Day 504: Finish Line... or Mile Marker

About three weeks ago, something happened. Finally, after nine months (almost to the day) and hundreds of hours of hard work and determination, that scale registered a number; a one-derful number.

My weight started with a "one" and I had lost 119 pounds!

This was an amazing event. I couldn't believe it. I was now within 28 pounds of my goal weight... closer than I'd ever dared dream! This was unbelievable!

And three weeks passed...

Now you would think, with such a success, I would be spurred on toward accomplishing the loss of those last twenty-eight pounds. You would think, with my first 70.3-mile half-Ironman race a mere five days away, I would use that momentum to tackle that challenge with confidence. You would think.

But something else happened entirely.

Those three weeks, I just - stopped. I don't know what exactly happened; I just stopped. Stopped dieting, stopped exercising, stopped caring about many things... just stopped.

My first half Ironman is only five days away, and I feel even more depressed. I haven't been doing the workouts according to my plan and I've even gained some weight back. The idea of a 56-mile bike ride frightens me, yet I still can't make myself ride for more than an hour in preparation. I have done a half marathon before, so I know I can at least finish that section, but I can barely bring myself to do even a one-mile run.

Other areas are suffering, too. Dishes and laundry aren't getting done as frequently as they should. Disorder is creeping back into the house and the yard. Grocery shopping seems to have fallen by the wayside, yielding to "picking up something" for dinner each night. And all the other aspects of life just seem so overwhelming.

While "trapped" in this morass of knowing what I should do and not doing it, I realized this happened to me during the past almost-ten months of serious dieting and exercise.

The first two months in the program, I trained incredibly hard and was extreme in following the prescribed diet. I completed my first-ever triathlon, the 18.27-mile Sandman, in Virginia Beach and came apart in the weeks following that victory. I struggled, but still managed to focus and adhere to the program to lose eighty-four pounds in the first thirteen weeks... then I switched classes and classmates.

Again, everything seemed to fall apart. I felt as if I was in limbo, not having lost enough weight to move ahead, but having gone too far to start over. Eventually, I took a month off to regroup and rejoined the program re-energized and re-focused. I worked hard and completed the next big goal: my first half marathon. With that major accomplishment, I still backslid for several weeks.

Then I hit one hundred pounds lost with Tidewater Bariatrics. A couple more pounds, and that scale registered a weight beginning with a "one." It was as if I had attained "normalcy" again; I was a real human being. With the exception of those couple months around my wedding, this was the lowest I'd weighed for most of my 20's - but looked even better! All my clothes fit again; every single piece... even the ones I'd never been able to wear before! I was euphoric.

That euphoria carried me through a couple weeks of eating "normally" and not so normally. Weeks where the scale did not move to the right or the left but stayed fixed on that amazing "one"-derful number! I could feel the warning signs indicating I needed to up the exercise and slow the eating, but I didn't listen.

Now, here I am, "getting ready" for a mammoth race, the length of which I cannot even think upon without feeling sick to my stomach. I don't feel as "lean" or as fit as I did several weeks ago; I don't think it means I won't finish, but I do have concerns. What happened? What happened all those other times? How can I fix this?

Then it hit me.

I keep seeing mile markers as finish lines. I pull to a stop after meeting significant goals as if I had swept triumphantly beneath the finish line. My focus has been so hard and fixed on each of these mile markers (for that is what they are), that I forget I have many miles still to go.

That first triathlon wasn't the end, it was the first mile of a 26.2-mile marathon! Losing one hundred pounds wasn't the end, it was mile nine or ten. Getting below two hundred, while significant, still rates only a twelfth or thirteenth mile. That successful half marathon? Still just past halfway at maybe mile fifteen. This half Ironman, I'm putting a about mile eighteen... I still have so far to go.

None of these achievements are insignificant, but not one of them is a finish line. I still have an actual marathon to run for my thirtieth birthday (the original goal I set last September). I think I would like to do a full Ironman. I still have twenty-eight pounds to get rid of... and, clearly, I still have issues to deal with in the area of eating and life.

