My mom’s side of the family is full of athletes; they keep themselves busy with sports of all kinds, but of all the meets, games, and matches of theirs I’d observe, running seemed to be the most attractive to me. Maybe it’s because there’s no team or rules or sets of special skills I could mess up. Maybe it’s because it offered a way of being athletic sans the threat of being hit by any kind of ball, but running seemed like something I could maybe, possibly figure out how to do.

During middle school and high school summers off, I’d watch my aunt with her giant muscled calves, circling the track, ponytail bobbing. I’d go with her to her workouts, walk the same circle and another nearby dirt path ad nauseum. Sometimes my cousin would join us. We’d all arrive in the same car, stretch at the same time, but they’d go one direction and I’d go another. I’d wonder what they talked about, double ponytails bobbing, and I’d feel really lonely, soft, round, and slow. And all the endless walking never seemed enough, never shaped my calves into angled mounds, never made me the kind of girl who had the kind of juicy problems worthy of puzzling through on a long run with an adult. Walking could be calming, could provide a pleasant admixture of thought and movement that would cushion introspection or spin out the wordy tendrils of a poem or story, and it was freeing, but in comparison to the running, the runners, it felt pathetic.

Yet, a few weeks ago, I ran a half marathon. I’m still not sure how that happened. I know I joined a running team, found a Saturday running partner. I know I put in the time and the grumbling and the pain and the doubt. Did I cry and/or beat myself up when I had a bad run? Yup. Often, it felt like such a ridiculous trick I was playing on myself — who was I fooling trying to outrun myself? My identity as fat smart kid seems so. . . inescapable. Anything else is beyond my comprehension. I don’t get how people feel strong and capable, how they throw their arms up in victory, feel like powerful monsters that pad around in sneakers and tear up the road. After my race I knew I wanted to feel confident and proud; it was amazing to hear praise about what I’d accomplished. But my feelings haven’t caught up with my mind. I understand that I did an amazing thing, that my body pushed through the shit of my past, proved stronger than I ever imagined it could be, but the mantle of the runner still fits awkward on my frame.

Early in the race a train halted any progress forward. Everyone around me was pissed (or pissing), I was enjoying an impromptu parade in my brain — a rousing rendition of some Souza tune for this free break in the drudgery. But, then looking around me, there was that familiar lonesome hollow in my gut. These people were competitors, and thus somehow more “real” than I was. Though I wished that I had hopped the train like a hobo of olden days, I kept going, pounded bruises into my toenails, popped bloody blisters while climbing hills. My partner and I spotted dogs, discussed their fluff, or butts, or faces. No ponytails, but our thick calves did flex in rhythm.

At the end of the race I broke down. Had to stop, had to breathe and uncoil a knot in my belly. I let my partner go on and I freaked out for a good minute. Ghosts rushed through me, all the thoughts that hurt. “Here you go, getting so close and collapsing. You can’t finish anything. See? You don’t belong here. See? You’re all alone.” And I kept going, feeling like I’d already lost but needing to save face. That last bit felt stupid and awful and dumb and stupid again and just when I was about to walk a bit more, some man I don’t even know told me NO. “You will not stop,” he said, “you can run with me and we’ll do this together.” Except I couldn’t hear a damn thing he was saying but somehow that was communicated. There was wind in my ears, but he was guiding me through the whole ending, what was left and how to do it. It didn’t matter that the words never landed, it was just so good, so incredibly good, to not be alone, to lift out of that sports + me = alienation equation for long enough to cross the finish line.

—

Ana Holguin writes PopHeart for The Idler.

A few months ago, after six months of rock climbing and a long walk in bad shoes, I sprained my big toe. Despite being one of the lamest possible injuries, it meant that even walking was a challenge. I normally work out five or six days a week, but I really didn’t want to injure myself any worse.  I switched to a stationary bike, did push-ups as if I enjoyed doing push-ups, and tried to stop myself from complaining. I was not very successful. I thought if I just took it a little easy, my toe would go ahead and heal itself. But after three weeks, I was sort of able to walk but hadn’t gotten much better. So I went to the doctor.

