2017

Let's be blunt, shall we? 2016 has sucked donkey dick. Crass? Sure, but that's what this year has been. Everyone I voted for this year - lost. Some of my favorite celebrities - dead. Mono was defeated, but I got copacetic again as a result. Oh and what's that? Yeah, my basement flooded majorly - twice - and while it's been fixed, we're on the market again as a result of PTSD and wanting good juju versus the crap we've had in this place. Just what I (we) wanted to do again - possibly move.

Deep cleansing breath.

So... how do I make 2017 better? Screw focusing on stupid shit like losing weight or making myself hot. I just want to actually give a damn about myself. For me. Why? Because I'm a better person (mother, wife, daughter, friend, etc.) when I take care of myself but I honestly can't remember the last time I truly did that, 100%.

Yes, obviously, I'm not running away from my responsibilities. I'm still married (9 years in two days - damn) and a mother to a (mostly) awesome, amazing (BTW, my bullet journal proves I use these words way too much) two year old little boy - and I have a great job with a boss who constantly reminds me of how much I actually do since it's easy to forget because of how much I do in a short amount of time. 

I don't want to quit being me. Far from it. I just want to be the best me possible.

I know I'm much better off mentally, physically, emotionally, etc., when I run and do yoga on a more frequent basis. It grounds me. It's a challenge. And it helps me be at a weight I'm more comfortable with.

I'm 31, not 70, so I should be okay with feeling hot. Regardless of whether my definition of hot aligns with anyone else's. Yes, I like skinny jeans, tall boots, and shirts that are long enough to cover up my freakishly long torso. Sue me. That just shows that I have a "look," I just need to accept this fact and tailor my wardrobe around it versus trying to fight it and look like a mom or a wife or whatever should. 

I'm Lindsey: a sarcastic, agnostic, upper middle-class, slightly lazy, working wife and mom. I'm not going to suddenly turn into something else, regardless of how much I may wish too (upper class working mom/wife with a flexible job, friends and expendable income/time to do Pure Barre or yoga at a studio when and where I want comes to mind). I have to accept what I have available, channel my inner Tim Gunn and "make it work." 

So, yeah. In 2017, that's what I hope to make possible. Accept the fact that I know what makes me the best me (denial or not), resist the temptation to revert to lazy habits and just make it happen. For my entire family's sake. 

I have four days to wrap my head around this and figure out a potential plan of attack. Let's do this!

Master closet

I'm standing in my closet staring at my clothes, willing my brain to work in order to get the day started, as Ricky steps on the scale. A small smile crosses his face as he steps off.

Someone's pleased with himself this morning.

"What's your number today?"

As he tells me (his business, so I'm not sharing) I can see him doing an internal victory lap. Lately his number's been riding a bit higher than he likes, so he's thrilled that his efforts have been paying off.

Our first Easter vs our most recent Christmas.

Curious about my own stats I momentarily abandon choosing between my usual work week wardrobe rotation. Seriously, I've been doing the whole pod-wardrobe-thing unintentionally for about a year now at the office.

I've been running 3+ miles a couple times a week, pretty honest with my food tracking (the hardest part is doing so when you know you've had a bad day - connect with me on MFP!) and doing yoga on a consistent basis so I'm feeling pretty confident.

The smooth metal surface of the scale reflects the lights above it as I step on. The numbers start processing so I try to hold extra still to make sure they're accurate. When they've stopped I glance down.

That doesn't look right.

I rub the sleep out of my eyes and step off to let it zero out. I check the scale to make sure it's not laying on a grout seam or something then I step back on.

Same results.

172.2.

I realize at this point in time I have one of two ways I can go: I can get upset and let this dictate my entire day or I can realize it's just a number in a moment of time and count on how I feel instead.

Not to mention I drank a ton of water last night and haven't had the first BM yet, so this could be the result of any number of things.

C's cries indicating he's ready to get the day started cause me to make a snap decision. I peek at the number again. Sigh, shrug, hop off the scale and decide to move on with the day.

Am I thrilled with the number? No. Not at all. Most times I feel as though I'm a skinny person living in a fat person's body, but I can't really be mad at my body (insert cliche list of all the amazing things my body is capable of here).

It serves its purpose and it's a constant work in progress.

So long as I'm not just sitting on my butt cramming my mouth full of chips all day long that is.

Soap Box

We watch a lot of "The Big Bang Theory" in our house. It's on whenever we need random background noise.

The other day though, one line in particular seemed to jump out at me. I stand in the kitchen, puzzled. Surely I didn't just hear what I thought I heard, right?

Just to be on the safe side, I check with Ricky.

"Did Amy Farrah Fowler just say she was 130 pounds?"

"Uh, yeah. I think so."

