Greasy cheeseburgers + salty fries + ice cream = Unexpected joy

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I am a girl who loves pomp and circumstance: when I make plans, I like them to be big.

I am a girl who loves routine: my weekdays follow a very set, disciplined pattern.

But earlier this week, I threw routine and discipline out the door, and I learned that the simplest of plans can make you feel pretty damned happy.

Hubby and I cancelled our workouts and plans for a healthy, home-cooked meal. Instead, we put the boys down a little bit earlier, got take-out from the local burger joint and ice cream shop, and watched half of the first season of "Sex and the City."

As we sat there in our pajamas, munching on extra salty, extra crispy fries, the grease from the double cheeseburgers dripping down our hands, laughing over Big and Carrie's first meeting, we realized we were quite happy.

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We are lucky to have babysitting regularly enough that we have quality time together often, but...our nights usually consist of at least semi-luxurious outings, involving overpriced cocktails and fabulous shoes (SATC on the mind, perhaps?). If we have an opportunity to do something, we often feel the pressure to do something major.

And our regular weeknights are very carefully planned: we watch what we eat and rarely skip a work-out because then it throws off our week (and my weight), and we have most afternoons scheduled down to the minute because, well, because when you have two small children chaos occurs naturally so a routine tends to keep things at least slightly semi-organized and pseudo-controlled.

But that night's spontaneous and silly plan felt luxurious and decadent. We giggled (literally) as we snuggled under my childhood Mickey Mouse comforter and felt like we were breaking all the rules. From the calories to the viewing selection, the entire evening felt irresponsibly and deliciously undisciplined.

That night has carried me through the rest of the week. I felt like we were co-conspirators, beating the system, somehow. The frivolity and simplicity of the evening made me realize that sometimes you can find joy in the most unexpected and simplest of things...and a couple of cheeseburgers.

Let her eat cake!

Over the holidays, I had an affair.

A wild, messy, to-hell-with-the-rules kind of affair...with a cake.



This was not just any cake. I would never be so wanton. It was red velvet cake. My friend's homemade red velvet cake. It was left over from our Christmas Eve party.

I asked her to bring it.

I knew all along what I was doing.

I admit it: it was premeditated.

I knew after the guests had gone, the cake would be wrapped up nicely in foil and would sit in my refrigerator. And I would eat it. And not give a damn about the calories or the fat or the cholesterol or the Weight Watcher points each slice was worth.

"Guess what, Ben? We're gonna have cake for Christmas morning breakfast! How does that sound?!?"

Yep. I used my child as an excuse to eat cake for breakfast.

That wouldn't have been so bad if it had only been the one time. I mean, it was Christmas morning, for heaven's sake! If you can't have cake on Christmas morning...

But I proceeded to have cake again for the following two mornings. Cake. For breakfast. Me. My usual breakfast consists of bran flakes with almonds, flax, oatmeal, blueberries, and soy milk. And yes, I actually do enjoy that, but on velvet cake mornings? Fuck bran.

It wasn't just breakfast, either. I had it as dessert...after every meal, everyday, and sometimes for a snack. I had it down to a science: 5 days later, when the cream cheese frosting was hardening slightly, I simply nuked it. 7 seconds was too little. 10 seconds was too much. 8 seconds. Exactly 8 seconds. And the cake would taste like she had just made it.

It has taken me a lifetime to figure out my relationship with food. Over the last several years, I've realized, with great relief and satisfaction, that I've finally made amends with it. I have conquered it, if you will. A big part of this victory, however, is the complete and total understanding that I can gain it all back at anytime. What do they say? It's a slippery slope? Yeah, well, apparently, my slope's greased up with frosting.

I made it to my dream weight back in October. Soon after that, Life happened: Halloween festivities, sick children, sick parents, holidays, more sick children and sick parents...before I knew it, my gym visits had gone from 5 times a week to maybe once. This is the thing with weight. Life. It can get in the way. Needless to say, I am not quite at my dream weight right now.

So here I am, a couple of weeks later, still trying to forget my red velvet lover. It was a passionate, intense relationship and there are days when I miss the wild, reckless abandon. It was good while it lasted, but what is it Samantha says to Smith at the end of the "Sex and the City" movie? "I love you, but I love me more."

