I'm Southern, I'm Long Winded, And I've Got A Lot To Say, So...

These first few posts are probably going to be long ones. There's quite a bit of backstory here, and I realize I should have started this blog on February 17, 2010 – Ash Wednesday. But that would’ve taken more courage and foresight than I could ever muster, because, really, I never dreamed I’d ever get this far or have this kind of story to tell.

First off, no, I’m not Catholic; I’m a Methodist, and a pretty lax one at that (considering I’m sitting here writing this on Palm Sunday morning instead of getting ready for church). But, regardless of the packaging, I am a Christian woman. I try to do my best to get my little chicks to church and keep it all on the straight and narrow throughout the week. I’m a faithful wife to a good and faithful husband. We have been pretty happily married for close to 14 years now, and we have built a good life together based on sound moral principles and common good goals. We’re trying to raise good kids. It’s good to try to be “good” – right? Sure it is, so for years I’ve tried to do something “good” and give something up for Lent, because that’s what good Christians try to do. Key word here, Friends: TRY.

Every other year, I’d tried, and failed. If I slipped up on my “sacrifice,” I gave up and gave in. But last year, I wanted something more, and last year I succeeded. Believe me, Friends. God knows what He’s doing when he plants these little seeds of change...

And I needed a change. I was dog tired all the time. I woke up every morning with severe lower back pain (which I had hoped would subside when the hubs and I sprung for a Sleep Number bed, but it didn’t). I couldn’t keep up with my two-year old son (aka Baby Taz), and my nine year-old daughter was beginning to wonder if I was really seriously sick or something, because I just couldn’t (or wouldn’t) get off the sofa at night. She was worried, and I was just too tired to be bothered. I was cranky all the time, and I just wasn’t really all that happy.

I’d been happier and more energetic before I got pregnant with my son, Charlie. I was quite a bit lighter, but I wasn’t a stick or anything. I wasn't at my lowest weight, but I wasn't near my highest, either, and I sure felt a whole lot better, both physically and frankly, just better about myself in general. It didn't help that I'd gained quite a bit while pregnant with him and then was blessed to give birth to one of the world's biggest, strongest and most energetic little boys in this galaxy or beyond. I love the kid more than my life, but seriously, he is a force to be reckoned with to this day! Whatever energy I did have was gone by lunchtime.

Just to get back to the “pre-Charlie me” would’ve been a dream come true. I wanted that feeling back. I needed that energy back. I wanted it back really – really - bad. You’re not supposed to feel like this crummy at 35, right? I was still young, right? There was still time, right? I’d tried a number of times, and as they say, “Where there’s a will, there’s a way.” I’d been lacking the will, ‘cause there’s always a way. I realized I needed to call in Reinforcements.

So, on Ash Wednesday, 2010, I admitted that I had let myself climb back up to a bouncy 189 pounds (dress size: 16ish, pants size: 14ish on my 5’ 7” frame). And no, I didn’t find that out on Ash Wednesday, per se. I was well aware of it long before then. Frankly, I’ve been obsessed with the number on the scale most of my life. I’ve been “technically overweight” – to one degree or another - for probably 26 of the 36 ½ years I’ve been on this Earth. I actually stopped growing at age 12 (5' 7" & 12 years old = AWKWARD!), and have run the gamut since then from the mid 130s (nice at 36, not so nice at 12) to just under 210 (a few months after my daughter was born). But honestly, no one had really ever seemed to mind the fluffiness but me.

I don’t recall my parents ever consistently encouraging me to do anything about it or take any steps to prevent it. I lived (live) in a world of yummy Southern food and family and overindulgence – which was (is) the norm, and it was (is) GREAT!! Being more into choir and drama and creative writing and art and literally able to walk smack dab into any door jamb that happened to get in my way, I was convinced that there was nothing athletic about me at all, so seriously, what was I supposed to do? Sometimes mom would worry about my health and say, “Oh honey, I worry about you…,” but she’s never been super-thin or anything, and my dad (step dad, really...stories for other posts) has always been a big guy, and so’s my husband (no offense, Babe), so that’s just how my world WORKED. We weren’t the Clumps, but we weren’t going to win the World’s Fittest Family contest anytime soon.

