50 X 39

A few years ago, I started an idea called 50 x 39.

The plan was that my husband and I would each lose 50 pounds by our 39th birthdays. I shared this picture of us on a cruise in 2019, near our highest maintained weights, after we spent a week feasting on mediocre buffets and dropped over a thousand dollars on vanity supplements that were supposed to change our lives. No surprise to anyone but us, they didn’t.

Today, life looks very different. We aren’t two overweight adults gorging on bar burgers and fish fries four nights a week. We are in our forties, parents of a four year old son, and constantly evolving our diets, while trying not to fall back into old patterns that created our struggles with weight.

I kept believing that losing weight was the golden ticket to happiness—that I would finally be this healthy, vibrant, talented, successful person when I could fit into a size 6 again.

BUT

I can’t become the thin, healthy, vibrant person in my body until I become a thin, healthy, vibrant person in my mind. 

As much as I’ve felt like a stranger in my own skin under these layers that make it hard to do things like climb a flight of stairs or tie my shoes, I’ve allowed the overweight condition to become me. I make all my decisions—from what to wear to how to spend my time, and everything in between—based on the size of my body. I honor the weight with these choices and give it my undivided attention every day. Without realizing it or meaning to, I’ve been living to be fat. 

It takes energy to be sick.

It takes energy to be overweight.

It takes energy to be depressed.

Nurturing an addiction takes energy.

Healing takes energy.

Health takes energy.

Being someone new takes energy—especially at the beginning.

If you think you don’t have energy to change, you do. It just needs to be diverted from illness or addiction or overweight.

Food is confusing.

It shouldn’t be, but like most things we make it that way. The books I read and documentaries I watched in hopes of understanding what and how I should eat only sent me on a spiral deeper into the confusion and illusion of what food actually is and what constitutes a “healthy” human diet. To be honest, I’m still trying to figure that out.

BUT there is one book that sets itself apart from diet plans, protein shakes, juice fasts, portion-control containers, and every eat-this-and-do-these-exercises-for-a-bikini-body-by-summer promise.  Michael Pollan’s In Defense of Food (which is also available as a documentary; I’ve watched it and still highly recommend the book) takes readers on a history of food: what it used to be and what it is (and isn’t) now, as well as practical, nearly fool-proof advice for eating real food in a world—and particularly in a country—where “food” is a term loosely applied to all manner of crap we grab from a drive-thru window or cut a slit in the plastic and toss in the microwave.

Its no-nonsense approach avoids bologna (literally) and suggests a change in our entire dining culture to solve the problem of food, and all that stuff that masquerades as such.

If you’re at all confused about what and how to eat, it’s worth the watch and the read.

Did you know a person can be obese and also starving?

I didn’t until 2013 or 2014 when I stumbled across the documentary called Hungry for Change.

Back then being health-conscious meant having one less scoop of Hamburger Helper to save calories for a beer or two. I had no idea how little I understood the nature of food—or what was passing for food in my house—and my body.

I didn’t even know I was Hungry for Change.

When the credits rolled, I retreated to my bedroom and sat in front of a mirror and bawled, spewing fervent apologies to my poor body that was doing the best it could with what I was giving it. I didn’t know that I could be busting at the seams but starving on a nutritional level, and that my body would remain hungry in a desperate attempt to fill the vitamin and mineral deficiencies of my terrible diet. Or that my body was primed to store fat to prepare for famine but there was no famine, just more food—or things that looked like food—so it kept storing and I kept eating all the wrong things wondering why I kept getting bigger and why I felt like shit.

The first time I went grocery shopping after watching Hungry for Change was a rage-inducing experience. It’s not that I believed macaroni and cheese was healthy before, but suddenly I was forced to see all the foods I grew up loving—the boxed pastas and frozen pizzas in ready-made heaven—for what they really were: food-like products masquerading as actual food but containing more chemicals and additives than actual nutrition.

Duh.

