Make Way For Change!

Well, it seems I've survived a few more days of my junior year of college. Surprisingly, I'm not surprised. 

Between being a complete zombie through reading boring and useless and wasteful syllabi and trying to actually learn the things that are starting to be taught, I've kind of had one of those awesome "Ah ha!" moments. I actually am pretty sure those are called epiphanies, but I'm too A)Sleepy and B) Lazy to double check, so let's just keep it at "Ah ha!" moment. 

So, last fall, before I was forced to start this blog (which, look, Mel! I got addicted and can't stop or use correct punctuation ever!), I was dropping pounds and inches like they had old people shit on them. In total, I think I lost about 30-32 pounds in that entire semester. And I lost another 15 pounds in the spring. That's 65 total since May 2012. I know, I'm a badass. But, I guess, things kind of got put on the cooling rack towards the last part of spring semester and the beginning of summer. For reasons I will never ever ever ever discuss here on this blog because I really like living, my life kind of went headfirst into a pile of lard. I stopped exercising. I stopped eating the way I was eating before (you know, minimal and with lots of grapes and healthy things). Somewhere in there I went on BC, so my hormones were totally on the fritz. And the cherry on top: I was also working a lot. 

In laymen's terms, I forgot to take care of myself. And as a result, I put on some weight that I thought I'd shed for good. (I guess my life just can't be fabulous). And, as a bonus, I stopped looking at myself and seeing something that was amazing and sexy and confident. I even had other people telling me I had put on weight, and that made me feel really shitty. I didn't know what I looked like or what I weighed or how I was supposed to stop the madness. 

The other night, I was talking to someone, and I was in the middle of giving this amazing beyond amazing peptalk when I suddenly heard myself say something along the lines of "If you know what you want and want it bad enough, you'll do whatever it takes to get there." And it hit me that I wasn't just talking to this other person. This was something I needed to hear! 

So, because there is no time better than the present to completely turn your life around and make everyone wish they were you for just a blink of an eye, I've decided to put a stop to all this. 

Starting today, things are going to be wildly different. 

I've made a short list of goals for myself:

1. Fit into size 6 jeans by Halloween. (If you haven't noticed, on the side of my blog is a little description and this has been more of an ultimate goal for me since I started this thing.)

2. Be at 140 lbs by finals week of this semester (aka second week of December).

3. Wear nothing "Large" by Spring Break 2014.

4. Be at 130 lbs by finals week of the spring semester (aka second week of May). 

And you might be wondering how I plan on making this stuff happen...

1. Cutting out pasta indefinitely. (I think I had my fill over the summer. Thanks, mom). 

2. Joining a zumba class (like, going to do this like today)! 

3. No Sour Patch Kids indefinitely (prepare for withdrawal!)

4. Working out at least 5 times a week 

5. Doing things to keep my stress levels at a manageable level

I welcome anyone who reads this to join me in changing now. Let me know in the comments or wherever. 

We'll see how this goes. Stress and sleep greatly influence the way my weight fluctuates, so hopefully it won't be a frustrating process for me. I'm super excited to see what happens! Also, as a way to keep myself accountable, I'll be blogging once a month to update on happenings and progress. 

Wish this wonder woman some luck! 

Say Yes To Pizza

If I have any true beliefs, I can firmly say that I believe in not dieting. I grew up on diet plans and supplements, so I know what it's like to have to be stuck in an abstract box of bland food and zero chance of anything close to resembling pizza. I'll never tell anyone to diet, and I will never go on another diet as long as I live. With all the crash dieting and the promotion of suspicious pills being sold by doctors and "health" distributors today, I just don't see how anyone even wants to be on a stinkin' diet. I would much rather eat pizza than diet. And, sure, people will read this and say that they need to lose weight or that they are happy eating rabbit food or doing a juice cleanse. All I have to say to those people is simply this: no. 

No. NO. NO. NO!

Like, do you even know what a diet is? Did you fall asleep during middle school health class on the day when they talked about nutrition and exercise and why the body needs food? Because I'm starting feel like no one really knows anything about the definition of a diet when they decide to "go on one," whatever that means. I just want to take a moment to look at the definition of "diet" according to whatever popped up when I googled "define diet," okay?

Hmm...

