic hospital bed, then I was asked questions such as this:

Who are you?  What is your birth date?  Where do you live?  Who is your doctor?  What procedure are you having done?  Which leg has the torn ACL?  Do you have any allergies?

Wow, I thought that maybe they would have written all this stuff down.  Okay they knew the answers, but I was asked these questions by no fewer than 4 different people.  The original nurse, another nurse, the anesthesiologist, and finally the orthopaedic surgeon.  I must have aced them all, because I wasn't sent home.  The anesthesiologist asked if I had any other questions...I asked him if his accent was South African, he said yes and then let me be.  Not a chatter, got it.  Dr. Jacks asked if I had any questions, I said no, and he autographed my knee.  Interesting.  I wonder if it'll be worth something someday.

Then I was moved...moved from waiting room #2 into waiting room #3.  This one was without the privacy curtains and came with Christmas cracker style hats.  NOOOOOO!!!  I straightened my bangs!  How am I going to look in this weird see-through blue gauzy shower cap?  Well, maybe I can wear it like a beret.  This room was much more fun than the last, people were coming and going and we seemed to be playing musical beds.  The guy to my left needed more room so I was moved closer to the woman on my right, then they wheeled in someone else and I was moved into the middle, and he was put in my place.  I think it was rather appropriate that we played a few games in Surgical Day Care, there were no toys after all.  I shared my disappointment about the lack of toys with my neighbours, which I think lightened the mood.  It ain't that much fun waiting in line to be put to sleep and sliced open.  We all started talking after that, and when the nurse came back to wheel me away, he told me it was nice to see everyone in such good spirits.  I'm not sure if it's appropriate to tell people to "break a leg" in the hospital, but I like the sounds of it better than "good luck" so as I was wheeled away I wished my bedmates well.

Next stop was the O.R.  Oooohhh, the room where the magic happens.  I wheeled into the brightest and coldest room in the world and was promptly parallel parked next to a thinly mattressed tiny table.  Wow, I'm glad I lost all the weight, the last time I was on the slab I was sorta oozing off the edges a bit.  Who knew one of the benefits of weight loss would be comfort in the operating room.  I shuffled off the gurney and onto the platform and was introduced to two nurses.  Ever the Chatty Cathy, after some small talk Laurie and Tyler asked how I sustained the injury and I went on nervously about my love of taekwondo, and how I couldn't wait to get back at it.  Seriously, as much as I love front snap kicks, I could really go for a spin hook kick every now and then.  Believe me, I'm deadly when faced head on, but move to the side...and well, that's why I'm about to get this operation.  My BFF, the South African, then poked me in the back of the hand with a giant needle.  Well then, I guess we're getting this show on the road.  I was asleep before the surgeon even arrived from what I remember.  No counting backwards, just a mask placed over my mouth (so I could breathe pure oxygen) and my coughing into it because I couldn't get any out.  Breathe deeply?  How?  More like suffocation.  I called for help, something changed, and I took a deep breath.  Next came a giant shiver of medication that shot from my hand all the way up my arm, and I was out.

I woke up in tears and convulsions apologising for my shaking and crying.  It made perfect sense at the time, the nurses just went with it.  "Honey, you've just come out of anesthesia."  Oh, right.  This is where I wish someone had recorded my weirdness.  Oooohhh look at those pretty lights!  Sob, sob, sob.  I started talking total nonsense, I was laughing, crying and complaining about the cold...and telling tales of my life as a ninja.  They swaddled me in more thin blue blankets, and soon I was travelling down the hall again.  Well, that was fun.  Wait, I can't feel my leg.  Quick check.  Yep, it's still there.  That's good. 

Lying in recovery room one, I started to feel the after effects of the anesthetic.  The weird acrid taste in my mouth and up my nose, and nausea.  My new nurse asked me how much pain I was in.  Quite a bit but I'm a big girl, I can yoga my way out of this.  I started practicing box breath, inhale for a count of 5, hold it for 5, exhale for 5, hold it for 5 and repeat.  Apparently, it reduces anxiety, slows heart rate, and gets you smacked in the shoulder in this room.  

"What are you doing?" asked the nurse. 

"I was attempting to control the pain with my mind...yogic breathing." I responded.  Duh.  I was still quite out of it obviously. 

