A Funny Thing Happened on my way to Baltimore

A few things I've learned today. You probably already know them. 

1.) My name is hard to spell. 

2.) I know (theoretically) that happiness doesn't come in a cup but I learned that if it did - it would be a Starbucks Pumpkin Spice Latte.

3.) United Airlines customer service needs improvement.

4.) A egg and cheese sandwich costs $9.99 at LAX.

I tend to conjure up a pretty specific image in my head when I think of a brave person. I usually either think of a little boy with two prostethic legs or a camouflage dressed soldier holding his newborn for the first time ... or more recently I think of  wildly curly red hair, a blue corset and a bow and arrow - thank you Pixar. God, what I wouldn't do for a Gaelic accent right now. Then I would certainly feel what I'm suppose to be feeling which is BRAVE. 

I am currently, right now, this second, in Baltimore, Maryland. I'm attending a conference, a blogging conference of all things, Fit Bloggin' 2012.  

I'm a little disoriented, I mean, even the ocean is in a different place. I'm staying in a hotel room all by myself. I didn't know ANYONE coming to this thing. I'm about to be a very little fish is a very big pond. There are 300 bloggers attending this event. Some of the people attending make a living blogging. A lot of them have business cards, business cards people!!! My blog is just this little baby thing, I share it with exactly 28 people by way of an email blast and perhaps the 10 friends on Facebook that my current settings allow to see my status updates. (Am I the only one that can't successfully navigate the new Facebook?)

A co-worker said something to me the other day, she said, "your life begins when you step out of your comfort zone." I don't think she was the first to say that, but she was the first to say it to me so I'm giving her full credit. She is a wise lady. 

I think, and mostly because I've been obsessively thinking about it for days now,  but I think she's right. Maybe I don't need to slay a big black scar-faced grizzly bear to be brave. Maybe I just have to be me. 

Growing up I was always that kid who couldn't sleep the night before the first day of school because I was so excited. I loved, loved, loved meeting new people and having new experiences. I hosted a Japanese exchange student in 7th grade - a complete stranger, who spoke a strange language and wore strange mismatched yellow plaid and Hello Kitty outfits became my sister for 14 days. I went on a month long exchange trip to Europe when I was 14. I road public transportation in Budapest, Hungry with my host sister who had spiky pink hair, ate wiener schnitzel  in Vienna and danced with a tour guide named Rodolfo in Florence. I sought out an employment opportunity downtown - where I would be the only lifeguard from my high school when 16, so I could work with people that didn't look like me. I went to a small college without my boyfriend and absolutely none of my friends. I enrolled in an field studies course which included a trip to Costa Rica junior year at that college. I tried out for my collegiate golf team although I hadn't played competitively for years.  I wore high heels to my mom's funeral. And in 2006, I left everyone and everything I knew, again, and moved to Los Angeles so my husband and I could pursue the dream of Hollywood success. 

And then, I just kind of stopped taking chances. In a place so big and so scary I've craved a sense of security and safety so fervently that I haven't felt like being a chance-taker person. This city has turned me into a big borderline agoraphobic sissy. 

And, so tomorrow, in the reflection of Baltimore's inner harbor, I'm off to learn my 5th thing...

I am brave. 

It's time for a lemon shake-up, I just hope it goes well with crab cakes. 

Namaste

Sometimes I can be a real jerk.

Especially to myself. I'm working on it. The following are some ways I have tried, this last week, to be kinder to myself.

1.) I'm putting on real clothes everyday - at least for part of the day. I might conclude the day in my yoga pants or sweats but I am putting on real clothes, as a way to greet the morning. This is a small gesture that forces me to take time to pick something out that matches, fits and doesn't resemble something a homeless person would wear.

2.) I bought new perfume. Since I started wearing it, Lucy keeps asking to smell my arm. After taking in big whiff of my wrist she said, "ah, you smell so good!" Well, at least it is toddler approved. I've always really liked the idea of having a signature scent. My mom did, and to this day whenever I smell FENDI, it reminds me of her.

