To hell with them, I say.

I can remember prancing around the 1^st grade playground when I lived in Lake City Florida, wearing what remained of my costume from my ballet recital the weekend before. It was a flower hat… or maybe a face… thing. It was atrocious, humongous red and shiny satin petals with green sequins for leaves and it left itchy red marks on my face from the elastic that held it in place. But I didn’t consider any of that when I’d secretly stashed it in my She-Ra lunchbox without my Mom seeing before school that morning.

After lunch, I carefully adorned my head with the ugliest flower hat (which I’m sure went so well with my parachute pants and windbreaker of jeweled tones.. ahhhh the 90’s…) you’d ever seen and happily trotted off to play. This may come as a surprise to you but as I child, I was often in my own little universe. That was the case on this day, as I scaled the monkey bars upside down and climbed backwards up the slide on the playground. I remember after a few minutes though, that someone was following me. It was a girl from ballet class whom I didn’t particularly get along with.

She followed me at a distance at first. But as I upped the ante and made my play more dangerous (jumping out of the swing and attempting a full barrel roll, standing on top of the monkey bars) she continued to follow me. Finally, I turned around and yelled at her: “STOP COPYING ME!”  You will never believe what she said to me. “Your flower face is ugly!” She turned on the heel of her pink jelly shoes and walked away. I cried.

I have a tendency to overanalyze the things people say and do. I mull it over, wondering if it was a veiled insult or if it was discreetly directed towards me. I assume that the woes of others are always a result of something I have done. When someone does not follow through on intent, it drives me nuts and I wonder what I did to keep them from completing the agreed task or keeping their promise. I’m sure that sometimes, I am right. But the majority of the time, it’s probably much bigger than just little ol’ me. But I cannot help but worry that someone thinks my flower face is ugly.

When I got home that evening, I told my Dad what had happened. I remember him telling me that I should be proud that she had followed me that perhaps it meant she wanted to be LIKE me. I didn’t consider this to be true, I was the flower at the recital that tripped and stumbled and had her head turned to watch the teacher the entire time… and STILL got most of the steps wrong. Why would my assailant want to be like me? But in a way that only a Daddy can, my dad reassured me that I was someone worth following, that it meant you had their attention. He also reminded me that if she did NOT want to be like me, it didn’t matter. I was already being me so why did someone else need to do the job.

If only the biggest threat in life as an adult was an adult calling your ballet recital ugly. But that is not the case. There are always people who want to bring us down. They try to make us feel as though we are inferior. There are always people who will let us down when they do not keep commitments and promises. All of it hurts. It makes you wonder what transgressions you’ve committed that you’re unaware of to make someone behave the way they do. But here’s what I am beginning to realize.

It doesn’t matter.

Wear your flower face with a smile. Be who you want to be. Do what you need to do to be the best you can be and if others don’t want to help you along the way, know that you can’t change their reasons for their behavior, be it jealousy, bitterness or something that has absolutely nothing to do with you… which may be the case more often than you think. The point is, people will do what they feel is necessary and you cannot control that. What you can control is what is necessary for you. So to hell with them, I say. Be you and be good at it. Your hi-top Reeboks are probably cuter than their jelly shoes anyway ;)

Yes, i have lost some weight. Let me tell you about it...

It’s been about 21 years since I have set foot in a gym and been active while there. I mean a bonafide, weights and sauna kind of gym. I’m 28. No, I wasn’t a body builder at the age of seven; my mom was. She was also an aerobics trainer and worked full time at a gym in Lake City Florida. I can remember going to work with her, especially during the summer, and attempting to keep up with her aerobics class as I hid just outside the door and watched in the mirror. It was dancing to me and I loved that. I would use the 2 pound hand weights as she toned her arms and mimic her movements. We would leave the gym and make our way to my ballet, tap and jazz class each evening, the air at Ms. Ursala’s school of dance pungent with the scent of mothballs and this was one of my most favorite places to be. I was able to move, dress up, play a part and socialize with all the other little ballerinas as I did so. As I grew older, I took gymnastics and some acrobatics classes as well and felt the same energy as when I was dreaming of being the prima ballerina. Finally, BMX racing became my physical outlet of choice as I went through high school.

