The Special-est of K's

(Note: I have not been financially compensated by anyone in any way at any time for writing this blog.  If anyone wants to change that, I'm open.)

I have always been skeptical of Special K.  Model-thin women lamenting that they can't lose the five pounds they gained over the winter and then claiming success based on a bowl of breakfast cereal has never resonated with me.

The "Special K Diet," in which one eats a bowl of cereal for breakfast and lunch, then has a "sensible dinner," likewise resulted in eye- rolls.  This is not Special K's fault; I had a friend who decided to combine the Special K diet with Atkins, which led to spectacular failure.  Who would have thought a low-fat, high-carbohydrate diet would be inconsistent with a no-carb, high-fat diet?  Everyone else in the world, that's who.

When Special K began branching into diet foods, my eyes rolled again.  Bars, drinks, shakes...  Really?  Who won't put out those things these days?  I can't wait for the Froot Loop diet.

But now I am eating my words (which, thankfully, are zero-calorie).  I have met my Special K match.  And by "match" I mean "the thing I want by my side for the rest of my life."

Special K Cracker Chips.

(That picture is, I believe, of the British version, because in Britain chips are "crisps" and fries are "chips" and language is "confusing.")

I miss chips.  The crunch, the salt, the crunch, the salt...  There's not much to chips, when you get down to it, but I love 'em.  Potato chips are right out for me now.  Baked chips taste like giant flakes of Special K.  Pretzels are okay, but sometimes you really want a chip, you know?

Special K Cracker Chips (I like the sour cream & onion flavor) are 110 calories for 27 CHIPS.  Let me repeat that.  110 calories for 27 CHIPS.  Yes, there are 22 grams of carbs in a serving, but 3 grams of dietary fiber and only 1 gram of sugar.  2 grams of protein.  2.5 grams of fat, only .5 grams of which is saturated.  No cholesterol.  Very little in vitamins, but that's okay.  I'll eat them gladly when I need my chip fix, and feel no shame.

Well, very little.

The Truth about Spanx

For those who are not up on what the Kardashian sisters are currently doing or what Joan Rivers thinks about Amy Adams' Golden Globes dress, Spanx is a brand of shapewear.

Shapewear, for those who are not conversant in the language of women's fashion, is underwear that pulls in and shapes the body.  What we used to call a "girdle."  By "we" I mean "other people."  I have never worn a girdle.

I live in shapewear.  I do not set foot outside the house unless I am bound from shoulder to knee in a snug chrysalis of lycra.  Losing all of this weight has been a fantastic experience in many ways, but there are drawbacks.  Shapewear allows me to look reasonably okay in clothes and smooths out all of the little lumps and bumps that would occur otherwise.

My first shapewear was the Lane Bryant brand.  Size 26/28, to be precise.  Then I went to 22/24.  Then I skipped right over 18/20 and got into the 14/16's.  While they no longer fit me, I still keep the bigger ones around.  They don't do much, but they're better than nothing at all.

Now I have to find shapewear for non-overweight ladies, which is where Spanx comes in.  Spanx is the preferred brand of shapewear in Hollywood.  Queen Latifah wears Spanx, as does Kelly Osborne and the aforementioned Kardashians.

Hollywood had to get something right eventually.  Spanx are amazing.  They are light and breathable but hold EVERYTHING in.  And they fit the size the chart says they're going to fit.  I honestly forgot I had it on one day.  Really.

Spanx are expensive.  I go for the two-piece, the cami and high-waisted bike short-type thing, and the combination is more than $110.  Additionally, it more or less has to be ordered online, which is problematic when it comes to fit.  That being said, it is totally worth it.

Red carpet, here I come.

Remember that Star Wars disco song? I'm pretty sure this is what they had in mind...

Stock Phrases

When one is introverted and shy (as I am) it is often helpful to have a supply of "stock phrases" to use in certain potentially awkward conversations.  I don't have a terribly good sense of boundaries, so without the stock phrase in hand, I might just blurt out too much information, which would be uncomfortable for all of us (though, I have to say, if you don't want to know, don't ask).

