Are You Getting It? Really Getting It?

I didn’t do it to be on “Oprah”. I didn’t do it to get in “People” magazine. I didn’t even do it for my husband or my kids or for all the other folks who love me.

I did it for me.

There are a lot more of you reading my blog these days (Welcome!) and so I thought I’d offer a quick primer (or refresher) to what led to and sustains me in my weight-loss/maintenance journey.

The top three questions I get asked when people find out I lost 170 pounds are: 1) How did you get started? 2) Do you have excess or loose skin? and 3) How did you/do you stay on plan?

I answered question 2 here: “Closer to Accepting the Flabby Bits”.

But I think the more important questions are 1 and 3. And the answer to 3 stems from my answer to 1.

In 2005, I didn’t understand how vital self love and appreciation are in successful weight-loss. “Successful” being the operative word. All the times before, I lost for someone or something else: a guy, a wedding, or to punish myself. But this last time, I’d crossed a threshold, and a two-week starvation diet wasn’t going to cure my ills. I was on the cusp of all kinds of diseases. Scary diseases. And if I didn’t do something to lose weight, I would further jeopardize my health.

Watching the rerun of “Oprah” today, I was transported to 2004. To the day I bought Bob Greene’s* book, “Get With The Program!” The book that finally got me asking: Was I worth one less helping of mashed potatoes? Worth giving up that bag of sunflower seeds every night? Worth waking up out of my food fog and getting real about how my weight was hindering my life?

The answer was within, and within was a scary place.

I hated Bob for a few weeks as I journaled how I felt emotionally about…stuff. Stuff. Lots of stuff. But the more I wrote, the more I realized (AHA!) that weight was about me…ME!...and not everyone and everything else in my life. I had to occupy the center of my life in order to be in the center of my weight loss.

So the answer to question #1 is: The core of your intent to lose weight must be YOU. YOUR health. YOUR future. YOUR peace of mind. Once you believe that you are worth every moment you will spend cooking, eating, and living a more healthy lifestyle, you will succeed. It’s only through that true, heart-felt belief in yourself that you’ll “get it.” That no matter what life throws at you, you won’t let food or excuses dominate your life.

Sure, your eyes may get diverted (dessert tray, anyone?). You might give in a time or ten to “just one more bite.” But once you “get it” – and to answer question #3 – you’ll always have your original intent to remind you why you are on your journey.

I stay on plan because I am worth this journey. I am worth the hard work. 300-pound me told me so when she got out a journal and started writing about it.

YOU are worth this journey, too. Dig out a piece of paper and start writing. Why? Because it’s remembering what you thought about and felt and went through during that path to “getting it” – really committing yourself to yourself – that will sustain you when you get stuck or want to give up or get lost in that fog.

Trust me on this. I have 170 pounds of experience backing me up.
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* When I met Bob Greene on stage on “Oprah” and gave him a big hug (and I feel terrible that I interrupted him during my interview), it felt like my journey had come full circle. I hope one day I get to tell him that in person and to thank him.

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My Oprah Episode To Re-Air Today!

Just a quickie to let you know that I heard from a friend that the Oprah show I was on in Nov. 2007 will re-air again today (Aug. 12).

If you'd like to read about my experience and see a few photos, click here.

I hope you find inspiration, as I did, listening to the awesome stories of weight loss and perseverence of the folks on this show. It was quite a moment for me, but an even greater learning experience that continues to educate me two years later.

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The “Prime” Of My Life

At 8 a.m., I dug a splinter out of the bottom of my left foot. By 4 p.m., the garden was weeded and pruned, the garage was swept, the birdbath was algae-free, the porch plants were watered and the porch was swept, the bathroom rugs were washed, the wireless network was set up, the Jeep was clean (inside and out), my legs were shaved, and the checkbook was balanced.

Clearly the excitement of seeing the bottom of my foot for the first time in 7 weeks started an adrenaline-fueled chain reaction.

Now I’m sitting on the deck with an ice pack on my knee, but it’s worth every minute of today. Plus, it gives me time to think about the close of my 46th year – a year of physical pain, yet perseverance. Still, I won’t be sorry to see the screen door hit its ass on its way out.

I turn 47 on Saturday. I’ll be “camping” (in a cabin) in Cook Forest with my family (including the g-babies!), and my birthday cake will be a s’more. Not sure where we’ll put the candle, but I can’t think of a better way to start my next prime number birthday.

Either by coincidence or the mystery of mathematics, prime number ages have been the most complicatingly life-changing.

19: My daughter was born and my husband died.

23: I divorced a big mistake.

