All I want for Christmas is...

Some very small physical modifications. That's all. Really.

Oh and world peace.

And maybe universal healthcare everyone can live with. But we probably missed the boat on that one, though.

Anyway. Maybe acceptance is the way to go. Be grateful for what we get, yada yada yada. As Chicky's preschool teachers always say, "You get what you get and you don't get upset." Which, you know, is fine for 4 year olds but always kind of bugged me.

*sigh*

(But Merry Christmas anyway! I hope Santa fills your stockings up good... and I mean that in a totally non-dirty way. Maybe. Ho ho ho!

You dirty ho, you.)

It would have been quicker to script, record, and edit my own infomercial, but here you go - my weight loss secrets in two easy (pssh) steps.

(Sorry, it's a long one. Grab a healthy snack and settle in.)

I've had more than a few people ask me what I did to lose twelve pounds in 6 weeks.* I'd like to say it was as "simple" as working out and eating right, but anyone who has ever buckled down and changed their lifestyle dramatically knows it's anything but simple.

Y'all, those six weeks were wicked hard, but it wasn't impossible. Big distinction there. The key to my weight loss came down to the one/two punch of diet and exercise, and by "diet" I mean watching what I ate, not some crazy I'm-only-eating-kiwi-and-I-Can't-Believe-It's-Not-Butter-for-six-weeks diet.

Let's start at the beginning:

Food

I really like to eat; I love a well prepared, multiple course meal with a glass of wine (or three) and maybe some warm bread with good olive oil and a sprinkling of sea salt... and oh my gawd, my tummy. It is rumbling. But I particularly like to snack. I love chocolate, and Nutella, and salty chips, and Nutella, and cookies... Made with chocolate and Nutella maybe with a side of salty chips and is anyone else hungry right now? Giving up the snack foods was more than I could bear so I compromised - I ate smaller, more frequent meals that were heavier on the protein and fiber and lighter on the carbs so I could have a few pieces of chocolate at the end of the day when I needed it most.

The important part to all of this was that I counted calories obsessively. I kept a food diary and wrote down the approximate calories for each meal and tallied them as the day went on. If I wanted 120 calories worth of chocolate**, for instance, I needed to eat 120 calories less a day than I normally would. Or I would work out harder. More on that later. As the weeks went on I became really good at guessing how many calories were in a particular meal.

For six weeks I kept my calories between 1000 - 1400. If I exercised I could consume closer to 1400 and still lose weight, if I didn't I was stuck to around 1000. Believe me, I exercised.

Okay, a typical day's menu:

Breakfast:

Small bowl of Kefir with homemade granola (that way, I knew exactly what went into it. Mine always had almonds in it. Mmm, protein.) and either berries or a few pieces of sliced banana, a cup of coffee with skin milk and a touch of sugar, followed by the first glass of water of the day.

Alternate: Piece of whole grain toast with tiny smear of peanut butter, fruit, coffee, water.

Super busy morning breakfast: Egg and cheese breakfast wrap from Dunkin' Donuts and a small iced coffee with skim milk, no sugar.

Not allowed: Lattes. *sigh*

Snacks:

100 calorie pack of almonds (I almonds on me at all times. They really help with the crashes.), or carrots or celery or fruit. I never want to see a carrot or a piece of celery for as long as I live, or until I need to put some in my Chicky's lunch box.

Lunch:

Usually a spinach salad of some sort. I found lots of ways to eat salad - with fruit or berries, nuts, seeds or a few pieces of chicken breast, touch of vinegar and oil. Done.

Alternate: A turkey burger (no bun) from Trader Joe's, topped with two tablespoons of jarred bruschetta, also from Trader Joe's, or
A portion of a chicken breast with the same bruschetta (I heart Trader Joe's bruschetta and no, they didn't pay me to say that. But if they ever want to send me a lifetime supply of the stuff... Hey Trader Joe's - Call me.) and a side of steamed vegetables.

Dinner:

Very similar to lunch. I was eating a lot of simple foods and since my kids are suspicious of anything that they can't recognize, making dinner was pretty easy. I also made more vegetarian meals and cut out red meat almost entirely. One of my favorite vegetarian meals was this one. So. FREAKING. Good. And no butter or oil needed. Healthy, FTW!

If I was time crunched and needed something substantial to last me a good amount of time - say if I missed lunch and it was 2pm and if I didn't eat something good I'd eat all my kids' snacks, my kids, and then I'd eat dinner - I'd fry one egg in Pam, top it with a half a slice of cheese (or if I wanted to be wild and crazy, a full slice. Somebody stop me!) and put it on a plain whole wheat english muffin (no butter! NO. BUTTER. Can you imagine?). That was roughly around 225 calories and kept me very sated for a long period.

Gratuitous picture of edible baby, eating.

The thing to notice here, chickens, is that I did not eliminate carbs from my diet. Carbs are your friend, but the kind of friend you only like to visit with once and a while. You love them but you know if you spent too much time with them you'd end up passed out, drooling and burping on the floor with your shirt off. Everyone has those friends, right?