Yep. Me and red velvet cake. Samantha Jones and her hot young lover. Same thing.
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Those Last 5 Pounds

When you go through adolescence on the chubby side with a sister who was genetically destined to be a size 2 and family members who regularly pointed out "you have a pretty face," it can do a number on your psyche.

It didn't matter that in reality I was never actually "fat." At my heaviest, I was what I now refer to as "thick"...and I was still well below the national average. Yet at times I felt like an anomaly. I didn't see all the beautiful women around me of different sizes. I only compared myself to those who were smaller, smoother, sexier: my sister, my thinnest friends, the women in magazines, the trainer at the gym. I sought out perfection and then when I found it, I pointed it out to myself: "See? Why can't you look like her? That is what a good body looks like."

Then I hit my 30's. You know that stupid cliche you always hear about how there's just something about the 30's...how women "find" themselves, settle in to and appreciate their bodies more, forgive their flaws, leave the lights on...? Well, there's a reason it's cliche. That's because for a lot of us, it's true. Most days, I wouldn't trade a wrinkle, a dimple, or an age spot for my 20's. Most days.

But, let me just say I am not one of those who says it was all because of motherhood. You know...the women who say the reason they love their bodies so much more now is because they carried babies? They realized the miracle of pregnancy and childbirth? Uh, no. The miracle of childbirth might have given me two beautiful amazing boys, but it also gave me looser skin, a jagged scar, and a whole new set of body issues. It was, however, the pregnancies and time thereafter that motivated me more than ever to finally make amends with my body, to get it in the best shape possible, to bring that number on the scale to a permanent, healthy home and finally end the discord between my head and my dress size. I was determined to have active (and somewhat fashionable) pregnancies, and then was even more determined to lose all the weight afterwards.

"You know, you really should give away those skinny jeans you had before you got pregnant, because there's no way you're ever gonna fit in those again."

Yes, someone told me that. To my face. Don'tcha love family?

And that was the day I swore to myself that not only would I fit into those jeans by the time Ben was one, but I'd need a smaller pair.

And I did fit into them. And they were too big by the time Ben was one. And then I did it again after Aidan, except this time I wanted to lose "just a little more."

The magic number was 125. It was a number I had not seen since my teen years. It was a number that I thought "the chubby sister" probably couldn't hit. It was the number I thought of when I was floating around at 130 as the "If Only Weight"...as in: "If only I weighed 125 pounds, I could wear that dress." "If only I weighed 125 pounds, I could stop worrying about my weight." "If only I weighed 125 pounds, I'd be just perfect."

And then I did. This week. There it was. 125 pounds. I stepped on and off the scale 3 times just to make sure. 125. The eating right, the waking up twice a week at 5:00 to go to the gym, the miles of running after work...it had all paid off.

And yet, when I looked in the mirror, it was still me. Just smaller. But the parts of my body I never particularly cared for? They were still there, too. Don't get me wrong, I loved what I saw. I love that I'm stronger now than I've ever been, that I can run faster than I've ever run (and in shorts, no less!), that I'm lighter, smaller, healthier. But it's just like that young girl I used to be, seeking out the perfection, finding it, pointing it out, unforgiving, always demanding.

I am sure I'm not alone in this: we spend so much time working towards "those last 5 pounds"...postponing the buying of a great pair of jeans, worrying at the beach about what might be jiggling, stressing, wishing, waiting...waiting for what? At what point do we "get there"? At what point do we make amends with who we are and what we see and what we love and what we don't about ourselves? I thought that point was a number. And then I reached that number and realized This is It. As Good As It Gets. I have arrived. And that magical, cure-all number? Those last 5 pounds? For me, they were realizing that pushing that number down was just an excuse to postpone the real work...the work of accepting myself, of being good enough, of looking around and seeking the perfection in myself, of pointing that out to myself and saying: "See? Look at you. This is what a good body looks like, too."

I think tonight I'll leave the lights on.

I expected chafing...

I ran today. No wait. There's more.

I ran in shorts.

Shorts.

