Fear is not an option.

In a world where some people look to Miss Bimbo (an actual website that encourages young girls to earn points based on how skinny they can keep their bimbo, how many diet pills she can take, or a successfull breast augmentation) or a variety of other pop stars for inspiration, I wonder, has reality and empowerment been flushed down the tube?

Then I find this article about Jamie Lee Curtis. How did I miss this amazing article? Regardless of your opinion of her, it is worth taking a look at. I love how real and honest she is about her looks.

And then, the very next day, I find this article. Again, even though I may not entirely agree with what she has to say in the article, I love her honesty about life. 

If you get a chance, check out this children’s book she wrote, I’m Gonna Like Me: Letting Off a Little Self-Esteem.

While I think Ms. Curtis is an excellent actress, the depth of her runs far deeper than acting alone. She is honest, real and empowering in a world that often condemns those values. 

I think she kicks all kinds of ass.

Let them eat cake.

It seems like a strange new skill to pick up, especially when I’m trying to avoid eating it, but I’ve just discovered that I love to bake cakes. It is so relaxing and fun.

Go figure. I can think of nothing else more contrary. Sounds like me, right?

So on Sunday, I made a bunny cake. It was delicious!

No actual bunnies were harmed in the making of this cake.

Just for the smell of it.

 For the longest time, I couldn’t smell anything.

I thought this was a blessing. I couldn’t smell yesterday’s Styrofoam meat tray in the trash, rotting with the stink of blood and ground beef. I couldn’t smell Patchy, my dog, after she had so gracefully rolled in diarrhea at the dog park. Generally, it seemed like a good thing. And yes, I know, totally disgusting.

Of course, I was missing out on the sweet smell of sourdough bread in the oven. Or the aroma of a freshly brewed pot of coffee. Or the simple delight of a load of laundry fresh out of the dryer.

You know why I couldn’t smell anything?

Because I was a smoker.

Apparently, smoking kills all the little filters that allow you to process scent. Hence why people gain weight when they quit smoking-they can actually smell what they are eating and it all smells so good.

And yes, I was one of those smokers who sprayed on perfume, chewed gums and mints, brushed and mouth washed, rubbed on lotion and anything else I thought would mask the smell of the cigarettes. I couldn’t actually smell myself, so I never knew if it worked. Until I asked someone–they said it was a bit like more like cigarettes AND strong perfume. The cigarette smoke still lingered, and in fact, it dominated. I had no idea back then.

The point is–I can smell now. Good and bad, for whatever it is worth, are processed by my olfactory system.

The most recent of which is cinnamon raisin toast.

If you have never had cinnamon raisin toast, please, do yourself a favor and run out to the store right now and pick up a loaf.

Go ahead, I’ll wait.

There is nothing better than a slice of freshly toasted Cinnamon Raisin bread. Something about the way cinnamon combines with raisins. It smells warm and rich, yet tastes light and a just a little crunchy. It is the perfect combination, with a small pat of butter, for breakfast happiness.

It smells like my childhood.

In fact, the other morning, while I was leaning over the toaster, yearning for my cinnamon-raisin goodness to pop out of the toaster slots, I took in a long, deep smell. You know the kind: you close your eyes, smelling some rich exotic scent that you can’t live without and just let it wash over you, transporting you to some other time or place.

This smell, this cinnamon raisin toast smell, it took me to a Monastery in Western New York.

Seriously. A Monastery. A place where Monks spend their lives devoted to their religion.

Growing up, my mom spent a lot of time finding unusual activities for us kids to do. I think they were mostly unusual because there were five of us kids, so unusual usually translated to affordable, which usually translated to free.

Not only was my mom incredibly thrifty, she was also adventurous. She drove us to Niagara Falls more than once. I have pictures of us all crammed into the back of her VW van, smiling while we eat our sandwiches; swaddled in hats, scarves and thick winter jackets.

One of the places we visited was The Abbey of the Genesee. At this Abbey, Monks bake bread as part of their work. They then sell the bread and the proceeds benefit the Abbey and the work that the monks do.