"Don't be a hero Suzie, we can give you more pain killers.  Would you like some?  Also quit that breathing, it's making it look like you're stopping breathing every now and then, which is of course what you are doing,"  she said thoughtfully.

"Yes please, to the painkillers.  I'll do yoga later."

After all, it was going to be a long day, and this was only the first stage of recovery.  Everyone told me there were going to be good drugs, but I guess I always felt like taking pain killers was a bit of a cop out.  Why not figure out what is ailing you and fix it in a less medicationy way?!  This is not how I feel about vaccinations or antibiotics, by the way, I do what the doctor tells me...I take my full course or get shot in the arm.  But painkillers are different.  After all, I didn't want to be anything like a celebrity addicted to prescription medication, slurring words on camera in some terrible reality show.  But, I was in a lot of pain...so, fill 'er up please, nurse! 

I can't remember exactly how long I was in that recovery room, all I know is following that dose of medication, I needed a quick dose of Gravol as I suddenly felt nauseous.  I did not want a repeat of what had happened after my gallbladder surgery.  No one likes projectile vomiting, especially not hospital staff.  Come to think of it, I think they kept me overnight after that incident so they could torment me with Gravol suppositories.  This time I was given the does via my IV, thank gods.  After that, in and out of consciousness I went, wanting to sleep but also just wanting to get out of there.  The drugs weren't helping.  The more I took the longer I would have to stay, that I knew.  And where was Stéphane anyway!?!  A different nurse came over to me and told me I looked familiar.  I told her I blogged for the Times Colonist, and did the Health Challenge in 2013...and this was the reward for my active lifestyle.  Haha...okay, not really.

Being in recovery at the hospital is like waiting in line at Disneyland, as soon as you think you're nearly done, you go through a door or turn a corner and there is so much more line ahead of you.  After stage one, I was moved to another area with beds radiating off a nurses' station.  Oooohhhh...each bed gets curtains on either side for privacy...how fancy!  When I was brought in, a nurse introduced herself and told me that they were going to administer some antibiotics through my IV.  She propped my bed up so that I could take some pain meds orally, and then I never saw her again.  I waited.  I was now almost upright in my bed, so sleeping was out.  I would have preferred to nod off, but instead I listened.  I listened to the guy next to me giving a Tim Horton's order to a significant someone.  I listened to other people in the room snoring, I listened to the tick tocking of the clock.  It was after 5, I thought I was supposed to be done by now.  Also, I was soooooo thirsty.  I hadn't eaten or had anything to drink for 19 hours.  I flagged someone down and asked for a little bit more water.  There was a sippy cup left by my bedside that had previously delivered a 1/4 cup of water to wash down some pills.  Um, do they know I can drink more than that?  Afterall, I drink up to 4 litres of water a day normally!

She gave me half a glass of water.  I drank it in one go.  I was parched!  I tried to flag her, or anyone, down again shortly after and it took a while...eye contact was being avoided for sure.  The guy in the bed next to me was happily chatting away to his friend and munching on his Timmy's.  When I finally got someone's attention, I asked for more water and when I was going to get my antibiotics.  More than an hour had passed since I had been talked to...and I was bored senseless, and THIRSTY!  A new nurse brought me some water, went away, came back, and started administering the medication.  Finally, I asked her when I was going to be released.  She told me not until at least 7 or 7:30PM.  Hmmmphh.  

"When can I see my husband?" I asked.

"When you're released," she said.  

Seriously?  All this lying around and waiting in an uncomfortable position for someone to give me antibiotics and another 6 ounces of water and I can't even see my husband who I told to go home, but he probably didn't, knowing him.  Well, what about...

"Excuse me...excuse me...(finally got her attention again) may I please have my purse?"  

"Well, I guess I'm going to have to look up where it is then."

Um, yeah, I guess.  Why is this such a big deal?  

"It's in locker number 9," I told her.

Fortunately, I remembered the number I was told first thing in the morning...and after anesthetic and all those drugs.  Woot!  I may not have had any company, but I was about to have a mobile phone, 3 magazines, 2 books, and an iPod...let the games begin and let several hospital selfies be taken!  When the nurse returned with my bag, she plopped it directly onto my right leg.  At least the local anesthetic was still in full effect.  What the heck is wrong with this place?!  I will definitely not be making more reservations.  Disappointing food and drink selection and terrible customer service!  Luckily, it gets put on my country's tab when I leave.  Is there a comment card I can fill out?!?