Certain of these stock phrases are designed to shut down a line of questioning:

"How kind of you to take an interest."

"What an interesting observation."

"I'll certainly think about that."

"Well, bless your heart."

That being said, there are still questions that shock me into direct answers.  When people see me now, I typically get this question:

"Have you lost weight?"

Though I am tempted to respond, "Duh!" I do not.  Partly because I'm saving my "Duh's" for those rare occasions in which I can follow them with "Winning!" because I think people really want to hear more jokes about Charlie Sheen right now.  (But seriously, you guys, I'm starting to think there might be something going on with him.)  So, the conversation goes like this:

Person: "Have you lost weight?"

Deb: "Um... yes, I have."

Person:  "I knew it, you look great!  How much have you lost?"

Deb: "Oh, I've lost a lot, thank you."

Person:  "No, really, how much?"

Deb: "About a hundred pounds."  (I've been saying this for a while, since around the time I hit the 80 pound mark.  It's just easier.)

Person: "Wow.  Wow.  That's amazing.  What are you doing?"

Here's where it gets tricky.  Some people ask directly, "Did you have surgery?" and then want to know what kind, when, if I've experienced complications, etc.  If they don't ask, I'm reluctant to bring it up, because then they want to know all of those things, or they start talking about how "easy" it must be to lose weight after surgery.

But all of that I can handle.

Here's what I can't handle:

Person: "So, I bet things are pretty hot in the bedroom again, huh?"

Deb: (implodes)

I actually don't mind a question like that from someone to whom I feel close; a friend at church asked me something like that (though not in those exact words) and it was fine, though a bit surreal to talk about it in the church library.  But people I don't know very well ask me, too.  In professional settings.  Really.  I just can't come up with a stock phrase for this one.

I will take suggestions.

Okay, here it is.

I finally had Princess take some pictures of me when I got home from work.  Bear in mind I still have at least 20 pounds to lose (more like 30-40, really) and I just got home from a 12-hour day.

To remind you, here is before:

Here is now:

Yup.  That's me.

Before

It is all Sven's fault.  I spent all weekend trying to get him to take a picture of me for my blog, but he hasn't done it yet.  So I will take my camera to work today and try to get a picture to post for all of you.  Today the "before" picture will have to suffice:

This is me last year a few pounds below my top weight (which I won't tell you exactly, but it was awfully close to the dreaded 300 mark).  I'm pretty sure that wasn't my normal facial expression.  I look at this picture and mostly remember how tired I was all the time.  And I wonder where my neck is.

"Now" picture coming soon.

So Apparently, I Look Amazing (Or: These Skinny Jeans are Grossly Unprofessional)

Today I went to one of our local high schools to rehearse with some budding instrumentalists in preparation for an upcoming solo competition.  I was supposed to get there at 3:30, but left late, and when I got there all of the outside doors were locked.  It was 3:45 by the time I got into the building, and I puffed into the orchestra room with an apology on my lips that was never uttered.

When I walked in, the teacher and three students who were there looked at me, then went back to what they were doing.  I stood there for a while, waiting for them to take a break in their lesson so I could figure out what was going on, but no such opportunity arose.

For 12 minutes.

I stood there for 12 minutes and waited for someone to acknowledge me.  I was furious.  I was very close to just picking up my stuff and leaving when the teacher said, "I don't know, she was supposed to be here at 3:30."

"Did you mean your accompanist?" I said (a bit loudly, but I'm sure I was not rude.  Mostly.).  "That's me."  What followed was a flurry of apologies and their explanation:

THEY THOUGHT I WAS A STUDENT.


Seriously.  They thought I was a high school student.  We practiced and, after many more apologies, I left.  I thought it was odd but, well, whatever.