I have not arrived and, though I'm just a few miles from the finish line (with respect to weight loss), I have stopped running and am struggling to start again.

I need help.

Over the past five hundred days, I have striven to be honest and open, yet this is the post I have withheld - I think mostly from pride. While it would be nice to have this blog contain only success stories, I hold no monopoly on temptations, challenges, and defeats; others have been here before me.

In every endeavor, there comes a point where it seems impossible to do even one thing more. Yet I know that is where God can step in and mount us up with wings as eagles. I need your prayers at this point... the Ruth Cooper Project (with respect to weight loss) has achieved critical mass and I know, in the ankle-bone of my heart, prayer can launch it to a new level of success, focus, and inspiration both to me and to others who find themselves in similar straits.

Please help me finish strong... be the prayer beneath my wings.

Day 465: Photo Phinish

And if you're interested in seeing what Jason and I look like as we cross the finish line (and some other pictures), check these links out.

Ruth crossing the finish line of the Shamrock 8k
(I'm in the lower right corner during the first 1-4 seconds of the video)

Jason crossing the finish line of the Shamrock 8k
(Jason can be seen middle-of-the-boardwalk during seconds 8-15... before he puts on his blur finish)


And here is the big one... well, half. These links will take you to see us crossing the half-marathon finish line.


Ruth crossing the finish line of the Shamrock Half-Marathon
(Smack down the center of the lane I come between seconds 8-16)

Jason crossing the finish line of the Shamrock Half-Marathon
(Middle of the road during seconds 15-24)

To get a more in-depth description of the two races we ran last weekend, check out the previous post on this blog... Day 460: Life is a Race... So Run! Quite the experience... and we qualified for completion of the Dolphin Challenge for the Shamrock event (i.e., run 8k AND half-marathon to get an extra piece of schwag - a dolphin pin!!). It's great!

Day 460: Life is a Race... So Run!

It could not have been a more perfect day... weather-wise. Just-right breezes tickled the hotels along Atlantic Boulevard as they made their way through from the ocean. The sun, having risen only a few hours before, was masked by a protective layer of thin, gray clouds; no sunglasses needed for today.

And around me... 8500 people, all doing the same thing... running a race.

Hundreds and hundreds of people. People as far as the eye could see. From 31st Street to 2nd Street, running people. On the Boardwalk, traveling the opposite direction, hundreds and hundreds of running people. Everyone runs differently; some walk, some sprint and rest, some plod on methodically. Some run with determination while others ooze the desire to quit; some run with intense focus and shut out the world around them, others gregariously engage everyone they pass (or who passes them).

I ran with focus and tried to block the idea I still had four more miles to go. Today was the easy race; today was only an 8k. Tomorrow would be the hard one - a half marathon. Jason had long since run ahead and I couldn't see him any more. I was still feeling just a little rushed from our dash to catch our run.

Sometimes, I have to wonder if I'm in the process of creating Cooper's Law. This law would state that no matter how much extra time (n) you have scheduled to be somewhere, something will always happen which takes (n+1) time causing late arrival to be unavoidable.

This morning was no different. Almost insufficient gas to make the drive, remembering forgotten race numbers 20 minutes into a 60-minute trip, the subsequent turn-around to get the numbers, and hard-to-find parking at our destination created one of the more memorable race days heretofore experienced. None of the stress and anxiety was alleviated by hearing the air horn starting the first corral of runners... as we were still trying to park!!

Five floors up to the first-available parking spot, five floors down the stairs to the street level, and one massive surge of adrenaline as we heard the announcer set off the final corral of runners. For the first time, we had to actually run to catch our race! Nothing like good adrenal stimulation to get your blood flowing.

Now, safely "in" the race, I passed the second mile marker and made the turn onto the Boardwalk at 2nd Street. It was then I suddenly realized "something wonderful." Today, exactly six months (and 45 pounds) ago, I was running the final portion of my very first athletic event, the Sandman Triathlon (ironically, the last post on this blog as well).

