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.
 

The Loss of Spring

It's been 48 days since my last blog post. And I'm sorry to say that it isn't because I've been too busy doing P90X or eating mountains of kale to write. It means I've put distance between me, myself and my goals. I weighed myself this morning for the first time in three weeks and it was not good.

I've been sort of in a stalemate with my weight loss since October but this is different. For the last several months I was maintaining, I was proud and honest and healthy. I even had two amazing weeks  of rock solid discipline in February where I busted through a plateau. And then I fell off the wagon.

More like I fell off the wagon, willingly jumped in front of the cart and let myself get run over by all four wheels. Like I said, not good.

And what's worse is I feel like I've been abused by a turn of the century horse drawn buggy. I'm tired, I'm muddled and mucked and askew in my snook. Truth been told (as if there is a point in not telling the truth here) things have been ridiculously busy this last month – business trips, family trips, overtime, toddler tantrums, yada, yada, yada. Just stupid excuses, nothing real. And then one real thing.

April has never really held magic for me and it's not even the fault of the showers. I mostly love the rain (I think it's the comeback of galoshes). Even as a child, spring was slated fourth on the list of my favorite seasons. But then seven years ago I actually lost spring. When I lost my mom. Despite what spring offers – renewal, freshness, forgiveness, the smell of lilacs. I just feel stripped of all my senses, I feel mute, deaf and at a complete loss.

Of course, God knew this, He gave me Lucy in my least favorite month. The only flower I ever see clearly this time of year. But, as much as I love celebrating her birth, and I do, I know you know I do. In fact, just so we're clear ,there is just simply not enough space, even with the infinite room and icloudness that the Internet gives me to express how much I love her and am forever thankful that she came to me in April, this time still hurts. And that doesn't take away from Lucy's Birth Day. In fact, it is usually her birthday that pulls me out of my fog. I'm never strong enough to do it on my own. Of course, God knew this, clever bastard.

I know about grief. I'm really good at grief – other people's grief that is – I actually think it's one of the things I do best in my job, helping parents grieve. It's one of my weird, “very good at crisis but suck at the small stuff quirks.” I explained in my last post about how I named my blog “elley exposed.” Now, perhaps you know a little big more about the “third generation bag lady's road to healing.” I'm still navigating the waters of my own grief and, seven years in, it's still choppy. But at least I'm working on it.

So I've had a bad 48 days. I think I'm done. Yes, I'm done. Just like that, I know I can wake up tomorrow and make good choices. One-at-a-time. Am I disappointed? Yes. Am I having nervous diarrhea just writing this post? Yes. TMI? Yes. Sorry, again, no point in not telling the truth here. I'm nervous because this is definitely exposing, I'm the writer of a weight loss blog and I'm not losing weight. Do I feel like a phony? Yes. Am I willing to forgive myself. Yes.

I lost Spring but I refuse to lose myself.

It's My Name That's On That Jag

Whatever the glass ceiling is for weight loss, I shattered it.

Finally.   And it means a another big milestone. This is the smallest I have been since I have been married. Happy Belated Anniversary to me!   You may have wondered where "Elley" came from, this is a nickname that only one person in the whole world calls me - my husband. I definitely drew the long straw here, my nickname for him is Sparky. Poor guy.  When I set out to start this blog I spent a lot of time trying to come up with a clever domain name - well blogger ruined that pipe dream for me because there are only something like one bazillion people thinking that blogging is like totally for me and most of my clever ideas were already taken. So I settled for something a little more simple. Elley Exposed. It cuts through a lot of garbage and just says... here I am. Here I am - vulnerable, unsealed and bare. It also sounds racy and I like that.  I think many of us could use a little more raciness in our life, like in the bad-ass, I wear an apron in the kitchen only to hide my holster kind of way.  Some of my most potent workout songs in the gym are angry girl anthems. I used to listen to Beyonce's Irreplaceable endlessly during workouts. Then it was Pink's So What. Then Fighter by Christina Aguilera. These are all effectively SCREW YOU songs. And they are so awesome, especially for someone like me who, even when given the opportunity, would never be able to say screw you.   It isn't that I really want to say those words its just that I want the power and confidence that rides on the coat tails of those words, or at least the power and confidence that I perceive them to carry. Power and confidence are so sexy, aren't they?  
When my husband and I first fell in love I was a confident girl with a lot of ambition - I mean, hello, I was seventeen years old! The world was my oyster or something to that effect. I think this both intimidated and enticed him. It was something I never really understood when he tried to explain it.