In my mind, these mysterious Monks, mostly bald-headed and cloaked in dark robes, are singing mysterious chants while hand rolling the bread dough.

More likely, my mom would take us to the Abbey; we would go to the bread store, pick up a few loaves while speaking to the Brother was on duty in the bread shop that day and then be on with our day. Of course, the bread wasn’t free, but I recall getting the day old loaves, which were something like ½ off, making them exceptionally affordable for a mom with five kids.

I remember being allowed to sample some of the loaves.

One specific time, I remember one of the Monks showing me how the yeast and the dough were mixed, with paddles that were bigger than me at four years old. The dough looked sticky, getting pulled and prodded by those paddles, slow and methodical.

He then showed me the oven, where the bread was baked. The racks for the bread were taller than my dad, and they could hold at least a thousand loaves at one go.

And then there was that smell. Sweet cinnamon raisin bread. The aroma of that bread makes me stupid and even at a young age, I knew that there was magic being baked in that enormous bread oven. The Monk must have seen the wonder in my eyes, more likely the drool on my chin, because he pulled a freshly baked loaf off the conveyor belt, brought it over to a table and sliced it right there in front on me.

No words were exchanged between the Monk and me while he sliced up the loaf. Just silent respect for the steamy soft bread on the table between us.

He pulled a slice from the loaf and offered it to me with a slight nod of the head. I, of course, snatched that slice right from his hands, and gobbled it up. So warm, so rich, so gooey, so delicious. It was the beginning of a long, loving, reverent relationship. With cinnamon raisin bread, that is.

The smell is what hits me the most though. I don’t actually remember if the bread was good or not. In fact, when I discovered you could order it online, I was hesitant. Would the experience be the same? Would the bread still be as I remembered it?

Would opening a flat-rate shipping box filled with the precious loaves be the same as pushing through the doors, letting that sweet smell hit you right in the face, and purchasing a dozen loaves right then and there. And the best part? Knowing you could tear into one of those loaves the minute your butt hits the car seat.

Food and me, we often have what can only be described as a sincerely unhealthy relationship, albeit well-rounded and full. For some reason the cinnamon raisin bread does not fall into that category. I can have exactly two slices, with a reasonable pat of margarine, for breakfast. No need to eat the whole loaf in one morning. In fact, the loaf that Mr. Shortpants and I bought recently is still in the bread box, waiting for breakfast tomorrow.

Some part of me thinks this has to do with the memory attached to it.

My mom did let us eat the bread in the car on the way to Niagara Falls. The bread wasn’t off-limits or forbidden. It wasn’t seen as indulgence because, let’s face it, the bread was made by monks. And it was relatively healthy, made with all-natural ingredients. Those monks were way ahead of their time.

There is also something about the memory of the smell. I know I’ve eaten it, but it is the aroma that I truly revel in. I wonder if that has something to do with my ability to be moderate with the bread. I’ve often heard that an aroma can cause your stomach to trick you into thinking you are hungry. An aroma can cause your stomach to growl and churn, even if you just ate lunch.

But maybe, just maybe it is really more about the memories than the bread. That is why I can just eat two slices and move on with my life. Maybe it is about being transported back to my mom’s VW. About being strapped into my seat on a moments notice and driving off to some obscure museum, some fantastic monument, or even to Niagara Falls. Singing songs in the van, laughing about first grade jokes, munching on Monk bread.

This aroma, the cinnamon raisin goodness, it stimulates the wanderlust in my heart, a hereditary trait from my mom, and helps me to remember what is important in life.

And so as I lean over the toast, anxiously awaiting that familiar pop, I am thankful for the cinnamon raisin bread. Thankful that I am able to smell it, that my little filters are back to work again, allowing me to be transported. But also, I am thankful for this relationship I have with the cinnamon raisin toast. I can eat two slices for breakfast and forget about it. I can move on with my life. The plastic bag of goodness can go back into the bread box without taunting me, teasing me into eating just. one. more. slice.

It is what I like to call progress, people. I figure if I can do this with my precious cinnamon raisin bread, I can do this with other foods. Maybe not tomorrow. Maybe not next week. And maybe not even next year. But someday. It is progress and it makes me feel happy.