Eating out was pretty much out of the question. If I didn't know exactly what went into it and couldn't count the calories, I didn't eat it. That meant I had to shop more (quick aside, why is eating healthy so damn expensive? WHY??) and cook more but overall I'd say the money we saved from not eating out more than outweighed the money we spent on more healthy groceries.

As for alcohol, that was off the menu too. Mr. C and I would split a bottle of wine a week and that was about it. I'm not going to lie, there were a few nights I cried. Instead, I drank water. Much water. So much that I had my own undertow.

The first three weeks were the hardest, after that it got a little easier every week until, toward the end, it got to the point where I simply could not finish a Dunkin' Donuts' egg and cheese breakfast wrap. My body had gotten used to eating small portions it refused to consume more. And because I eliminated the majority of processed foods from my diet, I felt better, my skin looked better, and I was happier. Refined white flour and food additives are the devil. That's my story and I'm sticking to it.

The bad part of this challenge food-wise was the day, toward the end of week six, when I Googled "How many calories in grapes". I didn't eat the grapes because eating them would have pushed me over my limit for the day. That's just wrong, necessary to do anything I could within my power to win, but wrong. Now I eat smarter; I eat almost anything I want and almost always in moderation. Except for that jar of Nutella I consumed the day after the end of the challenge. And the week of Thanksgiving. And that chocolate orgy I had last night.

I'm back on the wagon now, okay? Moving along...

Exercise

Speaking of The Devil,


I practically lived on this thing. Or maybe it just felt like that. I was on that elliptical trainer for 30 to 40 minutes pretty much every day. I started slow on the manual setting so I wouldn't hurt anything (I still ended up with sore knees during that first week but nothing three Advil couldn't handle) and gradually worked up to doing intervals on level 5. On my machine that means the lowest setting, when my body was "resting", was actually on level 7 and at the highest it was at level 11. It felt a lot like running on really soft sand. I can't even describe how much that sucked but toward the end I was practically running for 40 minutes while singing basterdized military cadence. Which pretty much came down to me humming "I want to be an airborne ranger" like John Bender in the Breakfast Club (WHY is this video not on the internet somewhere??) while shaking my fist a lot and shouting Hooah! I'm not proud of any of that but, damn, it felt good to go 3 miles without passing out.

After almost dying working out on the elliptical, I would follow up with crunches - many, many crunches - and light weights for my upper body. And that's about that.... Except, I should mention here one thing. It is really difficult to find time to exercise when you have two really demanding little kids and a husband that travels constantly for work. /whining

The trick now is maintaining. I'm sad to say that after last week I am now up 2.5 pounds but I am committed to losing this weight to get back to my lowest and maybe even losing another 2 or 3 pounds. The weight doesn't matter to me, however, as much as toning does. I've never had muscular legs so I'd really like to lose more of the jiggle in my thighs, to say nothing of the junk in my trunk. I'd also like to firm my arms and shoulders and strengthen my core, back and shoulders. And cure cancer, pass the healthcare bill, save the world's starving kittens and help David Hasselhoff kick the booze. I think it can be done.

When I started this challenge I had a terrible pain in the left side of my abdominal muscles that started soon after I had CC and even went as far as having an ultrasound in that area to rule out any internal problems. After week 4, the pain almost entirely went away. Ditto most of my back problems. I have a history of severe back pain so this made me very happy. My physical therapist was right all along - strengthen the core and the pain goes away! I mean, wow, this is revolutionary. Everyone should know about this! I should write a book or something.

Before this, I also had a constant upset stomach unless I ate something. It was a lot like how a lot of women experience morning sickness - if I ate something the nausea would go away but if I didn't eat every two hours I'd get pretty sick, close to vomiting. (Sorry for the visual) I'm going to chalk that up to 18 combined months of severe hyperemesis followed by some pretty spectacularly bad eating habits. It's all but gone now. I've got it under control.

Weight loss and fitting into my skinny jeans was all a wonderful side effect of this challenge but the ultimate victory was getting myself on the road to health. Also a kick ass result? A couple of my girlfriends are competing in a weight loss challenge of their own. These two are too. I'm a mutha-effing role model! Hoo-ah!


*Reading that sentence after watching the Biggest Loser last night really makes me feel like a slacker. They lose 12 pounds in a week. A WEEK. I'm clearly not doing something right. Why are you still reading this?

**Individually wrapped chocolates. They's your friend.

Winning is its greatest reward. Winning, not having to wear spandex AND eating a jar of Nutella the next day is better.

Whoops. I might have missed posting about a little something last week.

That bet I had with Matthew? Ahem... [totally doing my best impression of Elle Woods when she finds out she got the last intern spot] I WON!

Oh yes I did.

I lost 11.5 pounds in six weeks! Boo-freaking-yah.

