No One Likes a Fat Pop Star.

My thoughts every time I go to the gym.  

I’m afraid my trainer is going to fire me.

I know I say this weekly but, this time I really think it’s going to happen. Which is so sad because he’s the first person that I’ve met that has stuck with the crazy that is me. After my first trainer had a mini mental breakdown*. (*No. It wasn’t caused by me. Surprising I know.) I was really hesitant with working with another person.

So when the Mama Joye called and said Hey I’ve found this trainer everyone in the ward is raving about do you want to go with me?

Why not? Was my reply.

Here’s the funny thing. My mother followed Mr. Trainer’s advice to a T and looks amazing. Not that she didn’t look amazing before but it’s always nice to get help to move towards your best self no?

I on the other hand?

Weeellll…

This the part that I had my laundry list of reasons why I’ve been so off and on. However reasons are glorified excuses and I really have been trying hard to wean myself off of them. There are however two issues that have stood in the way of my progress.  A bad thyroid and B. I love food too damn much.

Which has hindered progress so to speak. That and I love food too damn much*. (*I know I know I said twice but it bears repeating.)

Tomorrow I have an appointment with Mr. Trainer and I’m afraid my performance evaluation is going to come back as less than satisfactory. Normally this would be due to lack of information or unclear expectations. However this is not the case.  

Because I’m a research nerd at heart I have all the data and articles and also I have a meal plan designed to keep it all in place.

Yet here we are.  


I'll keep you posted. 

Let's have a Kiki

Me being artsy.

 Yesterday was one of those days where I woke up and I went SERIOUSLY?! Then laid in bed and scrolled through social media.

 

BIG MISTAKE. Like denying Julia Roberts the chance to shop at your store kind of mistake.

See at 5:45 am in the morning I didn’t need to see the brutal reminders of September 11^th,2001, ranting against Bush and Trump, and I didn’t need to see the people tearing apart over every little thing. Remember when social media was new and we were posting random statements like Blake ate a whole cake today? Good times. After having a good dose of this I finally stopped scrolling and got in the shower.

Driving to work everyone was so angry riding bumpers, flinging middle fingers, and the feeling of rushing to get to get where they were getting. (Sadly, no Trim Down and Power Up with Tish).

Work we just don’t talk about.

By the time I got home I opened the door and was hunting through the cabinets and freezer looking for some carbs to take the edge off, when I finally went (insert favorite expletive here) this and grabbed my i-pod and put on my old school DJ headphones. Putting on my High school dance mix I cranked it up on loud and just let loose. A little running man, a little sprinkler, some scarecrow hand actions and movement.  I really was going for it. Then I heard from parking lot Look at that fat man dance! I’m not really sure what they said but I’m sure it was along the same lines there was pointing involved.

Oh well. I snuck back inside my apartment and for a minute I thought you know what I needed that. I need more dancing spontaneously and less flipping people off.  

(Next time I’m charging the neighbors when they watch.) 

Take Me to Church

Not Target. Or Taco Bell. But one of the missions I went to in Monterrey  CA. 

I went to Mass on Friday night. Well not really more like I went to Target and for many that’s just as/or better than church. Mormon’s don’t have a Mass but I was in search of something of the divine.

There is something about going somewhere where it sells the idea of possibility when your life seems out of control. Like mass I went because I was seeking absolution and to be among the masses. Target is one of those places where you can go and it becomes the greatest equalizer of people. Rich, poor, and those in the middle all come to Target. You cannot really pit yourself above others when you buy the same method dish soap.

With all the hurricanes, earthquakes, presidential upheaval, and just personal life changes (did you know I’m fat?) and I was seeking a place where I could hold up the idea of change and something better than what I’ve been living the last few months.

Besides what is more American than going to go worship at the altar of capitalism I ask you?  Standing in the air filter aisle (if anybody has a lead on 14X14X1 filters let me know) that if I truly wanted a life that is different than the one I’m living I’ve got to be brave.

And that scares me.

Cause I have no excuses anymore. I’m not in school, I only have one job, and I’m still young enough to shake up my life before it becomes too late. Why is losing weight scary? It’s the not the weight I’m afraid of losing it’s the learning of new processes to deal with my embarrassment, my anger, and desperately my shame? Without food to take the edge off and actually sit in these emotions scares the (insert favorite swear word here) out of me.  

Leaving without buying anything (progress!) I walked to my car with one last thought, a communion if you will, to truly change something has die within me in order for it to be reborn. Cause that’s the point of Mass, Sacrament, etc. is leaving the sinner soul and allowing ourselves to be reborn.

Who knew Target could be holy? 

And I'm Telling You I'm Not Going.

Not today Satan!

I lasted five minutes.

I told myself okay I’m thirty-three years old and am a functioning *adult (*most days) and have been through hard personal things. Like trying to put on my skinny jeans. Picture me on the floor with a pair of pliers a'la Brooke Shields 1983. Nothing gets between me and my Kirkland signature. No one.  

In an odd way, I was testing myself to see how brave I really was. Could I handle watching the movie that still to this day gives me nightmares? Or was it just Tim Curry? 

I took the necessary precautions. Lights on, the sun was out, and a pint of ice cream on the stand by (Nothing is truly scary with a pint of Ben and Jerry’s unless you have an appointment your cardiologist) and extra sprinkles. Let’s do this I thought. Popping the DVD (Cause I am of the old school. Ask me about my vinyl collection!) I was ready.

NO.

No.

BAD! BAD CLOWN!

Tim Curry how could you!

So that was my five-minute experience with IT.

Don’t think I’ll be going to see the new one in the theaters.

