Tag: Uncategorized

This ones a little close to home today.
When buying clothes, go for fit rather than size.

I worked hard to go from 2X to a small pant size/ medium top. So when I went shopping for an outfit at a new store, Lucy, I was ticked when the medium active tank with built in sports bra fit more like a sausage casing than a supportive and lightly compressive yoga top. I did not NOT want to admit defeat and buy the much more flattering large. It took a few minutes to realize that, no, I had not changed shape since the last time. This was a new brand with a different size chart

But oh, my pride did not want to listen. I wanted to go find a store where the mediums fit. Even though this “large” top was probably the most comfortable well made and flattering item I had tried on.

In the end I did what I am advising you to do…ignore the size. In some brands you will be a M in others a L or XL. But guess what? The only person that ever sees that little tag is you. What everyone else sees is how it fits. So would you rather squeeze into the size 8 jeans that give you a horrible muffin top, just so you know you are wearing an 8. Or would you rather find a pair of jeans that make your butt look fabulous, even though it might be a size or two bigger in that brand.

Unless you leave the sales tag on, the general public will never know your size. And if you want, you can cut out the tag so you don’t have to either. A proper fitted garment will make you look slimmer than an ill fitting smaller size or much too big size that swamps you.

Mindless snacking can be a killer You eat five Starbursts thinking “Eh, I don’t need to worry about it. It’s only 5”.

Well did you know those 5 starburst equals 100 calories. You would need to run a mile just balance your budget.

If you are hungry, candy is not the way to go. Empty calories and you’ll only crave more. Try fruit or a light yogurts. Still sweet but fills your tummy a bit more

Here’s a quick fitness tip. A mile is a mile no matter how fast you go. Walking you’ll burn roughly 100 calories. Jogging at 10 min pace, roughly 110 calories. Killing yourself at 7 min pace 125 calories

So don’t go faster and push yourself more than you are able for calories sake. You will burn far less calories running full speed for 2 mins and keeling over than if you walk until you are tired

         I am a runner. However, this does not at all mean that I actually enjoy running. The truth is I dread anything over 3 miles. Considering I am now a marathon runner, and training for the next one, that would mean I don’t look forward to around 75% of my runs.
        Most people hate Modays. I love ’em. Sunday and Monday are my days of rest AKA no running. The day that makes me cringe is Saturday — the day of the week I have my long runs. According to the training, every Saturday you have your highest mileage run, and each week it gets progressively longer. Today was 9 miles.
        I woke up this morning and immediately felt that trepidation I associate with knowing something is ahead that really sucks. I’ll be honest, I did not want to do it. I did not want to run today because I knew it would be long and I knew I wasn’t going to like it.  So I put it off, doing my other chores first.
        I swam with the kids. I fixed the pond in the backyard. I hooked up the new entertainment system for my parents. I wrote a new chapter for the Fat Pack Mysteries. But the whole time I was looking at the clock and my sense of dread grew. It was like hearing that Jaws theme music getting closer and closer.
        Their was never a doubt in my mind that I was going to in fact run the 9 miles sometime today. The training schedule I made says that I had to, so I would. With all that I had learned over the last year, one of the key things was following through on what I say I’m going to do. Finish what I start, no quitting. No backing out.
         So yes, I knew I would finish my run today, but I was being dragged there kicking and screaming. It finally got late enough that I realized if didn’t want to run at night with a headlamp, I had better get my butt in gear. During the run my brain did what it usually does, overthinks things and assigns meaning to what I have been struggling with.
        I realized I was a long distance runner, not a hurdle jumper. Yet that was what I was doing to myself. I had been creating an unnecessary hurdle in my path that I needed to get over in order to complete my run. I needed to and would finish those 9 miles today no matter what.  So did my complaining and dread make getting that job done any easier? No. It made it that much harder to get my little running tights out the door.
       The more I thought about it the more I realized that I made hurdles in alot of aspects of my life. I’m a finisher now, so I never quit. But that doesn’t mean I don’t moan and murmur and begrudge all the effort. Which is stupid and counter productive. If I’m going to do something anyway, wouldn’t you think I would want to make it as easy as possible?
         I finished the 9 miles today with relative ease, but it still wasn’t particularly fun. But the feeling I got after my– way too high tech for me –watch beeped, signaling the end of the workout, reminded me why I do it in the first place. To feel that finisher’s high. That sense of accomplishment that I get after doing something hard. That is the sledgehammer that helps me slam through the other hurdles in my life. I can look back on hard things I’ve done and then look forward to obstacles in front of me and say “You’re nothing. See what I did?”
         Today helped me see that life, by it’s very nature, puts up way too many hurdles in front of me.  I really don’t need to be adding any more of my own. So hopefully next Saturday I will wake up and knock the 10 mile run out of the way. Then I can get to the good part of feeling great afterward.

Today has been bar none one of the worst days of my life. Over the last two weeks I have sent out my manuscript and been waiting to hear from the publishing companies.  In the meantime the agent rejection letters keep coming 2-3 every few days.  Most are form “Dear Author” emails. Some are personalized and say something like this: While your writing is entertaining and nice, I think I would have a hard time selling your book. Basically, while you have some great accomplishments, you’re nobody.  Call us when you’re famous. 


