Guess who’s back?

Guys, I feel like a (literally) big-ass failure.

At this time last year, I was so full of hope, determination, sunshine and rainbows. I was well on my way to losing the extra pounds that I’ve been carrying for far too long. And then, WHAM, I had some medical issues that prevented me from exercising. Instead of eating healthily to keep losing weight, I stupidly let loose. Like, eat-an-entire-plate-of-nachos-in-one-sitting loose. For months…and months.

Last night, I stepped on the scale for the first time in a long time and actually gasped when I saw the number, after straining to see past my Buddha belly. Two hundred and fifty-five pounds — my all-time high, by a long shot. Cue the Kim Kardashian-inspired ugly cry.

The worst part is, I have no one to blame but myself. I just got lazy and unmotivated, and now I’m back at square one (and then some).

This blog was a great way for me to stay accountable, and I’m going to weigh in once a week to mark my progress. My ultimate goal? To lose 100 pounds by the time my wedding rolls around in September 2015.

Let’s see if I can do it this time.

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Not a pole lotta fun

I always like trying new kinds of exercise, so, thanks to a sweet Groupon deal, my friend and I recently enrolled in a pole fitness class.

Yes, that’s right, I am learning the art of the ‘ripper.

I’ve done pole-dancing classes before (for bachelorette parties and the like), but this class is different in that it focuses not only on the actual dancing part of the equation, but also on fitness. Holy, jeebus, it is a good work-out. Even my (super-fit) friend complained that her arms and shoulders were sore after class.

I have years and years of dance training under my belt and it usually takes me all of 10 seconds to pick up choreography, so I figured this class would be a breeze,  Apparently, though, my dancing skills do not extend to pole dancing. (In other words, I suck.)

One of the reasons? Definitely my chub. One of the moves involves kicking your leg up and wrapping it around the top of the pole so you’re hanging upside down. Uh, sure, I could do that — if I weighed 100 pounds. All of the thin girls in the class could easily do it. Us chubsters? Not so much. I had to swing my leg around my ginormous belly when kicking it up and then lift 230 pounds of body weight using just my arms. It ain’t easy! I felt a huge sense of achievement when I touched the pole with my toe, let alone wrapped my foot around it.

Fact: It is hard to pole dance (mad props to those women). Add an extra 100 pounds to the equation and you’ve got a recipe for disaster.

 

Queen of the casseroles

“They taste like slop.”

“Only people who can’t cook make them.”

“BLECH.”

People hate casseroles. I get it. I, on the other hand, really like them. Maybe it’s because I’ve never had a bad casserole in my life. When I was growing up, my mom’s casserole dishes were always hearty and full of yummy (and usually fatty) goodness.

Last night, I had about 170000 tomatoes sitting around, collecting fruit flies. So I worked the magic of the Google and found a super easy tomato-onion casserole recipe, courtesy of Martha Stewart. And hey, Martha wouldn’t lie. (Recipe can be found here.)

Basically, you slice four tomatoes and two onions (I used three) and layer them in a baking dish while the oven pre-heats to 450. Drizzle some olive oil on top, add a dash of sea salt and pep, pop it in the oven for about 40 minutes, and voila — instant (clean!) casserole.

Only downside?

Our apartment REEKED like onions all night. But it’s a price I’m willing to pay, because that casserole was effing awesome. So screw you, casserole haters. You don’t know what you’re missing.

Goin’ fishin’

I recently read an interview with Jessica Alba, in which she claims to have a muffin top (plus cellulite and stretch marks). Bitch, please. Don’t try to act like you’re one of us.

I hate, hate, hate when slim women fish for compliments. “I am so fat,” one of my friends always sighs, while pinching the 0.01 inch of fat on her belly. I, meanwhile, am supposed to react with horror and assure her that she is not, indeed, fat (oh, the humanity!).

Being fat, after all, is something no one aspires to (except those women who cater to chubby chasers and eat 10,000 calories a day — but that’s a whole ‘nother story).

I understand that everyone has their own insecurities, but calling yourself fat when you’re a size 2 just makes me feel even shittier about myself. If you think you’re fat, what the hell does that make me? Morbidly obese? Venturing into whaleaphant territory?

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What I’m thinking when a skinny girl calls herself fat

I rarely say anything when a woman makes comments like that. I just play the role of the dutiful friend and act shocked that she would even suggest such a thing, because those complaints are always unfounded. There have been a few times, however, when I’ve retorted with something like, “If you’re fat, then what does that make me?” Usually, the person will then avoid eye contact and change the convo. Mission accomplished.

