Recently I was visiting my parents and browsing some old photo albums looking for some high school photos for my impending high school reunion. Yes, I have a high school reunion coming up, and knowing that, I could probably go a million different directions with this week’s column, but I don’t fly straight. Remember that little yellow birdie Woodstock from the Peanuts comics? That’s me. So I’ll start with the reunion, fly in circles, upside down, and then weave in and out a little and end up with the realization that I’m a scantily clad fat cow. Try to keep up.
As I was looking through photos, it became sort of a family reunion. My mom and dad were there, my husband and kids were there, and my sisters showed up. With so many girls in the room, the talk soon turned to critiquing each other’s former appearances—mostly mine.
“I liked your hair like that, not like this. You don’t look good with this color,” said one sister.
Then another sister countered: “No, she didn’t look good with dark hair. She looks better with lighter hair.”
Then the first one countered, “No, this just looks—yuck.”
To steer the subject away from my ever-evolving hairstyle, I said, “Remember when Mom used to say I dressed too conservatively?”
That was when the real zinger came. The moment that made me realize what I really am.
“She did dress conservatively,” my mom insisted. “And I told her to dress in more figure-flattering clothes before she lost it. Now she dresses that way.”
And for the high-fat whipped cream on top she added, “And now you don’t have the figure for it!”
A loud “no-she-di’nt” gasp rose from the room. Then my husband did the only smart thing a husband should do in that situation: He agreed with his mother-in-law. I couldn’t blame them. After all, there comes a time when you have to admit that the dryer isn’t shrinking your clothes and your favorite designer’s clothes aren’t running on the small side. As for those kick-around loose jeans that used to belong to my husband that are now too tight—well I don’t know what was up with that. That must have been just plain ol’ denial. But the moment you are fronted out about your weight by your beloved family, that’s when you have to face the truth.
That was it. I finally realized: Not only am I a minimalist when it comes to fashion, I’m a maximus when it comes to body size.
The next day, as luck would have it, I locked my car keys and phone in my car in Old Orcutt. So I walked over to Anytime Fitness and talked to my longtime friend Gina Martinez who works there. Gina is a bit of a celeb, having experienced an impressive weight-loss victory, resulting in her becoming a television spokesperson for eDiets. She suggested I start training. Not exercising like I was, because obviously that wasn’t helping, but training with a professional.
She connected me with Anytime Fitness trainer Jennifer Santos, who asked me what my goals were. I told her I wanted to lose weight.
“What else?” she asked.
At first I didn’t know what she was asking. I mean, I didn’t realize I had a choice. So I told her I wanted to be stronger, I don’t want a boring workout because I have a short attention span, and—what the heck—since I was placing my order, I want a better butt. One that will make J. Lo weep at its magnificence and cause Kim Kardashian to hang her head in shame.
Jennifer jotted down my order and came up with a diet and workout plan meant to shame my fat into packing up and leaving my body. Actually, I wish it as easy as issuing an eviction notice. Instead, it’s involved real work. In short time, I was on the treadmill fighting the fear that all that jiggling was going to jiggle my shorts right down to my ankles, causing me to trip and fall.
For two weeks, I’ve been doing bootcamp, intervals, squats, and weightlifting. It’s not a pretty sight. My training sessions are full of running, jumping, sweating, and a few “I can’ts.” But Jennifer thinks I can do it, and when I do, she is the first to tell me, “What happened there? I thought you said you can’t. Why did you just do it if you said you can’t?”
So I’m expecting great things.
Who knows? Maybe I’ll even get back into some of my old high school clothes before the reunion. I can’t wait to break out that old O’Neill T-shirt, those acid-washed pegged Levi’s, and my favorite hot pink Converse high tops.
Will Arts Editor Shelly Cone meet her fitness goals? Will she get stuck in her Levi’s? Will young kids everywhere stop wearing ’80s-inspired fashion? And who brought that crap back anyway? She’s chronicling her training efforts each week on her blog at ShellyCone.com. Contact her at scone@santamariasun.com.
This article appears in Feb 23 – Mar 1, 2012.