I went from 139.5 to 128. I'm still in shock that I was able to pull this off, especially - and don't tell Matthew this - since I really effed off during the first week. It was apple cider doughnut season and I refused to go an entire year without partaking of that manna from the heavens that is a fresh from the fryer apple cider doughnut. I have this thing about doughnuts. It's a problem I have no desire to get help for. So during that first week I may have eaten four doughnuts...

Okay, five. Five doughnuts...

Six, I ate a half dozen doughnuts. Are you happy? I was, until I checked the scale and I went up at least half a pound. So actually, I lost 12 pounds.

I don't have any before pictures because I forgot to take them and I don't have any after pictures because every mirror in my house is in a really dark room and I can't take a decent photo. I'm going to try to remember to take my measurements later and compare them to some measurements I took late this summer but my jeans are saying I lost some serious weight. From now until I save some money to buy some new pants, you can call me "Saggy ass" because my booty has gotten so much smaller it swims in pretty much every pair of jeans I own.

But the first thing to go, I'm sorry to say, was my chest. A moment of silence for my breasts please.

.....

That's a cruel twist and especially not fair to those of us who didn't have much in the chesticle region to begin with. I'm really wishing I hadn't thrown away all those Miracle Bras I owned.

However, I fit into my goal jeans now! And most of the time I need to wear a belt with them!

You can't see me but I'm doing my happy dance right now. It looks like a slightly less coordinated seizure.

Our weight loss challenge came right down to the wire and in the end I only beat him by something like .06%. I have to admit there was a small part of me that felt bad when I told Matthew how much I had lost. I know he worked his ass off (pun intended) and I also know I gave him the impression that I was not doing so well. That was not completely intentional. I knew it would mess with his head a little bit but I was totally on the level with him from the beginning. For the longest time I seemed to be stuck at 8 pounds lost. I couldn't lose any more than that damn 8 pounds and normally I'd be fine with that but for the sake of this challenge I had to get over that hurdle. And I did but don't ask me how. It's a mystery.

Then I broke my toe, the same one I broke back in June. But this time I didn't accidentally kick a foot stool. No, this time I accidentally kicked the five pound weights I had left on the living room floor. How's that for irony?

No pictures of me in all my skinny glory but I've got a big picture of my discolored broken toe for you. You're welcome.
But ain't it purdy?

Then I got the head cold from hell. The only bright spot in that last week of the challenge is that, thanks to the cold, I had no desire to eat, which came in handy because I couldn't work out for three days due to the sickness and the toe. But those last few days before our final weigh-in I stuffed my angry toe into my sneakers and I did intervals on my elliptical trainer until I was practically in tears and hacking so badly I needed to sit down or risk passing out. I was NOT going to let him beat me.

Stubborn? Who, me? Why yes, yes I am.

If you haven't done so yet, please go gaze upon Matthew in all of his spandexed glory - that was our bet, after all, loser wears spandex and posts pictures for the world to see - and while you're there tell him what a great job he did because I never could have done this without his motivation.

---------------

For more on my love of doughnuts, I have a review up at New England Mamas about a Sweet pastry shop and dessert lounge. If you're a local and love a good pastry, you might want to check it out.

But if I do lose I'm totally going to rock it Olivia Newton John style.

Apparently, it takes another bet to force me out of hiding and writing on my blog again, but this is so worth it.

But let me back up a bit.

There comes a time in every person's life when they see the handwriting on the wall, where it is written in HUGE BLOCK SCREAMY LETTERS -

HEY, COTTAGE CHEESE ASS, PUT DOWN THE DOUGHNUT!

I've never been one to pay much mind to HUGE BLOCK SCREAMY LETTERS, especially when they're being insulting, so I kept eating the doughnuts. Lots of them. Because I love them dearly. Mostly the apple cider type because it is apple season around here and, oh my sweet jeebus! Have you ever tasted a fresh out of the fryer apple cider doughnut? Lightly sprinkled with cinnamon and sugar?? That's a little piece of heaven on earth right there, I'll tell ya. Uh huh. A little piece of doughy on the inside, crispy on the outside, fried in lard and covered in sugar heaven...

[Insert picture of me with a thought balloon over my head with a picture of a warm apple cider doughnut and a big goofy grin on my face here]

What I'm trying to say is, I may have partook of the baked goods a little too much lately. I've gained a bit of weight (a small child) and my jeans don't exactly fit anymore (sausage thighs) and after going through all that torture to find jeans that fit, well, that's just not acceptable. Also, I'm cheap and instead of buying new jeans that do fit I'm squeezing myself into jeans that don't fit and it's amazing I make it through the day without passing out at least twice from lack of oxygen.

I wish I could say this was a gradual process and it sort of snuck up on me but the truth of the matter is, most of my weight gain has happened since BlogHer in July. I had lost some weight before the conference (mainly to fit into those new jeans and as not to embarrass myself too much in front of size 0 boutique sales associates named Kimmy) but since I've been home it has been a nonstop baking and gorging extravaganza around here. And also more than a little late night Nutella eating. Straight out of the jar. Maybe a spoon was involved, but probably not. I have no shame.

