I developed an awareness of my lifestyle on my own somewhere around the onset of my 20's. Considering that I am sitting, legs dangling, atop the apex of my twenty-fifth year, this is a very sad piece of trivia indeed. Before that time, I subsisted largely on second and third helpings, Mountain Dew, and really anything that left a grease mark on the plate. Fortunately, I never had much of a taste for sweets (I guess I was sugared out with that Mountain Dew). It was the way of my household, the way my family ate. I thought it was normal.

I was in college when I had a chest pain. Twenty years old and my heart protested its environment so enthusiastically that I lost my breath. Then began my transformation—or was it my reformation? I was a sponge for information—anyone who's taken healthful living seriously will tell you of its addictive nature...all of the sudden you just feel so good. Even today, I can estimate the calories on just about any plate. I have omnipresent knowledge of RDA's and UL's...and enough about fiber to make you go cross-eyed.

Why this topic, why now? I almost never talk about this stuff here...part of my self-therapy, I suppose: it is easy to become obsessed. That, and everyone in audience tends to feel uncomfortable when you inadvertently cause them to take a look at their own habits. Nick and I were out to dinner last night, and somehow this subject came up, so it is on my mind. "It's hard," I told him. On one hand, I'm incredibly proud of how I've changed myself for the better. I've lost weight, have kept it off for years, and I'm so fit. I'm only about a month and a half out of surgery and I jogged for 75 minutes the other day. I couldn't have gone for even two minutes a few years ago—at that time, having been out of the hospital since birth. On the other...I'm so ashamed of how I was, how I behaved, and how little I knew while still in my self-dug trench of poor health.

While in the process, my friends and family would ask me, "How do you do it? How do you lose weight? What's the secret?" There is no secret. There's only one thing that works, and it's got nothing to do with that infomercial you just watched from Guthy-Renker or those expensive pills on the shelves that control your appetite by making you feel like you're going to puke if you even THINK about food: it's nutrition, and it's exercise. Do you know the FDA recommends 9 daily servings of fruits and vegetables? 25 minimum grams of fiber? Take your weight in pounds, divide it by two, and it is this amount of water in ounces that you should get a day, base. The American Heart Association calls for sixty minutes of heart healthy exercise every day. I dare you to meet these recommendations and see if you feel like making the same lifestyle choices afterwards.

Nick asks me about this topic now and then...he notices things about me...a lacking confidence in my appearance, my disbelief when someone seems to find me attractive. To this I can say that I am grateful to my beginnings: while confidence is the sought out trait, I would rather have mine invested in my personality than in my appearance. My mother was complimentary of my looks, but what mother isn't? (And especially when her daughter looks so much like herself! LOL!) She repeated this same sentiment those last months we had together...that the way I grew up made me exactly who I am today. If a book could be interpreted by its cover we wouldn't need to waste all that ink underneath. An overweight person is not a lazy person. An overweight person is not a glutton. An overweight person has a story, just as everyone else has. One could say that I changed myself a few years ago...but I didn't, not really. I just switched out the cover.

A full week now of this dumb head cold winding out, obviously I'm fussy and irritated by many things. I had a half-day at work yesterday, and I like nothing better on my half-days than to knock away a few hours at the gym. I love the gym. I love exhausting my body, especially now that I can do deep pliés without feeling like I'm seam-ripping my incision.

The gym makes me happy, it always makes me happy. I put just over in hour in on the treadmill yesterday, and then I moved over to do some strength training. There was a sweaty toad of a man there doing circuit training on the machines, and I was revolted. I get the theory, I know all about it, and I even believe in its probable effectiveness: but I was absurdly offended yesterday afternoon. I am a fan of supersets, having your muscles reach failure before moving on, quivery and questioning continued movement at all.