Then I went to Wal-Mart where I purchased some health food items that apparently can no longer be sold to minors.  The cash register prompted the cashier to ask for ID.  I smiled at her.  She smiled back at me.  I smiled more.  She looked at me expectantly.

"Do you want to see my ID?" I finally asked incredulously.

"Yes, please," she replied.

"I'm 36," I said.  I was dumbfounded.  "That's 18 x 2."

"Still, I need to see it," she said.  It was with a great sense of ironic pleasure that I showed her my license and accepted the disbelief on her face as a compliment.

I either need to stop wearing these jeans or wear them CONSTANTLY.

-Fin.

Perspective (Or "From Bosoms to Bowels")

Recently I came very close to posting a status update on Facebook about the state of my bowels.

After some consideration (and a second draft of this post) I decided that the exact information about my digestion is probably something the majority of my readers, a group of fine, hard-working, intelligent, good-looking, sophisticated citizens of the world, would not appreciate.  Going along with me on a journey through life is one thing.  A journey through my colon is, I think we would all agree, quite another.

However, much thought on this topic led me to the two following conclusions:

1. "Important" is very much in the eye of the beholder, and

2. Boundaries are much harder to set nowadays.

Regarding point 1: Everyone has different things that are important to them.  It doesn't automatically mean they are important to me, and vice-versa.  For instance, it is completely normal for you to care about your job.  It doesn't mean I care about your job; though, as a friend, I will be happy to listen to you talk about it.  I just won't be thinking about it before I go to sleep.  I'll be thinking about my bowels.

It's like what Dr. Phil said about a certain element in marriage: if it's good, it's almost completely unimportant.  If it's not good, it becomes very, very important.  I will now begin using the euphemism "bowling."  If you and your bowling partner are consistently racking up the strikes (or picking up spares when necessary) you aren't too concerned about improving the game.  But if one partner is consistently rolling gutter balls (beginning to regret this choice of euphemism) suddenly each partner becomes very concerned about improving the game.

That's what digestion is like.  When your digestion is normal you don't think about it.  You go about your day without a thought to the millions of organs solely dedicated to breaking down your food for nutrition and tidily removing the waste.  (Your organs don't mind.  They wish you'd call more often, but they understand you have a life of your own.)  When it isn't normal it is ALL YOU THINK ABOUT.  Whatever you might be doing on the outside, whether it's writing a blog post, washing dishes, or leading a group of five-year-olds in the "Beanbag Boogie," inside you are thinking, "Maybe today.  Please.  Today."

But, since the entire point of this post was how I am not throwing my digestive woes in the faces of my readers (figuratively), I will move on.  (Ha!)

Regarding point 2: There is nothing wrong with my being concerned about digestion.  (Debatable, but it's my blog.)  Had I lived in the olden days, when people had nicknames like "Smokey" and "Half-Pint" and "Illiterate Stain" (who was actually named "Stan" but they liked to have their fun then, too) my concern over digestion would have been totally normal, as seen from an actual made-up excerpt from an ancestor's farm diary:

Monday: Sunrise, 6:41 a.m.  Breakfast of buckwheat cakes, rashers of bacon, sausage, coffee grounds, 17 cigarettes, whole wheat toast, and Activia Yogurt.  All members of household and farm animals regular, except for Illiterate Stain (hee!) who continues to regret the experiment in cheese-making.  Sunset at 7:02 p.m.  Skies fair.  Illiterate Stain in the barn until further notice.


Writing about your digestion in your journal?  Fine.  Discussing it with your doctor?  Wonderful.  Answering your grandmother's questions about it?  Weird, but all right.  Posting it as your status so that your 350+ friends see it in their newsfeeds?  Not so much.  From now on, my rule of thumb about posting on Facebook will be as follows:

IF I WOULDN'T SAY IT OUT LOUD AT A SOCIAL FUNCTION, I WON'T POST IT AS MY STATUS.

Good status:  What a great day!  One of those days where everything went right!


Not so good:  It finally burst.  What a relief!


You're welcome.