3.) I started seeing a therapist. We'll call her Melissa, because her name is Melissa, except I don't think I'm suppose to know that, I really only know it from her website. When I met her for the first time she didn't bother with introductions. I did, of course, I'm a good Midwestern girl! I entered her room with confidently pulled back shoulders, a warm smile and gave her a firm handshake stating, "Hi! I'm Danielle, so nice to meet you." She saw right through it. I was reduced to a snotting, blubbering, sad girl mess 15 minutes into our first visit. It was a very good fit. I trust her, I feel safe in her office and amidst my tears and sorrow I felt a very palpable glimmer of hope before I walked out the door.

4.) I went to a Hot Yoga class. This is the only exercise I do that makes me feel like I am rewarding my body instead of punishing it. It feels indulgent. It feels special and cleansing and good. Hot yoga, Bikram, is exactly what it sounds like, yoga in a hot room, usually somewhere between 101-105 degrees. I am pretty much drenched in sweat 10 seconds after entering the room, I can literally wring my clothes out after class. Kinda gross, kinda awesome. Anyway, the room is large and hot and there are mirrors in the front and on the side (like most exercise studios) and I always try to get a spot upfront as close to the mirror as I can. This is not like 11th grade history class. I'm not doing this to impress the teacher. I do it for myself. The most rewarding and intense, even more intense than the heat, part of class is that for the first 50 minutes of the 90 minute class I am in constant eye contact with myself in the mirror. I'm sure this is by design. And it some brilliant design because think about it... when is the last time you stared at yourself in the mirror for 50 minutes? Uh, probably never. I know I don't. I'm lucky to get 50 seconds in the mirror in the morning to apply some mascara! And whenever else I look at the mirror I'm definitely not looking at my eyes - thick arms, flabby belly, chipped toenail polish. Sorry, there goes the jerk again. The point is, whenever in my day-to-day life I do have a chance to glance in a mirror I'm never thinking anything good. It is different at hot yoga. I'm staring into my eyes, which I've always named as my best feature. But it is very hard to be mean to your body, even in thought, when you are staring directly into your own eyes. Very, very intense.

Every yoga class I've ever been to, hot or not, ends the same way - with hands in prayer, a slight bow and the word Namaste. I didn't know what that meant for a long time. I had an instructor that explained it very well to me once. She said that the gesture Namaste represents the belief that there is a Divine spark within each one of us. The gesture is an acknowledgement of the most divine in one soul by another. The highest being in me, salutes the highest being in you. Don't you just love that?

So anyway, I'm working on silencing the jerk and recognizing the divine.

A dear friend shared this video with the hubby and I. It made me cry, it reminded me of the power of yoga and self kindness and faith. I hope you love it.

Namaste.

Enough already!

Please tell me you love a good comeback story.

Time to face the music - the sad melodious tune of implosion - since the last time I actually posted a weight loss, sometime in March, I have gained back ten pounds and when I say ten pounds I mean 13.2. Putting me at exactly (as of this morning) at 173.2 pounds.

I feel a little bit like I'm unraveling here. It isn't just because of the weight because there have been some other sources of stress. Some real - like now my husband has a knee injury which is much worse than mine. And some unreal - like my L'Oreal Perfect Eyeliner in Carbon Black being out of stock at CVS. But when I'm taking good care of myself - eating well, exercising, I'm better equipped to deal with the stress. The issue of my weight is so incredibly emotionally charged for me. I'm finding that it is almost completely and utterly the source or void of my self-esteem.

This is both weird and dumb.  Be that as it may, it doesn't make it any less true.

I know people, of all shapes and sizes, that don't have this problem. I know people of all shapes and sizes that are happy despite their shape and size.

I know what I need.

1.) Faith.
2.) Help.
3.) Hope.

I'm very good at believing. Believing in God, believing in others but I'm not just very good at believing in myself. This is a whopping problemo, one I've decided needs a little professional guidance. I'm going to talk to someone this week. You see, I'm also very terrible at seeking out or asking for help. You might not know this because I've done it several times on this blog. It was one of my better ideas; I'm going to do it again.

