I *Heart* Burlington, Vermont

I loved Burlington the minute I laid eyes on it as I crossed Lake Champlain in a ferry. It’s a lovely and clean town with beautiful old buildings and a fabulous seafood restaurant near the wharf where I had the best mussels ever. And now I have even more reason to love it. I read this morning on CNN that it’s been named the healthiest city in the U.S.

How appropriate considering the only time I’ve been in Burlington was during the vacation that set me on the path of better health.

It was September 2004, a few months before I joined Weight Watchers, and I weighed 300 pounds. Larry and I hadn’t been on a vacation in years, partly because I was busy with my antique store but mostly because I didn’t like to travel very far from home. I lived with a lot of inner demons when I was morbidly obese which made me prone to panic and anxiety. But the times were changing and I was getting restless. I missed my freedom and no longer wanted to feel stuck in my body and mind, so I agreed to a vacation.

We chose the Adirondacks because Larry wanted me to see the high peaks he calls his spiritual home. Whiteface Mountain was the site of the downhill ski competition during the 1980 Olympics in Lake Placid. Unlike most of the peaks that required visitor to hike to the peak, Whiteface has a five-mile road called the Veterans Memorial Highway that leads to the summit. Given I was in no shape to hike 50 yards let alone 4,600 feet, we chose to drive up Whiteface.

I’ve always been afraid of heights to the point of feeling dizzy and physically ill looking down from anywhere higher than a third-story building. It didn’t occur to me as we were driving up the mountain that we were going to a place where the vegetation was sparse and you can see Canada 100 miles away.

On the last curve of Veterans Memorial Highway is the entrance to the parking lot which is the entrance to the summit. When we turned that corner, the view hit me like a two by four. Even though I was safe inside the Jeep, I felt like some uncontrollable force would open the door and propel me into the atmosphere.

“I have to get off this mountain!” I cried.

There were cars driving up behind us, a parking lot attendant ahead of us, and tourists mulling about taking photos. I had to choose which fear I feared most: freaking out and drawing attention to obese me in the Jeep Cherokee or being 4,600 feet in the air.

“Do you want me to park or drive back to the bottom?” Larry asked after he paid the attendant.

I had to think for a minute. I knew how eager Larry was to show me the view and I already felt guilty for being too large to fit in the fishing boat the day before or to go on a simple hike without my back giving out. The least I could do was sit on top of this mountain and try to figure out what it was he wanted me to see.

Larry parked the Jeep. I opened one eye and looked around. I opened my door and put one foot on the ground. The sun was bright, the air was clean and warm, and my head felt steadier. I got out of the Jeep and we walked to the middle of the parking lot.

“Wow,” I said, amazed that I was so calm. “It’s really beautiful up here.” Larry just smiled.

I walked a little closer to the 3-foot stone wall, the only thing separating me from the bottom of the mountain. My body started buzzing a little, but I breathed evenly and told myself I wasn’t going to suddenly lose my mind and jump over the edge.

My courage was rewarded with a breathtaking view of Lake Placid to the west, Lake Champlain to the east and Canada to the north.

“Oh my,” I said, looking out into the valley.

Larry and I walked to the granite castle at the end of the parking lot where I did something even more unimaginable than looking over a mountain’s edge. I asked Larry to take a photo of me standing below the sign that read, “Whiteface Castle, El. 4602’”. I’m not sure who was more surprised – Larry or me.
I wrapped my flannel shirt around my waist thinking that would make me look smaller, and posed with my hand to my mouth in mock fear.

Three years later, that photo was broadcast worldwide on the Oprah Winfrey Show.

Funny how, when we learn to trust our inner selves a little, our true natures can shine through. That vacation was the best gift I ever gave myself. I was glad to be reminded of that this morning. Thanks, Burlington!

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Stuff That Won’t Be In The Book – Part 3

Lynn’s Helpful Hint of the Day: Tea tastes much better if you clean out your teapot more than, oh, say, EVER. Not much grosses me out, but the black, yes BLACK, stuff that clung to the paper towel when I reached in and wiped around the interior of the pot made me gag worse than one of Claire’s explosive poopies. Word. Clean out your teapot.