As it turned out, Stéphane did go home, after repeatedly asking when he could see me.  Apparently he sat in the original waiting room until they closed it - I guess surgical day care is just that, once the kids are all picked up, everyone goes home.  So he went home too, and at 7PM the nurse told me I could call him and get him to pick me up.  Hoorah!  Freedom!  

I carefully climbed out of bed and into a wheel chair, easier written than done - oh so happy to have enough arm strength to be able to lift my body weight up without too much problem.  The nurse wheeled me to the elevator, we descended 5 floors then crossed the main concourse.  I could see our red Honda Fit (appropriate now, but ironic at first) pulled up right in front of the automatic doors and Stéphane's smiling face getting my crutches out from the back seat.  He wasn't in shining armour, or on a white horse, but he might as well have been.  I was so happy to see my Prince Charming.  The nurse pulled me up right next to the car and I was able to shimmy myself into the passenger's side.  I thanked her and we were off...I started to regale Stéphane with my tales of the hospital.  He responded with his own side of the story.  Then he told me that he had already bought the pain killers that I was prescribed.  My hero, indeed!  Even if parts of our experience seemed to be a total gong show, we were both well...and on our way home.  

It had been a very long day. 

High Maintenance.

It's time to get off this dark horse and ride a unicorn or something.

At least that's what the ninja said to me a while back. And, in all seriousness, I have been in a bit of funk as of late.

Why in the funk, Suzie Spitfyre!?

I don't want to talk about it.  (Because when I do I get weirdly emotional and cry. WTF!? Ninjas shouldn't be all teary...and broken.)

As you know from previous posts, for the last little while I've been bouncing around at about 145 pounds...I've come as close to goal as 138 pounds and gone as far away as 163. It is very hard for me not to obsess about this. “Focus on how you feel, ninja,” if I feel fit and strong, I'm cool. If I feel wildly out of control, I'm not so cool. In fact, I panic, doubt myself, and fall a downward spiral of junk food and other bad choices. Then I get over it, buckle down and take care of business. I got this, I know how to do it...in fact, I'm pretty good at it...when I focus.

 

That's my resent history...no crazy drops in weight, but no huge gains either. This is the boring part. No celebrating 7 pound losses, no surprising victories over push-ups, no mayor wearing his chains of office to congratulate me for being the biggest loser...just maintenance. And maintenance sucks.

I know, I know, I really don't have problems if these are my problems right?! Nonetheless, this stuff weighs heavy (pun intended) on my psyche. For the last year and just over a half, I have built myself up by leaning myself down, so going in the opposite direction scares the sh!t out of me. And the reason the scale is going in said direction...well, it's because of me. But, just as I had decided to give up drinking wine on the balcony, Bum Biter BBQs, and sneaking in a bag of Doritos while watching True Blood on my Croatian Conscience's couch...

I left the Shimmy Shack and embarked on a run along the Westsong Walkway. The run I do is around 7K and includes the stairs of death (there are 100 of them, and I try and do them at least 5 times..and lately I've been doing them a few more times than that...um...10 times, I'm a keener). So out I go on my merry little way, feeling particularly strong and fit...running to the beat of all these songs on my play list that are all obviously written specifically for me...when SNAP! Limp, limp, limp. Oh crap.

My little injury (ruptured ACL) has reared its ugly head yet again. Apparently, at the time of the MRI there were possibly two little strands holding on for dear life, and what I just did took care of at least one of them. Normally I wouldn't be such a cry-baby, but I was out on a trail about 2 kilometres from home and I was sore. I walked back along the pathway to my house...dragging my leg, ruing the decision I made to leave my mobile phone at home.

Realising that walking home in such a gimpy way ate into my precious get-ready-for-work-time, when I finally got home, I showered very quickly...but how was I going to work a shift if I couldn't even walk properly!? And to top that off, thou shalt wear heels on counter is practically written in the MAC dress code. I called my manager. “I don't think I'll be able to come into work today, I just felt something in my knee pop and there's a lot of swelling. I should probably ice it and keep it elevated, at least for today.” Damn, someone beat me to the punch, so no sick day for me. Already one man down. In pain, I put on my knee high combat boots, a skirt, button down shirt 'n' tie, braided my hair into two tight French braids, and took the bus two stops to town. Suck it up, Princess.

