Vain Vs. Lazy – A Princess Gets Less Fat

There are some people in this world who claim that a good old-fashioned workout, complete with grunting, moving heavy objects, jumping, and running around is fun. These are the same people who've created a market for iPod armbands; gym bags; yoga mats; and energy drinks. They roll around in muddy pits and do things with the word "tough" or "iron" in the title as a pastime. These people are not like me in the least little bit, and as the reigning princess in these here parts, I hereby declare them physically fit freaks.

I don't start my day with an incredible, edible egg – a wonderful source of protein. The very smell of an egg cooking activates my gag reflex. I don't leap out of bed, slap on my sneakers, and jog around the neighborhood. Instead, I hit the snooze somewhere between three and 30 times; drag myself out of bed (usually bumping a shin, knee, or elbow into some inanimate household object in the process); and begin injecting myself with caffeine in order to face the prospect of being upright and alert for the next 14 hours.

Thankfully, I'm slightly more vain than I am lazy (although it's a close call), which means that although I generally eschew healthy living, I really don't want to become Jabba the Hut's body double. However, because I am quite lazy and frankly, I don't like to participate in any activity that will cause me to pant, sweat, stink, look silly or mess up my hair, I've avoided morbid obesity through a variety of women's magazine endorsed short-cuts for most of my life.

I'm no small princess – I stand at about 5'11 inches tall, a height and fact that almost caused my prince to opt out of our first date. While it can be difficult to buy pants with a 34 inch inseam, I'm awfully glad for the extra real estate, because it means that my weight can fluctuate by about 20 pounds before it's really noticeable to the general public. At 16 years old, I wore a size 14 jean and extra large shirts – and thus began my eternal battle between lazy and vain.

In the 16 or so years since then (I'm a princess, not a mathematician – and furthermore, I just told you I'm vain as hell, so if you honestly think I'm going to shout out my true age, you should pour yourself another gin and tonic!), I've been as small as a size 6 and as large as a size 16, and every single size in between. I've done Weight Watchers (both before and after the introduction of Points), I've cleansed, detoxed, joined Slim for Life (now Slimgenics); banned carbs; embraced carbs; gone vegetarian; and the list goes on and on and on. If you wonder why the diet industry is such a money-maker, I assure you, I've been doing my part to keep it afloat.

And until recently, my size wasn't a problem. When I met my prince, I was a happy size 10. I exercised a little and life was good. When we got serious, my body convened a top secret meeting where it agreed that it really wanted to be a size 12. (Or larger). Love, pizza, and buffalo wings expanded my waistline – and none of my previous get-thin-quick schemes were working anymore. In fact, with each new technique I tried, I seemed to get bigger and puffier.

To be clear – big and puffy may be desirable qualities in a wedding gown, but they are not desirable qualities in a would-be bride. When the Weight Watchers, the detox, and the fish oil all failed me, I knew I had no other choice. I was going to have to do this the hard way.

I've read enough women's magazines to know that at my . . . uh . . . middle age, I was cursed with slowing metabolism and muscle loss. Since I never found any muscle to speak of in the first place, this seemed like a problem. (I am, after all, the girl who phoned her brother in tears because I couldn't pick up a bag of dog chow at Petco.) I was doomed. I was going to have to do strength training.

Since I am morally opposed to looking foolish in public (unless I'm drunk, but that's another story) and because I really, really hate lifting heavy objects, I employed my famous outsourcing strategy. When in doubt, hire a professional. If I could have outsourced the actual strength training to someone else, I would have but fears of being a fat bride motivated me to keep my initial appointment with my local LA Fitness. It was there that I met Trainer Dan and it was there that I learned that 1/3 of my body is comprised of fat.

For two months, I saw more of Trainer Dan than my own prince – and he also had the dubious pleasure of listening to me pant, moan, and on a couple of occasions, burst forth with some awfully dirty talk for a princess. And in two months and over 20 workouts, I lost an inch off my neck. And that's it. Since neck fat was hardly my primary concern (although after losing an inch of it, I began to wonder if my neck actually as fatter than I realized, inviting a whole new set of neuroses to the party), you can imagine my disgust and disappointment.

