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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Evidenciary Support v. Cheesus Quesadilla

Hello again, my friends. Tonight I sit doing one of my favorite “meditations” – propping myself in bed listening to Pandora and writing in the dark.

Today’s inspiration comes from one of my (many) guilty pleasures: Pinterest. Okay, so technically this is from the Bible, but I saw it quoted on Pinterest.

Hebrews 11:1 says “Faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen.”

In terms of majestic possibilities and enigmatic beauty, this is a gorgeous statement. I love the idea of fate, kismet, magic, and beautiful things that exist unseen – things that are true simply because they are and not because they can be discerned with any of our five senses but instead with that mysterious sixth sense for which we’re all mythically supposed to have some capacity to exercise.

There are rumors of siblings (twins usually, I think) who can feel when the other one is in pain, mothers feel panic from afar when their child is in imminent danger, lovers who will think of their other half and suddenly they call, someone suddenly waking up in the middle of the night at the exact moment a loved one dies, strangers who fall in love at first sight, and Jesus appearing on a tortilla. Well, that last one can be seen with the naked eye (and perhaps tasted?), but it’s just as fantastical to assume a Cheesus quesadilla could have holy power as it is to believe cosmic “true love” is evidenced by a coincidence such as receiving a phone call or text message in the moment that you’re thinking of that person.

I genuinely want these things to be true. Oh, how I want it.

The idea that there is some cosmic force or universal order by which these things happen is, perhaps shamefully, so heartbreakingly lovely that it hurts to believe that they don’t exist. Yet I have no choice but to believe they don’t.

Let’s take the idea of the lovers who magically call each other at the exact moment one thinks of the other. First, isn’t part of love always thinking of the object of said love? It certainly is for me. Perhaps I’m a bit obsessive, but I do think of the one I love in any moment where my mind is not occupied with something else. And don’t you want to talk to the one you love when you can? I think yes. Being in love means you want to be together and communicate with one another. Therefore, the phone call/text would have come at the moment you’re thinking of them no matter what because Lover A wants to talk to Lover B often, and Lover B is consistently thinking of Lover A. There’s no fate in that – there’s not even coincidence in that. That is just natural urges and desires acting out in a logical progression.

As to the twins, the mother, the strangers-turned-soul mates…well…this obviously doesn’t happen to everyone, and for those to whom it does happen, there’s no way to debunk the myths. People want to believe they are connected to others, to the universe, in some way, and so – I believe – they take the opportunity presented by coincidence, or they shape the “facts” they want in such a way that it fits their desired version of the way things unfold in their own minds. Having a sleepless night and checking clock around 1:00 AM becomes, “I suddenly woke at 1:12 AM with a sense of dread. I found out later that it was the moment my ____ to their last breath.”

It’s comforting and exhilarating to believe, to have faith in things. Perhaps I’m too practical. Perhaps I’m boring or broken. Or perhaps I’ve grown tired of giving my faith freely and wholly, loyally holding onto hope only to have the practical, logical, proven world – the world where repeatable results are possible and there exists undeniable link between action and consequence – remind me that either A) a Cheesus quesadilla has no deeper meaning than a cure for midnight munchies, or B) the deeper meaning it has does not exist for me, either because I can’t perceive it or because I don’t deserve it.

I would really love for someone to change my mind. Any takers?