G.I. Jones' Diary

D'oh!

2010-09-06T20:13:00.000-07:00

But! yesterday my

Sister became a missus.

Excuse to not post?

Bloomingfail

2010-09-04T15:17:00.000-07:00

Can we talk about how it's physically impossible for a lady to not feel like a big giant fatso while shopping for formal dress? Sacks, Nordstroms, Bloomingdale's, Macy's? HEIFER! I am a size 10. Newly a 12 to a 10. Average. Bit of pudge. Linebacker shoulders. Lovely limbs. So why the hell do semi-famous discount designers think I'm a snug 14 at best?

Tomorrow I'll be a maid of honor for my sister's wedding. She didn't require uniform dresses, which she thinks was a favor, but in actuality resulted in several mad dashes around stores I haven't set foot in since my prom. Everything was hideous. And the few dresses that weren't didn't zip up the back. Not even close. Does this make sense? How do actual fat people get prettied up? Maybe--and stop me here if I'm being outrageous--but if fat people were allowed to don formal ware, they'd feel better about themselves. Why not call a hem and hem and at least tag these dresses with their actual size and not pretend there are anything other than several surplus zeros, twos, fours, and sixes hanging limply from these racks?

Fine, White House Black Market. I'll be a 14 for you, but no one else.

Thirteen Years Later

2010-09-03T20:36:00.000-07:00

I just found myself in a circle of arms, swaying rhythmically, back and forth. It was comprised of my sister, her fiance, my mother, my father, my stepfather, my stepmother, and me. We were belting "Sunrise, Sunset" at the top of our lungs. A half empty bottle of Canadian Club sat on a nearby table.

Oh, Time. You little minx. Why must you wait until so far into the story to unmask yourself as the hero?

The Race

2010-09-02T20:08:00.000-07:00

Anyone who commits to changing their bodies is in for a long haul. It's a commitment in time, money, brainpower, and will. It clutters your life with advice and stinky socks. It reduces formerly delicious food to the sum of its calories. It's a royal pain in the ass and has the very real potential of turning you into one too. Discipline is fun for about a week. Constancy is a daily battle with rewards too far in the future to seem worth it. I feel about people who successfully commit to this change with the same quiet wonder as couples who have been married for 50 years and still claim to just love each others' smell. Weight loss ain't no honeymoon.

I say this all to give a shout-out to K., a woman who made the decision exactly a year ago to love herself with everything she's got. 80 pounds later, she's a 5k running, stir-fry cooking, high-heels-clacking hottie. And the real wonder of it all is how true to herself she's remained throughout the process, how hard she's working to help her body rescue itself. No short cuts. No honeymoon. I had dinner tonight with an old friend who had gastric bypass since I'd seen her last. She looks great; she and K. could probably swap clothes and commiseries. The difference is, she can't physically ingest more than 1200 calories a day, which means she goes out of her way to eat high-fat proteins before she gets full. It means she doesn't exercise for fear of burning up limited energy. And she's paid to physically do this to herself. It's done. I rubbed her back while she slumped with dizziness from the sugar rush from her meager sips beer, bites of spinach dip.

It's easy to judge. We're all running our own races, and when you see success, it's hard not to hold it up against a challenge and assume the answer is clear. K. lives with the constant fear of undoing what she's done--but at least she still can. I have so much respect for her resolve, her results, her self-respect.

To our health.

YLTLSBC 2010 What What.

2010-09-02T20:05:00.000-07:00

So I've gotten myself into this. And I'm already behind. This does not bode well. Alas.

Blog bootcamp, here we go. My fingers are carb-loading in anticipation.

On Being Sally

2010-07-15T12:07:00.000-07:00

I've become that guy, Diary. You know the one. It's my beloved stepmother. It's my grade eleven vegan crush. It's that guy who makes ordering in restaurants a cringe-inducing experience. It's the substitute-a-salad, dressing-on-the-side, do-you-have-multigrain-rolls? patron that make servers jam pens in their eyes and your fellow dinner companions look wistfully over at other tables. And yet, it's the only way to remain virtuous outside your own kitchen.

