Ode to My Lime Green Pants

Oh, Lime Green (yellow to some) Capris, how I appreciate you

We met during my September 2008 trip to South Beach Miami. The pants I brought with me had been destroyed when some hairspray exploded in my suitcase. I was so grateful to find you on the clearance rack at the Gap - the right size, right color and fit. I purchased you immediately, and together we strolled out onto Lincoln Road, off to do something touristy.

I wore you a couple times when I was back in California. But soon the weather changed and it was too cold to wear you. By the time Spring came back around, well, I was pregnant and you stayed with the rest of my pre-pregnancy clothes in the back of my closet.

A year later, I tried you again and you didn't fit. In fact, every time I tried to squeeze you on, I got depressed because although I had given birth several months prior, I still couldn't fit you. Then one day, a few months ago, I slid you on and you fit! In fact, you fit well. I even got some compliments. You became a regular staple in my summer wardrobe.

Lime Green Capris, I wore you yesterday. And as much as I love you, I realize we have to depart. Not because it's fall now and you're clearly a summer color. But because I found myself pulling you up several times yesterday. When I stood up after sitting at my desk for a few hours, you were no longer capris because you had slid down to around my ankles. You're too big for me now, Lime Green Capris. And so I should give you to someone else and make room for a pair of light-colored capris in a smaller size.

I will miss you Lime Green Capris! You remind me of the fun I had in South Beach. You are a symbol of summer, happiness and living healthy. But REJOICE Lime Green Capris because this means I am smaller than I was pre-pregnancy! And THAT we can celebrate together before you go off to your new owner.

Dowhatchalike

I have an extreme admiration for people who have found their niche. From the Deadheads to Trekkies, I am in awe of people who have found something they really enjoy. Regardless of how nerdy it might be.

I took my son with me down to Santa Cruz on Labor Day Weekend and we met up with a friend from high school who took us on a hike. Upon arriving at the park in the Santa Cruz mountains, we stumbled upon this medieval reenactment group. They were all dressed up in their armor, with their shields and swords. At first we laughed at them - I mean it was kinda corny. But as we watched them for a bit and spoke with one of them, we began to realize these people were having a really good time.

I've always wanted to find a unique niche for myself. I guess an outsider could look at my life and assume my niche is being in a sorority. I mean, like the medieval people, we wear costumes (letters), use canes, have coordinated dances . . . we travel, compete, etc. It might even be corny to outsiders. I'm not sure if I want that to be my only niche though. It would be nice to find something that my son and I could do together - and something that might be physical so we can continue to incorporate physical activity into our daily lives.

Either way, I realized I really respect people who do what they love to do. Even if it is dressing up like Sir Lancelot and jousting in a park in Santa Cruz.

Halfway There

So I have reached the halfway point of my weight loss goals and have now lost over 20 pounds! We are only at the midpoint and I still have 20 more pounds to go before I'm at my goal weight. So by no means am I done, although I am feeling mighty victorious. Losing 20 pounds was not as hard as I thought it would be - I didn't have to starve myself, I didn't have to eat 2 shakes and a healthy dinner, I didn't have to give up carbs and I didn't have to drink some weird lemonade. I just had to make better decisions about my food choices and work out more consistently. But again, I'm not there so I'm certainly not the spokesperson for weight loss (at least not yet!).

Is there an inverse of the expression: "every cloud has a silver lining"?

I can totally feel the weight loss. My clothes fit better (I'm down a size). I feel a little more comfortable about my appearance in pictures. I have more energy. But I can honestly say/write that I thought 20 pounds would be more dramatic. Which makes me think losing 20 more will not result in the dramatic change I have been anticipating. So though everything is good, it doesn't feel as good as I expected.

Now I didn't embark on this journey because I wanted a reaction from people or I wanted to enter "America's Next Top Model." I embarked on the journey because I was just tired of my weight preventing me from being the best me I can be. I also now want pass on healthy eating and physical activity habits to my son. And I want him to be proud of his mom.

I just wonder when you get to the point where you're satisfied with your appearance? Or maybe you don't ever get there . . . I guess I was hoping this whole journey has an end.

Missing You

I am so close to my 20 pound goal I can taste it . . . even if I didn't lose the .4 lbs I was supposed to lose this week to make it, I know I am very close . . . and now that we're halfway there I am thinking of all the things I have given up that I used to LOVE . . . so I thought I'd share . . .

1. Semifreddo's Cinnamon Twist Bread (at Trader Joe's or Whole Foods)

2. Safeway Select Strawberry Cheesecake Ice Cream

3. Ghiradelli Chocolates

4. Cheeseburgers & fries

5. Chicken sandwiches from Bakesale Betty's

6. A #6 from Wendy's

7. Powdered doughnuts

8. Taquitos

9. Hot Pastrami Sandwiches

10. Chicken McNuggets

Now I COULD eat these things. But I can tell you that I would not be able to each just one. And it's just not worth it.

Doesn't mean I don't want them though . . .

Consignment Incomplete

As you all know, I cleaned out my closet recently. I got rid of things that were a.) unflattering; b.) repetitive; c.) unworn. One of my friends suggested I try to sell some of the clothes. So during my purge I put the unworn or gently used stuff in one pile and the cheap, overused items in another. This weekend, I looked up a few consignment shops in my area, made a list of 4 that had good Yelp reviews and that accepted non-designer clothes (the most high end label in my closet is probably Ann Taylor). Then I put all my clothes in a suitcase and prepared to spend Saturday afternoon on a consignment quest.

My first destination was Crossroads Trading. When I arrived I was actually pretty impressed (I'll probably go back there to do some shopping - they've got a great shoe collection). I was super nervous and as I pushed the stroller with my son in one hand and lugged my suitcase of clothes in the other, across the street to the store, I hoped that they would at least buy enough clothes to pay for the cost of parking on College Avenue.