No, wait. That's not right...

That's better! 

For some stupid reason, people have forgotten that a diet is what you eat. That's it. Your diet is whatever the hell you stick in your mouth. So, yeah, that pepperoni pizza with stuffed crust you ate entirely by yourself last night was definitely on your diet. And that Chinese takeout you indulged in? It's on your diet too! But guess what! Those fruits and vegetables and 8 glasses of water you're supposed to be getting every day are also on your diet. Do you see what I'm getting at? Like those taco shell commercials, you can have both.

So, from now on, maybe people should stop this nonsensical "dieting" thing and just eat what is good for you while still eating some of the things you love. With a steady exercise regime and a positive attitude, you'll be way happier than if you were starving yourself or popping pills.

Your body needs food to function, guys. That's all I'm saying. Like they sing in that song about crossing the street on Barney & Friends, "I always stop, look, and listen, when I walk across the street." Do the same thing when your stomach cusses you out for not feeding it when it needs food.  Always listen to what your body is saying. It's full of secrets.

Also pizza. Sometimes. Always.

Under The Knife: A Tale of A Girl and Her Gallbladder

When I was a junior in high school, my health kind of went on a downward spiral into the pits of Hell. I don't talk about it in detail too often (though, I have briefly said things about it in other posts on here) unless it comes up or someone asks. So, just cutting to the punchline of this unfunny joke of mine, I don't have a gallbladder. And, for those readers who have no idea what the frig a gallbladder does, it pretty much aids in digestion of fats by storing bile produced by the liver that is later released to break fats down. Mine didn't like to do that...

So, I was sitting in physics class (which, just for bonus info, was actually one of my favorite classes I took in high school) on Friday, April 9, 2010, when suddenly I got this feeling in my upper abdomen. It wasn't anything painful or immediately recognizable. It just suddenly felt like a clown was scrunched up in my belly trying to blow up balloons despite the lack of space to do such an activity. All that pressure built up overtime became quite uncomfortable. 

This had happened before almost a year before. It was the holiest of gallbladder attacks. Again, for those who have no idea what a gallbladder attack is: this basically means that bile has solidified due to all the chemicals in the gallbladder being out of balance. So, when the body goes to release bile after fat has been consumed, it tries to pass this hard lump through a narrow bile duct. Basically, it is like trying to pass a golfball through a straw. Ouch, right? Yes. Ouch. Very much ouch! 

So, like the polite student I am, I raised my hand and asked to go to the bathroom. My teacher, Mr. Howe-The-Heck-Do-We-Learn-This-Ish, normally wasn't into letting students just leave but I guess I am just super special or something because he let me go, no questions asked. Alleluia! Alleluia! Thanks be to God! 

I didn't even go in the direction of the bathroom. I was headed for the attendance office to ask to get my parents on the phone to take me to the ER (Some kids get really drunk and have sex in high school, I took trips to the ER. No biggie). 

Just my luck, I ran into the attendance secretary on my way down the hall.

Her: Hello, Angela!

Me: Oh! I was just headed to see you!

Her: Is everything okay?

Me: Nope, I think something is wrong and I need to bounce my way to the hospital ASAP.

And you can bet your family jewels that we got our butts down to the office and had my dad on the phone in a matter of minutes. 

Meanwhile, I'm toppled over holding my gut as if I thought it would just pop like a zit if I squeezed hard enough. I just wanted the pressure to go away. I literally thought my skin was just going to burst. Lucky for me, everyone in the school was headed for a pep rally (for what, I don't give a flying fart in space) so no one was really around to see me in such a state. 

Ugh, but, while I was waiting for my dad to show up, there was this evil immortal nun at my school who just kept asking me stupid questions while I was trying not to cuss my back flab off due to the amount of discomfort I was experiencing. Well, I guess they weren't stupid questions. Just super annoying to someone in pain, ya know? Luckily, the secretary was with me to fight off the questions because I couldn't really say anything at all. 

So, then my dad shows up and he gets my car and he takes me to the hospital literally 3 minutes away. I will never forget that ride to the hospital because my dad had turned down the stereo but I could still make out the end of "When You Believe" from The Prince of Egypt and the start of "Holding Out for a Hero" by Bonnie Tyler playing on a CD. Don't ask me. I had weird mix-CD's in my car at the time. 