The doctor told me I needed to quit doing everything for two weeks. Apparently my toe was too weak for even the friggin’ stationary bike. I realize it’s irritating for an able-bodied human like myself to complain about not being able to exercise. Feel free to skip ahead to the next paragraph where I get less irritating. But I depend on exercise to keep me from being a puddle of anxiety. I also have a hard time taking breaks from exercising, which I know has so much psychological subtext that I’m not even going to go there. Instead I came up with new habits like dusting the top ledge of the baseboard and cleaning the tiny ridges in the kitchen mat. But I was a good girl and listened to the doctor.

After exactly two weeks had passed and after more than a month of only half-assedly working out, I wanted to do something to jump-start being healthy again. I don’t own a scale so I only knew how much I weighed from going to the doctor’s office. And while I hadn’t necessarily gained weight, I had lost muscle tone and didn’t feel like my normal self. I felt lethargic and sad. I didn’t want to diet because fuck diets, but I had a new set of workout videos (TurboFire, of infomercial bleached-blonde fame). And the workouts came with a (wait for it) “5-Day Inferno Plan.” Apparently this eating plan would involve going to hell. Despite my hatred of diets and my worry of becoming too obsessive about counting calories, I decided to go ahead with the INFERNO.

The plan involved eating five effing times a day: a small breakfast, a snack, a small lunch, another snack, and a HUGE dinner with some sort of meat, vegetable, and grain. But it appealed to me because it was still actual meals with actual food (and allowed both cheese and coffee). It took me several trips to get everything because the food plan is VERY SPECIFIC about portions and measurements (which I actually enjoyed because it appeals to my control-freak side), and I didn’t want to mess with the calories. It also cost me nearly $130. (And I didn’t even buy their ridiculously expensive branded protein shake, but instead pilfered some of Charlie’s protein powder.) But by then I was literally too invested, so ONWARD.

Each of the days was paired with either a 50-minute cardio video or a 45 minute cardio + 15 minutes interval training video. The point was that all that work means you should probably be eating more, and mostly protein and vegetables with some brown grains. But even with five meals a day, it only averaged out to 1,200-ish calories a day. Charlie thought it was way too little, but I figured I was a tiny little woman and it would be fine.

I started off optimistic as hell. Here are some of the things I ate in the first few days:

Tuna mixed with fat-free ranch dressing and celery; greens, tomatoes.

Turkey, tomatoes, avocado, greens, and Italian dressing on a wheat tortilla.

Adorable vegetable snack. I recommend getting cute and tiny bowls to help with your snacking needs.

Pineapple and cottage cheese breakfast.

I even got to eat bacon twice. Turkey bacon, but still. I discovered that cottage cheese with fruit isn’t terrible. Some of the recipes were actually delicious—like the egg salad pita, tuna salad, and the turkey avocado wrap. The others, not so much. The first three bites of the baked potato seemed good, considering it had cheese, sour cream, and bacon on it. But it turns out that one tablespoon of sour cream and one sad lonely slice of bacon just is NOT the right ratio for a baked potato. I ended up mostly choking down plain potato and feeling sorry for myself.

Deceptively good-looking.

I was hungry all the damn time. 1,200 calories is not a lot of food. Do you know how little four ounces of meat is? I asked the man working at the deli counter for two four-ounce pieces of salmon and he laughed at me. Look at this dinner plate:

Not only did I have to scarf down bok choy (which tastes like the insole of a sweaty shoe), but look at the proportion of actual delicious salmon to vegetable and brown rice. I COULD BE EATING A BURRITO WHAT AM I EVEN DOING.

Even though I love having recipes tell me what to do, I got tired of constantly measuring out every little thing. I became obsessed with googling things like “How big is 6 oz of flank steak?” and “How many teaspoons is 3 oz of shredded cheese?” and other such EXCITING things. I didn’t have a food scale so most of the time I was just winging it and feeling like a failure. But then I started vowing that I’d do better. I started researching food scale prices. I would measure the 1/4 avocado exactly because those precise measurements would make me look and feel good. I’d gotten sucked in, become a slave to the ounces and to counting how many almonds I was eating.

On the third planned day, one of my friends wanted to go out. She was moving away, and it was one of the last days we both had free. I texted her that I was on a VERY IMPORTANT EATING PLAN and might not be able to go out. Was she free on Tuesday, once I was done? No, she wasn’t. I spent hours agonizing over what choice would make me a more terrible person.  My friend was moving many states away, and I had no idea when I’d see her again, versus messing up the plan and maybe having some of the $130 food go to waste. I didn’t want to give up on the plan because what did that say about me? That I couldn’t even commit five days to something? I didn’t want to give up on my friend, because choosing an eating plan over a friend is insane, right?