I've certainly settled into a complacency with this diet. I've given up the strict letter of the law for the somewhat more nebulous but equally well-intentioned spirit, and though the pounds aren't melting off like they were at first, there's no question that I'm a healthier eater now. I have not drunk a calorie in months. I avoid filler cheese and whole cookies, and attempt--reasonably successfully, I think--to counter-balance all ill-effects from a Twizzler or two with a 3 mile run. I suppose this is the turning point from "diet" to "lifestyle", although if claiming moral superiority to a pepperoni pizza is now a lifelong affliction, I freely admit that I'd rather have dinner companions who actually like me than no arm jiggle.

There is, however, a successful method. I find that the best way to be that guy is to embrace it. Know you're that guy, and since the server knows you know, you can simply laugh it off with a little conspiratorial, self-aware self-deprecation. I'll open the menu and point. "Okay," I'll tell the contrapposto waitress who now knows she needs her pen.

"I'd like ____. However, can I have what makes ____ actually delicious on the side, and instead of fries can I have salad--yes, I know it's a dollar more--and the dressing on the side too..."

At this point, I'll look up from the menu and go in for the kill, looking her in eyes and apologizing adorably for being her most obnoxious customer of the evening. Of course, her hardened glare will subsequently soften, as she'll inevitably respond with a smile that I have no idea, which then gives me wiggle room to ask for multigrain bread and an extra pickle.

***

As a little holier-than-thou aside, though, it must be mentioned: restaurants put a whole lot of crap in food. Crap you don't even realize. Way more cheese, or mayonnaise, or fries, than you actually need to feel satisfied. Asking for wee cups of dressing/tarter sauce/boursin cheese on the side actually does cut down on how much of it you eat--and if you play your cards right, you can even be that guy without the enemies.

Basil: The Wonderherb

2010-06-30T06:48:00.000-07:00

D-Money,

I have four favorite smells: boy pillow, tomato stems, freshly-cut grass, and the smell that lingers on your fingers after chopping copious amounts of basil. Fortunately for me, I have an air conditioner (which satisfies the first), and Shaw's has been selling both tomatoes and basil at some pretty great discounts since the summer began. My nosehairs are alight in olfactory splendor.

I present to you now two green recipes in homage to our favorite non-hallucinatory herb.

1. Panko Schnitzel Parmigiana: The Axis of Delicious

Four boneless, skinless chicken breasts
1 cup liquid eggs
2 cups Japanese panko crumbs
1 cup sliced cherry tomatoes
2 cloves of garlic, chopped
4 oz fresh mozzarella (you could substitute with Laughing Cow, however, you'd be a right fool)
Tons o' basil
Olive oil, salt & pepper, garlic powder

1. Dip the chicken in the egg, then in the crumbs, and brown in the olive oil until almost cooked
2. Sautee tomatoes, garlic, and basil in a separate pan
3. Spoon tomatoes atop chicken in a casserole dish, add another layer of basil, and a few thin slices of mozzarella
4. Bake at 375 for about 10-15 minutes, until the cheese is acceptably gooey

2. How Green Was My Pesto

1/4 cup of raw almonds
All the leftover basil from the last dish
2 cloves of garlic
1 tablespoon of olive oil
Salt to taste
Multi-grain pasta already chugging away on the burner

1. Combine all ingredients in a food processor
2. Process
3. Enjoy

Granted, it's a little clumpy, but it tastes pretty much the same, and it's way healthier than all that pine nut, cheese, lots more oil, creamy, delicious... *sigh* Oh well. These are the relatively benign sacrifices we make to ensure a confident glut of boy pillow.

Week Whatever: Running to Stand Still

2010-06-29T11:37:00.000-07:00

Dearest dusty, forsaken Diary,

Okay, I got bored. Bored with meticulously tracking my weight-loss, bored with monitoring every bite, bored with recording my progress in a witty and delightful manner. I went to Israel, ate everything in sight with an "I'm on vacation!" entitlement, and returned to life lazy. I thought that a diet like this would be the ideal active-without-actually-getting-active solution--the passive alternative, if you will. I'll get gung-ho about the gym for about three weeks, get bored, fall off the wagon. At least with a diet you can't use a dirty sports bra as an excuse not to eat (...much). Right?

