Ch-ch-ch-ch-changes

Hi, remember me? The flabby, fortysomething soccer mom? The one who decided to transform herself? Well, guess what? She's baa-ack...
Let me bring you up to speed real quick. Imagine you and I are getting on our treadmills, side by side, and we're setting the pace at a comfortable, brisk walk. One where we can still hold a conversation without panting. You ask me,
"Why'd you quit blogging, Rikki?"
I'm quiet for a second, thinking back, thinking about how and where to start. Then I say,
"I think I got Life Block. I had decided that Run Rikki Run should be a public blog. I felt that my journey, and my struggles, had potential relevance for women in general, and I think I was adjusting my tone, and the amount of detail I shared, to a public forum.
But what was going on behind the scenes was the very private and painful breakup of my 18 year marriage. Painful especially because of the effect it had on my three children. I was stumped on what to say in private, to the people I love most in the entire world. Stringing words together in a blog for public consumption suddenly felt trivial and self-indulgent. So I quit blogging."
You take a minute to digest this. It kinda makes sense. You know that my kids are teenagers. That's the time when it's supposed to be all about them. Mom and dad are supposed to be fixtures in the background, ready to dispense money or food, ready with a ride or a bailout, but otherwise silent, stationary. Props on the stage where they are the shining star.
You also know me well enough that you're aware that the marriage was never really happy. That we always chafed against each other, Ty and I, no matter how committed we both were to the goal of a lasting marriage. And you know that, at one point, I had a seven-year plan. That I was going to wait until my baby was out of high school to end the marriage.
"So what happened to the seven-year plan?", you ask. My baby is going into 8th grade. I'm about six years ahead of plan at this point, given that Ty and I have been separated for well over a year now.
I smile, then turn my eyes back to the control panel.
"It went out the window. Some things happened in Ty's life that showed me he was as unfulfilled in our marriage as I was. He tried to minimize, even deny, what was going on, and I believe he did it because in his world, that was the right thing to do. Keep the nuclear family intact at any cost.
That was right for him, and I respect that. It wasn't right for me. I had been checked out of my own life for a long time, to the point where it was even affecting my relationship with the kids. The absurdity hit me full-force. If I was staying for them, but I was too emotionally numb to connect with them, why the hell was I staying? So I woke up, and I walked out."
You give me a sidelong glance, like "give me a break". I smile apologetically.
"No, you're right. It wasn't that easy. And I wasn't that cocky. There were times of doubt and times of sorrow. There were a few intense "discussions" between me and Ty. There were many, many nights when I cried, alone in my little apartment, feeling like I had lost the kids, like I'd go back, endure anything, just to hear them making noise in the next room.
And there were other times where I felt like a selfish bitch and a bad mom for having chosen for myself essentially a part-time single life, with dates, parties, and a social life.
But in the end, it boils down to this cliché. Change is the only constant. I could have sat passively by, and let the changes happen to me. Instead I chose the verb. I chose to change. I chose to make the changes. And the weight loss and fitness changes were a crucial piece in the puzzle."
By now, we've walked three miles. Time to get off. But I will be back with you, my friend. Here on the treadmill, and when it cools off, outside on the paths and sidewalks. And here on this blog. Because there are more changes to talk about.

Stumbling on the finish line

One of my goals for 2010 is to run a half-marathon. 13.1 miles. I know I can do it, if I only dedicate myself to the training. Last fall, I was doing fabulously. I was running 4 and 5 miles a day, and once a week I would push myself and throw in a long run of 7 or even 10 miles.

It would take me the better part of two hours to complete the 10 miles, but boy, did it feel good when I was done! My legs all rubbery, my skin drenched in sweat. It felt like my body had just done something it was created to do. It felt natural.

Then Life decided to interfere. Except not really. Life happens everyday. We get dealt our fair share of problems and heartaches, along with the joy and the blessings. It is up to us how we play the hand we're dealt. In my case, I just decided to fold.

There were some major changes on the horizon, and my anxiety was mounting. I have always been emotionally high-strung, and most of the time I consider that a good thing. It allows me to be fully present in my life. But riding an emotional roller coaster can take its toll on a body.

