A Fun Day

Lately, things have been hectic around here. Last week was especially busy with it being the Pinewood Derby (and if you know Jay at all, you know that as Cubmaster, it was a pretty big deal and he spent hours of his time getting everything ready. By the way, both Seth and Sam did great. They each placed second in their dens, which was a good lesson for Seth, who has won it all for the past three years), the weekend where Seth had to do the initial weigh-in for his 4-H steer, a primary activity, the YW general broadcast and a birthday party. Oh, don't let me forget CSAP, the acronym for standardized testing 'round these parts. We certainly haven't been able to forget as reminders have come home most evenings requiring plenty of rest and healthy food for our little tester! On top of it all, Jay's dad was recently injured, limiting his ability to lift hay bales and such and so Jay has been going over more often to help out.

Needless to say, Jay and I were in desperate need of a bit of fun together.

We took full advantage of his day off yesterday and following our morning workouts, headed up the mountain for one last day of skiing. The snow at the bottom was pretty awful: slushy and brown, but the resort had received over eight inches over the weekend of new snow, so the top and backside were in pretty good shape.

I love skiing with Jay. It is the perfect date. We have the chairlift ride up to chat and catch up and the way down to do our individual thing. Jay is a much, much, much better mogul skier than I am, but I decided that I needed to improve so most of our runs were down black diamonds with large moguls. I still stink horribly at them but did feel like I got another great work-out in and after a few hours, we were both tired enough to call it a day.

I got the idea on our very last run down to the lodge to videotape. It isn't a difficult run at all, so thought I'd get a pretty good picture holding my Flip camera in my hand. By way of warning, I almost felt a bit of motion sickness at the end after watching it. Believe it or not, I was not flipping tricks on the half-pipe at any time during filming. I just have a very unsteady hand. Watching it makes me smile, however. It was a great morning.



We capped off our morning date with a bite of lunch at one of our favorite Mexican restaurants. I've eaten nothing but salads at restaurants for the past three months and decided to splurge on the enchiladas. They were just the way I like them, stacked blue corn tortillas with cheese and onions, covered in a spicy red sauce and topped with an egg. Yummy! Of course, when I entered my meal into my MyPlate on livestrong.com, I wished I had had the salad. Eating out does not jive with weight loss, let me tell you!

When the boys came home from school, we told them to hurry and get their homework and piano practice in and then took them to see Diary of a Wimpy Kid: Roddick Rules. I hated Middle School. Truly hated it. But, I loved this movie. I can't remember the last time I've laughed that hard during a movie. The roller skating rink....the candy bar stain...the mom dancing during the talent show. So funny. I liked that it was about brothers too. My boys really don't pick on each other like these brothers, but it still had a pretty good message about how that relationship is forever...so get along!

Later in the evening, I was able to blog and read for an hour. It was my kind of day.

Too bad every day can't be like this but when one comes along - I'll take it!

Biggest Loser - Week 12

This last week really felt incredible.  There were several times I made mental notes of how much stronger I was than when I started this journey in January.  Specifically, I knew my heart was stronger when I could finish a three minute jump rope circuit, boxer style, and still carry on a conversation when I was done.   I knew my weak abs were getting stronger when I held myself in the plank position for a minute and a half without a break.  And there is a dreaded lunge sequence she makes me do off of a step where I have to increase my reps from one of each to ten of each that always makes my backside cramp up.  This past week, I wasn't yelling out in agony until I got to nine reps (the tenth one wasn't pretty, but I'm going to make it past ten soon.  Just you wait).

I swear, I could even feel my body changing.  Normally, I stay off the scale until my weigh-in, but on Friday, I was just feeling really different so I weighed myself at home.  Imagine my delight when the scale displayed a number four and a half pounds less than the Monday preceding it.  I figured with two extra days, I could make it at least an even five.

Then, this morning, I officially weighed in after spin and the scale was only down one and a half pounds.  Grrrr.

My trainer could see my disappointment so she whipped out her camera and showed me my pictures (front, sides and rear view) of my day one.

Oh my goodness.  She has serious blackmail on me.

Her point was to reassure me that I've come a long ways and the scale be damned.  Then, she decided to really make her case and my second hour consisted of doing all of my least favorite exercises.  They are my least favorite for a reason: they hurt and are hard and some I couldn't even do one rep when I first started.  When she bashfully brought out out the gliders for mountain climbers on an inverted Bosu ball, I outwardly groaned.  This is my most dreaded exercise and she knows it.  I hate it.  It hurts....everything.   But, forty reps later, I stood up, high-fived her and absolutely knew that I am a different person than I used to be.  I am changing.  It's pretty incredible.

Upon finishing our torture session...er...workout, she re-weighed me.  Another 0.6 down.  I don't think I lost six tenths of a pound in one hour.   What that change reminded me is that the scale is fickle.  Sure, it's a number I want to see get smaller and smaller, and it will as long as I keep doing the things I'm doing, but I'm not going to let 0.6 pounds, or 2 or none control my day.  I'm just not.