What I didn't expect was that they would not accept anything. Why? According to the clerk, in really her nicest voice (no sarcasm) my clothes were "out of date from what they were looking for." Now granted I can accept that considering a lot of items had been purchased in 2008 or earlier. And I certainly was no trendsetter in 2008. But it was so HUMILIATING. I mean I already knew I was fashionably-challenged. But that was the FINAL stamp of it.

I sent a text to my friend telling her about my humiliation. I told her I didn't even want to go to any other stores given my embarrassment - and the waste of parking and gas. She suggested I just donate the rest. And so I did. Including the suitcase.

Sign me up for one of those "What-Not-to-Wear-Oprah's-Big-Makeover-How-to-Look-Better-Naked" shows. Please. I'm serious.

Baseball, Jeans and Dreams

So yesterday my friend calls me at work and invites me to accompany him to a baseball game that evening. Seems his clients have a skybox at the Oakland Coliseum and there will be food and drinks and an awesome view of the field. My main concern was whether or not the train would be late getting me home - the game started at 7pm and I wasn't going to get back home until 7pm. It wasn't until I made it back home and saw how chilly it was in Oakland (as compared to the 90 degree weather in Sacramento) that I realized I had not been thinking of my real issue: what the hell do you wear to a baseball game if you're sitting in the skybox?

Usually, when I don't know what to wear, I wear a dress or a skirt. I find that usually works in almost any environment. And I usually look good in a dress or skirt. But considering the weather (and the fact that it WAS a baseball game), I didn't think any of my dresses would be appropriate. I sent out text messages to friends and posted a message on my Facebook page asking for advice. I didn't have a lot of time to try on a bunch of different outfits or run to the mall to get an A's jersey. Everyone pretty much said to wear jeans and layers or a cute top or a t-shirt. Now, that might sound easy to most people but my issue is: I have no flattering jeans.

I have always struggled with buying and wearing jeans. I think I have written in this blog before that I can never find a flattering, affordable pair. And last night, I realized that none of my jeans fit well. They're all loose and don't really do anything for my bottom half. It was then, as I awkwardly struggled into (what I thought) was the least offensive pair, that I vowed to buy another pair when I reached my first weight goal.

This morning in the shower, I realized I have not made my customary list of what I want to do when I reach my first weight goal (I'm thinking it'll be 20 pounds - which is halfway there). So I am thinking about it - I know I want to take pictures with my son, I want to buy some jeans, but I'm not sure what else. But I know I will be celebrating.

By the way, I am about 4 pounds away from my first goal . . .

Flattery Will Get You Everywhere

There is nothing more motivating for your weight loss than compliments.

I mean there are other factors that should motivate me. There's the benefit to my health. There's the little sticker I get from Weight Watchers. There's the ability to fit, without gasping, into pre-pregnancy clothes.

But those all pale in comparison to one or two sincere compliments.

Chris Rock said it best: "Women need three things: food, water, and compliments."

I got two this week. It just felt really good for someone to acknowledge my hard work.

Sampson

It is with much shame that I am about to admit this . . . but I want to preface it first . . .

Like many Black women, I have hair issues. Being biracial and growing up with a white, rather no-nonsense mother, didn't really help. Though my sister and I always had a healthy crop of thick hair, I don't think either of us knew what to do with it between the 3 times a year that we went to the shop. It was really the blind leading the blind - we experimented with Pink Oil, water and every form of grease there was. And it RARELY looked good.

In college, I found salvation in the form of my sorhority sisters. They immediately took me in and said, "Well, we must do something about this hair." I couldn't afford regular visits to the beauty salon, nor did I have transportation to downtown San Diego to the shops when I did. So my prhophytes gave me perms in my kitchen and taught me how to wrap my hair. Those were good times . . . soon after college, I got a salary and a car and was cool . . . and my hair didn't impede me from too much . . .

Then about 3 years ago, after cutting my hair very short, I decided I would stop getting it chemically relaxed. I thought it might be damaging and frankly I was sick of the cost and the monthly burns. Now, my hair is completely natural (I still straighten it, but the perm has totally grown out) and now it is impeding me. And so I have to admit this . . . I will not exercise if I have just gotten my hair done.

That's pathetic, I know. But it's true. I spend 2 hours and $50 getting my hair straightened twice a month and now that I am perm-free, one drop of moisture COMPLETELY ruins it and renders that 2 hours and $50 completely meaningless.

Schools are now concerned about this - seems that some young Black girls are willing to FAIL their PE classes because they don't want to mess up their hair. This is VERY SAD. On the surface level, it seems REALLY stupid to choose your freakin hair over your health. And logically it IS. But last week, when I had the time and energy to work out but decided not to because I had just gotten my hair done, I realized just how PATHETIC it is as well as stupid . . .

Like many things I write in this blog, I don't know what the solution is (invest in better head wraps?). But it sure made me feel better to admit it . . .

Cleaning Out My Closet

About a year ago, I went to my coworker's 50th b-day party. She had on a fabulous dress, and I told her so. She said, "Yeah, I thought this is something that you would wear." I laughed - indeed, it WAS something I would totally wear.

About a month or two ago, a different coworker had on a dress that I also thought was fabulous. I told her I liked it and would totally wear it. She said, "I thought of you when I bought this - I knew you would like it." I laughed again because it was true - but this time I didn't laugh for as long.

Seems I have a style. And others notice.

This realization came to a head two weeks ago when I attempted to clean out my closet. I was motivated to do so because it disgusted me and I couldn't even walk in it. Meanwhile, I was lamenting every morning because I had nothing to wear. So I got online to my favorite website (Oprah.com) and found some tips for cleaning out your closet.