I got through those thinking number one that they are right. They only make money by selling my book to a big publishing house and I am nobody special.  But that’s what is so awesome about my book. I am nobody special. If I can turn from a life of quitting and couch potato-ness to a finishing marathon machine, well anyone can. But still I get their point, but it hurts anyway.
Secondly, I kept the little fire of hope burning that the Liv Blumer agent would get back to me and tell me they loved the first 50 pages and wanted the rest. I did research on the agency and they are one of the good ones. They only take a very ecclectic list of projects. I just needed one yes through the nos right?

Well today I got the Self Addressed Stamped Envelope that I included with the first 50 pages. My heart sank though the concrete to the center of the earth. Inside the envelope was a little notecard saying “Dear Sir or Madame”  Really? Not even a personalized no? After I spent $5 to Priority mail those pages.  Had they even read them?

I called my husband to get a phone hug.
“I’m super sad, I need some love.”
“Probably not as much as me” he replied.
“What you lose your job or something?” I joked.
“Yep.”

My stomach joined my heart under the concrete.

Part of my book is pushing on when your get that figurative thud of your life hitting bottom. It’s time to test that again it seems. I sure hope the Lord knows what he’s doing. I know he’ll look out for us. We will survive. We will persevere. This could be an opportunity. Maybe he will get a better job. Maybe I will put the book on Kindle myself. Either way I know we’ll make it.  Doesn’t mean I can’t take a day to wallow though

So after sending out about 30 emails to various literary agents, I have one rejection and one request for the first 50 pages.

The rejection was pretty comical. It was like we don’t want you, but hey, there are plenty of fish in the sea right? Keep trying.

The request for the first 50 pages was really exciting. It was from the Liv Blumer agency. She found my letter intriguing and wanted to know more. So I printed off the 50 pages and am off to the Post office. Then it will be another waiting game.  Has it really only been less than a month since I wrote the book?  It feels like a year,

This week I am also going to mail the full manuscripts to Cedar Fort, Deseret Book, and Covenant. But there is this whole process and author questionnaire thing that I have to include.  not to mention the annotated table of contents. I thought the hard part was writing a good book.  Seems like that was only the beginning.

So Caleb is doen editing my book…and he loves it. Hallelujah!  He only had a few minor fixes and pointed out that my use of commas “sucks”. But aside from that he gives it two thumbs up!

So now what? My next assignment was to write a query letter to submit to agents.  He thinks I should have an agent. SQEE! (yes that’s the literal sound I just made. I think he may be smoking crack, but still it’s a nice compliment.

I tried really, really hard to write a nice professional query letter. But Caleb poo-pooed on everything I gave him. So he gave up and wrote on for me, mining from my first chapter to come up with a hook and brief synopsis.
Here is the fabulous letter he came up with.

     This last week just wasn’t my week. My inbox had turned into  a ticking timebomb while I was waiting to hear word back from my instructor on the book. Somehow I had managed to pinch a nerve in my shoulder, and my fingertips wwouldn’t stop tingling. The hamstring I injured before the marathon was starting to ache on my 5 mile runs. My kidlet’s motors were running on high and their screams were still only slightly softer than the monologue of defeat I was reciting in my head.

    Then my four year old flushed about half a roll of toilet paper. As I was mopping up the Niagra Falls of kommodes I gave some serious thought to the old phrase “When life gives you lemons, make lemonade.”  The intention of the proverb is to do the best with what you have and normally I would be all about that. However, ankle deep in toilet water, there was no way I could make anything good out of this –pardon the pun– crap. 

     When I ran downstairs to throw the wet towels in the wash I heard a drip drip coming from the room directly beneath the bathroom.  Apparently I wasn’t fast enough and water from upstairs had leaked through the floor, into the ceiling, and out through the light fixture. I was so mad that I knew if I saw either of my little ones right then, somebody was gonna start crying –probably me.  So what did I do? Stewing over my rotten luck wasn’t doing a darned bit of good. My brain was just turning all my worries and concerns over and over. I needed to make a break to disrupt the negative thoughts and feelings. So I took my lemons and tossed em in the fridge for awhile, leaving only a little wedge to put in my Diet Coke. Then I put myself in TIME OUT.

    I made sure the kids were safe and happy watching a DVD and locked myself in my room for 15 minutes with my Diet Coke– literally. And for those 15 minutes I did nothing but breathe and enjoy my tasty  beverage. And then, when I was done, I walked back out and the lemons didn’t seem quite as tart as they were a little while ago. We give our kids time outs to correct naughty behavior. It gives them a chance to seperate themselves from the behavior that led them there. Well guess what? Sometimes adults need them too. When you are being destructive and abusive to yourself then go to time out. Take a break and put your problems in the fridge –they’ll keep.  When you’re ready you can go get them and figure out the best way to make lemonade.

