Boot Camp

This is the song that I'm gonna rap about. It's called that "I'm Sorry That I Got Fat (I Will Slim Down)." This is the song that is reminding me that I'm fixing to lose weight and go on a strict diet (Wesley Willis, "I'm Sorry That I Got Fat (I Will Slim Down)")

Mid-January, Bobbie told me that she was going to enroll in a fitness boot camp, and asked if I would want to join her in her voluntary torture. Normally, the scale would have tipped heavily in favor of saying “eff that!” but thanks to my year on birth control I ended up saying: “Yes. Definitely, yes.”

After a brutal three-day preview of what the boot camp would be like (which was entirely misleading; while hard, the preview was much easier than anything we ever did once boot camp officially started. Thanks for the false advertising, guys), I signed up officially for the six-week program of death and destruction (hopefully only to my fat stores). I had epic hopes for what the Platinum Body program (hosted by Joe & John) would do for us in the six weeks; but I knew, logically, in spite of what I hoped that I probably wouldn’t lose all of my extra flab in the first week, nor would I look like Fiona by the end (what? it seems like it should be doable). Accordingly, I took a bunch of measurements (sixteen to be precise) and decided that I would re-take the measurements every two weeks to help keep me motivated. (I don’t care as much about weight as I do about fitting in my fucking jeans again, so I haven't been weighing myself, even though I probably should be doing that, too).

Body parts measured were: under arms, boobs (at fullest point), ribs (directly under boobs), waist, gut (at widest point), hips (at widest point), left and right bicep, left and right upper thigh (at widest point), left and right mid-thigh, left and right above knee, and left and right calf. Some measurements were taken to track loss of blubber (boobs and gut, in particular), while others were taken to keep track of any muscle gain (biceps, mid and lower thigh, since I don’t have a tendency to store fat in those areas). My measurements on day one of class (January 25, 2010) totaled 375 inches even(/cringe).

I also estimated my body fat percentage using the US Navy method/formula since it employed the use of the measurements (most of which) I’d already taken. If you’re a girl, you measure the circumference of your: waist, neck (at the base, with the measuring tape sloping downward, slightly) and hips (at the widest point) and plug those measurements (in inches) into this formula:

%Fat for Chicks = 163.205 x [log((abdomen + hip) - neck)] – [97.684 x log(height) - 78.387]

Or, if this link to the Bodybuilders Dictionary works you can enter those same measurements here, and have your body fat estimate calculated for you. This site also has a diagram of where to measure, if the above description is unclear (measurements go in the first column, if you measured in centimeters, or the 2nd column if you measured in inches.) My Day 1 estimate came back as 26.7% body fat.

I am so bloody happy that I decided to keep track of “progress” this way, because, otherwise, I’d be having a meltdown right now. I have spent every single day of the last four weeks sore. Ridiculously fucking sore. I am kicking my ass to the point of collapse every night, five days a week, and still, not a single pair of jeans that didn’t fit me before fit now. Not only that, only my boobs have noticeably shrunk (like more than two inches shrunk). I wanted them to shrink, but not at the expensive of all the rest of me shrinking. And with them being the only body part that’s making visible progress, I’m starting to feel like I’m going to end up looking like Rachel Ray: stuck with tiny boobs that only make the rest of you look chubbier you really are; and I really, really, really don’t want that.

So, today is the day after the fourth week of class, and my 2nd time taking “progress” measurements. All sixteen measurements taken, and I’m down to 363.625 (which is 11.375 inches less than when I started) and an estimated 23.8% body fat (down nearly 3% from where I started). My boobs (unsurprisingly) come in first place with 2.25 inches lost (yay for actually fitting in my bras again,I guess). But my waist, gut, and both legs all lost over an inch, too. All other measurements had an inch or less lost, but aside from my calves—there was no measurement that didn’t come back at least a little bit negative. And in spite of my bitterness about how slow my progress seems, my measurements coming back that much more negative in the space of a month, leaves me slightly more positive than I was pre-measuring about getting something back for how much I’m putting into this damn boot camp. Positive enough that I’ll be signing up for the 2nd session, with the (hopefully realistic) expectation that I’ll be unashamed to wear my cycling spandex, and bikinis by summertime.

