Of Slacks and Slackerdom

So, it's been a while.

A month, to be exact. Not ONE blog entry in a whole month.

This is why I'm not Dooce. Well, this and my lack of 2 million followers and 40K per month in ad revenue.

Anyway, the last month has been mostly about slackerdom.

And a little about slacks.

Let's start with the slacking.

A brief snowfall in late October switched on my "hibernation" gene, and suddenly, the nutritional side of this journey hit the skids. I could blame Halloween, except I actually managed to exercise incredible self-control this year. The kids brought approximately 1.5 metric TONS of candy into the house after trick-or-treating, and I've consumed probably ten pieces, total. Sure, that's ten pieces of chocolate I didn't REALLY need, but, on balance, I'll take it. After all, last year I think I wrestled them both to the ground in the front yard as they arrived home after the annual neighborhood candy shake down, and I stole ALL the chocolate from their little plastic pumpkin carriers.

Sad, but true.

Well, except the wrestling part. That would have required exercise.

I think I just threatened them with bedtime.

Anyway, the slackerdom as of late refers mostly to my more casual attitude about food. Before the snow flew, lots of fresh veggies, salad, and lean protein. The second the first flake hit the ground, I'm pretty sure I ordered in pizza.

Ugh.

That said, I HAVE kept up the exercise, which is, I think, the BIGGEST part of the equation for me right now. I have NEVER been a consistent exerciser, but I realized recently that I have been moving my body EVERY. DAY. for the last six months.

And, amazingly enough, I haven't died.

Six months ago, I would have predicted that outcome. Especially on the day before I started this journey.

On June 17, 2009, the day before I stepped on the scale and read the number that sent me over the proverbial edge (296.4), I promised my kids I would take them to the park.

The park is less than ten blocks from our house, and we have walked the route to and from the park MANY times in our two and a half years here. But, on June 17, 2009 -- six months ago -- I started walking the kids to the park and just. couldn't. do. it. After just five blocks, I was so sweaty and winded and crabby and generally exhausted (JUST. FIVE. FREAKING. BLOCKS!!) that I SWORE I was going to die.

I remember stopping, right there on the sidewalk, and telling the kids we had to go home. They both threw a fit, but I turned around and headed home -- mostly so they wouldn't see the tears welling in my eyes. All the way home, they crabbed and I silently sobbed.

That is a day I will NEVER allow myself to live again.

Today, I walk an average of three miles a day. Some days, if time is short and I can't drag my carcass out of bed, it's a little less. Other days, like last Friday's AMAZING 6. 5 mile power-walk with my beloved husband, it's much, MUCH more. I've added a set of four pound hand weights now, and I can tell I get a better workout this way. I've shaved ten minutes off my three mile route since I started it, which means I'm either getting more efficient or just more impatient. Maybe both.

I've also started some toning exercises, mostly ab crunches with a few bicep curls and leg lifts here and there. This is mostly an effort to rid myself of what one woman at my church calls the "baby souvenir" around my hips and abs. I do notice a difference, but it will still be a while before I sport a swimsuit in public.

What can I say?? Years of apathy + gravity = MOMMY JEANS.

Which brings me to the slacks part of this whole wandering saga. I bought a pair of size 18 jeans at Goodwill one day as a motivator. I haven't been a size 18 since I was age 18.

So, it's been a while since I was within striking distance of trading in the initial digit "2" for a "1." (I'm LONG beyond even considering single digits, by the way.) But, I bought them anyway. And I decided to try them on.

I've always been a "both feet first" kind of girl, so I jumped in with both feet. And the jeans promptly got stuck somewhere around my knees.

But, I'm nothing if not determined. So, I proceeded to hop, dance, and shimmy my way into those things through a series of moves that could only be categorized as "ninja meets seizure meets African fertility dance meets Napoleon Dynamite on crack."

Miraculously, they reached my hips.

At this point, I can only surmise that the exertion of getting the jeans past my ample thighs left me so exhausted that my brain was deprived of oxygen.

Thus, I decided to try to button them.

I fell backwards onto the bed, forced every last molecule of oxygen out of my now collapsed lungs, broke both of my floating ribs, bruised both kidneys and deflated my (thankfully empty) bladder, and VOILA! They ZIPPED! And BUTTONED!

Only one problem: I was stranded in that position like an overturned tortoise in the middle of an interstate highway.

Seriously, I couldn't even roll over.

And I was losing oxygen. Quickly.

"Honey!!!" I managed to gasp to my ever-supportive husband, "I need some help."

He arrived in our bedroom with only a faint smirk (and WITHOUT actually verbalizing the "What the hell??" that was surely on his lips), and just held out a hand to hoist me off the bed.

Once on my feet, I couldn't manage to walk, given the lack of circulation in the lower half of my body, so I just sort of hopped, in fits and starts, into the bathroom to have a look in the mirror.

"Look, Honey," I cried, "They FIT!!"

Or . . . maybe not.

But, this was about three weeks ago.

This morning, I zipped and buttoned those jeans whilst standing up. And I could still breathe.

I still can't wear them in public without breaking a few decency laws, mind you, but progress has been made.

Speaking of progress, here are the numbers:

June 18, 2009 -- 296. 4 lbs.

November 18. 2009 -- 238.4 lbs (This is actually up . 6 from yesterday, but who's counting??)

Total loss to date: 58 pounds.

Woot!

PS: November photo shoot on Friday!