I decided not to space out book reject parts two and three with a blog in between because this section reads like a blog I’d write anyway. In the second installment, I got married and was 215 pounds by our first anniversary. Here’s what happened next:

Part of the gain came from an underactive thyroid that wouldn’t be diagnosed for another year. Most of it was self-induced. At the paper, we ordered in lunch two or three times a week. My usuals were a tuna sub smothered in mayonnaise (with a side of baked Lays and unsweetened iced tea); a vegetable stromboli swimming in olive oil and a side of garlic cheese bread (only one slice, though. I shared the other piece); or a Wendy’s chicken salad with an entire packet of light dressing and a baked potato with extra reduced-fat sour cream. When I wanted to eat “healthy,” I walked a block down the street to the coffee shop for a cheese sandwich with extra lettuce, sprouts and tomatoes between two large pieces of homemade whole wheat bread. I’d order a large coffee, too, and dump a quarter cup of half and half in it and called it a serving of dairy.

Losing weight became urgent in the fall of 1999 when my blood pressure measured 140/110. I’d had high blood pressure for 14 years, regardless of what I weighed, and was on medication. During those years, I watched my sodium intake, yet I overate on a regular basis, causing my heart to work overtime to digest excessive amounts of fat and carbohydrates. I was often flushed and full after a meal, not understanding the toll all that food was taking on my blood vessels and internal organs.

My doctor upped the strength of my medication and gently suggested I lose weight. Surprisingly I didn’t recoil. Her advice didn’t feel like a personal attack for the very reason I didn’t think much about losing weight on my own: life was good. For once, losing weight wouldn’t be some kind of revenge against myself. Instead, I welcomed the challenge as the grounded, happy person I was.

I researched diets online and found the DASH (Dietary Approaches to Stop Hypertension) diet, which was not popularized in the mainstream at the time. DASH was similar to the old Weight Watchers exchange program that I followed militantly in 1987, and since it felt familiar and, more importantly, was structured and easy to follow, I decided it was the best way to get to 150 pounds.

I created a three-ring binder in which I filed the DASH diet information as well as pictures of exercises I cut out of magazines. On the cover I taped three photos of myself from the time I weighed 138 pounds for five minutes back in 1990. One of the photos was of me drowning in the size 20 pink dress I wore when I married Jason (husband #2) in 1985. I was thinking, as I smiled for the camera, how lucky I was that I’d finally tamed the obesity demon and was residing in the land of the thin. I threw the dress away after the photo was taken, believing I could discard a painful and obese past just by tossing a dress in the garbage.

Me at 139 in 1990 before I got rid of the '80s 'do.

I shook my head as I put the photo in the binder. How smug I’d been. This time was different. I was going to lose weight and keep it off because I was married to the right person, my kids were happy, I liked my job, and had no issues to deal with. The past was behind me and I was enjoying life despite being obese again, so things would only get better the smaller I got.

I stocked up on healthy foods and immersed myself in DASH on October 12, 1999. I religiously marked off every fruit, vegetable, protein, carb and fat I ate immediately after I ate it. When I wanted a snack, I carefully measured two teaspoons of I Can’t Believe It’s Not Butter Light and poured it over air-popped popcorn. On the days I completed three sets of sit-ups, leg lifts and bicep curls while watching “Donny and Marie,” I’d stand over the sink and eat a half a can of water-packed tuna and a dry Wasa cracker. By December 12, I’d lost 25 pounds. Only 40 more to go.

But (and there’s always a but) if losing weight is like walking and emotional challenges are like chewing gum, I soon remembered that I didn’t do both well at the same time. Despite my best efforts to balance a diet and the rest of my life, I was blindsided by my daughter’s school project.

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Stuff That Won’t Be In The Book – Part 2

Is it wrong that I craved black bean soup for breakfast? I was going to have it last night for dinner, but butternut squash and a Boca burger got in the way, so I threw it in the fridge for lunch today. Only, I woke up really hungry for bean soup. I hope it doesn’t wait until I’m having my tooth filled this afternoon to reach my nether regions, if you know what I mean.