29: My “cougar” year. Although can you really be a cougar at 29? Junior cougar, maybe? Cougar-in-training, perhaps? Whatever, it was a fun year.

41: I started thinking seriously about losing weight. Journaled. Tough but necessary work.

43: 2006. The year of the wedding. Before the deck, before the grandbabies, before goal – things that made me super happy from 44-46 – 43 ranks as one of the best years of my life. By my 43rd birthday, I’d lost 130 pounds and was exercising, my daughter was marrying a great guy, and I was on the path to figuring out who I am.

47: It will be a good year. I can feel it. Even if my knee is swollen like a grapefruit and cowering under a bag of frozen peas.

As my birthday gift to you, I am giving away my copy of “Women, Food and God: An Unexpected Path To Almost Anything” by Geneen Roth. I mentioned it in my blog from a few weeks ago, “Wiggle Your Toes and Breathe.”

I was introduced to mindfulness practice four years ago (prime age 43!), so the book was a good reminder of why I practice. If you’re not familiar with the book, here’s a snippet of the review from Amazon.com: “If you suffer about your relationship with food – you eat too much or too little, think about what you will eat constantly or try not to think about it at all – you can be free. Just look down at your plate. The answers are there. Don't run. Look. Because when we welcome what we most want to avoid, we contact the part of ourselves that is fresh and alive. We touch the life we truly want and evoke divinity itself.”

If you’d like to throw your name in the hat for this book, leave a comment or send me an email at lynnbering@verizon.net, especially if you use Firefox or Safari because it’s nearly impossible to leave a comment on my blog if you use those browsers for some technological reason that is way beyond my understanding. Don’t be afraid to send an email! I promise I won’t spam you. Pinky swear.

I’ll draw a winner next Monday (Aug. 16), when I’m officially my latest prime-number age.

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Not Fried Refried Beans

The first time I made these “refried” beans, I followed the recipe in The Super Foods Rx Diet by Wendy Bazilian and Steven Pratt to a T (a book I ADORE and, honestly, only let me down this one time).

Per the recipe, I soaked the beans in the crockpot the night before, cooked them on low for 10 hours the next day, added the (too short) list of ingredients, mashed the beans with a hand mixer (disastrously frustrating), then took a taste test. Oh. My. God. They were awful. I wanted those 10 hours back, or at least the one I’d spent making that batch of disaster. I hated them so much I actually ranted in my kitchen and wrote across the top (in pencil): “Never make these again! They’re bland and they suck!”

A few weeks went by. I was haunted by those beans, convinced I could make them better. But at that time I was not a recipe strayer, at least not with new recipes. I didn’t trust my instincts because…well…I didn’t think I had cooking instincts. Recipe straying takes confidence, and while I was a good cook within my own tried-and-true recipe arena, I didn’t think I knew enough about cooking to have an opinion.

However, after a few weeks, I really REALLY wanted refried beans and the ones in the can had way too much sodium, thus the reason I attempted to make my own in the first place. I went back to the book, erased what I wrote and instead, challenged myself: “A bit bland. Needs more oomph.”

I bought a couple pounds of dried beans, thought outside the box, and after several experimental batches, came up with this, my modified recipe. 

Lynn’s Not Fried Refried Beans

Yields 2 cups
¼ C equals 50 cal., 0 gms fat, 3.5 gms fiber

8 oz dried pinto beans
2-3 T minced onions (if you like a good strong onion flavor) OR ½ C diced onions OR ½ t onion powder (the diced or the powder will give you a more mild onion flavor)
½ T chili powder
½ t garlic powder
¼ t salt
¼ t cumin
¼ t ground chipotle pepper (optional)
A few shakes of red pepper flakes (optional)

If you remember to soak the beans the night before, do that. But if you’re like me and decide at 3 in the afternoon that you want refried beans for dinner, put them in a pot covered with cold water, bring to a boil, boil for 2 minutes, turn them off and let them sit for an hour.

Drain.

Put the beans back in the pot. If you’re using minced/dried onions or diced onions, throw them in there, too. Refill pot with fresh water. Simmer for 90 minutes or until the beans are very tender. Drain, reserving about ½ cup of the cooking water. (If you forget to do this, no worries. Regular water will work.)

Put the beans in a food processor fitted with the blade. As I mentioned, I used a hand mixer with less than stellar results. But then, I get frustrated easily, so if you’re patient, you will probably have a better experience. You can also mash all this up with a potato masher or fork.