I however may be calling my therapist wondering if there is a Post traumatic IT watching therapy group.

Thanks a lot *Tim Curry.  

*With all personal apologies to Tim Curry. He's an amazing actor and I love him in Clue.

Some Cats Know

The biggest problem I have run into with returning to blogging is finding the narrative to the story in which I have been largely absent for the last four years. Yet when I have sat down to write blog post I work hard to capture the voice of the twenty-four-year-old me that started this story.  However, I am no longer twenty-four and my view point is no longer that this project was going to be a short six-month experiment.

Instead of getting skinnier I truly became the title of the blog. Blake got Fat. When I was complaining that it was unfair that while my friends were all progressing, getting married, getting skinnier, I was in a constant state of arrested development. I believe the words I used were sucky, circular, and some others that I don’t care to post cause you know, vulgarity. After listening to me rant for a good five minutes they raised their hands and said “Listen to yourself this rant is nothing but you are feeling that the creative world owes you something. It does not. Stop expecting your words, your ideas to manifest itself in this convoluted idea of what skinny is. Take the pressure off. Stop writing for a few months. Take up a new hobby and then come back when you no longer feel your writing is this big burden you have to deal with.

So, I did.

I took up knitting again.

I’m not a knitter. Yet I believe every person who has in need of trying to figure out their life needs to try it at least once. It’s not hard. Just rows of two stitches. Knit and purl. Or how I remember it in my brain yarn in back, yarn in front. Getting lost in the simplicity is where I found the ability to continue to tell this story.

Oh. Did I mention it also has helped me not shove the food in my mouth? It’s like driving a stick shift and trying to eat something it can be done but you are going to end up wearing half of what you are eating.   

I think my neighbors are just grateful I didn’t pick up tap dancing. 

It Had To Be You

Marla Hooch. Or me the last few weeks.

Marla Hooch is my spirit animal. Marla is from one of my favorite movies A League of their Own.

This is has been me the last few weeks. Just staring at myself in the mirror going well this is going to be as good as it gets.

Today I just wanted a damn doughnut.

Just a single white glazed doughnut with sprinkles on top.

Not asking for a lot. Yet I knew the second I had one doughnut I would have to make sure the white glazed didn’t feel lonely so I would have to make sure it had its buddy old fashioned. Then to seal the foundation I would need a raspberry jelly filled.

The weird thing is I don’t love doughnuts. I mean I’ve been brought up right if you have one and offer it to me I’m not going to say no…

But when I hit doughnut craving stage I know my life is boarder line out of whack.

Cause sometimes a doughnut isn’t a doughnut.

I’m more an ice cream kind of guy.

When I was sitting at my desk earlier today wondering who I could murder, convince, bribe to get me one I knew I was entering the No-Carb-left behind zone. I view bread-like carbs as nature’s way to physically protect us. My armor isn’t metal its sourdough bread, cookies, cupcakes, pasta, basically anything that would make a gluten intolerant person run in terror is what I use to protect myself.

Today I stood strong.

Today I admitted that what I was feeling was lack of confidence and security. I admitted The Life Changing Art of Tidying Up: The Japanese Art of Decluttering and Organizing: by Marie Kondo scared me.  

I had to hide my car keys.

But I didn’t get a doughnut.

So progress? 

Once in a Very Blue Moon

  The face of one who has lost the magic of tidying up. 

I blame Marie Kondo for this. 

Two months ago, in a rare case of insomnia I lay awake staring at the ceiling. After reading all the instructions manuals in the apartment I finally was going through the books under my bed (small apartment, big book collection one must be creative) when I spotted the small little book shoved by the winter muumuu sweaters. The Life Changing Art of Tidying Up: The Japanese Art of Decluttering and Organizing: by Marie Kondo. Well why not I thought my life may be a mess but there’s no reason for my dreams not to be.

Fast forward to last month when I had all my personal possessions in a big huge pile in my living room holding everything up and going does this bring me joy? At first I said it all quiet like I was scared that someone was going to hear me. After going through my dishes, and the seven (SEVEN! Sets of pot holders) I was tossing things and yelling YES this brings me JOY or AH hells no with abandon.

Then came the hard part.

The closet.

Holding up my favorite tee-shirts and shirts no problem. Then we got to pants. When I held up the big fat elastic style waist pants I had to ask myself do these bring me joy? I suddenly broke down.

Cause they did not bring me joy. In these jeans defense, they are made out of very sturdy Kirkland Signature reinforced denim. However, they are in a size (redacted) and my biggest shame. 

Cause every time I slid them on I could hear them go “Oh Look! The fat kid needs us again! He thought he was better than us but look at him sneaking us on like we don’t know he was eating HAAGAN DAAZ with a container of sprinkles! UM HMM GURL I told you he’d be coming back asking for forgiveness”. For being a pair of reinforced denim, they sure packed a lot of judgement in their polyester cotton blend.

Did they bring me joy? No. Not one bit. In an defiance of Kondo’s rules I called out to Saintly Bonnie*(not her real name) who normally listens to me moan, make the appropriate oh honey sounds and then proceeds to make me see the world in a better light. However, when I called her and started the same script she was not having it. Not one bit. You just stop it right there (as I was a boo-hooing something awful) and look at those jeans as things that held you up when you felt no one else could. Think of the good you did in them too. You let your story get away from you again. Stop letting the pants write the story. You write it. You hear me.

Loud and clear Saintly Bonnie *(not her real name) loud and clear. I held them up again and asked do these bring me joy.

No, they do not.

So, they are on their way to Deseret Industries.

And I slept great that evening.