Anyhoo…let’s get on to Part 2. Thanks for all your positive comments about the first story. I really appreciate your feedback. For those of you new to my blog, an explanation:

I’ve done a lot of writing the last six months and after restructuring and rethinking the angle of my book, there are several stories that will end up on the cutting room floor. Before they do, I thought I’d share some of them here.

The book is largely about how I lived life at all my various weights. Some of the stories I’ll share here will be condensed or referred to in the book, so this is my chance to expand on the details a little more.

In the first installment, I left you with the surprise goodnight kiss. Here’s what happened next:

Eighteen months later, on a hot, humid June night, Larry surprised me again.

I was pounding out a features story on my computer in the air-conditioned upstairs of our house when he knocked on the door and asked if he could come in. He said he needed to talk. I knew that line. It always meant there was a financial issue we had to work out. He probably wanted to talk about the car.

My 1987 Chevy Cavalier needed a new transmission and I’d been reluctant to fix it because I could barely pay for food, insurance, the kids’ school lunches, clothes and my wardrobe (now in a larger size) on a journalist’s salary, which in Clarion meant $14,000 a year for 50-plus hours a week of writing, driving and pulling out my hair.

I wrote in the newsroom and at home. I drove everywhere in the county and took countless photos of school art projects and music festivals. I interviewed people with profound stories to tell and people who grew freakishly large pumpkins and zucchinis. At the end of the day, I had just enough energy to write one last story but not enough to talk about money. It made my stomach upset, and it was already in a funk because I’d eaten, as usual, too much of whatever I’d made for dinner, and the prescription strength Zantac hadn’t kicked in yet.

I’d stopped weighing myself at home and I never looked when I stepped on the scale every six months at the doctor’s office. I assumed I was at or past 200 pounds by how quickly 80 degrees made me sweat and the fact that I no longer tucked. All my shirts were worn outside my pants and skirts again. I was back in “If you hide it, it’s not there” mode, but not because I was sensitive about my body image. I was OK looking the way I looked because life was good. I had a permanent roof over my head; my girls were happy, thriving teenagers; and I was in love with a solid guy whose life was devoid of drama, although he worried about money a lot more than I did.

“Come on in,” I sighed. I saved the document, and sat down next to Larry on the futon.

“Remember last month when you came home from church on Mother’s Day,” he said, “and you asked me what our future looked like, if we were just playing house or if we were going to get serious?”

Hunh? Get serious about what? A car?

“Well, I did a lot of thinking about that,” he continued as he reached in his pocket and took out a small black box, “and I’d like to know, would you marry me?”

I’m a writer and a mother. I’m never without words. Then again, I’d never been proposed to. I’d been married three times but never asked. It was always assumed. Engagements were like business arrangements. One of us would say, “I suppose we should, you know, get married.” To which the other would reply, “Yes, I guess that’s the next logical move.”

I didn’t know what to say. My mind was prepared to talk about money. Instead, I was sitting on a futon and wearing a sweaty tank top and elastic-band shorts and being handed a little box with a sparkling pear-shaped diamond ring inside.

“Oh, Larry, it’s beautiful!” was what I managed to get out.

He took the ring out of the box and put it on my finger.

“It’s just beautiful,” I stammered again, staring at my finger. “I love it. It’s so pretty.”

I looked at Larry and he was beaming. I smiled back.

“I thought you wanted to talk about my stupid car again!” I said and smacked him on the thigh. Then I looked at my finger again. “Wow. It’s really pretty.”

Larry let me sit there for another minute with my jaw on the floor before he cleared his throat “Lynn?" he said. "You haven’t answered my question.”

“Hunh?” I looked at him for a second when finally my brain leaped back into my body. “Oh my gosh, I haven’t, have I? Yes, yes, of course I’ll marry you!”

I threw my arms around his neck and peeked again at the ring behind his back. Then we called my parents, told the girls and set a date. We would be married October 3.

By the end of September, we had the place, a preacher, the wine, the food, and an RSVP’d guest list of 54 friends and family members. The only thing missing was my dress.

