Winter is coming!

As I sit here in the lobby of the Crystal Pool & Fitness Centre, Old Man Winter has taken over outside.  The sun is shining, the sky is blue, the leaves are off the trees, and there is a bit of snow on the ground.  It is lovely out there.

And you know what?  Winter never used to phase me.  Last year, I had my extra layers that I couldn't take off, but now…now I am affected by something that I haven’t experienced in a very long time…the cold.

When I started gaining weight in Montréal, perhaps it was not because of my awkward way of dealing with emotional issues and food fetish, perhaps it was just a survival technique.  I arrived back in La Belle Ville one very sunny and humidly hot August.  Then in September, I started plumping up in preparation for the coming winter.  I indulged on steamés, poutine, pizza and fries (it’s weird, but it happens in Montréal, don’t ask me why) rather than acorns, berries, and

seeds.  There’s a reason that the all the months leading up to the Canadian deep freeze end in BER…though personally, I think they should end in BRRR…in Québec, however, they would probably end in “beurre” and be 1 and a ½ times larger than the rest of the word.  But, when the temperature fell, I was alright.  PERK:  Gain 15 pounds September through December?  Wear 1 less layer under your wool coat this January!  Come to think of it, why didn’t I just go into hibernation?  I could have avoided the cold altogether!   

Now, I can’t leave the house without fleece or down or wool.  It’s a bit ridiculous…how am I supposed to be a stylish Montréaler who still wears leather in negative 20 degrees Celsius if I don’t have natural insulation to keep me warm?  I suppose I’ll have to come to terms with the fact that I will now feel the cold…and be less appetizing to roaming bands of cannibals…unless they are health-conscience and prefer a lower fat option.

Love yourself! Go on, I dare you...

One of the possible side effects of losing 50 odd pounds has been unmerited über confidence - reverse body dysmorphism of sorts...at least for me.  

Last Saturday I was walking around like a rockstar...wearing size 18 blue jeans and a 3X leopard print sweater.  I even pulled out my old motorcycle jacket to go with, in my head I'm all Sophie Dahl meets Beth Ditto in Jean-Paul Gauthier (here I go with the comparisons again), but really, I'm Suzie Spitfyre, a fat girl in regular clothes.  I did don a pair of fabulous Tom Ford cream-coloured cat-eye sunglasses that I purchased last year in New Orleans though, so not ALL "regular."

I used to live under the cover of darkness...my entire wardrobe was black.  And I honestly thought that was my style, very New York, very chic, very MAC, but I think it was just a way to cover up what I didn't like about my body.  It's true what they say about black being slimming, but come on...how svelte can you look at 292 pounds?  On Saturday, I wasn't wearng a stitch of black...in fact, the only black that I had on was my eyeliner and mascara.  It made me wonder, how many people are out there running around, as I had been, hiding themselves under clothes that don't really do anything for them...clothes that don't express their style or personality?  Clothes that expound shame, self-loathing, and fear.

It is true that plus-size clothing leaves a lot to be desired when it comes to fit, colours, patterns, availability, cut, and cost, but they should never make you feel hopeless, unworthy, and depressed.  In the past, when I would get a new piece or an outfit even, I don't think I ever felt sexy or good about it, I was just thrilled that it bloody well fit.  And, that's a terrible way to live.  They are only  clothes after all!  They shouldn't dictate you mood or demeanor.  But, I couldn't have been the only one who yelled at their husband for throwing that extra, extra, extra large chemise that it took me years to find and went perfectly with all of my extra, extra, extra large dresses in the dryer.  I put so much stock into that one piece of clothing, that when it was shrunk beyond all recognition my life, for a few minutes, was over.  How horrible is that?

The other day I stumbled upon a page on social media called Big Hips and Red Lips - "A celebration of life, love, laughter, lust, and learning to love your body."  This page helped me see things slightly differently, it embraced beauty at all sizes, and made me think maybe I should have started this love affair with myself much, much sooner.  Don't get me wrong, I don't think I hated myself all the time....but I certainly embraced a lot of negative self-talk.  "If only I could lose some weight, then I'd be happy.  If only my thighs were smaller, if only my boobs were perkier, if only my gut didn't jiggle so much,"  I said a lot of mean things to myself, and I started to believe them.  And, don't be fooled, this isn't just a fat chick thing...this is universal.  I know plenty of girls and guys of all shapes and sizes who want to change this and that...and my point is...LOVE YOURSELF THE WAY YOU ARE!  Don't be afraid to accept yourself and rock out what you've got.