For the record, I am officially down (thanks to the second weigh-in) 2.2 pounds from last week.    That's 31 overall.  Next week is measurements and final pictures.  I'm going to try and remember my camera so that I can have a final picture too.  I haven't really taken any since I started and I hope I can see as much difference as she can.

Boyfriends and Basketball: A Comparison

At fifteen, I was tall, frizzy-haired, prone to acne breakouts on my chin and wore braces.  If What a babe! isn't the caption for your mental image of that description, you aren't alone my friend.  My memory of that time doesn't include scenes of turning suitors away at the door.

Still, I was fifteen and it is a truth universally acknowledged that all fifteen year-olds in possession of braces and acne must be in want of a boyfriend.  I had set my cap at an older boy, a senior in fact, who, although my friends insisted had too small of a head for his body to be considered traditionally handsome, was funny and smart and could sing the high part of "More Than Words" by Extreme in our oddly named madrigal choir, Saturday's Children.  Oh, how I longed to sing the harmony along with him.

Halfway through the year, the braces were off, I had completed a successful round of Accutane and I was going out, not to any actual place but OUT out, with this boy.  It was a fairy tale and I was living it.  For four whole months.

Then, he cheated on me by kissing another Child of Saturday (my duet partner for Chiquita Banana, if you want to know.  I put push pins through her head in the picture I had on my bedroom bulletin board) while we were still officially a couple and he had the gall to come to County Market, where I was employed in the bakery section, to officially break up.   Standing there in all white (dress code), with tears on my cheeks, I told him to "Just go," and cried and cried and cried while I shrunk wrapped the donuts into various dozen arrangements.

It was a teenage tragedy.

Until it wasn't anymore.  I'm not sure how long it took me to realize, but eventually, I understood that there are only two eventual outcomes when you have a boyfriend:  either marry or break-up. As the odds favoring break-up outweigh the likelihood of marriage during that particular stage of life, I decided to skip the boyfriends and, thus, hopefully, the heartache.  Of course, I was still a normal, warm-blooded American girl.  Boys and their Mars-esque behavior plagued my thoughts and actions the same as everyone else, and I learned that heartache has all kinds of shapes and sizes, but I kept my resolution and never again had a serious boyfriend, or even a boy I dated exclusively, until Jay came along.   I think it was the right decision for my sensitive soul.

When the BYU Men's Basketball team lost to Florida last night, I felt like I was wearing those white stretch pants all over again (thankfully this is only a simile and no actual white stretch pants were involved) .  My stomach was filled with disappointment.  My heart, so enchanted by Jimmer and the Gang, felt betrayed by their errant shots and inability to rebound.  I know they played hard and tried their best and Florida was a good team but....you know...they could have beat them.  Florida was totally beatable.   I don't think the Gators and all their SEC glory advanced to the Elite Eight because were a better team.  They just made their shots in overtime.

Which brings me to a rather obvious realization.  With each March Madness and NCAA tournament bracket, there are only two eventual outcomes:  win the National Championship or end your season with a heartbreaking loss.   From a fan's point of view, the odds are overwhelmingly high, even probable, that your team's season will end with loss and disappointment.

Because I rarely consider BYU as my sport's boyfriend due to their notorious habit of choking at some point during any given season in any given sport, I haven't felt this let down by them before.  But Jimmer was too easy to love.  His charisma and talent and freakishly impossible shots were as bewitching as any acoustic Extreme song.  I fell and I fell pretty hard.

Now I am sad and left wondering if any of it was worth it.   All those late nights cheering with my family.  The matching Jimmer jersey's I wholeheartedly approved of Jay buying for each of our boys.  The song, "Teach Me How To Jimmer" downloaded and played on itunes.   These things are all bittersweet right now.

Eventually, I know I will stop obsessively reading articles and their comments about BYU and Jimmer Fredette.  I will stop feeling defensive when Jimmer is called a ball hog by some ignoramus and insulted when his talent is questioned.  I know this because eventually I stopped driving by the house of my small-headed ex-boyfriend to see if she was there.  I will get over it.  And due to the beauty of my short attention span, it will probably be sooner than later.

But those Cougars.  They allowed me to hope as I had scarcely ever allowed myself to hope before.  They didn't give me the fairytale ending, as most boyfriends don't, but I did enjoy the pleasure of their company these last four months.  Wow.  I am handling this WAY better than my fifteen year-old self.

For your enjoyment:



Don't pretend you don't know all the words!

Biggest Loser - Week 11

I lost a pound and a half. 

My teammate has quit so now I am it.  The only Biggest Loser left.  It's kind of lonely.  My trainer is kicking my tail and I sort of wish someone else were there so her eyes could be somewhere else for thirty seconds.  Instead, she has her hand on whatever muscle she is working to make sure I am really working it.  Plus, she's decided I'm ready for her "advanced" workouts.  Mama.

I had hoped for a bigger loss, but you know what?  I still lost a pound and a half.  I'm going to be just AOK with that. 

You Lose Some, But You Win Some Too

Today has been a competitive kind of day. It started way earlier than my one day to sleep in should due to Seth needing to be in a nearby town for his Destination Imagination competition, which started at 7:30 am. Yawn.