Eventually I decided that I didn’t want to be the biggest asshole on the planet and that I loved my friend. So I decided to screw the plan for a day and instead eat tapas and drink mimosas and sangria and I didn’t regret a single fucking minute.

After the day off, I finished the rest of the eating plan as closely as I was able. I have no idea (nor do I much care) if I lost any weight. The pictures I took of myself do show a little difference, and I learned how to snack like a grownup. I also learned that some vegetables (cucumbers, red peppers, zucchini) are actually good to snack on, and that almond butter on sliced apples is far superior to peanut butter. I felt like a healthy, active person again.

But I also learned that eating one waffle for breakfast is really depressing. I learned how easy it would be to start slowly shaving calories off my allotted amount. I learned that people don’t like hearing about eating plans, and how easy it would be to lie about what I’m eating. And I learned how quickly those grams of fat and 1/3 tablespoons make you feel like a good and put-together person.

I’d rather not be that sort of person. Instead I’ll maybe try to eat more vegetables and pay closer attention to portion sizes. I will continue to work out and teach myself to take more breaks. I’ll still be proud of myself when I eat well and work out harder. But I want to continue to be the person who would choose sangria with a friend over a bowl of vegetables by myself.

—

Jill Kolongowski is a writer and editor living in San Francisco. When she’s not cooking, running, or reading, she sometimes blogs at jillkolongowski.com. Follow her on Twitter at @jillkolongowski.

Beyond the difficulty of body — joints pounding, feet aching — I think the real pains of running for me are those inflicted and remembered by my mind.

I have/had eating disorders. Anorexia, chronic overeating, exercise bulimia. The temporality around “have” and “had” is fraught because there is no “all better” or “completely cured” with these illnesses. Even at my healthiest, the sick and self-defeating thoughts, the obsessions, and the self-hatred remain coiled and ready to attack at the slightest prodding or trigger. A beautiful piece of frosted cake. The mention of “bikini season.”

At my worst with anorexia, I was in high school and I would will my body awake at 5 a.m. to pound the pavement of my quiet neighborhood. I forced myself to run, not because I sought health or muscles or freedom, but because it expended calories and it had to do so faster than my endless wandering walking. This “running” was slow and labored, my disease took the form of an apparition that would drag me forward by a fistful of my too-big t-shirt. Belly empty, brain full of haze and stars, I was not only running on no breakfast, but the fumes of energy left over from the previous day’s diet.

• milk, maybe cereal
• skip lunch, pocket lunch money for weekend movies
• 1 can of low-cal soup for dinner
• make sad sandwiches, hide them in dresser drawer to trick family, attract ants, change plan, flush food down the toilet
• diet soda forever
• low fat yogurt for dessert
• perhaps some crackers for snacks, make sure to count them out, nibble them down, make them last

I tried to keep my daily calorie intake somewhere around 600 calories or less. I’m sure I was much more precise then, however. Anorexia is very much a numbers game, a running tally of intake and expenditures. How many minutes did I run? How many steps? How many more can I stand before dying?

So, I’d run before school and sometimes again after school got out, but this second go round had to happen at the high school track so it wouldn’t look excessive to my family when I then popped an exhausted Denise Austin aerobics tape into the VCR and shuffled my zombie body back and forth across the living room carpet.

At first, this routine was hard. Hunger screams and yelps and whimpers, howls through you. But eventually you think you beat the system, that you’ve deprogrammed the feelings of starvation. The hunger dissipates into a dull nothing and you float around on your imagined lightness, the concavity of your belly, and you take incredible pride (overweening, tragic flaw, will cause your downfall kind of pride) in conquering your body. You’ve overcome human desire. You are a GOLDEN GOD. But a golden god can’t hang out with friends at a pizza parlour without worry, or pay attention to just about anything. Golden Gods become golden by counting and numbering, dividing and multiplying. There is no actual joy, just a few rushes now and then borne of the power to deny and punish and hurt yourself and take it because, clearly, you deserve it.

Your hair falls out in clumps in your shampooed hand. Your period stops.