And did I mention I broke my toe in June which made putting on a pair of sneakers really difficult? It's hard to exercise when you can't put on sneakers. May as well just sit on the couch with a full jar of hazelnut spread and practice my french kissing technique.

(No. Shame.)

I'm not the heaviest I've ever been but I'm close, and this is certainly the saggiest I've ever been. I waved at CC the other day while I was getting ready when I caught sight of myself in the bathroom mirror. My hand stopped saying hello but my upper arm flab was still flailing enthusiastically. Guess how I dealt with my sorrow.

Now, you might be saying to yourself, But Tania, why don't you stop eating so many cupcakes, and cookies and doughnuts and for heaven's sake take your head out of the Nutella jar and start working out. And to you I say,

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!

I love food and I love to bake, and as strongly as I feel for all things fatty and sugary I have equal hatred for working out. I hate the gym. I loathe everything about it. I lack the inclination and desire to go and honestly that steep monthly price tag for a gym membership is not enough to guilt me into dragging my saggy parts to a facility that smells like body odor to work out on weight machines that are really torture devices in disguise. Torture devices that may or may not have been wiped down after the guy with the back 'fro used it before me.

No, what I need is outside motivation - for instance, a) a team sport or b) a personal trainer who is waiting for me to show up, or c) someone to work out with each and every day who also has the same messed up schedule as I have. Since none of those are readily available since a) Team sports for women of a certain age (ahem) are hard to come by, b) did I mention I was cheap?, and c) okay, that's a possibility but that still requires actually going to a gym. And did I mention my broken toe that isn't broken anymore...? Do I need to continue? I've got a million excuses, none of them good. Bottom line, there is one thing that can properly motivate me to work out and that one thing is my desire to WIN.

And also to fit into these again.

My favorite jeans. I bought these for BlogHer '07. Then I got pregnant and haven't really worn them since. Sigh.

And maybe if I'm really good, maybe these.

Zexy. I'd like to order the ass too. Size small.

What's really not sitting well with me is the fact that I am of a certain age (ahem) and I can't shove cupcake after cookie down my gaping yap while washing it down with a big juicy steak and not expect that it's going to affect me adversely. I've been having some health concerns lately and it's high time I start taking care of myself better so that I can live long enough to be an annoying, pesky, meddling burden on my children.

Which brings me to the bet.

After chatting (okay, bitching) with Matthew from Childsplayx2 about how many pounds we've both gained since BlogHer (My misery! It loves company! Huzzah!) we realized the only thing that was going to motivate us to lose weight was our ultra competitive spirits and threats of public humiliation.

So we made a bet - Who can lose the bigger percentage of weight in six weeks.

Yes I realize I've already made a bet with him recently and I lost but this time the bet is more interesting and the stakes are higher. Much higher, and possibly wider, but without a doubt, more embarrassing.

The wager - The loser has to post a picture of himself (or herself, but let's face it it's going to be him) on their blog wearing spandex. And maybe a neon pink headband.

(Psst, anyone know where I can find a neon pink headband? You can send it directly to Matthew. Heh.)

The threat of not only stuffing my thighs into stretchy shorts but also posting photographic proof of it for the internet and friends and family to see is more than enough motivation to get my ass in gear and get healthy. Skinny jeans are a powerful motivator but fear is BETTER.

We started our bet yesterday, Thursday, October 8. I have until November 19th to lose a higher percentage of weight than Matthew. Since everyone knows men lose weight more easily than women, I'm going to need some help from the internets to keep me focused. I'll take suggestions for weight loss plans (I already know about the Shred. I lasted 3 days. That should tell you something.), diet tips, disgusting pictures to tape to my refrigerator... Anything.

Also, excuse my crankiness. I'm starving.

Wish me luck!

--------------

Starting weight as of October 8: 139.5 lbs

The search for the perfect pair of jeans. Alternate title: The grass is always greener on someone else's thighs.

I am at war with my body.

After two kids and almost 37 years on the earth, not to mention the winter and long, cold, wet spring we just went through (or as I like to call it, Nutella-Palooza, '08 - '09), things don't look quite the same as they did back in the day. "The Day" being when I was a size 0 and my legs looked like tree branches. Skinny, knobby tree branches. Skinny, knobby tree branches that then were the source of much teasing but are now in style. Fucking tree branches.

I'm having difficulty reconciling the fact that my body is different than it used to be. I was always very skinny, naturally so, and I never had to work out (though I did, it's much more enjoyable when you don't have to) and eating a Quarter Pounder with Cheese with a side of large fries and washing it down with a 10 piece Chicken McNugget was something I never gave much thought to.

(Nary an extra pound nor bout of heartburn to contend with. Ah, memories.)

