F R O M B R A D . . .
When you have 100 pounds of weight to lose, you notice certain changes in your body as you slowly become smaller. Lori found a collar bone. I rubbed a rib that I hadn’t rubbed in 
a long time. But there are real milestones that happen. This week in the shower, after almost a 40 pound loss, I have to admit I was overjoyed to look down and see the tip of what I can only describe as ‘my wife’s best friend’ peeking out from between my toes. That’s right, her loofah back scratcher. There it was on the tub floor where it usually resides. But this week I could see it without bending over.
By the way, if hemorrhoids are the result of eating healthy and exercising, I’m going back to the pleasant pudding pop turds of a grease-based and blithering alcoholic diet. I can’t help but notice they don’t mention anywhere on the directions what happens during the two minutes between application and the magical Preparation H Cooling Gel kicking in. Don’t get me wrong. Without it I would die. I’ve said this before and I’ll say it again – it’s Preparation H, not the shampoo, that should be called No More Tears.
I had a really good session with my therapist this week. I could tell because I was kind of pissy when I left. She challenged me on how I frame thoughts and attitudes and how they in turn effect how I do or do not do what I should do. That’s a lot of dos. That’s more dos to deal with than The Supremes on a six show night in Vegas. I’m so gay.
Apparently my “all or nothing” attitude towards things like food and booze combined with my focusing on “worst-case scenarios” is causing stress in my life and fogging up my rose-colored glasses when looking at things. I’m being sarcastic here. The take away is that if I was to try to re-frame my thoughts, I would see things differently as well as act differently, resulting in other people in my life acting differently. Here we go with a new “ME” project.
-Brad
-Ain’t got no scale in TO. It’s my Tulum.
F R O M L O R I . . .
It’s hard to type this because my arm is in a cast. I went to Edmonton trying to break a leg on stage and now I’ve fractured my arm patting myself on the back for putting me and my health first all week!
Last night when my husband asked me how the road trip went, I told him I had packed a bag of healthy food. I felt so validated when he said, “I remember eating on the road. It was so hard to eat healthy.” Amen.
And it is! You leave town with your comedian buddies. Stop at Starbucks. Ooh, I want a skinny vanilla latte. But wait. That’s 120 calories. By the end of the late show, I am going to have been up about 18 hours. I can’t waste 120 calories on coffee. So I get coffee with milk and sweetener instead. No breakfast sandwich or muffin. I have a protein bar in the car.
I have my chicken and crackers in my hotel room before the shows. Every time I go from my room to Yuk Yuks, I have to walk through the casino and past the restaurant which wafts out the tantalizing smells of burgers, onion rings and fries. I constantly have a string of drool on my chin. Between shows I go to my room and have a piece of beef jerky and 9 almonds. I brought precisely 6 ounces of vodka with me so I could have 3 drinks per night. I mix it with my Slim juice and in a couple of hours realize that 3 ounces over the course of 5-6 hours really does nothing in terms of giving a pleasant buzz. I remember that the next night and scrap the vodka entirely.
After the late show is the toughest. It’s 12:30 am. I’ve been up a long time. My resolve has been eroded by time and distractions. The first night I order a bowl of soup and the second, a green salad with chicken. My friends, and there is no judgement or complaint here at all, order a burger and a clubhouse sandwich. There are fries and onion rings mere inches away from me. Marcus and Donovan are lucky they still have all their limbs. They could be missing a hand or torso had I lost my mind and given in to the grease cravings.
On the drive home, one of them asks if we can stop at the Donut Mill in Red Deer. Have you been? I’ve had one donut there in my entire life and its memory still makes me salivate. Something about them using real whipped cream as filling. I go in because I have to pee then stand there waiting for my buddies. Temptation waves itself in my face. “Just get a donut hole! You’ve earned it.” Fuck off, brain. I’ve earned something, yes, but it’s not toss fried fat and sugar down my gullet and revisit an old bad pattern. So I handle myself by saying, “I’ll wait in the car,” and I go out and assemble a ‘rewarding’ lunch for myself. 1/2 a protein bar, some light Laughing Cow cheese and those 9 flippin’ almonds again.
I’m not telling you this to say, “Oh, woe is me. Life is soooo hard.” My life is excellent. This weight loss road is work. I like work. Writing it down like this helps me see in black and white that what I accomplished all weekend is worthy of a pat on the back. It took planning, effort, will power and resolve to stay on track. I navigated through a lot of very tempting situations.
April 2015
On another topic (sort of), I was on TV Sunday night doing comedy. The set was taped last April before any weight loss. I was apprehensive to watch myself. I wondered if I would be embarrassed or think less of Lori last April because she was bigger. It’s an ugly thought but an honest one. I watched a couple of minutes this morning. You know something? I like last-April Lori… which makes a lot of sense because she’s the same person as Lori today, just with a slightly smaller wrapper.
Here’s to self love, sweet thangs!
Love,
Lori
Pounds lost this week: 2
Total pounds lost: 47.2
Gah! Parts of me are getting road rash! Somebody pull me back up on the wagon!