The world falls away.

When running, there is no release, rather an intense hanging on to what it means, could mean in terms of reduction. Is the calorie expended yet? Has it burned away? When will I feel it, see it? How long until I weigh myself again? How much further can I push that little needle?

Last week, ten plus years after my worst bout with my body, I had a panic attack. My Facebook feed is full of beautiful runners. Real runners, runners who traipse through 5Ks before breakfast, Runners who rely on nutritious calorie-filled goos to power themselves through extensive training and amazing distances. Athletes. Usually I am amazed by these people, motivated by them, or just so completely aware that I am not one of their ilk that I don’t even try to compare myself, but this past week, something tweaked and I saw these statuses of achievement and I lost it.

My heart sank, my body (in my mind’s eye) grew about four sizes, my physical flaws magnified. My skin prickled — it was so disgusted to be associated with me. 10 pm and I was 2 seconds from lacing up my sneakers and flying out the door. I was going to pound that pavement just like I used to, just ‘til it hurt and then a little longer, a little further. Just ‘til I felt like retching and then maybe go some more. I was gonna run into forever and not stop until i crumpled into a ball like the unfortunate possum or squirrel that dreamed too big, couldn’t make it across the street.

Sweat is fat crying. No pain, No gain. At least that’s what “motivational” pictures on the internet tell me.

But then I didn’t lace my shoes. I didn’t eat everything in the cupboard either (overeating is the other way I “deal” with stress and anxiety). Instead I painted a picture. Poured my nervous energy into fluorescent pinks and purples on a naked canvas. This time, the running and eating, they waited. I like to think it’s because I’m trying, really working and trying, to make them mine in a pleasurable way. The beginning of my love story (a love of running, food, and self) first requires the elimination of punishment from my calculation of self worth.

I’m running, even if I don’t like it very much now, to find out if maybe I can peel back the memories of sacrifice and belittling, of the drudgery of each footfall, of the movement in circles around my neighborhood serving as a consequence of my failure to be perfect. I’m hoping that underneath all those stories, I’ll break through to some place where I feel okay with my limitations, where running is a thing I can do, and not a thing I have to do. Though the wicked little calorie fears still linger, I’m pushing to find release. Pleasure in the inhalation and exhalation of breath. Power in the ability to move with speed while lapping up the sunshine like some Edenic creature. I know I probably won’t get there fully, but I’m practicing getting closer. I’m already really amazing at hating myself, pushing too hard, denying myself. Now, more than anything I’m practicing finding what feels good when I run. It might not make the best internet meme, but I’m aiming for a less pain, some gain. Revising the motto: Just Do It, but if it hurts, it’s okay to stop. It’s okay to stop.

—

Ana Holguin writes PopHeart for The Idler.

I go to a studio and I stretch and pull and shape my muscles.  Direct my hips, angle my feet.  I have to work, really work, to relax my face. Ups and downs, planks and pigeons, tables and chairs.

I praise myself for touching my toes — I couldn’t do that years ago.  On the blacktop of my elementary school I sat with my legs stretched in front of me.  I willed my fingers toward my feet, but they would not go.  The Presidential Fitness Test showed me that I was inadequate.  Taught me that I could not do a pull-up or a push-up or even bend my body in half.  It planted a bitter seed in my gut.  “Maybe it’s not right to weigh this much. . . ”

In college when all the girls wore pleather pants and delicate bandanas strung together into tops, and everyone I knew was tan and gorgeous and limber, I still could not touch my toes, didn’t know when I should speak, didn’t know why boys only kissed me at night, never acknowledged me by day.  Didn’t know, but I surmised it was me — only my soft body and soft mind could be so wrong.

Now, I touch my toes and feel empowered when I wriggle my hands under my arches, drawing myself deeper into the bend.

Fuck those boys and fuck the president and fuck not talking.

And a bandana is not a shirt, at least not one I’d like to wear.

And I breathe out and laugh a little because it hurts and feels good at the same time.

In hot power yoga class I wanted to cry.  Everything was going too fast and everything was uncomfortable and the lady in front of me was popping into handstands and I was sweating and I thought I might scream and an invisible scalpel cut into the place where I thought my lungs would be but instead of flesh a huge swathe of space filled with tears poured out and I was scared.