So I'm sitting there breathing through my pectoral work, and this man stops briefly in front of me with a quick diva look that I swear said, "You've been there so long (all 90 seconds)! I wanted to use that machine next!" Then he continued on to the next machine with a barely audible huff and did reps so fast I don't understand how they did him any good and how he avoided joint abuse (if he even did). He was quickly ruining my calm—and I was SO calm! The sun rained in through the tall windows and pinstriped that particular room with dust mote sparkles and glorious, caressing heat.

It was like practicing yoga next to the Energizer Bunny. What was worse, he wasn't wiping down his, SWEATY TOAD MAN'S, equipment after he finished is 5-second set. At first I carefully wiped his "leftovers" from the various machines in a concealed manner, not to be rude, but after a few more looks that told me in no certain terms that I was ruining his flow, I began to clean them with very flashy movements so that he could not miss the fact that I found him to be a sweaty toad man.

So, I've put a spot of weight back on in the past several months...and while the unhealthy-minded part of me misses the malnourished sprite that got sick off of at least one meal daily, it doesn't hurt so much when I lie down anymore. The ribcage has a bit more of a cushion.

I ordered a skirt for myself last week...it was on clearance and I ordered it a size larger than I was once, thinking I was probably just thicker enough around the middle...but I really need to stop throwing away receipts and ripping off tags as soon as I get something. I wore the skirt to work yesterday and as soon as I got there I accosted my team: "Does anybody have a safety pin?"

They scurried around, offering binder clips and security tag pinchers while I stood looking properly devastated. "I don't think I'm in danger of being indecent...?" I stated uncertainly. Finally, a sewing kit did there emerge and I made my way to the bathroom, righting my waistband to a more appropriate circumference.

Last night, we went to a hockey game. We only stayed for two periods, as Nick had to work today and I wasn't feeling so hot anyhow. We got home, after me fighting the chills for a few hours, and I curled up on the couch with a blanket while Nick watched the last part of the game on TV. He went up to bed at some point, and I woke at around 11:30 there on the couch, realizing it was time to go upstairs and crawl under the covers there.

I don't remember much after that, but found it altogether interesting this morning to find all of my discarded clothing folded neatly atop the pile of dirty clothes in my closet. I always do this. I fold my dirty clothes: makes no sense, I know. But anyway, there they were, every layer I wore last night separated and folded crisply in a way that I know the washing machine will appreciate, though it will still agitate.

I am impressed that this bit of orderliness should come so naturally. Too bad I woke up to the apples of my cheeks rained upon by the cascade of old mascara, the aged stench of last night's oyster sauce emitting from between my lips, and my brassier perfectly in place. I guess personal hygiene isn't quite on autopilot yet. But yay for the state of my dirty clothes, eh?

I remind him gently as he asks about a sitcom or crime show that aired within the last few years, "You have to remember, I never really watched television before you." I flipped around for 80's movies I've seen no less than a bazillion times from one of those superstations to play on timer while I fell asleep. I ran on the treadmill at my old gym to infomercials because I found them infinitely more enjoyable than anything else playing at the time. (Don't even get me started on how much I miss my old gym. Oh, DeForest! You ARE better than Waunakee! And don't you forget it!)

The other night it came up again...we were watching this American Idol Rewind thing from the first season. The only exposure I've had with the show was the latter part of last season, when I resolved that no matter how uninterested I was in the television, it was going to be playing at Nick's place. So I watched. And I got hooked. So that first season, that apparently produced this singer, Kelly Clarkson, was one that I missed.

And so it came out again that I once watched TV less, almost not at all. Nick continued in his contrived self loathing, "I feel bad. Before me, you didn't drink alcohol. You read. You posted more on your blog. Worked out more...ate healthier." I stopped his flow and gave him a look that continued his thread in a silent voice, I was lonlier. Unhappier. Too much time to fill, not enough life to live. Doing what you want, whenever you want, is nice at first. You feel liberated—unbound by the shackles of people-pleasing...but one tires quickly of all that. It's less about what you do and more about who you do it with.