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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Write Drunk, Edit Sober

(Or we can call this Diaries of a Hereditary Alcoholic. Though I only partake once a month or so…)

But in reality I’m just going to write drunk first and see how that goes. I might try editing sober the next time, but baby steps, right? And if nothing else, you should get a good chuckle out of my Sweet Tea vodka-and-lemonade-fueled blog post.

At the moment I’m fresh out of a hot bath sitting in the dark on my bed listening to Pandora, but when I go out, drunk looks a little (very little!) better one me:

iPhone Download 8-15-14 049

Trust me. That is better.

In case you’ve been slacking off in your reading or you’re a new visitor to RPSLS (thank you!), I’m taking part in Blogging 101. For today’s challenge we have…um…nothing.

It’s a “free day.” Normally I’d say, “Yay! No homework!” But writers actually enjoy this stuff, and as we’ve discussed I’m a closeted writer. Since I’ve been thinking about facing fears as of late, I thought I could take this intoxicated opportunity to talk one of my big fears: vulnerability.

(Let’s all take a moment to be impressed that I can spell vulnerability after two tumbler’s full of vodka…..Okay, you can continue reading now. )

So vulnerability…

In my estimation this requires a lot of trust. And that, as is turns out, is NOT something I do easily. I always see quotes about how “it’s the strong man who cries” or whatever, but for whatever reason that’s just not my style. Strong to me looks a lot like being your typical 1950’s dad who never breaks character – always calm, always with all the answers, always with poise and stoicism. The rock for everyone to lean on, the safe harbor to cling to.

My most vulnerable post to date was the series on my dad’s death. I am pretty proud of that because somehow that seems natural to me – not truly weak or vulnerable. Just…real. It is what it is, as they say.

Every other day, though?

I’m THE MAN.

Yes, I get that I’m actually a woman, and no I’m not part of the LGBT community, though I would be proud to be if I was. What I mean is, I’m the 1950’s dad. At work, with friends, in crowds, sometimes even at home.

I have no idea why I can’t break that wall down. Perhaps it’s a fear of rejection, or a fear of being seen as weak, or of being classified as a “girl” when in fact I’m just as capable (if not more so) than all the men next to me in line, or as a result of my upbringing… Or maybe it’s some combination of all of those things.  I’m just not the damsel in distress. I can’t be. Because I won’t be.

But here’s the thing…

Sometimes I wish I could be.

There are days when I’m so tired. When I’m so…done. When I want to just say exactly what I’m feeling to the person or event toward whom I’m feeling it.

My pride just gets in the way, I suppose.

I guess it’s a little sad, because there are many truths that will forever go unspoken for me. But that’s my choice. Or rather, that my fear and my pride silencing me.

But I know we’re all fearful, prideful, all broken sometimes.

So here’s the important question:

What are your fears? What is your vulnerability? Do you have someone who sees it? Who sees you?