Amazing all the things that the smell of cinnamon raisin bread can do, right?

Interested in more information on ordering the cinnamon raisin bread? Check out the Monastery and Monks’ Bread for more information.

The Last Lecture.

The adventure is more about the road, rather than the destination.

 I would like to respond to an anonymous comment from my post yesterday here, if I may.

“small success = keep going, therefore, small failure = quit ?You’ve said yourself (more or less) that you need to quit thinking of this as a journey, because journeys have ends, and being a healthy person really doesn’t end.

Many people have commented on your expressive and illustrative language in your blog. To me, this post says your own message hasn’t quite sunk in yet. Until you think of your health as a process, cycle, or just LIFE, your setbacks will keep putting you back in that funk.

I mean this more as a helpful reminder than a critique. I hate it when you’re in a funk. And 8.8 is AWESOME.”

My first reaction to this comment was very defensive. That is how I knew it was hitting a nerve. And an exposed nerve, at that. Because the things we are most defensive about are the things we know are most true.

So I turned off my computer. I walked away. I didn’t want to reply in anger because I knew I wasn’t actually angry.

Instead I cleaned the house. I cooked a delicious dinner for my friend’s birthday. I did the dishes. I started the laundry. I read a book. I went to bed.

This morning, still feeling a little edgy, I had a heart-to-heart with myself, with the help of Mr. Shortpants. Then I did something so simple, I often forget how healing it is. I went running.

After running, I felt calm. Duh, right?

Can I start off by saying, Anonymous, you know me shockingly well. If you don’t actually know me, I have a feeling if we met, we’d be best friends. You want to know why? Because you totally called me out. Not a lot of people do that.

In fact, I read this comment no less than a half an hour after my therapy session yesterday, where I spent the better portion of my hour-long session wrangling with some of the very issues that you called me out on.

Here is the thing-I’m wading through 28 years of mud. This makes for the interesting and a little bit sticky dichotomy of How Many Miles.

On one hand, you have the HMM who is committing to life-long health. She knows it will be hard, but she is committing.

On the other hand, you have the HMM who is afraid. She focuses on weight as a route to success or failure, more often the latter.

These two parts for me spend most of the day fighting. It is exhausting.

These two parts of me are also the reason why you, Anonymous, see that my own message has not sunk in with ME yet.

Do as I say, not as I do, right?

Yesterday, after explaining some of this to my therapist, she said that society has taken a drastic turn-instead of looking at weight as a fact, people look at weight as part of their personality, or some intrinsic part of their makeup.

But in fact, it is still just a fact. I weigh 251.2 pounds. That is a fact. It makes me no less of a person. I’m still just as compassionate, loving, loyal and funny. Losing OR gaining weight will not compromise my personality. It will not make me a better person to gain or lose weight. It will not make me smarter. It will not make me more beautiful to lose or gain weight. I will still be HMM, no matter where the fact of my weight is.

Mind you-I don’t live in a hole. I own a television. I surf the web. I read magazines. I’m aware of this idea that you will be a better person if you lose weight. You will be more desirable, smarter, and happier if you lose weight.

So stick me (and millions of other folks, too, I would suspect) somewhere in the middle of those two ideals. Yikes. No wonder I have a hard time thinking about anything else other than weight.

But as my therapist said yesterday, it is just weight. That’s it. A number. 251.2 pounds.

It’s funny, even as a write this, I’m struggling with both sides.

One side of me thinks: It is just weight.

The other side of me thinks: But I’ve gained so much weight since last year.

One of my dogs, Patch, is extremely tuned in to Mr. S and I. She is constantly watching us, evaluating to see if we have things under control, waiting for us to give her the word that we need her to step up to the plate. She is a border collie after all: she is always looking for a job.

She is so keyed into us that if our voices escalate beyond a certain decibel, she freaks out. She jumps into our laps, tries to lick our faces, bite our hands, anything to distract from the obvious stress we must be facing.

