In Which THE SECRET Comes to Light

I'm obese.

Before you start imagining a completely round girl with blond hair perched precariously on her head like a mop (although the hair description is kind of accurate- I feel like Raggedy Ann ever since The Haircut) who waddles while she walks and always has some form of candy in her hand- no. That's not me.

But it's who I will be in ten years if I don't stop and do something now.

No one (the Teacher doesn't count) knows I'm obese. I'm over six feet tall, so my extra one hundred pounds has to cover a lot of ground. I look like a giraffe with inner tubes hung around its neck.

This is not THE SECRET. It's no secret I'm overweight. It's no secret that I start panting like a dog after a five yard sprint. It's no secret that I like Milky Ways and chocolate ice-cream (let me point out that because of the Teacher's various health kicks and a childhood rule that I can't spend my allowance on candy, I get those things maybe five times a year; this is the true definition of tyranny).

No. THE SECRET is that I'm no longer 'trying' to lose weight. I'm no longer 'trying' to get in shape.

I'm doing it.

The plan is simple. According to the BMI on Wikipedia, I'm 100 pounds overweight. There are fifty-two weeks in a year. Divide 100 by fifty and you get 2; recall that 2 lbs a week is almost enshrined as the 'safe' and 'normal' amount to lose. It is therefore quite possible that a hypothetical person could theoretically lose 104 lbs in a year. Remember how much weight the contestants on The Biggest Loser lose and it leaves the realm of the quite possible and enters the realm of the 'Well, why haven't you done it yet?'

I'm doing it.

I've lost 13.4 lbs this year. I'm eating normally (for me, which is insanely healthy- see last parenthesis) but I've cut out the seconds and thirds that would happen more than four or five times a week. I've cut myself down to three meals a day instead of twelve or fifteen snacks with three larger snacks interspersed through the day. I've been exercising six days a week. I've changed my exercise this last week from marching in the living room to going on four mile walks. As of Saturday I will have walked twelve miles! Which is the farthest I've ever walked without collapsing!

So you're thinking "Peaches! This is big news! Why haven't you said anything about it?!" (If you're thinking "Blah blah blah- when is she going to get back to the funny stuff about being smarter than the average lettuce?"- that's fine. You're allowed to think that. But keep it to yourself, okay?)

Because this started as a New Year's Resolution; New Year's Resolutions generally occur in January; and everyone feels obliged to tell the world about their resolutions. And when you don't know them and couldn't care less, it's annoying; it's even more annoying when one out of every three resolutions is 'I will lose weight'. I avoid being annoying (unless there's a possibility chocolate or enjoyment involved, in which case all bets are off). Which is why I didn't mention it here. I'm sure my parents wish this restraint extended to them, but some things you just have to suffer for family's sake.

That's the bright and shiny reason. This is the dark one:

Because I have dreams. And I'm paranoid about my dreams. I dream about being a figure ice skater. (Probably will never happen.) I dream about being a graceful dancer. (See last comment.) I dream about being able to kick butt in martial arts. (This will happen, or else. Don't ask which martial art. I haven't planned that far ahead.) I dream about wearing a bright red dress and not feeling uncomfortable that people are actually looking at me.

My motto this year is the same as that old WWII poster: Loose Lips Sink Ships. Because losing weight is my commando raid to take over my life before I lose it completely to my weight. I don't dare tell people because there's no way of telling who's a spy; there's no way of telling who will support me, who will sabotage me, and who will take knowing THE SECRET as permission to oversee every aspect of my diet and exercise, which would sink me more surely than anything else.

If I feel this way, why am I telling you?

I've already lost 13.4 lbs (that 0.4 is very important- the world might explode if we leave it out). I'm beginning to believe my promises to myself: my promise to learn to skate, my promise to take dance lessons, my promise to choose a martial art and stick with it no matter how much it hurts, my promise to buy and wear the reddest dress I can find next January.