I started with this rack of dresses I had. As per Oprah's tips, I tried on every single dress I own. One after the other. By dress #5 I realized that I was trying on the same style dress. Sure, the length or the pattern or the fabric was different. But it was nonetheless the same dress.

I am so boring.

I have admitted in prior blog entries that I'm not super into fashion. I favor the functional over the bold. I was told once that my personality was FLAMBOYANT so I didn't need my clothes to be FLAMBOYANT too.

But for two separate people that I work with - and these are not people who I hang out with on a regular basis, mind you - to notice that I favor the same types of clothes and for every dress I own to be the same . . . I mean, that means I am officially BORING.

I commenced to cleaning my entire closet. I got rid of clothes that didn't fit unless I sucked in. I got rid of clothes that fit but were unflattering. I got rid of the multiple dresses I had in the same style. Now I am left with a bare bones closet of clothes that I actually wear and that seem to work for me. There were maybe 2-3 things I couldn't bear to get rid of because I know they will be useful one day (a formal dress that doesn't quite fit but that was expensive and I know is close to fitting, a work outfit that I really like that is a little tight over my still-nursing boobs, etc.). But for the most part my closet is EMPTY.

I will admit that the clothes I got rid of I technically didn't get rid of per se - they're still sitting in bags in my hallway. I don't think I am quite ready to give them away yet. But I will. I just need to get up the courage . . . change is hard.

Meanwhile, I am trying really hard to build my wardrobe back up - this time, using more tips from Oprah.com and focusing on the few quality pieces that every working woman needs.

And the bags of clothes still sit in my hallway . . .

Keeping the Safety On

So I have mentioned that I know I have certain triggers that make me want to give up on my healthy living journey. I haven't been sure what to do about them until recently. I was watching Oprah and she was talking about this book "Women Food and God" and the author discussed how those of us who have trouble with self-control eat for other reasons than being hungry. Now I know that I have this problem, and I have admittedly not done too much about it. However, very recently I had another one of those Oprah "Aha" self-actualization moments and I feel like I kind of overcame my trigger - I thought of it as keeping the safety on . . .

On Wednesday I had to travel for work and I didn't have a good day. My day started off badly due to a horrible accident on an already packed freeway which rendered me 40 minutes late to a meeting. I may run late in my personal life, but I really try not to at work. Then I had to push my flight back, which of course caused child care issues for my child. Furthermore, the meeting was about an hour behind schedule so my presentation was rushed and I wasn't able to stay for a discussion I really needed to be there for. On top of that, I got a couple negative work-related e-mails. All in all, it just felt like a wasted day. Considering I'm trying so hard to build my reputation back up after being out on bedrest for 2 months and then maternity leave for 3, I felt like such a professional failure. Not to mention guilty for leaving my son for so long.

As soon as my plane arrived back in Oakland, I wanted to eat something bad. I wanted an ice cream sundae from Fenton's, I wanted a chicken sandwich from Bakesale Betty's. I just wanted something that tasted good because I felt so bad. I was standing there waiting for the shuttle to take me to my car wrestling with the little angel and devil on each shoulder. Then I started thinking about the book and Oprah and I realized I didn't really WANT those foods, I wanted to not feel frustrated about my job or being a working mom. And food, no matter how good chocolate or fried chicken is, was NOT going to solve traffic issues, long-winded people who make meetings long, or miscommunications with co-workers.

That was such a HUGE moment for me. I am going to read the book now.

P.S. As I mentioned in a previous blog, I decided I was actually going to commit to something for at least 21 days. So I have been faithfully writing everything I eat down, avoiding any kind of fast food or junk food (unless it is a Weight Watchers brand) and exercising regularly for the past 4 weeks. I'm down 6 pounds! Not that anyone has noticed (or will), but I sure do feel successful!! And I love Weight Watchers (but that's a separate blog entry).

Total KO

I would let to preface this by letting you know that I am not one of those people who has to be the best. I've never been that way. Now, I like to be good, I don't want to be average and bad is unacceptable. But I don't have to be the best at anything. If anyone reading this is a former band geek, here's an analogy: I don't have to be first chair, but I prefer 2nd or 3rd and I refuse to be anything below 4th.

So I went into kickboxing with that attitude today. I knew I wouldn't be Laila Ali up in there, but I thought I might be Jackie Frazier. I've taken a couple classes in the past and found them to be enjoyable. And I put a lot on this kickboxing class - it is at the perfect time (even follows a Weight Watchers meeting) and it's great cardio.

I sucked today. And I don't mean I sucked like I did in Bellydancing. I mean I sucked like I wasn't even a contender (veiled boxing reference for anyone getting my theme here). Once I realized I was spending more time standing there trying to figure out what the hell was going on than actually doing any cardio, I left and hopped on the treadmill.

In defense of the instructor, she did warn us it could be intimidating at first and that you have to keep coming back ("Practice makes permanent!" she said) to get it. I also wasn't the only fallen soldier - two other people left after me and went and did other things in the gym.

This wasn't like Bellydancing where I was bad because my hips didn't move the right way - I mean I wasn't off beat or anything, I just wasn't as good. But in kickboxing when they went left, I went right. When they did cross-jab-uppercut-hook-knee-turn, I was still trying to get my cross down. I was just really bad. Ideally I would have like the class to have a little more instruction about the different moves, but it was more "sink or swim."

And I sunk.