Even so, I kept going. Actually, I kept going because I was locked into a personal training contract and they were going to charge me whether I went or not, and I am nearly as frugal as I am vain and lazy. Trainer Dan left me suddenly, making me even angrier, and I had to break in a whole new trainer.

That was in June. Fast forward to September and I still hate exercising. It's hard, it hurts, and it pisses me off that I am so damn uncoordinated. There are weeks when I feel like all I do is work and workout. There are days when a 7.5 pound weight feels like lifting a Volkswagen above my head and when I watch the clock slowly tick by every second of my 60 minute torture session.

And there have been a few small victories along the way, too. I've lost 13 pounds. (Thank you, Trainer Eric!) I'm still a size 12 (not a victory) which leads me to believe that most of the weight I've lost has been in my fingers, neck, and earlobes but at some point, the fat has to come off the core, right? I started and finished a 5k without dropping dead, and even managed to jog about 2/3 of it, in spite of the fact that there was clearly marked shortcut available!
And I bought a wedding dress that I love, complete with a tiara.

I may be sweaty, I may be clumsy, and I may be bigger than I'd like . . . but whether I'm in workout gear or wedding gear, I will always be a princess.

 

Copyright © 2012 Princess D. All Rights Reserved.

To Nate, With Love

Just because I'm a princess with a fairly charmed life doesn't guarantee me immunity from things like bad hair days, hypertension, foot odor (why???), and mood swings. Everyone is entitled to an off day every now and again, but as a princess, I struggle with the bad hair days. The voice inside my head – who, by the way, sounds awfully similar to the voice of one K.W. who tormented me in grade school and ultimately married my high school crush – criticizes me. She says things like, "Oh – would you look at the weepy princess crying because her tiara is on crooked! You realize there are people out there without tiaras who are actually struggling, right? Why don't you shut up your stupid ugly face?"

Let me be clear. I hate that voice inside my head. She's loud, incessant, mean and nasty. And she has an incredibly foul mouth for an imaginary frenemy. She is the voice that says, "I told you not to eat that second piece of pizza, fatso!" when I struggle to fasten the button on my pants in the morning. When I lay my weary bones on the couch to catch up on current events on TV (translation: checking out the latest cat-fights on whatever season of The Real Housewives is on), her judgmental eye surveys the house and suggests that I get my lazy tail up off the couch and run a vacuum or wash a dish. She criticizes my clothes, hair, makeup, lifestyle choices, how I drive, and my inability to clip coupons. No matter how hard I work, no matter how successful I might become, it is never enough for this insufferable bitch.

Here's the problem. That bitch? Well, she's me. And the fact that I've resorted to name-calling and "adult-language" is just further proof that we are one in the same. For those of you asking if there's a point in here somewhere, there is. When I look in the mirror, I don't always see a princess. When I look around my house or plan for my weekend getaway with my handsome prince, I don't always take time to appreciate all my good fortune. I have been known to see the glass as . . . gasp . . . half-empty. And then proceed to get really angry about it. I watch Lifetime movies and cry – not at the crappy over-acting but at the misfortunes endured by the characters. I come straight home from work, put on my jammies, and eat carbs as if I'm preparing to run a marathon when we all know that the furthest I'm going is from the couch to the fridge to grab another beer.

Sometimes the bad hair days are worse than others. These are the days I can barely get out of bed; the days where even the idea of getting dressed and leaving the house feel akin to climbing Mount Everest. These are the days when I look at my life and instead of celebrating all the amazing gifts I've been given and all the opportunities I still have to look forward to, I throw a giant pity party and curse myself for not running a marathon, learning to cook, having a baby, learning Japanese, growing my own organic vegetables, composting, volunteering more in the community, and you can fill in the blanks with pretty much any and everything else.