I'm telling you because some support from total strangers would be totally appreciated right now. I sound confident, but honestly my mood swings are insane- especially around Weigh-In Day, otherwise known as the weekend. I'm elated! I'm going to do it! I'm depressed. I'll always be fat. Why don't we have any chocolate in the house?

So now you have great power; remember to use it only for good, never for evil; because you, yes you, are the privileged only to know THE SECRET:

I'm doing it.

(I will never, ever, in a million years, get sick of saying that.)

Fear Me!

I walked four miles!

Fear and tremble, ye New Year's Resolution! I shall see thee defeated until thou liest in thine own hot blood, gasping as ye die a slow and terrible death of agonizing fulfillment.

And let me tell you, four miles is agonizing. Especially since I actually chose to do it. I can't even whine while I do it because it's my own fault!

On the other hand, if four miles doesn't burn off those chocolate chip muffins from yesterday, nothing will.

Discovery #1

Fact: Bagels with cream cheese are really, really good.

Fact: We have bagels.

Fact: We're out of cream cheese.

Fact: Cream cheese and peanut butter have the same consistency.

Fact: Well, okay, they're both spreadable.

Fact: But bagels with peanut butter- especially blueberry or cinnamon-raisin bagels- don't taste as good with peanut butter as they do with cream cheese.

Fact: Actually, it's pretty nasty.

I discover these things so that you don't have to.

By the way, Janet Reid (see sidebar) has a beautiful video up on her blog. Corny and definitely playing the sentiment card, but beautiful. Make your kids watch it.

Because I'm a Copycat

I stole The Pioneer Woman's post idea for Valentine's Day. (I know, I sort of already did a Valentine's Day post. Too bad.) To read about The Pioneer Woman's adorable insanity, follow the link in the sidebar. But be careful in her cooking section: she uses butter by the stick.

These are random things that I love (abbreviated version):

chickens (from a distance)

cows (also from a distance)

horses (from a slightly smaller distance)

rose bushes

baked potatoes

clouds

toned photos

thrift/antique stores

music

Spanish

drawing

arguing

being with someone and not saying anything and not feeling uncomfortable about it

words

people who are interesting (some of these are better from a distance, but it depends)

writing

good stories

the way my dad's eyes crinkle at the edges when he thinks something's funny

my grandpa for not yelling at me for going into the ditch in his truck

barb wire fences

cactus

people who push me

people who don't mind me pushing back

the cutest, most lady-like Spanish teacher in the world (mine)

hot chocolate, popcorn, and unconcerned calorie intake

chocolate ice cream

Thanksgiving

trying a new Pioneer Woman recipe

laughing at my mom's amazing ability to see things that aren't there (examples: bad handwriting and silver hair)

making people's brains hurt

making a connection between two unconnected things

knowing something

answering questions

asking questions

singing (badly) along with songs on the radio

Words of Encouragement From My Oh-So-Supportive Dad

Context: I was talking about a piece of Spanish grammar that has no English equivalent and that I can't figure out with the Principal.

The Principal: It's just grammar. You'll figure it out. You're a smart girl.

Me (feeling warm and fuzzy): You think so?

The Principal: Oh yes. You're definitely smarter than a head of lettuce.

Me: . . . .

The Principal: And I know you could give a turnip a run for its money.

Me: . . . .

The Principal: I'm not talking about any average turnip here. I mean the big kind.

Me: How kind of you.

The Principal: Isn't it?

I Really Wish I Had Said That

Last night the Teacher and I were giving the Principal a hard time for I-Don't-Remember-What. He put on a hurt expression and said, "I'll have you know I had a very trying day Sunday."

The Teacher and I: "Oh yeah?" (You can just hear the sympathy, right?)

The Principal: "Oh yes. I tried and tried to take a nap and I couldn't. It was very trying."

The Teacher and I: wordless

The Teacher and I: can't breath

The Teacher and I: laughing way too hard to come up with a worthy retort.