21 Days

I am a fan of social experiments. I conduct them most often in my romantic relationships with men - the most common being the "What Will Happen if I Ignore his Calls/Texts for 24 Hours?" Always fascinating results. I recently performed one at work. I was reading some notes that my coworker regularly writes up for a meeting. She remarked to me that nobody else read the notes but me. I said, "Let's test that theory." So for about 4 weeks, we included one silly statement in the notes - to see if anyone would notice. No one did. In fact, it wasn't until we added several silly statements (one statement being "Staff discussed which came first, the chicken or the egg. General consensus was the egg preceded the chicken. A workgroup was formed to determine where the egg came from.") that coworkers started to notice. It was pretty fun. It was also successful.

Coming off of the high I just experienced from a successful social experiment on my coworkers, I would like to try one on myself. I would like to test the hypothesis, "Can you really form or break a habit in 21 days?" I am going to take a physical activity habit I would like to adopt, and a eating habit I would like to stop and I am going to try and see if this whole 21 day theory works. If it can work on ME, it can work on anyone because I am QUEEN of not being able to commit to some things. I am not going to reveal the habits I will be starting/stopping (although you might be able to figure it out if you read this blog) but I will check in with you all on May 22 to let you know how it goes.

FML

I had an FML moment recently that I shared with some friends, but I thought I should share it with the world (well, the four people who read this) because that is the nature of FML moments . . .

If you're unfamiliar with "FML" it stands for "F*ck My Life." Those times when something happens to you and you're like, "Sucks to be me" or "Aw crap, really?" There's a whole website devoted to FML moments, where people can share their own. Some are laugh out loud funny. Some are just sad. Here's mine:

I'm walking down the hallway of my building when my elderly neighbor opens her door and says hello to me.

ELDERLY NEIGHBOR: I have some capri pants someone just bought for me that don't fit me. Do you think you might want them?

ME: Maybe. What size are they?

ELDERLY NEIGHBOR: They're a size 22, they'll probably fit you.

ME: Oh, I don't think they'll fit me. They'll be too big.

ELDERLY NEIGHBOR (reaches out and touches my stomach): Are you sure? Even right here? Why don't you take them and try them on?

FML

Weight Watchers and I

When I saw that Jennifer Hudson was the new spokesperson for Weight Watchers I was SOLD. I mean, here was this young woman who always seemed very comfortable with her thickness, talking about weight loss. Add to that she's a new mother and she recently suffered a major personal tragedy with the death of two close family members, including a parent. I mean if there is ANYONE out there I can relate to, it's Jennifer Hudson. Minus the whole singing/acting thing, of course . . .

Then I saw there was a Weight Watchers app for your iPhone. Even more motivation.

I only have one program with this program: the group meetings.

Now believe me, I love to sit around with a group of overweight people talking about our struggles with food. I find it very comforting to know I'm not alone. But what I don't like about Weight Watchers meetings (and really group weight loss in general) is the damn sharing of success.

I realize that just sounds really bad; let me clarify. There's just something about a size 20 person saying, very self-righteously, how she has been able to maintain her diet by eating carrots in the car. I guess I just don't buy it. In these environments, people just want to share all the good they're doing. Last night, Cora talked about how she asked the waiter to bring her 3 glasses of water when she went out for happy hour so she didn't drink the wine. Linda said she went to a birthday party at her favorite restaurant and brought grapes with her so she wouldn't eat anything. Wendy said she went to an A's game this weekend and was able to avoid the hot dogs that she loves so much. We all applauded these people, but frankly, I didn't find what they said encouraging. To me, these stories come off as almost disingenuous and phony. And unrealistic. Where are all the REAL stories? Where are the stories of people who fall, but get back up?

I guess I wanted to hear from someone who drank a little too much at happy hour but got back on the wagon. I wanted to hear that Linda didn't ostracize herself at a birthday party by just eating grapes. I wanted Wendy to say she ate a hot dog. I wanted REALITY.

I do not want to obsess about my weight or food. I want to still enjoy my life, I just want to make better choices. Personally if Cora came to happy hour with me and ordered water, that would be the last happy hour we went to together. I would not invite Cora to my birthday if she was going to bring her own food. And Wendy and I could not go to an A's game because if she started complaining about how miserable she was she couldn't have a hot dog, I would probably go buy her one just to shut her up.

I am going to stick with the program because I am determined to develop some healthy habits and lose some weight. I realize that like Jennifer Hudson, being a parent is really motivating me. I want to be a good example for my son - and I want him to be proud of his mom! So though I may wince when next week Cora, Linda and Wendy raise their hands to tell some story, I will still sit there and hopefully be inspired by someone else who is willing to keep it real.

One Last Hurrah

Now I haven't seen the movie "Leaving Las Vegas" but I understand it's a story of a man who finds out he's dying and goes on one last binge in Vegas. I'm going through a bit of a "Leaving Las Vegas" moment right now.

I'm pretty close to making a firm commitment to a diet and exercise. I have toyed with it over the last few months, but for the most part I've just made some small changes that haven't required too much effort. Now I am proud of those small changes because they've actually turned out not to be too hard, but I know now that I have to make some changes that might actually be harder.

I joined a boot camp my sorhority sister is putting on in May. And I decided to give Weight Watchers a chance again (totally inspired by fellow new mom, Jennifer Hudson and her recent weight loss). But before I totally commit to all of this I want to go on one last hurrah. That means fresh bread and Parmesan garlic spread from the Farmer's Market. It means naps when the baby isn't with me. It means buying lunch at work.

I'm hoping my current "binge" will end better than Nicolas Cage's. Actually I'm sure it will.

Putting Things in Perspective

I think the saying goes, "I complained I had no shoes until I saw a man who had no feet."

I've watched a few episodes of VH1's "Sober House" and "Celebrity Rehab." They are these reality shows hosted by the very attractive Dr. Drew featuring celebrities trying to get over addictions. Now I know some of the people featured on the shows are barely celebrities and not all have serious addictions - some are trying to restart (or start) their careers. Such is the true reality of any reality show cast. But some of them are obviously addicts. They have all the appearance and mannerisms (and arrest records for some) of any drug/alcohol addict and it's painfully clear these people are really trying to get over their substance abuse.

