Wanna really get to know someone?  Watch them at an airport. Burbank to Vegas yesterday.  There were literally seven people needing wheelchair assistance.  I was there super early, camped out as close to the door leading out to the tarmac as I could get without being escorted off premises by airport security.  I watched as one by one, the wheelchairs rolled into the pre-board area.  And there we waited, the anal-retentive early bird and seven people in wheelchairs, for a little over an hour. And then, two minutes before boarding is scheduled to begin, two couples walk up from out of nowhere ("walking" being the operative word) and cut in front of every single person there.  I almost had to throw down with a couple of big-haired ladies.  Hey, just because they sport the big do doesn't automatically make them friendly. We all make a choice early on to use our big hair powers for good...or evil.  While I wanted to run up to them and yell "No cuts!," I instead opted for "you're going to face the wrath of seven angry people on wheels and one woman with a ferocious shih tzu (Willoughby isn't really ferocious) if you proceed to place yourself in this spot two minutes before boarding while we've all been waiting for over an hour." But Southwest showed them.  The gate agents walked right past them and their blue plastic pre-board passes to the passengers in need of wheelchair assistance. Take that, line cutters!

Not that I'm an angel at the airport.  Far from it.  Vegas to Lubbock yesterday.  Try telling the six passengers traveling to Lubbock, not Vegas, that they will have to make an unscheduled plane change at the Vegas airport.  Nooooooo!  I have a front row window seat, people. And my carry-ons are already nestled and napping overhead. Now you're telling me I've got to get up, disrupt the carry-ons and the non-ferocious shih tzu, and make my way to a gate that hasn't even been announced yet?!?  Using my big hair powers for evil is beginning to look a lot more appealing.

I don't deal with stress well.  You know the quizzes you can take online that tell you what dog breed you would be?  Well, I'm definitely a nervous breed.  Not a chihuahua or a dachshund, exactly. More like an endearing but sometimes irritating toy breed that shakes a lot.  And, when stressed to maximum capacity, will occasionally pop an eye out of socket.  (That really happens, by the way, for some breeds...a story for another day.)

So this is a BIG problem for me when it comes to eating and exercise. A good friend of mine, also a therapist, recently told me that people react in one of three ways to stress.  They fight.  They flee.  Or they freeze. Of course, we've all learned about this in regards to danger. We've all heard stories of the mom who lifts the mini-van over her head to save her children in an accident, then flings it to the side like an empty Diet Coke can. But I'd never heard of the fight-flight-freeze phenomenon as a response to stress. This is a breaking development.

So, you say, some people deal with stress by fighting?  Of course...boxers, kickboxers, Sylvester Stallone in any movie. (Note to you stress fighters out there...in Manila, Philippines, you can pay money at one restaurant to throw plates or, if you have 1300 pesos, television sets against a wall to relieve your stress.) 

And when I think of people who flee from stress, I immediately think of the commercial with the woman who loves to hit the open road. She says her day isn't complete without a nice, long, therapeutic run. She is one with the asphalt beneath her feet.  I'll stick to my air-conditioned Prius, thank you.        

Me?  I'm a freezer.  A worrier and a freezer.  Oh sure, I wake up in the morning with all the best intentions. I've read (or skimmed, at least) every self-help book out there.  I'm looking at a copy of Dale Carnegie's How to Stop Worrying and Start Living on my night stand right now.  But give me a few minutes and a little sprinkle of catastrophic thinking, and I can work any molehill into a mountain.   

What's more, this freezer is filled with mint chocolate chip ice cream. And chocolate chip cookies.  Chocolate of any kind, really. You know the saying that "desserts" is "stressed" spelled backwards? Truer words were never spoken.

But it's been six days since I've had refined sugar.  (I feel like I'm in AA.  Hi, my name's Elizabeth.)  Yesterday, the flight attendant was offering up honey-roasted peanuts.  No, thank you, I said.  And Wheat Thins, which I soon discovered had sugar in them.  No.  And Coke, Dr. Pepper, ginger ale, cranberry juice, Bailey's and cream...no, no, no, no and no.    

Professional opinions vary.  Some "experts" claim it takes 21 days to change a habit.  When it comes to chocolate, I'm leaning towards the wisdom of relationship experts who say it takes half the time you were in a relationship to mourn and recover from it.  I've had a 27-year relationship with chocolate, so I'm figuring it will take just about 13 years to get over the break up.  It's yet to be determined whether or not we can still have occasional rendezvous and come out unscathed.  

It's also been six days that I've worked out consistently. Today...water aerobics at the Texas Tech leisure pool. OMG!  The hardest water aerobics class I've ever taken.  It looked calm on the surface, but underneath...I had a Michael Flatley/Lord of the Dance thing going on. After class, my mom and I took a few trips around the lazy river.  It will forever be one of my favorite memories...floating down the lazy river, talking to my mom, watching the sun go down over the sprawling Texas Tech campus.