We got off to a precarious start when I ran over Henry's scooter as I backed the van out of the garage. We don't have three cars. We don't need a three car garage. But, man, I'm telling you there is constantly something behind my van. The crunch set me off and I totally yelled at all three boys. I hate it when I do that. It wasn't all three's fault. I don't even know why I had such a hair trigger this morning, but I'm going to blame it on my failed Rhodes Cinnamon Rolls. Rhodes things never work for me. They either over raise or do nothing, as was the case this morning. Even though I cooked them for more than the recommended time, they were gooey, dense and uncooked. I don't know why I'm writing about failed cinnamon rolls. I don't even know why I'm blogging about a broken scooter. I suppose my point is that we had a rough morning.

There are always two components of the competition - the Instant Challenge, where the team has to think on their feet and come up with a solution to whatever situation the judges give them, be it a theatrical improvisation or to build something using only the supplies given and the bigger category challenge the team has been preparing for competition for months.  Seth's instant challenge started at 7:38 this morning.  They other part of the competition involves choosing one of seven different challenges.  This year, Seth's team chose the category, "Foiled Again" which involved building a weight bearing structure out of wood, aluminum foil and glue, which had to weigh less than twenty-five grams, as well as coming up with a skit where a character is "foiled" or thwarted in something they wanted to do.  While the skit is in progress, each structure is tested to see how much weight it could hold.  There were other size requirements, including height and width, and it was really interesting to see the variety of structures the different teams came up with.

The entire point of DI is to allow the kids to work together to come up with their own solutions.  Seth's team built a structure you'd probably expect a bunch of ten and eleven year-olds to build.  It wasn't level and when they set it into the testing mechanism, it failed the height requirements.   Unfortunately, this drama threw their concentration during their skit and they didn't finish their performance in time.  It was so sad to see these really bright and good group of boys and girls who really had worked hard so disappointed.  Seth especially took it hard, I'm not exactly sure why.  Their skit was really cute and clever and they all said they felt they did well in their Instant Challenge, but they still ended up placing 9th out of 11 teams.  No moving on to state for them.



Both of the fifth grade teachers came to cheer on their students.



Happily waiting for the "go" signal.



Once they get the go, they have eight minutes to set up, perform and get they weights on the structure.  You can't really see it, but the thing on the far right hand side that looks like a plunger sticking up, is the top of the mechanism for testing the structure.  They had to fit their design inside a box and then the judge put the square red top on.  If the red square touched the four corner posts, the structure didn't meet the height requirements, which is what happened to our team.  They messed around with it a little, and at one point had all four points not touching, but then the structure started to lean and it was disqualified.



Seth and his friend, Elise, star as nerds who get bullied by a couple of pranksters.



The pranksters get the nerds by throwing a bowl of foil on them.  But, they were eventually "foiled" when their next prank ended up getting them.



The team with their team managers after they were done.  You can see how upset Seth is.

Jay wasn't able to watch Seth because he had signed up last fall to run in the Moab Half Marathon.  Winter is always a difficult time to train but whatever Jay has been doing is working because he destroyed his PR (personal record).  Last year, he ran it in an hour twenty-five minutes and this year, a year the winner ran almost three minutes slower than last year's time, he ran it in 1:19.  He came in second in his age group and fifteenth out of more than three-thousand runners.  I love it when people I love succeed in their endeavors and it was fun to hear the excitement in Jay's voice when he called to tell me about the race.

This evening, we enjoyed watching the BYU game against Gonzaga and Jimmer Fredette's incredible three-point shots.   Having lived in Spokane for five years, we love the Zags too, so it was hard to see them lose, but when I say things like that, Jay tells me I'm not a very good fan (I hate that teams have to lose!).  Henry is so sick of having basketball on the TV all the time so right in the middle of the game, he found the remote control and switched it over to Wonder Pets.  Of course, being the sensitive child that he is (we are three for three in that department) he got more upset that we all got upset.  He spent the night in his room in protest, creating all sorts of havoc (like hiding all of Sam's bedtime things) but I had learned my lesson from this morning and didn't get upset a third time.  In fact, I made sure I gave each of my beautiful boys an extra kiss (or two.  Or five) when I tucked them into bed.  Hey...I'm calling that a win.

Remodeling

My parents just remodeled their kitchen.  For them, it wasn't an extravagant affair.  There was a crack in the twenty-five year old counter top, so new ones were in order, and my mom decided to update her wallpaper while the big change was taking place.

I hate wallpaper.  Even when it is tastefully done and interior decorators use it to give "texture" and "pattern" to a room, it always looks busy to me.  Needless to say, my mother and I, like most mothers and daughters, have different tastes.  Fine.  No big deal.  It's not my house.

After putting up two panels, however, my mom didn't like her new wallpaper.  She told me she was going to redo her walls with (gasp!) paint instead.

I love paint, even though you wouldn't know it from the still-white-a-year-later walls in my own home.  I was even more delighted when she announced the paint color she chose was gold, a color I have a certain fondness for.

Her remodel talk got me a little excited.  What else were they going to do?   Were they going to get some fancy new appliances to really update the look?  Stainless ones?

My mom responded, "Our appliances work just fine."

