Did you see this week’s episode of Grey’s Anatomy? I don’t watch that much TV but this is one show I really like and watch consistently. I watched the Beautiful Doom episode on Hulu this afternoon and I actually got mad at the show. Mostly the writers.

I like the character of Meredith, she’s quirky and neurotic but her character is believable for the most part. In this episode Derek is out of town and she has a patient she is saving (who just happened to have the same injuries Lexie had in the plane crash) and passes her daughter around to various doctors and nurses for a full day when the hospital daycare won’t keep her because she has a fever. It became really awkward… not funny awkward but icky awkward and the characters on the show just played along (duh). I’m sure the writers have their reasons for this story line (flashback emotional references to Lexie that sorta failed) and, while I’d like to think saving my life came before anything else for a doctor that wanted to save my life, this episode just made me mad dislike the writers.

Not at Meredith but the writers!  I honestly don’t think Meredith would have chosen to pass her child around for a full day. An hour or so until she figured something out? Probably.

Clearly, the struggle of being a Dr working mommy is tough but it seemed like the writers were trying to inject humor into passing a baby around. It just felt wrong – even for a show that purposely toes the line between serious drama and dry humor. I’m not passing judgement on the scenario because I’ve had my share of work “emergencies” and I have a lifetime reserve of mommy guilt stored up for choices I’ve made.  This is just bad writing that detracted from the other story lines in the episode.

So, I’m calling B.S. on this particular story line.

Didn’t catch the episode? Watch it here……

41%

152

41% is the percentage of body fat on my 4’11 frame (calculated Body Mass Index or BMI). 152 is the number of pounds I weigh today.

 

This is the reality check I got today when I had my first meeting with my personal trainer Matt, at the UFC Gym. Yes, you read that correctly biatches, UFC. Time for some shock and awe and serious never give up ass-kicking. It’s hard to hide numbers like the ones that came out of today but the humiliation and devastation I felt actually brought tears to my eyes. I knew I was in bad shape but somewhere deep inside I think I was hoping the “real” me, the one that I picture in my head, the one that runs long distance races, kills it on the yoga mat, and snowboards like a crazy woman, would show up and shine through. Sadly, that girl has been reduced to some pretty scary numbers.

The good news is that I have committed myself to asking and getting help in order to get control over whatever it is that is keeping me prisoner from who I am, from living the life that I should be living.

How does someone who was “marathon ready” a year and a half ago get to this point?

There isn’t just one specific reason  or event and, while what ultimately put me over the edge was falling and tearing a ligament in my foot about a month before I was to run a marathon, truthfully, I had been living less than healthfully for quite some time. My foot injury took away the one thing holding me together; exercise.  Life stresses, my sons brain surgeries in June and a cross-country move to CA sent me into a tailspin and without exercise my weight fluctuated up and down as I gained and lost weight trying to get back to my “normal” self. I’ve been stuck in a cycle of ick and have not been able to claw my way out of it.

I feel ashamed. Embarrassed. Depressed. Stuck. Scared.

I don’t recognize myself in photos. I’ve never been overweight and never imagined that I would become overweight. I’m well informed on nutrition and fitness. I was @momactive, published MomActive.com and people used to come to me for advice and motivation on health and wellness. Something happened and over time I shrunk away from it all. It’s impossible and irresponsible to put yourself out there as an example when you are drowning. I’ve also been less than nurturing to Banteringblonde. I let everything fizzle out because I was not walking the talk and it became harder and harder to look at myself in the mirror and put myself out there.

In my mind I do not look like the pictures of me right now. In reality?  The scale and all the fancy math that calculates my BMI says I am obese. If your BMI is 30 or greater, you are considered obese. My BMI is 41 and I am obese.

Obese. O. BESE.

Doesn’t matter whether I look obese or just pudgy or “solid” as my dad would say. I am not healthy in any way shape or form at this very moment. And I am very definitely not happy. Not at all.

Wanna see what I look like? I know you do! For the longest time I’ve hidden from the camera so this is really hard for me to do.  This is me a few days after my 40th birthday in my most favorite place on earth, San Gimignano, Italy. Someday I will stand in this exact spot and the picture taken will be of a much healthier (less busty) me.

 

Here is the photo that makes me cry every time I look at it. I’ve actually lost about 5lbs or so since this was taken but I figure I might as well just put all my cards on the table. This is me at a rooftop party in Rome on my 40th birthday.

*breathing*

I’m going to have to pick myself up and bust out some determination. I have a lot of work to do. I really want to sit down with a glass of wine and put it off “one more day” but it’s time to put my big girl panties on and stop marinating in denial. I hope I decide to blog along the way because I usually blog when I’m happy and confident and feel that all is well with the world. I would like to be all of those things again.