While being married didn’t scare me, getting married did. In all the excitement, I forgot about the part where 54 people and Larry would be watching me and taking pictures. Even on my best calorie-reduced diet, I couldn’t lose 30 pounds in a week and no amount of industrial strength spandex could make 200 pounds look like 170. I paged through Lane Bryant and Roamans catalogs hoping to find something that would drape and hide while still signifying that I was the bride and not the matronly grandmother. Unfortunately, the models in these plus-size catalogs are so thin they wouldn’t really fit in the clothes they’re selling without alterations. I knew there was no way the cocktail dresses on the leggy brunette and the lanky blond would look the same on my 5’5”, 200-pound frame. I couldn’t take a chance on something I didn’t actually see on me first, so a few days before the wedding, I went shopping in a real mall. I hadn’t gone shopping since I busted out of size 14s because it wasn’t fun shopping for clothes that covered me up.

I shopped alone, and for two hours I tried on skirts, pants, dresses, and tops, squeezed into body shapers, and poured the “girls” into industrial strength bras, all under unforgiving fluorescent lights. Flushed and frustrated and cursing myself for ignoring this latest weight gain, I settled on a long black skirt with a small-link gold chain belt and matching black jacket in size 18. It fit a little big, but in my eyes it gave the illusion that I was smaller. I tried on lace-up boots with 3-inch heels, but they hurt my toes and would make me taller than Larry, and God knows I didn’t want to stick out any more than I knew I would. I bought black flats instead.

It rained and I didn’t like the way my stylist curled my hair, but on our wedding day, I was more happy than insecure. I reminded myself during the champagne toast that Larry met the 140-pound me, dated the 180-pound me and married the 200-pound me. A few times during the day, my size reminded me of the albatross it was, causing small pangs of self-consciousness any time someone said, “I want a picture!” Pangs that felt like I was being pricked with a needle along my spine. The script in my head told me that what I looked like that day would forever be a part of our family’s photo albums, so with every flash I cringed a little. But at least I was smiling, and for the most part I meant it.

Within a few days the out-of-town guests were gone and life was back to normal. The memory of the self-consciousness and the prickly feeling of being photographed faded. Once in awhile I thought about losing weight, but life was sane and in sync. I was loved and accepted for who I was. Losing weight didn’t seem urgent. Neither did not gaining. By our one-year anniversary I weighed 215 pounds.

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Omega-3: How to Get It, What to Avoid

In the most recent edition of Health magazine, there was a small blurb on the potential danger of eating tilapia. Before I became a vegetarian, I ate tilapia. A LOT of tilapia, mostly because it was cheap. The taste was OK, too, but I liked the price tag more than anything.

The article, “Wake Forest researchers say popular fish contains potentially dangerous fatty acid combination,” makes a compelling argument against eating tilapia if you have “heart disease, arthritis, asthma and other allergic and auto-immune diseases that are particularly vulnerable to an ‘exaggerated inflammatory response.’ Inflammation is known to cause damage to blood vessels, the heart, lung and joint tissues, skin, and the digestive tract.”

As you know, I have severe degenerative arthritis (That’s what my ortho docs keep calling it, but it seems redundant to me. Isn’t simply “arthritis” enough to put a wince in your eye? Does it have to be “severe” and “degenerative,” too? It’s like salt in a wound. Yeah, I get the picture, doc. It ain’t good.) Anyway, as a person with arthritis and who knows many, many other people with arthritis, I try to stay on top of the latest science involving arthritis pain and prevention, and this article is another hammer in the toolbox, so to speak.

But there’s a disturbing catch-22 in all this information, that has to do with what I said about the price of tilapia. It’s cheap. “This ability to feed the fish inexpensive foods, together with their capacity to grow under almost any condition, keeps the market price for the fish so low that it is rapidly becoming a staple in low-income diets.”

So yet again, people with the least access to healthy food are getting screwed. “Eat more fish!” they hear health professionals say. And so they do. Only it’s not going to help them with their heart disease, arthritis or other ailments because of the fish’s lop-sided combination of omega-3 and omega-6. It can potentially hurt them.