"But, your refrigerator is white and your dishwasher is black and isn't your stove really old?"

I hope I didn't insult her with my "but what about"s but she remained as grounded as she always has been and never got swept up in the whirlwind that remodeling can create .  She fixed what needed to be fixed and has beautiful new corian countertops and gold paint to brighten her walls.  She might get crazy and sew a new valence for her kitchen window but that's going to be the extent of it.

Her example came to mind this morning while working out with my trainer.  I was the only person to show up for both Boot Camp and the second hour, so I had two straight hours of personal training.  It's the first time that has happened and the one-on-one time allowed for a more intimate conversation.  I was shocked, truly, when my beautiful, kind and lovely trainer confessed that she feels like she will always struggle with her weight.

"What in the world!?" I scolded.  "You have THE perfect body."

"No, I don't.  I'm not thin, like these other girls.  I have to work really hard to keep weight off.  For as much as I workout, every day, I should be stick thin."

"But, why would you want to be stick thin?" I rebutted.  "You are strong and lean and fit and and perfectly healthy."

I left feeling a little bit of despair, not that I showed it, because if she of the five percent body fat isn't happy with her body how will I ever be, but then I thought of my parents and her their simple contentment, and had a little bit of hope for my own remodel.

You see, I don't want to spend the rest of my life chasing after a model image.   I think that's my predisposition.  It was a bit incomprehensible to me how my mom could be content with a kitchen only half remodeled.  What about new cupboards?  Pretty new tile?  The appliances have to match, don't they?  These are what our kitchens are supposed to look like.   These are what the models shown in magazines, TV shows and stores look like.  And they are beautiful.

And yet, kitchens are a room designed for a function.  They are the workhorses of our homes and while the granite, Sub-Zero appliances and copper tile backsplash are lovely (all things I want, by the way.  Just in case you were imagining me up on a high horse of some kind), they aren't necessary to the function of the room.  My mom taught me that.

So, while I remodel my body, I want to remember what is really important.  My body is a workhorse.  I want it to be better so that it functions better.  While I wouldn't be opposed to looking like a model, I think the chances of that happening are pretty slim.  It's just not in my DNA or personal habits, if you want to know the truth.  Before I get caught up in striving for the model image, I thought I'd record a reminder of what I really want from my body.  Please refer me back to myself should I ever become a skinny person who gets a bit too caught up in looking like the models.

My goals:

To sit on an airplane seat without needing to lift the armrest for additional hip room.

To not freak out the poor soul who has to ride tandem to me on my first sky dive.

To be able to kneel during family prayer and sit back on my heels without my legs falling asleep.

To use a hotel towel and actually have it cover my body (maybe not possible considering the size of those towels but I'm gonna try).

To climb all the 14,000 ft peaks in Colorado.

To be able to get up on one ski while water-skiing, behind any boat, not just the ones with the super-turbo engine.

To be able to walk into any store and buy something off the rack.

To be an example to my children.

To go on any ride at an amusement park without worrying if I'll fit in the seat.

To be able to cross my legs comfortably.

To be under the weight restriction to do the bungee trampolines at the ski resort.

To never have to worry if someone is sitting on the other side of a picnic table so I don't flip it.

To wear a cute black wrap dress and black boots at my twenty-year high school reunion (it's a weird vision of mine).

To be able to get back up after I fall when skiing without having to take my boots out of the bindings. Right now, I make sure I ski so that I don't fall.

To become a certified Zumba instructor (did I just write that????) and have hips that don't lie.

To sit on my husband's lap without squishing him.

To stop stressing if there are a lot of people on an elevator that I'm using up more than my share of the weight limit.

To fearlessly take the Mesa Verde cliff dwelling tour that requires crawling through a "narrow" tunnel. I've always avoided that one because I've never known if I'd get stuck.

To NEVER, EVER, EVER have the indigenous people of a third-world country motion with their hands to let me know that they think I'm big or to get a special position in a boat after being referred to as "Grande." I'm big anywhere but I'm especially big in Myanmar and Guatemala.

To be strong enough to do anything I need to be able to do. Like climb up one of those rope ladders into a helicopter should I ever need to be airlifted out of somewhere. Or, more likely, just to be able to keep up with my physical boys.

I think if I could do all of these things, I'd be pretty happy. Shape Magazine, or even People might not ever put me on their covers. But that's not what I'm going for. I've seen that spirit of discontent in far too many people I know and love. There has to be a point where you are healthy and happy and not obsessed about ten pounds or the size of your pants. I guess I want to be like my parents. I want to be content with my improved, updated and more functional remodel without caring about whether or not I look like the models.

Dr. Bloxham's Advice

Years ago, I considered myself an ambitious young thing.  Not overly ambitious, mind you.  My same spirit that was, is and probably always will be keenly afraid of failure still called the shots but my youthful spirit had an advantage when it comes to ambition over my current older and more pragmatic self.  It was single.