And I realize, I've used my weight to set an automatic and obvious boundary to the world around me because I haven't trusted myself to draw them in other, more appropriate ways.  Meanwhile, being preoccupied with my fatness and all the baggage that comes with it, I've let a lot of moments like tonight escape unnoticed.  

And so I say to the universe...no more!  How do I stop worshipping the chocolate god?  Wake up an hour-and-a-half earlier to drag myself upstairs and work out every day when every fiber of my being protests? Stop making mountains out of molehills, take a big girl pill, and deal with stress like everyone else on this planet has to while keeping both eyes safely in their sockets? Unfortunately, this isn't a sitcom and I can't wrap it up nice and neatly in 22 minutes.  But I'm damn sure going to find out!  Stay tuned.

How is there still fat there?!?  I am always amazed after I work out to the point of a) passing out, b) throwing up or c) rupturing something...that I don't look different afterwards. Of course, there must be muscle under all these layers but I can't help but feel a little like an onion...you keep peeling layer after layer, thinking it will be the last one, only to find 20 more.  Oh, and you cry alot. Peel a little, cry a little, peel a little, cry a little, cheep, cheep, cheep, cry a lot, peel a little more.    

I worked out so hard today, I felt like Popeye (after spinach, of course).  I thought my arms were going to fall off. Tomorrow, I won't be able to hold my toothbrush.  I'll just have to set it down next to the bathroom sink and move my teeth back and forth over it. Forget reaching, pointing or waving.  Good thing I'll be on a plane to Texas tomorrow, because I don't think I can drive.

I saw an episode of Oprah a few years ago.  Bob Green, Oprah's trainer, was speaking to a frustrated audience, most of whom felt like they'd done everything to lose weight but just couldn't.  He said something so interesting. According to Bob, most people have tried to diet and most people have tried to exercise but rarely do they focus on the two equally and simultaneously.  

I smell what you're steppin' in, Bob!  I watch episodes of the Biggest Loser and see their five-hour-a-day workouts and pine for the opportunity to have someone push me like that.  But the thought of planning, preparing and cooking healthy meals sounds about as fun to me as watching paint dry.  Actually, depending on the color, watching paint dry might be more fun.  I cannot recall a happy memory from childhood that did not involve food.  When I was little, my mother (a single parent) worked full time and my grandfather would pick me up from school everyday.  I can still remember the glee of running out the door of Emerson Elementary to see his white Oldsmobile parked at the curb.  Before we went home, we always stopped at Baskin-Robbins for ice cream.  This was when Baskin-Robbins had orange floors and pink chairs...and when they actually had 31 flavors.  I can still remember pressing myself against the ice cream freezers...the glass would be cold but you could feel the heat from the motors blowing at your feet.  He would get vanilla and I would get mint chocolate chip.  I remember it like it was yesterday.  For Einstein, E=mc2.  For me, mint chocolate chip=happiness.

But I digress.  I promised I would introduce you to John Street, my hairdresser, and show you the worst photo ever taken of me (that I haven't immediately destroyed, at least).  I am only showing you because a) you can't have a weight loss slash life transformation blog without a "before" photo and b) I am confident that the "after" photos will make up for the initial horror.

I met John a couple of years ago when I first moved to Pasadena. He was a kid really, but already owned his own salon.  I immediately adored him because:

a) He is adorable

b) He is from Texas (I traveled 1100 miles to find a California hairdresser from Texas)

c) He has four kids and still wears his hair "party in the front and business in the back"

and

d) I can talk to John about anything.  Nothing is off limits.  We actually talked about the pros and cons of bikini waxing last visit. I don't know...there's something about a man washing your hair that makes you feel comfortable talking about anything.

 

I've come to believe there are two types of overweight people. Those who are confident and sexy no matter what size they are.  And those who would shower fully-clothed if they could.  I am the latter.  In college, I had a small group of girlfriends who would converge at our friend Deb's house a few times a week to study, eat little chocolate schoolboys (AKA Le Petit Ecolier cookies) and drink Dr. Brown's diet cream soda.  Deb was a non-traditional student in every sense of the word, with fiery red hair and a feisty personality to match, who made her millions as a killer businesswomen and then decided to pursue her true love...art.    

Occasionally, we would head out to the hot tub to relax and talk under the Fort Worth stars.  If you brought a suit, great.  If not, it meant birthday for you.  Well, I was always the last one in.  Even though it was pitch dark, I made everyone turn around.  I, of course, had the biggest bath towel...and it stayed with me until the last possible second.  I want to send a shout out to that bath towel now...

"BT, wherever you are, thanks for staying with me and always being close by just in case.  I heart you."

Then there was Deb.  A zaftig beauty, Deb had no problem hosting our shindigs in the nude.  "You need a refresher on your beverage?  I'll get it!"  And out went Deb, sans bath towel.  Up the stairs into the house.  I don't even think she had shades on the back part of her house, so we could see her go from room to room, turning on lights, getting the ice, pouring the Dr. Brown's.  All in the skin that brung her.  God love ya', Deb.  I aspire.

