On 300...

No, I'm not referring to a movie with Gerard Butler's ripped abs, Spartans, warfare, and did I mention Gerard Butler's abs...

Nor am I referring to a Chrysler of the same name...

Nor a perfect game of bowling....

No, 300 has been an awful threshhold that I have struggled with for years.  No matter how much I dieted or excercised, I couldn't get below 300 lbs.  No matter how many slim fast shakes I drank or stairmasters I climbed, I couldn't drop below that number.

But I swore this year would be the year that I would be fit. This was the year.  These past couple weeks I have anxiously watched the scale dip, pound by sure pound.  And then last week, I hit a wall.  I actually gained a pound, 304. And I came to a crossroad. Because this was more then weight lost or gained, twinkies devoured or denied.  It was about change. How I lived the next week would determine what I would do when the going got tough.  Where exactly would the tough go, to the gym or McDonald's?

I buckled down.  I watched what I ate. I excercised everyday.  And with some trepidation I stepped on the scale today.  With head bowed I peaked at the scale barely looking at where the needle wavered.

299.5

It wasn't by much. My keys and cellphone could have put me over.

But as I laced up my shoes, I smiled to myself as I set my sights on my new goal.

Watch out 200.  Your next.

On St. Patty's Day...

Anyone acquainted with Ireland knows that the morning of St. Patrick's Day consists of the night of the seventeenth of March flavored strongly with the morning of the eighteenth.  ~Author Unknown

St. Patty's Day has always been a special day for me.  Whether it was partying in Tully Cross in 2003, carousing with sister and the AQ Girls in 06 (Rachel hit on a Republican!), and Savannah 08 (Remember when the lights went out in Georgia?).  It has always been a night to renew friendships and celebrate my many blessings.

Until Flint.

See St. Patty's Day isn't exactly big in Flint. Oh we have our fun, our parades and our obligatory green beer. But it lacked the friends and memories of other years.  In all those other places, other times, I fit.  And still on this one day I realized that I didn't fit. That I was still a stranger in my hometown.

Until this year.

I gathered with friends and roomies, and the Jaruzels, the Gentrys, Mama Lu. And so many others. And I laughed. And we eat. And we renewed friendships and celebrated our blessings.

And I laughed.  And I belonged.

And I fit.

On dictation....

No one can make you feel inferior without your consent. -Eleanor Roosevelt

So it is extremely unusal for me to write two notes in one night (hell, sometimes I don't write two in one year.) These started out as my musings and flashes of brillance about everyday life that I wanted to share in my amusing mixture of snarky commentary and self-depracating humor. I'm not sure if this story is humorous. But it needs to be told.

I have struggled recently with a bad relationship.  I know, surprise! Pam in an unhealthy relationship? With a man? Gasp! It is a long-standing joke in my family that much like Dillon in Charlie's Angels I have the uncanny ability to pick the bad guy. I somehow always fall head over heels for the one guy who is in the words of Jen Giddings "Bad News Bears."  But this unhealthy relationship has grown unmanageable to the point were it is causing me to live in fear. I'm not sure where teasing becomes bullying becomes abuse.  But the fact that I'm even musing about it tells me that it has gone too far. 

This has a point.  I promise.

As I sat in Cork today, enjoying St. Patty's Day with friends, Amanda began to frantically wave at me that we had to leave. Remember the creepy neighbor? Yeah, he was there. And asking about me. (If you don't know who he is it's a story for another time.) Faster then anyone expected a 299 lb woman to move, I signed my credit card, leaving in my wake several startled friends and co-workers, and tore through the door. Yet another embarassing awkward guy moment that I didn't want to face. As I drove away in my little Mini I berated myself the entire way. Because if I couldn't proudly and confidently navigate my way through that unwanted advance from creepy neighbor surrounded by loving friends, when would I be able to do it all?

And I forgot my cellphone. Balls.

I pulled a U-Turn on Flushing and speed back to downtown. I would not run again. I marched into Cork, head up and smile on my face. I embarrsingly explained the situation. The cellphone. The guy. They all made sympathetic noises and nodded their heads. Yes, they understood.  We talked a while longer, new friends were met, and I eventually gave my regretful goodbye. This time I calmly walked out into the night. I'm not sure if creepy neighbor was still there. His existence no longer dictated my actions.