Before I married Jay, before I even knew Jay, I had decided that I wanted to be a doctor. Of course, this came after I wanted to be a professional singer, psychologist and hippie who traveled the world wearing worn-out Birkenstocks, but by this point in my life story, I wanted to be a doctor.   There were various motives for my career choice ranging from the philanthropic desire to help others' bodies be well and my fascination with how the body worked to the less noble: wanting a career that paid well.    It also wasn't too shabby walking around campus yacking about "pre-med" this or "pre-med" that.  I've confessed before that I suffer from pride (insert sheepish grin).

When my pre-med self met pre-med Jay, our single-mindedness certainly accelerated us falling in love (at least I'm giving partial credit to that reason.  We were at BYU, after all.  Things happen fast there).  We studied for our Chemistry tests together, wrote a paper about HIV for a technical writing class together and I gave him all of the old tests from my frenetically paced Spring/Summer organic chemistry class which I think helped him receive a better grade than me (single-mindedness should rule out competition, but it never has in our case).

When the time came to sign-up, pay and study for the MCAT, however, I came to a crossroads.  Should I, or should I not, go to medical school?   Feeling wise beyond my years, and looking at things from the doe-eyed perspective of a newlywed, I decided that I wouldn't go to medical school. I wouldn't even try.  I didn't take the MCAT.  I didn't fill out any applications.  I didn't spend thousands of dollars traveling and interviewing to see what might happen if (and, realistically, it was probably a very big if.  Med school is very competitive to get into) I was accepted by a program.  Instead, I'd support my husband through his schooling, follow the counsel of my faith and start a family and put my marriage, which was and still is my most prized possession, first.

Feeling confident, nay, smug with my righteous decision to forgo medical school for the sake of my future family, I met with the pre-med advisor, Dr. Bloxham, for an exit interview to fulfill a graduation requirement.  I was very surprised by his reaction and his challenge to my decision.  He urged me to reconsider, insisting, "I think you will one day regret and then resent not going."  What?  Did he know what school we were at?  I was making what I considered THE Mormon wife decision.  Before my interview, I anticipated that my deep-down-inner-feminist would be annoyed by his patronizing pat on the back.  The absence of patting and the words, those unexpected words, unnerved me. It unnerved me then, although I never have regretted my decision, and I hear the echo of his advice every time I approach another crossroads.

Two weeks ago, I decided to resign from the choral society I joined last fall.  When I auditioned and first participated, singing with this eclectic and surprisingly talented group of singers filled a noticeable void.   I love music.  I love singing.   I want both to be a major part of my life.

Then, one evening, I overheard a conversation before the start of rehearsal.  It was actually unusual for me to be there that early as I had made a habit of arriving about five minutes late to avoid the neck rubbing and cave man grunting, but that week I was there and I heard an older woman say to another, "I love Tuesdays.  It is my favorite day of the week because I get to come to choir."  I immediately knew I needed to quit.

Because, I hated Tuesdays, or did, when I was going to choir.  Rehearsal was always fun enough once I got there but I dreaded going.  Jay's call schedule seemed to frequently include a Tuesday night and I hated leaving the boys alone until he got home.   Wednesday night came and I resented having to leave again for Young Women.  I'm not going to lie and deny that my new, early-morning workout schedule didn't play a part in my struggles.  Waking up early on Wednesday and Thursday mornings felt extra hard because I had been out late both nights before.  Mostly, I felt like I never saw my boys.  Jay and I were tag teaming between my extra curriculars and his work schedule and my family....the thing I promised Dr. Bloxham was worth my sacrifice, was not getting the attention it needed or deserved.

What has been interesting to me since I made my decision is the response I sense and sometimes hear from friends, family and choir members when I explain the reason for my hiatus.  I sense... disappointment.  I feel, and this may be my hyper-sensitivity's fault, that others think I'm giving up too easily.  That once again, I am going to regret and then resent my decision to sacrifice a "me" thing in the name of family.  Will I?

Even though I could almost be considered allergic to poetry, I keep thinking about Robert Frost's poem, "The Road Not Taken."

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;


Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim
Because it was grassy and wanted wear,
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,


And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I marked the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way
I doubted if I should ever come back.


I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I,
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.


What if I'm on the wrong road?  What if at every crossroads, I have taken the road MORE traveled, the one MORE trodden.  What if the path I think nobly requires sacrifice is simply the easier one with the less resistance?  I'm not saying raising a family is easier but if I could do it all - graduate school and things that make use of and develop my talents, should I be doing those things as well? Will not doing those things make a difference down the road- a difference I will one day resent?

I hope not.  I hope that one day I'll sigh in my old age and say I'm glad I took the roads I did, even if our walls never hold any advanced degrees with my name in calligraphy and my voice atrophies from underuse.  I hope that one day, my boys and husband will say, "Having you home made all the difference."

Book Review - The Remains of the Day

For a book that I loved, it sure took me long enough to read it.   While it's not a large book, or even difficult to read, the meandering thoughts of an old English butler reminiscing wistfully about scenes from his past service, while traveling on his first holiday, didn't have the glue to keep my attention for long periods of time.

