If you told me three months ago that I would be struggling with the emotional issues behind eating, I would have said pppffffttttttt!!! Back in the day, when teaching nutrition classes was part of my job description, I used to think "Emotional eating...what a crock!" PS...This was minutes before I was set to deliver a program on emotional eating that I researched and designed. PSS...I was teaching a group of women how to conquer their out-of-control eating habits and was 80 pounds overweight myself. Oh...the irony.

The 60 x 6 project was meant to be a fun...and funny...look at the process of shedding 60 pounds while trying to find my sense of style (goodbye socks with sandals) and stay true to my Texas hair-itage. But whether a result of losing the weight, blogging about it, or talking about it with everyone who is reading said blog...I've discovered something about myself.

I'm bitter.

That's right. I'm bitter, damn it! I looked up the word bitter just to make sure. Dictionary.com offered a plethora of options, one being "Resulting from or expressive of severe grief, anguish, or disappointment," another being "Having a harsh, disagreeably acrid taste, like that of aspirin, quinine, wormwood, or aloes," and finally "Being or inducing the one of the four basic taste sensations that is peculiarly acrid, astringent, or disagreeable and suggestive of an infusion of hops." 

Hmmm...hops makes me think of beer and the infamous bitter beer commercials. Not exactly what I mean. And I've never tasted wormwood, but it sounds disgusting. And certainly bitter. But an expression of severe grief, anguish or disappointment? That pretty much describes how I've been feeling lately.

I was walking through the aisles of the supermarket the other day looking frantically for a sugar-free fix after an especially stressful day. When I was struck by a moment of particular clarity. Right in the middle of Aisle 11. Nothing was going to satisfy me. At least nothing with a UPC code. And...(whispering)...not even chocolate.

A few hours later, I was contemplating life with the mamahla, wallowing in self-pity after I got a $500 red light ticket in the mail, my Prius died, I made a co-worker angry without knowing it, and my Thanksgiving travel plans looked like they were imploding...all in the span of one week. Then, something came out of my mouth that shocked the you-know-what out of me. In between tears and incoherent sentences only a mom can decifer, I blurted out that I didn't think of life as good anymore. It was more like a series of short breaks between BIG freakin' struggles.

This coming from a girl who has been called Pollyanna more then a few times. Who taught Mrs. Butterworth to be so syrupy sweet. Who was a member of the Optimist Club for 10 years and, at the close of every meeting, pledged to "look at the sunny side of everything and make her optimism come true." On the outside, NOBODY knows this is how I'm really feeling. But these days, I feel like I'm on an episode of Touched By an Angel. It's episode 401...Jones vs. God. The team arrives to help a woman, embittered by the world, in her growing crisis of faith. The woman, Elizabeth Jones, is despondent over the state of her life, the state of humanity, and the fact that it never rains in Southern California. She decides to sue God and posts her complaint in Variety and it's sister publication, the Lubbock Avalanche Journal. People flock to the courthouse, led by Roma Downey and Della Reese. One by one, the witnesses take the stand to share their Hallmark moments. Suddenly, Roma Downey, dressed in white and bathed in light, reveals herself to the litigant. There's lots of hugging. Lots of crying. Faith is restored. And it finally rains in So Cal.

But I digress. The point is...the conversation I had with my mom that night was an aha! moment for me. I think a light bulb actually appeared above my head. I've gotten lots of advice since starting El Bloggo. Things like "you've just got to love yourself more" or "life isn't going to be perfect just because you're thin." But nothing really resonated with me until this. I really do love myself and I really don't equate thin with perfect...you'd be the first to know if I did. But I have been living my life in a prison of my own making. Perceiving it to be something it's not...just a series of crises and struggles that I'm powerless to prevent. With short periods of rest in between. And food as the only thing to look forward to. Nothing empowered or extraordinary can come from thinking that way.

And now that I've found the kink in the garden hose...I've just got to smooth it out so the good stuff can flow. 