And my husband, God bless him, he’s the best. We’ve been together since college, and he’s always loved me (maybe since we first met in high school, at a writing competition no less), no matter what size I’ve been. So my desire to be smaller, to be healthier, to feel GOOD was (and still is) not the result of others’ opinions or what the “media” was telling me I should be. It’s all been what I’ve wanted for me…well, maybe…

HERE I WILL DIGRESS FOR a moment to address the FACT that women are obsessed with their weight for many reasons - both internal and external - and that one woman’s “large” may be another woman’s “skinny." Women have granted great and mystical powers to the magic numbers they get stuck in their head and long to see between their feet down on the scale or on the back of their pants near their ever-too-ample rumps; numbers that may or may not be achievable or even really desirable for them, but we long for them anyway. And sometimes we get crazy jealous of someone who we think is what we'd like to be or has something we think we'd like to have or who was kind of like us at one time or maybe she was cute but bigger than us but then she lost some weight and, well, "Who does she think she is, anyway?" Who knows why, but we know we think it. We know we do it, and it’s not our place to wonder why or judge each other for it. But it stops on this blog right now.

There are some lucky ladies out there, however, who are perfectly happy at whatever size they find themselves. “Celebrate Your Curves!” they say, and I am ALL FOR THAT!!! Jillian Michaels and all her scary skinny friends can take their six pack abs and their bravado and shove it where the sun doesn’t shine; I am not – repeat NOT – trying to send out any kind of negative vibes to all my friends - and all you folks out there who aren’t now but hopefully may one day become my friends - who struggle with weight issues, whatever “size” you are (which is totally relative, by the way, because no two designers define “size” the same way, but that’s for another post…).

The point of this blog is to chronicle my own issues and my own struggle with this (which I realize may not seem like much of a struggle to some folks and may seem like a large struggle to others – it’s all about perception, People) and to discuss the choices that I have made – for ME. Good or bad, right or wrong, this is what I have done and the journey I have taken to change myself both inside and out. It’s not about losing weight. It’s about finding strength. We all need each other for that, so, “Hear me now and believe me later…”* this ain’t about calling anybody fat, and I’M sure as heck not judging anyone. The very fact that I feel compelled to spell that out plain and clear here in the first post on this blog just goes to show what a hot button issue this is for us, Girls. I know that. This little aside is GREEN for a reason. We’ve got to quit beating ourselves up and beating each other up about this. Let’s be a positive force in each other’s lives, provide encouragement and banish judgment from our hearts and lips. Let’s be the nurturing, comforting ladies we’d all like to be and not the catty, gossipy harpies we all can be, okay? Okay. Getting off the soap box now and back to my story…

So, here’s the deal. I decided to TRY again, and call on my Higher Power. I thought I knew my strengths (again, stories for other posts…), but I knew my weaknesses better, and there’s a reason I’m the family baker. I love sweets. Every tooth in my head is a sweet one. I can make magic with butter, sugar, flour and eggs, and if you throw some candy and ice cream in there, oh just thinking about it’s making my head spin in ecstasy. There was no Ambrosia in Ancient Greece, only Reese's Peanut Butter Cups and vanilla ice cream. Sugar, yes, she is my best frenemy.

So, in a last ditch effort to try to change, I turned my back on her, that Siren, Sugar – for 40 days. I said, “Lord, I’m going to TRY to give up sweets for Lent. Please help me, and please…help this ‘sacrifice’ HELP me.” And I did. And He did. And IT did.

And I’ll tell you more on Wednesday.

Until we read again…keep trying for whatever you’re trying for, Friends!

TTFN – Ali

*With special thanks to Hans & Franz. Man, I miss those guys.