Watching this show lately has made me feel very frivolous. Here I am complaining about how I can resist strawberry cheesecake ice cream and there are people out there who can't resist hard drugs that do nothing but destroy them, their bodies and their friends. The show puts me in my place sometimes. I am blessed to not have any interest in meth. I am lucky that I love chocolate and not heroin. I have never done anything beyond maybe waste $5 for some chips. Addicts lose their homes, jobs and self respect over some crack.

It makes me think that if there are people out there that can overcome painful histories of addiction, perhaps I can stop eating M&Ms from my coworker's jar at work.

Letter to My Body

My sorhority sister is getting together a group of us who want to lose weight. Serious weight. You got to want to lose more than 25 to be even in the club. She suggested we all start the process by writing letters to our bodies. Here's my attempt.

Dear Body,

I am so disappointed in you. What happened? Now, I know that you have never really been at your best. But for God's sake you've been so much better! Now all I hear from you is how tired you are. How you'd much rather do anything in your free time but exercise. What happened to your energy? What happened to your spunk? What happened to our connection? What happened to my control over you?!?

I remember about 10 years ago in college when you used to thrive off of little sleep. A full day of classes and work was nothing when we were in our early 20s. We still managed to go to the gym. And we felt less pressure to be skinny. We felt good about ourself and it showed to the world. But now after a 12 hour day you are exhausted beyond belief. And you seem to have no desire to do too much about it.

I realize that it's partially me. I'm keeping you deflated. I am feeling so guilty about spending time away from the baby that I think I keep accepting your excuses. But we have to take care of ourself FOR the baby. We want him to be proud of us. We want to be a good role model for him. And we want to be able to run around in the park after him when he finally starts walking.

So let's get back on track, Body. Let's stop making excuses. Let's realize that those yummy foods only make us feel better momentarily. I'll stop being mad at you if you stop ignoring me. Let's love each other again. After all, we can only truly feel better about ourself if we start addressing our flaws.

Love, Jam Rockah

Betcha Can't Eat Just One

I was watching Bill Maher’s (LOVE BILL MAHER) show recently and Jeff Garlin was on (he’s on “Curb Your Enthusiam”). Garlin is a big guy and it was obvious he had slimmed down a bit. Bill Maher commented on it. Garlin replied that he had started eating right and exercising – and that he wasn’t dieting. He did mention that he found he had to give up sugar – not natural sugar but basically desserts. He said, “I found I can’t eat just one cookie. If I eat one, I end up eating pie and cake and a whole host of other things.” Bill Maher mentioned he had had a similar experience with smoking; when he was trying to quit he tried tapering off but found limiting himself to just 1 or 2 cigarettes a day didn’t help him quit. He realized he couldn’t smoke ONE.

This got me thinking about moderation and my personal struggles with food. I’ve always said that junk food, fast food, soda, etc. is okay in moderation – because fact of the matter is some people eat garbage every day. And you will see your life (and your wallet) improve GREATLY when you don’t eat that crap every day. However, I’m wondering if for some people, like me, if you really want to see some improvement you have to give it up ENTIRELY. Cold turkey.

A few years ago my cousin lost a lot of weight. Now she was never obese or anything, but she was, as the kids say, thick. She got a rare disease and had to totally change her eating habits. She told me she eliminated sugar and fried foods from her diet and the weight fell off. I kept thinking I should try that, but never got around to it.

I have not eaten fast food in a couple months. I have no desire for it anymore – it’s a combination of taste, after effects and not wanting to waste $5 on one meal when that $5 could pay for groceries. And that might have been a struggle for me at one point, but having a baby and being unable to even go get it for a certain amount of time resulted in me just losing an interest in it at all. But I am just STRUGGLING with giving up desserts. Like I could eat ice cream for dinner and be happy. I started doing this while I was pregnant and it stuck with me. I haven't really tried to give it up, but maybe I should.

I predict that will be very, very hard.

Go Hard or Go Home

I wouldn't call myself a party girl or anything, but while in my 20s I was keenly aware that my ability to do whatever I wanted to do was limited. I would not be able to sleep until noon my whole life, or spend $100 on drinks at Kincaid's on a Tuesday night or go to South Beach for a few days to hang out with friends. About 2 years ago, as I was turning 30, I told my friend that I was beginning to see perhaps the end of my life of self-indulgence. He told me I had about a 10 more years to "go hard" and just do whatever I wanted. I very much listened to him and prior to getting pregnant really did try to "go hard" and just do what I wanted to do - regardless of the impact on me, my health (my weight) or my bank account. And you know what? I had a good time. I never took it too far but far enough that I can look back and be happy I didn't say no to the last minute trips, the mid-week dates or the impromptu parties. Because now that I can't do those things because the baby has a schedule, I'm breastfeeding and I have a tighter budget, I don't feel like I missed out on anything.

I think though the most important thing I have to realize is that I want to make sure I model healthy behaviors. The other day I was at a BBQ with my co-workers. There was a ton of food and drinks, from chips to cookies to carne asada - but my boss's 3 year old son was happily eating carrots. It was refreshing to see a little boy bypass the 2 large bowls of potato chips in favor of the bowl of veggies. I realize that kids need to see their parents model healthy behaviors in order for them to develop them. So now, just as I saw the end of my party-like ways, I am seeing the end of my unhealthy behaviors. And you know what? I'm okay with that too.

Monkey

Most men I know blame point to women’s insecurity as the reason for, well, any problem in a relationship.