This is such an important message, because I've been there, and I know how it feels.  I have experienced thin, fat, toned, lumpy, fit, flabby, and everything in between.  If I had loved myself the way I was, whatever I was and taken care of the important things like my health, I wouldn't be posting this...but I didn't, so here I am pleading with my audience to accept themselves.  It's much easier to change the things you don't like if you know yourself and love yourself no matter what.  I now have the extreme pleasure of changing my life.  A change spurred on by the Times Colonist Health Challenge, but also a change spurred on by the triumph of the human spirit, and the knowledge that healthy and hopeful is much better, mentally and physically, than unhealthy and hopeless.

I am still going through this process of practicing radical self-love and body acceptance.  There are still times when I feel amazing, sexy, and powerful, and then I see a picture that someone has taken of me and posted online, and I think, wow, do I ever have a long way to go.  But, that doesn't get me down any more...that simply gets me even more motivated do everything I can to reach my health and fitness goals.

In the words of the saucy redhead behind the front desk of the Crystal Pool & Fitness Centre, "People see you how you see yourself."

So I conclude:  Confidence is always sexy...no matter what size you are.

Monster Munch

The Monster Muncher with her Monster Munch

There were only 3 of us who attended the information session at the Eating Disorders Programme.  I have to admit to feeling a bit uncomfortable participating in such a meeting as I certainly don't look like I've been restricting calories or purging...and the programme caters to people living with and/or affected by eating disorders, including anorexia nervosa, bulimia nervosa, and/or eating disorder not otherwise specified.  The latter is the category in which I think I fall.

I have been a binge eater, with no purging, for the last...I don't know how long.  A shameful practice that I started training for when I returned from university one spring.  My friends and I would stay up late, rent movies and each of us would grab a large bag of chips to go with.  I don't know when 1 bag became a couple, for variety's sake, but I gradually stretched my stomach to fit the entire contents of both.  With this sort of training, it wasn't long before I could fit in some mac n' cheese or ramen noodles or fast food or Chinese.  And if I did indeed eat breakfast the next day, it would be leftover BBQ crisps or some sort of processed noodles or the remnants of the disgraceful feast of the previous afternoon, evening, or late night.  The heartburn I suffered was ridiculous.

Hot dog...it's what's for breakfast

This became my normal.  It would ebb and flow depending on my emotions.  I did most of my binging in private, away from scrutiny, gorging on fast food and drink, convenience store junk, and things I could order off of menus stuffed into my mailbox.  After a championship round of gluttony, I would hide the evidence lest someone close to me find out what I had been eating.  I would pack up all the proof of my pig-out and toss it in the building's communal bins or even in the trash outside on the street.  I was so embarrassed by my addiction.

Prajnaparadha - crimes against wisdom - binge eating is lawlessness against one's better judgment.  Why would I do this to myself?  The more I ate, the worse I felt, the bigger I got, and the more contempt I had for "me."

When I sprained my ankle in November of 2012, upon my return from New Orleans I saw an orthopaedic surgeon who gave me a huge reality check.  It didn't help that I had once seen him play the Lord High Executioner in Gilbert & Sullivan's Mikado, what he had to say dropped my penny so to speak.  The reason the injury was so massive was, in short, due to my weight.  Joints are not meant to hold up such poundage.  And he told me so.  Then I cried.  He told me that I wouldn't be able to stand long days on my foot, so there went work.  Medical leave, injury, and insult...well, not insult, but I think I finally realised I was killing myself with food.  Drinkers drink, junkies do drugs, and I ate. 

The counsellor explained the programme, defined eating disorders, and voiced the philosophies of the clinic.  This facility and all that work there is such an amazing resource in our community...and even though I found out about it through my family doctor...it is available through self-referral.

I am currently in my 10th week of the Times Colonist Health Challenge.  2 weeks in, when

The beige meal - steak, frites, gravy, bread, and butter

Sandra McCollough - the reporter that is covering the story, asked me what I would change if I could do something differently in the past,  I said I wouldn't change a thing.  Actually, I think I said that I lived my life without regret because every single thing I do and have done is a learning experience...and right or wrong, good or bad, the culmination of all my experiences has made me the person that I am today.  When I think about that statement and think back to how my food addiction started, the emotional and stress binge eating took over, and how I cultivated it for all those years...I really wish I had done something like this sooner.  But I didn't.  How many of us can be totally honest with ourselves, our doctors, our peers, our friends and family?  Experts, relatives, and confidants can tell us over and over until they are blue in the face what is best for us...but it isn't until we ourselves accept the reality of our own health that we are moved to change. 