Wrong! Preparing food is never passive, and can get totally boring. And you know what getting bored on a diet leads to? Cheating. Becoming, quite literally, a big, fat cheater. You come back from vacation a few pounds heavier and forget to buy groceries and get sick of quinoa and liquid eggs. You have a handful of Skittles out of the office candy jar. You rationalize buying queso. Your body stops giving your those glorious flashes of skinniness in front of mirrors and you start avoiding the scale. That, Diary, is when it's time to bust out your running shoes.

***

My running experience has been thus: I would have moments of intense anxiety or an abundance of energy, I would don fashionable running clothes and burst out my front door, run down the street in merry, excessively long strides, and, after about thirty seconds, my lungs would sear, my ears would ring, and I'd keel over dead. Oh well, I'd conclude. So much for that. I'm no runner.

And so it went. Then one fateful day in February, over-caffeinated and on a lark, I hopped off the elliptical on which I had long plateaued (like, six years ago, all the while pretending I was still exercising productively), and jumped on my treadmill of what if. What if I could do high-impact? What if I could run for a (gulp) whole song?

I'd be the effing man, that's what if.

So I tried it. I set the machine for a nice, 4.5 jog, and amazed myself. One minute in, two minutes in, and I was still alive. Suddenly, although not without some panting, I hit five minutes, about a third of a mile, and finally let myself slow down, already a minute into the next song. And it felt great. Not just the thrill of accomplishment, but my whole body. I felt energized and tingly, damp with real, earned sweat, with feet warm from pounding the rubber. This was actual exercise, and it was glorious.

The first time I ran a whole mile, I told every smiling trainer at Healthworks who would listen. The following week, I tried to run a mile, walk a bit, then run another half. Then I tried mile, walk, mile, which almost killed me. Then, slowly, I watched myself tick past 1.1 and kept going, my breathing still deep and even, until I'd done a mile and a half without stopping. Sweat, by this point, was beginning to pour with a vengeance. My earbuds swam away. Minutes--always my reliable work-out marker--flew past without my even realizing, laser-focused as I was on my mileage. Without realizing it, I could run for fifteen minutes straight, eighteen minutes, twenty. The first time I ran two miles in a row, I triumphantly texted my boyfriend while I cooled down, my damp fingers sliding off the keys, and then treated myself to a glass of scotch. Then came 2.6 before I collapsed. Then came...the 5K.

I know, Diary. A 5 freaking K. Actually, a 5.6 K (3.5 miles) that, it should be said, I had no intention of running fully. Everyone walks it, I was told. Just join your company team, alongside the 12,000 others participating in the corporate challenge in this humid Boston night in June, get a free tee-shirt, and go drinking afterward. Runners need not apply. So I acted the part, lined up with the twelve-minute milers, made a running buddy out of that woman in HR I didn't know very well, but had been promised was a much a non-runner as I, and pushed it into gear. Just keep going until you can't anymore--no judgment here--and we'll meet you at the finish line.

Lo and behold. We ran the whole thing. One foot in front of the other, push it push it push it, keeping the breath steady, feeling faster runners rip past us, dodging walkers, feeling like death warmed over a half mile before the finish line, and yet...we did it. I did it. A mile further than I'd ever run before, on a street, without headphones, crossing the finish on rubbery legs and aching heels at 43:00, swelling with pride. HR and I hugged as the sweat dripped, and later that night, my blood still running, I lay awake staring at the ceiling while my heart beat the same endorphins around my body as the night of my first kiss.

That was last Thursday. Sunday afternoon, I made it to 2.8 with relatively little recourse, still a little underslept. Then last night I ran another 5K on the treadmill. All I had to do was do it once, and now my body knows it can. I ran for 34 minutes, afloat on Beyonce and Reptilla, and could have kept going if the sweatbanded middle-aged woman hadn't parked behind me, waving her sign-up sheet.

***

"So when's the 10K?" my runner friend Jamie asked me over dinner the other night. I scoffed. Please, I said. I'm no runner.

"Yes you are," she replied. "It's in October. I'm doing it. And you're doing it with me."

***

It's a wonderful thing when you realize you still have the ability to surprise yourself.

Week 5: The Weigh-In

2010-05-12T11:56:00.000-07:00

Word, Diary.

174.

And my size 12 work pants are beginning to look clownish. Perfect time to go to Israel and stuff myself silly with hummus.

Week 4: On Midday Decadence

2010-05-04T11:34:00.000-07:00

Diary!