On a side note: As I “toughed it out” on counter, one of the department’s staff told me I looked less Wednesday Addams bad-ass private school girl (the look I was obviously going for) and more, well, how do I put this!? Nazi. Oh good. I wonder if that's why my sales were so high...”Buy this make-up or I invade Poland!” I know, I know, not funny...sorry.

The point that I am trying to make is this...when I feel out of control or upset, an easy fix for me used to be to lose myself in food. And now, it is to find discipline and focus at the gym...even if it's after losing myself in food because I'm not going to lie and say that never happens.  It does. Still. So what happens if you take the gym away?! Well, nothing good.  I get a little down in the dumps.

The gym is my meditation station, my decompression session, my opportunity community.  I

feel safe, and loved. Before embarking on this journey, I regarded gyms as places where hyper fit and annoying people hung out and tried to out-do each other. These gym-types were judgmental and exclusive. And then I walked through the doors of the Crystal Pool & Fitness Centre...and I realised, it was the opposite. I was the bitter, annoyed person...I was judgmental and exclusive.  I was not looking forward to entering the gym, I didn't know what to wear, how to do anything...and the people behind those doors, well, they became a huge

support system, my mentors, teachers, my friends...they welcomed me to the health & fitness community with open arms, smiles free of judgement with a pat on the back for all my efforts. I had never experienced such a sense of community. My knee, on occasion, takes all that away, and I am left to stew. I start shutting down.

As soon as I was well enough to start gymming again, the Crystal Pool & Fitness Centre closed for maintenance.  I told you maintenance sucks.  But, at least I found my unicorn.

On balance, ballast, and bobbles.

I am seated in half-lotus position, precariously perched atop the exercise ball that serves as a chair in front of my laptop.  I suppose there's no need to tell you that my balance has significantly improved since that fatefull day in New Orleans in 2012 when I rolled my ankle  and my 294 pound self came crashing to the ground.

But has it?

Yes, I can twist my body into different asanas and hold them, I can jump from a plank to a squatting position on top of a Bosu ball, and I can even walk on top of logs at the beach without fearing for my life...but sometimes I can't find my balance.  Coordination at the gym, studio, or in the great outdoors, no problem...but, trying to find equilibrium in life, well, that's just waaaaaaaay harder. 

Ironic, non?

How am I supposed to get up, go to the gym, workout, get home from the gym, shower, get ready for work, walk to work, get home from work, get ready for taekwondo, get to taekwondo (or yoga, or whatever), do taekwondo, get home?  How am I supposed to eat 6 times a day, and find time to make those healthy mini meals?  How do I get 8 hours of sleep a night?  How do I find time to read, write, blog, paint, draw, create, play, perform, and participate in all the other activities that I love and that have been falling to the wayside?  How do I do all the things I want to do?!?

Just breathe.

I started this post with yoga, so I will continue it in that way...it all comes down to breathing.  Deep breath in, deep breath out...I am feeling overwhelmed by everything right now.  So I have to break things down and concentrate on the one thing I do without thinking.  Breathing.  

You know how they say you don't know what you've got until it's gone?  The same thing goes for balance.  Losing my balance only makes me want to find it again.

This Weigh-In Wednesday is brought to you by ballast. 

1bal·last
noun \ˈba-ləst\

: heavy material (such as rocks or water) that is put on a ship to make it steady or on a balloon to control its height in the air

When I stepped on the scale this morning, I was burdened by my heaviness.  But now I realise that the extra weight that I have put on over the summer is a reminder that I need to find more equilibrium in my life.  I choose to interpret today's weigh-in as a reminder that ballast can also restore stability of character and conduct.  I will resuscitate, I will breathe, and I will regain my balance.  This is just a bobble.

Namaste.        

Congratulations, it's a food baby!

Sushi Spitfyre

My tummy.  My stomach has been relatively flat (considering all the excess skin) for the last few months...but lately, I have noticed something.  Something that happens after a big meal or after a weekend of indulging...the food baby.  I remember when girls at MAC would complain about their "food babies" and I would have no idea what they were talking about, except for now.  You see, at 294 pounds, if you eat a big meal, there's no way to notice any sort of difference in your physique...other than the mild discomfort that comes with overeating.  Now, I get it.  When I have larger portions, or if I have a weekend of indulgence, then I am inevitably blessed (for lack of a better word) with a "food baby."  This is not something that I can take a pill for, nor can I utilise any sort of contraception to negate any unwanted consequences...the only way to avoid this procreation is abstinence.