No, you end up dead at the end. Be quiet. 

We get to the hospital and we wait in the ER waiting room for like 2 hours or something ridiculous. By the time they got to looking at me, I wasn't even in that much pain anymore. They gave me some gunk to drink that was supposed to numb my stomach. I'm not sure, but I think they might have even had me hooked up to stuff. It was a huge blur. But I do remember that they brought in an ultrasound machine, and a male ultrasound technician looked at my insides. I had no idea what I was looking at on the screen, but I assumed the guy knew what he was doing. And he thought he saw some gallstones. A doctor then came in and talked to me about how I'd probably need to have my gallbladder taken out to avoid any further complications. (FYI. This isn't the only course of action available, so don't jump on it like I did if you're ever in this situation). I probably nodded me head to whatever he was saying. It was like Sam in Holes just telling me he could fix it... but this doctor was white and only trying to suck money out of my dad. Oh well. 

Then we went home. And, while slightly doped up on a post-ER high, I went to see Alice in Wonderland in theaters. It is safe to say, I remember almost nothing about that movie. Yay! And the next night, I sleepily went to my junior prom. And then I felt like crap for the rest of the weekend. 

A few weeks later, I went under the knife and had a cholecystectomy. This was the first time I'd ever been put under anesthesia or been cut open anywhere that wasn't my mouth. I was put on hardcore narcotics for a few days, (Oh, the good days!) and I was told to eat as much jello as I wanted. 

Sure, I can't enjoy ice cream, milk with my cereal, or the greasiest foods in America anymore, but so what? I can still eat disgusting amounts of Sour Patch Kids, thankfully. I have an ugly scar on my belly, and when suddenly everyone starts getting the Gbizzles out as a fashion statement, I can say I was into that way before everyone else. Angelina Jolie, I'm watching you. 

But, seriously, kiddos. Take care of your bodies. Don't eat unhealthy amounts of fat that cause your body to jump of a cliff into a pit of health issues you'll die with when you're 35. Seriously. Go exercise now. And eat a bag of celery. 

Oh! The People You'll Meet At The Gym!

I'm a frequent frequenter (five stars for redundancy) of the gym. Like, I go maybe 5 times a week, so that's a lot of times and a lot of my time spent with sweaty strangers. And, over the course of my lifetime at the gym, I've seen a lot of types of people huffing and puffing and grunting beside me. I've actually come to categorize these people because, well, when you're just walking up an incline for an hour, you get really bored and need things to keep your mind busy.

So, I present to you: the people you'll meet at the gym.

1. The foreigners who don't understand the custom of wearing deodorant. Yes, I know that sounds terrible when you really think about it, but seriously. You are in America now. We have deodorant everywhere you can buy pretty much anything because people like to smell good. Now, because you don't wear deodorant when you workout, you smell like goat testicles. Okay, I don't actually know what goat testicles smell like, but I am sure that they don't smell like a walk through the freaking tulips. So, if you go into a gym in an area that is populated by people from other countries or just really any country where large quantities of body hair is popular, you're probably going to run into a few people who smell really freaking bad.

2. The bodybuilders who look like they have seriously been lifting weights since they moonwalked out of their mother's hooha. Yeah, you know who I'm talking about. I'm totally cool with the fact that they have muscles bigger than my head, but damn. Damn. Damn. Damn. How? Or, an even better question, where do you find shirts and pants that fit your humongous muscles? Well, I'm sure if I had their bodies, I just wouldn't even bother buying clothes. I'd just be like "Yo, check out my pectorals and other muscles that I don't know the names of! Bow down, puny peasants!" I mean, sure, it's a little intimidating. Like, I look over at the bodybuilders when I'm doing resistance training and I feel like I might as well not even try because look at their muscles. If you're like me, you might want to stay away from the big shots.

3. The girls who are going to run a 12 minute mile so they can feel slightly better about the amount of beer they'll be consuming that night. Yeah, I know what you're doing. After so many people plop down on the treadmill next to me and all do 12 minutes on it, I kind of get the picture. I mean, girl, I get it. I'd do the same thing if I had the social expectations of thirsty thursday riding on my gluts every week, but seriously. There are other things you can do besides that mile. I'm just saying. Yes, I know, I'm a gym snob. Sue me.) Plus, your hair looks way too neat for you to be at the gym. And are you wearing Chanel right now? But at least they didn't give in to pole dancing to burn their calories. Hola!