I have just come back from a lavish and decadent work lunch! Fortunately, as it was a seafood restaurant, I was able to stuff myself to the gills (so to speak) with green aplenty: oysters, woodgrilled fish, steamed veggies, bites of tartare. I am so freaking full right now. However! I AM NOT IN A COMA. I am alert! I can move my mouse with ease! I don't want to crawl underneath my desk and nap amongst the scattered shoes and fallen Post-its!

Lo, it is a glorious afternoon as I flit weightlessly amongst my comrades, felled as they are by bread and cream sauce.

Weeks 2 & 3: Cooking Like (a) Mom

2010-04-25T10:42:00.000-07:00

Dear Diary,

There is a certain, special superpower that separates Moms from the rest of us, at least when it comes to the kitchen. It is comprised of two crucial elements:

1) The ability to peer into a fridge full of disparate food scraps and make something entirely edible, and even delicious, for dinner.

2) The instinct and culinary know-how to time everything perfectly so that the rice finishes its grueling 45 minute boil just as the chicken's juices run clear.

I am no Mom. I'm not even a mom. But, you guys: I can now totally do both these things. I went from the kind of "chef" who needed people to give her recipes detailing the precise amount of salt shakes and pepper grinds to one who just made up a marinade and is currently roasting chicken for a week's worth of lunches. Without even meaning to, I was pulling my veggies out of the oven the very minute my quinoa boiled. Dinner Friday night was all my tomatoes just starting to mush, sauteed with garlic, some browning mushrooms, a splash of old white wine that had been taking permanent residence on our fridge door, and the last of some kalamata olives. In making a totally delicious pasta sauce, I effectively cleaned out the fridge. I'm beginning to think that maybe...just maybe...this isn't such a unique superpower after all.

Oh well. Forward we tally, taking comfort in the knowledge that the shattered illusions are more than made up for in yummy meals.

Weeks 2 & 3: Gastrointestinally Speaking.

2010-04-25T10:11:00.000-07:00

Dear Diary,

The best part of this diet—and by best I mean, to me, the most noticeable passive improvement in my daily life—is how steady it keeps the appetite. Some brown rice, a handful of almonds, last night's leftover stewed chicken, a wee applesauce, and, as I have come to realize, you're never quite starving and you're never quite full. You're just a placid sailboat on a calm sea of gastrointestinal juices, fantasizing about H & M work blouses instead of the thrice-daily stocked candy jar in the office kitchen.

So what happens when you cheat? Your body rebels. It opens a can of whoop-freaking-ass on your stomach. B-but, body, you protest, I'm at a reception at the Four Seasons, and there's warm melted brie and crisp white wine in a cold, sweating glass; there's a dear friend's birthday dinner and four courses are ultimately more cost-effective than three; there's a Twizzler or five while you're waiting for a tow-truck. Surely, body, I've earned this, right?

Forgive a slightly graphic departure, but there is no such grossly, bloated, nauseous full like the first full following two weeks of no full at all. There is digestive dissent. There are sugar-induced headaches. And the thing is, I've been going out to dinners and imbibing spirits and eating out of packaging for the past three years straight, never mind my whole life. Did my body, like, forget how to digest crap, or is it just going out of its way to give me a very stern, long-time-coming, take-no-prisoners lesson?

And with regards to hunger? The choppy waters again prevail when you've accidentally forgotten to eat lunch before running from one job to another, leaving at 11:30am and returning at 2:30pm, at which point your rumbling stomach has steered you off the street, up a small flight of stairs, and directly into the Boloco outside your building, where suddenly you are ordering a mango smoothie and fishing through your purse to find cash. THIS IS NOT A CHOICE. You WILL be ingesting that smoothie, you weak slob, because your hunger is telling you so. Your glycemic index can suck it, because you're too hungry to have any will power whatsoever. Ah, hunger, you magnificent bastard. A voice so screamingly familiar, and yet I hadn't even realized I wasn't hearing for the past three weeks.

Grudgingly well-played, body. Grudgingly-well played indeed.

Weeks 2 & 3: The Weigh-In

2010-04-25T09:55:00.000-07:00

Dear Diary,

It’s been another two weeks. Two weeks of two jobs, several false scale readings, and trying to remember not to leave my lunchbox on the train every goddamn day. Two weeks of distracting myself from work to preplan dinner, about three reams of Laughing Cow cheese, and vacuuming up Wasa crumbs from my living room carpet. And surprisingly? I am in love with this diet.

