Butch… and weight loss. Part One.

Part One – Background, history, and the Church of Paleo

So I don’t know the exact numbers, but I’ve weighed somewhere between 240-260 pounds for the last ten years.  Shit, if you can know the ins and outs of my breastfeeding shenanigans, I can tell you my weight.  So there.

When we lived near DC, after seeing a nutritionist and eating so.many.salads, I went from 255 to 223 circa 2006-ish.  I didn’t stay there long, though, and always felt starving and angry.  I gained most of it back in a matter of months, and was near 250 again by 2008.  Then I got pregnant, and the first trimester morning sickness diet of water and saltines for three months knocked me down to 240.  At my due date appointment (two days before RR made her entrance), I was 256.  In February of 2011 (eight months later), I was 256.  (Cue sad trombone.) I saw a physical trainer, ate so.many.salads and got down to 242, where I hovered around there until May of this year, despite getting through M’s cancer, the holidays (i.e. GIN and COOKIES), and dead mom (Cue sad trombone, again.)

Then I started training for a four mile race on Sept. 1 of this year.  In the meantime, I emailed my high school friend Madeline for help, since she’s, as I stated, the fittest person I know (as well as a bonafied CrossFit guru.)  She’s also kind, nice, and awesome.  I’d been following her blog for a good long while, and was utterly fascinated when she did the 9o days of eating paleo early this year.  She logged her meals, sometimes with pictures and recipes, and I thought to myself – good for her!  Oh hell no, for me.  Don’t take away Mama’s cereal, bread, and pasta!

Sometime in July, our vacation was upon us, and was brought to you in part by Oreos, cake, hot dogs, and beer, rinse and repeat.

We got back and felt like crap.  Enough said.

Then I went for my yearly gyno appointment, and my yearly lecture about my weight.  But this year, it had a crazier than normal stern tone.  Blah blah, both of my parents are dead, blah blah.  Heart disease, stroke, they died before they were 70, blah blah.  Say the blah’s very sternly to yourself.

So my wife and I got inspired.  We convinced ourselves to start the Whole 30 on Saturday, July 14.  We, without even knowing, were baptized into the Church of Paleo, and haven’t looked back since.  This, a hard conversion from the Church of Burger King.  Now, the hardest part sometime in there (after the physical symptoms of sugar detoxing) was saying “No thank you!” in between silent sobs to RR who tried to shove a Teddy Graham in my mouth, “Eat it, Mama!  Eat it!!”

No, but really.  It sucked at the beginning.  Then it sucked more.  Then it was fucking expensive.  Then we made the concession that, in order to cook meals every night, we’d have to let RR watch an Olivia episode on the iPad while we cooked, which we still do to this day.  We embraced the slow cooker.  And spaghetti squash.  And sweet potatoes.  We put all “rare or in severe moderation items” on the top shelf of the cupboards, which we call “the adult shelf.”  One cannot get anything down from the adult shelf without telling someone, presumably the other adult in the house… not your imaginary friend.  Or RR.

We eat a lot of eggs.  And chicken.  And leftovers.  And leftover leftovers.  And sometimes salads, but they’re not hateful salads.  We go to the gym at the university during our lunch breaks.  I run, I lift weights, I do squats and sit-ups and push-ups and sprints.  I test my limits.  I’ve made eye-contact-friends with the 20-something buff college guys.

I can’t speak for my wife’s numbers, but I will tell you that she looks absolutely radiant and stunning.  I know – I didn’t think she could get more gorgeous either!

Here, two and a half months later, I had my biometric screening the other day and clocked 210 on the scale.  In addition, my blood levels were all within a normal range.  My risk for all-things-bad are only based on my family history (and religious affiliation to the Church of Chick-fil-A) and not my current state of being.  My new-found dedication to not dying before I’m 70 is having results.  Sure, I suppose I can get hit by a bus any day now, but at least my pants will be smaller!

(Coming up – Part Two, AKA I need more belts!)