That, my friends, is known as a form of depression. The nagging voice inside my head that yells at me; the desire to curl up in the fetal position, cry, and eat chocolate until I burst; the fatigue that is so great that even my eyelashes hurt . . . these are all symptoms of depression, which is not a state of mind but an illness. The only differences between depression and the common cold are the stigma and the amount of snot. If you ignore the common cold, you'll infect everyone around you with your filthy germs and you're probably going to have to wipe your nose on your sleeve since you won't be armed with Puffs Plus. When you have a cold, you drink orange juice, you take Nyquil, you sniffle a lot, and you do whatever it takes to feel better. When you have depression, you should take care of yourself just like you do when you've got the sniffles. If you're feeling really lousy for any extended period of time, you're not just having a bad hair day. Everyone gets the blues every once in a while – but when blue is the color du jour and you can't remember the last time you saw the world with rose colored glasses, it's time to take action.

Much like that annoying cold that gets passed around the office or daycare, where one person gets a cough, someone else has a sore throat, and you get both plus a side of inflamed sinuses, depression symptoms are different in everyone and can change over time.

Bottom line? I am a princess, darn it – and I have an amazing life thanks to the grace of God, the support of my family and friends, and no small amount of hard work. You know what else I have? I have a form of clinical depression and I have some nice blue pills and a standing appointment with an elfintherapist to ensure that I continue to get out of bed and fight the good fight every day.

This post is dedicated to all those who are managing depression; struggling with it; or fighting it. This post is especially dedicated to Nathan Corbett, who battled bipolar disorder and depression but lost his fight at the age of 27. He would have turned 39 years old this Saturday.

 

©2012 Princess D

 

White Girl Problems: A Fairy Tale

As a self-proclaimed princess, my attitude is more "I'd rather not be bothered lifting a finger and exerting any of my royal energy on stuff that you commoners do yourselves" than do-it-myself. I've embraced a very strengths-based lifestyle that involves a lot of outsourcing of tasks that, frankly, I lack the knowledge, skills, ability and/or raw talent to perform myself. And yes, I even outsource some tasks I most certainly could perform on my own but would prefer not to. This includes but is not limited to the domestic arts such as cleaning and food preparation. I like to think that my attitude is good not only for my wellbeing, but also good for the economy and the general health of those who are forced to interact with me.

When you're a princess in a kingdom of one, you get to call all the shots. Beer and popcorn for dinner? Sure! Own 45 pairs of underwear to reduce the amount of time spent doing laundry? You betcha. (Side note: I am clearly the princess of some Fargo-based kingdom based on my lexicon.) Now that my kingdom has expanded to include a prince, life has changed a little. I try not to leave my bras hanging on various doorknobs, for example, and instead of leaving a thick layer of multihued hair on the bathroom counter, I wipe up after myself. I unplug my curling iron instead of leaving it on all day in case of a hair emergency. I don't eat Klondike bars for dinner anymore. I no longer purchase fat-free cottage cheese. Life is full of compromises.

Since becoming engaged three months ago, the prince and I started wedding planning and I quickly realized that the actual planning fell into the category of things I would prefer to outsource, and I took steps to hire an expert ASAP. I accidentally forgot to include the prince in this decision making process and had to quickly put on the brakes when I realized that (drumroll, please), we had a difference of opinion. The prince – in addition to his many fine qualities – is extremely cautious with money. Now, I'm not setting fire to dollar bills or anything, but he is so frugal that I look like a spendthrift by comparison.

After much cajoling and some threats, the prince grudgingly agreed to talk to a wedding planner, and I continued interviewing professionals until I found one whom I clicked with. It helped that she read my entire blog and told me she "had a vision" for my special day. And, okay, it also helped that she marketed the package she eventually sold me with the pithy tag line, "Just Show Up." The prince met her, we negotiated a little, and then he wrote a big fat check. (Sorry. My money is tied up in real estate. Because I am both princess and slumlord, but that's a whole other blog.)

