Numbers Game

As you've no doubt heard, those pesky doctors and health experts on TV and in magazines are always saying that losing even 5% of your body weight can have positive effects. And to that I said, "Riiiight. Five percent? I wouldn't even notice that!"

But then a funny thing happened: I noticed my pants were loose. Like, furreal loose. Highly skeptical and thinking that maybe I'd just been setting the dryer on a lower setting and/or some Lycra somewhere wasn't keeping its shape any longer, I paid no mind for a few days. But then another pair of pants were really loose, like, slip-them-off-without-un-bottoning loose. So I took a brutally painful, but ultimately necessary step...right on to the scale.

Yes, I have a scale. You know, because, in theory, I weight myself every week to track my "progress" on my "weight loss plan" without the use of any irony or "finger quotes." But in reality the thing had been amassing cat-hair dust bunnies and - some days - real cats, for lack of any real utility in my bathroom. A little dust-off and calibration of the settings (no since getting all excited if the thing was off by 5 pounds)...and...gingerly step on.

Half open one eye, lest I get to excited...and...whoa! That can't be right.

Adjust glasses...and...it is right! I did it! I lost 5% of my body weight. And I had noticed as much in the looseness of my pants. Hmm...perhaps these docs are right after all. It only takes a little to start seeing big difference. And it just gets you motivated to keep moving forward. Ten percent of body weight gone...here I come!

Hold Me Closer, Not-So-Tiny Dancer

At some point during the last month, I decided to make some changes. As many of you know, I recently turned 30 and, well, I didn't want to be the frumpy 30-something career gal who stays home with her cats all the time. (NO comments from the peanut gallery on that one!)

Instead, I wanted to be the person I'd always thought I'd be as I got older: poised, put together, purposeful. And not least of all, curious enough to learn new things whenever such opportunities presented themselves.

Which lead me to make a few changes. Contacts and a haircut topped the list right off the bat. Having not revealed my eyes outside of thick-ish lenses for nearly half a decade, applying mascara and eye liner was quite a jolt to me and, apparently, to all I came in contact with. "Wow! Your eyes are gorgeous!" I hadn't heard that in ages and I'm not too proud to say it felt nice to receive vanity-based compliments.

More long-term goals emerged:

• Create an apartment worthy of a magazine, yet not so cozy that I never want to leave. (You can view my ongoing attempts here.)
  
• Reconnect with some people form my past who I parted on not ideal terms. Somehow, as adults, the petty squabbles of the past seem irrelevant and even silly.
• Do something that takes me so far freakin' out of my comfort zone that I'm forced to change my being not only mentally, but physically.

It is this last goal that found me standing in front of a full-wall mirror, ballet-shoes on my feet (size 14, natch) - a barre under my right palm - with11 other sweaty, slightly clumsy adult in a beginning dance class. Now mind you, I never had designs on being a ballerina as a child. I was more interested in stuffing my little sister into a hand-made cradle so as to recount the litany of diseases this poor, destitute child (in my imagination, anyway) was going to succumb. She was a brave little patient, to boot.

My single attempt at "dancing" came at the ripe at of four, when I was politely encouraged to pursue a hobby in playing music, not moving to it. Even a semi-positive foray into folk dancing during elementary school (Tarentella, anyone?) only further my resolved to be in the band.

So what leads a perfectly sane adult to stand in form-fitting clothes and ill-fitting slippers (I finally figured out how to tie them afterward...of course) in front of a very unforgiving mirror and harsh lighting on a rainy night in October? A sense of adventure, I guess. And a deeply misguided belief that I, too, might someday execute a Fouetté rond de jambe en tournant with the greatest of ease. Whatever that means.

On this night, however, I was happy to just to be able to "tondu" from first to second. And not fall over in the process. In fact, I was quite happy with the progression of the first class. The instructor was not rail-thin (thank goodness!), she had a wonderful sense of humor (apparently my suggestion that learning jumps would only take about 20 minutes was a "good" ballet jokes), and the class as a whole -if not totally able to conquer the sautée on the first try - earnestly embraced every new term and step as if we were new immigrants memorizing the answers to the citizenship test. The French citizenship test, that is.

