Friday, June 10, 2011
Thursday, June 9, 2011
Dressed Head To Toe In Love
When I first decided realized I was moving to New York, I asked all of my friends who were from, had lived in, or frequently visited the Tri-State Area for advice. Most people said simple things like "don't spend too much money" or "buy an air conditioner; the summers are brutal" (note to past self: they were right). But one guy gave me something a little deeper: "Just remember that real life isn't Sex and the City." Huh. That's actually not bad advice, I thought to myself. It combines the simple lines I had gotten from everyone else and added an element of "don't feel bad about yourself if you don't have time to enjoy it, because no one does." I've tried to keep this in mind whenever I feel like I'm living in the library or dressing like a slob or totally broke.
But lately, I can't help but wonder... why can't my life be Sex and the City?
At it's core, Sex and the City is really just a show about a group of young professional women living in New York City, looking for love and having fun along the way. What part of that doesn't sound like my life? Okay, the young professional part, I'll give you that. Grad school is definitely a different lifestyle... one that there aren't too many shows aboutbecause they would be really boring. But when I'm not in the library, I'm in the city. I'm single. I'm with my fabulous girlfriends. I'm writing a blog... which is like a column, only I don't get paid. I'm shopping. I'm schmoozing. I'm having a good time. Sure, the dresses I wear are cheaper and the bars I go to are a little less classy, but apart from that, there isn't a big fundamental difference.
So what part of this should I not be emulating? Maybe some better advice would have been, "Make your life as much like Sex and the City as you possibly can. Remember to look fabulous (when you have time) because you never know who is watching you walk by. Remember to have fun in this incredible city. Remember who is important above all the BS." Not a bad thing to keep in mind.
But lately, I can't help but wonder... why can't my life be Sex and the City?
(Source: NY Post)
At it's core, Sex and the City is really just a show about a group of young professional women living in New York City, looking for love and having fun along the way. What part of that doesn't sound like my life? Okay, the young professional part, I'll give you that. Grad school is definitely a different lifestyle... one that there aren't too many shows about
So what part of this should I not be emulating? Maybe some better advice would have been, "Make your life as much like Sex and the City as you possibly can. Remember to look fabulous (when you have time) because you never know who is watching you walk by. Remember to have fun in this incredible city. Remember who is important above all the BS." Not a bad thing to keep in mind.
Monday, June 6, 2011
Friday, June 3, 2011
Introducing Freeky Friday
My sister blog and I (seriously, she's my sister in real life) are freeking psyched to announce that we are co-sponsoring a new series. We are pleased to introduce to you Freeky Friday! In this series, contributors will spread positivity, unity, and love by responding to a freeking awesome weekly prompt. But seriously, what's with the overuse of the word "freek"?
I’m glad you asked! Once upon a time, there was a boy. I mean, a man. Kind of more of a man-boy. This man-boy was our cousin, Mark. We’re referring to him as a “man-boy” because he had a passion for life that most boring adults outgrow.
Mark was the kind of guy that would follow you around with a camcorder singing Barney songs, just to see how you would react. His favorite ride at Disney World was the Tomorrowland Transit Authority (otherwise known as The Peoplemover) because who wouldn’t think it was hilarious to circumnavigate far more entertaining rides while traveling at the exhilarating speed of 2 mph? When Disney’s Hercules was playing in theaters, we were forced to go see it because it was the only way to get Mark to stop repeating, “Let’s. Go. See. HERCULES!” He was our greatest source of laughter, he was the big brother who always came to our rescue, he was our hero.
When Mark was in his late 20s, he was diagnosed with Hodgkin’s lymphoma, a type of blood cancer. Instead of succumbing to the negativity surrounding him, Mark chose to channel his energy into something creative. Freekware was born.
Freekware, Mark’s clothing line, became an artistic outlet to occupy his time while he was in and out of treatment. Of course, we all supported it and couldn’t get enough of the goods! And we weren’t the only ones...
Yeah, thats P-Nut, the bassist of 311. Because that’s how awesome Mark was.
When Mark passed away in 2005, Freekware became his legacy. His sisters have taken over the company and it continues to expand to this day. Best of all, the proceeds benefit the Leukemia and Lymphoma Society, in order to help other courageous badasses like Mark.