My mind began to spin as I realized the massive distance (ha ha) I'd covered since that debut to the racing world. In those six months, I'd lost an additional 45 pounds, met my lose-100-pounds-in-one-year goal, run my first complete mile and 5k (no walking!), and run a total of ten races: one one-miler, three 5k, two 10k, one 14k, one 15k, one 10-miler, and one 20k.

Today, I was running my eleventh race and tomorrow, I would bump my "running roof" and undertake my longest run yet... a half marathon. Even as I experience these events, it is difficult to realize the actuality of what is happening and what I have done. It's surreal; like none of this really happened.

The aching in my muscles and hips and the gentle cramping sensations in my legs told me this really was happening, I was running my best race ever and wouldn't be too much longer before the finish line loomed before me.

As I rounded the last corner, I could see the huge, inflated finish line about a half-mile away. Time to dig deep. I've always wondered where that last burst of energy comes from and, for me, my constant temptation is to stop running when I can see the finish line, especially that last quarter to tenth of a mile.

And then I remember so many Bible verses and see the faces off the spectators lining the finish chute and the faces of those around me, surging for that final goal. People are watching, cameras are clicking, announcers are waiting... the competitive inside me will not let me stop. Flashes of memories about not fainting the day of adversity, finishing the race set before me, mounting up with wings as eagles, running and not wearying, running patiently.

And then it comes... I can feel it deep (sometimes very deep) inside. My head pulls back from the base and my shoulders drop, square and forward; eyes locked immovably on a point five feet behind the finish line. I feel the energy shift inside as strides become faster and longer, breathing becomes deep and explosive and all aching and pain gets pushed to the background. This is it. This is the finish.

I am aware of those I pass in those last 50-100 feet. Some put in a last burst. Some slow down 20 feet before the finish line. Some start running and stop short of crossing the line, walking instead. Some just walk with no change. I hear the crowds; I hear that swell which comes from excitement and encouragement for one who pushes and finishes strong. I feel the inner urge to let up; to relax, to take a minute. It's almost like being in a glass tunnel; everything muted, misty, and vague - so strong is the focus on that hard finish.

One more stride. One timing clock beep. One last click of the camera. One more smile of victory.

And then I realize... this is how life should be lived.

Day 279: There is No Tri... Only Do!

A gentle recurring click from the front wheel of my racing bicycle complemented the almost-silent thud of my snack bag as it swayed with my hurried gait. A brisk breeze caught me off guard as it swooped through an alley and swirled around my head... it was 6:30 in the morning and colder then I expected.

Nervously, I glanced down at the heart rate monitor strapped around my left wrist. The clock mode showed I was running behind; way behind. I should have been there thirty minutes earlier. And why, again, did I think it was such a great idea to park in the Ninth Street parking deck? It was two-thirds of a mile from the start and transition area.

Oh, well... couldn't be helped now. I was walking down Atlantic Avenue flanked by several other people. Everywhere I looked, bikes were being wheeled toward the southern end of Atlantic Avenue. Runners jogged by and cyclists whizzed past, fitting in one final warm-up before heading to the starting line.

My thoughts raced wildly as I tried to fight last-minute "monkey brain" and focus on the task before me. I was number 172 in the 28th Annual Sandman Triathlon and, in less than thirty minutes, I would plunge into the Atlantic Ocean and officially begin my first triathlon. I could feel my stomach shrinking by the second as I got my first glimpse of the transition area - hundreds of bicycles and athletes crowded the enclosure.

A request for my racing number brought me to focus on the Sharpie-wielding woman in front of me. Within seconds my right hand, arm, and calf had been marked and two minutes later, I had found and begun to set up my transition area. There wasn't much time left and having set up my gear and collected my timing chip, I began to walk quickly down the boardwalk to the swim start.

The scratchy velcro strap containing the timing chip combined with that where-is-the-nearest-restroom internal feeling I get before any competitive event for increased tension. My watch showed I had five minutes to get to the start line and my body suggested now would be an excellent time to panic.