Come hell or high water, I am going to figure this out. I'm going to not only lose the weight, but I am going to figure out WHY this is my issue. Time to dig a little deeper. I promise to keep you posted on my success and findings.

And if you have any faith or help or hope to offer - I will gladly take you up on some. And love, I could always use some love.

Kiss of Mud

Have you ever seen a picture of yourself and thought, "do I really look like that?"

I have.

I've seen lots and lots o' pictures of myself where I think to myself, "holy guacamole, I look like a hideous monstrous beast." A dear friend and I had a pretty big celebrity sighting when she visited me in L.A. for my baby shower over 4 years ago. I was about 7 months pregnant and we saw Lindsay Lohan at a Coffee Bean and Tea Leaf. This was huge - at the time, the only other more exciting sighting would have been a bald Britney Spears. She was actually really sweet (probably stoned off her gourd), but she took a picture with the two of us. I look like a giantess in the photograph, not only because Lindsay and my friend are so small, but because I was so big. It was a picture I wanted to plaster everywhere (facebook, baby album, fireplace mantle...) but I just hate it so much. This may not be the best example because I was pregnant, but it you know what I mean, fatty pictures are the worst. When I look at pictures, I immediately determine the quality of the photograph by how skinny or chunky I appear. This is extremely narcissistic of me. I am aware.

                                          

This past Saturday July 7 was the So Cal Tough Mudder Event. It was at Snow Valley Mountain Resort up on Big Bear Mountain. Tough Mudder events are hardcore 10-12 mile obstacle courses designed by British Special Forces to test all around strength, stamina, mental grit and camaraderie. Our particular event was 10 miles, but it was on a ski resort so all 10 miles were either straight up a black diamond slope or straight down - little to no flat ground was covered. The obstacles were almost a relief, if you consider sliding on your belly through frigid water and mud underneath a barbed wire with electric wires hanging from it to be relief (the Electric Eel).

I did amazing, difficult crazy things over the 8 miles and 16 obstacles that I completed. But, and this is a big, big BUT - I was unable to complete the course.

I cannot really describe how deflating this has been for me.

Going into this challenge, I was really, really scared. Here are the things I was most afraid of, in no particular order.

1.) Dying. I mean, I did sign a death waiver; it could have happened.
2.) Not finishing. (Well, you know about this one.)
3.) Having my brain fried by electricity.  There were two obstacles with live wires delivering up to 10,000 volts of electricity. (So far no evidence that this happened.)
4.) Being the fattest person on the course. (I wasn't.)
5.) Being the slowest person on the course. (I wasn't.)
6.) Being the weakest person on the course. (I wasn't.)
7.) Slowing down my team by being the fattest, slowest, weakest person on the course. (I did, a little bit, but I also happened to have the best, most supportive, positive, amazing, sexy teammates on the course too - so they never once made my feel badly about it.)
8.) Having to buy new shoes afterward. (I don't know why I was afraid of this, other than my shoes are relatively new and I love them.)

My vision has been so blurred by my fear and by what I left undone - 2 miles and 5 obstacles. While I was completing obstacles and covering the miles, I was scared. One obstacle that comes to mind is the Walk the Plank - a 15+ foot high jump into water that I was freaking out about - I did NOT want to jump! But I DID jump. I berated myself for being afraid and for screaming like a banshee the whole way down and forgot to congratulate myself on the fact that I had a fear and I faced it. I still jumped. My vision has been so clouded that I couldn't see what I did accomplish.

So, it has been to my ultimate shock and amazement that today I have been gawking at the official course pictures of bib number 38561 and found myself thinking: "Do I really look like that? Like the bad ass Tough Mudder that I see in these photographs?" 

This is a revelation. (And a scam. I just spent $50.00 on a few digital images.)

I don't look super slender in these pictures, but I just don't freaking care. I love them. I look strong and determined, I look like a fighter. I look like I'm having a blast. I look dirty and sunkissed and healthy. I look like a warrior. I look triumphant.