Valentine's Day Thoughts

Let me just say that I don't like Valentine's Day.

Firstly, because people expect me to like it. I'm seventeen, I'm a girl, QED, I must count the days until the fourteenth of February. I despise being shoved into a mass stereotype without my permission.

Secondly, I have never had a boyfriend. I do not have a boyfriend. I do not currently want a boyfriend, although I perceive that the time may come when I change my mind.

Especially since I've decided I want five kids.

Thirdly, while I think the idea of a day set apart for people to express their love and appreciation for each other is sweet, Valentine's Day has been so commercialized that it really turns me off. I have to admit that the same is true of all other holidays. (Except Easter, ever since the Easter Bunny started visiting our house.)

But this morning I was pretending a conversation with an invisible friend (yes, I'm strange) about Valentine's Day.

And this is what I told them:

"The two most romantic gifts my dad has ever given my mom are a garbage disposal and a set of sharp knives.

"The garbage disposal was romantic because at the time her sink would clog up a lot and get gooey, stinky, stagnate stuff in it. It made a nasty job significantly less nasty.

"The sharp knives were romantic because she couldn't do anything (fibromyalgia) in the kitchen, and being helpless happens to severely impact my mom's self-esteem. With the knives she didn't have to push down hard to cut stuff, so she could do some stuff in the kitchen, which, incidentally, made me happy too.

"Cut roses are pretty and all, but even if you baby them they die after a week. But if you take care of them, sharp knives are sharp forever."

I shared this conversation with the Teacher, and asked if this means I'm an unromantic person. She laughed at me. Such is the fate of a great mind.

A Perfect Example of Poetic Justice: Or, The Universe is Out to Get Me

Yesterday we were out running errands as a family. This is never a good sign; in horror movies this is like the sunny farm, or the newlyweds kissing in the kitchen, or someone playing the piano.

At the library I hit my head getting out of the car. The Principal laughed at me.

I told him it's wrong to mock other people's pain.

He said no, it's fun. So I hit him with the book bag and said "Ha! Ha! Ha!"

And then I fell down.

Nostalgia

I've always been weird. I will now present one more piece of evidence in my plea to the judge not to convict me as normal.

Ahem. When I was learning to count I assigned the numbers one through ten personalities. And these personalities linger with me as ghosts. Observe:

1 is a stuck-up, self-absorbed dork. Never stops studying, never stops reading, never hears anything you say.

2 is a whiny, dependent girlfriend who hangs on 4 all the time. I hate her.

3 is the giggle of girls passing in the hallway: straight blond hair, purple plaid miniskirts, and pink bubblegum. They go everywhere together. They are the ultimate clique. They always leave everybody out.

4 is basically 2 twice. Did I mention that I don't like 2? 'Nuff said.

5. I love 5. He is awesomely cool. Or she. I'm not really sure.

Nooo, I think 5 is a he. 5 is my favorite number. Don't tell anyone, okay?

6 and 7 have some jealous rivalry going on. They've been fighting for so long you can't really say anymore that one or the other is in the wrong. They both deserve time-out.

8 is the Cool Guy. Everyone has a crush on him. He's the guy who dates everybody casually but doesn't ever have a girlfriend. It's my opinion that all the nice girls won't take him because he dates constantly and faithlessly.

Never mind.

9 is like 5 but better if that's possible. He's like a prophet: he's always relaying 10's messages and trying to keep order in the room. Like a kindergarten teacher. But with a long-suffering sigh and sad smile.

10 is like God. Don't laugh at me. I had a hard, hard time remembering 10. I'd go, 1-2-3-4-5-6-7-8-9...... 10? I think? 10 was like an invisible presence in the sky, someone who was there one day and gone the next and hard to believe in.

I actually told myself stories about these numbers. 9 and 10 were never big characters in them, except one of the smaller numbers might run to them for authority/protection. Geeze, I should abandon novels and go for soap operas, right?