One Twenty Five

it was going to be called 'Drama Queen'

There I was, standing on the subway platform, alone, at 1:20am.  4 minutes to go.  I was bitter, sad, and annoyed for reasons I couldn’t explain.  I thought about the bitterness of the blog post I was going to write when I get home, “this is it, this will always be it, this is my life, fuck. I’m the girl everybody likes, but nobody wants.”  I was going to title the post ‘Drama Queen,’ because that’s exactly what i was being.

I had just left the bar alone, insisting that none of my friends followed me; I wanted them to, but would have been annoyed if they had. I wanted to be alone, but I wanted to talk.  I was emotional and I didn’t know why, but in a moment of reasoning I wanted out of that bar so fast, my legs couldn’t carry me.

The tears were coming.

The crush was there.  He didn’t talk to me once all night. He actually moved seats to sit away from me.  I was neutral.  That didn’t even annoy me. It wasn’t about him.  It was about me.  I’m still the same, stupid fucking girl I was last year, and the year before that, and the year before that.  Couples, the entire fucking table was couples.  Pairs. I stood alone.  I always stand alone.

I am alone.

I felt like shit. I looked like shit.  I sat on the subway and tried to get my mind off of things.  I took my camera out and tried to clean the stickiness out from around the zoom.  I accidentallytook a photo.  I made an awkward, embarrassed face.  I heard a boy laugh.  I looked up.

My age, good looking. He smiled. I smiled back and apologized for taking the unintentional photo. He asked my name, I asked his. We shook hands. We spoke.

He asked for my number. I paused. I pondered. I gave it to him.

1:31am Hey, it’s J the guy you met on the subway. It was really nice to meet you. Did you get home o.k?

1:39am I did, thanks. I was impressed with your smoothness. Asking girls for their # on subways is the norm?

1:42am Thanks, actually no this is the first time I’ve ever asked a girl for her number on the subway, believe it or not.  There was something about you that I couldn’t resist, so I had to ask because I wanted to see you again for more than a couple of minutes.

I want to type out, “and just like that my night changed,” but it didn’t.  I still feel alone, like no body likes me, no body ever will. 

The fat girl everybody looks through. That’s me, except now with a morsel of hope.

See, Drama Queen.

As you may know, this Saturday is my Fancy Dinner Party where calories won’t count (Husssh. Upppp. You!)

The main course is going to be steak. Delicious.  I’ve spent some time googling ‘steak spices/marinates,’ but have no idea if they’ll be any good.

Does anyone out there have a favourite one? Or can anyone send me in the direction of a tasty one? Or have a old family sauce they love? 

I need to impress my friends with my culinary skillz. And by friends I mean The Crush. Who-is-not-really-my-crush,-but-just-a-cute-boy-I-occasionally-make-out-with.

Thanks!

?

Session #1.

Last night I had my first, official personal training session with The Trainer. Awesome, it was awesome. I can hardly walk today and let’s just say, going to the washroom? extremely painful. 

I told him about my HUGE goals.

• Lose Weight. Be One Hundred and Twenty Five Pounds
• Run a Marathon

He ran the ING half marathon in 1hour 28, or something ridiculous like that, and told me, “I’m 80% sure I’ll run the Chicago Marathon with you” which honestly MADE ME SO EXCITED!! The thought of having someone help me reach my goals is amazing, as I did the last 2 halves all alone.

Next Session. Monday at 7am. Yea.. think about that. Whoa.

let's get physical.

So… I got prodded, and poked and eyed and measured yesterday in my personal training evaluation. I did the plank, I did push ups (ed note: tried to do push ups, as I couldn’t do one), I got my blood pressure taken (it’s perfect), my weight taken and my body fat taken.  All in the name of holy-shit-I-want-to-be-skinny. 

Have you ever gained 10 pounds in a second? Because I did… apparently my scale has been off by 10 pounds.  I looked like such an idiot as I boldly stated, “oh I know it already, it’s 155lbs,” WRONG. I was WRONG.

I really don’t understand this as I’ve gone through TWO scales at home AND my parents scale I step onto occasionally, but apparently they’ve all been off because the scale at the gym yesterday settled on 168 big ones.  The good news? I suppose I technically started at 200, which means I’ve still lost 32 pounds. Huh.

I’ll be switching to the new weight as every 2 weeks my ass will get prodded, and poked and eyed and measured and I want to be consistent.

The Facts:

Body Type: standard
Gender: female
Age: 24
Height: 5ft 4 in
Weight: 168.6lb
BMI: 28.9
BMR:1,573kcal (cal I can eat to maintain my weight a day)
Fat %: 35.1
Fat Mass: 59.2lb (fat on the bod, it should be 36lbs)
FFM: 109.4lb  (everything, but fat)
TBW: 80.0lb

The Plan:

This is going to be *that* post. Y’know? The post where I’m one day going to put a link back to and be like, “whoa… look how far I’ve come.”  Every two weeks I’ll update these numbers and hopefully we’ll soon be seeing $3,000 of drastic improvement. I’m excited and nervous and looking forward to the blood, sweat and soul searching the next few months are sure to bring.

Wanna know a secret? I’m obsessed with perfection. Obsessed.  All I want to be is perfect.  What’s that? nobodies perfect? Yes, yes I know that, but I still for omigod-reasons-I-can’t-control want my life to be perfect and fabulous.

It’s not.

I’m still fat.  Don’t look at me like that, I’m tired of defending my very obvious spare tire.  I am not a car, yet I HAVE A SPARE TIRE PEOPLE! To be exact, 35% of my body is fat.  It should be 22%.  I know this, because my personal trainer told me this.

I want to be fabulous so much. I want the perfect house (wait.. check, I have one), I want the world’s greatest friends (whoa.. check mark again here),  I want the perfect job (1/2 a check mark here… hello money, yet hello cliche financial people I work with), I want the perfect boyfriend (fail), I want the perfect body (insert epic fail here).

I spent $3,000 tonight on 6 months of personal training, 3 sessions a week. HOLY SHIT I feel like such a failure typing that out. Yes, I need help thatbadly. Wanna know my reasoning? I figured a boob job costs about $6,000. It would change your life, so boo yea! I’m totally getting a discount on a life changing ‘procedure,’ hence? I signed up! Looking back on it… that’s a lot of fucking money… and a stupid fucking way to justify it.

But money is money. Fat is fat. Help is help.

I’m terrified I’m going to fail even with this huge amount of support I’ve paid through the nose for.

My trainer kept asking me over, and over again, “Are you willing to give up things in your life and fully commit?” my obvious answer, was “yes! yes! yes!!!! Obviously! Duh” but the more I thought about it, the more I realized I had just given him the obvious, mechanical answer I knew I was supposed to give.

Am I really willing to put in the work? Am I willing to give up things I love? Am I actually willing to say ‘no’?

Fuck, my heart is saying yes, but I hate how I can feel a slight doubt in the pit of my stomach.

don’t look at me, i’m embarrassed.

• fruit parfait
• 12” turkey subway
• apple
• orange
• tube of wine gums
• mini (ed note: i LIED, it was a big one :(  )  mars bar

omigod i am perpetually a hungry, hungry hippo today. what is wrong with me?