And, I should mention that the real reason I didn't finish the course was not because I gave up. I had to stop because I have a wicked knee injury. I hurt myself during a training run 4 weeks ago, and although I tried to be careful for the remaining training time, I don't think I rested enough. I was fighting through pain almost immediately at the start of the event and stopped at mile 4 to have a medic wrap my knee. He said he would wrap it, but then he'd have to take me out of the race. At which point, I threw my cup of H2O in his face and said, "hell no!" and kept pushing on. Actually, I grimaced, groaned and then just kept pushing on. At mile 8, I had just completed the longest and most severe stint downhill (way worse on the knee) and just had to stop before I rendered myself a candidate for total knee replacement surgery at age 30. It was the right thing to do and the hardest thing I did the whole entire day.

Stopping, for all intents and purposes, failing to complete the course and therefore my only goal I made when I signed up to do this event sent me in a total down spiral. It is the only athletic event I have ever quit in my life. I didn't feel like I could celebrate, I didn't want to tell anyone about it, I didn't want to talk about it. I felt like I couldn't actually even say that I was, "a Tough Mudder."  When people asked me about the event, I just started apologizing and telling the sad ending to the story. I forgot to actually tell the story.

These pictures tell the story.

I've been looking for a source of inspiration recently to push me out of this plateau, I never, ever thought I'd find her staring back at me in the mirror.

This is the Most Fun!

(Note from the author: when I started writing this post it was suppose to be uplifting and inspiring. Well, I tripped on the rubble and it kind of turned into something entirely different. I'm sorry, I don't think I can move on and heal until I am honest with myself about what is going on inside my head. Please stay tuned, my hope is that uplifting and inspiring are just up ahead.)

While perusing iTunes for some new workout music for the ol' iPod the other night, we downloaded this little gem - You Can Call Me Al by Paul Simon.


"A man walks down the street and he says why am I soft in the middle now, why am I soft in the middle - the rest of my life is so hard." 

I've been secretly sniveling to myself, a lot I mean a lot, a lot. Losing weight is so hard, really really freaking hard. And I've been caught up in the hardness of it all. I've let it paralyze me. I'll start the day off well with the best of intentions (you know journaling, measuring and planning) then somewhere, sometime I feel a panicky rush of yuckyness and before I know it I'm eating or drinking something that is, um, not nourishing or I'm eating something nourishing but I'm eating way too much of it. Then the day is "ruined" and I feel like a big. fat. failure. Especially because I've been here before. This cycle is well known in the historical timeline of my life. I feels like I'm afraid, afraid of what? I'm not sure. Probably of not being able to eat any more french fries or pizza or ice cream or anything with a net carb >4. That sounds a little funny and seriously pathetic but it isn't funny it is really FRUSTRATING!

Why am I so scared?

The truth is that being healthy is fun, really really freaking fun. Creating healthy recipes makes me feel like Remy in Ratatouille, it is so creatively gratifying. I can focus more. I am more jovial and I hang out with my friends more because I'm not constantly worrying about what I should wear or how I should sit. Accepting compliments is easier, shopping for clothes is more enjoyable and making out with my husband is just, well it's just awesome. Eating healthy foods in the right combinations and amounts makes my skin glow. Looking in the mirror at the gym and seeing definition in my arms is like no other gratification that I have ever known.

Why am I sabotaging my own fun?

I have no idea. It is just stupid. And I'm mad at myself. I have not known what to do about it so I haven't done anything. I haven't been cooking, I haven't been working out, I haven't been blogging. Well, I've done a little of all of those things but not in the quantity that elicits any fun.

So I made a radical decision. I am going to have more fun. I am introducing fun into this weight loss journey. The hope and prayer that I am desperately grasping for is that by telling myself I am WORTH having fun, by purposely injecting it into my day and my routine and my goals, that I'll start to believe it and start treating myself accordingly.

Here are the first FUN items on the agenda.

