It goes straight to my arms

I found out I was flabby two summers ago by way of a jumbotron in front of approximately 40,000 screaming people at a baseball game. I was minding my own beer in the nosebleeds sharing an armrest with an over-caffeinated kid recklessly waving a foam finger. Finger Kid was flailing his foam in the air, talking about his initiative to get on the jumbotron. I was skeptical. But then - - - the moment came. I was jolted out of my ballgame daydream by a sudden surge of chaos in my section. Within a matter of seconds I realized what was going on, looked from the jumbotron to Finger Kid, and said "KID! You're ON!" He screamed. I screamed. We all screamed. Foam was flying. Beer was splooshing. And there I was...waving and waving and waving and...AAAAHHHH! Right there, as my arm flab flapped and slapped back-and-forth in the breeze of the nosebleeds, I saw what nobody had mustered up the courage to tell me since the woman in the Chinese restaurant in 1999 (that story in moments). My arms were fat. And I found out on a jumbotron in front of an entire crowd comprised of 40,000 of my closest peers. What's worse was that it wasn't just my arms. Apparently Jason hadn't been putting my jeans in the dryer for the prior six months.

The other time I found out I was under-tall (OK, overweight) was in 1999 as my parents and I sat down to enjoy what was intended to be a peaceful meal of kung pao chicken and fried rice. While we waited for our food, a woman approached our table and started to run her gums about the fact that she was a hairdresser for Vidal Sassoon. She wanted to do my hair. She thought I could be a hair model. She said I had a nice face. "But," she said, "you cannot be full body model. You arm too fat."

That happened.

Bada-ba-ba-blaaaaaah

This time around I don't need a jumbotron or honest stranger to tell me I'm out of shape. And I'm not looking for a single person to tell me I look fine the way I am. It's not about a look. It's about a feeling. I feel poofy. And I'm tired of it.

Here's the problem:
I love food. I hate exercising. I'm not alone, I know. I'm committed to not feeling guilty about that regardless of how many people have convinced me I'm a minority on Facebook. (Side tangent: You know what's weird? People don't post about healthy eating on Facebook - just exercise. I can't recall the last time I saw a posted picture of steamed carrots or saw a post from someone bragging, "I just ate an entire head of lettuce like an apple!" Doesn't happen.)

I'm trying my best, though. I joined a gym. I try to go to it. The evil prank is that my gym shares a parking lot with my favorite ice cream joint. So every time I pull in it's either a left turn to sweat or a right turn to sweets. What torture.

I'm also the person who drives around the gym lot looking for the closest parking spot as if I'm trying my hardest not to burn calories walking in. And I wear Budweiser shirts while I work out.

I've lost weight before though. After the jumbotron and before the pregnancy I set out on a goal to lose 23 lbs. because we had a 23 lb. turkey for Thanksgiving and when I strained to lift it I realized that I was straining to lift that same amount of weight on my own body each day and I'd be better off without it. Plus my arms were fat. So, I joined Weight Watchers, started sweating more, and stopped having liquid dinners, and the pounds melted off my body like butter (which is a terrible analogy for weight loss).

I joined Weight Watchers again and I am going to do what I can to shed the baby bump sans baby. In order to maintain interest, I have to do weird things, so Jason suggested that he and I share a mutual goal of trying to achieve 365 miles of cardio in a year via treadmill, elliptical, etc. This quest started for me on 8/19 (the day after Jason's birthday) and so far I've notched 4 miles, putting me ahead of schedule. It helps me to be accountable to others with my goals, so you might see me track my progress randomly at the bottom of future blog posts. I will not bore you with too many posts about my exercise, but occasionally I might post an update about my progress in shedding my latest turkey and toning up my guns.

(Miles: 4/365)