Last summer, when that photo was taken, I overheard my cousin Jen telling my younger cousins what Freekware is. The littlest one is too young to remember Mark; Jen asked her if she knew him, and she replied "no, but I know that I love him," (Is your heart melting? My heart melted.). Jen proceeded to give both of the girls a pep talk. She told them that when they wear Freekware, they are invincible. Mean girls don't matter - they're really only jealous of you. Stupid boys don't matter - they have no idea what they're missing. Bad grades don't matter - you just have to learn from it. As I listened to her indoctrinate the younger generation with the Freekware philosophy, I realized that the little issues in life that get people down never really change. I still get upset about boys, bitches, and B's. If you let those things bother you, you'll be in a constant state of misery.
To me, that's what Freekware is all about. It's taking the stupid crap that life throws at you and learning to brush it off your shoulders. It's about turning it around and seeing the positive in everything - and everyone. It's about loving who you are and what you have. And when I wear Freekware, I AM invincible. I walk into a room and declare to the world, "Hell yea, I'm a Freek! I am damn proud of it!" Best of all, it brings all of us together. It is everything that was beautiful about Mark, everything that is beautiful about my family.
Do you wanna join the Freeks? Just share some positivity every Friday by answering the prompt that we provide. Your first mission:
We’re all getting psyched for summer. What plans are you most looking forward to?
If you do not have a blog, you can still participate via Facebook and/or Twitter! The weekly prompt will be posted on the Freekware Facebook page every Friday. Simply "like" Freekware and comment on the prompt! Or, you can briefly answer the prompt via Twitter with the tag #FreekyFriday. If you can't decide between a blog post, Facebook, or Twitter, feel free to do all three!
But wait, there's more! All contributions for the month of June will be entered to win some Brownie-covered Oreos as well as a donation to the Leukemia and Lymphoma society in your name. So, if you blog on all three remaining Fridays in the month of June, you'll be entered three times! If you blog, tweet, and comment on Facebook all three Fridays, you'll be entered nine times! Get to it! Oh, and be sure to check out the Freekware Facebook page in the meantime!
Wednesday, June 1, 2011
Things Are Happening!
This Friday, Friday
Big things are coming this Friday
Everybody's looking forward to this announcement, announcement
Friday, Friday
Meet me back here on Friday
Everybody's psyched about blogging
Forgive me for the horrible reference. But really. Friday. BE HERE. And get excited.
Big things are coming this Friday
Everybody's looking forward to this announcement, announcement
Friday, Friday
Meet me back here on Friday
Everybody's psyched about blogging
Forgive me for the horrible reference. But really. Friday. BE HERE. And get excited.
Saturday, May 28, 2011
Old Habits Dieted Hard: What the What?
When I started blogging, I promised myself the number one thing I wanted to be was honest. I didn't want to lie to my readers. I didn't want to create a character and become someone I'm not, no matter how much cooler that person may be than I actually am in real life. I wanted to be myself, and I wanted to be honest. When I started Old Habits Diet Hard, I wanted to carry this through. I wanted to be honest about the struggles and triumphs of weight loss for a grad student who loves to cook and eat. There is a reason I stopped blogging this semester, and that reason involves OHDH. And I owe it to you all to be honest. And I am finally ready to tell you what happened.
There is a very find line between calorie counting and exercise bulimia. I consider myself pretty self-aware, and I knew when I started dieting that I would be walking this line. Every day is a series of numbers - I ate this much, I burned this much, I need to eat this much more, but not THIS much more because then I'm in maintenance and not in weight loss. Every day I was reminding myself not to get caught up in these numbers, because what was important was eating better and moving more.
I think the beginning of the end came when a friend (whom I love dearly despite how this story may sound) told me I was destined to fail. I wasn't experiencing the results I was looking for, and I was at a really low point. I was working out 3-4 times a week and consistently hitting my calorie goals (on every day but Wednesdays, which for some reason, were my fat days), but the scale wouldn't budge. My friend told me that because I was so miserable, I was not going to be successful. I would not lose weight because I was not making sustainable lifestyle changes that I could stick with forever. I would not lose weight because I was not enjoying the dieting process.
At the time, this was the worst thing anyone could have possibly said to me. I was heartbroken. My friends, who had been so supportive, were turning on me. What the what? Was I that much of a mess? I called my sister, who promptly told me to ignore my friend, that I should not get caught up in the numbers, and to go to bed (most advice in my family ends in "go to bed").