4. The people who are only at the gym because they decided to stick to their New Year's resolution. Finally, someone is saying it. I am totally supportive of the fresh meat that walks through the doors of the gym at the beginning of the year. I think that is fantastic that they are up for getting fit and healthy despite the unbelievable amounts of doughnuts and Big Mac's they ate the previous year. And, hey look, it's April and you're they're still here. That's even more impressive. I applaud your effort! And bonus points for not doing your hair or makeup before you came!

5. Old people! Okay, this is my favorite thing to see at the gym. Especially when it's elderly couples that exercise together. It kind of melts my inner bits and pieces every single time I see them. And what gets me is that they go hard when they workout. Like, they are there to win the gold and whoop some youthful ass with their age spots and war tattoos. They don't even have earbuds and an iPod. They are just loose skin and bones. And it's damn adorable. 

So, if you think you won't fit in at the gym and so you don't go, shut up. There are some real freaks at the gym. Myself included. So, just get up off your ass and go break a sweat. And, please for the love the good Lord upstairs, put on some deodorant. The world will thank you for that!

Stranger in the Mirror

Sometimes when I look in the mirror, I don't recognize the person looking back. I've grown accustomed to seeing the same pudgy, greased, insecure girl in the reflection, but, recently, that image has changed drastically. The problem with altering your physical appearance after years of being in the same state that only changes with age is that there is a point when one day it is almost like nothing has changed at all and the next, you wake up and don't recognize the person in the mirror. It's frightening. Everyone else can see the change happen, but, due to the whole "I am with myself every second of every minute of every hour of every day," it takes time for your to see major changes.

For the last couple of months, I didn't see the difference between being 165 pounds and 145 pounds. I felt like I wasn't changing despite what the devilish numbers on the scale said. That's what the mirror told me, at least. I'd touch my shoulders, my collar bones, my ribcage, my hips, and I could feel bones that I'd never really felt before. It was like I was a little kid at a new and unfamiliar playground and I just wanted to find out what there was to see that I'd not seen previously. I wanted that adrenaline of touching untouched hot metal constructions. It was new and exciting to finally feel like I could figure out what my body was made of because before it was an ugly glob of cold mush that I had to lug around everywhere I went. I didn't understand that there was more to a body than cellulite and fat cells. Because that was all I had ever known.

This morning, I was sitting in my Professional Writing class (totally half-asleep due to the freaking time change), and I was starting to nod off when I looked down at my legs. Suddenly, I realized I had really small thighs. I was struck with this "Holy shit! When did I get these?" feeling. Then, just as fast as the image came, it disappeared. If you don't understand how one moment I can see one thing and the next, see something totally different, I can't explain that to you.

Sometimes, before I get in the shower, I'll look at myself in the mirror, and I'll catch a glimpse of how I am at the present time, and it's shocking. I probably almost cry every single time. Weight loss (and weight gain, depending on your circumstances) can be such an emotional experience for many, and I totally understand why. For better or worse, seeing the old, familiar machine that is your body change is like changing costume or reading from a new script. It's different, and many don't know how to react to such a drastic thing.

I finally feel like I understand (roughly, of course) what women and men with Body dysmorphic disorders see when they look at themselves. They see one thing when everyone tells them that they look like something else. Everyone can tell me that I'm tiny or thinner or that I look amazing, but I don't always see that. Sometimes I look in the mirror, and I see the girl I was almost a year ago. I know that's not the case, but the image is so real, that I understand why so many people believe it. 

I still love myself, though. I love my body. I cherish every bit of it. I love that I have full use of it. I love every scar, every hair, every stretch mark. Sure, I may not be able to witness every single pound shed and muscle grown with my eyes right away, but I have faith that one day, I'll see with clarity.

A body can be a cage sometimes. Yeah, like that Arcade Fire song, guys. But it's your cage. Make it a home, not a prison. 