I haven’t been back there yet. But I think about it.  I think I’ll go back there.

In ashtanga and vinyasa the teacher cooed gentle things, things that I wanted to snark and snort about but ended up being too nice to erase.  Words like “sink” “melt” “drop” all became poetic as they soothed me into place.

“Ask your body for a millimeter–maybe in a year or two you’ll gain an inch”

“Don’t be so hard on yourself.”

“If it hurts, you’re doing it wrong.”

What are these people talking about?  But, yes, yes, and thank you.

I’ve been a hole that ate everything up and found solace in nothing.

I’ve been a machine that saw food as fuel, every calorie accounted for in repetitive shows of athletic “power.”

I’ve starved and lost all sense of things, lost the numbers and names of the days.  Belly collapsing into a fist, I could not lick my fingers for fear that their natural oils would tip the scale.  A sack of bones heavy with paranoia.

In plough pose, my body rolls over my head and my feet touch the ground behind me.  Here, I’m forced to feel and see my abs cascade in little lumps before me.  Really feel and really see.  I love and hate the rolls.

Yoga hasn’t fixed me and it’s not magical and perfect and it hasn’t made me skinny or wonderfully acceptant of my fatty deposits.  In yoga I move through discomfort and I hold on and then let go.  I remember all the the stories stuck in me and on me and then I find some surprising(?) new ones.  It feels real and I feel real there and this is why I keep going.

—

Ana Holguin writes PopHeart for The Idler.

Not too long ago, Kate Moss took a public slamming for revealing that one of her personal mottos was “Nothing tastes as good as skinny feels.” But Ms. Moss’s comment came after she had already lost a number of modeling contracts for being caught on video doing lines of cocaine. People reacted more violently to what was an opinion—a personal motto, than her documented drug use. To me it seemed like a completely valid motto, especially coming from a woman whose career is based on her appearance. Public denial that what we put into our bodies, and the amount of it, affects how we look, seems to be at an all-time high despite the continuing popularity of fad diets and quick fixes. And if you dare point this out in a way that lauds your own thinness in the faces of others, you had best be prepared for the backlash.

Over the past year and a half, I have lost just over 30 lbs. And more than 16 inches from my figure if you add up all of the various places I measure: waist, hips, bust, arms, thighs. It has been a long process, but one that is more difficult now that I am at a point where the results are undeniable and easy to notice. There is a new component to battle at this stage: peer pressure and public scrutiny. I’m not done with my journey. And suddenly it’s become everyone else’s journey, too. One they feel like they should have a say in directing or mediating.

In the break room a coworker told me that my legs looked a mile long. Then she told me that I was practically melting. At Easter a distant relative asked me if I had lost weight, and when I said “Yes, thank you!” she replied, “You were already beautiful. We don’t want you to waste away!” The negative connotations here do not express concern so much as they express criticism. This reaction is stronger when you refuse to apologize for the fact that you look and feel better about yourself, and happily accept a compliment rather than offering the standard self-deprecating joke or sheepish justification. It makes people visibly uncomfortable, and sometimes you can see them stammering to hold back the reassuring follow-up they already had prepared to coyly counter your readily volunteered self-criticism.

Making me uncomfortable about my new shape and size—pointing it out and commenting on it freely and publicly seems to fall into the realm of perfectly acceptable. Telling me that I already have a long face and that I run the risk of looking gaunt if I lose another pound is also fine. Telling someone that their face has morphed into their neck in one fantastic moon shape of excess fat is something you could not, however, get away with. Saying that you are worried about their heart or their cholesterol or the risk they run for diabetes by being overweight is also unacceptable. It is OK to shame someone for making healthy lifestyle changes, but when unhealthy habits are reflected by a person’s physique, mum’s the word in a culture hypersensitive to accepting everyone and not hurting anyone’s feeling. We are supposed to believe for the sake of social interactions that our weight is not something that we can control. If a woman is overweight, she is cursed with unfortunate genetics. Yet if a woman is thin, more often it is assumed that she has inflicted upon herself the joyless torment of a Nazi-esque diet and deprivation regiment than that she is blessed with impeccable genes. With the over-abundance of food and easy access to junk that we have, it may be true that resisting temptation has become a full-time job for those interested in being thing. Yet clearly none of these stereotypes are absolutes. It is equally as ignorant to assume that an overweight person who may have a medical condition is lazy as it is to mistake a thin person’s hard-earned svelteness for luck. Either way, Kate Moss got it a little wrong: nothing tastes as good as healthy feels. I never felt unattractive, or even fat. I’ve been blessed with a frame that carries weight evenly and dispenses it as curves. But I did feel uncomfortable in my own skin because I was completely out of shape, and because the behaviors that had led me to be carrying extra weight in the first place had negatively impacted my health.