For some reason, this triggered something in me. I was worried that I had become too obsessive about dieting - which I in turn treated by becoming completely obsessive about dieting. I'm talking deliberations before every meal, panic attacks whenever I was invited out with friends, and jumping jacks at midnight so that I could eat one more bite of peanut butter. I was sick. I felt myself walking that line between calorie counting and exercise bulimia, and I felt myself teetering over to the dark side.
One night, I ate too much for dinner. I was getting ready to go out with my friends, and I knew everyone would be drinking. The thought instantly popped into my head, "if I threw up right now, I'd feel better, and I would have calories left to eat later." What the what?! Who is this person in my brain?! I ended up not going out that night, beating myself up for my thoughts, and going to bed miserable. This would have been almost permissible if it was the only time this thought crossed my mind. There were another three occasions in the same week where my pretty-much-full-blown exercise bulimia was teetering into that other kind of bulimia. All three times I caught myself before I did something I would regret, beat myself up over it, and went to bed miserable.
I continued calorie counting until two weeks before the wedding. While sitting in a diner at midnight, I inputted the food I was eating into my iPhone. I had done kickboxing that morning and walked all day; my exercise calories burned were well over 1000. My calorie counter alerted me that I was over budget for the day. I went through and deleted every single thing I had eaten that day from the counter. I didn't want to see it. I didn't want it to exist. I thought, "Fuck you, MyFitnessPal. I worked out literally all day. I am going to drink this Cosmopolitan and eat this cheesecake. And I am going to look fabulous at this wedding, and you are not going to bring me down anymore." And that's exactly what I did. It was the worst cosmo I had ever had. I did not care. It tasted like victorious defeat.
A wise therapist once told me that my anxiety stems from the word "should." She had me create a list of things I loved and and a list of things I wanted to know more about. The things I loved were, obviously, wonderfully awesome things. All of the things I wanted to know more about were things that I should know more about. Exercise that makes me happy. Reading the books that I own. Planning for the future. Whenever I do anything, I am constantly aware of what I should be doing instead - even if what I am doing is writing a paper, I probably should be writing that paper, while doing my laundry, and eating some impossibly delicious low-cal homemade meal that I whipped up for under $3 per serving. As I wrote that sentence, I thought "I should find a way to include lesson planning in that scenario too." I cannot stop.
Calorie counting is a list of "shoulds". Did you eat cereal with a banana and almond milk for breakfast? You should have only used half the banana. Did you run for 40 minutes today? You should have run for at least 45. For someone like me, it's lethal. My anxiety turned me into a monster. A crazy, diet-obsessed, slightly-bulimic monster. I was miserable.
I am happy to say that I loved the way I looked at the wedding. I was gorgeous, and I got lots of compliments on how much weight I had lost. Sure, the scale only said 5 pounds, but it felt like more. And those last 2 weeks when I was walking for pleasure and going to the gym classes that interested me (ballet, Zumba, kickboxing, yoga) were the first time in my life where I enjoyed exercise. Sure, I probably went because I knew I should. But I actually enjoyed myself while I was there. And I felt great afterwards!
Since all of these events, I have gotten off track and probably gained back a bit of the weight that I lost (FINALS #gradschoolproblems). But I am now back to walking, dancing, kickboxing, and yogaing my stress away. More importantly, I have stopped caring so much. Food is food. I have to eat it. I try to eat healthy, but if I don't this ONE TIME, no one is going to die. I am not obese, and I'm not really on track to be. I guess what I'm trying to say is, I cut myself a break. And everyone else should too. Forgive yourself. It's worth it.
So there it is. Honesty Hour here on Concrete Jane. I've missed you, blogosphere. I'm happy to be back.
There is a very find line between calorie counting and exercise bulimia. I consider myself pretty self-aware, and I knew when I started dieting that I would be walking this line. Every day is a series of numbers - I ate this much, I burned this much, I need to eat this much more, but not THIS much more because then I'm in maintenance and not in weight loss. Every day I was reminding myself not to get caught up in these numbers, because what was important was eating better and moving more.