*deep breathe*

Hitting publish.

 

 

My 12 year old left for 6th grade science camp early this morning and left this note on the counter for his siblings….

 

I have great hair. Correction, I HAD great hair. I had that hair. You know, the hair that people would chase after you for to find out who did your hair. I also had the gal that booked out solidly and wasn’t taking new clients. She is that good. She is worth every penny I ever paid her. For the better part of a decade she took me through every crazy whim I had and made sure I pulled it off. It was a fabulous relationship. She lives in Denver and I now live in Los Angeles. I moved and the single most traumatic loss has been been my hair stylist. My besties will understand and forgive me for that last statement.

On Thursday I got a hair cut and color (I was referred by someone). The color was terrible and the cut was not great. By terrible I mean… this is what the top of my head looked like when I got home from my appointment:

On Friday I made this poor woman change her life around to fix my hair. I explained the pattern and that unless she took the top portion of my hair separate and went horizontally I would end up with dark roots in that area no matter what she did. I told her exactly how to do it and she actually said, “It doesn’t work when I try doing it a different way, I’m doing it my way.”  That should have been my cue to stand up and walk out right then and there, but she is so nice. I like her. She is sweet. I am dumb. dumb dumb dumb.

You’d think living in the land of glamor and glitz that my first hair color and cut might not be so bad. In fact, maybe I’d make a connection with someone who understood my connection to my hair. Someone who understands that I am a ponytail mom most day but that I’m a girly gal and enjoy my hair – my hair is a part of me. For cryin’ out loud the name of my blog is a tribute to my hair.

One bad ‘do cannot shake me. I realize that I am beautiful inside and out, blah blah blah, as so many of my fab FB and Twitter friends have said. While it isn’t really me, this is the lovely layered feathery ‘do I’m sporting right now….

I mean, come on, friends! I am not shallow enough to think that I am my hair. Actually, maybe I am.

I’ll be that girl with the 80’s hair sportin’ 50 shades of some wack color chunks chasing after you to bribe you with whatever amount of money it takes for you to give me your hair gal’s number. Trust me, I’ll take it from there and she’ll never even know where I got the number.

I promise.

Budget rental trucks have all kinds of goofy “moving tip”s …. this one is just stupid. Well, most of them are pretty stupid. I guess if you are using a rental truck you probably aren’t going very far. Like from Denver to California? Maybe you are just moving to a new home across town and you get to keep all your besties. You know, the friends who know you in your skinny jeans, your fat jeans, your pregnant jeans…. and let’s not forget your drunk jeans. I miss those friends….

I’ve made lots of friends since we moved. It’s only been a month and a half and I’m settling in nicely. In fact, I don’t hate it here. How could I? The weather is incredible and the people are so outrageously nice.

There is a “BUT” here, I promise….

BUT… it’s impossible to replace the friend you called in the middle of the night on your way to the ER when your kid was on death’s door. You don’t find the group of girlfriends you’ll share theater tickets with for 15 years over night and you don’t find the people who just “get” you and love you no matter how neurotic you are. It’s not that easy to find that person who “gets” you….

I cried for a week when I first got here. Now I just cry when I blog about it so I should probably just stop blogging about it because the reality is that I really like it here. My kids have adjusted well and, while I’m sure they feel the same about their friends as I do, they have made new friends and are all doing really well in school. I did my homework and their schools and teachers are excellent. My biggest concerns have all been put to rest and life is good.

They say it takes a year to feel “at home” but I wonder how long it’ll take before I stop wishing I could go plop down on my BFFs couch and just “chill”?

I wrote a post wishing Luciano Pavarotti a Happy Birthday today on the NEMC blog and it sparked a day of watching and listening to opera. I was probably about 8 or 9 when I first fell in love with opera and Pavarotti, thanks to a program my parents were watching one evening on PBS. It was always a dream of mine to see a live opera at The Met. My hubs actually took me to see Eugene Onegin one Thanksgiving when we were in NYC. It isn’t my favorite opera but we had orchestra level seating and the sounds from the pit and the stage were enchanting and the costumes and sets were just as magical as I’d always imagined they’d be. I would have loved to see a live performance of Luciano Pavarotti, in concert or on the opera stage, but alas it was never to be. I can attest to the fact, though, that an afternoon getting lost while trolling the internet for old videos and recordings of this great artist was quite enjoyable.

A few faves…..

Nessun Dorma (Pavarotti, NY 1980)

Vesti La Giubba

This was the theme of an email today from Spirit Airlines. I can’t stop giggling like a silly, immature, little school girl. I might actually have snorted when I first read it. Is it just me? Am I just a dirty minded freak?