Damn You, Pork Chop! And Damn YOU, Aunt Flo!

Today could have gone better. I blame a lot of the weight I carry on my inability to actually cook. Alas, most weight loss programs (that are actually effective, at least) encourage a lot of home cooking. You learn pretty quick, although fabulous, Velveeta Shells and Cheese aren't really worth it in the end and you force yourself to pick up that spatula.

I've tried to ease my way into it, because I really am a horrible cook. And I'm not exaggerating in the hopes someone else cooks dinner. I really am that bad.

But I've been trying. Following recipes and cutting corners here and there (Thank you, Trader Joe's!). For tonight's dinner I had purchased two stuffed pork chops and got them working while I chopped up a salad and made a mushroom/asparagus concoction. At the 25 minute mark the recipe called for, I opened the oven to check on the chops. My mom had just walked in the door and I had tried to time it as such so she could come in to a hot meal. But the chops looked pink in the center, so back in they went.

Another 5 minutes, then 10, then 20... 40 minutes later (!!!!) they still looked pink in the center and, at that point, no longer edible. I yanked them out and sure enough the stuffing Trader Joe's had used turned the meat around the stuffing pink. Ummmm... might want to mention that somewhere in the label, Joe! They were so horrible we didn't even attempt to eat them. Mom made a tuna fish sandwich and I reheated some leftover Penne from last night.

To make matters worse, I swear that vicious Aunt Flo is more than a bitch then we ever knew. It's like she knows when weigh-in day is for all us Weight Watchers and wreaks her havoc on that day alone. It's my first visit from Aunt Flo off of the pill and braving the PCOS on my own. Funny thing is, it will take PCOS another month or two to really get into full swing as my cysts generally grow along a three-month time line and then explode, so this isn't even the worst of it!!!

I woke up in the middle of the night last night in the fetal position clutching my stomach and immediately took to the bathroom medicine cabinet for some good 'ol Midol relief, and have been popping them like Certs all day long.

It's painful. It's horrible. My future children will pay for this inconvenience.

I'm bloated beyond recognition at this point, but the good news is the scale didn't go up. It went down... not a lot, but it went in the right direction so: "SUCK IT, AUNT FLO!"

With that thought crammed into my brain for the rest of the day, I came to the conclusion that it's easier to run on a treadmill while watching Jason Bateman - cause if that's not motivation, I don't know what is! Also, that my new green sweater bought online from Target (that got here today) makes my boobs look awesome and Lord knows I'm gonna flaunt those ladies while I still have them.

I have every intention of unveiling the boobalicious green sweater this Wednesday evening on my night out!

So until next time, my beauties... remember:

1. Joe's Pork Chops are done, though they don't appear to be.
2. Jason Bateman is Motivation, Aunt Flo's a bitch.
3. Flaunt those ladies while you have 'em!

Running Away With It

Running has never made much sense to me, unless you're being chased. I've tried running as a form of exercise in the past, but due to a surgery that left my back weak, it was never ideal for me. It hurt. And was boring. Mostly it was boring.

A couple years ago during a time like this where I got on myself for following through this time with my diet and exercise goals, I found Spin and fell madly in love. It was awesome, as was my ass after a few weeks. But then I fell sick with mono after a late night, ill fated game of spin the bottle. I was in the hospital for a week as my liver and spleen recouped, and it took months to gain back enough energy to walk to the subway on Manhattan's Upper West Side, let alone spend 45 minutes in a spin class.

Then the energy came back. I tried going to spin but immediately was hard on myself for what I wasn't able to do and how my ass didn't look. I was starting back from the beginning and that pissed me off enough to give up.

Then my whole situation changed.

I was laid off and had to leave New York to stay with family. I don't have money available for a gym membership or the car to get me there even if I did. What I do have however (other than the couch I've spent most of my time sitting on) is a treadmill in my mom's basement and an iPod.