I think the beginning of the end came when a friend (whom I love dearly despite how this story may sound) told me I was destined to fail. I wasn't experiencing the results I was looking for, and I was at a really low point. I was working out 3-4 times a week and consistently hitting my calorie goals (on every day but Wednesdays, which for some reason, were my fat days), but the scale wouldn't budge. My friend told me that because I was so miserable, I was not going to be successful. I would not lose weight because I was not making sustainable lifestyle changes that I could stick with forever. I would not lose weight because I was not enjoying the dieting process.
At the time, this was the worst thing anyone could have possibly said to me. I was heartbroken. My friends, who had been so supportive, were turning on me. What the what? Was I that much of a mess? I called my sister, who promptly told me to ignore my friend, that I should not get caught up in the numbers, and to go to bed (most advice in my family ends in "go to bed").
For some reason, this triggered something in me. I was worried that I had become too obsessive about dieting - which I in turn treated by becoming completely obsessive about dieting. I'm talking deliberations before every meal, panic attacks whenever I was invited out with friends, and jumping jacks at midnight so that I could eat one more bite of peanut butter. I was sick. I felt myself walking that line between calorie counting and exercise bulimia, and I felt myself teetering over to the dark side.
One night, I ate too much for dinner. I was getting ready to go out with my friends, and I knew everyone would be drinking. The thought instantly popped into my head, "if I threw up right now, I'd feel better, and I would have calories left to eat later." What the what?! Who is this person in my brain?! I ended up not going out that night, beating myself up for my thoughts, and going to bed miserable. This would have been almost permissible if it was the only time this thought crossed my mind. There were another three occasions in the same week where my pretty-much-full-blown exercise bulimia was teetering into that other kind of bulimia. All three times I caught myself before I did something I would regret, beat myself up over it, and went to bed miserable.
I continued calorie counting until two weeks before the wedding. While sitting in a diner at midnight, I inputted the food I was eating into my iPhone. I had done kickboxing that morning and walked all day; my exercise calories burned were well over 1000. My calorie counter alerted me that I was over budget for the day. I went through and deleted every single thing I had eaten that day from the counter. I didn't want to see it. I didn't want it to exist. I thought, "Fuck you, MyFitnessPal. I worked out literally all day. I am going to drink this Cosmopolitan and eat this cheesecake. And I am going to look fabulous at this wedding, and you are not going to bring me down anymore." And that's exactly what I did. It was the worst cosmo I had ever had. I did not care. It tasted like victorious defeat.
A wise therapist once told me that my anxiety stems from the word "should." She had me create a list of things I loved and and a list of things I wanted to know more about. The things I loved were, obviously, wonderfully awesome things. All of the things I wanted to know more about were things that I should know more about. Exercise that makes me happy. Reading the books that I own. Planning for the future. Whenever I do anything, I am constantly aware of what I should be doing instead - even if what I am doing is writing a paper, I probably should be writing that paper, while doing my laundry, and eating some impossibly delicious low-cal homemade meal that I whipped up for under $3 per serving. As I wrote that sentence, I thought "I should find a way to include lesson planning in that scenario too." I cannot stop.
Calorie counting is a list of "shoulds". Did you eat cereal with a banana and almond milk for breakfast? You should have only used half the banana. Did you run for 40 minutes today? You should have run for at least 45. For someone like me, it's lethal. My anxiety turned me into a monster. A crazy, diet-obsessed, slightly-bulimic monster. I was miserable.
I am happy to say that I loved the way I looked at the wedding. I was gorgeous, and I got lots of compliments on how much weight I had lost. Sure, the scale only said 5 pounds, but it felt like more. And those last 2 weeks when I was walking for pleasure and going to the gym classes that interested me (ballet, Zumba, kickboxing, yoga) were the first time in my life where I enjoyed exercise. Sure, I probably went because I knew I should. But I actually enjoyed myself while I was there. And I felt great afterwards!
Since all of these events, I have gotten off track and probably gained back a bit of the weight that I lost (FINALS #gradschoolproblems). But I am now back to walking, dancing, kickboxing, and yogaing my stress away. More importantly, I have stopped caring so much. Food is food. I have to eat it. I try to eat healthy, but if I don't this ONE TIME, no one is going to die. I am not obese, and I'm not really on track to be. I guess what I'm trying to say is, I cut myself a break. And everyone else should too. Forgive yourself. It's worth it.
So there it is. Honesty Hour here on Concrete Jane. I've missed you, blogosphere. I'm happy to be back.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)