“Why didn’t you call her?” “She just seemed so insecure.”

“Why didn’t you commit to her?” “She was way too insecure.”

“Why did you cheat on her?” “I was sick of her being so insecure.”

These guys act like insecurity is a shirt or a hairstyle, like something you can put on in the morning and take off at night. As if people CHOOSE to be insecure and only have themselves to blame when insecurity impedes their lives. Nobody wants to be insecure; for those of us who are, it sucks. It’s a monkey on your back that impedes almost everything you do. Now there are times that this monkey can be reduced to say, the size of a keychain. These are times when you’re, as the kids say, “feeling yourself.” You’re confident. You feel smart/beautiful/fit/talented, etc. But for some people, like me, it never lasts.

I am one of those people who often comes off as confident and secure initially, but if you get to know me you recognize my insecurity monkey is a gorilla. And he’s heavy and frankly exhausting. If there is one thing that I have learned in my newfound state as a working mother, time is precious and I don’t have the energy for everything I want to do anymore. To quote a George Michael song, I’m trying to “set my monkey free.”

It has occurred to me that the only way to really deal with my insecurities are to, well, address them. Now I recognize that perhaps the monkey may never go away. I recognize that even the most confident woman has an evil monkey hidden deep in her closet. But there are ways that I can make my own personal insecurity monkey, say the size of a tamarin.

My Personal Pawn

When I was in college, I spent a quarter interning in Washington, DC. As part of our internship, all of us students were required to complete a research project. I remember one guy in my class did his project on how children are used as pawns by policymakers. According to his theory, you want to get your legislation passed, add something in it about helping kids. You want to get a bill defeated, prove it is harmful to kids. It was a pretty fascinating theory.

I was thinking about it the other day and realized that babies are also pawns for women in their post-pregnancy bodies. When you first have a baby, you're with him/her pretty much all the time. And frankly your friends and family want to see the baby when they visit, not you. So no one is paying attention to the fact that a month after your child is born you still look like you're in your second trimester. Even strangers on the street, including men who tend to naturally give a woman's body a once-over, notice the baby before they notice your paunch. Now this is great.

So the problem arises when you go back to work. You can't bring your pawn, a.k.a. baby, to the workplace. And though you can distract people with pictures, it is your coworkers who are the main people who are scrutinizing your post-pregnancy body. This is partly because the last time they saw you, you were probably 8 or 9 months pregnant and exceptionally huge. So there's a bit of fascination with the miracle of life that causes them to stare. But for the most part, the moment you step foot off the elevator into the lobby, your un-fitness (unless you are Heidi Klum) is on display. And as you struggle your first few months (I was going to write weeks, but I'm keeping it real here) awkwardly squeezing into work clothes your wore before you were pregnant, hiding behind your desk and hoping no one will notice, your coworkers have already seen you and have already made a judgement.

The other day I was talking to a coworker that had a baby 2 months before me. We both lamented how unattractive we felt now that we were back at work. I couldn't explain it - it was a combination of feeling tired, forgetful, distracted and well, fat. My coworker said, "You just don't feel cute." I totally agreed.

When I'm with my baby, I don't necessarily feel un-cute. I feel normal. And I realize, as I think back to DC over 10 years ago, that it's because I've got my pawn on my arm.

The Power Day

The other day I was complaining to my sister about my daily difficulties as a mother. She told me that it would be better once I had a Power Day.

"What's a 'Power Day'?" I asked.

"It's a day every working mother has where everything just goes right. You remember everything, you accomplish everything you planned to accomplish that day and everything just gets better. And you feel like you could totally have another kid. It's a Power Day," she explained.

I thought the concept of a Power Day totally made sense; it gives you a point of reference. Like, if I've completed a marathon, I know that I can run long distances. So I can struggle through runs around Lake Merritt because, hey, I've run a marathon.

This is all to say that I have NOT had a Power Day.

In fact, I've been trying to have one so I can proudly tell my sister that I had one and so that I can feel, well, TOGETHER. Since I've gone back to work, I've gone to bed every night feeling like I have the next day planned out so well that it will TOTALLY be my POWER DAY.

Case in point:

On one of those rare sunny days in February, I woke up feeling good. Got the baby and myself ready on time. In fact I was in a new dress so I was feeling pretty cute. It was even above the knee, and NOT black. I even managed to remember to put on makeup. I got to work early and stopped by Starbucks. And I sauntered in my office, my purse on one arm, my nonfat chai latte in my had, ready to declare this the POWER DAY OF JAMILA.

And then I saw my boss in the hallway. She had on a suit. And suddenly my dream of a Power Day blew up.

See, my job is pretty business casual for the most part. But there's a policy that when we have meetings with the state or with our Board of Directors, we must wear a suit (or at least a jacket). I had forgotten that I was supposed to attend an important meeting with the state that day. And there was no way I could roll into the meeting in my cute little dress.

I was devastated. To the point, that in a meeting with my boss that morning I totally lost it and broke down in tears. That is BIG for me as I have a strict policy against crying at work. I don't know if it was the hormones or what, but I felt just so FRUSTRATED. Mainly because I felt I was really trying and I just couldn't DO IT. My boss, who has a 3 year old, told me not worry about it and said she expected I probably wouldn't have it together for another few weeks.

This morning, the moment I had strapped the baby in his carseat and put it in the car, I realized I had left his milk in my apartment. Then I forgot his pajamas too. My whole drive to work I just felt like such a failure - I know not wearing a suit or forgetting pajamas might seem minor, but it's really frustrating when you're trying to balance a full time job (in a highly competitive atmosphere), a baby, weight loss goals and the other things in life that bring joy, like my sorority and my social life.

My Power Day remains elusive.

