5 Minutes longer before it’s too late
Rushing away, instead of to wait
Not even a pancake, no time to eat
Tonight’s the night, our souls will meet
Coffee, not tea
Papers to grade waiting for me
Lunch with friends, not alone,
A cozy deli, not at home
A fresh garden salad instead of fries
Sharing the truth instead of lies
Baby carrots, no baby blues,
Chased by dessert to hide the ohs, aaahs and oohs.
Back to work instead of the mall,
Tackling the papers once and for all.
Trying to work instead of to dream
Thinking of this, not always of him
Rushing home, no time to waste
Picking clothes, no act in haste
Candles and music and maybe a book
A bubble bath at home, to hide my look
behind fogged up mirrors with chocolate and wine,
dreaming tonight: he’s mine, he’s mine, he’s mine.
Living my life just for him,
Oh, what a waste that must have been.
If only I’d paused to look and see
He’s already chosen
The thin girl instead of me
Nov 23, 2008
Oct 4, 2008
Three tacos and some totopos
I woke up with you,
and I took you to work with me.
Hunger, you went to sleep with me the night before.
I tried to hide behind pills,
I tried to excuse you behind dreams,
but there you were, pushing me to the evil place.
I know I am smart,
I know I am clever and intelligent,
but whenever you appear, I dissolved in your anxiety.
I hate you, I see you,
I see me while I order, and I know,
I shouldn't... but there they are: three tacos and some totopos...
and I took you to work with me.
Hunger, you went to sleep with me the night before.
I tried to hide behind pills,
I tried to excuse you behind dreams,
but there you were, pushing me to the evil place.
I know I am smart,
I know I am clever and intelligent,
but whenever you appear, I dissolved in your anxiety.
I hate you, I see you,
I see me while I order, and I know,
I shouldn't... but there they are: three tacos and some totopos...
Sep 30, 2008
Girdled carnitas
It's not easy to be green, but it's easier than being fat.
In his book Lodo Guillermo Fadanelli says: "Hace mucho tiempo que dejaron de existir las gordas felices" (It's been a long time since there were happy fat girls) and I think --even if I wanted to spit on the book when I read the quote—that he is right. Obviously there are some exceptions, among them a lot of happy Cuban women that cover their generous carnes with lycra, but they are a minority to which I don't belong.
I am not a happy gorda. Let's be honest. I could tell you that I embrace my roundness because it’s cute, or that my big body matches my big heart, but that is not what I say when I see my muffin top in the mirror. Actually what I do say cannot be reproduced in this blog if we want to keep it PG-13.
Don't judge me, flaquitos. Before you do, try to squeeze yourselves into a girdle. A what?! A girdle. A whole-body chastity belt 3 sizes smaller of your regular size. An "Ican'tbreathohgodIcan'tbreath" suit that tries to compress all your fat so you can fit into your prom dress. I am telling you, anguilas, it’s hard. Try to cram a whole puerquito into a condom to make it look like a salchicha...almost the same thing, but more hideous. After you do, if you can talk, try to describe yourself using words such as carefree, gleeful and overjoyed. If you do, and you mean it, I promise to use the can opener sooner to free your michelines before they develop gangrene.
I am not saying that I am not a happy person: I am. But my happiness ends when my kilos affect my life in not very pleasant ways. I am afraid of fitting rooms. I am the sidekick of handsome boys—rather than their amorcito. I am invisible next to hot girls and when I eat desserts in restaurants sometimes I get the "that'sthereason" look.
As almost every rellenita I know, I've been in every single possible weight loss program. Lately, after almost 10 years of failure, it's been working. This has brought a bunch of new experiences into my life and that's what I want to write about. See, I am not a happy gordita, and therefore I am very excitedly trying to change. So, if you can stand my sourness, mi bichines and complaints, permit me to tell you about my cuesta arriba quest; it will be interesting.
And if you stay long enough and I make it, I promise to invite you to burn with me the last pinche girdle that I keep in my drawer as a reminder that I can't and I won't be confined for much longer.
In his book Lodo Guillermo Fadanelli says: "Hace mucho tiempo que dejaron de existir las gordas felices" (It's been a long time since there were happy fat girls) and I think --even if I wanted to spit on the book when I read the quote—that he is right. Obviously there are some exceptions, among them a lot of happy Cuban women that cover their generous carnes with lycra, but they are a minority to which I don't belong.
I am not a happy gorda. Let's be honest. I could tell you that I embrace my roundness because it’s cute, or that my big body matches my big heart, but that is not what I say when I see my muffin top in the mirror. Actually what I do say cannot be reproduced in this blog if we want to keep it PG-13.
Don't judge me, flaquitos. Before you do, try to squeeze yourselves into a girdle. A what?! A girdle. A whole-body chastity belt 3 sizes smaller of your regular size. An "Ican'tbreathohgodIcan'tbreath" suit that tries to compress all your fat so you can fit into your prom dress. I am telling you, anguilas, it’s hard. Try to cram a whole puerquito into a condom to make it look like a salchicha...almost the same thing, but more hideous. After you do, if you can talk, try to describe yourself using words such as carefree, gleeful and overjoyed. If you do, and you mean it, I promise to use the can opener sooner to free your michelines before they develop gangrene.