It’s not just about the weight loss, although it’s here and happening. My first week into this, my boyfriend made a cute, unnecessary boyfriend comment about how it was easier to zip up my dress from a week ago. He was rewarded with a skeptical eyeroll then, but heck if it isn’t true now. There’s just less of me. And I think the real test, after a full three weeks surfing the G.I. wave, is that he doesn’t make these kinds of comments to be sweet. Now there’s a slight tone of earnest surprise and admiration furrowing his brow as he gently rubs my shrinking tummy.

***

I would have posted my weigh-in last week, but I was too annoyed with my scale to give it any credit. Last Sunday, I screwed my courage, stripped bare, swallowed hard, and stepped onto the cold, indifferent metal. And it told me that, after a week of celery and brown rice and looser pants, I had gained two pounds. So I kicked it. Success! Now I was down to 176, from 181 the week before. Stick THAT in your pipe, queso!

Conveniently ignoring that this scale was entirely untrustworthy—even though I tested it four times, all keeping true to the blessed number—I reveled in my five-pound loss, flitting around my room, throwing on jeans and slapping on some deodorant, and stepping back on the scale just for kicks. Now I was 179. From there, I can only deduce that if there is enough aluminum in Secret Solid to cobble together a teakettle, I’m guessing weight loss is the least of my worries.

But I digress. This was, as you can imagine, getting frustrating. So I was forced to do the unthinkable. After all of my grumblings and eye-shadings at the doctor’s office whenever the mandatory weigh-in took place, I actually requested to be weighed at the doctor’s office on Friday. I was there for a little test and an HPV shot—for once, weighing me was never in their design. But as I was leaving, almost as an afterthought, I stopped the nurse escorting me to reception as we passed the scale, dropped my bag, and kicked off my shoes. Let’s do this thing. And there I was, 176 on the nose. Minus, of course, my clothes and the unknown variable of the HPV vaccine.

Rick Gallop and my friendly neighborhood zucchini sellers have lost me 7 pounds in three weeks. Queso’s going to have to work overtime to compete with that.

Week 1: Observations

2010-04-11T09:56:00.000-07:00

Dear Diary,

The nice thing about deciding to make a big change in your life, even if it’s something as sensitive as weight loss, is that it’s a challenge. I like challenges. I like the organization and motivation that comes from taking bitty, manageable steps and knowing that there’s a big picture in front of you. Like, I’m going to look incredibly hot someday because I just ate this handful of almonds. To say nothing, of course, of the incredible, quietly-smug superiority you get from politely resisting your co-worker’s leftover Easter cupcakes and the mayonnaisy (but, like, good mayonnaisy) sandwiches left untouched in the post-meeting boardroom.

Two chief observations:

1) On packaging. I wasn’t anticipating this one, but since I’ve been bringing lunch to work, there’s almost nothing in my trash can at the end of the day except, like, an apple core. I never realized how much packaging came from a lunch out. Take a Cosi Signature Salad and a Snapple Iced Tea (my boss’s—and now my—standard fare). There’s the paper bag it comes in, the plastic bowl and cover, the plastic utensils, the paper satchel for the flatbread, the empty glass bottle, the batch of napkins they throw in, heck, even the receipt. Lunch for me this week yielded a few mini plastic baggies, several fruit remains, multiple tea bags, and two empty yogurt cartons. And…one mini York Peppermint Patty wrapper. Oh, shush. I’m only human.

Anyway, turns out this little lifestyle change has the added bonus of saving the planet! Hooray!

2) On cheating. I did good this week. I followed the rules. I was sated and smug. Then the weekend came along, along with an out-of-town guest, care of my boyfriend. We went to two of my favorite restaurants, The Elephant Walk and The Border Café. And you know who felt pretty darn entitled to some forkfuls of that mousse and chips all gooey with queso? This guy. Let me explain: this is not falling off the wagon. This is enjoyment in moderation. I’ve spent Monday through Friday afternoon, Saturday day, and so far Sunday sticking to this regimen. And even in the restaurants, I tried to stay as close to the green foods as possible: tuna and avocado and lean pork at EW; fajitas without the sour cream and cheese at BC (turns out, the cheese is actually pretty expendable. The sour cream, I realized sadly, is not). And call it rationalization if you must, but an order of queso split between three people is hardly eating it out of the jar by the spoonful while watching America’s Next Top Model.