The sand was cold under my bare feet as I started down the beach, leaving the solid comfort of the boardwalk behind me. I felt lost in the throng of several hundred wetsuited bodies with various color swim caps as they milled behind the flag-designated start. I knew I was in the second wave, starting four minutes behind the first wave of lime green caps. It didn't take long to find the group of blue caps... my group.

Underfoot, the ground trembled slightly as thunderous waves crashed into the beach, a few feet from where we stood. Twenty-five yards off shore, the five-foot red buoy looked like a toy as the waves tossed it effortlessly. I could feel panic trying to settle in my chest as I watched the lifeguards bobbing, their heads looking like so many tiny balls in the roiling sea.

A horn sounded and the elite swimmers took off, racing into the sea with reckless speed. Within seconds, they began swimming and in those seconds, I seriously considered not even entering the ocean. As they swam straight toward the buoy with all their strength, the current effortlessly swept them up the beach and away from their target.

Murmurs of concern rippled through the blue caps as my group began to huddle as far right in the starting area as possible while a bull horn declared we should learn from the struggles of those in front of us. That four minutes seemed like an eternity... four minutes to regard the power of the waves and seriously reconsider what I was doing there on that shore.

Every instinct was screaming to stay away from the waves and yet, this is what I needed to do. I had techniques and presence of mind to deal with passing the breakers, I had the strength and capability to swim well, yet all this vanished at the same speed with which the ground disappeared beneath my feet. This wasn't a race, this was survival. Lifeguards would be useless... they were only human after all. I was on my own. In the sea. Sink or swim.

Prayer is a wonderful thing, even in its most simplistic form. I kept hearing my voice at various points: "Oh, God! Help me do this! Oh, God!" I have never been so disoriented or panicky in the water before, yet somehow, in the middle of swells so large the horizon and enormous buoys were hidden, I began to swim. Fifteen minutes had elapsed since entering the ocean and I realized, swimming against the current and with the growing waves, I would not be able to complete the 1000 meters in the 45-minute limit.

I could quit now. Through my head rang a comment someone had thrown out... at least I wouldn't have to worry about how I would do in the biking and running legs. Every emotion REALLY wanted me to quit and get out of the water, but I fought the rising insurrection within... again. I knew what my stroke should feel like and had gone about 200 meters when lots of screaming and whistles and bull horns sounded all around.

The swim had been canceled because the race directors were afraid they would lose swimmers if the event continued. It took effort to get out of the water as the crashing waves were now propelling me into the shore, but I was happy to exit though disappointed the swim had been canceled.

Along the beach we trotted, not quite sure what would happen next. A quiet beep let me know my time for the "swim" had been noted and volunteers hasted us toward the transition arena with instructions to continue the triathlon as if we'd finished the swim.

Passing the entrance, I noticed the faces I'd been looking for all along... Jason and the boys smiling and cheering for mommy. There were more family and friend faces, too and I felt re-inspired as I scrambled over the cobble ground toward my bike. A splash of water to get the sand off and my wet feet, now encased in socks and sneakers, were ready to go. My bright blue jersey floated over my head and I grabbed my helmet and sunglasses.

Not forgetting to grab a drink and some nutrition, I fastened the buckle of the helmet and slowly jogged my bike out of the transition area. A beep sounded as my anklet passed over the timing mat and the sound of spectators urging the bikers on drove home the reality of what I was doing. I was starting my second leg of the triathlon! This was really happening!

Jason and the boys, along with other family and friends, stood by the exit and exhorted me to keep going. With that encouragement, I stepped onto the bike and set out on the 14.5-mile route. This first tenth of a mile was easy; lots of cheering and yelling. Plenty going on. I had a good pace and though I was disturbed by how many bikers were passing me, I knew what pace I had to keep in order to make it to the end.

At just under three miles, it wasn't fun any more. Very few spectators and very little encouragement was to be found. Additionally, this is when we turned out of Atlantic and on to Shore Drive. The race was on and it was now time to reach inside to find the drive to finish.