Still, once I got away from the distractions of my life and could focus on Stevens, and his marvelously flawed perspective of things, I chastised myself for any criticism or name calling (I think I used the term "boring") because this is a beautiful story.  It is the story of a man who devotes his life to service, dignity and honor, and in the process, misses out on quite a lot.  When hindsight makes him wonder if those priorities were worth the sacrifices required to maintain the standard he expected from himself, his own limited awareness of his life and the life of those around him is written with achingly stiff perspective.  The title is perfect for such a poignant novel.

Biggest Loser - Week 10 - The Law of Averages

How much do I hate it when these Biggest Loser posts are my only posts for the week?  A lot.  It's my personal goal to leave this post up on top for less than a day.  That means I need to write some book reviews, recap our very mellow Spring Break or really stretch and try to turn into words some of the things I've been thinking about. We'll see.

I'm happy to report that after three weeks of seeing the same number on the scale, I have a new number.  I'm down 4.4 pounds from last week.  It's good.

Do you ever do that unwinnable math game, though, when you project what your average...whatever...is into the future and expect that number to be your reality?  It happens to me all the time.  When I'm saving for something (if I put this much away every two weeks in this amount of time I should have X amount saved) or driving (if I'm going this fast, I should arrive at X o-clock).  It rarely works because things happen.  Cavities need to be filled without dental insurance, which makes a chink in my savings plan, or someone's got to go to the bathroom or road construction or I get behind a tractor-trailer and my average speed slows down.  The same thing has happened to my weight loss projection.

For quite awhile, I was on a three pound loss a week average.  Obviously, if you've followed my progress at all, I don't have many three pound a week losses.  Some weeks, I have big losses and some I have small (or none) but I've been able to hold on to that three pound average.  Until now.

At week 10, I am down 27.4 pounds  It's close, but my average is shot.  In my head, I'm thinking, "Week 11, I should be down 33 pounds," but that means I need to lose close to six pounds this week and I think that's unlikely.  It's time to let my mental average go.

It was a great workout week because my sister, Jen, did my Thursday, Friday and Saturday workouts with me.  I can't even describe how fun it was to have a buddy there.  She was a star and willingly went to Spin AND Zumba with me (twice) even though she had never done those classes before and wasn't looking forward to shaking her groove thang.  Still, I loved having someone to make eye contact with when the push-ups got tough, a fun song came on, or the older gentleman with poor flexibility made an already awkward move almost uncontrollable giggle worthy.  I love my sister.

Now she's gone and it's back to the grind.  I have three more weeks of Biggest Loser.  Three.  That should be nine more pounds (Or.  If I lose four a week I'm right back on track with my average).  Ack!  Must get that out of my head.

I could do it, though.  Right?

Biggest Loser - Week 9

Short post today because I'm extra grumpy.  Believe me...the snow doesn't help.  At all.

Another week with no weight loss.  Same weight as last week which was the same weight as the week before.  I've been working my tail (and quads, hamstrings, abs, triceps, shoulders and chest) off and I feel stalled.

Also, it was really hard to get up this morning.  I had the thought, "I'm going to have to do this for the rest of my life."  I guess the thought depressed me because I've sort of compared my current effort to, say, getting a college degree.  As in, I can make a focused effort right now for a highly desired outcome.  But, what if it's not like college?  Or, what if it is only I never get to graduate?  Am I sentenced to a life of never ending studying, tests and early classes?  I think I'm depressed today.

It's Spring Break!

Can't you tell?

(Heavy, heavy sigh)

Lemons Into Lemonade

As we drove up to the ski resort yesterday, Jay had the radio tuned to ESPN, a rare occurrence in my van as I consider myself allergic to almost all kinds of talk radio. As has been the case frequently this week, the commentators were discussing the BYU basketball player, Brandon Davies, and his dismissal from the team due to an honor code violation.

Their discussion was fair and they even had a former BYU athlete on to explain what is expected of all BYU students, including student-athletes, and how the Honor Code and its tenets are never downplayed during the recruiting process and how all incoming students would be very aware of its rules and consequences. As a former student myself, I can vouch for how aware students are of the Honor Code. It's something you sign anew each year and requires the endorsement of a bishop, or ecclesiastical leader if you're not a member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints. So, yes, it's safe to assume Brandon Davies was well aware that having sex before he was married would be against the Honor Code and a serious enough violation to be considered for dismissal from the school.

I have a conflicted opinion of the Honor Code. While I was a student, particularly during my Freshman year, I found several parts of it restrictive, harsh and judgemental. Twice, I got notices from the Honor Code office: once for having boys in my dorm too late (a friend. In our kitchen. Past midnight) and once for wearing shorts that didn't go to my knee at the testing center. I understand the ridicule from the outside world at standards that seem conservative at best and prison-like at worse. But what I eventually came to understand while I was at school, and what I whole-heartedly appreciate now, is that BYU is not like other schools. They don't want to be. The standards expected there may seem extreme but in a world where values are relative and enforced at an age when life long paths are begun, I rally around a school that does its best to create an environment that encourages and supports students efforts to live a life in accordance to the commandments they've been taught all their lives. And, of course, like everyone has been saying all week, no one HAS to go there. If you want something different, there are plenty of other colleges to choose from (which I definitely considered during my time there, but, with hindsight, am so glad I decided to stay).