Do you hate me for writing that*? It's okay, I kind of hate me right about now. More to the point, I kind of hate the 22 year old me (and 19 year old me, and 15 year old me and...) for not liking the way she looked back then. I'd like to go back in time and shake her by her slender neck (the one that didn't have the beginnings of a waddle hanging over it) and tell her to lose the negative body image thing (Because, really? You're 110 pounds and 5'8. Suck it up, Buttercup) and enjoy going into any store she wanted to and buying whatever type of clothing caught her fancy without ever needing to try it on. I'd kind of like to tell the 30 year old me the same thing. I'd also tell her to wear more sunscreen.

My body, though still on the slender side, has changed. Things that were once flat are now bumpy and things that were once firm are now jiggly. Which is fine if you're a jello salad but not so much if you're a woman with body issues.

Pants don't fit the same and Spanx is not something kinky one does in the bedroom. And I certainly don't have the luxury of going into clothing stores and buying things without a trip to the dreaded changing room, with their flourescent lights (very flattering to dimpled thigh fat, by the way. If I wanted a diorama of the Grand Canyon I'd make one out of a shoe box and some modeling clay, thank you very much.) and institutional paint job designed to make sure you don't get all cocky in those new clothes.

But believe it or not, this post is not about negative body image.

(Really Tania? After all that this isn't just you bitching about your body? No really, you should thank me. What I've got on that subject could fill the entire internet and if I did that there would be no more room for videos of cats falling off of pianos, so I'll save it for now. You're welcome)

No this post is about denim. Or more to the point, the search for the perfect pair of jeans.

Like ROUS's, I don't think they exist. (Gosh, that joke never gets old, does it?) At least not for less than the price of a used mid-sized sedan. But still I search. I try on. I squeeze and tuck - you know, got to put the muffin top somewhere - and grunt and groan. And then I get frustrated and pig out on french fries.

All I want is a decent pair of jeans that don't make me look like I'm smuggling watermelons in my thighs. Except for cupcake top around my middle (I know it's a muffin top but cupcakes are sweeter. And they have frosting. And I love them with all my heart. And that may be why I have a muffin top.) I'm still on the smaller (read: medium) side and my hips aren't too bad, it's my upper thighs that always get me. I keep hearing Stacy and Clinton say, Look for a pair of pants that hits you at your widest point and then goes straight down from there. Yeah, THEY DON'T MAKE THOSE.

Two words - Skinny. Jeans.

Two more words - Fuck. Off.

Still, they have to be out there somewhere. I shop, I buy, I come to my senses, and I return. Lather, Rinse, Repeat. That's how I roll.

But let's take this step by step, shall we?

So here is how I shop for the perfect pair of jeans, in 18 easy steps

(Okay I know - 18?? It was 29 but I edited. You're welcome.)

Ahem.

Step 1: Go through your entire wardrobe and try on every pair of jeans you own. Chuck out the old, the tired, the out of style, the "What in the Sam Hell was I thinking?" and the "Not in a million years and an eating disorder will you ever fit in these again". Realize you're down to one pair of jeans that fits and you're only keeping those because picking up your child from preschool whilst nearly naked from the waist down is probably not going to win you any friends.

Step 2: Cry over the death of your youth and then give your children the stink eye for ruining your figure. Then hug your children because you feel badly for thinking that way (Oh, you're totally still thinking it, but with love.)

Step 3: Decide to shop for jeans online because poking at your thighs and squeezing your belly flap is more socially acceptable while standing in your own bedroom. While popping Hershey's Kisses.

Step 4: Ask lovely people on Twitter where they shop. Love the people on Twitter. On Twitter no one knows your thighs aren't as thin as they once were. Unless you tell them. Which you will because it's TWITTER.

Step 5: Take suggestions and then search every website known to man. Make disparaging remarks about the anorexic models and their nonexistent hips. Words "bitch" and "bite me" may be used. Liberally.

Step 6: Put a a bunch of jeans that don't scare you in your virtual shopping cart. You can always return the ones you don't like, right? Gasp audibly upon seeing the total while checking out. Decide you could stage a coup in a small third world country for that amount of money and delete a couple (read: all but two) from your cart.

Step 7: Wait for cute UPS guy to deliver a package. Chuckle over the word "package" in relation to cute UPS guy because you're a 12 year old boy. A twelve year old boy with 36 year old hips.

Step 8: When UPS guy shows up 5 days later with your package (heh) answer the door side ways to give the illusion of smaller midsection and smile winningly. Try to ignore his bemused expression and his quick exit. Take box, slam door (but first, watch UPS guy's butt as he makes quick getaway), and then run to bedroom with box in breathless anticipation for Best. Jeans. EVER.

Step 9: Break a nail opening box. Swear. Lie about what those words mean to impressionable four year old who was helping you open the box.

Step 10: Take jeans out of box. Look at them quizzically. Hmm, they looked different online (after two glasses of wine).

Step 11: Try on jeans. Try to find place to put the jelly roll that is your tummy. Above the waistline? Below the waistline? Decide to try to tuck it in like blousy shirt.

Step 12: Detach flesh roll from zipper. Apply Neosporin.