Huh. Knowing what little I know about Mayim Bialik in her everyday life I wonder if that's true. Or if it's just a random number the script writers threw in there thinking it sounded right for a (formerly) sheltered female scientist. Considering how straightforward she seems to be, and the fact that she's a bit shorter than me, I suppose it may be true. After all, the women in Hollywood - especially her costars - are freakishly teensy.

For those of you who have never seen the show, there are three consistent females in the cast: Penny, Bernadette and Amy.

• Penny started out as the stereotypical hot, blonde neighbor, but has developed over time into someone who can hold her own when it comes to putting the guys in their place. She's still hot though, and her costumes tend to lean this way. 
• Bernadette is a scientist with a little squeaky voice, but a big scary yelling voice when mad. She's described often as pocket-sized (she's very short and cute so this is understandable), but admittedly "stacked" as her husband's late mother called her once. 
• Amy is the dowdiest of the group - and I mean this in the nicest way possible as she's also hilarious and brilliant - but her costumes mostly consist of shapeless cardigans and calf-length skirts. Out of the three of them, she's presented as the DUFF. If you don't know what that is, you can look it up.

Anyway...

Obviously this thought has stuck with me for a few days. And then this morning I had an epiphany, one that I needed to resort yet again to my good friend, Google, to confirm.

In the Bridget Jones' Diary series, the character is constantly referring to herself as some form of fat. In order to play her in the first two movies, Renee Zellweger had to put on an alleged 20+ pounds. If you Google "Bridget Jones' weight" in an image search you'll find a ton of pictures of Renee side-by-side as a before and after playing the character. And yet, what is her weight described as in both the books and movies?

I'll give you a second.

Give up?

125-131 pounds.

Think I'm crazy? I'm not the only one who noticed this. Book Riot also picked up on this oddity almost four years ago.

Let that sink in. We're being told that 130 pounds is heavy.

I dunno about you, but that kind of makes me want to go all "Hulk smash."

What sort of a messed up world do we live in where the average woman (going on the average height of around 5'4" for American women) is told that 130 pounds is heavy? Yes, Bridget is technically British, but you know the publisher likely did that conversion for American audiences, much like "Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone" was changed to "Sorcerer's Stone."

Please tell me someone else is getting angry.

130 pounds. Heavy.

I know my self-perception of my body is way off. Dancing for well over 20 years will do that to a person. (Side note: My friend Lacey just wrote a beautiful post that can explain this far more eloquently than I can.) But at 5' 7" and 169 pounds, I can safely say that I'm in the slightly overweight category.

Does my height help hide this better than some others - that depends on your perception: I say no, others sometimes doubt me (or they spare my feelings and say I'm lying while doing it themselves).

But still... 130 pounds as big seems insane to me. In fact, my dream weight is still heavier than that. Yeah, wrap your head around that one.

In the U.S., 20 million women, and 10 million men are estimated to have suffered from an eating disorder at some point in time in their lives. Maybe, we can take a small step in the right direction of remedying that by eliminating the idea of characters in our media being large when they're anything but.

130 pounds is. not. fat.

Westwood

"Thoughts on dinner?" 

I cringe. I hate this discussion. Hate. It. Loathe. Abhor. Despise.

Ricky and I are both relatively apathetic when it comes to food - me from a brief flirtation with anorexia in college, him from being tired of the one who has to cook most of the time (long story short, I've had a few disastrous cooking experiments so he tends to be a little trigger shy when it comes to me trying to cook new things. I insist it's the way to learn, he says his stomach disagrees 9 times out of 10) - so this is the conversation version of the spinning wheel of death.

"Um..."

I swear, I'm not avoiding the question. I'm actually racing through a bunch of ideas trying to come up with something, anything that will work, is easy to cook/clean up, relatively healthy, and something that C might eat.

A random list of ideas starts streaming from my mouth. I can picture Ricky's reaction on the other side of the phone. Tensing of the shoulders and an eye roll, as my list consists of things that I know I can cook, but that he's long burnt out on since my reliable repertoire is kind of limited.

"No, Lindsey."

"Well, what are your thoughts?"

This is my usual cop out answer. Whatever he suggests I'll normally agree to instantly. He knows it is, that's why (much to my frustration) he usually doesn't play into it.

What? I'll eat almost anything. He's a bit pickier so this is a guaranteed win because I know he'll eat it as it was his suggestion.

"I don't have any particular thoughts."

Damnit. I start Googling ideas, copying recipes that seem interesting - to me - into chat and sending them to him while trying to buy more time on the phone.

Eventually after a lot of back and forth, and endless amounts of frustration on both our parts, we come to a conclusion. It's not necessarily something that sounds amazing, but it'll do. Again, we're both pretty apathetic.

There has got to be a better way to figure out what we're doing for dinner.

Right?

Suggestions welcome. Seriously, if you have a favorite website with healthy, easy recipes please share.