While it's been interesting to listen to and read the debate about Davies and the timing of his mistake, an unexpected benefit arose from yesterday's broadcast. I suppose I'm a little desensitized to what sports and athlete's behavior can expose my sports-loving boys to, but suddenly, the commentators were using their radio show to discuss pre-marital sex and how and why the school would even know or care so much about Davies's behavior. Jay and I sort of looked at each other, both aware of Seth and Sam's attention to the program, and I felt impressed that we needed to turn the information into a teaching moment.

Jay obviously felt the same because he turned down the radio and asked the boys if they had any questions about what they had just heard.

Sam answered. He said, "I know they were talking about Brandon Davies."

"That's right," Jay replied. "Do you understand what happened to him?"

"He had sex with his girlfriend." There it was. There was no going back.

We both paused for a bit. We've never had the talk with Sam. He did, after all, only recently turn eight, but I'm a firm believer in having this discussion sooner than later. Then, my hero, my love, my partner said bravely, "Do you know what sex is, Sam?"

He didn't so we proceeded to have a great and caring conversation about our bodies, what they are made to do, what Heavenly Father's commandments are what some of the consequences are when we break those commandments. He had all the age appropriate questions and comments, including the connecting-the-dots "Do you guys do that?" question that's always good for a chuckle (although we did our best to keep straight faces so that there was never an impression that sex is silly or embarrassing to talk about). Seth was very silent in the back seat but I could tell he was listening. As we (make that Jay. As I recall, I was reading Goodnight Moon in the next room) had the talk with him a couple of years ago, I was especially glad that he was getting a low pressure refresher course before the big Health and Maturation discussion that the school is planning on presenting to the fifth graders later this spring. We asked if he had any questions (he didn't). It was so comforting to my mother's heart that I knew my boys had just received good, accurate and loving information from not only me, but also from their father and role model, who they admire and adore.

Henry was in the van too and made several comments like, "Jesus loves me!" and "Heavenly Father made me!" when he felt like interjecting into the conversation. I don't think he really paid close attention to the details of what we were saying, but you never can tell with Henry so we may be hearing some anatomical terms in the near future:)

I'm sad for Brandon Davies and really sorry for the public attention he has received for a private and personal matter but I'm appreciative of the opportunity it gave us as parents to talk to our boys about what we believe, what our standards are, and what some real consequences are to a sacred and powerful act.

If only....

my laundry was always this cute and impish.

Actually, cute and impish clothing would probably frighten me. But, I still think he's cuter than a bunch of socks that don't have pairs!

Three on Thursday - The Circle of Life

1. One of our two cats, Scout, went missing Saturday night.  Sam, the keeper and feeder of the cats, was very sad and, if I'm being honest here, so was I.  Like would probably be too strong of an emotion, but I was fond of Scout.  Between her and her sister, Jem, Scout is much more curious and bold which makes her more...interesting.  Plus, she's quite a pretty Siamese looking feline.  

Country life can be rough, however, and our cats are almost feral.  They never come inside and are very skittish around humans.  So, when she was gone, she was gone.  We didn't put up posters.  We didn't look at the humane society.  Jay and I figured that a bigger, meaner animal had gotten her.

I have no idea where she was or what she was doing (I have a hunch she was up to no good) but she showed up again this morning.  From the looks of things, she's no worse for the wear, though she was much sleepier than usual.  Mostly, I'm happy for Jem, who was lost without her sister, and Sam, who is thrilled to have his charge back (and happy to stop thinking about a dead cat carcass out there.  We never shielded Sam from our theories and I think Scout's happy ending brought a little of the innocence back).

2.  I got a funny call today.  One of the ladies I visit teach called me to explain that her ex-husband was at my father-in-law's house and noticed that one of the heifers was struggling to deliver her calf.   She said he could pull it but needed an extra set of hands (mine?????)  Perhaps it was due to the unusual source, but I wasn't quite sure what to do with that information.  My in-laws are gone from their ranch several days a week to fulfill their Temple presidency duties, so I called Jay to ask him what, if anything, I should do.

He was as confused as I was about who was out there and why but he asked if I wouldn't mind driving over to see if it was one of the heifers in the corral or an older cow out in the field.  Upon my arrival at the scene, I introduced myself to the ex-husband, who happens to know my in-laws well enough to call him "Doc" and sell him jerky, and their faithful fencer.  He said he had already pulled one calf but this other mama cow was really distressed and the legs of the calf were coming out wrong and....I'm not sure what else.  I called Jay back with my new information and I could tell he was busy or in the middle of something because he told me, "I'll take care of it.  You can go home."  What?

I didn't know if that meant he was coming or if I should tell these men to go home or what, so the three of us just stood outside the corral, watching the cow alternate between lying down and try to push (with nothing happening) and standing up and the calf's little hoofs disappearing back inside its mother.   After about a half hour, one of them called me "boss" and it became clear that they were awaiting my instructions.  I explained to them how far down the chain of command I was and that I had no authority to make any sort of birthing decision.  Thankfully, at this point, my sister-in-law, Patty, drove up after receiving a call from her husband, Jay's brother, Vaughn.  Patty was on the phone with Vaughn, who had been called by Jay.  Patty handed her phone over to the ex-husband and between the two, a plan was made to help the mama cow out.