Step 13: Look in full length mirror. Hmm, kind of tight in the thighs. Typical. Maybe heels are needed. Yes, heels are much better! Makes legs look slim! Grunt while running to closet to find pair of heels that don't hurt your broken toe. Give up and decide pain is worth it. Limp back to mirror. Ah, much better. Excruciatingly painful, but better.

Step 14: Decide to take pictures to send to husband who is in California (or Michigan, you forget at this point) to get his opinion.

Step 15: Look at picture in camera screen. Consider Photoshopping your legs before sending picture. Also wonder if your camera is broken. Or maybe your mirror.

Step 16: Cry while on the phone with your husband. I'm sure they look great, he says. Refuse to send him picture. What does he know? He's in Michigan. Or Florida. You forget.

Step 17: Package jeans to return. Suck up shipping fees both ways. Realize that was your iced coffee money for two weeks.

Step 18: Get frustrated. Feel hopeless. Decide after much denial you have no choice but to go to the Mall.

Oh yes, the Mall.

Sometimes, a woman has to do what a woman has to do.

And that is enough for now, lambs.

Tune in next time for THIGHS. IN. SPACE. Er, MALL.

(Okay not really, just part two of The Search for the Perfect Pair of Jeans. Or, If a 100 pound sales girl is murdered in the dressing room of an upscale department store and she totally had it coming but no one is around to witness it, will anyone mourn the loss?)

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*And careful about what you say about size in relation to image problems. Many, many years of teasing has made me what I am today. You picking on me for hating the way I look sometimes will only get you a beat down of epic proportions. Also, I'm fragile.

The Ultimate Struggle

"Mommy, I wanna *mumble mumble mumble* -uggle."

"Huh?"

"I wanna *mumble mumble mumble* -uggle."

"What?"

"I. Wanna. *mumble mumble* -UGGLE."

"I'm sorry, hon, but I have no idea what you're saying."

"I wanna do that." Points to the DVD player.

"Okay first, chew and swallow that snack in your mouth before you talk. It's dangerous and kind of annoying. And second, are you asking for a movie?"

Swallows, "No. I wanna do the Struggle with you."

"The Struggle? What's the Struggle?"

"That." Exasperated sigh. Points. "I wanna do jumping jacks. The Struggle. I wanna do that with you."

"Jumping ja... Do you mean the Shred?"

"Yeah! That. I wanna do that with you. The Struggle."

Only a four year old is going to beg to work out with Jillian Michaels. I, on the other hand, begged off. Needless to say, being a Shredhead didn't work out for me. (But it worked for a lot of other people! Yay!)

I need something different. Anyone have a suggestion for me? Because getting my expanding ass into the jeans I'm wearing right now? That was a struggle.

This is NOTHING like being a Deadhead.

You've heard about The 30 Day Shred, right?

Jillian Michaels? Biggest Loser? She who will kick your ass back and forth 'til Sunday because she wants you to be the best and most sore person you can be?

Yeah, that one.

That psycho hose beast woman has me by the short and curlies. I am her bitch bitch.

Let me back up.

There I was Sunday evening, sipping a glass of wine and eating cookies - and I will interrupt here to say Duuuuuh. Because on any given night you might find me sipping wine and eating cookies. I may have well said I was breathing and blinking - when I got very interested in a Twitter conversation Kristen started about getting a group together to do The Shred. Blame it on the wine, blame it on the cookie crumbs covering my muffin top... hell, blame it on the bossa nova, but I was all Hell Yes! I too want to SHRED!

I had no idea what the Shred entailed but when you have that rosy glow in your belly and a flush on your cheeks that only comes from the one-two punch of vino and tasty treats peddled by Girl Scouts shredding your body seems like a really good idea.

(Also, she named it the Shredheads. Which to my wine soaked brain sounded a helluva lot like Deadheads and I flashed back to my youth - quickly mind you, because have you ever been to a Dead concert? Yeah, poof. My memory, it ain't so good - and I immediately thought of special brownies.

Mmmm, special brownies.

Now you know why I get stuck on so many tangents.)

That good idea in the light of day? When sober? Come to find out, notsomuch.

But if my girls can do it then dammit, so can I. How bad could it be?

[Insert maniacal laughter of those who have done the Shred here]

I'm on day 2 and my thighs have not hurt this much since way back in the day when I was playing high school basketball and our sadistic coach made us do suicides until our legs spontaneously tore from our bodies and picketed outside the gym in protest. If I didn't have a support group I don't think I would keep going. Thanks to Kristen there are others out there at this very moment, shredding.

Viva la Shredheads!

Join us. Really, it's not so bad.

[Bwahahahahaha!]

If you don't want to join, at least lend some moral support. Gifts of cookies are also appreciated.

Here are my starting stats:

Code name: Miss Mary Sunshine

Tag Line: Jillian Michaels can kiss my flabby ass. (Alternate tag - This sucks sweaty donkey balls)

Weight: 136lbs

Goal: I'd like to take my girls to the beach this summer. In a bathing suit. Do I really need to say more?