Because of this, if we are discussing something that is particularly stressful, we try to smile and speak in a sugary sweet voice. It looks ridiculous, but it totally works. She is none the wiser, only opening one eye in our direction at the sound of our voices, but once she realizes we will not be requiring her services, she goes back to sleep.

The funny part of this whole thing is if we are having a discussion or a disagreement, the sugary-voices sort of pushes the whole thing forward past all the useless crap and gets us to resolution much faster. It’s good for all involved.

I try to approach those two voices the same way. If I spend more time talking sweet to the voice that leads me astray, it confuses her. The same goes for writing in the blog-I figure the more time I spend writing about the message I’m trying get out and less about the other stuff, I will start to believe myself. The message will sink in, for me.

It works, for the most part. But I imagine there will be holes. Giant, gaping holes where you could peer in and see insecurities. Such is life.

You are right, Anonymous. Until I absorb the fact that small defeats are no reason to quit, I will continue to see this as a temporary state of mind. I agree with you on the fact that journeys usually have endings, so I’d rather think of this as an adventure. Because adventures have high points and low points, learning experiences, small defeats and small success, but adventures endure.

At least in my life adventures endure. My whole life is one big adventure and will continue to be so, I imagine.

Semantics aside, the point is that this quest for health is for life. No dieting, no yo-yo’s, no inconsistency. It will not be easy, but it is now and forever a part of who I am. I must find a way to merge the two parts of me. Or at least let them roll around in the mud once in a while so that they can live cordially the rest of the time.

The problem right now? The one was causing the funk?

I keep trying to compete with last year me.

Which, is crazy, I know.

Last year me was running further, faster and losing weight, I tell myself.

This is clearly not effective thinking.

So instead, I have think that my new life taught me some lessons between then and now. Some really important lessons that will help me in the long term in finding out that my adventures are part of LIFE. Not for a day, not for a week, not for a year, FOREVER.

You should know people, that there will be times that I sound shaky. You’ll raise an eyebrow at me sometimes. I’m never going to be perfect and there will be times that I’m a running-singing contradiction.

In fact, some people have emailed me saying that the sole desire to lose weight is a contradiction. I’m not sure I can get entirely on board with that one. Here’s why:

I think losing weight to attain happiness or love or be a better/happier/sexier/richer/whatever person is contrary to my goals of pursuing a healthy lifestyle.

There are some persistent health reasons why I track my weight, along with various measurements. They are:

*My resting pulse rate is 110. I know this can be lowered with weight loss and regular exercise.
*My tendonitis becomes aggravated as my weight increases.
*Creeping blood pressure and triglycerides as my weight increases.
*Family history of diabetes and heart disease.

However, I’m done with attaching my self-esteem to my weight. This is one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do. Seriously. I struggle with not doing it everyday. If you have been reading a while, you know that I was on a formal diet program from age 11 until last June, so I’m working on wading through the muck. It will take time, I’m sure. But let’s face it; wading is much easier than living in a funk.

A few things I know for sure:

*I’m committed to a healthy lifestyle.
*Committing to a healthy lifestyle will be hard, but not impossible.
*I will continue to document my adventures in front of the public eye.
*I will continue to be nothing but honest in all aspects of my adventures.
*I will no longer be so hard on myself. I’m learning to let stuff go. And guilt. I’m letting guilt go. Bye-bye guilt.
*I’ll never be perfect. Ever. I will stop trying to be.
*I’m very appreciative and extremely grateful for all of you. You cannot begin to understand how much I lean on you for support, to call me out on stuff, to give me advice, to send me your inspiring stories, and to identify with. You guys are the best.

Lastly, and this is the most important one: I’m still kicking ass and taking names, people.

Hell, yeah.

It’s the little things.

Sometimes, when one is in a funk, it is the little things that make a difference.

This morning I hopped on the scale and I weighed 251.2 lbs. 

260 lbs. – 251.2 lbs. = 8.8 lbs. lost

Even though I am measuring my success by more than just a weight number, it still feels nice to see the number going down rather than up. 