I'm done being embarassed. I'm done running away. I might not do it the way you want it. But you aren't the one living my life.

I am.

On Jen Lancaster...

So who, you might ask is Jen Lancaster? Only the snarkiest, plus-sized writer to ever grace my bookshelves. Unfortunately, she is the leading cause of failure of my diet.

Maybe I should back up a bit. I enjoy reading, what one of my friends termed as "Saccharine, sarcastic chic lit." I enjoy reading others slightly absurd happenings in their day-to-day lives. It's nice to know that I'm not the only one who is amused, amazed and befuddled by life. I actually got to meet Jen Lancaster at a book signing in Farmington Hills.

Going with Jenn G., Kate and Jackie, we bought her a cupcake and wine in a sweet if not slightly stalker gesture figuring she will need the sugar and liquid strength after a night of signing. We then go to the gourmet grocery next door and gorge ourselves on dumplings, sushi and kobe beef panini. Realizing that we just spent way too much time eating and we most likely will get crappy seats we rush next door. As we run through the doors we notice a driver and car pull up. Wait, driver and car? In Farmington Hills? OMG! It has to be her! In walks Jen Lancaster, the cool kid, the plumpy princess. Jackie and her talk and joke like old friends as Kate and Jenn presents her with our gifts (which she loved. Or at least pretended to.) I want to dazzle her with my wit and snarkiness too! I am funny and lovable! In a lull in the conversation, she moves as if to go inside, waiting for the people in charge to lead her to her podium. I'm going to miss my chance to wow her! Say something quick!

I squeak as I try to squeeze something out. She looks at me expectantly.

"We don't work here."

Bazinga!

Giving me the, "This is why I carry mace on my book tour look" she is rescued by a Border's employee, a snippy little thing who gives me a withering look. Hmmm. Note to self: Just keep quiet next time I see famous people.

So as I sit here today, reading another of her books, chortling to myself, (Oh Jen, you ARE so witty.) I get the munchies. Hush tummy you just got a very large fattening breakfast of eggs, sausage, deep fried potatoes, deep fried french toast, and deep fried bacon. But it's hard to ignore. I mean the chic is talking about food every other page. And alcohol. And I have a good two weeks of forced sobriety before I leave Magnus, teenagers, and Pam's Prohibition 2010.

And every page my munchie craving gets stronger and stronger. This is going to get ugly really soon.

I rummage through my shelves as she describes chocolate ganache and foie gras. She lives in Chicago for pete's sake. Damn. All I have is Ramen and Slim fast. Yuck. And chocolate. And bacon. Hmmmm...

If you are going to crash your diet, crash it big. In all of its chocolatey bacony glory.

See how I am outside of the Jen Lancaster-Love-Fold? Sigh...

On eHarmony...

So in a recent spat of tequila, boredom and facebook stalking exs, I began to get a little low.  And when I get depressed, and throw in alcohol and the internet what usually results is incredibly stupid but usually amusing stories.

So I joined eHarmony.

Now before I get the usual assortment of complaints, comments and warnings about Internet dating.  Trust me.  This I know.  But after trying the gym, bars, clubs, Starbucks, B & N's, church, my neighborhood, other cities, other countries, oil change places, the library, work, and networking events, I am flat out of options.  Since trusting serendipity to play matchmaker isn't working I thought I would try the world wide web.  Cause nothing bad every happens on the internet.

At first I looked at each profile with a certain amount of nervousness.  I sent introductions to 90% of the guys on my list.  Whenever I closed a match I did it with a certain amount of apology, wanting to tell them, it's not you it's me. I waited, and hoped, and pined, and dreamed.

I received absolutely no response.

I don't mean I didn't get a response i.e. that led to a meaningful relationship, or a phone call, or message.

Zip. Nada. Nothing. Nyet.

The guy panhandling in front of the Taco Bell on Ballenger and Corunna got more acknowledgement then me.