Shit-Shaming

So, the other night, I was texting Bruce at like 2 am because that happens sometimes (nothing good happens after 2 am, kids), and I don't really know how, but we started talking about having really good poops by the means of tea and supplements. It was totally chill. Ya know, just two friends talking about brilliant beyond brilliant shits at 2 am. Happens all the time. Well, then I woke up at like almost noon the next day (after I came out of my curly fry coma from the night before) and I went back to check my texts, and I realized that no one just talks about pooping. If they do talk about pooping, it's always in doctor's offices or in secret like shitting is something that everyone should keep a secret. WHAT?

Why are people so ashamed of a totally natural body function that happens to everyone normally at least once a day? Why is talking about how amazing pooping is frowned upon in today's society? Like, why is it considered potty talk or gross? Sure, it smells.... and it comes out of your stained asscrack, but every single person does it at some time. You do it after you're born, and you'll do it when you die... because science... so, just embrace it. 

Personally, I talk about shit all the time. I encourage my family and friends to also openly talking about what happens behind their bathroom doors. I'm sick and tired of having to keep my bowels a secret. Why should I be ashamed of them? Why should I shame other people who also poop? There is no reason at all. My sister, Julia, and I totally have this amazing bonding where we text each other "estoy poopin" (spanish for "I'm pooping" just fyi) from the bathroom. Sometimes we don't even say that. Sometimes we just send the shitty smiling shit emoticon. It's such a relief to share such an intimate moment with my sister.

Man, I feel you.

It has become the new deep dark secret of every man and woman (but mostly women because apparently women don't fart or poop ever because miracles) in the world. No, you can forget about uh-oh-spaghetti-o pregnancies, Italian mob families, ex-KKK memberships, closet Satan worshipers, and over-the-counter drug problems. Those are nothing compared to the shame that is brought on from the function of the unmentionable colon.

I believe we should not judge each other based on the color and density of our poops. I have a dream that one day men and women of all tongues and colors will speak openly about the conditions of their bowels. Olympic games will be created. Reality TV shows (Yup, The Biggest Pooper and America's Next Top Pooper are all going to be hits). Anthems for a generation. Vampire fiction (oh wait.). It's all going to be beautiful and very shitty.

So, what I'm saying is don't be ashamed of the fact that you poop. Embrace it. Don't clench your cheeks any longer. 

And, yes, I know the Brady Bunch didn't have a single toilet in that house... Don't worry. They were freaks, anyway.

Lesson learned: everybody shits. Deal with it. 

Today, I'm Gonna Eat

I love food. I love eating food. I love smelling food. I love ordering food. I love looking at food. Yeah, so I pretty much love everything about food and eating. The only thing I don't like about food is that it is limited and will be gone eventually. It's one of the things that keeps me alive, so why wouldn't I love it? Some people, though, seem to think that you can't eat if you want to look good. Apparently, the only way to get skinny is to become a rabbit and only eat like nothing at all every single day. Uh, no.

In the last 9 months, I've lost 60 freaking amazing pounds (and I'm still dropping, by the way). I guess that is supposed to make me an expert on health and fitness and weight loss (well, that's just what I assume from all the questions I get about what I do or if I have any tips on how someone else can drop some weight). Newsflash, I'm not an expert. I just saw weight loss as a no-brainer after a while. Also, I've been on so many damn diets and nutrition plans over the last 20 years of my life, that I already had a general idea of what you need to do to boost your health and drop some lard.

If there is one piece of advice I could give anyone trying to lose weight it's this: please eat. 

I'm constantly asked by people who knew me before I shrunk a million sizes, "Angela, what do you eat? Girl, you look so good!" I eat whatever the hell I want. That's my answer. While I have adjusted my eating habits (for instance, I don't stuff my face full of junk food all the time. Common sense, guys), I don't restrict myself on anything. I don't see the point. I love food way too much to police myself. That just creates misery. Plus, at least when I don't see numbers drop the scale, I know why.... unlike if you're not eating and not dropping.

My goal is to look good, feel good, and be able to live life. If I get down to a size 6 and can't eat Bruce's freaking orgasmic taco soup because I'm afraid it will cause me to gain weight or that it will make me any less beautiful than I already am, that's not living. There are so many fattening meals that I haven't tried or even imagined yet, and, dammit, when I get a chance to eat those things, I want to be able to jump right in without thinking twice.

