Transparent Tuesday: The Double Chin Diary edition

Happy Tuesday! Recently, I was catching up on blogs and my friend Emmie’s post, “Transparent Tuesday” really struck a chord with me. What is Transparent Tuesday? Emmie’s friend Allison dreamed it up, and basically, it’s a day of the week where you remove the veneer of perfection from your social media and blog posts. I love the idea of this because here at the Double Chin Diary I try to be all about transparency — probably sometimes too much, as there are some posts I’ve written that I will probably cringe at ten years down the line 😉

So in the spirit of transparency, here are several truths from today and the past few days. Overall, today was a good day, but there are things about every day that are decidedly unglamorous.

1) I had about half of this post written when my finger slipped, hit the n key, and deleted my whole blog. I was pissed. I thought WordPress would save my butt with its draft function, but when I clicked the post draft, the single, letter “n” was staring back at me tauntingly. I really did think about blowing off blogging for the night, but then I felt guilty because I like my blog. So here I am, writing more. Appropriate for the subject 🙂

2) I have been about 90% excellent with my eating and fitness habits the past week, but I did do something naughty and ate popcorn for dinner on Saturday. I’m hoping I’ve had enough water since then to make good for my salty indulgence when I weigh in at Weight Watchers tomorrow. PS: You should see American Hustle. Really good! I’m hoping Dallas Buyer’s Club wins for best picture, but I am unfairly biased as I haven’t seen all of the nominees yet.

3) I’ve had an upset stomach all day and I skipped the gym because of it. I’ve also felt kind of spaced out and tired all day. I hope I’m not getting sick.

4) I am lying in my bed right now on my laptop drinking electrolyte water. I tried to drink the water with my head too far down and I spilled cold water all over my neck. 🙁

Feeling blah in bed with my water, which I promptly spilled all over myself after taking this photo.

Feeling blah in bed with my water, which I promptly spilled all over myself after taking this photo.

5) We have a basket of laundry sitting at the foot of our bed that has been there for many, many moons. I need to get around to it but let’s face it… there’s always something better to do!

6) It’s 9:47 p.m. and well… I’m going to bed 🙂

So there you have it. My transparent tuesday, except in even more transparency, I can admit that all of these things happened on MONDAY! Maybe we could call it Mediocre Monday. Meh Monday. Is there anything you want to be transparent about for today? Tell me!

 

A Weighty Situation

I’ve been with my husband for over nine years. In those nine years we’ve shared dreams, devastations, ambitions, phenomenal failures, terrific triumphs, catastrophes and miracles. Our challenges as a couple are always met with unyielding support and encouragement. Because of this, I’ve shared everything with him. The irrational thoughts that swirl around my loud brain, the fact that sometimes I forget to brush my teeth in the morning, the curious joy I get from naming random objects and bursting into song. I have shared everything with him. Well, almost everything. Not quite everything. There’s just this one thing. My weight.

We're better together - through thick and thin!

Somebody once said, there are three things you never ask a woman – her age, her political affiliation, and her weight. I’m 26. I’m a democrat with some independent views.
I weigh _ _ _. I’m an annoyingly honest person – but I just couldn’t share that number. I often suffer from foot in mouth disease, where my bluntness and the fact that I wear my heart on my sleeve gets me into trouble. But there was something about those three numbers that I could never admit, and they hung in the air like an eternal question mark, a number that would never cross my lips. I was ashamed. I am ashamed. But I am also optimistic.

Maybe it was the stigma of being over the dreaded 200, or the fact that I’m about 60 pounds heavier than he is. Maybe it’s the fact that women just DON’T talk about their “number” with men. So I told him. We were having dinner, and I told him. I was sick of leaping off the scale when he came into the room, afraid he’d see my weight. I was sick of having to dance around it in conversations about my weight loss – “Well, I’m up this many pounds but down from the last time I was this much, so that makes me 23 pounds less than my highest…” I was sick of having it be a big, fat elephant sitting on my chest – because the bottom line is that it’s just a number. It doesn’t mean much in the grand scheme of life. In my health and self esteem, sure. But it’s not going to make or break my marriage.

We were sitting at the dinner table and it came up, like random bits of conversation often do. I paused. I wanted badly to tell him. I tried. The words stopped at my lips, the “two” dangling mid-air. Did I want to do this? Why? Did it matter? Does he need to know? Yes. Yes ,I want to do this. It matters because it’s a secret. And I don’t like secrets – not between me and my best friend. “You don’t need to tell me,” he said. I told him.

What happened?

He smiled. He admitted that he was impressed that I told him. He reassured me, and was 100% awesome about it, ensuring me that once again, I totally married the right guy for being always, unequivocally at my side. He’s my biggest fan – and I’m glad that now, I can officially say that there are no large, looming mysteries between us. My weight is now just a number – not a secret.

When it comes to your weight and your partner – is mum the word, or do they know the number? If you haven’t shared it, why do you think that is? For me, it’s the years of shame and stigma associated with being fat, the insecurity of my self worth possibly being judged just by a number. I’d like to know your perspective, too.

Don’t Sweat It

I sweat. A lot. Like to the point of “Hey now, heard there’s a water shortage in Southern California. Want some sweat?” Let’s get right to the point. Here’s a picture of me last night after an hour of boxing. We did these awesome drills called “suicides” where you take turns with your sparring partner and beat the bag in minute-long sessions – first uppercuts, then jabs, then hooks. It was badass.

After 55 minutes of pure cardio - I sweat!

See that dark smudge on my shirt? That’s sweat. See how my hair looks brown? That’s sweat. See how my face is shiny and red and blotchy? That’s sweat. See that smile? That’s confidence. See this picture? That’s proof.

A friend of mine joined my gym and we took this kickboxing class together. Afterwards she expressed her surprise at my level of  sweat by saying “You’re like.. WET!” My response to her was “That’s why I’m here!” My sweatiness is something that trips me out sometimes, because as ladies, we’re expected to be dainty, feminine and polite, and if we sweat, it should be little glistening dew drops that glimmer like diamond shimmer powder on our foreheads. Not big, rolling rivers of salty sweat that drips into our eyes and puddles onto the floor. Or at least that’s what we’re supposed to think. I now know that for me, a good workout is measured in the level of “dew” on my body – is the small of my back damp? How about the back of my neck? Do my hands feel clammy, like a 14 year old boy’s at his first school dance? When I work out, it’s not pretty. I’m not there to walk a runway. I’m there to put the WORK in working out… and I’m pretty sure hard work doesn’t always look pretty, unless you’re Heidi Klum or Alexander Skarsgard.

I joined a women’s gym because there’s a comfort level I needed to have to start working out. I sweat like a beast, and when I’m doing squats, I didn’t want to worry about Joe the Plumber staring at my butt as it rippled in agony. I wanted to wake up on Saturday mornings, as I now do, and roll out of bed with wild, frizzy squirrel hair and smudged mascara and have a hell of a workout.  I wanted to wear a tank top and not worry about my chicken wings flapping in the powerful air conditioning, and most of all, I wanted to feel like NOBODY WAS WATCHING as I began the intimate process of getting my body into shape. Because it’s my business – not theirs. (heh, the irony is not lost on me that I end up blogging about it anyways)

I’m a hot, sweaty mess after my workout and I don’t care. Actually, I do care. If I’m not sweating, I didn’t make my body work hard enough. No guts, no glory. So a little bit of wetness, perspiration, moisture or dew? Bring it on. I’m waterproof, and washable. I’m not sweatin’ it.