Over 150 guys. Not a single one. So I consulted some experts in the field, i.e. the one guy I can ask dating questions to.  And he said, "Most likely they are scared." Really.  How can you be scared? I mean who wouldn't want to date a girl with a profile pic like this -

Seriously this is my profile pic.

Is it my rambling lack of sentence structure...which often works stream of conscious...often referencing things like ooo cheese...I really want popcorn right now...where was I? Oh yay, my profile. Could it be that?

No, rather it was the same fears I had. The same fear everyone has. What might happen in a relationship, both good and bad.  Relationships leave us vulnerable and nobody wants to be that.  Apparently I have no sense of self preservation though and had no problem contacting strange guys on the internet.

So I pulled up my big girl pants, and decided I wouldn't let the affirmation or approval of a couple hundred eHarmony guys ruin my day.  I dusted the dirt from my sandals, quit the account and looked on to better days and dating in real life.

Until eHarmony contacted me and said I still had two months left of my commitment at the tune of $49.95 a month.

I guess one more look wouldn't hurt?

On underwear...

Things I learned about my body after losing weight number four- You will wear smaller size underwear.

Obviously, not the ones I wore. These are just for illustrative purposes.

New runners have the most interesting conversations. And by interesting I mean disgusting. When you run, all sorts of interesting happen.  Your body changes, and most of the time it isn't pleasant. Blisters, torn muscles, fatigue are just the beginning. Runners will often dehydrate and vomit while running. I've heard of stomach cramps so bad you literally shat yourself. But the worst is the chaffing...

Chafing - definition
1
: irritate, vex
2
: to warm by rubbing especially with the hands
3
a : to rub so as to wear away : abrade chafed his skin> b : to make sore by or as if by rubbing

Yep.  That would be number #3.

We are encouraged by our team leaders to try out new equipment, energy supplements, etc on our runs now to make sure everything works great for race day.  So as I began my run yesterday, 3 miles through downtown Flint and along the river, I decided to try out a new pair of running tights.  And stupidly enough, my new cotton briefs.

Now the underwear were dangerously close to falling through most of the day, but I thought perhaps I could struggle through the run, occasionally tugging them back into place.  I was wearing my underoos, the running tights, and then cotton shorts over them.  Well after the first 100 yards that clearly was not going to work.  My underwear were going down.

And taking my tights and shorts with them.

So what began as a fun jog through Flint turned into an ungraceful waddle through the city, with me desperately holding up my clothes to keep me from showing my business to municipality of Flint. Within a 1/4 a mile I had to get rid of the tights and underroos to keep what was left of my modesty.  That left me with a scanty pair of cotton shorts.  You what happens when you add cotton, sweat and friction?  You get chafing.

Refer to Definition #3 above.

After about 1 mile I was uncomfortable. 1.5 miles I was in pain. 2 miles and it was agony. My thighs were literally raw meat. (Your welcome for that visual.) And I wanted to quit so bad.  I wanted to sit down on the curb and call my roommate to pick me up. But I kept running. Not because I found some point of zen contemplation. Or came to a great breakthrough. Or pure stick-with-it-ness.

No, I wasn't in the best part of Flint and really didn't want to wait for someone to pick me up.  But it worked out. I finished the run and I learned a valuable lesson.

Cotton Shorts + Sweat = Walk of Shame

On death...

Benjamin Franklin once said, "In the world nothing can be said to be certain except death and taxes." If I may add "And they will hit at the most inopportune time."

So the culmination of the past four weeks of Magnus is the two performances happening this Saturday at the Whiting. And for some of the faculty and staff this performance has been a year's worth of hard work and sweat.

The head of our program just found out today that her father-in-law passed away. And the funeral is Saturday. Four of our staff members are family of the man. On a day that should be about celebration and breathing a sigh of relief, now is about mourning. Which got me thinking.

Why is death so inconvenient?

In a world of flat tires, dropped calls, traffic jams, and missed chances it would seem that at least our final moments would have some sort of order or planning.

Instead we spend so much time filling our lives, that when a death happens, it always feel sudden and unfair. One more day. If only I'd known. I would have done things differently.

And perhaps that is why things are the way they are. That we need to live each moment like it's the last.
Cause death is inconvenient. Of that, I'm certain.