Until you’ve had to endure the embarrassment of breaking a chair (true story) or waddling your way into a plus-size department, you have no right to bitch about your weight to a fat girl. It’s just cruel.

(Side note: When I Googled “derogatory terms for fat people,” it came back with whaleaphant. I’m pretty sure that’s my new favourite word.)

The return of the dreaded fat-girl photo

In the grand scheme of all things wedding, my ever-fluctuating weight isn’t a huge factor…

…until dress shopping.

Despite being engaged for all of 10 seconds, I have already gone dress shopping, accompanying my friends who are also getting married soon. I wasn’t planning on trying anything on because a) I would rather stick fire pokers in my eyes than try on clothes, let alone intricate wedding dresses and b) I really, really, REALLY hate wearing dresses. (If it was appropriate to wear jeans and a hoodie every day, I’d be all over that like a fat kid on a Smartie.)

Much to my dismay, the sales associates at the bridal store and my friends insisted that I try on at least one dress (thanks, girls!). I finally caved, figuring that at the very least, I could get an idea of which rolls needed the most camouflaging.

I tried on a dress that actually did a decent job of holding in the flub (no easy task), and I thought it looked pretty good — until I saw a photo that my friend had taken of me in the dress.

A dreaded fat girl photo.

I’m not quite sure how it happened. (OK, I’m pretty sure it was the many, many caesars and nachos I enjoyed on various patios this summer.) But somehow, I managed to re-gain a significant amount of weight without realizing it. As I’ve said before, it’s pretty simple, really: bitch got lazy.

Seeing that photo made me want to dive straight for the Cheetos and eat my way into a trans fat oblivion. Rolls everywhere. Body parts bulging out of the dress. Triple chins. I’m already uncomfortable with the idea of having all eyes on me at my wedding. I don’t want to add to that by worrying about which seam is going to pop open first.

Not only that, but many of the dresses I actually liked weren’t available in my size, and I was left with only a few tarp-like frocks to choose from. This is one of the few times I actually cursed my bootay.

Finding a wedding dress is tough. Finding a dress for someone who hates wearing dresses is tougher. Finding a dress at this size is damn near impossible. Let’s just say my motivation to lose weight has kicked up a notch.

Here comes the bride: big, fat and wide

If it seems as though I’ve been MIA for the past few weeks, it’s because I have been super-duper, no-social-life busy. Despite being on holidays for two weeks, I’ve had little to no time to prepare clean meals or exercise my bootay off. Just typing that makes me a sad panda.

On the plus side, though, I have some very exciting news: I’m engaged! My lovah popped the question while we were watching the sunset at my favourite spot on the lake (*tear*).

Now I have even more motivation to whip my fat ass back into shape. For real this time.

More posts a’comin’. Stay tuned, folks. I’ve got some gooders planned.

Dirt(y) girl

One of my favourite childhood memories involves the taste of dirt. Really.

When I was but a wee lass, I’d venture into my parents’ garden (keep in mind that I’m from the country, so our “garden” was the size of a football field) and check out the goods. I’d eat raspberries right off the bushes. I’d pop tomatoes into my mouth like they were candy.

But my favourite thing to do was to pull up carrots. I’d brush off the dirt and crunch down on those bad boys like there was no tomorrow. That’s real country livin’ there, folks.

Fast-forward 20 years later: I still love fresh, straight-from-the-garden produce, especially when it has the taste remnants of soil on it. Weird? Abso-friggin’-lutely. But every time I taste a vegetable or fruit that’s just been picked from the garden, I’m instantly transported to my childhood. And hey, dirt tastes better than pesticide (that’s my justification, anyway).

Since my boyfriend and I have adopted a healthier lifestyle, we’ve been going through a ridiculous amount of produce, so much so that our grocery bills are nearly entirely devoted to fruits and veggies. This year, however, we decided to sign up for a CSA (community-supported agriculture) share.

Every week, we get a huge box of fresh, local produce from a nearby market, filled to the brim with chemical-free goodness. Nine farmers and food producers contribute food so there is always variety. So far, we’ve received kale, lettuce, green onions, dill, basil, rhubarb, strawberries, zucchini, garlic scapes, peppers, carrots, honey and more — and that’s just in the first two weeks.

What I love about this CSA is that it’s forcing us to cook with stuff we normally wouldn’t look at twice (ahem, kale). I already made an amazing (clean) rhubarb-blueberry crisp, and we tried our hands at kale and garlic scape pizza the other day (recipe here). Nom nom nom.

The best part of the CSA? Much of the produce hasn’t been thoroughly washed, so it’s still got that just-picked taste (aka dirt). Be still, my beating heart.