But life has a funny way of sneaking up on us. Before I knew it, my active lifestyle of adolescence became a thing of the past. Beyond the occasional watersports and dirt bike ride, I was stationary. Three children later, my 121 pound figure had grown to a miserably depressing 205 pounds. For someone who is 5’3” tall, this is considered obese. For someone who was also always teetering on the edge of low self-esteem, this was catastrophic. While I understood that weight gain was to be expected with pregnancy, this seemed completely unfair to me. I hadn’t engorged myself with sweets and mountains of candy as I grew little humans inside of me. I never had blood sugar problems. I just could not understand it.

The bad thing about extreme weight gain, for me, was the fact that it made me feel the one emotion I hate more than any other. Self-pity. The woe-is-me attitude that I cannot stand to see displayed in others was the only one I seemed to exude. I would berate myself for not doing anything about it, yet I would still do nothing. I had all the knowledge one could possess from the years spent living an active lifestyle. In fact, these rules and routines had been ingrained in my mind by my Mom when I was very young. But I could not manage to apply them.

As with others who have the same feeling of self-pity, I pouted. I complained about the way I looked and I would start one regimen, for about a week, before I would give up on it when I saw no results forthcoming. Finally, one day while visiting my Mom, we went to have lunch with my little ones. We were at a restaurant, my kids were behaving like four, two and one year olds usually do in public places. I was once again feeling that same pity for myself as I looked at the menu and ordered something I knew I shouldn’t while my 105 pound mother ordered a salad. I looked up and saw someone I’d gone to high school with, someone I’d been fairly close to and should have recognized me, and smiled and waved at them. They either did not recognize me or chose not to, because they looked directly at me and walked past.

I find that after self-pity comes anger. I was livid. At myself, for this person who should have recognized me but didn’t, at what I had allowed to happen to my body and my mind. And so it began. It was a slow process, painstakingly so at times. It was hard, so hard to make myself stop and consider what I was doing. Was the best option for me to eat at this particular time? Was there something more physically productive I could be doing with my time? I would stop and ask myself these questions each time I felt an urge to give up. Slowly, old habits resurfaced. I began to notice subtle changes in my shape and when I did, all bets were off.

The first time someone asked me if I’d lost weight, it was like I’d won the lottery. When I was too small for the way too big jeans I’d been wearing, my pyromaniac persona surfaced and I burned those “fat clothes”. Yes, I burned them and it was the most glorious fire you’ve ever seen.  When I ran a full mile for the first time since high school, I sat down and cried, even though it wasn’t as fast as the 6:55 I used to run. My weight crept down, 155, 140 and what was so great about this was the more I lost, the more motivated I was. I maintained each and every day to do one thing that would benefit my health, my weight.

Finally, 5 months ago, I stepped on my Wii balance board for some fitness test fun. I hadn’t weighed myself in three months but I knew I was close to where I wanted to be if my pants size was any indication. I stood still as the blue circle on the TV screen circled, calculating my information. I waited as the scale ticker slid up and down, awaiting my final number. 119. I had done it. There is no feeling like that in the world and when you feel it, you understand. I had done it. I picked up my youngest child and we danced in the living room for a good thirty minutes, his squeals of laughter were music to my ears.  I had done it. 86 pounds in two years.

Now, I still have little insecurities. I am only human. I don’t like when someone tells me I don’t need to lose weight because they have no idea the battle this has been for me. No idea at all. I get snide remarks from time to time, backhanded compliments from others. But I’m learning that I cannot hide my accomplishments and self-confidence because of the insecurities of others.  I am learning to be comfortable with whom I am what I’ve done and I am proud of myself for doing it. It is not easy, to overcome the fear, the temptations and the comfort that come from food and solace that comes from lying in bed. But the feeling of a stitch in my side means my run was effective. The heaving in my chest means my heart is pumping blood through my body and my lungs are filling with desperately needed oxygen and the aches in my muscles mean I am growing stronger. So I will continue to do so. Not because I want to lose weight. But because this, it makes me feel good, and I am proud of that.