Wednesday, September 06, 2006

WWI - Living in the English Renaissance

Man oh man, you'd think that 211 was my final goal, the way I seem to be avoiding it. Its only a milestone, and a pre-pregnancy milestone at that. Nevertheless, I'm not there, in fact, I'm up this week. I knew it would be; so just to take some of the sting off, I did a run this morning before work and weighed myself after the run, which historically can shave up to 2 pounds off. Its water weight, but when you're dreading weigh-in, you'll take any way you can get to get rid of any excess.

Wednesday Weigh-In numbers: 213, 44% fat. Up 1, but the fat percentage is way down, the bright spot in this otherwise messed up week.

Its the weekends that kill me, and this long weekend especially. I was pretty good going in -- even at the Renaissance Faire I went to with Stella's Brownie troop on Saturday. They had a wide selection of really excellent food (no, I didn't get the Turkey legs, but then I wasn't dressed to period anyway). It was one of those deals where you got something (a well-seasoned spinach calzone) and then right as you're swallowing the last bite you see -- oh my gosh -- Beef Ribs! Damnnation! I coulda had a V8! Old Veronica would have gone and had the beef ribs anyway. But New Veronica did not, knowing that later in the day Sammy was going to want some ice cream and I would have to help him finish it (they only came in giant waffle cones, something a 3 year old tummy wasn't going to finish). So I actually stayed within points.

One thing particularly cool about the Ren Faire is that, frankly, a lot of the women are fat -- and proud of it. They walk about like "Hey, I'm fat! Check me out! Get a gander at these knockers -- there's more where these came from!" And if they're not fat, the costumes do their best to make them look fat. Apparently, fat was the thing to be during the English Renaissance. The costumes push up your boobs to make them look as rubenesque as possible. The giant dresses are built to hide what could be a bony ass underneath. If you did not have fat on you, apparently it was embarassing. Methinks perhaps I'm a woman out of time, because even when I hit goal, I'll still look good in these costumes as I will still have child-bearing hips, melon-sized breasts, and a jolly ol' face. But when you think about it, its kind of sad that even 500 years ago, there was fashion that constricted or shaped women to be whatever the tastemakers of the time decided was good-looking. I look at these costumes, with the push-up bustiers that put victoria's secret to shame, and think "That can't be comfortable." So maybe its another lesson in how you can't please everybody, and just be who you are and learn to love it.

No, it wasn't the Ren Faire that killed me. It was the Sunday birthday party followed by a welcome home party that did it. I'm at this kids' birthday party with Stella, and for whatever reason I'm sitting down next to a bowl of M&Ms. That's white chocolate M&Ms. Have you ever heard of such a thing? Neither had I, so of course I had to try them. They're good. They're really good. They're too good and that bowl is right in front of me and its there and I'm eating them and its there and I'm popping them in my mouth, and I'm finding different ways to make them last, like sucking on one until the hard shell breaks, and I realize no, these are M&Ms, they're not tootsie pops, and I return to eating them like they were potato chips and I'm eating regular M&Ms to compare and contrast white and regular chocolate and and finally I say ENOUGH and push it away. But the damage is done. I eat a hamburger and there's all they mayo-based side salads and I'm going nuts. And then I head off to the welcome home party, where our hostess had made really good food, but I'm already stuffed, but I don't want to pass up a chance at this roasted organic piedmontese beef and before I know it, I'm regretting this whole day. Then comes Labor day, a dreary, rainy, yucky day. To get a workout in, I'm going to have to drive to the Y, and of course I can't get to the downtown Y because its Labor Day and there's a parade and I at least work up the oomph to get to the South Shore Y, only to find I'm not going to have a luxurious workout followed by spa heaven because it closes at 1:00 pm because it's Labor Day. So I do an elliptical trainer for a half hour, followed by weightlifting and some ab work, I plunk my sweaty body in my car, and drive home. And because its Labor Day, I have a hankering for some grilled food, but its too dreary and rainy to do anything like that, so I jump and say yes when Brian suggests we just get some take out Indian food, and I order this creamy fat laden-curry spicy comfort veggie thing over seven cups of rice, and now its Wednesday Weigh In, and, well, here I am. One pound up. During the week, I'm good. I'm in business mode, I'm methodical, its routine, and I'm successful.

I have got to get a handle on weekends. Either that, or get a ticket to the Wayback machine and go live in the English Renaissance.

1 comment:

BigAssBelle said...

weekends are hard. it's the unstructured time. on one hand, i need it love it have to have it. on the other, lots of free head time leads to thoughts of food. i'm finding fewer food thoughts with a lower carb eating plan . . . we'll see if it lasts.

i was born out of time too . . . shoulda been a renaissancer for real ;-) at the height of my feminist frenzy, i did much research on the damage women have done to their bodies in the interests of beauty: internal damage from corsets, blindness from these drops the French used to make their pupils huge, rouging that would eat the skin away over time, crippled feet from crippling footwear. it's kind of horrifying, as much so as the wholly offensive prospect of bodies going in and out of style (only womens' bodies, though, never for men). one year big boobs are in, next year they're out. this offends me to no end. sorry for the rant, but you started it with your fabulous post :-)

just keep doing what you're doing. working out the trouble spots ~ it's kind of like ironing a shirt. i iron and iron and turn it over and there's a little more wrinkling around the shoulder seam. then it all looks good, but the fabric around the buttons needs a bit more care. i believe eventually we're going to get this thing ironed out through persistence and honesty and awareness.