Parking Sharks

I am firmly convinced that part of the reason that such a significant portion of the American population is overweight/obese is related to society's inability to accept a parking space that requires them to walk more than two feet.

I am so DISGUSTED by parking sharks. You know those people who circle the lot, like sharks, ready to pounce on an empty space like a bleeding swimmer in the Pacific. The moment you emerge with your keys in your hand, they follow your every move, subtly rushing you into your car. I hate these people.

This past Sunday, I reached my limit with the parking sharks.

I was at the mall on a Saturday. I did not realize what a popular mall it was as I arrived there right at the beginning of the Saturday mob's arrival. So I scored a pretty good parking spot in the covered parking structure, on the same level as the mall opening. All is well. Until, of course, it was time to leave the mall.

When I came out, with my child in a stroller mind you, the sharks were OUT! It's like the music from "Jaws" was playing, "dun-uh, dun-uh, dun-uh" . . .

So I'm parked in a spot that is labeled "compact." It's a decent sized compact space mind you, as I do not drive one of those toy cars. But I'm not driving a huge SUV either. So naturally, a huge SUV is waiting for my spot. This car is so big that it is blocking the way so that no cars can pass it to find other spots. And it (along with about five other cars that can't pass it) is just sitting there waiting. Waiting and watching as I put the baby in his carseat in the car. Waiting and watching as I unload my bags from the stroller and put them in the car. Waiting and watching as I open the back of the car. Waiting and watching as I collapse the stroller and load it into the car. Waiting and watching as I get in the car. And then of course I have to wait and watch as Jaws, the Monster Truck SUV - along with the five other cars behind him - has to back up so I can back out. As I drive away I glance in my rearview mirror: Jaws is having a hard time getting into the compact spot and the rest of the cars (who have multiplied by now) have to watch and wait as Jaws attempts to get his Great White behind into a space more fitting for, say a Tiger Shark.

It was even more disgusting to me as I left the parking lot and spied several other spaces open that might have been more appropriate for Jaws. However, they would have required a more than 10 second walk into the mall. And we all know that wasn't going to happen.

Bellydancing is Hard

Although I have never taken classes or been in any performances, I've been known to get my groove on. In high school, I did the appropriate dancing at school dances (I think the common term is "freakin"). I was never the girl in the middle of the dance floor on top of some guy, but I didn't sit on the sidelines. When I got older, I went to clubs and had a good time shaking my stuff and grinding my hips like most kids in their early 20s. And once I pledged a sorority, instead of one one one dancing, I joined my sorors in "strholling" around the party.

Then about 6 or 7 years ago, I retired my dancing shoes. I decided when I went out, I cared more about socializing than dancing. So if I went to the club with my friends, I would be the one posted up by the bar, accepting free drinks and flashing my smile rather than my dance moves.

This all goes to say that had I not retired, bellydancing would not have been so hard tonight.

Besides the fact that everyone was experienced, the instructor didn't use a mic and I didn't have one of those jangly scarves to wrap around my waist, this class was challenging because of the moves. And honestly a lot of them reminded me of some of the freak-dancing in high school, the club moves and the strholls I did while in college. It's all waist-based and had it not been awhile since I popped my pelvis or rolled my hips, I might've done better.

After class the only other woman who seemed to be struggling like me, said a few kind words.

"It gets easier," she said.

"Man, I sucked!" I told her.

"My first few classes I had a hard time, but I did feel it in my muscles after," she said.

"I guess that's good," I commented.

"Hope to see you next week," she called as I tied my shoes.

"Me too, " I replied, "I hope I get the courage."

Maybe if I get one of those little jangly scarves it'll help.

Being a Mom, Not Looking Like One

Although now I am someone's mom, I don't want to look like it. Now there are some tell tale signs that I can't prevent no matter what I wear - the spit up on my dark shirts, the wet spots when I forget to put in nursing pads, the ever present diaper bag, etc. But suddenly for the first time (ever I think), I've felt the need to step up my style.

I've never been super into clothes. Sure, like anyone I like to feel and look good. But I certainly didn't care a lot about label brands or the latest trends. In fact, historically, I haven't liked spending a lot of time shopping for clothes and shoes. There are about 5-10 other things I'd rather do than scour the mall or San Francisco for the best pair of black heels.

Since having a baby though - and especially during this time when I'm trying to shed weight - I've been feeling like I need to put a little more thought into my look. So I've spent a lot of time trying to find good fabrics and good fits and quality brands. I picked up InStyle magazine. I ventured into Nordstroms. I even found myself googling the term "stylist" in hopes that I would be able to find one to come in and analyze my closet.

With the kid here, I don't have a lot of extra money to put towards clothes. So we're not talking a whole new wardrobe or anything. But I think I need to be focusing on a few quality pieces rather than filling up my closet with items from the sales rack at the Gap. A pair of nice slacks this month, maybe a cute blazer next month. And a pair of designer jeans when I reach my goal.

I notice women of every size can look good - I can't wait until I reach my ideal weight in order to be stylish. So until then, I'm working with what I've got.

Another Success

During my pregnancy my lower back started really hurting me. I think I even had that sciatic nerve thing where you get the shooting pains down your back and thigh. Since the baby has been born it hasn't gotten any better. Though I no longer feel like I have a cannon in my front, pulling on my back, it still hurts. I feel it the most when I wake up and bend down to pick up the baby. Almost unbearable.

In the past when I've been sore in my back, I've gotten a massage. So I found a local, highly-recommended massage therapist and she worked on my back. It didn't help. Just hurt my wallet.

Next I considered going to a chiropractor. When I discovered how much they cost (and that my insurance didn't cover them), coupled with the fact that I'm not 100% convinced it's a legitimate medical practice, I abandoned the idea.