Sometimes I think when you are on a difficult journey, you need to see small doses of success along the way to make you want to keep going down the same road. It is a sign to keep going. 

It was just what I needed. 

Funky Whole Wheat Pita.

I’ve been in a funk lately.  

This has a lot to do with my ability to A) make excuses and B) lay a giant guilt trip on myself for just about anything.   I’m awesome at making excuses. I have to be. You know why? I had to learn to be good at excuses because I’m fat.

No, seriously.

I make excuses for all the things that I think people will judge.

For example: I buy ice cream and cookies at 11pm in the self checkout line at the grocery store. My excuse is that the line is shorter, but in reality, it is because I don’t want to look that cashier in the face, knowing full well that she is thinking, “Ice cream AND cookies? Doesn’t she know she is FAT?”  

Some excuses are good things. Like saying you have to go running instead of (insert most any other activity here). That is a pretty cool excuse. Or saying, “I can’t wash dishes because I have stitches and the doctor said so.”  

But the other excuses, they are vicious. Like a tiny bomb; dangerous and explosive, but so tiny that you think, what the hell? It can’t do that much damage.   Tiny bombs of self-destruction: I can’t go see my family because I’m still fat, I’m tired because I’m fat, I’m fat because I’m tired and lazy; you see where I’m going with this.  

Here are some things that I know are true. Minus their excuses.

I’m not working out consistently.
My eating is shit.
I constantly beat myself up.
I no longer feel like a good example of anything.
I’ve gained all the weight back that I lost last year.
I feel very much like a failure.  

The hardest thing in life to do is to put all your thoughts out, buffet style. No fancy packaging, no creamy sauces, no luscious presentations, just the facts. It is painful, sure, but I think that when you remove all the elaborate excuses, you can see what is really going on.  

You know what is really going on once I remove all the fancy presentation?  

Fear.  

I’m totally and utterly afraid of ditching the fat girl that is me. It is scary. Scary because she has been around a long time. Forever, it seems. And it is not only me that is scared to ditch her. Many of my friends don’t know how to interact with the healthy How Many Miles. They recoil from her healthy ways. They mock her marathon training. They feed her junk food.

It is hard to shed the old roles that I put myself in. The roles that make everyone feel comfortable.

So I give into the fear and let her win.  

And listen people, I could sit here and tell you that this isn’t about self-acceptance, which is what I like to tell myself. The truth is-I’m tired of accepting something that is unhealthy. Don’t be fooled though, this isn’t about a magical number; this is about changing a lifestyle.

So I choose to be different.  

This weekend, I had an unusual opportunity. Mr. Shortpants found out that there was an open call for a very popular TV show about weight loss on Saturday and dared me to apply.  

So on Saturday morning, after only sleeping two hours, we woke up at 4am and drove to Phoenix in order to line up at 7am.  

I was number 308 in line.  

Apparently there were over 1,000 people at the casting.  

I stood there, all groggy and barfy from nerves, scanning this ever growing line of folks wrapping around the mall.  

There we all were, at 7am, determined, awake, dedicated, and prepared.  

I can’t speak for the 999 other folks, but I know that this is not a common occurrence in my life. On Saturday, I try hard not to get up at 4am.  

But there we all were, vying for the chance.  

I wonder what motivated all of us. The money? Sure, it would be nice, but it wasn’t my driving force. A chance to be on TV? Again, nice, but not my primary motivator.  

So what is it?  

I think it has something to do with having support, a community of like-minded folks who know what it means to retrieve cake out of the trash can.

Or others who, in the morning, cry standing in front of their closet over the agony of clothes hanging nicely on hangers, but not actually fitting.  

Folks who would never dream of saying, “Just. Stop. Eating.”    

And with that community behind you, and a wealth of information on your side, it seems like it would be possible to get there. Like anything can happen.  

Because sometimes it seems so hard to achieve your goals, whatever they may be. Especially when you are alone and isolated in a world full of people who seemingly have their shit together when in fact, they look at you the same way.  

I have no false sense of reality though-I know the chance of me being picked for the show is pretty slim to none.  