And I do mean that literally: it takes its toll on a body. Food, especially junk food, candy, and sweets, is what I turn to when I want to numb out. When I want to get off the roller coaster and sideline myself for a while. When Life gets too overwhelming and I feel like I can't deal. Even when success is so close at hand I can almost reach out and touch it. Maybe especially then. Because after success, then what? Change, that's what! And change is scary.

So I folded. I stopped paying attention to what I was putting in my mouth. Trust me, if it's Chick-fil-a and Snickers bars on a daily basis, you don't WANT to pay too close attention! And all of a sudden, three weeks had gone by without a single trip to the gym. I was hiding in plain sight again, in my painters' overalls and my sweat pants. Days would come and go, indistinguishably, and I was numb. I was hiding. I wasn't dealing.

What snapped me out of it, I can't really say. Except I think I have a sort of internal alarm clock that goes off at a certain point. I believe it's no accident that each of the three times I've joined Weight Watchers, my starting weight has been 157 lbs. Give or take a few ounces. 157 seems to be my internal alarm clock's "code red".

This time, it was like I kept hitting the snooze button. Go to my Weight Watchers meeting? Nah. Not this week. Snooze. Get up early on a Saturday and go to the gym? I'll go later. Snooze. Order the fruit cup or the fries with my nuggets? If I don't say anything, they'll just give me fries. Snooze.

But who wants to snooze through life? Not me. So I'm back. I'm awake now. I am fully present and accounted for. These days, when I go to the gym, it's a struggle to run just 3 miles. I've lost ground. I was so close to the finish line, and I stumbled. But I did not pull myself out of the race.
I did not sideline myself and watch the other runners finish without me.

I am back in the race. And I'm winning.

Who's in control here anyway?

I like Facebook. I post a lot: I'm an exhibitionistic entertainer who likes to write, and who often doesn't have time for anything longer than a one-sentence status update. But I read a lot, too. I keep up with my friends via Facebook, and frequently find both inspiration and encouragement in their postings.

Most recently, one of my friends had a status update that read: "God is in control, whether I try to control things or not." That resonated with me.

I don't consider myself a control freak - far from it! In my life, chaos is the order of the day, and "by the seat of your pants" is the mode of transportation. But I started thinking. Do I try to control things? Well, sure!

I would like to believe I don't try to control the people in my life whom I love, but perhaps I do. My form of aggression has always been passive. I've been known to display a certain attitude for the purpose of eliciting a particular response. Only it doesn't work. Moping around the kitchen and sighing about my lower back pain has never prompted any of my kids to cheerfully pitch in and help with the dishes. Likewise, acting needy and clingy rarely gets me the love and affection that has been my life's greatest unfulfilled need.

It would seem that the old chestnut applies here, that "the definition of madness is doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different result". Well, I may be needy, even passive-aggressive, but I'm not mad. So, since the above behaviors aren't working for me, I've tried to find ones that do. My kids are lazy. Unrealistic expectations about their chore-load only results in one frustrated mommy. So I pick one or two things and demand they do them. The rest, I do myself. When I feel like it. After all, they come by their laziness honestly!

As for my emotional need, there is really only one place I can go to get that fulfilled. To my Heavenly Father. It's not fair to pin my earthly happiness on one individual - not to me, and certainly not to the other person. So I go to God. In prayer, and in reading Scripture and devotionals.

And it's a good thing "...that he who began a good work in (me) will carry it through until the day of Christ Jesus." (Phil 1:6) Because I keep trying to take back control. And when I do, I'm thankful He puts a friendly reminder on Facebook, via one of my friends.

God is in control. Whether I try to control things or not. And isn't that a comfort?

Dancing with my girlfriends

We had a Swedish G.N.O. (girls' night out) recently. It involved drinks and girl talk, a nice dinner, and the thing we all love: dancing. There was live music by an excellent rock band that played covers of all our favorite songs, and we hit the dance floor the minute we got there, only taking breaks for a refreshing beverage or two.

I've always loved dancing. As teens, my friends and I would spend hours getting ready for some inane school dance, and that was the fun part: doing each other's hair and makeup, borrowing each other's clothes, talking about boys, and, yes, dancing. We'd pop in the latest mix tape and dance in a circle in the middle of the living room.