It involved moving the cow to the chute, where the ex-husband could pull the calf out.  My job was to push the lever to close the chute once the cow's neck got through it.  Even though I knew I didn't have to handle a birth sack, or pull anything out of anywhere, I was still nervous.  However, the mama cow did all sorts of evasive maneuvering and the ex-husband ended up just kind of cornering her in the alleyway to the chute and pulling the calf out there.  Amazingly,  the little calf was alive (and really cute!).  I'm so glad the ex-husband called his ex-wife, who I visit teach, who called me, who called Jay, who called Vaughn, who called Patty so that neither calf nor mother died.  

3.  Jay and I went skiing on Monday, while my van was being fixed (battery had cracked and the acid had corroded off the battery cable), and it was so deliciously sunny and warm.  Unfortunately, I got a sunburn on my chin.  That's right, the rest of my face was shielded from the sun's harmful UV rays via goggles, helmet and coat, but my chinburn turned a bright red.  Today, new skin must be forming or something, because when a dribble of my oil and vinegar dressing dripped on my chin during lunch today, it stung!  It has continued to sting, in spite of my application of moisturizer.   Come on, new epidural cells!  Momma needs a new chin!

Biggest Loser - Week 8 - February Results

A couple of days late, but only because I have been busy.  And, yes, that includes busy working out:)

The last week of February fit perfectly into a month that was wacky and inconsistent.  As much as I enjoyed the weeks when the weight seemed to come off effortlessly, in spite of traveling or eating poorly, I knew in my heart of hearts that I would not, could not last.  And it did not.

I missed the second hour of exercise on three of the five days, Monday through Friday, for various reasons.  I only did a 35 minute treadmill workout on Saturday.  I ate quiche and cake at bookclub.  And my car broke down on Saturday, and all of my emotional eating demons came out to taunt me while I was stranded at home, missing my choir concert.  All things considered, when I stepped on the scale on Monday to discover that I hadn't lost any weight, but hadn't gained any either, I felt disappointed but relieved.

We also did our measurements and that was a little more encouraging.  I didn't lose nearly as many inches as I did in January but I am five inches smaller than I was a month ago, and I'll take smaller in any number.  I also dropped another 3% of my body fat, so I'm heading in the right direction.  It's just crazy how sneaky my own sabotage can be.

Nevertheless, I am determined that March becomes the month where I turn the corner leaving my insecurities, my demons, my old habits forever behind me.  The Biggest Loser is being offered for one more month and I'd be a fool to deny that the program has been a powerful source of my success.  Sadly, only myself and a sixty-year old woman are continuing on and so the program will change significantly.  With only two of us, the trainer has decided to essentially split us up and have us working individually with her a different times, while the other is doing something cardiovascular, probably on the treadmill or elliptical.  For the past two days, I've been the only one in class, so after spin is over, it's just me and Kim, her and her perky fit self pushing me to do more push-ups, deeper squats and just ten more seconds in the plank (I still hate hate hate this exercise.  I'm sure it's mental but at this point, if I never had to do it again, I'd be a happy lady).  I know this is going to be awesome.  I mean...essentially, I am getting personal training for an hour, five days a week.  But, it's also hard having the eyes on me the entire time.  There's no going half-way.  I feel too guilty not using her $50 an hour time, that I am getting for a lot less, to its full advantage.

I should point out, however, that she's invested in seeing me succeed.  Today, in between tricep sets, she again told me about her desire for me to become one of her Zumba instructors.  Now that I know the full story about how she started her business and how her trainers have come to be trainers, I see that I fit the mold.  All of her trainers, but one, have been former clients of hers.  She's still trying to build her business and thinks having someone like me, who found success through her business, would be really good for business.  She uses the term inspirational, but I see it more as savvy marketing.  I'm not being critical at all.  I adore this woman and truly feel like her encouragement and positive energy have made a huge difference in me wanting to stick with her program.

But, I saw first hand yesterday how she plans on using me.  I attended her Pilates class, which was filled with very fit women who were all clearly regulars.  It was a really hard class but I was mostly able to keep up.  At the end of the class, while we were stretching, she said, out loud, "Lucy, do you mind if I introduce you?"

Having a feeling where this would go, I was tempted to say, "No" but I'm a pleaser so I said yes.

"This is Lucy and she has been doing my Biggest Loser class.  How much weight have you lost so far, Lucy?"

"Twenty-three pounds."

The class all whooped and cheered and I blushed.  THEN she said, "Did you see how well she did in here?  If you could have seen her only two months ago, you would be amazed by how she has improved and how far she has come."

Again...applause.  I know she didn't mean it this way, but I felt like she was saying, "Let's hear it for the big girl!"   No, really, she really wants me to have success.  Almost as much as me.  It just comes out a bit embarrassing sometimes.  I know she wants me to be her internet girl.  That means pictures, numbers....all of it, on her web site.  I don't know if my gratitude and enthusiasm for her program means I want the world to see my stomach stretch marks, however.

Till next week!