Reaching out for a helping hand isn't a sign of weakness, it's a sign of self-acceptance and a catalyst for positive personal development.     

The oracle Delfine speaks...

She is wise beyond her years, she is well-read and highly educated, she is a beautiful soul, a blonde bombshell, she's bilingual, blithesome...and she's one of my very best friends.  

I met Del, like the computer not the phone company, many moons ago at a rather large downtown bookstore in Montréal.  We were both working the cash desk at the time, and I was having some sort of trouble explaining something in French to a customer, she jumped in.  "Wow, your French is immaculate," I told her.  She then revealed, "That's because I am French."  To this day, there are only a couple of words that she says in which I can hear an accent.

Suzie & Del...right before our midnight feed on Halloween near Frenchman St..

Del is not only an amazing friend who will traipse all the way to New Orleans to join her buddies for a holiday, but she is also an inspiration for those of us who are a bit bigger boned.

A few years ago, after her July vacation she decided to embrace healthier eating habits.  Del, as I knew her, was never a skinny mini but she was never fat.  She had a bubble butt and a great set of tatas - a very nice hourglass figure if you ask me.  At 5'1" she was pleasantly plump, she ate fries and had drinks when we met up, she wasn't a compulsive over-eater like me.  But, something made her reassess her food pattern in 2009.  In January of 2010 she started walking home from work, just walking home.  The journey is 5 kilometres - it is a pretty good hike.  When she started, it took her an hour or so, and now it takes her about 35 minutes.  In 2012, Delfine incorporated 3 to 4 yoga classes per week into her routine.  This astonishing woman has transformed her body.  When we visited in 2011, the fruits of her labour were already showing.  She looked fantastic...she appeared to be an entirely different person, in fact.  The blonde hair helped, Del had always been a brunette.  But, her bod was amazeballs.  The girl brought 5 pairs of tall boots with her to Tofino, for frak's sake! 

When we met up in New Orleans a year later, she looked toned, fit, and fabulous.  And, upon learning about my new quest for fitness and my tribulations with weigh-ins...she gave me this advice (okay it was borrowed from her yoga instructor):

"People put too much importance on what they look like, when it should be all about how they feel.  In a garden, the tulip isn't jealous of how the rose looks, and the rose doesn't want to look more like a daffodil."

Namaste yogini Delfine, namaste.  This is so true.  When you exercise and eat right, you feel amazing...and the results, well...they come with...but we have got to stop comparing ourselves to others.  Take what you have and maximize.  I like to think that I have always thought this way, but it's always good to be reminded.

Anyway, I firmly believe that I am a Bird of Paradise.  One big-ass flower with attitude.  Fairly expensive, sometimes unavailable, unparalleled in its uniqueness, rather spiky, but also delicate when in full bloom, and if incorporated in the right bouquet...utterly charismatic.  

Delfine, thank you for being a posy in my vase.  I love you.

Was fitness testing supposed to be all Star Warsy...or was that just me?

Feeling pretty chuffed to be getting fitness tested at PISE...in fact, I was feeling kinda like "ya, that's right...I have yoga pants on...I'm wearing sneakers...I bought a sports bra for the occasion...check me out, I'm all Simon Whitfieldy."  And then I realised that I hadn't been a participant in the Olympics...I had merely watched them on television...but to my credit, Simon Whitfield and I are practically best friends...I once said hello to him at the airport!

After fasting 12 hours the first thing that exercise physiologists Holly and Paula did was ask me to lie down for 30 minutes.  Awesomepants!  That I can do...I'm very good at resting.  Strapped a heart rate monitor around my chest and got comfy on the mat.  After 10 minutes, I was asked to put a snorkel in my mouth (okay, it wasn't a snorkel, it was a mouthpiece attached to a tube attached to a huge machine that analysed my breathing), had a clothes peg put on my nose (again, probably something more scientificy), and told to "relax" and breath normally.  Easier said than done, after just a few minutes I had the worst case of dry mouth EVER.  I persevered, and eventually will find out my resting metabolic rate...or in layman's terms:  how many calories my body expends by doing absolutely nothing.  From this, we'll be able to calculate the number of calories I need to simply exist...and how many I should consume for weight loss.  Part one complete...easy peasy lemon squeezey.

