(Unreasonably) Great Expectations

There are days when it's just rough being a woman.

This is another long one, Friends, but let me preface this by saying that my purpose here is not to vent, so don't think I'm going to go on some, "Oh woe is me!" rant here. That is not and never will be my style. There is little "woe" in my life, and what little there is I will keep to myself. No, today's post is all about the stuff ALL us sisters just have to suffer as we travel down our respective paths of life. So, if you are a guy reading this blog - and I've been told there are a few of you - you may or may not want to continue perusing this post today...it's up to you...all I can say is, Fellas, you have been warned.

Then again, maybe you SHOULD read on.

Take what you learn, Boys, and treat your poor aging wife right!

Our minds just don't work the way you think they should.

You men have it so good. We all know quite a few fellas (my handsome husband included) who've gotten seriously better looking with age. Gray temples and a few well-placed, craggy laugh lines are just downright sexy - on a man. Men age gracefully. Women fight it all the way. It's not just that we WANT to stop the hands of time, it's like we feel there's something WRONG with us if we can't. And it would be one thing if all we had to worry about was what was going on on the outside (which is surely enough), but unfortunately, Girls, this is not the case, and I am living proof of this devil's curse right now.

At this moment in time, I am 49 days shy of my 37th birthday. I like to think that because I have spent most of those years in great fear of the sun I have thus far escaped some of the outward signs that would belie my actual age. So far, unlike those sexy men, I have very few wrinkles and no gray hairs. (You will know when they begin to appear because my once chestnut mane will miraculously turn red overnight - finally matching all the freckles and pale skin God saw fit to bless me with. Go ahead, picture it...Alison as a redhead. It WILL happen, someday.) So to most innocent bystanders - my husband included - the package Alison is wrapped in seems to be weathering time and the elements pretty well. It has even shrunk quite a bit and seems a bit livelier most of the time, and for this I am ever grateful.

But watch out! Appearances can be deceiving.

Time waits for no one, and while I'm currently winning the war on the outside, my insides are fighting a long but surely losing battle. I am 49 days shy of my 37th birthday, and apparently I'm already experiencing perimenopause. Oh, joy! Ladies, are you feeling the pain (or shall I say, the heat) with me, or am I just entering this dark night alone? I'm too young for this crap. Seriously, I didn't even know how to SPELL menopause. I had to look it up.

After finishing my previous post about perspiration, it occurred to me that this wasn't a freak phenomenon I was experiencing only while running. For months now, I've been going to bed freezing and waking up in the middle of the night, burning up, drenched in sweat. I have been sitting across from my family in nice, well-air conditioned restaurants and suddenly begun to feel like my entire body is on fire from within. Fanning myself, I start wondering, "Is anybody else HOT in here?" And if I'm not blazing hot, I'm icy cold - a comfortable in-between is rare.

I also have taken to taking two Pamprin or Motrin most mornings (until I ran out) in a desperate effort to ward off what seems to be constant PMS. What once was pretty predictable has become utterly unreliable and can really ruin my day if I'm not careful. My body is trying to tell me something, and I'm plugging my ears and singing, "Mary had a little lamb..." just trying not to hear.

It's trying to tell me that I'm getting older. It's trying to tell me that wacky hormones and weight loss just don't mix. I'm trying to tell it to just shut up. Shut up and deal, you crazy bod you. I'm winning this war whether you like it or not!

But I may need to redefine what it means to "win." I think I need to accept and celebrate the fact that I've already won. Maybe now I just need to fight to maintain.

This whole thing came to a head Fourth of July weekend after a series of seemingly unrelated events made it abundantly clear to me that:

A: My body has been fighting me literally every step of the way

as I journey to the new and improved me

AND

B: My husband has been blissfully unaware of any of it.

That's both good and bad.

If you read my last post, you may have noticed that I just kind of glossed over the fact that I did finally make my weight loss goal - the "ultimate" number I had in my mind that I thought I would never see. Well yes, I got there, and just as I suspected, yay, I was happy, but it really was pretty anticlimactic. Sure, the number was there on the scale, but seeing it didn't make the rest of the rolls go away or make my jiggly two-baby belly magically flatten or disappear, and it certainly didn't plump and perk up what have seriously sagged and deflated as a result of this whole thing. Oh, the sadness...

I'd met the number, but had I really met the goal? Did seeing the number mean I'd won the war? To the rest of the world - yeah, probably so. In the privacy of my own bathroom, under harsh lights, in front of a rather unflattering mirror...hell no!! The battle must rage on!! Good enough was not good enough. Ounce by ounce and inch by inch I WOULD achieve MORE!! I lowered my Points. I lowered my calories. I upped my running mileage. I ran the 10K. I signed up for more races. Go, Ali! Go!! Forget the hot flashes. Forget the freezing spells. Forget everything else. Move it! Move it! The number still matters, Girl! Go! Go! Go!

And then things got a little weird.

After spending two hours in the ER Saturday night thanks to having my right hand in the wrong place at the wrong time (wrapped around the driver's side door jamb of my mini-van right when my husband decided to rather forcefully close the sucker up), I needed a bit of comfort food. I figured I'd earned it, so yeah, that Back Yard Burger hamburger, huge order of sweet potato fries and Reese's PB Cup Blast from Sonic tasted AMAZING!! No biggie, I enjoyed it (and given the circumstances, I'd enjoy it again in a heartbeat!).