That left me with two options: go see my primary care physician or try exercising. Since Dr. Crawford is on vacation for another week, I tried Pilates first.

I LOVED IT! I actually doubted I would like Pilates since at my gym it's in the "Mind/Body" category of classes and I'm not into the "Mind/Body" type of thing. I mean the last thing I want to think about is what's going on in my head when I work out. As a new mom, the first thing I will think about is my baby - and then of course, my boobs will start to leak and that's not necessarily good during a workout. But Pilates moved quickly, she didn't turn off the lights and turn on the new age music and no one told me to "find my center." Awesome.

I admittedly had to do some of the modified positions, but we did a whole lotta back stretching. It felt great. The instructor, LaLa, also seemed to focus a bit on me (never again will I pick a spot in front of the instructor) which was embarrassing, but helped me out.

My back is still sore, but the hour flew by and I look forward to the next class.

Doubt?

So my nemesis, my white whale, a.k.a The Scale, has been my friend lately. I have been pleasantly surprised when I've been stepping on him.

And I am having a hard time believing it.

I mean I am not in the "I WANT TO EAT EVERYTHING" mood that I'm usually in when I'm on a diet. Sure, I cut out some things. And I switched to diet soda (hey man, I need caffeine when I have those 4am feedings and I don't do coffee). But the main difference is in my physical activity. I'm back in the gym and my son and I have made a habit of taking walks (my review of the different parks of the East Bay Area is a whole blog topic in itself . . .). So I am a little skeptical that my weight has steadily gone down - I've only made one consistent major change, after all.

So this morning I performed the second test - after the scale - of whether or not I've been successful in Operation Baby Weight. Yes, I tried on my jeans.

THEY FIT!!!!!

Now that is not to be confused with "They were LOOSE" or anything. But they did indeed fit and I am EXCITED.

Someone once told me that when you see progress it is just so encouraging. And that's exactly how I'm feeling today.

The Scale

When I was 16, I was on vacation from school and I chaperoned a field trip with my mom's 6th grade students. I was assigned to a group of 4 girls - they were best friends and I instantly felt a connection to them, as I too had a clique of 4 best friends in 6th grade (actually, I think I've had a clique of 2-4 best friends up through college - I might be a clique-y person). We went to the Exploratorium in SF. On one particular exhibit, you stepped on a scale and the scale showed you your weight on Mars or some other planet (for the record, you weigh much less on the planet). Each of the kids got on, including my 4 girls. The first girl who got on was really small - they were all skinny, but she was the shortest. So naturally she weighed the lightest. I watched, very disturbed, how her 3 best friends weighed themselves after her and each made an excuse for why her weight was higher than the first girl's. I mean they were really embarrassed that they weighed 65 lbs as opposed to the first girl's 60 lbs. Looking back, I probably should've stepped on the scale to maybe downplay the importance of it, but well, I was 16. Not exactly evolved.

A couple years ago, my mom gave me her fancy scale. For the most part it serves as a doorstop in my bathroom, gathering dust. But now that I'm Operation Baby Weight, I've been weighing myself every day and writing it down in my calendar (a la Bridget Jones).

I hate the scale. It turns the sane into the insane. The secure into the insecure. I mean, I watched 4 tiny little 11 year old girls unnecessarily obsess about their weight because of a damn scale - and one that was created for fun. Your weight should be the last thing in your mind when you're 11 and at the Exploratorium on a field trip with your best friends and the coolest chaperone in the world (me). I hate that every time I go to the doctor I get weighed - and they refuse to subtract 5 lbs for clothes. I hate that it gives me an arbitrary number that can plummet me back into frustration and sadness, even if I've been eating well and exercising.

In graduate school they drilled into our heads the importance of tools of measurement. People can be swayed to change policy with certain things - data being one. And you need tools of measurement to get data. So as much as I hate the scale - its starkness, its unwillingness to be flexible, its inability to recognize when I'm trying - I recognize that I need it. Though I'd like to measure my progress by whether or not I fit into my jeans, that's not the most objective measure (since sometimes I fit them in the morning before breakfast and sometimes I don't fit them in the evening after dinner). But if the number on the scale is decreasing daily, maybe I am doing the right thing. And if it's not, maybe I should switch it up.

Either way, I'm sure I'd prefer to be measured by my weight on Mars . . .

My Son, the Future Trainer

I am writing this mainly as a reminder to myself.

So it's Friday, which means it's time for Vernon's Hip Hop class at the gym. I have been excited about going for the past 2 weeks (we didn't have class last week because of the holidays) because I really enjoyed the first class. However, around 3pm today I began thinking I would not go . . .

See, it's New Year's Day. Not that the baby and I were out clubbing til dawn - matter of fact we barely (well, I did, he was knocked out around 10pm) made it to 12 am. But yesterday I forgot to take a nap. I have survived the last 2 weeks by taking naps during the day to prepare me for the long nights (the baby is pretty consistent in waking up every 2-3 hours at night). I don't know if I felt like Superwoman or what, but I didn't take my customary nap and as a result, the 4am and the 6am feedings were particularly brutal.

So today I was tired. Very tired. And I felt if I didn't go to class but used that non-baby time to sleep, I'd be justified. I'm a new mother after all.

I battled with myself for about an hour before deciding that I would not go and I would instead sleep. However, my son had other ideas. While I had been having my internal battle, he had been asleep. Once I decided I would not be attending Vernon's class, he woke up - and was feeling quite demanding. After I had changed and fed him and we had done some laps in my home, I was fully awake and feeling a bit re-energized. I decided that the baby was trying to help me get back on the exercise horse.

So I went to class. And it was GREAT! I had such a good time! I worked up a sweat, I danced and I really enjoyed myself.

So far, my child is earning his keep . . .