Is it time to revisit correct portion sizes?!  I think so.

In the last few weeks, I have been with child.  One that only becomes apparent after eating too many potatoes and sometimes, to my chagrin, after fabulous weekends of imbibing.  Mondays and Tuesdays are when I get some serious bloating and the telltale swollen abdomen that comes with progeny begat of wine and rich fare.  Am I preggers?  No.  Does my husband notice?  No, not if he knows what's good for him.  BUT, someone else does.  Someone I see regularly and who apparently looks me up and down a bit more than I thought he did.  Sneaky ninja.

I have been fighting the good fight for about a year and half now...and looking down at my cereal bowl the other day, I think perhaps my portions are creeping up on me.  Breakfast means 1/3 of a cup of high-fibre, sugar-free cereal, 100g of fat-free, sugar-free yogourt, 1/8 of a cup of nuts, and some sort of fruit.  So, how could I possibly let this get out of control?!  Well, I was free-pouring the cereal, I was scooping the yogourt with a giant spoon, cutting up however many nuts I wanted, and then adding A LOT of fruit...not just 1 green banana, more like 2 bananas and possibly a bunch of strawberries too.  Is this bad?  No, none of that black and white thinking for me...but perhaps I was being a bit too generous with the free-stylings of this dish.  And, I'm not going to lie, I have also been eyeballing a lot of other portions as well.  Is this okay?!  Yes, of course, intuitive eating is something I wish I could do.  Am I ready for it yet?!  Possibly not.  Not if I want to get to my goal of 137 pounds.

Yesterday was my weigh-in day, and I was up...up from last week...up to a February/March weight...up the most I think I've ever been up actually.  What am I having?  Twins!?

Starting weight - January 16th, 2013 - 294lbs
53rd weigh-in - January 22th, 2014 - 151.8lbs

54th weigh-in - January 29th, 2014 - 144.3lbs

55th weigh-in - February 5th, 2014 - 154.8lbs

56th weigh-in - February 12th, 2014 - 146.1lbs

57th weigh-in - February 19th, 2014 - 143.7lbs

58th weigh-in - February 26th, 2014 - 145.7lbs

59th weigh-in - March 5th, 2014 - 141.4lbs

60th weigh-in - March 12th, 2014 - 145.1lbs

61st weigh-in - March19th, 2014 - 149.4lbs

62nd weigh-in - March  26th, 2014 - 143.3lbs

63rd weigh-in - April 2nd, 2014 - 147.1lbs

64th weigh-in - April 9th, 2014 - 147.4lbs

65th weigh-in - April 16th, 2014 - 140.7lbs

66th weigh-in - April 23rd, 2014 - 141lbs

67th weigh-in - April 30th, 2014 - 149.3lbs

Time to get down to my "pre-pregnancy" weight of 140.7...that's the lowest I've been so far.  I know I can get there, I've done it before, and this is how I'm going to do it:  

1. Clean eating:  I will eat well balanced, appropriately portioned meals.  I will not eat processed foods (or as few as possible), only whole grains, lean proteins, and fruit and veg.  For extra accountability, I will also blog everything I eat...enter SEE FOOD!  A photographic journey of accountability.  
2. Clean drinking:  No more alcohol!  At least not until my birthday, I may have a sip or two then, but for the next 10 days I will be drinking loads of water, and a whole bunch of tea.  All will be featured in SEE FOOD!
3. Dirty Training (that sounds a whole lot better when I say #eatcleantraindirty) Haha...how about just "training:"  I will follow the ninja's instructions, I will double up when I need to, and not go into over-training mode because I feel guilty for something or another. 

I know you're not supposed to eat seafood when you're "with child" but I am going to SEE FOOD it up so that I am held accountable...nothing like laying it all out there.  If I eat it or drink it, you will see it...which is kinda the way I feel about this food baby that I have strapped to my front right now.  No more whining (or wining) about this, now is the time for action! 

Reality bites...

Considering my last blog post...I thought this was rather hilarious.  Why get all philosophical anyway, eh?

  
Life is short, make fun of it...haha.

Instant karma's gonna get you...