Until it changed. 
I've tried numerous ways to recapture the mysterious confidence I carted around with me in the courtship days of my relationship to my husband to no avail. Because my attempts were never authentic. I wasn't addressing the real problem. And that problem, for me, was always the fact that I was struggling with my weight and it held me back in so many ways. I let it hold me back. It dictated what I wore and at which angle I preferred for pictures to be taken. The most surprising thing about losing weight is what I have been able to recapture.   I feel like I've finally got my sexy back.   And so, Happy Belated Anniversary to you too, my dear Sparky.  

Diffusing the False Crisis

I think I'm having a false crisis. I'm calling it a False Crisis because it is ridiculous and silly and the only thing that would actually make it interesting is if all of the key players in my life appeared and disappeared exactly on cue, driving around in sports cars with the top down and running around in shoes meant only for walking down the aisle. You know, like in romantic comedies.

I've been thinking about what drives people, well, at least one person – me. My hubby is out of town, so I've been alone the last few nights as my toddler-aged companions are in bed by 7:30pm, so I've had the time and I've pondered this quite a bit. When I committed to this journey last April I had so much drive. I had laser focus. I let nothing get in my way.

What changed?

I still want the same things – in fact I have a list of things that I want that hangs on the mirror in my bathroom and resides in whatever book I'm currently reading. I read it everyday and I still want everything on that list.

I want a purpose driven life.
I want my girls to hear the Taylor Swift song, “The Best Day” and think of me.
I want to fit into any pair of knee high boots I think are cute.
I want to wear a size six.
I want to run a marathon.
I want to write a children's book.
I want to volunteer in my children's classrooms.
I want to own a house.
I want to stop thinking that my dad is disappointed in me.
I want to live to 100.
I want to go on family vacation at least once a year.
I want to step on the scale at a doctor's office and not blush.
I want my children to have no memory of me being overweight.
I want to model healthy eating to my girls.
I want to show my girls how fun it is to exercise and move.
I want my husband to want me.
I want to be one of those people who says, “gosh, this is so rich, I couldn't possibly have another bite.”
I want people to read my blog.
I want people to share my blog with others.
I want to workout with a trainer once a week.
I want to inspire faith.
I want to minimize how much I yell and maximize how much I pray.
I want to take the stairs.
I want to wear a bikini.
I want to wear my wedding ring, without injury.
I want to teach Sunday school, regularly.
I want to feel good naked.
I want to work from home.
I want to have a deep meaningful friendship in Los Angeles.
I want to weigh less than 140 lbs.
I want to be an “after” story.

So, again, what changed? Why is it that I'm stalled out? And after a lot of dramatics and deep exposure of myself I think I finally have the answer...

Crisis.

I am no longer in crisis. When I started this journey nine months ago I was in real crisis. I was desperate, I was depressed, I was lonely and sad and disgusted and completely fed up being fed by the wrong things.

That's what's changed. I am now content and happy and I feel surrounded by love and support and I'm proud of myself and I feel full. Filled up with the right things. Of course, I don't feel like that all of the time. Sometimes I don't handle things very well and I tend to retreat and walk around aimlessly in calming places, like Target. Enter False Crisis, otherwise known as yesterday, wherein I sobbed like a baby to both my husband and my sister about the fact that over the week of my birthday I gained a pound and before that I hadn't lost weight in two months.

And you know what they said? “Boo freaking hoo.” So, OK, neither one of them said that but both of them should have. 

My birthday was amazing. It was everything a 30th birthday should be... it was indulgent and lavish and I felt like a pampered princess. I ate Sprinkles cupcakes and Cadberry Eggs and full fat cheese and drank regular Coke. It was glorious. But, the glory didn't come from food. It came from people. People who celebrated me and love me. The same people who have pulled me out of my real crisis and helped me stop letting fear run my life. The same people who celebrated and loved me when I couldn't celebrate and love myself. You know who you are and I want to thank you for for my false crisis. 

What I have to learn now is drive, drive without crisis. I'm not really sure how to do this, I think I've been operating this way my whole life. It's how I turned a mid-term C into an A by the end of a semester. It's how I learned to parallel park. It's why I got a dog and learned to cook and to plunge toilets. It's how I've always called myself to action, like in one of those romantic comedy endings where false crisis and false hope and real crisis and real hope alternate like a clockwork mechanism.

I don't have the answer. I'm just sending this out there... hoping I'll get one.