But it is pretty cool to say that I was there with this giant extended family. It felt great to feel that this confidence was emanating from people who won’t judge you. People who love you no matter what you look like. No matter how many miles you can run, or what size your pants are.  

It gave me a surge of feelings in fact to stand shoulder to shoulder with all these unknown friends. Such a big surge of feelings that I started crying. But not out of nerves or sadness, but tears of pride and happiness.  

Here we all were. Not ashamed. Not hiding. Not judging one another. It was awesome.  

This feeling has carried over to the rest of this week. I’ve been still funky, but a more thinking type of funky.  

I’m ready to take hold again.  

I’m the kind of person who likes to do things all the way. I like to be the best at everything I do. A good quality in some cases, like grade point averages. But it is a very bad quality when it comes to making a gigantic change in life.  

Like last year. Don’t get me wrong-everything I accomplished last year still amazes me.  

But I was a little overambitious in expecting that I could return to my old habits after the marathon and expect different results. I believe that this is the definition of a crazy person, by the way.  

My journey should have never been slated to end after I ran the marathon last June. I was so busy trying to be the best until June that I forgot about everything else, including what was supposed to happen after the race. Who is How Many Miles after a race? Who is How Many Miles when she is not training?  

There is a lot of truth in taking every day one day at a time. There is a lot of truth in the fact that being the best at something is not the best way to live.  

This journey of mine is going to take a long time. In fact, it doesn’t even have an ending.  

Only new beginnings.          

I played this song like five hundred times while writing this entry and it kind of fits the point of this entry, so I had to share.   Falling Slowly The Academy Award Winning song from the movie Once  

I don’t know you
But I want you
All the more for that
Words fall through me
And always fool me
And I can’t react
And games that never amount
To more than they’re meant
Will play themselves out

Take this sinking boat and point it home
We’ve still got time
Raise your hopeful voice you have a choice
You’ve made it now

Falling slowly, eyes that know me
And I can’t go back
Moods that take me and erase me
And I’m painted black
You have suffered enough
And warred with yourself
It’s time that you won

Take this sinking boat and point it home
We’ve still got time
Raise your hopeful voice you had a choice
You’ve made it now

Take this sinking boat and point it home
We’ve still got time
Raise your hopeful voice you had a choice
You’ve made it now
Falling slowly sing your melody
I’ll sing along

What will *you* be doing at 101?

I can only hope to be half as cool as Buster when I’m 101 years old.  

I’ve been thinking too much, apparently.

Thanks Buster.

Hell on wheels. You know, in a good way.

I went riding again today. I was supposed to run, but had to wiggle the schedule around because we have to be in Phoenix at the butt crack o’ dawn on Saturday and that was my next scheduled running day.

It is nice to have the variety of a reliable cross-training option like bicycling for situations like this.

I rode for 30 minutes. It was fantastic.  

Good things about my ride:

I saw a coyote.
I got my heart rate into the recommended zone.
I did a little pseudo-mountain biking on the river walk.
I left my neighborhood.
I shifted gears, successfully.
I didn’t fall or flip or die.
I was outside.

Bad things about my ride:

My ass hurts. Must invest in more appropriate shorts.
Some guy almost killed me while I was riding on the road to the bike path.
The supersonic wind.

I guess the good outweighs the bad, which is a good thing when you are starting something new. Otherwise, it gets awfully depressing.  

Another thing? And this could be spun good or bad: running does not necessarily use the same muscles as bicycling.

Woah, HMM, what are you doing to us muscles? We were here relaxing, eating tubs of ice cream and watching the boob tube, settling in to atrophy, and then this? We thought you loved us?

Oh and if you were wondering, I’m kicking ass and taking names on the bike now, too.

Hell, yeah.

Spoke, spoke, spoke, tiny.

I just got back from my first official bicycling workout.

Sure it was only 20 minutes.

Sure it was only around my neighborhood.

But you know what-not only did it kick my ass, but it was fun! I didn’t think anything would rival running, but bicycling definitely has its own set of perks which puts it in a close second.

I think I’m getting my groove back, people.

Can you say future du athlete?