I'm kinda hooked now. Moving like this felt good! The next day I had muscles screaming that I hadn't felt since a misstep in high school plyometrics rendered me nearly unable to drag myself up the stairs without both hands on the rail. Indeed, the endorphine rush continues; I'm fully confident that within a month or two, I'll be showing off my prowess like a white girl version of Gregory Hines and Mikhail Baryshnikov in White Knights. And on that note, here's a preview of my next moves. Watch closely: you might just experience that perfect Fouetté rond de jambe en tournant after all.

I'm so vain...

Okay, let's be brutally honest here: eating healthier and working out are great for the body and mind. But what about my wardrobe? I won't lie: I want to lose weight to fit into my designer clothes. After reading a brilliant article by British writer Tanya Gold in the Mail Online (don't judge) last May, I've become somewhat obsessed with how designers treat larger women. And I'm not talking about models and eating disorders and all that jazz, but rather the size-12 and up market for those of us who have the bucks to spend but nowhere to spend them.

Apparently the plus-size clothing market has seen twice the decrease in sales as compared to women's apparel (10 versus 5 percent), which is a bit quixotic in a recession. Or is it? Obese women - on average - earn $2.64 per hour less than their average-size colleagues. Cutting back on clothing, therefore, makes sense.

I, however, have never stopped loving clothes, regardless of my size. But I'm really starting to miss out on the great pieces lying fallow in my color-coded closet. Where have you been, Balenciaga? You've left me jilted, Jil Sander. Dries van Noten's just draped over the hanger. Moschino and Miu Miu...I've missed you. If no single other thing keeps me eating healthy and walking that mile to the Metro, then let it be vanity.

Even in this time of recession fashion and cutting back, the words of George Hamilton in Zorro, the Gay Blade: "Remember, my people, there is no shame in being poor … only in dressing poorly."

Big Girls Need Love, Too

...So said OutKast's Big Boi in 2007's "The Way You Move." And it's true, we do. Especially those of us who have a weak spot for high fashion. Only fashion doesn't love us back so much.

Try to find something amazing in a size 14. Try it! I dare you. It's virtually impossible. Although a handful of designers (Michael Kors, Ralph Lauren) design clothing in "Women's" sizes (as opposed to "Misses" - don't ask me what that's supposed to mean), finding amazingly well-designed, high-end fashion for a 6 foot tall woman of generous proportions is virtually impossible.

And yet I continue to shop. And - more importantly - I continue to lose weight. The latter is the key, you see. Because I'm not going to be changing the fashion industry any time soon, and I sure as heck ain't gonna miraculously discover some heretofore unknown haute couture plus-size fashion line.

So I keep walking and working out and crossing my fingers and, finally, order a size "L" from a designer label (in this case, Elizabeth and James) and it fits. Honest to goodness, there's no wrestling or mirror-tricks involved. It's an off-the-rack size 10 and I can slide it on with no problems.

Take that fashion industry. I'm back in business. You've been warned.

Baby Got Back

So I'm home sick today (still out with may-juh chest pain last night and this morning, although I am feeling a bit better this afternoon) and watching the Law & Order Marathon on whatever-cable-channel. The episode is titled "Fat" and centers around the bullying and beating up of a group of siblings...because they're - you guessed it! - fat.

Two thoughts on this: first, even though I've put on a lot (a lot!) of weight in the last two years, I have not once experienced active discrimination/taunting/commentary on my weight gain or - for people who didn't know me before - current size. This might seem impossible to some, and I'm sure there have been the occasional sales clerk or two who turned the other way, figuring I wouldn't fit into their offerings, but I currently work part time in a clothing store where only a handful of items would fit me. And guess what? I sell women's (and men's) clothes like nobody's business.