So a couple weeks ago I started walking on it. I'm used to walking everywhere, having lived in cities like New York or Chicago for the majority of the past ten years. I was building up the strength I lost somewhere within the cushions of my mom's couch. Then, out of pure boredom (ironically), I started to jog a little. But this time, rather than trying to run three miles right off the bat and then being pissed at myself for not being able to and hurting like mad the next day, I did it slow. In increments as suggested to me by runners.

I ran today, and although I didn't run for the whole 30 minutes, I did run more than I have previously and with more ease. I rocked out to some Miley Cyrus (I have my nieces to thank for this addition to my music library), Kanye West, Jay-Z, The Fratellis and Lynard Skynard, to name a few. I was grooving on that tread.

Then I did some pilates after stretching and when I curled up and saw my abdomen fold into that over-sized pootch it is right now, I didn't get pissed. I kept going. And every time I folded upwards I would say "Hi... It's been nice knowing ya!"

My sister in law suggested signing up for a 5K as a motivation to keep running, and download a 5k trainer podcast to get me there. I'm putting some serious thought into that, and I'm sorta amazed at myself. Run in an actual, organized race? This is something I've never dreamed I would ever do, or want to do for that matter. Lets be honest, unless I was drenched in gasoline and someone was behind chasing me with a lit torch. Or if there was Cheese at the finish line. (mmmmm... cheese.)

But I'm considering it without these added motivations. I'm considering it... for the fun of it (Gasp!). We're only officially a few hours into the journey and I can already see some changes on the horizon.

The Starting Line

So here I go on a personal journey to finally make good on all the times I've promised myself I would do this, yet clung to every excuse not to like a child to their mother's leg.

It's true, a lot of my excuses have been pretty convincing along the way. I have polycystic ovarian syndrome which makes it difficult to lose weight and easy to pack it on. My genes aren't conducive to losing weight, and my double-digit-sized jeans are conducive to keeping it on. Cheese is just so very, very good!

But here's the thing. It literally hurts to look at myself in photos. I have begged a majority of my friends to not tag me in photos on Facebook to save myself the pain of that moment when I have to see it in order to untag myself. I'm now about to cross the threshold of not allowing anyone to take photos of me to save myself that embarrassment later.

OR... I could do something more drastic to prevent the embarrassment. I could take off the weight that makes me shudder.

I came to this thought when I found out that the Birth Control pill I was put on to help regulate my PCOS is being taking to court in a civil suit for all the bad side effects the maker so casually forgot to tell anyone about. So I stopped taking the pill right away and immediately (not even exaggerating on that point... it was as if my ass grew that very instant making it difficult to get out of the chair I had moments ago sat down in easily) packed on some weight. Here's the thing though... if I can some how bust my way through this stinking PCOS brick wall and take the weight off, it's proven the symptoms will go away on their own.

So here I go... and rather than make a goal weight, because lets face it... 125 looks very different on different people and could be a healthy weight for one person and be too low for another, I'm going to set the goal of a fictional dress. A dress that I do not own, nor have never allowed myself to dream of owning since it wouldn't hide enough of what I don't want the world to see. A dream dress. A dress that makes you feel so good it's as if it slapped you on the ass and proposed marriage at the same time.

On September 11, 2010, I will turn 30 years old and I will celebrate my entrance into this next decade of mine while wearing The Dress, whatever dress it ends up being. Leading up to that date, I will be vigilant and without excuse. I will do everything in my power to honor my body by losing weight in a healthy manner only.

I will learn to use the energy I have used being ashamed of my body to pay attention to my body. To honor it and acknowledge its needs and challenge it to be stronger and healthier.

There will be plateaus of difficulty and valleys of temptation, no doubt. And through this journey I will only use diet and exercise. No pills. No special shakes. No depriving my body of what it needs to be at its best.

And no Jillian screaming in my ear. This is just me and my bod hanging, getting to know each other.

You, whoever you may be, are welcome to either follow me or join me. And those who join me have an open invitation to the greatest birthday I will have ever had later this year.

And I hope you come showing off that hot dress of yours!