I am not saying that I am not a happy person: I am. But my happiness ends when my kilos affect my life in not very pleasant ways. I am afraid of fitting rooms. I am the sidekick of handsome boys—rather than their amorcito. I am invisible next to hot girls and when I eat desserts in restaurants sometimes I get the "that'sthereason" look.
As almost every rellenita I know, I've been in every single possible weight loss program. Lately, after almost 10 years of failure, it's been working. This has brought a bunch of new experiences into my life and that's what I want to write about. See, I am not a happy gordita, and therefore I am very excitedly trying to change. So, if you can stand my sourness, mi bichines and complaints, permit me to tell you about my cuesta arriba quest; it will be interesting.
And if you stay long enough and I make it, I promise to invite you to burn with me the last pinche girdle that I keep in my drawer as a reminder that I can't and I won't be confined for much longer.
Sep 23, 2008
Do you speak Sports?
This week was my very first workout session. I have never ever been to a real workout in my life. But since I am determined to shed these pounds, I decided to better make friends with the gym now. So, I signed up for this gym class that meets three times a week for an hour.
My alarm rang at 5.30 am. I immediately knew that this would be bad. Very bad. How can anybody work out at that time of the day? But it was the only time that fit into my schedule. The rest of my day is planned out with… well… other important stuff. So, I dragged myself to the gym in the middle of the night.
To my surprise, we didn’t really get to work out at first. A nice lady sat down with me and the other three guys that were crazy enough to get up at this time and handed us a sheet of paper with lots of numbers. These were the results of the fitness test we had to take the week before. I would love to give you more details about this fitness test, but I can’t because I almost passed out and lost all memory about this experience of torture.
So, here I am sitting in the middle of a gym with this list of numbers trying to follow a lady that goes on and on about body composition and oxygen consumption, about relative perceived exertion and respiratory exchange ratio. I have absolutely no idea what she is talking about and try to make sense of all the abbreviations on my sheet of paper. What are “Relative METS”? What does “FEV1/FVC” stand for? We hadn’t even started working out yet, and I was already lost.
Excuse me, can you explain the RevHR to me again?
Let’s see. Oh, that’s a typo. Haha. That would be really bad if that value was the right one.
Yep. Turns out it wasn’t a typo.
Apparently, all these numbers showed that I am in bad bad BAD shape. Dude! I don’t need a sheet of numbers to tell me that. I can look at my reflection in a shopping window and I would know that.
But finally, we were about to work out. I picked that thing that looked remotely like a bike. It had more buttons and lights on it than my tv remote control. So, I started paddling. Every now and then the coach would stop by and check my heart rate and then disappear again.
Hmmm. I was just about to like that exercise, sitting there on my high-tech bike and paddling comfortably when this coach lady came over to me and started shouting numbers. I was confused. I thought we were done with the numbers part. What on earth does she want from me?
23, 138, 50
I was lost again. And here she came back:
23, 138, 50
I wanted to say to her what I always say to my students: "Speak in complete sentences, please! Where is your verb? And I also wouldn’t mind some nouns and I need at least one or two motivating adjectives if you want me to go on over here on my high tech bike."
But I didn’t dare to say anything and she kept on yelling: 50, 50, 50!!!
I realized that this whole sports thing was like a foreign language to me. She might as well have yelled “cincuenta” or fifty in Chinese.
In my desperation, I thought, maybe she is talking about the breaths I should take per minute and I started panting along. Judging from the weird look on her face, that wasn’t what she meant.
She kept on saying
23, 138, 50,
23, 138, 50
23!!!, 138!!!, 50!!!
until I finally dared to ask:
Excuse me? What does that mean?
These are your training zones.
My what?
Well, don’t you remember the numbers from your sheet?
Uhm, no. Was I supposed to memorize them?
Your heart rate is too low. And off she went again.
Okaaaaay. So? What now?
My heart rate is too low. Does she mean I need to bring it up? But how can I increase my heart rate? Usually, my heart just joyfully skips along and I never tried to influence it. Can you really influence it at all? I mean, if you really could, why would people need pacemakers or get heart attacks. Why would I always get my heart broken???
I was just about to start pondering about deep philosophical questions concerning my heart and life in general... when I realized, she might want me to paddle harder. But what a crazy idea! I mean, it’s not like I am going anywhere on this high-tech bike-thingy. So why would I paddle harder? But then I looked at her and could see her face and before she could even start mouthing the word "fifty" again, I paddled harder.
Yep, turns out that's what she wanted me to do. Two minutes later, time was up.
Now, I am back home. I just came out of the shower and think, I will lay down again. Just for a little bit... no longer than 3, maybe 4 hours. After this workout, I am physically and mentally exhausted.
My alarm rang at 5.30 am. I immediately knew that this would be bad. Very bad. How can anybody work out at that time of the day? But it was the only time that fit into my schedule. The rest of my day is planned out with… well… other important stuff. So, I dragged myself to the gym in the middle of the night.