1.) Participate in my first Tough Mudder event on July 7. I mean what could possibly be more fun than running in an event that is basically a glorified Track and Field Day for adults? More to come on this but to give you some idea I will be signing my first death waver and I couldn't be more excited!!!

2.) I think it's fun to have mantras. I've decided mine this next month, prepping for the event above, is going to be "Eat Clean, Train Dirty." And, yes, I stole it from a tee-shirt I saw on pinterest, so sue me.

3.) Go to the beach, stretch marks and all. I'm hoping that once June Gloom is over we'll be there about once a week. Anyone want to join?

4.) My sister and I recently started sending each other text messages around our intended workout times. It started with her needing some encouragement to get up and go to the gym at the butt crack of dawn. I woke up in a sleepy stupor and sent her a quick one liner stating that I believe in her (Because I DO!!!). She returned the favor for me later in the day. Sis-a-roo, get ready, it's lucky that you have unlimited text messages, you're gonna need them!

5.) I'm signing up for the Tinkerbell Half Marathon at Disneyland. It isn't for a while yet, actually it is on my birthday weekend in late January. How fun is that?!?!

I'm laying the snivel to rest, put that in your pipe and sing about it, Paul Simon.

A Mother's Day Poem

For that day when you ask me what it was like for me when you were little.

I don't know what I am doing -
at all.
I falter on a daily basis.
I fail you on a daily basis.
I am not consistent like I should be
with timeouts
with discipline,
of any kind.
I give in when you whine, not all the time
but some of the time.
I put you back in pull-ups after trying underwear
because I was too exhausted to spot clean the carpet...
again.
I raise my voice way too much, in fact
I have screamed at you
more than once.
And I slapped your hand
(only once.)
I lose my temper and am frustrated with you
almost every day.
I give you lollipops and chocolate milk at the grocery store
just to keep you quiet.
I bribe you with stickers.
I plop you in front of the T.V. just so I can
rest,
read,
cook,
clean,
talk on the phone,
shower,
have a moment of peace and quiet.
We don't have as much structure in our day
as you probably need.
I buy you too many clothes
and shoes
and hair bows.
And I fight with you about which
clothes
and shoes
and hair bows you wear
and when you wear them.
I don't bathe you every day
or even every other day.
I don't brush your hair every day
or even every other day.
I don't remember all of your milestones.
We rarely go to the library.
I haven't taken you to the dentist
or eye doctor
but we go to Target at least once a week.
We don't have as many play dates
as you probably need.
You share a room with each other.
You wake up early and I make you go
“back in your room!”
So I can lay in bed just a little longer...
I feel like I'm doing it all wrong
all the time.
I feel guilty about what I am doing with you
or not doing with you
all the time.
I am exhausted
and puzzled
and afraid of messing up
all of the time.

Because I love you more than I knew was possible.
You are wonderful, kind, happy little girls
and I just want to do right by you.
I want to give you love,
give you things
and experiences
and joy
and hugs
and stories
and fun
and faith and hope.
And I want to teach you about love
and life
and letters
and numbers
and music
and movement
and I just never know if I'm teaching you
anything
at all.

But I try.
I try really very hard -
to protect you and guide you and honor you.
Because I cherish you
and I want you to cherish yourselves
and others.
Being your mother is the most important
and overwhelming
and special
thing I've ever done.
And, the truth is that I'm making it up as I go.
And that seems crazy
but it is just the truth.
I always mean well but that doesn't mean
I'm doing well.

But we read books together every day
and snuggle
and hug
and sing
and make eye contact
and eat together
every day.
I gave you each other.
I have never yelled at you for spilling something
or making an honest mistake.
I praise you without bidding
and encourage your imagination.
I can calm you down,
always.
I am almost always the solution to your problems
(even if I am also the cause.)
I answer your questions and listen to your stories.
I dry your tears.
I bandage your wounds and
tend to your fevers.
I have you vaccinated.
I let you cook with me
and make messes
big messes.

I won't know what were the most important things
I did or didn't do
-and what things didn't really matter at all-
until it is far too late.
And I know I'll always wish I did a better job
at so many things
because you deserve so much
more.