Add the rest of the ingredients to the beans. Process (or mix or mash) for about 30 seconds. Add a ¼ to ½ cup of bean water (or regular water) and process for another minute or so. Check consistency. Mix things around a little with a spatula and process again for another minute or two, adding water if you want them creamier. Check the taste and add whatever you think they need: more salt, chili pepper, whatever. Process again if you need to. Remember, these are YOUR beans and get to make them however you want.

That’s it. Pretty simple, eh?

I think everyone needs something to call our signature food. Something we’re known for. Something people request we bring to a party. My ex-husband made killer spaghetti, and my now husband makes a garlicy scallops dish that, although I’m a vegetarian, would request for my last meal.

My mom makes chocolate chip cookies to die for. Daughter Carlene makes amazing banana bread. Daughter Cassie can do things with lentils that would knock your socks off. They kinda sorta follow a recipe, but they know what ingredients work best for the results they’re looking for, so to duplicate what they do is futile.

How about you? What recipe are you known for?

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On Being Called "Fat"

I’m reading a collection of short stories by Elizabeth Berg, the title of the collection being what lured me: “The Day I Ate Whatever I Wanted (And Other Small Acts of Liberation).” Body weight and self-esteem are themes in several of the stories, but it’s the story “Full Count” that I (unfortunately) can relate to the most.

It’s the story of a pre-teen girl visiting her relatives in North Dakota for the first time in two years. She’s so happy to be there among them, free and innocent. She goes to the lake with her grandfather (whom everyone calls Bampo) and cousins, and after swimming, they all play tag. Janey, the main character, is “it.”

“[Janey] walks over to the bushes, laughing. There they all are, every one of them, including Bampo, crouched in the greenery and peering up at her. ‘I see you,’ she said. ‘Y’all come out of those bushes.’

“A kind of guffaw, and then there is the sound of Michael imitating her, saying in a high voice, ‘Y’all come out of those bushes!’ All the cousins laugh. For a moment, she holds the smile on her face, the bright happiness she was enjoying still inside her. But then Michael comes crashing out of the bushes and walks past her with a look of disgust on his face. ‘Lard ass,’ he mutters.

“She jerks back a breath. Lard ass. What does it mean?...

“She is not a stallion, wild and free. She is a girl whose bangs were cut crookedly last time and whose mother told her to stop complaining. Her teeth are too big and her eyes are too small…She does not have any friends, really. And here, the last, she understands she has gotten fat. She understands the reason for the looks that pass between her mother and her father when she asks for pie, for French fries, for more.”

The story ends with Bampo taking his grandchildren to Dairy Queen. Everyone orders something except Janey. She’s hungry, so hungry that she’s lightheaded, but she orders nothing.

When I was a kid, being called fat was the worst thing I could imagine.

And when it happened, it was.

“Try out for cheerleading with me,” said my friend Robin a few months into 8th grade. “We’ll have fun.”

Robin was one of the lucky ones. She was growing into her body proportionately, and she had long blond hair and perfect skin, too. In Robin’s world, trying out for cheerleading was as natural as breathing. For me, I could think of nothing more humiliating. But I was stuck. I knew if I told Robin no, she might not speak to me for weeks, and that was a fate worse than falling on my big-boned ass during a spread eagle jump.

So I stayed after school every day for two weeks, learning routines with the other 20 girls trying out for the four-person squad. It was the first time I’d competed for anything individually, and despite my emotional passivity, I am inherently competitive. My long legs came in handy, allowing me to jump high, do the splits, and nail a perfect cartwheel. By the time of the actual tryout, I didn’t care if I made the squad or not. In my mind, I was a cheerleader.

The results were announced over the loud speaker during daily announcements the following day. I was in third-period study hall with 30 other students from various grades. The room was quiet as Robin’s sister, a senior-high cheerleader, announced the new members of the junior-high squad. Debbie Megard. Debbie Skorr. Robin Martinson. Lynn Haraldson.

The older students at my table turned and looked at me and my face burned red. They smiled and gave me thumbs up and mouthed “Congrats!” I sat there, guts churning, not sure if what I was feeling was pride or dread. I pictured myself on game days, walking down the halls in my saddle shoes, short skirt, and orange sweater with the letter J on the front. People would know I was agile and spirited and not simply some number on the scale. I dared to think that maybe I wasn’t so awkward. Maybe I wasn’t so big-boned. Maybe I really was normal.

Then in the silence someone said, “Great. We have a fat cheerleader.”

It was Ricky, my sixth-grade boyfriend. His friends snickered. The study hall teacher told them to shut up, but the words were out there. I sat in disgrace, no longer the perky girl with the perfect cartwheel.
I was now a fat cheerleader.

1977, the photo from my yearbook.

I’m on the right with with the sloping bangs (stupid curly hair). That’s Robin on the left.

