I took Willoughby (my ferocious 17 pound Shih Tzu) on a walk a couple of days ago. In his cone of shame. For those of you who don't share your life with dogs or who didn't see the movie Up, the cone of shame is a plastic collar that you put on pups to keep them from biting or chewing any areas that need to heal. It makes them look a little like furry satellite dishes. Unfortunately, in my quest for hair perfection even in dogs, I caused both the injury (attempting to cut a mat out of the little boy's hair) and the subsequent humiliation. But you know dogs, they get over it pretty quickly.

So there we were. Walking around the neighborhood. Shamer and shamed. When we turned the corner to see another dog...a GIGANTIC Portugese water dog...staring out at us from the confines of his own backyard. And what was he wearing? A cone of shame as gigantic as he was. And in that moment, two dogs a couple hundred pounds apart exchanged a glance that was 100% "I-feel-your-shame, buddy." I'm not making it up. There was no barking, no high-pitched curiosity, just an instant cone of shame connection.

And it made me think. About the instant connection I feel to all females fat (and males, too, of course). Isn't it so fascinating that, of all the addictions in this world, food addiction is the only one you can immediately spot a mile away? While everyone else may be waging their wars behind closed doors, people who wrestle with fat seem to prefer doing so in public. We wear our personal baggage like exoskeletons. Some wear it proudly, like a badge of honor, while others are walking around with invisible (but cumbersome nonetheless) cones of shame. But I have to admit, when I see a brother or sister on the street, I always want to yell out "Paisan!!!" 

I have to say, if I had it to do all over again and had the chance to choose a life hurdle, I'd pick the weight every time. I'm proud to be in the company of people who struggle out loud, who have battled a battle that has left them perhaps more tender and empathetic to the world around them, and whose smile will be brightest when the last bell is rung and the wrestling match is over. I, for one, am looking very forward to seeing fat get the crap kicked out of it.      

Three most dangerous places to work when you're trying to lose weight:

1) A donut hut

2) A Baskin-Robbins

3) An educational institution

If love=baking, teachers get a lot of lovin'! 

Here is the list of things I've been offered this week:

Every variety of sweet roll, muffin, bread and bagel

A bag of homemade chocolate chip cookies

A gourmet welcome-back-to-school smore (which I took one look at and threw at a grateful yet unsuspecting student like a hot potato...I couldn't even hold it for more than 5 seconds!)

And an overflowing bowl of York peppermint patties

I refused them all. And now, one week and one pound lighter, I am a woman superior to all temptation. Hear me roar...rrrooooaaaaarrrrrrr!!! 

Where was I at last post? Oh, yes...I was talking about the three responses you typically get when the pounds start to peel off. In my experience, people generally fall into three categories. First, there's the lookie-loo with the ever noisome question, "So, what did you do to lose the weight?" (or it's cousin, "How's the weight thing going?"). Then there are less-than-motivational "You can do it" drive-bys. And then...my arch nemesis...the Stepford Wives. They don't have to be married, actually. Single, divorced, widowed, or serving time for taking a frying pan to the good-for-nothing husband...their M.O.s are all the same. At the first scent of self-improvement...it is ON. Whether you asked for their advice of not, they're gonna give it, in a most patronizing and presumptuous package. 

Allow me to illustrate. As you know, I love all things Texas. But I have to credit LA for offering every variation of exfoliating, waxing, primping, plumping, and plucking. So when I found out about a strange ritual called endermologie, where flabsters go dressed in body suits of some type and allow well-meaning strangers to roll over their bodies with a high pressure cellulite vacuum meant to break up cellulite (temporarily, of course), drain the lymphatic system to eliminate body toxins, and create glowing skin, I thought "greeeaaaaattttt!"

So I make an appointment and arrive early, with a mix of healthy skepticism and piqued curiosity. And out walks the Stepford. A bouncy, energetic personal trainer slash endermologist. She takes me into a room equipped with a giant table and a contraption that looks like a mix between a very large Hoover and the thing you roll around in hospitals with an IV bag...only this was sans bag.

The Stepford asks me a few friendly questions as I'm filling out the necessary forms. We have a conversation that becomes (from my end) the equivalent of "I have a Master's degree and am in no uncertain terms expecting this to permanently remove cellulite." Nor do I need it to...what little I have always goes away when I eat right and exercise. She wants to know my goals. Well, I guess I want to eliminate the toxins of 1000 bags of M&M's while bringing the blood flow back to body parts I forgot existed. But there wasn't a check box for that on your form. 

Then the Stepford shows me the suit. It's a white unitard with legs...it looks not unlike a shrink-wrapped version of thermal underwear, minus the flap in the back. I'm scared. In it's new packaging, it looks the size of a onezie. She assures me it will fit...and it does, actually. And now I'm like a giant stuffed sausage...on a table...ready to be vacuumed. 

With the flip of the switch, the huge Hoover hybird comes to life, and now the Stepford is coming at me with an industrial sized roller attached to a hose. It starts to simultaneously pinch, suck and roll away at its target, which is almost every inch of my unitard-encased body.

