Working title...

I couldn’t decide on a title so here are a few working ones:

• ·         The Fat Girls Guide to not looking (and feeling) like a piece of garbage.
• ·         A How-To guide for the girl that emotionally eats
• ·         Becoming the girl I hate
• ·         Is life even fun without food?

First let me just recap my Grit Cycle class this morning at 7AM. *Note: this would have never happened and I would have laughed at you (then smacked you) if you told me to take this class. I walk in and immediately say out loud to my impossibly skinny and beautiful younger sister (who works really fucking hard at it and basically eats nothing and is sober so count me out right there) “Jesus, these people are so intense and like lovvvve to cycle, oh god (eye rolls for days)." I thought the Costa Mesa location and the title “Grit Cycle” might be filled with more salt of the earth people if you will-- a little less Newport Beach and certainly not “Soul Cycle.” I don’t need anyone telling me to “reach your dreams!” and “believe in yourself!” at 7am. I don’t start believing in myself until at least 9 thank you very much! I need loud music and darkness. And I got that at Grit.

We went to our bikes and I noticed the male instructor is sitting next to what looks like a runway model up in the front showing everyone what to do. Her name, we later learn, is Chanel – of course it is. Her HAIR WAS DOWN, she was wearing just a sports bra (which those of you who know me know this is a cardinal sin) not a drop of sweat while I’m over here in a Michael Phelps Olympic-size pool of sweat around my drowning bike—mind you the class has not started yet.

At one point the lights were turned down low and I looked up and everything looked super blurry and I thought this is it, I’m gonna faint and my upper body is going to collapse over the side of my bike while my feet are still clipped in and I’ll look like a fat version of those blow up “Air Dancers” at the car dealership when they get deflated. I then realized it was just the room steaming up and there was fog on the mirror, I was fine, I’m not dying (Fuck, that means I need to keep pedaling.)

The music was bumping (yah I said bumping) and Chanel was entrancing me with her abs and I found myself working harder and really pushing myself. Also, the fact that this class was $22 I was going to get my money’s worth and work my legs into oblivion. For those of you who say “it’s like being in a club” I would say that’s a HARD NO and it would be like a club if you enjoy clubs where you want to die and you’re in a lot of pain and there’s no drinking or dancing. Thank god for those brief moments in between death where they turn the lights all the way off so you can be alone in your shame while you frantically breathe for 30 seconds and look around the room looking for a sane friend who understands this is totally nuts right—only no one is that friend. And you’re alone again.

 Despite all of it I have to say I left that class feeling strong as fuck and I’m not sure if it was the class or the Stumptown cold brew I treated myself to after that has me fucking AMPED (as I’m furiously typing this and tapping my feet and listening to Pandora dubstep and basically losing my miiiiind) I think it’s more of the fact that I’m doing things out of my comfort zone and you don’t realize how strong your body is, like the fact that I’m still alive truly astounds me.  With that in mind I move on to my next topic. One I hold near and dear to my heart. Food.

Let me begin with a short embarrassing background. I’m the girl who lived for McDonalds. Many of my loved ones knew my standard order: 2 Plain McDoubles (which is a total of 4 horrifying patties for you mathematicians out there) a large fry, a large coke, and maybe a 6 pc chicken nugget depending on how hungover I was, or it could be a well-lit afternoon and I was completely sober, which is even more upsetting to some. I was known to purchase a tub (yes tub) of Cheeto balls at the local CVS, and bacon and egg and cheese bagels were my go-to “snack.” My meals consisted of bread and cheese and the colors were usually white, yellow, orange or a combination of all three.  A rare glimpse into my life is an unforgettable tale of me heading to the drive thru of one said McDonald’s where the employee commented, “you come here a lot, and you’re always wearing black.” I would like to say that that is where it all stopped, but I cannot. The only thing that changed was which location I began to frequent.

One evening I literally woke up at 3AM (Satan’s hour apparently) It could have been my clogged arteries but my heart was pounding and I started to cry. I just wasn’t happy anymore, it wasn’t funny anymore and I didn’t feel good in my body. I called an angel from heaven, a nutritionist and friend Heather and just cried. I said, I will be your toughest client, I hate salads and anything with vegetables, I eat for comfort and celebration and sadness and food is my friend. It’s what I look forward to. HELP! God bless her for the rest of eternity. This woman taught (and is still teaching) me a million things and one of which is how to change the way I think about food and the way I was living. I really was trapped in a prison of denial and shielding myself from the dirty awful truth that it was time for a change.  I would tell myself over and over that donut is worth being fat. That pint of ice cream was the quickest form of instant gratification. Nothing could compare to those first few bites.

UNTIL I tried this new lifestyle-- I too hate the word lifestyle. I should just say new way of living. I nevvvvvvvver would have thought I would be a basic bitch at a cycle class looking forward to making my protein style burger and parsnip fries and an Epsom salt bath on a Friday night. But I am. That’s me now. Without realizing it I started to work through shit without the crutch of food. What is there to look forward to if not a greasy meal that made me feel like shit immediately after shoveling it in my mouth? I had to do some deep searching and sit quietly with my own horrific thoughts and be honest with myself. What do I want? Don’t I deserve to feel good in my own skin? Can I still be funny and fun and not “that girl” who has an awful confusing “gluten-free” order at a restaurant. I always hated that girl, and I’m now starting to realize that that girl is fucking smart because she’s able to order what she wants – eat things that taste good but still fit into pants and look good in a bikini and not be self-conscious. I want to be that girl! And I’m becoming that girl. Also what’s scary is, and I’m misquoting it for sure but I read somewhere when we become physically smaller we are actually more visible to those around us. I am on display and getting compliments is weird and tricky for me.  I still have a long way to go so any little comments I just say thanks and move on quickly because I don’t want to give up and I want to keep going! Also, this time around I’m focused on how I feel, not what I look like. Which you hear a million times a day from idiots like me but it doesn’t quite sink in until you actually have energy, and your skin is glowing and people start to just notice little changes.

And haters gonna hate but one thing I can say, and I’m quoting Kathryn Edwards from the Real Housewives of Beverly Hills, “it’s hard work bitch.” At least 8 times a day I have to say “no thanks” or “I’m good.” And you will get comments from your friends, thank god I have good ones who were mainly already all healthy anyway and I really am the last one to show up to this health kick party. But of course coming from the girl who lived on quesadillas it’s going to sound strange when I ask our server if they have any organic red wine.  But soon people start to cheer you on and say good job and I’m so proud of you. And those are the comments I live for and I say them to myself every morning. Yes, I have to bring meals to work I have to cook and do lots of dishes and I do something physical evvvvery day. Like even when I want to die and sit on my ass there’s some stupid voice now telling me you will sleep so much better and feel so much better and it’s a beautiful day even if it’s just a 30 min walk. FUCK THAT VOICE, we have a love/hate relationship.  But in the end, and it’s so not the end, I gave myself a year to test out this whole, “is life really a lot better when you eat healthy and work out and take care of yourself” craze. So far it really is. (and I'm still catching myself saying "gross" even after writing that sentence, but it really is so shut up Tanya, embrace it you gorgeous fool!)