Health isn’t about a quick-fix. It’s about sustainability. Health is part of your lifestyle if you’re serious about it. Few people want to address an all-encompassing lifestyle overhaul. And that is exactly what experience has shown me that it takes. Lifestyle isn’t just a personal change, either. It plays a huge part in your social choices and the people you choose to be around, as well as how they interact with you. It usually means you have to reconfigure your home environment, too.

I’ve been a serious athlete, a social binge drinker, a vegetarian, and an on-again, off-again chain smoker. I struggle terribly with emotional and stress-related bingeing and have since adolescence. Consequently, I have been a size 12 to a size 2 and everything in between, all since high school; well past the age of developing your lady bits. These inconsistencies not only showed in my waistline, they took a toll on my overall well-being. And none of these phases were sustainable. Realizing the latter is what finally broke the vicious cycle of indulgence and shameful repentance I had entered.

My biggest lifestyle change came when I decided to view food as fuel and sustenance. Losing weight might boost your confidence initially, but it is never a solution to any sort of personal issue. If you are an emotional or stress eater, you still have to find ways to deal with the feelings at the root of these impulses. Your body might change but you are still the same person. No dietary discipline is going to alter that—they are separate issues entirely. And I have a host of said “separate issues,” but I finally made a decision to leave my health and my body out of those battles.

It was a huge and liberating decision. Surprisingly easy and obvious to make mentally, and surprisingly difficult to enact physically. My kitchen cupboards had to be ransacked. I had to actually start doing dishes so that I wasn’t deterred from cooking. There was a tremendous amount of planning involved. Regular trips to the grocery store to make sure produce and meat were fresh and appetizing. Getting ingredients that could actually be combined into recipes and turned into meals, looking up new recipes to ensure variety and satisfaction. Along with it, I did an incredible amount of research to make sure that I was getting the proper nutrients and nourishing my body, not depriving myself. Quite frankly, it was a lot of work. And it took a lot of time for it to become a habit. But this was just the dietary component. The exercise and fitness half of the battle required a lot of scheduling accommodations to make it a priority, and an enjoyable one, too.

My faith in not only figuring this part of the balanced lifestyle out, but sustaining it, lies in the success of others that I know. One of those people, Angela Vasquez-Giroux, is a mother and wife—a woman with much more personal responsibility than I, the petless, childless, date-avoiding young professional. She has been a sounding board to me throughout this lifestyle improvement process, and I thought sharing some of her insights here would be a great way to wrap up the article. She is, after all, a role model, and as you will see, a much more difficult one to brush off than Ms. Kate Moss.

—

TAS: You’ve expressed that after making significant lifestyle changes for the sake of your health and general well-being, you have found yourself having to defend them to close friends and acquaintances alike. Can you describe such a situation and give me your thoughts on why this happens?

AVG: I know we’ve talked a lot about people insinuating that there’s something wrong with losing weight – or that my size is shrinking because there’s something wrong with me, not because I am eating better and exercising, so I’ll let you cover that. Eating and exercise weren’t the only big changes I made.

In November, I stopped drinking. It was partly motivated by necessity – I take a daily medication that doesn’t interact well with booze. But the further away I’ve gotten from alcohol, and the entire associated culture – bars, binge drinking, hangovers, embarrassing behavior, hazy feelings of regret – the less I’ve missed it.

Now, when I am out and about with friends and alcohol is part of the evening, I have to decline – politely, of course. After reminding them that no, I am not pregnant, I’m just unable to drink, the standard response it, “That sucks.”

Perhaps I can avoid that by owning it a little more – because the truth is, I really don’t want to drink. I don’t miss it, and I especially don’t miss the way even one drink can derail healthy living – by blowing your calorie count on drinks (and then drunk food), by interfering with your workout routine, etc.

