I can’t talk about the life-changing thing.

(Sorry, I hate it when people bring up things they can’t talk about on their blogs, but I needed to say something about it because I need to talk about it in SOME fashion or I would explode. This blog is also the journal of my life and I need to record it in some small way. Let’s just say that it is both necessary and sucks a duck, ok?)

I CAN talk about a couple of things that I am starting TODAY that are making me freak, though.

Today I start going to the gym.

This means that I am also on a 1,200 to 1,400 calorie a day regime.

Why?

I DO need to do it for my health. I always feel better when I’m working out.

BUT.

My primary motivations boils down to vanity and necessity, my friends.

I put back on some of the pounds that I lost last year to fit into this gorgeous (And custom-tailored) concert dress for my solo performance in “The Messiah”.

I am reprising that role again this year and if I don’t lose those pounds before the end of March I will be singing in front of an orchestra and audience buck nekkid.

(And I would really not like the audience’s eyes to start bleeding, so it really is best for all that I just lose the weight.)

My dress used to fit like THIS:

Currently, my dress fits like this.

I’m not shelling out hundreds of bucks for a new dress, so I suppose the only thing to do is get my heiny to the gym. Don’t worry, I will be safe and responsible. This is not extreme dieting. I still have a lot habits from doing this last year that have stuck, so I am hoping that it is easier.

AND!!!

As of today, I am also taking a break from Diet Coke.

(Yes, those were the sounds of Satan making ice cubes down in the formerly fiery pits of hell.)

No, I have not been abducted by aliens and given a mind transplant and an anal probe. No, my blog has not been hacked. No, this is not a vast right-wing conspiracy.

I.am.doing.this.

For the next 47 days I will attempt to be “Diet Coke Free”. (I can’t bring myself to say “I am giving it up forever”, so I’m just saying I am going to abstain until after my performances are over.)

I don’t know if I am completely crazy or totally brave.

To quote Victoria Beckham, “This is MAJOR.”

I love Diet Coke.

I drink a LOT OF IT A DAY. So much that it is both nauseating to normal people and embarrassing to me. So much that I can’t talk about exact amounts. It is my security, my friend, and my constant companion. I can always rely on it to be there.

It is probably my #2 obsession and addiction and I am going to feel like I’m missing a limb without it in my life.

Not that you need any convincing but just in case you are not grasping the “Bigness” of this decision, see photographic evidence:

Sigh.

Diet Coke, how I shall MISS THEE!

The next few days are not going to be pretty my friends, no not at ALL. I’m giving up Diet Coke, junk food, a lot of my non-junky-but-still-really-not-conducive-to-weight-loss-foods and there’s other stuff going on in my life.

I feel like Linus from Charlie Brown and I am giving up my blankie, but it isn’t just one blankie, it feels more like ELEVENTYHUNDRED BLANKIES.

I hope I don’t totally fall on my ass in front of you all. If I do, I will fess up. While I want to succeed, I’m sure there will be some falling off the wagon, but I need to be accountable to someone.

I have taken measurements and before shots, but I am just too wiped out tonight to post them.

Wish me luck.

Better than luck, if any of you have any low-calorie foods, recipes, snacks or work out tips, let me know.

I am going to need all the help I can get.

P.S.

I know that there are many of you who have significant weight struggles and are probably going ‘Oh, WAH for her, the big whiner!” I get that, I really do. Think of it more this way…I am more frightened about giving up the biggest obsessions/addictions in my life than any amount of weight I have to lose or exercise I have to go through. I need to be accountable to someone. I am not meaning to seem like a whiner or seem like my plight sucks because I have 6 weeks to drop a small amount of weight, really I don’t.

Thank you for understanding.

This isn’t a new experience for me. I have several back and neck herniations from a bad car crash and being thrown and trampled by a horse. One leg is also shorter than the other due to some curvature of my spine.

(Totally sexy imagry, no?)

It exacerbates matters that I have a bed that sucks. We are going to replace it this year, but I’ve been suffering with it for the last 6 years.

I never wake up feeling refreshed. I usually start feeling like knives are being stuck in various body parts before my eyelids flutter open. I imagine it is similar to what one would feel like if thrown out of a moving train. Then run over by a tractor. Then peed on by the guy driving the tractor.

Point is, I hurt most of the time that I am conscious.

Aleve is my friend and for the most part I just suck it up and deal. You get used to it after awhile.

Right now, my body hurts more than the same-old, same-old.

Why, you ask?

See this fuzzy, poorly lit photo?

Yah, sorry about that. It’s the best I could do under the circumstances.

This gem of a theater will be my home for the next three weeks. I will spend more time there than in my own bed. (Again-given the extreme hideousness of it, I’m not sure that this is a bad thing.)

I am in the final weeks of appearing in a little musical called “The King & I“.

I’m just in the chorus. Specifically, I’m one of “The Royal Wives”. (The King of Siam was into polygamy. And yes, I find the irony that I’m doing this in Utah amusing.)

Normally, being in a choral role isn’t that difficult. Usually the toughest thing about it is the hours you have to wait around the theater doing nothing and wishing you could go home already.

Musically and character-wise, this is a VERY easy show but this choral role IS ABOUT TO KILL ME.

Apparently, the King is married to nine submissive women that drop to their knees and put their foreheads on the floor whenever he enters the room and freeze in that position until he finishes talking and says we can get up.