My nemesis.

Part two begins...difficult difficult lemon difficult.  It's one thing to accept your body - I get it, I'm fat...but it is another thing entirely to have someone draw Xs on your body where they're going to grab the flab with a calliper and measure it, before going back in and measuring various circumferences with a tape measure.  Good thing I don't feel sorry for myself (okay, maybe I did, but just a smidge), or I would have gotten all up inside my head about it.  I had measurements taken on skin that hadn't seen the light of day since Spring Break 1992.  I suppose it's a good thing to know your body composition....but no one wants to find out that the majority of their configuration is fat...unless you are bacon...mmmm bacon.

Padawan me suited up for the bacta tank.

And now the Star Warsy part...after being pinched and prodded, I was introduced to my nemesis:  the treadmill.  *Insert diabolical laughter here*  We meet again.  This time, application of the scuba gear involved a halo (there's a first time for everything) to hold the mouthpiece in place.  And I was told to walk forward.  I can do that.  

As I walked, the treadmill would be increased to different levels of intensity - 5 levels in total.  I am of course terrified of this, but luckily the intervals are only 3 minutes long.  Having said that, I had no idea how long just 3 minutes actually was...until I had to exercise for 3 WHOLE minutes.  Ha!  You start out easy and then it gets harder...they didn't make me run or anything impossible like that, it was a mosey to a stroll to a romp to jaunt to a "let me just walk super fast up this hill to get away from that hungry looking wampa."  It felt a little Luke Skywalkery, you know, being hooked up to tubes like when he was in the bacta tank in THE EMPIRE STRIKES BACK...without the Jedi part...or the water...or being on Hoth.  So really, nothing like Star Wars actually...except for the tubes.  Oh, who cares...when do I get my tauntaun?

Aerobic Testing complete.

You break it, you buy it.

Tomorrow I have my fitness testing at the Canadian Sport Institute Victoria's lab...yes...I will be hooked up to fancy machines that will tell my physiologists how out of shape I am. 

Oh joy, I also get to have skin fold tests!  Which means I'm going to have to expose some skin to somebody other than my husband...and I don't have a sports bra.  In fact, I don't have any sort of detached bra.  I find it much more comfy to wear what I affectionately call "bodysuits."  I suppose it's shapewear (adult onesies?  Ha!)...whatever the name of it, it cuts down on the jiggle, so I wear them.  And I can't tomorrow.  It's not allowed.  I already asked.

Off I go (with my mom) to buy a sports bra.

In the change room with all the XXL sports bras I could find (and frankly, I'm not sure there's enough material to go around), I hang up my shirt, roll down my onesie and attempt to stretch a fluorescent pink tit sling over my head.

Level 1 achieved - Garment over head!

At which point I lose my grip on the thing and it snaps around my body just below my armpits.  Not good.  I have never felt more like a Tyrannosaurus Rex in my life.  I'm thrashing around trying to get at least a thumb hold...then I get one...and I have to attempt to unroll the spandex...easier said than done.  I get one side unravelled...but only one side...so I scoop up a boob and shove it up into the thing.

Level 2 achieved - One breast in garment!

All of the thrashing about in the change room has alerted the saleswoman that I may be in need of assistance.  She checks on me by knocking on the door and asking how I'm doing.  Don't worry, I didn't subject her to..."Hey, if you could just come in here and grab hold of that elastic there in the front and hold it out away from my body so that I can squeeze my hand down and grab my other boob..."  I managed to do all that on my own.  However, I did think at one point that I was going to have to go to the cash and produce a tag from underneath my shirt for customer service to scan.  What happens if you get trapped in unpurchased merchandise?  Do they have giant scissors on hand in case people need emergency cutting-out-of?  Haha..

Game over - Breasts strapped so tightly to chest that breathing is inhibited...and also both bound boobs have formed one bowl-shaped protuberance just below my chin...yes...it's as sexy as it sounds.

So, no sports bra for me.

Oh wait, if you go to another store and pay $50 they make those in the right size with clasps in the back?  Haha..sign me up.

Crisis averted.