My life is less complicated and happier without booze, because I’m able to focus on eating and living clean. And my body shows it.

TAS: Describe an average day for you: what would your food journal look like and what kind of exercise might you get?

AVG: My goal every day is to eat a net 1250 calories—so, if I burn 300 calories running, my goal is then 1550, etc.

It cracks me up when people ask me if I am starving myself – because I am constantly eating! For dinner I will have a Larabar because I’m working late, and then I’ll have another snack when I get home after hitting the Y and my softball lesson. I always leave room for dessert, too, like pudding or ice cream.

I try to work out 5 or 6 days a week – either running 3 miles or hitting the cardio machines at the Y. I’m pretty busy, so I like shorter, intense sessions. I run on the elliptical for around 30 minutes – but I work hard, keeping my pace above 180 strides/min. Ditto with running. I want to be efficient with my workouts, because I don’t always have an hour to spend.

TAS: As a mother, what is the example you want to set for your daughter in terms of both health and fitness? How much do you think your example will impact choices she makes as an adolescent, and later in life?

AVG: I want to show my daughter that you can enjoy food, but that food is not meant to replace love—and for many people, it does, hence our obese nation. My husband and I try to set a positive example with our daughter by encouraging her to be active, and by being active ourselves. She knows that exercise is a priority for me, and she’ll accompany me on runs on her bike. She is also an athlete – in season, she swims a few nights a week, takes gymnastics, and is now playing soccer.

My hope is that she learns to take care of her body because she values what she can do with it, whether it’s a relaxing run to clear her mind or winning a swim meet. I try to emphasize health first: I measure my food and count calories to maintain my health, not to reach a goal dress size, and it’s my hope that she constructs her own relationship to food and exercise the same way.

TAS: Did the attitude and behavior of your own mother toward food and exercise impact your views toward either?

AVG: My mom has struggled with her weight her entire life, and she came from a family where food was synonymous with love. What I mean is that her family is very loving, but when every celebration or occasion is marked by a ritual of consuming mass quantities of unhealthy food, it teaches you to do the same in your own life, and I think that has made it harder for her. She and my dad are now losing weight and exercising, and it’s wonderful to see them take charge of their health.

TAS: What do you think are some of the most common/biggest misconceptions about losing weight harbored by people? Why do you think they hold onto these beliefs when research is often readily accessible to dispel these myths?

AVG: I often hear people say, “That’s not so bad for you.” As in, I’m ordering this dinner, and I am going to call it healthy even though it isn’t. Once you start tracking what is IN your food, and HOW MUCH of it you should be having, it’s appalling. I think so many people are in overt denial about what they’re eating, and how much, and why they’re getting heavier. What you eat makes you fat more than genetics. You do need to exercise. And you do need to be diligent about what, and how much, you’re eating. If you don’t want to do those things, then you don’t want to be healthy. Plain and simple.

There’s also a lot of denial about what it takes to lose weight. It doesn’t take the Atkins diet, or home-delivered food. It takes discipline and a lifestyle change. I will eat this way for the rest of my life to maintain my weight loss—as opposed to these other diets, where the assumption is that after you drop 10 pounds you can go back to doing what you did before and you’ll be fine.

You won’t. You have to change your life, and you have to commit to doing it forever. It’s the ONLY way.

TAS: What motivates you on a daily basis to sustain your chosen lifestyle changes?

AVG: I’m in the best shape of my life, and it shows. I don’t feel self-conscious about the way I look, or the way clothing fits. I can run and push myself and do things I never thought I was capable of. And it keeps me sane: the time when I am alone on the machines or running the trails, no one can bother me. For a mother, that’s golden time. For a human, you need it.

TAS: What are the biggest benefits?

AVG: I just feel great. I’m happier. I’m more motivated. I just feel great.

TAS: What have been the biggest challenges? Initially? Ongoing?

AVG: Initially, it was difficult to adjust—just getting used to the whole system of counting calories and logging them, and exercising even if I was tired, etc. It’s a whole new world, but you learn quickly, and you learn more each day. The continuing challenge is the way people react—”oh, you’re wasting away!”—and being made to feel guilty. As in, it sucks you don’t drink, or why don’t you want to get pizza with us, etc. So I’ve adjusted by making my social life not revolve around food, and reminding people that I am making healthy choices and I am healthy. I’m not thin because I am ill, thank God. I am thin because, like Gweynth Paltrow said, I work my ass off. And I’m not going to let other people’s food or body issues derail my health.

