Project Finish Line: Shit’s Getting Real

Why is shit getting real? 

Because one of my three goals has proven itself to be in the stage where I can settle or dig deep. 

Not an ounce came off this week. Not. Even. One. 

   Last Week’s Weigh in

This Week’s Weigh In

Yes, yes, I know – it’s the holidays, we’re all eating a bit more crap, and thank goodness I didn’t gain anything. 

But that’s where goals get into trouble – they get into trouble at the place between comfort and complacency, the place where you find out if you would prefer something to change or you demand that it change. For me, it is time to recommit to this self-imposed challenge, to not accept mediocre but require my desire to be reality, to dig deep and through relentless focus on the execution of my goal believe in the sheer force of my indomitable will to succeed. 

When you see results like this after three months, when things look just fine, how do you recommit?

Remember me mentioning in The Genesis that I looked like a pork loin in shrink wrap in one of my Goal Dresses? Well…this is Goal Dress 1. With room to spare!

I decided to see where my Goal Dresses were fitting. Goal Dress #1 zipped up so effortlessly I nearly busted out the pom poms and threw myself a victory party!!!

But wait. 

There was still…(cue ominous music)…Goal Dress #2. 

Goal Dress #2 was worn in my tattoo & piercing shop days where I was the illustriously titled Shop Girl (read: clean, organize, fetch coffee, look pretty, use cleavage as the primary accessory, flirt shamelessly, and sell, sell, sell). This was sometime between 21 and 22 years old. 

And 20 pounds ago. And it was extremely form fitting even then. 

So on it went. 

Well…let me be clear. On it went AFTER repeatedly buttoning the screaming buttons; on it went after buckling the belt in such a way that said buttons were less likely to pop off and imbed themselves like shrapnel in one of my dogs; on it went after sucking in certain parts of my voluptuous anatomy and standing in such a way that I could stand in the mirror, snap a selfie, and not run back out of the room to cry into a gallon of ice cream. 

And the results were thus: 

It’s on. That’s progress. But progress is NOT the goal.

Not as flattering from this angle. A little more real. And it wasn’t all that flattering in the first place. Eek.

Yep. THIS is how you recommit. 

You remind yourself that, although we are all beautiful as we are at any moment in time, there are few fashion statements accentuated by fat rolls – back fat, belly fat, that wierd fat that somehow gets stored as psuedo-chicken wings right under your armpits and above your bra strap…

Goal Dress #2 WILL FIT AGAIN. But it’s gonna need some help. Like…at least another 10-shed-pounds of help. 

Adequately inspired, I knew I needed help. How can a girl sculpt quickly? How can we shed fat when we, the fairer sex, are intended to store fat for some mysterious childbirthing purpose? I’ve been at this for three months and am only averaging 4.5 pounds lost a month (that 1-ish a week for those keeping track). What’s the secret? Is it diet and nutrition? More cardio? Less? Weight lifting, dirnking more water, endless crunches, zero carbs, no fat, body wraps – what?!?!? 

So I went to the font of all knowledge to ask my question and throw myself on the mercy and counsel of – you guessed it – social media. 

Thus far I’ve heard: more cardio, do situps, keep eating healthy. 

Ugh. 

Fine. 

I’ll get through this week as a holiday slacker (though a gym-going-mostly-healthy-eating-slacker), because I also believe goals need to incorporate a dose of kindness and reality in order to succeed, and then I’ll buckle down even harder and strive for 2 pounds lost per week, only one controlled cheat day per week, commit to 5 days per week in the gym, and add a sixth where I can. Honestly, five is hard for me given my job, but this WILL happen! I want my body back!!!

That’s where I’ll leave it for today, kids. You’ll be hearing from me again soon as I have the week “off” (off meaning not in the office, but on call and chained to my email as always…), and thus I hope to provide a sneak preview to my inaugural novel. 

I may also be sharing a bit of information on a fourth goal added to Operation Finish Line…

Here’s wishing you success in anything you wish to acheive. 

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Just One More Minute – I Need to Find an Outfit to Tell the World Who I Want to Be Today…

Among my many other substance abuse problems (think coffee, chocolate, wine, half-finished DIY projects…) I am also a self-admitted Fashion Fanatic. Hopelessly addicted to accessories, inevitably lured by the delicate arch of the perfect high heeled boot, irrevocably attracted to the colors, cuts, draping, patterns, and distressed details of fabric lovingly sewn (or more likely harshly stitched by machines) together to create not just a piece of clothing but a statement.

Yes, this addiction is at total odds with previous posts citing my desire to return to basics a la Walking Dead Wyoming. I do desire that, truly. If I was a machete-wielding zombie-killer survivalist, my attire would only ever consist of boots, jeans, flannel, and any riot gear I could lift of some poor dead sucker.

But, alas, that is not (yet) to be.

And, thus, I am cast in the typical (which in and of itself is atypical for me…) roll of shoe-hoarding girly-girl. And my tastes in fashion are just as eclectic (eccentric) as everything else in which I’m interest. Just check out my Pinterest page.

Though I’ve never run myself into debt over clothing (even I have my limits) I can totally sympathize with Isla Fisher’s character in Confessions of a Shopoholic, and I would almost be willing to undergo the hell of Anne Hathaway in The Devil Wears Prada.

I am neither of these incredible ladies, nor do I have anywhere near the bank roll to finance that kind of wardrobe, BUT – I get it. Perhaps I lack the stereotype size 2 figure (reference Featured Image – ha!), the self control to eat a cube of cheese as a meal, nor the superior attitude of the Hollywood portrayal of the fashion forward, but I. DO. Get it.

For many, clothing is simply a method of covering skin in such a way that they’re allowed to frequent places important to basic survival – work, banking establishments, the bar… And they are probably so much more balanced than I am, but oh! How I love that my clothes speak a thousand words before my mouth ever opens.

They help me tell my story in 30 seconds or less. They let me wear the person I want to be at any given moment. I can reinvent myself five times a day. Trade a skirt for ripped up skinny jeans and forego heeled boots in favor of up-cycled combat boots, and poof! – From put-together powerhouse boss-lady to laid-back, fun-loving badass without breaking a sweat. Tadaaaa!

How can you not love that kind of chameleonic transformation? I believe it’s the closest we can come to magic in the real world.

So, yes, I have too many shoes to count, an entire wall dedicated to scarves & jewelry, and an entire closet (and two giant drawers) filled with every many of attire you can think of, but I think of it less as too much clothing and more like a well-stocked communication strategy.