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Saving For a Rainy Day

Just before I laid down on the massage table yesterday, I noticed my left quad and how defined it has gotten the last few weeks. How hard it is. Strong. While I’m not a fan of doing straight-leg lifts with a 5-pound weight strapped to my ankle, doing them really isn’t that bad. Tough, yes. But not hard.

In fact, this whole recovery, while slower than I expected, is physically much easier than I expected. The only thing that hurts during PT is when my PT bends my knee further than it wants to go and he manipulates my scar to break up the scar tissue. (At least today I just yelped and didn’t cry. Usually I cry a little. Maybe even that part’s getting easier. Maybe.)

When my massage therapist started working on my left leg, she, too, noticed how strong my quad was.

“That didn’t take long,” she said. “It’s a good thing you worked out so much before.”

She’s right. Getting fit was like opening a savings account. My body had enough muscle stored up that I could make a withdrawal for major surgery and a 3+-month recovery period and still have enough muscle mass to spare.

My only complaint (and it’s not really a complaint, just a minor grievance) is that while the scale number hasn’t changed since surgery five weeks ago, my weight has shifted and distributed itself in places I’m not happy about (like around my middle…I’m SUCH an apple). But I still have plenty ‘o muscle and determination left in reserve, so when I’m finally back in full workout mode I’ll put all those parts back where they belong.

Buh-bye puppy belly.

I look forward to the challenge, especially with an improved knee. Where will it take me? How far will I go? I can’t wait to find out!

In the meantime, I walk at 1.7 mph on a treadmill in a tank of water (that's obviously not me in the tank, but the other person is on my PT assistants. Hi, Jill!). I ride a stationary bike with the seat jacked up so the soles of my feet aren’t quite flush with the pedal because I’m at a 100- to 105-degree bend in the left knee. I take stairs one at a time and use my cane when I’m not at home.

Living on my fitness savings, I can drive alone and cook dinner and wash dishes and water the gardens and fill bird feeders.

Looky what else I can do:

I’ve accepted that the work the surgeon did on my knee was major and that I need to be patient with this recovery. But while I may not be as far along as I’d “planned” to be pre-surgery, I’m further along than I would have been at 300 pounds, if a full recovery would have even been possible.

By opening that savings account five years ago, I’ve been able to withdraw not only physical prowess, but confidence, too. I know with all certainty now that I CAN recover from major surgery and maintain my weight. And the best part is that I’ve not drained my account. There’s more than enough still in there to sustain me for the duration of my recovery.

It’s thinking about this savings account that keeps me sane through those teeth-gritting knee bends with my PT. It’s the pain that is helping to heal me so I can build up my savings again, perhaps even surpass the previous balance.

So how’s the balance in your own fitness savings account? Do you have enough saved for a rainy day?

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Me At Any Weight

Digging through my purse has been a favorite pastime of Claire’s since she was six months old. She’d find my compact, open it, and scrape at the powder. Shake the Tic Tacs. Chew on my phone.

What she liked most was to rearrange my wallet. She’d take out the debit cards and the American Express card and the AAA card and the insurance card and the various Hallmark/Dicks/Staples/Giant Eagle store cards and then put them back, usually cramming them into one slot.

Claire hasn’t been through my purse in awhile, although Luca has a time or two. Today, though, she wanted to rummage through it. When she dug out my wallet, she found my driver’s license and said, “That’s you, Grammy!”

What she didn’t know was that behind my current driver’s license was my license from six years ago. I took it out and showed it to her.

“Who’s that person, Grammy?” she asked.

“That was Grammy a long time ago,” I said.

She stared at me for a second, like I’d gone completely nuts.

“No,” she finally said. “That’s not you.”

Some day it will make sense to her. Some day she’ll see photos of me at 300 pounds and recognize her Grammy. Somewhere in my eyes, I suspect. Or my smile.

Within those before photos is a vague yet important resemblance to the me of today. There is energy within them. The spark of a woman who worked hard, dreamed, loved her kids, and was a good person. Claire will see that one day, I’m sure of it.

While it’s often hard to reconcile before and after photos, the only real difference is weight. The real me is always there. Yes, I’ve grown as a person; matured and learned a lot about nutrition and me and why I eat and all that, but deep down – at my very core – I am me at any weight.

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Here are a few more photos from my amazing day with the grandbabies. It was my first solo trip to Pittsburgh in more than five weeks. While I’ve seen Claire and Luca in that time, this was our first real back-to-normal visit. We all needed it.

Playing with Grammy's cane

Luca and me in a self portrait

Me with my Claire Bear

Luca wearing his lunch

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