Conclusion? If this is going to be a lifestyle change, I’m already making some pretty impressive leaps and bounds. Do good for the most part. Wisely indulge on selective weekends. Keep your sanity and make your friends not hate eating with you. And unintentionally save the planet while you’re at it.

Week 1 (Retroactively): Facing the Scale

2010-04-11T08:58:00.000-07:00

Dear Diary,

I bought a scale yesterday.

A disclaimer: I think scales are bullshit. Pounds are so easily confused with muscles and water and heavy necklaces; I've always been a proponent of the pants-zip. I've using my method for years, and thus avoiding scales, so you can imagine how unpleasant shelling out $29.95 at Ace Hardware was yesterday. Still, though, you know what's more unpleasant? Standing on the scale at your doctor's, eyes deliberately squished closed, and then once the nurse has left the room, accidentally reading your weight off the glaring computer screen that's strategically placed next to the chart that tells you what your weight should be for your height.

I'm 5'7 and a half. I add the half because I always thought I was 5'7, and it was a lovely realization when the nurse at my physical six months ago corrected me to 5'8, and with it a welcome allowance of pounds when I jumped that bracket. Then my most recent physical dashed all hopes by pronouncing me, indeed, 5'7, and overweight. I have now decided that I must be some happy medium.

This is all to say, I don't know what my starting weight was a week ago, but a month-and-a-half ago, it was 183. My new scale said 187. Chagrined, I jostled the batteries around a little. Now it says 181. So I tried three more times. That settled it. 181 it is.

And you know what would be nice? 165.

Welcome to My Waistline

2010-04-11T08:20:00.000-07:00

Dear Diary,

In a bout of lackadaisical, post-holiday guilt, and with a sister's looming wedding ahead, I decided to peel myself off the couch and commit to an actual dietary regimen. In other words, my oven would no longer be used for storage, although I've had several long years in a row of lifestyle-inspired excuses to keep it that way. To wit:

1) Sorry, I'm in grad school. No time to launder my underwear, let along go food shopping or, heaven forbid, cook.

2) Whoopsy, my MA in Art History has landed me a job at--and only at--Starbucks, so no money to eat anything that isn't a "broken" slab of pumpkin loaf or one-day old and patiently waiting for me in the Partner Fridge.

3) Yikes, I got a real job, money galore, time to test out every lunch spot in the Financial District.

You can see which of these excuses is finally moot.

Eight hours a day of sitting on my rear still recovering from a year of Starbucks pastries has made going clothes-shopping considerably less fun. And for the first time in my life, I have the luxury of enough time and money to be healthy. Ergo, this blog.

My mom (henceforth known as "Mom") recommended a internationally-acclaimed (although it's from Canada, so you can ration your awe) diet (although it prefers to be known as "lifestyle" since we all know diets are for idiots) called the GI Diet, by a doctor from my favorite alma mater and yours, the University of Toronto. Its ethos is actually pretty sensible: eat foods that make you full. Cut out the crap; let your body do the processing. And like a reverse banana, green means go nuts (mostly veggies, low-fat alternatives to high-fat treats, lean meats, stone-ground grains, rice that takes a long time to cook, almonds, OLIVES!); yellow means slow down (after achieving your target weight loss, you can now drink wine); and red means stop. Like, totally stop. Like no more queso and scotch dinners, at least for a while.

I've wrestled with wanting to look like Elle MacPherson circa 1989 for my whole life; any girl who grew up with a little chub in her mid-section has. And minus an intense, lovelife-frustration-fueled, 5-day-a-week-at-the-gym junior year of college, my weight has never really seemed to change, for better or for worse. I've spent many of the last years not particularly caring or minding. But my desk job (and I enjoy blaming my birth control) has created a noticeable difference in the ease with which my pants button. So while perhaps no one will be referring to me as "The Body" any time soon (save my boyfriend, bless his heart), I figure, it's time to make at least a 15 pound change. Consider this your engraved invitation to come along.