To my surprise, we didn’t really get to work out at first. A nice lady sat down with me and the other three guys that were crazy enough to get up at this time and handed us a sheet of paper with lots of numbers. These were the results of the fitness test we had to take the week before. I would love to give you more details about this fitness test, but I can’t because I almost passed out and lost all memory about this experience of torture.
So, here I am sitting in the middle of a gym with this list of numbers trying to follow a lady that goes on and on about body composition and oxygen consumption, about relative perceived exertion and respiratory exchange ratio. I have absolutely no idea what she is talking about and try to make sense of all the abbreviations on my sheet of paper. What are “Relative METS”? What does “FEV1/FVC” stand for? We hadn’t even started working out yet, and I was already lost.
Excuse me, can you explain the RevHR to me again?
Let’s see. Oh, that’s a typo. Haha. That would be really bad if that value was the right one.
Yep. Turns out it wasn’t a typo.
Apparently, all these numbers showed that I am in bad bad BAD shape. Dude! I don’t need a sheet of numbers to tell me that. I can look at my reflection in a shopping window and I would know that.
But finally, we were about to work out. I picked that thing that looked remotely like a bike. It had more buttons and lights on it than my tv remote control. So, I started paddling. Every now and then the coach would stop by and check my heart rate and then disappear again.
Hmmm. I was just about to like that exercise, sitting there on my high-tech bike and paddling comfortably when this coach lady came over to me and started shouting numbers. I was confused. I thought we were done with the numbers part. What on earth does she want from me?
23, 138, 50
I was lost again. And here she came back:
23, 138, 50
I wanted to say to her what I always say to my students: "Speak in complete sentences, please! Where is your verb? And I also wouldn’t mind some nouns and I need at least one or two motivating adjectives if you want me to go on over here on my high tech bike."
But I didn’t dare to say anything and she kept on yelling: 50, 50, 50!!!
I realized that this whole sports thing was like a foreign language to me. She might as well have yelled “cincuenta” or fifty in Chinese.
In my desperation, I thought, maybe she is talking about the breaths I should take per minute and I started panting along. Judging from the weird look on her face, that wasn’t what she meant.
She kept on saying
23, 138, 50,
23, 138, 50
23!!!, 138!!!, 50!!!
until I finally dared to ask:
Excuse me? What does that mean?
These are your training zones.
My what?
Well, don’t you remember the numbers from your sheet?
Uhm, no. Was I supposed to memorize them?
Your heart rate is too low. And off she went again.
Okaaaaay. So? What now?
My heart rate is too low. Does she mean I need to bring it up? But how can I increase my heart rate? Usually, my heart just joyfully skips along and I never tried to influence it. Can you really influence it at all? I mean, if you really could, why would people need pacemakers or get heart attacks. Why would I always get my heart broken???
I was just about to start pondering about deep philosophical questions concerning my heart and life in general... when I realized, she might want me to paddle harder. But what a crazy idea! I mean, it’s not like I am going anywhere on this high-tech bike-thingy. So why would I paddle harder? But then I looked at her and could see her face and before she could even start mouthing the word "fifty" again, I paddled harder.
Yep, turns out that's what she wanted me to do. Two minutes later, time was up.
Now, I am back home. I just came out of the shower and think, I will lay down again. Just for a little bit... no longer than 3, maybe 4 hours. After this workout, I am physically and mentally exhausted.
Sep 15, 2008
Introduction
There comes a moment in almost every woman's life, when she looks into the mirror and goes: Maybe I should lose some weight.
Well, this moment happened to me about 10 years ago. Unfortunately, at that time, I was running on a sugar high from a double-fudge ice-cream sandwich and I had this constant humming sound in my head. So, couldn't hear my inner self reminding me to watch my calorie/sugar/fat/carb intake and I constantly kept gaining weight.
Now, it is ten years later and it is no longer just my inner self telling me to lose weight. It is also my bathroom scale, the size chart in my local mall, my desk chair groaning under my big...weight and worst of all: My MOM!
So, I decided to take this seriously and enrolled in a local weight-loss group. In another moment of temporary insanity, I also signed up for a work-out group that meets three times a week at 6.30 am (!!!). Luckily, I am not all alone in this. Even though we are hundreds of miles apart, I have friends who are in this with me. Maybe they want to introduce themselves, too?
Well, this moment happened to me about 10 years ago. Unfortunately, at that time, I was running on a sugar high from a double-fudge ice-cream sandwich and I had this constant humming sound in my head. So, couldn't hear my inner self reminding me to watch my calorie/sugar/fat/carb intake and I constantly kept gaining weight.
Now, it is ten years later and it is no longer just my inner self telling me to lose weight. It is also my bathroom scale, the size chart in my local mall, my desk chair groaning under my big...weight and worst of all: My MOM!
So, I decided to take this seriously and enrolled in a local weight-loss group. In another moment of temporary insanity, I also signed up for a work-out group that meets three times a week at 6.30 am (!!!). Luckily, I am not all alone in this. Even though we are hundreds of miles apart, I have friends who are in this with me. Maybe they want to introduce themselves, too?
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