   For me, that Diet Coke time out provided a much needed opportunity to gain some perspective. By taking myself out of the situation for a moment I was able to halt the ramping up of emotions. That more than anything is what was making me miserable. Not the events, but the dispair and upset I felt about them. Without the emotions I could look at each “lemon” logically. In the case of my manuscript, I would take whatever critique was given, fix it, and then send it back. But what was the point of worrying about it when I hadn’t even heard anything yet? Maybe he would love it and all my worrying would be for naught. I was squeezing the lemon before it hatched.. or something like that.

   The shoulder and hamstring just needed some rest and ice to let the swelling go down. My fitness would not suffer too much from one missed weight session or a slower run. But if I injured them further because I didn’t rest it then the 2 months recovery time would put a definite cramp in my training.

   As far as the toilet soggy drywall situation goes, I am handing that one off to my husband.

  The Diet Coke Time Out is a technique I learned during this last year when my inner voice was yelling itself hoarse telling me I was going to gain weight back or never make it to the marathon. If I was up a half a pound one day my heart would start fluttering and I immediately went into panic mode. If I didn’t stop the freak out in it’s tracks then the rest of the day would be spent worrying and weighing. Then when my weight went up with anything I ate or drank (as it should) then I would escalate my spazzing and get even more upset. So I had to consciously choose to stop and interrupt the flow of negativity. Give myself that 15 minutes to empty my thoughts and emotions and start anew. If Diet Coke isn’t your thing, that’s alright. Make it work for you, just leave the cupcakes on the counter ok?

      Today during a five mile run, I found myself thinking about responsibilty. More specifically that I needed to take more of it.  Let me back up a little bit.
       Last year, before my discovery of the Philosophy of Finishing, I was victim of life’s circumstances. I was a passanger in a busted up POS Pinto on the road of life. When a road hazard came up and popped a tire, I would bemoan my fate and say “It’s not fair. Why does this always happen to me?” I hated the fact that I had to buy all my clothes in the Big girl’s store, but hey what could I do? After all I was just born to be fat, look at my big oak of a family tree. Can’t argue with genetics. Did I take any responsibility for my plus sizedness? Hell no. I’m just big boned. Or my joints hurt too much to exercise. The list of excuses went on and on. Anything and everything I could use to overlook the fact that I was making poor choices.
       So one of the things I learned last year was that I was the driver of my own life. Since I am not the kind of girl to be a little cute convertible, I decided I would be an armored Jeep. Stuff might pop up and try to get in my way, but I was just going to barrel over it. Because just like on the real road, sometime accidents happen that I have no control over. They truly aren’t my fault, but what I choose afterwards is. Case in point: the whole Genetics issue. It is true, that nature has conspired against me with two type 2 diabetic parents, and a frame that my husband likes to call statuesque. But instead of whining endlessly like I had before that I would never be a Victoria’s Secret model, I needed to do the best I could with what I had. So that means more running and less treats, because if I want to stay out of the plus sized stores, that’s what I have to do. I also had to own up to the empty candy wrappers and pizza boxes instead of blaming it all on the kids and hubby.
 
      This was one of my big lightbulb moments from last year, but on this morning’s run I think the bulb must’ve burned out. About a mile and a half into my run, I found myself cursing all my firends that had given me holiday treats over the last two months. If it wasn’t for them, I wouldn’t be running in the sub freezing tempertures, trying to burn off those holiday five pounds my scale informed me of. Stupid people. Didn’t they know I was a recovering chocoholic? Would you bring a recovering alcoholic a bottle of wine for Christmas? No, of course not. Then why oh why did my best friend have to bring me a giant plate of fudge? Did she want me to get fat? My husband is diabetic and my kids are picky eaters, so that left the whole plate up to me to disperse of.  It’s a tough job, but somebody had to do it. And I did – for not only that, but the tub of carmelized popcorn my neighbor brought. And the cookies, and my mother in laws caramel candied sweet potatoes.
      It took another two miles before my brain thawed out enough to realize that I had just jumped back into the Pinto.  I was taking the approach that my holiday setback was everyone else’s fault for tempting me, instead of taking responsibility for bending into tempation. It’s not Misty’s fault she makes great rocky road fudge, I chose to eat it…and eat it some more.  It was time to climb back into my Jeep and face the problem head on. I had made bad choices, yes, but it wasn’t the end of the world. Five pounds is a whole lot easier to lose than seventy five. So I ran the next mile and a half with renewed purpose and silently apologized for writing all my friends out of my will.

      For me, taking responsibilty is not a matter of blame, but control. As a passanger, I had no control over my life. Living in constant worry, waiting for the other shoe to drop was not healthy for my mind or my indigestion. Bad things happened, and there was nothing I could do about it. But as a driver, I decide which way I am going to go. Sure it means that I have to take ownership for my “accidents” but it also means that I do not have to sit idly by waiting for a Mac Truck to sideswipe me. I don’t have to sit at at home and fear endlessly that I will get big again. I’m the boss of my body and I say that I won’t. I make the decisions everyday that ensure that I will continue down the road that I have chosen. Sometimes I might take holiday detours, but that’s okay. My internal GPS still knows where it’s going, and as long as I don’t stop and get back in the passanger’s seat, I know I’ll get there.