Gonna look you right in the face
Better get yourself together darlin'
Join the human race
How in the world you gonna see
Laughin' at fools like me
Who in the hell d'you think you are
A super star
Well, right you are

- John Lennon

Satya - truthfulness - was the underlying theme of my Yoga for Recovery class on Tuesday.  It made perfect sense to me, Taryn has this knack for creating content in her classes that totally aligns with what's going on in my life.  Or, it could just be that weird coincidence thing that happens when I listen to music at the gym.  I start to think:

"Hey, this song was totally written for me!  How did INSERT ARTIST'S NAME HERE know?  My gods, it's almost karmic, you put something out there into the universe and it comes back to you in song and winds up on your playlist!  Oh, no wait, I guess I chose this playlist...and this song, and it has nothing to do with the universe, except for maybe it does?"  

I suspect that in yoga, it is just that I am always up for a good think, I enjoy eastern philosophies, I am a student of the cosmos (or at least a space cadet some of the time), and I believe that all things happen for a reason...so if Taryn decides satya, or truthfulness, is what we are focusing on in class, then I had better pay attention...because I could learn something...and perhaps I need to face my truth or something.  You get out what you put in, right?  Well, I'm all in.

Satya, one of the 5 moral restrains that yogis practice, means truthfulness...but it's so much more, which is the case for all of the yamas.  Honesty isn't as easy as going around telling the truth, it's as complicated as living honestly in conformity with fact or reality...being true to yourself as you exist within the universe.  This leads me to speculate that satya may also correlate with my perception of reality.

re·al·i·ty 

noun \rē-ˈa-lə-tē\

: the true situation that exists : the real situation

: something that actually exists or happens : a real event, occurrence, situation, etc.

So that means...

That satya has a direct correlation with cognition.  Which makes me think...do I really know what's going on?  Really?  I am confident in the knowledge that I do not.  Am I seeing the world as it truly is, or am I looking at it in a way that is dictated by my cognition of it?  This is some pretty heavy shit.  So how does this relate to my ninja training, healthy eating, lifestyle change, emotional well-being, eating disorder etc. etc. etc.?  What does it have to do with my sporadic return to binge and restrict behaviour?  How is it affecting how I deal with things?  Well, I reckon that there's something that I don't really want to deal with or acknowledge...and that's what's pushing me towards my self-sabotaging ways.    

Now, about those coincidences...a mere 5 days before yoga, I went to my Thursday group session (Eating Disorders Programme) on distress tolerance and discussion was largely focused on acceptance and awareness.  Acceptance = I don't like it, I can't change it, but I accept it.  In order to practice accepting reality, it is important to be aware that it is in fact a choice to accept it.  Satya, or truthfulness, plays into this big time.  In my case, regarding the binging and restricting, I accept the fact that in times of distress I have the choice to capitulate and enter eating disordered behaviour or turn my mind.  Easy peasy lemon squeezy, right?!  Well, no.  Difficult difficult lemon difficult.  But, by turning the mind I go from, "The only thing I can do in this situation is use food" to "hey, there are other things I can do in this state."  Being aware that I have more choices, well that's accepting reality.  And, what of satya?  Well, satya is making decisions that align with my true self.  After all, I am a changed woman...one who has waaaay too many skills to resort to eating disordered behaviours.  

What seems to be the trouble anyway?  What is leading me down that very familiar slippery slope?

After yoga...things always become clearer.  It's similar to when people say, "maybe you should sleep on it," I guess savasana has the same affect on me.  It's a mindfulness thing.  I go in being mind full...and leave being mindful.  Yoga is all about awareness.  Consiousness of breathing, of positions of the body, and of connection to the universe.  Of course, it helps that Taryn specialises in yoga for recovery - the woman is nothing short of amazing.  Her talking points are relevant, enlightening, and always eerily timely, as I mentioned before.  Satya.

What is my truth at this very moment?  This entire blog is based on my journey from fat to fit, and now that I am nearly at my goal...I am obviously afraid of what happens next.  What if my train goes off track, am I trying to prolong the trip, what happens if I get delayed and miss my connection?!  In my last post I spoke of letting go of fear and enjoying the ride...well, I am...I guess, I just don't want get off when I get to the station.  Subconsciously, I see everything passing by...consciously, I have hurried along to reach my final destination...and now I'm realising that Robert J. Hastings was right all along, it's not all happily ever after when you get there.  The terminal is an illusion, true living is found in the the voyage.  Ain't that the truth!