Bitter about Birth Control

"Gradually my whole concept of time changed until I thought of a month as having twenty-five days of humanness and five others when I might just as well have been an animal in a steel trap." (Florence King)

I'd be panicking right now (if I was getting any action) and probably making a late-night run to the supermarket for a pregnancy test. But I’m not, so I’m not. That’s where my pseudo-positive outlook ends. My present bitterness oddly began about a year and a half ago, when I finally decided to get on birth control.

As previously stated, I’m a procrastinator. This particular procrastination was entirely justified, however. For reasons I'll avoid elucidating here, I didn’t have a consistent period until I was 25ish. And, so, I’d never had to deal with cramps until then, either. By the time I did have to cope with cramps, I was very conscious of the drawbacks to using the pill as a cramp control method.

Not only did you have to remember to take it every day, you had to take it at the same time every day. I can barely remember to take my keys and wallet with me when I leave the house, I usually wake up late (and never consistently), nor do I ever go to bed at the same time. So the chances of me remembering a little pill at the same time every day were significantly less than zero. Strike one. Strike two: every single girl I knew who had been or was on the pill had her level of crazy (or emo) go up (on a scale of one to ten) about ten points for a few months, at the very least. And some never quite returned to pre-pill sanity levels. Being one of the least stable people I know to begin with, this was the biggest strike. Ignoring the rest of the “minor possible side-effects,” strike three was the possibility of weight gain. The pill gets a "hell no" from me.

The other options: The patch? Only once a month, and four placement options, but 60% more estrogen. No thanks to more hormones. The shot? Only once every three months, but a huge no thanks to the associated “significant loss of bone mineral density” that may or may not be reversible. The implant or an IUD? I wish. . . .Alas, I’m perpetually poor and don’t have $400 to $800 to spend at one time. Ever. The Nuva Ring? Hmmm. . .once a month, and the side effects didn’t look too drastic. After consulting my (new, and improved) doctor, and having her tell me that the Nuva Ring and Mirena are the only options she suggests to her patients, and that both help immensely with cramps and have very few side effects, comparatively, I’m sold.

And she was right. It was amazing. My first month on the ring--after four years of spending three days a month in the fetal position, with a heat pack on both my back and my stomach--I didn’t even have the slightest hint of cramps. I didn’t even need a single Advil—let alone my usual regimen of two Lortab 10s every three hours, just to be able to uncurl and breathe normally. I didn’t go crazy (well, not more than normal) like I’d seen girls on the pill do, either. It was perfect. . . .until, seemingly overnight, my jeans quit fitting, one by one.

I was told it was normal to have some (possibly significant water retention) for a month or two while my body adjusted to the hormones, but that eventually it would subside. So I waited. As I waited, my wardrobe options continued to decline. At an alarming rate. October was the first month I used the ring, and by the end of December, I could only justbarelysqueeeeeze into five of the thirty plus pairs of pants/jeans I own. Each of those five pairs of jeans were either stretchy, or were baggy on me before October. That’s less than 16.7% of my jeans that fit me after two mere months being on the ring.

Twenty pounds, I’d gained. In two months. (That, and more than a cup size). My doctor said that sometimes girls eat a lot more without noticing when they’re on birth control, and that was probably what had happened to me. While statistically it may be true that girls eat more thanks to the hormones, it was certainly not the case in my situation. And certainly I hadn’t eaten enough to gain ten pounds a month. I’m naturally not a big eater. I eat because I have to, not because I like to. In the decade that had passed between high school and starting birth control, I had gained five pounds. And that was from drinking a lot of soda and beer; not from eating. I’d even thought ahead to address that issue. In order to avoid the “possible” side effect of “weight gain,” I had completely quit drinking both soda and beer more than a month before I went to the doctor to get my prescription. (Well done, right?) Yet in two mere months, I managed to gain fifteen pounds more than I had in the ten years prior. What the hell?

Over the next six months, I fluctuated between being five to ten pounds heavier than I was after the initial two months. I was despondent. Even moreso because now only three of the initial five pairs of jeans were either stretchy or were baggy enough to still fit me. And, embarrassingly, even though these jeans fit, they all had the “fat gap” (where the zipper isn’t completely covered, and the fabric gaps below the button because your girth is testing the strength of the zipper teeth).

