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 . . .