Ok, I should’ve known that. But I also didn’t realize that food companies purposely added ingredients to foods with the intention of leaving you wanting more.

Wait—I thought the point of food was to satiate hunger, not leave you clawing for another box? Is that why it takes iron-clad willpower to pass the Velveeta Shells and Cheese without putting a few boxes in the cart?

I’m not suggesting that the food companies are responsible for expanding my waistline. I put every bite of food in my mouth by my own free will. But I’d be lying if I said I didn’t feel a little duped by the food I trusted for comfort. After years of blindness I was starting to see the truth in the packaging for the first time, and I was pissed. I still wanted to eat all my favorite foods, but how could I—an adult woman armed with my new information and carrying about seventy extra pounds—justify it anymore?

So, I scrolled through my usual aisles pouting over all the food I wasn’t putting in my cart and wondering what I was going to cook now that my staples were off the table. I still remember rolling into the produce section like a stranger in a strange land, without a clue what to buy or how to cook it. Was I reduced to salads? What exactly did a person do with Swiss chard? The only thing I’d ever used a lemon for was flavoring my beer and the occasional butter sauce.

And what the f*** is jicama?

If the produce section was my new playground, I’d have to spend a lot of time getting to know the equipment.

As traumatic as that first trip to the grocery store was, it did get easier. Today my cupboards aren’t free of boxes and my freezers aren’t void of pizza, but the first step in getting my health in order was realizing just how little I understood about the toll my food choices were having on my body. Hungry for Change was responsible for sparking my awareness and starting me down a new—and very long—path. It introduced me to experts that I still follow, and opened my eyes to juicing (imagine, the Carb Queen juicing veggies and not hating it) which is the quickest way I’ve found to feel good now.

Hungry for Change didn’t solve all my problems, but it was the gateway to a whole new world, a place I live in more and more every day. If you’re ready to be shocked about all the things in the magical world of food that you didn’t know before, check it out.

If you think you know it all already, it might just surprise you.

I blew it on day one, Or How I ended up in the drive-thru again, Or He told me to eat a salad

July 2021

I’m cutting strawberries for my son, listening to a podcast, when an idea lands. I want to chronicle my weight loss journey (for real this time, no foolin’) via my blog. Since my husband is already well on his way to his own weight loss goals, I ask him if he would let me chronicle him as well.

Sure! Great idea honey.

My son screams from his highchair, and I realize I’m starving. The two usually go hand-in-hand. I get my son squared away at a meal, but before I can prepare my own, he’s already waving his hands to let me know he’s “all done.”

I shouldn’t have waited this long to eat lunch. It’s almost one o’clock already. I ask my son to wait as I scour the fridge and find nothing quick, easy, and satisfying. My husband is making some kind of beans and rice dish on the stove in a giant pot that will take at least an hour. As he removes my son from the highchair, he suggests I eat a salad.

Eat a…WHAT?

The look I give him lets him know that was the wrong thing to say.

A salad would only suffice if my hunger level was at a 2 or 3, not the full-blown, animalistic 10 I was feeling just then.

I clean up my son and strap him in the car, screaming a “Don’t judge me!” in my wake in case my husband has any additional advice, and I’m off. It shouldn’t be easier grabbing take-out than making a small meal at home, but it is. In the car, with my son safely strapped in his car seat, I have a moment of peace to drive, order my meal, and maybe even it eat on the way home. Wolfing down a sandwich and fries while weaving in-and-out of traffic is far less cumbersome and stressful than eating in the vicinity of my one-year-old son, who grabs at my plate for the sheer joy of making Mommy repeatedly ask him to stop. At least in the car my food won’t end up on the floor.

Well, mostly.

And this is how I ended up in the Arby’s drive-thru on day one. Actually, this is how I end up in a drive-thru 2-3 times per week.

And this is something that will have to stop if I want (and I do, I really do) to lose weight.

The moment I realized I’m a total joke.