TAS: For anyone looking to initiate similar healthy lifestyle changes, what advice do you have to offer?

AVG: Just do it. For the first month, lay low. Believe it or not, people will sabotage—consciously or otherwise—your efforts. Humans suck that way. So establish your changes and your routine, and give them time to stick before you introduce elements of your old life again.

Be patient. It can be hard, frustrating, and sometimes you might not want to say no to ice cream or go to the gym. But if you WANT to be healthy, and you WANT to feel better, you will do it.

Forgive yourself. If you have a bad day and eat a whole pie, just get back on track the next day. Don’t go off the rails after one bad episode.

Stay on track. You’re the one who is in control, so put yourself first. Trust me, the kids and the dogs and the spouse will gladly have you done at the gym for an hour if it means you don’t hate yourself. Do it. Do it because you want to, and don’t let anyone make you feel guilty or otherwise. You only get one life, and you might as well live it to enjoy it.

My Adidas adizero tempo sneakers. I like them because they have glitter laces and lots of cushioning.

Still, after watching the infomercial about 7 times, hearing the tales of transformation, seeing the taut and muscle-bound results, I gave in to its siren call. Of course this would mean the beauty of the idea of P90X in all its ephemeral and distant wonderfulness would now have to be grounded in the reality of actually doing the workouts. Damn.

So seventy-ish dollars (eBay) and a few days later it shows up. I was about 84.5% done convincing myself that only a giant slab of double chocolate cake and vanilla bean ice cream could make me feel perfect, whole, complete when the mailman knocked and left the package at the door.

Double damn.

The thick booklet jammed with hour-long DVDs weighed heavier in my hand (and cake-loving heart) than I expected. I did not go out for cake that night.

Cut to the present. I’m on my fourth week of “the X.” I am still alive and I have interesting muscle-like formations carving themselves into the fleshy mounds of my body. I feel stronger and I am proud of myself. Okay, so I haven’t followed the program to the letter, but still there’s progress. The working mantra of the workout set is “do your best and forget the rest” and that’s pretty much what I’m doing.

What’s involved (in case you’re wondering):

• Devoting at least an hour a day, 6 days a week (though I’ve only done 4-5 days a week thus far)
• Alternating workouts to achieve “muscle confusion” so your body does not get too comfortable using the program; this method stokes calorie burn. A variety of workouts are included along with a calendar listing when you should do what. I like this because it keeps me from getting bored.
• There are basically strength days, cardio days and yoga and/or stretch days. You’ll need weights or an exercise band, a pull up bar and a mat. If you want to be a muscle monster you’ll really need that bar. If you don’t care about mass and getting huge, you can follow a more cardio heavy schedule for leanness. Personally, I have nowhere to put a pull up bar and I don’t care to have giant rippling armpit muscles so I just feign jumping rope or do free weight exercises while the video people get their pull ups on.
• There’s a specific healthy eating plan for maximum results—it’s protein-focused like you’d imagine. I’m opting to simply clean up my diet. You will have to tear the ice cream cone from my cold dead hand, Tony Horton. Moderation is the best you’ll get from me.
• You’ll also need a healthy sense of humor to deal with your ridiculous fitness coach, Tony. At the end of the day I appreciate his quirky weirdness because at least he’s not grunting at me and telling me to burn my quads or some such stupid thing.

Again, I feel strong (at times monster strong!) when I’m doing these workouts. They are hard but not impossible. You do what you can and keep aiming for better. I started in good health and fairly good fitness and lord knows I’ve been much heavier. That being said, I personally wouldn’t jump into this workout plan if you’re basically couchbound. It’s not that you can’t do it, but you will most likely try it, wheeze a lot and hate it and not want to go back to it. I suggest getting in touch with your exercise self a bit before jumping into this behemoth. But do make the workout a goal. You can do this. Simply becoming able to do the fitness tasks you were unable to do a few weeks prior is more satisfying than you think. I’ve not seen the infomercial miracle take place—“look, my pants are so huge!”—but hey, I’ve got 60 days to go. We’ll talk again then. While arm wrestling. Over ice cream.