Weighty Matters

I will not be applying to be a Victoria’s Secret model this year.

There’s no need to hire a photographer to airbrush me into perfection for a $5000 portfolio.  I don’t need to get waxed, plucked, pinched and tucked, because I am going to pass on that application process.

Yes, yes, I’m marathon training and toning up beautifully. And without sounding like an arrogant a**, I would even go so far as to say that I am beautiful.  I glow, especially when I smile, but I will never be rail thin.

I’m hovering around my ideal weight, at least, according to my dietician, and despite that glorious truth, I am way too lush to ever be considered skinny.

Yes, another year has come and gone, and I will not be applying to be a Victoria’s Secret model this year.

At some time in my teen life, I looked at the pictures of magazine models and thought if I starved myself, had surgery, worked out, prayed to God, or was struck by lightening that there was a chance I would be that thin.

But I’m always lush, always have been, always will be.  Even when I’m at my version of skinny, I’m still lush.

Which right now, I am my version of lean.  The cookie and wine “belly” from Graduation is fading into nothing.

No, no one will ever describe me as thin, but they might say I’m fit, and that will do.  I think fit is hot.

Despite feeling pretty good about my body at the moment, I was recently at a Company Wide Health Fair where they casually informed me that I am borderline-obese and I should probably work out more.

(gulp)

I thought that I was at least fit enough to be considered healthy and that I would slide under the Biometric Measurement Radar, but alas, the sirens went off as soon as my BMI was calculated.  Then came the Body Fat Measurement tool, and within minutes, I was marked as a fatty.

The buff 20something year old standing in front of me blinked hard right before he read his screen aloud and said, “Your body fat percentile is (SERIOUSLY THAT IS A REAL NUMBER?)”.

Ok ok.  He said the actual number.  It was really high considering that about 1/3 of my clothes are too big for me lately.  Now to be fair, that also means that 1/3 of my clothes are too small and the other 1/3 are older than at least one of my kids.  I digress.

“You’re pretty close to the line though,” He added helpfully during my Health and Wellness Coaching Session.  “You could lose a few pounds and get out of the Very-Over Weight category and be in the Over Weight category.  Maybe... have you considered an exercise program?  You could try working out 3X a week.”

I sat there with my resting heart rate of 56, with my cycling quads and my running hamstrings and looked at Buff Boy for a long minute.  I thought of 800 comebacks to his suggestion that I work out, and ultimately, I bit my tongue. 

I smiled my emptiest smile and looked at the clueless but earnest face staring back at me. 

“Yes, that is a very good idea.  I have been thinking about taking up a sport.  I will try working out 3 X a week for the 2014-2015 fiscal year to see what fitness gains I can achieve before next year’s Health Screen.”

I said that, knowing full well that the odds of my achieving Buff Boy’s recommended “thin-ness” would not happen by next May, or next June, or next Century.

So, no, I will not be applying for a job as a Victoria’s Secret model this year.  I will, however, be running 30-40 miles a week from now until October. 

And let’s get serious, one of those things is way more impressive than the other, because I don’t have be anorexic, or starving myself, or 20 years old, or blessed with freakishly perfect assets, or surgically enhanced to accomplish that feat.

I can just go out, work hard, and do it.

And this week, I knocked back a blistering 85 degree 20 mile run in full sun.  

Now, I could be wrong, but I think that should help me meet the requirements for working out enough.  I mean, that seems like a legit "workout"

Also maybe, if I exercise a little more, the next 20 won't be quite as "long" as this one.

~savor the run~

like the ____ on the cake

I had a dream last night that my car got run off the road and after the tumbling and metal crunching ceased I was suspended in the JEEP, upside down, on a snow packed grassy median.  All I could think was, “I can’t believe that jerk hit my car….” And “Oh my gah~.  H loves this JEEP so much he’s going to cry 10,000 tears.”

I woke up and looked outside to see that the snow that had been powdered sugar at bedtime, now fully coated my back deck, and happily discovered through a late night visit with my mac that my nursing school had a 2 HOUR DELAY!!!  ß said in ~like~ the big movie announcer voice.

Then I went back to sleep and dreamed about cake. 

 

Delicious cake.

Rich buttery yellow cake layered with chocolate icing (or, depending on where you’re from, frosting, though, that brings me to, don’t people say, “and that was the icing on the cake”?, not the “…frosting on the cake”?  Just thinking).

And then today in class we were talking about how giving a patient too much oxygen can kill them, and we all agreed that killing the patients is “bad” and that on the priority list of “things not to do” it’s right up there with, “don’t wreck your H’s JEEP.”  

My professor was pretty lenient and even laughed along, probably because there were only about 7 of us who braved the 2.5 inches of snow to get to school anyway.

She then went into a little lecture about how “too much is too much and not enough is not enough,” and how, “O2 like everything else in life needed to be in moderation…” and I whispered to my lab partner, “just.like.cake.”  Which was only funny because O2 is really nothing like cake, but my lab partner giggled anyway, and somehow that made class today hilarious and fun, despite the fact that nursing school is really hard... 

I'm the first to admit, probably it was one of those “you had to be there” moments… also, I maybe didn’t take my ADD meds today.