So you lose almost 35 lbs, start feeling good about yourself, head to the gym and then there it is. A room full of mirrors. The joy of seeing my fat ass from every angle. Why all the mirrors, people? If you want to get some fatties to join your gym ease off on the mirrors. Fat people hate mirrors. The only thing we hate more than mirrors are cameras…. which have tiny mirrors in them! There are special free weight rooms for the lunkheads. Why not a special room for fatties with drapes over the mirror? I suggest a graduated mirror system where you reveal a little more mirror as you reach certain weight goals or as your gym clothes become looser. Being able to view my rolls and man boobs punishing my Lycra from 360 degrees is not motivating. As a matter of fact, from some angles it’s frightening. Seven years bad luck for breaking a mirror does not originate in superstition. It’s just an attempt to stop fat people from “accidentally” bumping one off the wall.
I have a new yearning. I want to move my body because it feels good, not because it’s exercise. Not because it’s good for me. Not for any of the reasons that pigeonhole movement as a bloody chore. A duty. Something you have to get done in a day. Ugh.
However, my exile got a bit… hmm, physically too comfy. Okay, sedentary. Motionless. All right! I was a cozy lump. It was winter. We had a fire roaring. I’d heat up my microwave slippers while tumbling my favourite blankie in the dryer then roll myself in warmth. Side note: turning myself into a piping hot human burrito is very comforting. I do it in place of using food as comfort.
No Avia scale pic this week. I had a great 3.5lb drop at my weigh in on Saturday, ran (shut up) home to get a pic for the blog and could only get an ERROR message on the scale. It likely couldn’t believe itself. I may have blown its mind. I can’t seem to find any fix on line so there’s a customer support call in my near future. Fat guy breakthrough moment this week… I have started going to the gym in hotels when I’m on the road. What a foreign and strange place. It’s like an operating room, I know these machines can help save my life but I have no idea what they do. I’ve started with the old stand-by, the stationary bike. Stop laughing, 30 minutes is better than nothing. BTW, I would totally be the colossal douche-face making fun of the fat lady exercising.
Sunday morning Becca loaded her stuff in a trailer, hopped in a vehicle with her new roommates, and left to start out on her own in Saskatoon. Since she informed us of her decision to move out I’ve been all tough guy. “Great, it’s time for you to go out on your own; it’s time for you to get a big feed of the real world and independence.” When her mom felt anxious and sad I resorted to the, “It’s the best thing we can do for her, she has to grow up. I’m not sad, I’m happy she’s going. You’re looking at it the wrong way.” Five minutes after the door closed and she pulled away I was smothered in a wave of unbelievable sadness. I cried like a big fat baby. There was snot. Once I gathered myself I stopped in this true emotion (as per my therapist) and tried to get to what it was that happened. I know her leaving absolutely has to happen, and that it’s the right thing. Bird. Nest. All that shit. And then it hit me. I’m afraid I haven’t prepared her for life. I haven’t given her the tools that she needs to excel on her own. I’ve been so focused on my own shit over the last five or so years that I’ve neglected her. There were a thousand things I could have done that I didn’t do. My baby is unprotected and I’m scared shitless.
Busted through the 30 pounds lost. I’m not posting the Body Fat % from the Avia Fitbit scale anymore. After discussing with some folks and doing some research, it seems it’s kind of bullshit at best. But the weight is great. January was a banner month. There was no booze, lots of weight loss, and I didn’t kill anybody. I didn’t get my 10,000 steps in every day last week as the old plantar fasciitis flared up. I don’t know how that translates from Latin to “hot knives in my heel” but that’s what it means. Instead of sort of healing then getting back at it too soon and seriously damaging it (which has been my usual cure) I did nothing, and like the weight loss, accepted that this is a marathon not a sprint. I hope I used those athletic terms properly.
y kill. Like the empty buzz from food, booze or drugs, it’s instant, easy and short lived. And once it wears off, a depressing mess. Don’t get me wrong, having a solid act that you can rely on to earn money and please a crowd is great. But I achieved that in 2010. Since then I’ve been coasting. With coasting comes the inevitable end of inertia. The settling at the bottom. No way to climb any hill that may appear in front of me in the form of a festival, or a theatre tour, or another level of talent, or the honing of a successful comedy career. The comedy tank is empty because I haven’t been filling it up.
headlining the Laugh Shop. I stuck them into the middle of the polished 45 minutes and I did them whether I was killing or bombing. I just kept doing them. I had more fun in those few minutes than I had in the entire set doing well for forty-five. I was being a comedian again. I need to be a comedian again. What if I had spent 1 hour a day over the past five years just writing instead of ruminating in my shit? That would have been 1825 hours. I’m willing to bet there would have been a decent hour in there somewhere.
A few weeks ago I noticed I was having to yank the hair out of my brush a bit more often. Then it happened in Mexico when I’d only been there a week.
I took this selfie because I wanted a picture that commemorated the hair loss. I also like when the sun makes my freckles come out.
So, now I’m temporarily balding. And that’s okay. I think of it as a rite of passage of the surgery adventure.
FUNNY FAT FRIENDS 