It's impossible to you, not impossible to me.

And so the journey begins again. I've been stagnant and dormant too long.

On January 1st, 2005, I began Weight Watchers. Over the course of 11 months, I dropped 60 pounds.

For the year that followed, I maintained.

On September 22nd, 2006, I moved to New York. Over the course of the next year and a half, I dropped another 27 pounds. I wish I could tell you this was done entirely healthily, but I think we all know that my first 2 months in New York had me living on McDonald's Happy Meals, granola bars, and peanut butter. Ah, the life of a starving (hopeful) artist.

For the year that followed, I maintained within about a 5 pound fluxuation range.

87 pounds down, and sadly, about 50 more to go.

Somewhere in June, I joined a gym. (As you have already read.) I guess an eensy weensy part of me hoped my schedule would magically clear up, I would spend 2 hours there 4 times a week, and life would be magically healthy and the pounds would melt away. As we all know, that ain't so. After talking to Megan's parents about their success, I have decided to give South Beach a go. Frankly, my body needs a bit of a cleanse and I've got nothing on my plate (pun intended) for a couple weeks, so now is as good a time as any.

The good news is, Marielle and Megan are doing it with me which is going to make this sooooo much easier. And, Megan already had the books. Here we go.


No fruits, fewer carbs, and no alcohol for 2 weeks. If I'm crankly, I apologize. Here's hoping I emerge from Phase One at least 10 pounds thinner. From there, it will be onto Phase Two and the re-introduction of carbs, fruit, and (thank GOD) wine. The goal is 25 pounds by September 15th.

And after that? Only another 25 pounds until my FINAL GOAL. I finally feel close. Perhaps somewhere in early 2010, 5 years after I started, I will hit that "I've lost 127 pounds from my heaviest point" mark. I will slap it square across the face and remind it it is indeed my bitch. And I will never. EVER. Go back.

It gets so bad, but I just keep coming back for more

I keep meaning to write you a long and wordy post about how I'm ok and flooded with love and realizing the difference between wants and needs.

Instead, tonight I will regale you with stories from the gym. Or as I playfully love to call it...well. Hell.

I keep hoping I'm going to wake up magically one day and be one of those people who just loooooooves to work out. Now check it. I have in fact lost 87 pounds from my highest point. Across those pounds, I have tried walking. Jogging. Running. Pilates. Yoga Booty Ballet. YMCA. Curves. Yoga. And lately...Lucille Roberts. Because it's 20 bucks a month, around the corner from my apartment, and yes, I am now at the point in which I need to be toning and doing cardio in addition to learning fries and pizza a well-rounded meal do not make.

And even though I love how I feel AFTER I work out, and occasionally I love that great warm spread in my chest that comes with breaking a truly remarkable stride...I do NOT love the act of working out. For me, I look to the gym how many people look at their ex-spouse. Specifically if a marriage shattered with kids in tact. Everything is done politely, but with gritted teeth and bruised egos. Y'know. For...the kids.

Only for me, the kids happen to be my multiple chins, my jiggling arms, my buddha belly, and my thunder thighs.

On my first morning at the gym, I was a solid 7 minutes into my QT with the elliptical when a very polite woman approached my machine, demanding it was her turn. An obvious rookie, I hadn't realized when I signed up for a machine, it would do me some good to make sure I got on the right one. The silly part of this story is that amidst her yelling, (all in Spanish, to boot) no less than 4 machines stood empty. The kind woman next to me finally relinquished control of her machine only after I screeched "IT'S MY FIRST DAY. I DO NOT KNOW WHAT I'M DOING. DO YOU REMEMBER YOUR FIRST DAY?!"

The past two weeks have been relatively uneventful. I'm learning the quieter times when I don't have to fight for machines and can steer clear of those directly in front of the floor to ceiling mirrors.

Yeah, can we talk about that for a second? There is NOTHING I look forward to more than planting myself in front of a mirror and watching the sweat pour and my face turn into a veritable Ally Tomato.

And then today rolled around. After a weekend of overindulging in birthday cake (for me! for America!) and beer and wine and burgers and cheese and sushi and pizza and gelato, I shimmied myself into my favorite pair of part lycra (aaaaallllll comfort) pants and headed to see good ole Lucille. 2 miles on a bike had me good and revved up for 40 minutes of "let's see what I can do!" on the treadmill. Well. 3.5 miles is apparently what I can do - 2.5 of them at an actual run. Go me, right?

Right.

Until it was time to get off the treadmill. My feet hit that nice and still and steady ground aaaaaand...I fell. Right on over. Yup. I did that. And I mean, I couldn't help but laugh because what else do you do when you appear drunk at a gym at 10 in the morning?

It's fine. I'm not bitching. I'm just aware I'm never going to love this modern torture chamber called the gym. But I'll keep on going.

Y'know. For the kids.