But, if what you are really asking
when you say
“What was it like for you when I was little?”
is...
“Am I a good mom?”
Perhaps in your asking,
and in my absolute resolution to tell you
“YES!”
I'll learn what what I'm seeking
and maybe even after all that time
you can tell me too,
that I was
a good mom after all.

Funk Soul Brother

Something weird happened to me this weekend.

I was in Funkville, I mean like knee deep in sludge in the valley of Funkville. I was a Grump-o-la to say the least. I remember being very annoyed at my children for needing things, like breakfast. I was ignoring my husband's attempts at being chipper and productive, my only friend was the dog and that was mostly because she doesn't talk. I just felt really, blah. Adam kept making plans for the day, asking me what I wanted to do - I growled under my breath something about laundry and cleaning our room, growing more irritated and blah by the minute. I saw that he was making a sort of schedule for the day, for whatever reason, this really bothered me. I'm a big believer in lists and schedules but didn't he know that weekends, which I hardly ever get to experience these days, are for RESTING!?!?!?!?

I sensed my boiling point at which, I turned to my favorite member of the family, the dog, and asked her if she needed to go outside. Her little black ears perked up and I took it as a yes. After coming back from our walk I caught a glance at Adam's "schedule" for the day. First on the list 9am - Play with the Girls. OK, so cute, I can be on board with that one. I looked at the next item 10am - Run. To this I had a very strong knee jerk reaction which was total and utter youth in revolt. I went ballistic, screaming and throwing things. Well I didn't actually do that but I felt like going crazy. The last thing I wanted to do was go for a freaking run. I was in the midst of a terrible no good very bad day and I just wanted to be left alone. I needed to mellow out, relax, unwind and quiet the ever churning gears in my brain. I just wanted to sit still.

But... I was trying to make up for sulking during breakfast, so instead of throwing things and screaming I put on my running clothes and shoes and joined my little family in a drawing game at the kitchen table. A few minutes later, I helped the girls get dressed, Adam dug out our double jogging stroller and in a silent "getting ready rag" we assembled our needs for the next half hour or so - a short list that included; ipod, poo bag, an extra poo bag (just in case), Nalgene topped off with ice water (heavy on the ice), keys, wallet (in case we stop at the farmer's market), some kind of snack for the girls (almonds this time around) and, oh yes, our dog and her leash. Basically, a million years later, we exited out our front door.

It was a really, really pretty day - the kind of day that people think we always have in Southern California. Again, this kind of pissed me off. You must know just how determined I was to stay in a foul mood. Just to prove to everyone (meaning no one, because no one was around but us) just how stoic and noble I really was for suffering this run for the good of my family, I decided that I would push the stroller for the first half of the run. This is no small feat, the damn thing weighs about a thousand pounds.

So I've painted the picture clearly. There I was - Lady Grump-o-la, Queen of Funkville, pushing a heavy stroller, essentially a piece of furniture on wheels, through my neighborhood. I must have been quiet a sight with a sour puss firmly planted on my face.

But then the weird thing happened.

I hit my stride.

My breathing was labored but steady, my heartbeat was quickened but strong.

I was running and I felt good.

I felt more mellow, more relaxed, I felt myself unwinding. And although we were running to some pretty awesome tunes blasted on the stroller's MP3 player, the noisy gears in my brain finally shut up.

It was the best part of my day.

This is weird because for sooooooooo long I have sort of rebelled against exercise. I didn't like it, it was hard, it was something I knew I should do and so I did but I never, ever wanted to do it. This small weird little victory of truly enjoying that run feels big. It feels big because its coupled with the same old tired habits and thoughts that food will comfort me. Clearly, I've been feeling blue for a few weeks, and, sure I've reached for some fatty comfort foods but they just don't do the trick like they used to do.

In the effort to not take up permanent residence in Funkville I think I need something. More specifically I need to do something. I've been toying with the idea of signing up for an event, I have one in mind but it's a little on the insane side. I think the goal of having something to work towards other than just the number on the scale would help me immensely.