In a Mayo Clinic article, sent to me by my blogging partner, Barbara Berkeley: “Omega-3 in fish. How eating fish helps your heart,” salmon and trout have a much better omega-3 record, but both are more expensive. What to do? Perhaps flaxseed is a less-expensive alternative to fish.

Dr. Dean Ornish, a vegetarian, said this about omega-3s in an interview with PBS Frontline (a very good in-depth interview if you have a few minutes to read it): “The omega-3 fatty acids, for example, can reduce sudden cardiac death by 50 to 80 percent. My mentor when I was doing my training at Mass. General, Dr. Alexander Leaf, discovered this 20 years ago. Just 3 grams a day of fish oil or flaxseed oil can reduce sudden cardiac death by 50 to 80 percent and lower your triglycerides, [it] can reduce inflammation of arthritis, many other benefits. But you don't need more than that. Just a little can provide what you need without getting too much, so you can get the benefits without getting too many calories.”

Sounds good. But will people who need to hear this message the most get the message from the medical community? My fingers are crossed.

Back to arthritis for a minute, while I’m all for the cardiovascular benefits of omega-3, my immediate priority is reducing inflammation of arthritis any way I can. So I add ground flaxseed to many kinds of foods. (My favorite? Sugar-free chocolate pudding, of course.). I’ve been using flaxseed for almost a year in conjunction with exercise, Synvisc injections, massage, chiropractic and weight management to help control my arthritis pain and inflammation. I can’t say for sure it works, but it doesn’t seem to be hurting anything, either, so I’ll stick with it.

So my questions today are, do you make a conscious effort to eat foods rich in omega-3 and for what purpose? If you have arthritis, how do you treat the pain and inflammation?

Looking forward to your comments! You always teach me so much.

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Stuff That Won’t Be In The Book – Part 1

I’ve done a lot of writing the last six months and after restructuring and rethinking the angle of my book, there are several stories that will end up on the cutting room floor. Before they do, I thought I’d share some of them here.

The book is largely about how I lived life at all the various weights I’ve weighed in my life. Some of the stories I’ll share here will be condensed or referred to in the book, so this is my chance to expand on the details a little more. I apologize in advance for perhaps boring you with all this, but I promise to only post these stories every other blog, at least for awhile. Thanks for indulging me.

This first story is about how I met my husband, Larry.

I met Larry in 1991 when I weighed 140 pounds. I was our local university’s campus coordinator for Habitat for Humanity. Larry, a biochemistry professor, was one of the group’s faculty advisors. We were friends, nothing more. Both of us were married and he had two young sons. It never crossed our minds that we’d find each other remotely interesting in a romantic way five years later. The only things we had in common were that we attended the same Presbyterian church and liked white wine. Larry was a runner, a scientist and had lived in two foreign countries. I worked out with Cindy Crawford videos once in awhile, had started but not completed a B.A. in English, and lived in three states, including a 3-month stint in South Dakota after I graduated from high school.

I don’t think I even said goodbye to Larry when I left Clarion in 1994 and moved the girls and me back to Minneapolis so I could finish my degree at Augsburg College. I was too busy being divorced, dating a man seven years younger than me, and worrying about weighing 160 pounds. By 1996, the girls missed their stepfather and I was concerned about raising them in an environment in which they had to lock themselves in our apartment from the time they got home from school until I got home from work. Carlene and Cassie had freedom in a small town, where they could ride their bikes and go to the pool and buy candy at the drugstore without being tethered to me like dogs. So we schlepped our stuff back to Clarion and I promised the kids we’d stay this time.

I weighed 180 pounds when I ran into Larry at a downtown coffee shop the Tuesday before Thanksgiving. It was a deadline day at the newspaper. I was the features editor, and I needed a large Mexican Custapec. With cream, of course. The real stuff.

The place was packed. As I stood in line, I saw Larry having coffee with a few colleagues at a table 20 feet away. He had on a Burberry trench coat over a shirt and tie and Lands End dress pants. He still had a runner’s build and most of his hair. I wondered if I should say hello, but before I could decide, Larry looked up and saw me, and the grin on his face said he recognized me, even though I’d gained 20 pounds.