Like, real running shorts (well, these were hot pink and significantly cuter and slightly less revealing and flapping-in-the-wind-like than those traditional running shorts, but they were actual work-out shorts). You don't understand...for me, this is a really big deal. I own shorts. I wear shorts. But it's one thing to wear a pair of cute, baggy cargo shorts and some sandals while on vacation; it is quite another to go, literally, running around in shorts...thighs and knees and flesh all being pushed and pulled and jiggled and wiggled with the gravitational force of your effort. Even while running on the beach in the middle of the day in 98 degree weather and a gazillion percent humidity, I would wear my uniform of black capri workout pants. I have a drawer full. But the other day while I was looking for sales on still more black capri workout pants, I ran into a sale on shorts. Cute shorts. Black and pink with athletic trim shorts. And I thought: "What the hell? I'll just try 'em on."

Well, I tried them. And when I was surprised by the image I confronted in the 3-way dressing room mirror, I thought I'd buy them (but not before I did a little dress rehearsal jog to check myself out in said 3-way mirror). They sat in my drawer for almost a week before I dared to put them on for a run.

I almost held my breath as I started. I was sure I would feel absolutely naked running around in my neighborhood like that. I was sure that I'd have to yank down the fabric that would keep bunching up between my thighs so many times that I'd have to turn back after a block to change back into my old faithful and safe and hot capris. I was so sure I'd be so preoccupied by the way my thighs looked that I would not even be able to enjoy my run.

But guess what?
I did not feel naked. I felt free.
And every time I tried to yank the bunched up fabric down, there was no bunching to yank.
And I was preoccupied by the sight of my thighs, but mostly because...holy crap!...there was actually a teeny bit of muscle peeking out of them!

I'd love to say that I have finally reached Thigh Nirvana and they are absolutely perfectly flawless. But the truth is they're not. And at 36 with 2 kids (and a Latin background), no matter how hard I work, they never will be. But I felt good about myself on that run. I felt good about having worked as hard as I have for the past year to get myself back into shape after Aidan Kai. I felt good about the fact that I even dared to try, buy, and wear the shorts.

Most of the time, I feel pretty good about myself. I have never wanted to be a size 0. But like so many women, when I look in the mirror, I immediately scan for and focus on the parts of my body that I do not like. I am capable of obsessing over every minor flaw. I look for the bad first, and then get so discouraged that I don't even bother looking for the good. I have always been a glass half empty (or in this case, thighs too big) kind of girl. But I have been working on that, and for me, the shorts were a test: Have I finally gotten to the point where I can admit that I'm (almost) completely happy with my body again? I think my thighs passed.

Dear Fat Pants,

Thank you for serving me so well. You have been reliable, trustworthy, comfortable, and--depending on what I paired you with--almost fashionable. We have been through a lot together: You were there for me during two first-trimesters, when the nausea and early bloating threatened to take over my life and general opinion on pregnancy. Even when I didn't button you, and hid you beneath too-long shirts, and pinned you with rubber bands and belts and maternity bands, you never complained. You waited patiently while I upgraded (or downgraded?) to full-blown maternity pants, and when I came back to you postpartum (both times)--ecstatically, joyously, thrillingly--I even started thinking of you for a short time as my Someday-to-Be-Skinny-Again Pants. But it was inevitable...a few weeks later, the dew was off the rose. You were back to being my Fat Pants. No matter how hard you try, you can't change what you are. You're just too much for me.

And this past weekend, I knew it was time. Some of your chic-er and more upscale cousins started to call to me...beckon to me...seduce me. "Give us a try," they said, alluringly. At first, I was afraid. Afraid of rejection. Afraid that, in spite of the hours spent at the gym and calculating Weight Watcher points, I would still not be worthy of the single digits. But I was. Oh, I was. And I'm sorry, Fat Pants, but now that I have gone back, remembered what it feels like to be accepted by The Elite, I just can't be with you anymore. You understand...I can't settle. And that is what I'd be doing with you. I mean, sure, I look fine when I'm with you. But that's not enough for me. I want more. So it is time to say good-bye. I know you will find someone else, someone who will appreciate you, be thankful for you, wear you with pride. I will never forget you.

Sincerely,
Me