Diet Plan: Eat less cookies. Bitch. Eat less chocolate. Moan. Drink less wine. Whine.

Rules: Eat better. Try not to kill anyone.

Shred Plan: Level one. 3lb hand weights (started with 5lb and I can't lift my arms. I'm typing with my nose.)

What do you mean, acid washed jeans aren't in style anymore?

I used to love to shop.

Back in the day my mother, sister and I would drive hours out of our way to pray at the altar of consumerism - or The Mall - all in the pursuit of fabric to cover our bodies. We'd make a whole day of it. We were warriors, Olympic athletes in the sport of competitive shopping. Endurance and stamina were key. Small waists and skinny legs helped too.

Just thinking about it now exhausts me.

These days you'd have to pay me to enter a mall to shop for myself. I'll happily shop for my girls but when it comes to purchasing clothing for myself I'll do a fly by of the women's section at Target or just wait for the clothes I already own to disintegrate off my body. Which is why my closet looks like the sales rack at the Goodwill. It takes a really special occasion to force me to enter the dressing room of someplace like Banana Republic - or the threat of public nakedness. Which ever comes first.

Maybe it's because my mom is no longer around so I don't have that familiar partner in crime to accompany me, the one who will tell me truthfully if a pair of pants does nothing for my ass. Maybe it's this new body of mine; the one that has borne two children and is more womanly, with hips and, unfortunately, thighs. I don't know how to dress it anymore. Clothes I normally wouldn't think twice about buying straight from the rack look all wrong on me now. The woman in the mirror is alien. Where is the waif I once knew? Where, dammit, where?

(Probably hiding in the closet with the moths and the ghosts of the 90's drowning her sorrow in cookies, which is how she got in this mess to begin with. Also sex. The babies didn't come from copious cookie consumption. Just a little heads up from your friends at Chick Chicky Baby.)

And the prices. Don't even get me started on the prices. It's enough to make the cheap grandmother in me run home to rub my nickels together.

I've also gotten a little... What's the word? Comfortable? Complacent? Boring. Yeah, that's it. I've gotten boring. You would fall asleep after just one look at me, if you could find me under all the drab browns and blacks I own. Which you couldn't, because that's a lot of drab.

It started when I left my corporate job for the world of dogs. There was little room for dress pants among the rows of denim in various stages of wear and tear in my closet. Pretty sweaters were pushed aside for sweatshirts and polartec and anything that required ironing was banished to the back to make way for the avalanche of t-shirts I wore day in and day out. I don't think even Stacy and Clinton would want to take me on.

(The way I worded that last sentence made me kinda hot. A What Not to Wear threesome. I bet they do it on cashmere. I know I would.

Where was I?)

I don't work with dogs as frequently as I used to but I do have little kids who throw up on my regularly and like wiping peanut butter covered cheeks on my pants so my wardrobe hasn't changed all that much. Dog poop, baby poop - it's all the same. (No, not really.) Anyone with any fashion sense would take one look at me on any given day and immediately take pity. My fetish for baseball hats alone would be enough to induct me into the Fashion Hall of Shame, if there was such a thing.

There's isn't, right? I was just kidding about that. Don't call the fashion police on me please. I wouldn't have the bail money.

But last weekend I had a tiny, ever-so-insignificant breakdown of sorts. My husband and I were going on a rare date and I had nothing to wear. And I'm not joking about that, there was quite literally nothing. There were plenty of ten year old wool sweaters with holes in them, shirts stained with different types of body fluid, and pants that pushed my muffin top up and out for all the world to see, but nothing date worthy. When I alerted Mr. C to this he scoffed. Until I put him before my clothes and told him to pick something, anything date appropriate and I would wear it AND HE COULDN'T FIND ANYTHING EITHER.

Take that, suckah. Now hand over the credit card.

So last night I had my credit card, I had my glass of wine and I had my laptop. I was ready to shop.

Five hours and a lump on my forehead from banging my head repeatedly with my computer later and I still hadn't purchased a single thing. I even asked the folks on Twitter where I should shop.

(I love the people in the computer. Without them I wouldn't be able to wipe my own ass.)

After the wine had gone to my head I impulsively clicked on some items that didn't scare me too much and offered them my credit card number. I think I promised them a kidney too. Clothes are expensive, y'all, and I am cheap.

Now I wait for the nice FedEx man to ring my bell and hand me his my package. If it doesn't fit or flatter it will be a huge pain in the tuckus to return everything but at least I don't have to parade my thighs out into the fluorescent-lit dressing room for some 90 pound sales girl named Kimmy to evaluate my fashion choices. I hate those girls. They're so perky.

But as bad as this experience was, it is nothing compared to what I will go through to find something suitable to wear to Blogher this year. I should videotape that because it should make for some choice blog fodder. Or maybe someone will take pity on me and offer to dress me.

Out of the mouths of skinny babes

Scene: My bathroom.