“Lynn!” he exclaimed.

He got up, and in what I thought was a very un-scientist, un-Larry kind of move, he walked into my space and embraced me.

“I saw your byline but thought that couldn’t be the Lynn Haraldson I knew. She moved to Minnesota!”

“Ah, but I moved back,” I said, laughing. His hug felt good. Too good because I recognized that safe and warm, chocolate-pudding feeling you get when you first really like someone, and I was not ready to like someone again.

I’d heard through the grapevine that Larry and his wife were divorced and that she’d returned to her teaching position at a private college in upstate New York. I was sad to hear they’d parted after 15 years. When I told him that, he thanked me but said it was for the best.

“I’m going to Pittsburgh for Thanksgiving,” he said. “Can I call you when I get back?”

“I live on Wood Street,” I replied. “I’m in the book.”

He looked me up and called on Saturday. We made plans for him to come over to my apartment the following Saturday, which he did with two bottles of wine in hand.

He knocked on the door. I cracked it open and asked him if he was allergic to cats.

“No. Why?” he asked. I let him in and our cat ran toward him.

“This is Silas,” I said.

“As in ‘Silas Marner?’” he asked.

What? I thought. This runner scientist guy knows Brit lit?

“Yes, actually. You’ve read the book?” I pressed a little further as I hung up his coat.

“Oh, yeah,” he said. “I’ve read George Eliot, and Jane Austen, too.”

Hmmm. Interesting.

He opened the first bottle of wine and I put on “Tapestry.” He said he liked Carol King, too. This guy was batting a thousand. We sat on the couch and talked about where I’d been and what I’d done, and where he’d been and what he’d done. Before we knew it, it was 3 a.m. and we were both yawning. I walked him to the door and we agreed it was good to get reacquainted. Then, just as he’d done at the coffee shop, he leaned into my space, only this time he kissed me.

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A Post-Election High? Maybe. Or Is It The Weather?

I’m going to bed a little early tonight since I stayed up until 1 a.m. last night/this morning watching election returns and listening to concession and acceptance speeches. No matter which way you float, last night was historic. I stay awake for very few things – I’m pretty wedded to my sleep schedule – but new grandbabies and presidential elections will keep me up.

I was up before 7 a.m., ready for a new day. I ate a half cup of Greek yogurt with some stevia and a plum cut up in the bowl, and two egg whites cooked and stuffed between a Thomas’ lite English muffin and topped with a few slices of tomato and a side of my favorite condiment combo: mustard and ketchup. Simple is best in Lynn World.

I got a little sleepy around 9 a.m. after checking blogs, answering emails and reading more news. But I had put on my workout clothes and I had no excuse. I’m taking Friday off, not today. As I brought my dishes to the kitchen, I walked over a few leaves brought in by the dogs and dug into the carpet as well as remnants from last night’s popcorn love fest with the puppies. (Once in awhile I make a bag and throw it out to them. It’s the little things in life, you know?)

Hmmmm…maybe a quick sweep would warm me up. I brought the vacuum out and did a quick run-through in the kitchen, dining room and living room, stretching the cord as far as I could to reach the few leaves in the space between the stairs and bathroom. God forbid I actually unplug the cord and move it closer. The. Leaves. Were. Right. There. If. Only. I. Could….Reach……

On my way back to the vacuum storage space, I walked past the front door and saw the disarray of leaves and dog hair on the porch and decided I should do a quick once-over of the Astroturf. I was feeling energized, so I spent 10 minutes vacuuming up the the debris of fall. By the time I was done, I was ready for my planned 20 minutes of cardio and 50 minutes of strength training.

I got on the bike, determined to do 10 minutes followed by 10 on the elliptical. Funny thing, though….after 10 minutes I wanted to do another five minutes. And then another few minutes. Afterwards, I got on the elliptical, and 20 intense minutes later I thought, ‘What the…?’ I was drenched in sweat and feeling awesome. I was pumped.