Now, a guy friend of mine thinks that this is the most annoying phenomenon ever. He says he hates it when girls in a club only dance with their girlfriends, and turn him down when he asks them to dance, or worse: act annoyed, like he's butting in. My friend is an attractive guy and a decent dancer, so I can certainly validate his frustration. Nobody should be rude.
But the flip side of that coin is this: no woman should stay off the dance floor just because there's no man available to dance with. If the spirit moves you, get out there and dance!

Believe it or not, I was a shy child. I'm not shy anymore, but like any woman, I battle my fair share of insecurities. My butt's too big, and my hair's too stringy. My teeth are crooked and there are lines around my eyes. Just to name a few. But guess what? Shyness and insecurity don't need to stop you from dancing with your girlfriends! After all, if you can't let your (stringy) hair down and let the rhythm move you in the safety of a circle of girlfriends, where on earth can you?

I refuse to be a woman dancing in her chair. I saw many of them at the club, and most of them were with a man. I guess their man didn't want to dance, so the women figured they were stuck to the chair. Their bodies moved to the music, and they longed to be out there on the dance floor. I know, because I've danced in my chair before.

Let me tell you, dancing in your chair is a poor substitute for dancing with your girlfriends. Get out there on the dance floor and take the lead in the musical of your life. Male dance partner welcome, but certainly not required.

The Climb (it's not just a Miley Cyrus song)

I hit my Weight Watchers goal today. Actually overshot it by a pound. Which means I've gone from 157 lbs in early June, (the picture above is what I looked like at 157 lbs) to 131 lbs today. 26 lbs in about 7 months. So it seems like a good time to sit back and reflect on this part of the journey. Because believe me, the journey continues!

My first reflection is that it's been pretty easy. Weight Watchers really isn't a diet, it's a lifestyle. And a lot of what I've learned is really simple stuff. Eat fruits and veggies. Drink plenty of liquid. Move your body. Control your portions.

Over these past few months, those guidelines have become habits for me. And so, even when I fall off the wagon, like I did last month, the habits are there, to cushion the blow and lessen the damage. When I choose to eat a candy bar, I'm more apt to make my next food choice a healthy one, than I would be if Weight Watchers were not a part of my life. Like my awesome meeting leader Kathryn always says, "It's about progress, not perfection."

Another simile she used in a meeting was falling down stairs. If you stumble, and fall down a couple of steps, do you then get up, and proceed to throw yourself down the entire staircase? And everybody in the meeting ruefully answered "Yeeess...". I know I've thrown myself down more than one staircase in my life, figuratively speaking.

But so far, I've always eventually picked myself up from the heap at the foot of the stairs, and begun the ascent once again. And in reaching my weight goal, I feel like I've arrived at a landing. I can hang out here for a while - the view's not bad...

Below me is where I've come from. The "fat jeans" that were getting snug on me before I joined WW. The empty bags of candy stashed in drawers and the bottom of the trash. Feeling self-conscious and uncomfortable about my appearance. Feeling tired, listless, and depressed.
I hope I never have to fall down that entire flight of stairs again. Because I don't want to go back there. I don't want to feel that way ever again. Although should I find myself at the bottom of the stairs once more, I know what to to. That's right: start climbing. Because (say it with me, people), it's about progress, not perfection.

While I was climbing this particular flight of stairs, there were times when my Ultimate Weight Goal seemed like the top of the staircase. The brass ring. The finishing line. Now that I'm standing here, I can see that the stairs go on... flights upon flights... kinda like the moving staircases of Hogwarts.

And I'm excited to continue the climb. I know some of the things I'm climbing towards: increased fitness, mainly in the area of core strength and improved muscle tone. Finishing a half marathon. Getting into those hot black leather pants. As well as some things that aren't related to the physical side of me: seeking employment at Weight Watchers, continuing to be a role model for my kids, and striving to create the life for myself and them that I see in my mind's eye.

I am now officially in my six-week maintenance phase of Weight Watchers. I'm sure it'll be an adjustment. After being so intent on losing weight all this time, I now have to focus on NOT losing. I'm going to try to do it by continuing my workouts and increasing my portions slightly. There's going to be a candy bar here and there. But rest assured, I am done with hiding the wrappers!

