November 17, 2007

** Don't forget to check out yesterday's blog for my evening's rantings. I was rather "stuck" on a certain theme....**

Weight: 246 Lost? 12 Left to go? 88

Breakfast: 6 zesty sausage links, 2 C of coffee w/ 2TBS creamer each


* Exercise will be partially dependant on the OSU Buckeyes today! We're heading off on a marathon shopping trip this morning - then home to watch the OSU-Michigan game. We're going to come up with some Buckeye exercises. Jumping jacks for first downs, a run around the house for a TD, sit ups for field goals. I'll keep you posted! ;-)

Exercise: The Buckeyes tried to kill me! I ran around the house for each touchdown. I planned on doing 10 jumping jacks for each first down. Planned being the operative word.

First, it dawned on me, I'm a rather zaftig woman. Doing jumping jacks in the family room wasn't the brightest of ideas. Instead, I opted for the basement with its non-shaking concrete floors. This then entailed running down the stairs to jump and jack for each first down. Now I love my Buckeyes...but criminy! They gained a lot of yards today!! Again I say, I'm a rather poofy, zaftig woman. Multiple trips up and down stairs are not exactly kind on my over-burdened knees. But those trips paled in comparison to the beatings they took as Jump met Jack. I can solidly attest that its a bad, BAAAAAD idea for a large woman to Jump, particularly when he's paired with Jack. In fact, I probably never really Jacked....I was too busy holding onto my boobs for dear life. These puppies aren't small! In fact, they're not puppies, they're more akin to Great Danes.

So let me see if I can properly describe this afternoon's events to you. Buckeyes make a first down. I thunk-bump, thunk-bump my way down rickety basement stairs. I twist, turn, and weave my way past mountains of "to-do" piles/bins/boxes to the best available open space. I then begin jumpin' and jackin' - only to nearly knock myself out cold with one of my own hooters. As I contemplate the black eye I've just sustained, I have to compare the pain of my beaten face to the tearing sensation I'm experiencing as my boobs attempt to launch themselves into another zip code. I decide that perhaps the typical jumping o' the jack is not necessarily in my mammarian best interest.

Instead, I bid Jack adieu - and only concentrate on the Jump portion of my commitment. I resume my methodic Jump-out/Jump-in debaucle, while attempting to secure my god-given missiles with the brute force of my clamped-down upper appendages. The entire exercise becomes an omage to Pilates as I further distress my pitifully under-developed arm muscles by asking to them to work against their own southern cousins - Miss Left and Miss Right. The poor arms were heavily outweighed. Think of a lego fort attempting to hold back the great Mississippi. They were simply outgunned.

As every part of my person began to complain, my mind lost track of whom it should listen it to. I was thrown into a sort of singular civil war. With whom should my allegiance lie? With the aching knees who carry me so faithfully up and down the stairs to my beloved computer to vent my abnormalities to cyber space? Or should I empathize with my personal dairy factories, as they've so valiantly fought against gravity for me all these years? (although they lost that particular battle decades ago...I just don't hold them accountable) Or, should I feel great sympathy for the flabby wing arms that were suddenly being called into service to control heaving mounds of flesh that would have made Atlas himself buckle at the knees? Oh the choices...it was mind-numbing. Then again...so was the pain.

In the end, I decided I owed loyalty to all my separate factions and parts. After three rounds of ill-fated Jum-Jks (I never really did complete ones - so I've changed the name to protect the innocent) I caved to my inferior exercise capabilities, and offered a substitution. I did toe touches instead. Lest you think I completely caved to my pudge, may I once again point out my rather sizeable chest accoutrements. Doing toe-touches requires smashing my pudgy middle while flinging my hooter allotment upside down and trying not to suffocate as they join forces with my triple chins to suffocate me with every toe tickle. There is a solid argument against "fluffy" women doing callestenics - our own boobs can kill us.

As it turns out, I, the official over-eating-Mistress-of-mayhem, may have metaphorically "bitten" off more than I could chew. I chomped my way to aching parts and poor food choices. Brilliant. I never knew there was a bazamba/diet connection. Now I do. Don't whack/beat/abuse your melons....they may pile up and suffocate you in your sleep. At the very least...they will lead you to your temporary dietary doom - by making you so depressed, you feel the need to self-medicate with chocolate. Stinkin' boobs, can't live with 'em, can't leave them on the nightstand.

Guess I "exercised" the wrong options today. Cat farts.


Hmmmm - it would appear my Exercise entry became my mental exercise for the day....oops.

Alicia Hall - the Crazy Cancer Mom - losing weight, and my mind, to raise awareness of pediatric cancer

www.crazycancermom.com

Lunch: 16 cheese puffs, (2) 3" x 3" pieces of home-made pepperoni pizza, 4 Babe Ruth mini-candybars, 1 Diet Coke

Dinner: 1 3" x 3" piece homemade pepperoni pizza, 4 Reese's peanut butter pumpkin minis, 4 Pringle potato chips (2 cheese, 2 salt & vinegar), 1 Diet Coke

4 glasses of water