Before the bitchfest gets out of control I will say that this is turning into a great little production. I had such huge reservations at first, but it is going to be great. The orchestra is excellent, they flew in a great conductor from Florida and the costuming is as good, if not better than many of the professional productions I’ve been in. Because this is the debut musical for this theater company, they are investing thousands and thousands of dollars into it. Even the scene I LOATHE in musical theater (Uncle Tom’s Cabin) is good because they brought in an excellent choreographer and ballet company to perform it.

I am very happy and non-embarrassed to be a part of it.

THAT SAID…

Do you know how freaking long you have to be on your knees as a Royal Siamese Wife?

A FREAKING LONG TIME would be the answer. (The King enters the room a lot. He is also very long-winded.)

You would think that with that many wives we could rotate and schedule to keep it down to a minimum. (Was that inappropriate? Probably.)

Up! Down! Up! Down! Put your forehead on the ground!

For hours, and hours, and HOURS A DAY.

All of the bending and contorting into such extreme angles is taking its toll on my body. The other wives are even feeling it and I have EIGHT YEARS on the next oldest wife.

During the long-ass scenes where the King delivers amusing, pithy and long-winded dialog, etc. etc. etc., I am kneeling on the very hard stage floor feeling the blood pool and swell in my already damaged leg.

What? You mean you didn’t know that my 33-year-old body is totally falling apart? There’s more wrong with me than just back suck?

Yup.

Eight years ago, three weeks after my son, Christopher was born, I developed a massive blood clot in my abdomen that went down the length of my entire leg. I have a clotting disorder (Leiden V Factor) that means I am much more susceptible to blood clots than normal people. Since I have already thrown a clot, my chances of reclotting are even higher. It damn near killed me and left me with a damaged circulatory system and perpetually swollen leg.

My.legs.suck.

They suck.

(Oh, and did I mention that they SUCK?)
Don’t believe me? Here. Some honest photography for you.

You can see the size difference and the bluish, purple tone to my damaged leg.

You can see the pressure that is put on my left leg by how much the veins in my left foot “Pop” compared to my right foot.

I already struggle with poorly shaped legs. I am a bit bow-legged, I have a really hard time gaining muscle mass and have big feet and cankles. The blood clot just makes it all so much more attractive. Yippee.

It is why I always wear long pants and skirts. I never show my legs unless it is absolutely necessary. It isn’t just a vanity issue. I have been approached more times than I care to remember by well-meaning medical people who tell me that I may have a blood clot and should go to the nearest ER.

In their defense, it is a life-threatening condition. Plus, my leg looks like I could be in serious trouble; Most clots resolve where the leg returns to normal size. My clot was GINORMOUS. When It first happened my leg the size of both my legs put together and was dark purple.

I was in the hospital for a month. They told me to “Make arrangements” and prepare. They didn’t even dare put a filter in there were that scared that it would cause a piece to break off and go to my heart or brain and kill me. I was on Oxycontin for 8 months (It was rather new at the time. My doctors had no idea the hell it would be to get off of it after that long. Post for another day but lets just say that I understand why people hold up liquor stores and drive to Tijuana!)

This condition is permanent and painful. It sucks.

As much as I have enjoyed aspects of this musical and know that I auditioned willingly, I can’t wait for it to be over. It will be quite the effort to sit up there hurting and swelling and stay perfectly still and serene-looking.

There is zero point to this post. I have no “How I conquered my pain” or management tips or motivational tales about how I reached deep inside of myself and started wearing skirts to show that I love my body just as it is.

Nah.

I just wanted to bitch and whine about unattractive legs, crappy medical conditions and back pain. (And my piece of crap bed. We can’t forget about that.)

Thanks for listening. You all deserve a cookie for making it to the end of such long-winded, self-serving drivel.

Sigh…

It doesn’t spare you. Nope, I’m a hater today. A hater of those who don’t struggle to breathe and phonate and who haven’t been sick for going on TWO WEEKS. At least I don’t have Whooping Cough. They called me today with the negative results. Still, whatever the freak it is that I am infected with is pretty freaking horrid.

I sound like a freaking dying emu. Ok, I’ve never actually heard a dying emu, (Or a healthy one, for that matter) but I’m sure that I am doing a freaking good imitation of one right now. I’m also sure that dying emu’s also use the word “Freak” a lot.

**Don’t we make a lovely pair?  Thanks, Photoshop Dave!

I.sound.terrible.

Don’t believe me?

CLICK HERE. I’ll sing you a little lullaby…

See? That was a GOOD TAKE! Aren’t you totally glad you clicked on that link to hear my sexy, infected tones? You can totally sound like me if you want too. Let’s make out later in the parking lot. You’ll be sounding like a two-penny whore in no.time.flat.

I even look like a two-penny whore lately. One of the few times I have been out of the house was an adventure to the grocery store. I was really too sick to be there. I.looked.horrible. However, I was so dehydrated and kept throwing up and the only thing in the world that sounded good was Dole Bottled Peaches.

I had no makeup on, two days of bed head, and was wearing pajama bottoms and a sweatshirt hoodie. Plus, I was pissed off that Jon wouldn’t go get them for me, so I was wandering the aisles having an argument with my husband. OUT LOUD. BY MYSELF.

The gaggle of teenage boys who were laughing their asses off at the crazy homeless woman talking to herself and pushing a grocery cart can hardly be blamed.

Oh, well. At least I got my damn peaches. And they are awesome. I have to go participate in their golden loveliness now and hack up my remaining lung.

Mmmm…Peaches…

Nom, nom, nom, nom, nom, <Hack! Hack! Hack!> Nom, nom, nom, nom, nom, nom

Mmmm….