So nobody's holding my size against me. Why is this? I'm reminded of how brutal people can be when thinking back on the first time I heard of Saartjie Baartman, aka the "Venus Hottentot," a Khoikhoi woman turned European sideshow "freak" at the turn of the 18th Century. She - like many Khoi women - exhibited steatopygia, resulting in abnormally large large buttocks. As such, she was exhibited naked in public and openly mocked for her unique physique, especially in France.

Now THAT is size discrimination.
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I guess somewhere between Saartjie and I lies the wide continuum of fat jokes, sideways tsk-ing glances, and the realization that the euphemistically named "Women's Deparment" might be the better place to shop. Perhaps the lacking of any real emotional or mental negativity surrounding my weight gain has prevented me from finding the right motivation to really kick-start my weight loss and workout regime.

Does this mean I need a series of insults to send me on my way? Not at all. But I am surely grateful for all of my friends and family who have recognized the change and realized that negativity and belittling do nothing to support a person trying to improve herself. And for that, I say merci.

And I Ran...I Ran So Far Away

So this is really dumb: I'm running a 5K on July 4th. Correction: I'll probably be walking most of it, with a dash of jogging and maybe a sparse sprinkling of actual running. It's kinda amazing. I mean, I signed up for this darn thing over a month ago and...guess what?! That month sure did pass by quickly.

But, I'm going to go and I'm going to stick it out. Have I been "really" training? No. Have I been walking more and more each week, eating better, and lost weight? Yes. Will I be traversing the course with a trained, seasoned athlete who will help me gauge my ability to finish all five K's? Also yes. Which is why I'm going to show up, tough it out (within healthy, reasonable limits), and hopefully use this event at the kick in the butt I need to get serious about the 10K in the fall.

Is this a pretty crazy, slightly not-smart plan. Probably. But like I've said before, I'm not one to live my life without a little extreme behavior now and then. Who know? Maybe I'll end up like Emil Zatopek (above), the only athlete ever to win the 5K, 10K, and Marathon in an Olympics. Only instead of a quadrennial sporting event, my accomplishments might come over the course of a year, or a lifetime.

This Saturday just might be the start of a beautiful thing.

Burnout

Sorry for being in absentia the last few days, dear readers. You see, I've been a bit under the weather. Between going for my first official training walk/jog last Thursday, the attendant shin splints thereafter, and a moderate case of heat exhaustion the past two days, your truly has certainly found better ways in the past to spend her Memorial Day Weekend. Alas, 'twas not to be this year. I shan't complain, though, seeing as how I do believe that my clothes are fitting a big looser and I am slowly saying goodbye to double-XL's and hello to just XL. Hoorah!


As I was marinating in the heat being given off by my own skin and sweat the last couple days (how's THAT for a compelling mental image?), I had time to reflect upon how far I've come over the past month. To wit: I've increased the amount of time I walk each day by at least fourfold, I've gotten my bike repaired and started riding further than the 5 blocks to and from the laundromat, I purchased a new pair of running shoes and actually jogged in them for a combined total of eight minutes.

And while this might now seem like much to some, for me it's a sign that I'm finally ready to make some lasting changes in my life and in a body that I barely recognize as my own some days. Tomorrow, back to hitting the pavement...

Take the Subway to Small Pants

Put on my pants today, just like any other day: one leg at a time. Only something was different. My pants were...looser. What?!

No.

Get out.

I've been working out and eating healthy (-ish) for just a week. Is it possible that - just like on those reality shows with morbidly obese people - the first week is filled with wonderful weight loss surprises? Just like that?

It wasn't my imagination. They really were looser. I had to keep pulling them up all day. The hem was dragging the floor. And I had been eating $5 Footlongs all week. Just like Jared.

Okay, first thoughts: don't take this for granted and don't sabotage it. Meaning...this initial feeling of euphoria will probably be filled with many feelings of frustration, and one day of loose pants does not an evening of pizza consumption excuse.

But just for now, just for today, I'm going to enjoy these loose pants. I've worked hard for them.