That, my friends, is the last time I laid eyes on the wedding planner – a woman whom I grew very fond of in a very short period of time. She did have a vision for our special day and she thoughtfully suggested three potential locations for the big event. A princess needs a castle, folks. We set up site visits, the prince and I rearranged our schedules, and off we went. Alone. Because the professional had a fever.

Fast forward two weeks. We fell in love with the very first site we saw. We want to sign a contract. But the planner is out of commission. She's in the hospital. With pneumonia. For the record, I think this is a terrible turn of events and I'm concerned for her health. My family and my groom, however, think I've been swindled. They were all skeptical of the wedding planning business from the get-go, and my inability to perform simple tasks like set a date and identify a location for the wedding are worrisome to these already naturally anxious people.

I've dreamed about a wedding for as long as I can remember – but as a little girl, I never imagined disappearing wedding planners, day-long debates about the invitee list that would result in midday drinking to dull the pain, or the horrors of buying a plus-sized wedding gown. In my little girl daydreams, it was all tiaras, cake, and glass slippers, which leads me to wonder . . . did Cinderella have to plan her own damn wedding?

© 2012 Princess D

No one in the Fairy Tales Belongs to a Gym. Hmmmmm.

I'd always suspected that the epilogue to all these fairy tales might, in fact, feature some of mundane ups and downs that the rest of us mere mortals go through on a daily basis. Of course, I also optimistically hoped that, after finding my prince, I would somehow be exempt from bad days going forward. Kind of like time off for good behavior, if you know what I mean.

Well, Princess . . . while I admire your optimism, that's just plain wishful thinking. Sure, you've found your prince – and he even put a ring on it! Finding true love doesn't provide a magic wand wherein your rude boss becomes polite; your lazy colleagues become motivated; slow people with piles of coupons don't smash into you with their carts at SuperTarget and inevitably get in line in front of you; and you won't suddenly be immune to seasickness, headaches, or learn to swim. (Trust me on this one. Some of these lessons were learned the hard way.)

What true love does guarantee is that you'll have someone by your side when you're having a crappy day. There will be someone whom you can cling to and ultimately try to drown when you're flopping around like a half-dead crappie in the water (true story) who won't have you arrested for attempted murder. And suddenly, there is someone not covered in fur whose opinion counts when you are facing big life decisions.

We've been engaged for a whole month, and the whole thing feels a little surreal. I am thrilled to be spending the rest of my life with a true prince of a man, and I am excited about playing dress up and finding a socially acceptable opportunity to sport a tiara. But I'm not going to lie to you. I think it might be easier to climb Mt. Everest than to plan and pay for a wedding without losing my mind. Wedding planners, hats off to you. Brides who are planning their nuptials without the help of a professional . . . you're killing me. Yes, you are. Because I am comparing myself to you and wondering why I can't summon up the energy, courage, or whatever it takes to call a damn wedding planner and you're practicing calligraphy; taking ballroom dance lessons; and shaming me via newfangled social media forums like www.pinterest.com. How are you so sure about where to have the wedding, what kind of dress you want, how many people to invite, whether to have chicken or beef? Darn you, perfect brides . . . I want your secrets. And I want them now.

In the meantime, I've discovered that true love, combined with a shared love of food (especially pizza, buffalo wings, and nachos) has reintroduced me to the clothes in the back of my closet, also known as "double-digit sizes". So, before I call a wedding planner, select a dress style, pick a date, or anything else, I've decided to focus my attention on what's really important . . . getting back into my skinny jeans.

While I hate to disappoint, there will be no wedding updates, no tales of "Princess turned Bridezilla", until I banish these XXL sweatpants to the back of the closet or give them to the Salvation Army. You can, however, watch this space for updates on my "Pedal off the Pounds" progress. This shall include but will not be limited to things like whining about my weight; complaining about lack of motivation; cataloging my middle-aged aches and pains; and even some exciting details about how much water I've consumed and how many veggies I ate. And there will likely be an ode to wine forthcoming, since I have sworn off the grape until zipping my pants is no longer the cornerstone of my strength training.

Now, if I can just stop thinking about cake, we might be on to something.

 

© 2012 Princess D