Just as I'm beginning to get used to it and enjoy the mental image of all those M&Ms being massaged away, the Stepford identifies herself. "So, you're in the process of losing some weight?" Pinch, suck, roll. "Well, here's what you need to do." Note to anyone reading...any conversation that starts with "Here's what you need to do" is code for "Someone's really going to enjoy this interchange and it's not going to be you." From that moment on, the body suit and humiliation of lying on a table having my fat vacuumed are forgotten as I listen in polite horror while she outlines, in excruciating detail, every morsel of food I can and cannot eat and every exercise I must and mustn't do if I have any chance of success.

The thought comes to me to yell out "Hey...wait a minute! Didn't I just say I was losing weight?!? Didn't everything I say to you in our pre-vacuum interview indicate that I had some level of knowledge and intelligence? Did I accidently check the "Weight Loss for Dummies" workshop on my form? You're just here to vacuum, so shut your pie hole (If you even eat pie)!" But, like a deer in headlights, I was frozen. I decided to lay on the table and play dead to prevent further attack.

Will I ever dress up in a white onezie and have my fat rolled again? Absolutely. I left the place feeling like I could run a marathon. But, unfortunately, it won't be with the Stepford. And I can't help but wonder what a forest ranger would advise for these attacks. Next time, should I wave my arms wildly while making myself appear bigger? Or should I curl up into a fetal position, like when I play Break the Egg, and wait for it to pass? Hmmm...something to ponder.   

I heard a Jeff Foxworthy joke once.  Do you know what the difference is between "naked" and "nekked?" "Naked" is when you don't have any clothes on. "Nekked" is when you don't have any clothes on and you're up to no good. It's a fine line, apparently.

The same holds true about people who notice your weight loss. I can remember a couple of times when someone found out I'd lost a significant amount of weight and it was a good thing...like the time I was in a high-end consignment shop, let it slip to the cashier that I was shopping several sizes down, and a pack of squealing women descended upon me like a weight loss rock star. Genuinely excited, petting and patting me, squealing their high-pitched congratulations like I'd just invented the cure for fatness.

Or the time I had a high school teacher stop and tell me if I lost any more weight she wouldn't be able to see me if I turned to the side. Looking back...I think that was one of three happy memories I had in high school.

But then there are the people who find out you've lost weight, or are in the process of it, and you can immediately tell they're up to no good.

First, there are the ladies who want to know what you did or what you're doing. Well, if you want the short version, I stopped stuffing my face and started exercising my butt off. Period. And if you want the long version, I felt like an Israelite roaming the desert for 40 years looking for the promised land and can't even begin to tell you what a complicated process it was. And, the truth? If you're asking me midstream questions like "So, how are you doing with your weight loss?"...I have one of two answers. A)I'm hiding away eating ho-hos every night and failing miserably and the last thing I want to do is tell you or B)I'm plugging along doing the boring thing dieters do and please, let's not rehash it. If you want to talk about the time you got the back of your dress stuck in your pantyhose, the time I tripped and did a Matrix move with a pek-a-poo in my hands on the streets of New York, or how much you love to watch Jeff Lewis flip out, I'm all ears.  But if you want to know the low-down details of my four-lettered fling (d-i-e-t), I'm going to put us both to sleep. 

Then there are the women who do the polite but patronizing "that's-a-nice-story-but-I-could-really-care-less..." one liners. The ones who, only half listening and not really knowing what to say, leave you with the "You can do it" drive-by. They are the same people who ask you how you're doing but have already walked away before you can say fine. Well, thanks! You have changed my life! I'd rather people say "Look, maybe you can do it and maybe it'll be a train wreck...but either way I'm going to buy popcorn and watch the show."

And then there's my favorite. The arch nemesis to women's weight loss. But I'll have to tell you the story in Part Two...next post. It involves a soap box, a white unitard and a fat roller...so stay tuned!  

Ahhh...the first day back to school. I can barely pick up my fingers to type. Plus I woke up at 4:30 this morning (ok, maybe 5:00...after hitting the snooze button 11 times). It was still dark out! I swear I heard a rooster crow. But I have made a commitment to wake up early every day for the next three weeks and work out before going to work. I have always been a work-out-in-the-evening kind of girl. For some reason, moving my body until I wretch, pass out or rupture something makes me sleepy. Call me crazy...but it's relaxing...and a perfect way to end the day. But as I have a million-and-one things to do with the starting of a new school year, I've decided to get the hard stuff (like anything that involves hoisting myself on top of a stability ball) out of the way while I'm at my freshest.

Here's the problem. Not being a morning person...I wouldn't use the word "fresh" to describe it. It's more like The Swamp Thing, only I couldn't re-grow a limb in the sunlight, I don't think. And today, it was more like slo-mo step aerobics. I think I burned more calories brushing my teeth. But this is just the first day...I have 20 more to go! Surely by day 21 I'll stop resembling the little bouncing blob in the Zoloft commercials. Surely.