The other night, I was talking to my friend Taylre about needing new jeans because my current pairs are a bit large on me, and she made an amazing point. She said that she'd rather buy new pants than stop eating cookies because cookies are the shit. (Those aren't her exact words, but whatever).  Gaining weight or a bit of pudge in the stomach is not the end of the world. It doesn't mean you're ugly or worthless or something nasty. It just means you need new clothes. 

So, yeah, today, I'm going to eat and not worry about my weight. I'm going to eat because my body needs food. Hungry and skinny doesn't equal beautiful or healthy. So, if you're hungry, go eat. Go eat whatever sounds good. Your body is probably trying to tell you something. I always listen to my cravings to see what my body needs. You should too.

Lesson learned: I love a plate of nachos that is bigger than my head. I'm a classy girl, guys. 

***This week's National Eating Disorder Awareness week. If you'd like to learn more about being informed about eating disorders, check out this article on ActiveMinds.***

Yes, WebMD, I Must Be Dying!

Credit: http://peezhoun.deviantart.com/art/Sexy-Grim-Reaper-348651992

Having had health complications in the past, I know I'm guilty of scratching that itch to go to Google and self-diagnose numerous amounts of ailments and terminal illnesses. Just yesterday, in fact, I had this uncomfortable stiff, bloated feeling right below my damn bra wire, and I kind of flipped my shit for a moment thinking I was going to probably die any day in the near future. Yeah, I didn't even jump to a specific disease or even cancer first. I went straight for Mr.Reaper  Mr.Dead Sexy himself.

I've used pretty much every health and disease diagnostic website out there. WebMD is pretty reliable for most ailments. It's probably the most legit out of all the sketchy websites out there. For some reason, though, it always thinks I have cancer. I don't know whether to take that as a good or bad sign. There's also DiagnosisPro, which I've only used once or twice. It's not as pretty looking as WebMD, though, so I'd only make this like a Plan C if you're in desperate need of a third opinion. Again, it always tells me I have cancer. Hmm, am I just missing the point here? Another handy resource for all your jank medical needs is Mayo Clinic . It's so easy to use, my not-so-tech-savvy father could probably use it. (Sorry, Daddy!) I'm going to tell you straight out that if you're looking for a serious diagnosis from a computer, you should probably hit up Mayo Clinic. They always know that my IBS isn't colon cancer. If only they'd understand the same thing about my phantom gallbladder attacks (Yup, I'm missing my G-Bizzle. Ain't no thang but a chicken wang, guys!) not being terminal cancer.

Poe: Deep as a pit 

But seriously. Let's just talk about how every diagnostic website wishes cancer upon it's visitors. I have a pain in a place on my body where I may or may not know what is actually there, and I go to my trusted online symptom checkers because I believe deep (like way deep... like Edgar Allan Poe deep) down inside that they will tell me the truth about my body. I'm stressed out because I've got this damn pain in my ass and no hardcore over-the-counter drugs to ease my suffering AND I probably need to start writing a will because I don't trust any of my sisters with my possessions. I'm thinking the absolute worst! I am in a very vulnerable place, and I just want to see the silver lining of a good bill of health. But no, I'm not that lucky.

So, I've pretty much had cancer everywhere, according to the Internet. I guess that'll be a great story to tell to my grandkids one day.

Me: Did I ever tell you about the time I survived both breast AND testicular cancer all in the same week?
Grandkid: Grandma, that's not even possible.
Me: I know. I'm a living miracle, John Denver Lennon Mayer. I'm so lucky to be alive! L'chaim! To life!
Grandkid: We're not Jewish, though.
Me: Don't sass me, boy! Ain't nobody got time for that!

Okay, so maybe it won't go like that (Because I'll slap the white off my son/daughter if one of my grandchildren is named John Denver Lennon Mayer).

The lesson here is this: the Internet lies.   It means well, but it lies like no other.

So, next time you have an unexplainable headache or rash in an embarrassing place, don't necessarily jump to conclusions based on an Internet search. You just need to make friends with doctors so you can text them whenever you want without having to make an appointment or pay ridiculous bills.

Or, ya know, if you're too lazy to do that, the Internet is always there. Just remember to put me in your will when you find out you're dying! :D