The next day I got up and despite a little stiffness (ok, a lot of stiffness) and major swelling in my right hand, I worked out on the elliptical and went and picked up the race packet for the 5K I'd signed up for that night. I rested up most of the day and showed up ready to run that evening around 6 PM. Thunderstorms and 100 degree heat right before a race = SAUNA!! That race was downright miserable. But I finished it, and then felt totally horrible and had trouble even driving home.

So I "chillaxed" the next day, the Fourth of July, indulging in the fruits of holiday food. I didn't have to bake any of it thanks to my grandmother who provided loads of luscious chocolate brownies and my generous and kind mother-in-law who brought a lovely strawberry cake, just for me, knowing it was my favorite! I yummed it all down - within reason, but still, yeah, Points and calories be damned. I've worked hard enough...I should be able to enjoy a few treats now and then, right? And seriously, my hand still hurt!

I should've expected what happened next. My ever-present once-monthly visitor seemed to have made an evil pact with the post-accident holiday food devil and together, they presented me with the lovely gift of an overnight five pound weight gain. Five freakin' pounds. FIVE FREAKIN' POUNDS!! WHAT!!

Now, logically I KNEW that this "weight gain" was not permanent and that no, I had not eaten enough in three days to actually GAIN five real pounds. It was water weight and digestive "issues" and swelling from the accident and even some from overexertion, surely, right? Whatever I told myself (most of which was actually true), it could not stop the flood of hormonally charged emotion that made me want to literally take a hammer and bust up that stupid scale once and for all. I told my husband about it. He said he "understood;" he'd gained three.

The next day he made the mistake of telling me his world was back in whack, and that he was back to only a half pound up. Boys...I know I lost you already, but this is where you should start paying attention again...

That was not the right thing to say to me at that particular moment in time, and I told him so in no uncertain terms. Then he decided to try to lecture me on how I shouldn't be so obsessed with the scale. True, but then again...

I'd just had to step on the scale for my Weight Watchers Online weekly weigh in, and no, while I was no longer five pounds up, I was still up four, and back over my magic number which I'd been fighting so hard to stay under. Cue the perimenopausal totally irrational but utterly uncontrollable meltdown. So much so that later that day, my dear husband got the following email:

"When stuff happens like what went on this weekend, and I have one holiday where I just feel like it should be ok to kind of let up and relax for a couple of days like some normal person would - even when I go to the extreme of doing all the exercise I did and running in that race - and all overnight I'm faced with numbers I haven't seen in like 3 months - for lack of a more refined sentiments - THAT FREAKING SUCKS!!! It's like I just want to scream, "WTH! That is SOOOO not fair!"

And it's not. And it makes me crazy with anger at myself, at the scale and probably at everything else around me because one of the reasons that this is happening and I'm seeing crazy numbers is because my hormones are wreaking havoc on my waistline and my mind. We haven't really talked about this, but my girlie-system has been out of whack for quite sometime now. I think I get through it, and it comes roaring back, and then I think I'm through it and it shows up again two weeks later. I don't just sweat when I run, I go to bed freezing and wake up drenched in the middle of the night. Living inside this bod is just a barrel of fun these days!!

This is generally the time in life when most women who haven't had weight problems start to get them simply because Mother Nature is out to get us all. So, I'm fighting a seriously uphill battle, and for the most part, I've been winning it, but when I get smacked down LITERALLY overnight - yeah, that's upsetting. And when you come along and tell me everything's good with you and then I try to tell you that maybe that's not the best thing to talk to me about right now and somehow that ends up in a ridiculous argument where I'm left feeling like A: I didn't come to you with this. I didn't start this conversation, so why am I being lectured to? and B: Wow! Must be nice being a man 'cause you guys don't have to deal with any of this crap. Guys can just sneeze and lose 10 lbs it seems! and then there's C: I know this isn't logical, but God, you don't have to make me feel worse for feeling bad about it. Or D: Holy Crap! He's ARGUING with me about this? I'm not on trial here. I know you're a lawyer, but don't pull that mess on me in my own bathroom! or especially E: Are you SERIOUS!?! You're going to argue with me about how meaningless these numbers are after you almost broke my friggin' hand and all I wanted was some darn comfort food and some cake on the 4th of July!! You didn't get hurt and then still run a race and then get faced with a sudden crazy weight gain that isn't coming off. Talk to the bruised but not broken HAND!!"

He seemed truly enlightened by this drivel, and frankly, so was I. Men want to "fix" things; us women, we just "feel" things. You can't fix something that's not broken. I'm not broken; I don't need fixing. I need to take my own advice and feel satisfied and happy with me - just the way I am.

This "battle" is not worth fighting anymore. I have indeed truly won. I AM happy. I am healthy. I enjoy my life so much more than I did. I am maintaining a healthy - and not unreasonably low - weight and have truly adopted a better lifestyle, one that still allows me my treats but keeps me on track. Enough IS enough. My husband is right. I need to just stop and savor the battle as won. Mother Nature will continue her war from within. I can only fight her so hard. And to what extent I can, I will, but I will not torture myself - or others - in the quest to reduce the pooch. I think I've said it before, that's why God (or Sara Blakely) invented Spanx.

So until we read again...Keep on trying for what you're trying for, Friends. I'll keep trying to, too.

TTYL...
Ali