On to the lifting. Every muscle, tendon, sweat gland, and brain cell fell into perfect symmetry as I made my way through an hour of lifting this and moving that.

My question is: why did this happen? Was this an emotional response to the election or just me feeling good on a rare 65-degree November day? I felt light in spirit and body even though the scale hadn’t changed and the same worries I had yesterday followed me into this morning. I decided not to over think it and just let it be what it was. As we all know, finding the energy and enthusiasm to exercise some days means bypassing the immediacy of our thoughts and digging deep into our “it’s what’s best” reserves. Today, though, my body and mind were in perfect synchronicity. That is a rare occurrence for me. My body usually drags my mind kicking and screaming into the first few moments of a workout and then my mind chills and says, “I was with you all along. Really. I was.” Whatever.

I wish you all a good night and a good workout tomorrow. Most of all, though, I wish you peace, both in your body and mind. Balancing all of this isn’t easy. Our dieting or maintenance plan lives side-by-side with the way we spend the rest of our days of family, work, and even presidential elections. Take the gifts your body and mind afford you. Don’t ask questions if you body feels awesome and you just want to move or if your mind is clear and doesn’t question your choice of food or movement. This is the way life is supposed to be.

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A Year Ago Today….

As many of you know, I write a blog about weight maintenance called Refuse to Regain with my blogging partner, Dr. Barbara Berkeley. Barbara’s book, Refuse to Regain: 12 Tough Rules to Maintain the Body You've Earned, was published last week and I thought it fitting that I received my copy today, on the one-year anniversary of my life-changing trip to Chicago – the day I wandered almost over my head into three months of media craziness and a year of challenges I never thought I had the strength to face and opportunities I never thought possible.

It’s fitting because as a writer, I’ve seen my byline in magazines, newspapers and online, but never in a book…until today. I wrote the foreword for Refuse to Regain, and seeing my byline after the foreword was almost as thrilling as meeting Oprah. Fitting because had I not been on "Oprah," I might not have met Barbara. Fitting because a year ago, I’m not sure I could have written the foreword. Not because in it I refer to a particular moment on the Oprah show, but because I’m a stronger, more confident person today, thanks mostly to all the people I’ve met this last year and continue to meet in person, in my blogs, other places on the ‘net. People who challenge me, teach me, encourage me, and, yes, even piss me off sometimes.

I blogged about my Oprah experience, if you want to read about it. There are a few photos there, too. I went back to read it again for the first time in a year and even now it’s still hard to believe it actually happened, even though I wear the boots every chance I get. Not the jeans so much. Or the belt. …sigh… I’m really not en vogue, not by any stretch of the imagination. My apologies to everyone who’s tried to instruct me this year in the ways of fashion.

Anyway, it’s what happened next that guided my life to where it is now. As I wrote after the show aired at the end of November:

“I’ve said all along that if my weight-loss story can inspire just one person to take control of their weight and fitness, then telling it in any way I can is worth it. I’m merely paying a debt. I’m paying back the people who encouraged me and helped me reach my own goals. If I’ve inspired someone to lose weight, it’s because I was inspired to lose weight by someone else who lost weight.

“Losing weight, while a solitary physical act, does not have to take place in a vacuum. We all have questions, we all have doubts, we all have victories, both on and off the scale, that we want to celebrate with other people who ‘get it.’ The people who inspired me also answered my questions, calmed my doubts, and celebrated with me. It’s my turn to do the same for others. Thus the challenge.”

This led me to begin this blog, Lynn’s Weigh. Then, after being featured on CNN’s FitNation and being “found” by Barbara, we started the Refuse to Regain blog. What’s funny, though, is that I still get far more inspiration, feedback and learning tools from readers and other bloggers I’ve met this year than I can ever give in return. So a hearty thank you to all of you for your insightful gifts.

Chicago last year was the mother of all trips. Seeing my byline in a book today was the mother of all head rushes. That is, until I see my name as the author on the cover of my own book J Which reminds me, I owe that book some Lynn time today, so I best get to it. I confess, though, I’d rather hang out here on the computer with you guys.

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