August 2021

My husband has been kicking ass for the last year. He’s lost a lot of weight and looks amazing. He just went through his closet and cleared out 50% of what he used to wear as an overweight man. I have dreamed of doing that very thing for years. The only time I cycle out clothes now is when I’ve stained my generic t-shirts one too many times and need to replenish the collection for $8 a piece ($7 when you buy three or more!) at Target.

Today I was getting bullet points ready for the Tale of Two 50’s. Starting with my husband’s healthy habits, I could rattle off five major lifestyle changes he’s made that have helped get his body into shape. When it came time to list mine…

BLANK.

I do nothing consistently to contribute to better health.

Okay, that’s not totally true. I read books on health and watch documentaries about food and disease. I’m an insufferable know-it-all because I do know it all—or a hell of a lot. I talk a lot about what’s healthy and what’s not, and secretly judge the food choices of everyone around me. From my perch on the recliner with a glass of red wine on a Tuesday night, I munch on popcorn and string cheese and conveniently neglect to add these offenses to the food log that has remained untouched for weeks. Then I press my fitness band for an update on the day’s stats, giving no f***s about step counts or calories, just curious if hauling laundry up the stairs pinged as cardio for a raised heartrate because I was out of breath when I got to the top. I will track my fitness someday. I will track my food someday. Someday when I’m not so busy taking care of a 15-month-old, and my house is clean, and I’ve managed to get dressed, and it’s not 80 degrees outside, and my son doesn’t want me to read Old McDonald for the 75th time, I will get my shit together, log my food, take that walk, blend that smoothie, and skip that all-important glass of cab, then maybe—just maybe—I’ll have a few healthy habits of my own worth sharing.

At least, I really REALLY hope so.

A Quick History of a Carb Queen

I was a skinny (not to be confused with healthy) kid, who subsisted on all the processed garbage every picker eater loves. Give me pasta, give me pizza, give me bread, and get the hell out of the way.

Somehow—bless my undernourished heart—none of the beloved bread stuck to my waist…

Until college. Third year, I thought the tiny belly that swelled in answer to my newfound habit of rewarding myself for surviving another day with a bottle of beer or glass of wine cute. Cute. Oh, the naivety of someone who never weighed more than 115lbs.

A few years later, cute tiny belly blossomed into a full-blown muffin top. Enter depression (unrelated) when I discovered the numbing qualities of a super-sized drive-thru meal, and one bottle of beer a night turned into three, four…five? and the promise of a hangover. I gained close to 30lbs in four months, with no signs of slowing down.

On the rocket ship of weight gain and poor health, I started treatments for asthma, which included heavy-duty steroids. With every puff of the latest inhaler, my body got a little puffier. And a little sicker. And a little puffier. And a little sicker.

Puff puff PASS!

The kicker? I didn’t even have asthma. In 2016, weighing in at a whopping 200lbs on a modest 5’5” frame, I learned I poisoned by body for a decade with medication I didn’t need. I don’t have asthma; I have a chiari malformation in my brain that can cause trouble breathing.

Fast forward a few more years. It’s 2021 and I’m still 200. Quit drinking for 5 months—200. Have a baby—11 days after giving birth to my son, I’m back to 200. Eat fast food 3, 4…5? times a week—you guessed it…still 200.This is where my body wants to be, but I AM MISERABLE.

Having spent my 20’s gaining and my early 30’s trying to understand why (beyond the obvious), I approach the dreaded milestone: 40. I still have a few years before tripping headfirst into another decade—and in my wildest dreams, I’d like to stroll across that threshold on feet that don’t hurt, knees that don’t crack, and at least 50lbs lighter than the 2-0-0 that I’ve been carrying for far too long.

As I enter my 38th year, my desires are simple:

1.     50x39: Lose 50lbs by my 39th birthday.

2.     1x40: Run one full consecutive, no breaks, mile by age 40. Not a marathon, just a mile.