Thanksgiving is in 12 days. Twelve. And I am dreading it. On the dread continuum, being a scale from 1-10, I'd say it was a 427. Everyone who has battled the bulge knows EXACTLY what I'm talking about when I say...or scream: "I DON'T WANT TO SPEND ANOTHER HOLIDAY FAT!!!" Here's the thing...I was once an only child who now has to share her turkey, fixins', and holiday cheer with six step siblings, all very tall, svelte and athletic. Oh, and married with ginormous houses and families to fill them.  And here I come, 5'4" on a good day, STILL wearing the fat girl uniform for the umpteenth holiday in a row. Oh, and I'm 36 and single...which people tend to equate with leprocy. You wouldn't believe the amount of unsolicited dating advice I get on a daily basis. And not usually from family...more from co-workers, small children, even my dentist. Next year...I'm going to hire someone to pose as my boyfriend for the holidays. And pay him extra for lots of PDAs. Ho Ho Ho.    

Here is what I AM looking forward to about Thanksgiving, though. Boxer abs. It's not really called boxer abs but Britney Spears demonstrated it on Ellen's show a few years ago and that's what she called it. It's more commonly referred to as leg throws. Anyway...it is an exercise that requires two people. Mom in Texas = Person #2. It's my favorite exercise because a)it is a partner exercise, b)it usually involves laughing, which takes your attention off the grueling pain and ridiculous face you're making and c)you feel it for several days afterwards.

Here's how it works. You lie down on your back, arms outstretched. Your partner, reluctantly at first, stands above you and puts one foot on either side of you, arm pit level (There are pit-free variations, where your partner stands slightly behind you, but I'm a little too short for this to work). Now, you wrap your arms around their feet. Here's where the magic begins. Keeping your back on the floor, you bring your legs up so your partner can grab your feet. Then, they throw your legs back down to the ground. And it's your job (actually your abs' job) to keep your feet from hitting the floor. Do this about 100 times...hopefully your partner is counting because you are focusing on keeping your head and abs from shooting off your body...and voila, you feel like you could conquer the world. After a nap, of course.

As a picture is worth a thousand words, and YouTube is worth exponentially more than that, here is a clip to illustrate. 

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FTy1J5Iyxq4

It's a slight variation, mind you, but I chose it for the hot Englishman. PS...I think I'll contact him to see if he'll be my date next Thanksgiving. After the dishes are done, we'll drop to the floor and demonstrate our leg throws. Everyone will whisper "Look how in love they are. And what great abs they have!"  

Do you ever just get sick of hearing yourself talk? Or think? I'm a week away from Haircut #2. And two weeks away from a wedding in Tejas. And I'm still struggling with the same ol' habits I was struggling with before I set out on this big hair, small bod, mission. I thought...no, I was convinced...that once I declared my intentions to the universe via Blogsville...that the planets would align and I would be like Speed Racer, minus the chimp. But it's still me, with the same ol' thoughts I had yesterday. Ugh! If there were a genie in a bottle, I would wish to be transported out of myself just for 20 minutes. I need a break. From me.

I've started drinking again. Nothing hard...don't worry. I've started drinking milk. Skim milk. And tons of it. Half gallons of it in a day or two. It's my new comfort food. I'm a dairy rebel, I've discovered. It began in a little house on Maxwell Drive in Midland, Texas. When my grandmother decided I was drinking too much milk and was going to get f-a-t. Growing up, my family never warned me to stay off drugs or out of the liquor cabinet. And the sex talk that came when I was in 4th grade was so awkward and horrific that it sent me to therapy. No, it wasn't drinkin', drugs, sex or even rock-n-roll that I needed to stay away from. It was milk. Milk was the enemy, a serpent that lived in gallons in the fridge but was not meant to be consumed. Even in my 20's, when I would visit my grandmother, she would pass the dairy aisle and pick out the smallest carton of milk, knowing that I loved it but afraid, I suppose, that she would find me one night sitting on the floor in the kitchen with only the refrigerator light on, drinking it right out of the gallon.