Falling off the wagon

My brother-in-law Kenny is a recovering alcoholic. He's been sober for a little over 8 years now (his AA birthday is in late September). I have seen Kenny at his worst, and for the last eight years, I've gotten to witness his restoration to a kind, loving man of faith and conviction. He has a self-awareness about him now that I both admire and relate to.

Kenny spent his whole life numbing out. Hiding from life. Running from pain and problems. Making excuses. And then he decided to stop running. Feel his feelings. Deal with his problems. And write his own script for the rest of his life. That doesn't mean he's got a perfect life now - even though he's in a loving relationship and about to become a father for the first time - but it means he's found better ways to deal with the imperfections and frustrations.

Last time I saw Kenny, he was telling me about a situation when he felt frustrated and impatient. And how, now that he's aware of his feelings, he can choose how to react. Kenny chose to calmly suggest a compromise.

I hope Kenny never relapses. But if he does, I know he can get back on the wagon and reclaim his sobriety. Because he KNOWS now. And once you KNOW, once you've learned to look beyond your default behaviors to the underlying emotions and issues, you can't go back to not knowing. And if you know, you have the power to make a choice. The obligation to make a choice. And the awareness that NOT choosing is in itself a choice.

For about three weeks in December, I was off my own wagon. The Weight Watchers, healthy eating, healthy living, exercising wagon. As always, there are underlying issues. There are some major changes about to occur in my life, and I'm scared. And as always, I tend to cover up the underlying issues with superficial issues, like an insanely demanding work schedule, and a trip that took me out of my controlled environment. And as always, I turned to candy and junk food to soothe, destress, and reward myself.

But I'm back on the wagon now. Because I know. And once you know, you have the power.

On being a role model

I have a daughter. She is smart, funny, and heartbreakingly beautiful. She turns thirteen this year, but looks and acts like sixteen. A mature, level-headed sixteen. Lately, I've come to realize something I never reflected on before: my daughter cares how I look, dress, and carry myself. My appearance is a reflection on her, in her eyes and in those of her peers.

Parents of teenagers know that they are put on this earth solely to embarrass and mortify their children in public. But if I'm going to embarrass my daughter, let it not be because she's ashamed that I'm overweight, or dressed like a slob.

She hates it when I show up somewhere to pick her up dressed in my work clothes (paint-stained overalls, ditto t-shirt, no makeup, hair in a ponytail under a baseball cap). Sometimes, it can't be helped. We've talked about it, and she understands that I work hard so that she can have and do all the things she has and does. But when I can, and most times I can, I do make an effort to look nice for her. I want her to be proud of me, because I want her to want to be like me.

I have been on this Weight Watchers journey, complete with exercise and other lifestyle changes, for over 7 months now. And I have a feeling this time it's gonna stick. Because I have a young girl watching me, emulating me. She comes with me to the gym. Side by side, we run a 5K on the treadmill, all the while discussing healthy eating habits, fitness goals, and body image.

She watches me control my portions, and keep the fruit bowl full of appealing snack choices. She watches me allow myself treats and indulgences, all balanced by exercise and plenty of sleep. I hope she sees how much better I feel about myself, how much better I feel physically, and how I take pride in what my body can do (like run 10 miles!). I hope she sees that I allow myself the time to work out, the healthy food, and the cute black skinny jeans in a size 4. I'm important to me, is the message I want to send. I'm important to me, and you're important to you. Never let anybody marginalize you, put you down, or tell you what you aren't, can't, or don't deserve.

We've talked about bad habits and self-destructive patterns too. Her father and I were separated for most of 2007. It was a hard year on all of us. My daughter and I both used food as a coping tool. We both gained weight. And she's aware of it, even though she was barely ten years old. I hope that, having come out on the other side, we've both learned something valuable as a result.

Did I mention my daughter is beautiful? And that she looks about sixteen? When she puts on her hiphugger jeans and a low-cut top, it's like a cold hand squeezing my heart. I fear for her, for the power she has, of which she's only just becoming aware. It's a jungle out there, baby girl. How can I prepare you for it?

I don't know for sure, but I think it has to do with confidence. Pride in yourself. Respect for your own body. My daughter is learning all of that. And the thing that humbles me most, is that she's learning it all from me.