Our heroine (that would be me) steps out of her shower after quickly washing off the sweat from that morning's power walk. The one where she pushed more than 40 pounds of child plus a big ass stroller up and down some tricky hills for a couple of miles.

Okay, not super tricky, and not necessarily bigger than your average hill, but they seemed that way to me.

Fine. They were probably no bigger than your average ANT hill. But to me they were my Everest.

Anyway...

Our heroine steps out of her shower and steps in front of the mirror to survey the damage her recent childbirth and crazed cookie consumption did to her once smokin' bod.

Okay, maybe not smokin', but definitely doable. If you catch my drift.

Anyway...

Next to her sits her three year old daughter. A vision in a cat hair covered t-shirt and that morning's breakfast still on her cheeks.

Woman [sighing and making faces at herself in the mirror while grabbing at her love handles and stomach roll]: I'm fat and I don't like it one bit.

Child [playing with cheap Mardi Gras-type beads while sitting on a pile of towels that need to be washed, chanting]: Fat Mommy, Fat Mommy. Fat Mommy, Fat Mommy. [pausing to assess] Yep, you're fat Mommy.

Woman: You're not supposed to agree with me. You're supposed to tell me you think I'm beautiful no matter what.

Child [thinking]: Hmmm. You're beautiful, Mommy.

Woman: Thanks, hon.

Child [dancing away]: And fat. No matter what.

More Kate than Audrey

I haven't worn skirts with any regularity since it was fashionable to pair baby doll dresses and combat boots. I may have been a skirt wearer before but it's not who I am now. My husband is not pleased, he likes me in skirts, but I just don't feel comfortable in them. It's as if I'm wearing someone else's skin.

I am a child of the 70's so skirts - mainly denim jumpers with patchwork flowers in psychedelic patterns - were part of my regular wardrobe growing up. But then my parents sent me to Catholic elementary school, an institution where girls were expected to wear a skirt or dress every day and the boys (such the little gentlemen) would try everything short of pining a girl to the ground to look up said skirt. Though there were occasions when they tried that too, but let's just say I went to school with some tough little betches so it didn't happen often.

These little adventures in exploration were not fun for a burgeoning young lady on the cusp of puberty. After all, a girl does not want her first crush to find out that she still wears Wonder Woman Underoos. Our only guaranteed solace was those cold winter days when the girls were permitted to wear pants... But only if they wore a skirt over them. What that achieved I have no idea, but it did stop the boys and their quest for more insight into the female form.

Through high school, when every boy was trying to get up some girl's skirt, until college and the baby doll dress phase I did wear whatever was fashionable at the time - Madonna inspired mini-skirts, rocker-chic jean skirts, nouveau hippie wannabe peasant skirts - but as I grew older I became less interested in fashion and more interested in...

Well...

The state of my legs.

I was always the skinny girl with the stick-thin stems but there comes a time in every woman's life, whether she was super skinny or not (and yes, even Kate Moss if she laid off the heroin - allegedly) when time catches up with you. Or more to the point, with your body. I think I'm more self-conscious now than I was when I was 16, if that's possible. I think I'm just more aware. With age comes awareness but there also comes spider veins, cellulite and, the worst thing possible...

My Mother's thighs.

It's as if on the day of her passing she reached down from the heavens and said, "My daughter, my first born, the one who least resembles me in any way, to you I leave my legacy. That which has been handed down from mother to daughter for generations. I bequeath to you... Saddle bags."

Poof.

So much for those skinny legs that go all the way up.

I could still wear skirts, but they have to be very structured or extremely flowy. Any hint of lycra and I'll be bulging out every which way. A good pair of pants keep everything contained. I feel confident in a good pair of pants. And I can emulate my hero Kate Hepburn with my own affected New England accent saying I don't give a damn to the establishment. Although, there is no establishment like Kate's in the new millennium. Not exactly striking any blows for feminism with my ripstop capris now, am I?

Soon there will come a day when I won't have to worry about a toddler trying to hide under my skirt and I can go back to wearing something a little less casual than blue jeans. One day I won't care as much about the size of my thighs and I can just be me. But for now I'd like to run and jump and frolick without having to worry about flashing anybody a shot of my knickers. I'll leave that for the young Hollywood elite and their penchant for panty-less partying. I've reached an age where, though I don't particularly care for the look of my legs (and I haven't even mentioned the large strawberry birthmark on my left thigh) but I'm okay with letting everyone know that I have better things to do than shaving my legs every day. Verbally. (Doing my best Katharine Hepburn impersonation) I don't have to show you, you can just take my word for it.

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This post is a part of the Parent Bloggers Network and sk*rt - the new social bookmarking website for women, and the men who want to get into their heads - blog blast. I recommend that you check out Sk*rt and maybe bookmark some posts that you enjoy or some of your own. And, if you are so inclined, please vote for my post over there. It could win me some cool stuff. There's no Thigh Master on the list of prizes but I can get past that.