You know what happens when someone tells you you can't have something? Two things. 1) You now desire it more than any other thing on the planet. As a little girl sitting on Santa's lap, I'm sure I asked more than once for the gift of dairy. You become obsessed with having whatever it is people tell you you cannot have. Or you become obsessed with proving people wrong.  And 2) you never seem to internalize your choices...because you're making them for other people. I'm starting to realize that fear and shame are terrible motivators. I'm pretty sure Tony Robbins never told anyone to "drop that piece of pizza, loser."

I've officially hit a wall in Blogsville. I am beginning to ask myself the question I feel intuitively that every blogger asks themselves. Is my life really all that interesting? Do people really want to hear this stuff? I started this project for two reasons. First, I love to write. Love it. I remember entering UIL writing contests in elementary school and sitting in a classroom with 20 other kids, all with newly sharpened pencils, a stack of clean white paper, and a head swimming with ideas. I fantasize about becoming a professional writer and breaking open the seal on the envelopes of my watermarked paystubs every two weeks. I wonder what it must feel like to get paid to do something you love so much. And would you stop loving it if you had to do it to buy bananas and TP that week?  

And then I realized...writing is the only thing I love as much as eating, napping or watching hours of TV. OK...I love cleaning, too...on the floor with a toothbrush, usually. But the point is...I've always thought of myself as someone addicted to vice. Not Miami, but all things chocolate, Serta, or cable. But the last three months of blogging reminded me that there are other things I excel at and love doing. Hallelujah people! Hallelujah!

And here's the other thing. Frankly, I wanted a witness. There are some times when you DON'T want a witness. Like when you've just robbed a liquor store. Picked your nose in traffic. Or busted it on a pavement covered in black ice. Which I did once. In 8th grade. In front of two busloads full of my prepubescent peers. But sometimes we need a witness. So much it hurts, I'd say. In a film called Shall We Dance, Susan Sarandon's character explained why marriage was so important: "We need a witness to our lives. There's a billion people on the planet... I mean, what does any one life really mean? But in a marriage, you're promising to care about everything. The good things, the bad things, the terrible things, the mundane things...all of it, all of the time, every day. You're saying 'Your life will not go unnoticed because I will notice it. Your life will not go un-witnessed because I will be your witness."

Isn't that what we're all craving? Married or single? Young or younger? Richer or poorer? Happy or unhappy? Aren't we all just wishing for someone to say "Don't worry...your life will not go unnoticed. Because I will notice." 

OK...you know how to tell if I'm really not feeling well? Ask if I've blown my hair dry that day. Because I could be stranded on a deserted island and I would find a way to blow out my hair. But yesterday was the first time in four days...FOUR...that I plugged that puppy in. I found my hair dryer cold and crying in a corner, convinced I'd abandoned him. When he saw me, I would swear Peaches and Herb were there.

Two weeks until my next hair appointment. And I've lost almost 16 pounds. But I don't think anyone can tell. Kara says it took 80 pounds before people felt comfortable enough to say "Phewww...you were really fat there for a minute. I'm so glad you finally did something about it." OK...no one ever said that. But...it was 80 pounds before anyone said anything. I'm going to lose 80 pounds and see if anyone notices.

Guess what I got in the mail on Friday? A belated birthday present. From the city of Glendale, California. A ticket for $442 for running a red light. I've never been to Glendale in my life. Except for that day...my b-day. When I told a friend I would take her car to fill it up with gas on my way to get my birthday facial. 45 minutes later, I was sobbing hysterically because I'd taken a wrong turn somewhere and ended up on the highway, running on fumes with no gas station in site. I have never run out of gas. I've seen it happen to other people, but never experienced it myself. I just imagined having it stall out in an intersection and having to push it all by my lonesome. So, when I spotted the gas station...FINALLY...all I could think of was getting there as fast as possible. PS...I went through a red turn arrow when I saw there wasn't a car in site. PSS...If I'd gone straight through the green light instead of turning, and THEN turned into the gas station...we wouldn't be having this conversation.  PSSS...Did I mention it was $442? On my birthday?

So, I'm devoting today's post to nothing but traffic ticket horror stories. Days when you fought the law and the law won. What's your story?