Even when I started exercising intensely to get rid of the weight, nothing happened. No inches, no pounds lost. Even worse than that, there was no increase in my muscle strength. So, I quit the ring. Almost immediately, five pounds came off. But the twenty pounds and the boobs stayed. (Side note: it turns out that after spending most of my life wishing for bigger boobs, I didn’t want them, once I got them).

So, a year and a half later, I’m back where I started. Not only are my cramps back in full attack, my cycles are erratic enough to worry a normal girl every single month. As icing on the cake, I still only fit in five pairs of pants (which, not only am I tired of wearing, but are showing signs of stress from being worn once every few days for the last year and a half). Hopefully (if I ever save enough to pay for it) when I get an IUD, the story will have a happier (and skinnier) ending. But, for now, I am a bitter, bitter monkey who has only five pairs of pants to choose from.

Dear Mormon Church:

Thank you so much for calling my brother in law today to find out where I was living. I realize that you're deeply concerned for my spiritual well-being, but I would like to reassure you that my complete lack of contact with your organization for the last dozen years or more is completely voluntary. And my spiritual well being is exactly where I want it to be: safely out of your hands.

I am intimately familiar with what you have to offer, and can assure you wholeheartedly that aside from the idea that one should be "Christlike" and charitable, there is nothing in your particular brand of bullshit that I buy. Please don't be offended by this: I don't buy into any of the other brands of bullshit either (at least, not the religious ones). I think that trying to be kind and charitable is a no brainer, and everything else that goes along with religion is something I am intentionally avoiding. And I do not think that a decision I made when i was eight years old, and incapable of disagreeing with my parents on a substantive or theological level should leave me open to being hounded by you or any other religion for the remainder of my existence.

So, as much as I adore almost all mormons on an individual level, please take this message as a pleasant request to fuck off on an organizational level.

Love,
Illy

PS If at some point in the future I suffer a traumatic head injury, or something else equally personality-altering that would lead me to be interested in you, or any other religion--I'll call you.

. . .how can you justify belief in a god that's left you behind? You've simply filled the gap between the upper and lower class, and your faith merely keeps you in line. An amalgamation of Jewish scripture and Christian thought. What will that get you? Not a fuck of a lot. Take a look at your promised land. Your deed is that gun in your hand. Mt. Zion's a minefield. The West Bank. The Gaza Strip. Soon to be parking lots for American tourists and fascist cops. Fuck zionism. Fuck militarism. Fuck americanism. Fuck nationalism. Fuck religion. (Propagandhi, "Haillie Sallasse, Up Your Ass")

Illumine's Inception

Words speak and choose, make sense and lose, capsize the tall tale, but always fail (Sparta, "Collapse")

Until this moment, I was one of the last people I know to not have a blog. The only other people are my parents; who are unlikely to have a blog of their own unless I, or another of my siblings, volunteers to create and maintain one for them. I did the same thing with (not) getting a cell phone. I don't know why I procrastinated doing the inevitable: both just seemed so unimportant to have.

Both my conversions to cell phone use and blogging began with a move. When I moved to an apartment where I was going to have to install and pay for my own landline, I didn't want to pay for it. I was not planning on being in my apartment that much, anyway. Not that I wanted a phone (I hate phones); but it was inevitable that I would need to talk to someone or vice versa. So I got a cell phone. In 2005. The only person I know to hold out on getting a cell phone longer than me, is my dad. Who went all out by skipping intro phones and getting an iPhone with a dozen accessories, just before the 2010 new year.

And now, years after everyone else, I'm starting a blog. I'm not entirely sure why, but here's my logic: while moving, I discovered that I write an inordinate amount of shit down. Notes to myself on what books I want to read, movies I want to see, recipes that look like they'd be both yummy and vegetarian, dreams I've had, quotes I like, upcoming shows I want to go to. . . .you name it, I write it down.

As a wannabe tree-hugger, who works in a law office and is addicted to books, my eco-friendly sensibilities are offended on a daily (if not more frequent) basis. Given this, I decided that I might feel a bit better about myself if I could find one area of my life where I'm not slaughtering trees unnecessarily and this is it. I know it doesn't seem like much, but you really have no idea the amount of paper I waste writing to myself. So, now, I'm going to write all my pointless, random thoughts and interests all in the same place. Here. Instead of on paper. And, maybe, every once in awhile, what interests me, might interest you, too. And, hopefully, even though I'm one of the last to start blogging--I'll manage to be more consistent and prolific than my dear friends and family who have started before me.