Here comes the but.  But no matter how bad it's gotten, no matter what the scale or my wardrobe has to say...even when I have the worst case of whatsthepointitis and don't want to get out of bed.  I ALWAYS do my hair. Every day starts like this: 1. Shampoo  2. Condition  3. Blow dry each and every section whilst round brushing for fullest effect 4. And sometimes I break out the hot rollers, hoping I can attain the same height with them out as with them in (it never happens).

My love for hair began in the womb.  My mom prayed for good hair and strong feet (worried I would inherit her narrow tootsies).  Well, I was blessed with thick hair and I could start a car with my Fred Flinstone feet.   

Then there was the matter of my beloved grandmother and childhood confidant, Fluffie (rhymes with roofie but I'm pretty sure she never slipped one into anyone's drink).  When she wasn't chasing me around the house with a yard stick (that hung from a crocheted sheath on the wall, I'm not kidding), she would brush my hair. Sometimes for an hour.  It was one of my favorite things.

And finally, being from West Texas...well, let's just say big hair is a way of life for me.  

So let's just take a quick walk down memory lane.  

Exhibit A: 3rd Grade.  How I wish that hair color came in a bottle.  

Exhibit B: 9th Grade.  The 80's called.  It wants its frosted lipstick and herringbone chain back.  

 

And finally...Exhibit C: My senior picture.  

Caruso steam rollers (I'll never forget you).  And the year of my first kiss (or you either). 

Next time, I'll show you the WORST picture ever taken of me...at hair appointment numero uno.  And introduce you to John.  Stay tuned.  

It must be a sign.  On the day I'm starting my new life and blog.  I went to a store to return something (more on how much I LOVE returning to come) and found the most fabulous red bag.  R E D.  The last time I had a red bag, it was because my BFF Kara dragged me to Penney's to buy something so a) I would stop losing my wallet and b) she would be able to retire from her part-time, unpaid job as wallet holder.  Two months later, Kara got the red visitor back...having never been used except, of course, for the wallet that came with it.  I can't help it.  I hate carrying a purse.  I even hate the word "purse."  Bag, yes.  Clutch, handbag, pocketbook...all acceptable.  But purse, I just can't live with (or carry, obviously).

But this was an oversized red patent laptop bag with all the dividers, pockets and pouches to prove it...on clearance!  And it went perfectly with the person buying it.  Or the person she was on the road to becoming anyway.  So after a squeal of glee and a fast store-just-opened checkout, I was on my way.  On the way to my first hair appointment.

So how, you might be asking, do hair appointments and weight loss go together?  And why six?  

Have you ever seen the show Clean House with Niecy Nash?  Where the fabulous (and big-haired, by the way) Niecy walks into a house and we, as the audience, expel a collective gasp and wonder how in THE world a place could get that bad?  It's always the same story.  "Why, Niecy, I'm living in my own filth and mountains of clutter because I am overwhelmed and don't know where to start."  

Well, me too, sister.  I am 35.  By the time most of you start reading this blog, I'll be 36 (Hopefully not 46).  And I've been in the wrestling ring with fat for most of my life, selling tickets to all my friends and family, as well as the public at large (no pun intended).  Let's just say I've been overweight 27 of those 35 years.  That's 9, 855 days.  9,855 times I told myself I'd just scarf down this last fill-in-the-blank and start fresh tomorrow, or look ahead to some magical date in the future that would be the perfect time to start.  9,855 times I made a promise to myself.  And 9,855 times I broke that promise.  And it's beginning to get a little annoying.

Let's just say you look up a word on dictionary.com and 9,855 entries all say the same thing.  You're going to believe it, right?  Well, that's what this journey is about...believing something about myself that I once found unbelievable.  And starting to erase 9,855 definitions of myself, definitions that are strangely familiar yet every fiber of my being wants to rally against them.  So I figure six hair appointments (and I have to tame these tresses every 6 weeks) is doable.  Like the little engine that could, I think I can make it until the next hair appointment.  And 9 months is enough time to write a new dictionary, don't you think?

This is not going to be a diary detailing every rep at the gym or morsel I put in my mouth.  I have a soap box solely dedicated to people who a) feel like it's their right and responsibility to give unsolicited advice about weight loss and b) reduce the struggle to something that is merely physical.  I'm willing to bet each and every one of you out there has a story to tell on just this subject.  Well, the next time you're hit in an advice-dispensing drive-by, I'll give you a dollar if you dismiss it with a hearty pffffffttttttttttt!     

No...this is going to be a play-by-play of my last wrestling match. After this, I'm retiring.  For any of you who are in the wrestling-with-fat-and-or-destructive-body-issues circuit, you are warmly invited to attend.