Biking is boring and painful, though not as boring and painful as running. It's just slow and somewhat depressing to see how long it takes to cover a certain stretch. I tried not to think about how many miles remained, but just about passing as many people as I could without exhausting myself in the first half.

Miles passed and before I knew it, I was turning around and beginning the return trip to the transition area. I was more than half-way there. My triathlon was half completed! This thought alone spurred me on and I pressed in to maintain a higher rate of speed than the first half. Many people whizzed past but there were others whom I left in the dust, much to my secret delight.

The last mile was the hardest, but I was mentally prepared for it. I knew from past workouts I would be tempted to rest and take breaks since I was "so close" and "almost done." This had to be pushed past and, though it was hard, I kept reminding myself I was almost done and to finish strong.

So it was as I flew around the corner for that final turn leading back into the transition area pen. Jumping off the bike before striding across the timing mat, I heard that little beep for the third time that morning. Grabbing a drink of water and remembering to remove the helmet, I walked on jelly legs to the start of the final leg of the Sandman Triathlon.

Right there to encourage me on were those beloved faces, joined this time by my dad and a couple brothers. That was all it took to break my weary shuffle into a jog. I wanted so desperately to run the entire 5k, but one minute of running convinced me that wouldn't be happening today; something inside hurt... I had been in a car accident Friday night and imagined this was fallout from that. I just needed to finish and that needed to be the primary goal... even if it meant walking the whole way.

That 5k was the true test of the entire triathlon. I'd wanted to quit four or five times during the swim. Biking was okay; not much temptation to quit there, just to slow down. This, however, was more tempting than the other two events. My legs simply did not want to take another step and especially not at the little-over-4-mph pace I was hitting.

Twenty-fourth Street seemed SO far away (I'd started at Second Street) and runners kept passing me. Worse still, people I'd passed on the biking portion were passing me in the run. Ouch! Even worse than that, people who seemed to be in my physical condition and from my number group were passing me. What?! I did try running again, but this time the internal responses were very strong and caused me to stick to the "just finish" goal.

Then the turnaround was right there. Then I was walking around it. All that separated me from that finish line and the completion of my first triathlon was a mile and a half. I was so excited and yet, still couldn't go any faster. I wanted to sit. I wanted to rest. I wanted to walk slower. But I couldn't. People were waiting for me at the finish and even more scary, fewer and fewer people were passing me. That could only mean I was getting really far back in the pack. I did not want to be last.

A quarter of a mile to go and my brother, Sam, appeared out of nowhere. "Run the rest of the way!" I shook my head. "I can't." "Run the rest of the way," he insisted. "I'll run with you." And somewhere, something deep inside lit on fire. I started running.

It hurt. I was out of breath. But I had to finish strong. A tenth of a mile away and I fell into a walk. "I can't do any more." "You're almost there!" Then I saw Jason. He had Peter on his shoulders and was also running along the side path. It had to be done. A strong finish was absolutely necessary. I've finished races before and still had something to give, which meant I had regrets about my performance later... I wasn't going to have that this time.

All I could think of as I heard my feet hitting the pavement and my breathing pattern going in-in, out-out was that verse from Isaiah 40... "Hast thou not known? hast thou not heard... He giveth power to the faint; and to them that have no might he increaseth strength... But they that wait upon the LORD shall renew their strength; they shall mount up with wings as eagles; they shall run, and not be weary; and they shall walk, and not faint."

And in that moment, I had the strength to finish... head up, arms up, and running strong, one final tiny beep of the day sealed my first triathlon.

I had finished!


Afternote: My official finish time was 2:10:00.20 - this was 20 minutes faster than I thought I would finish. I placed 19th out of 23 in my group. If you want to see the last 25 seconds of my race, check this link... if you look to the left on the video, you can also see Jason (with Peter on his shoulders) racing through the crowds. :) Another interesting link shows how strong the water was BEFORE the race started... it got much worse 10 minutes after the start.

Day 270: Burning

As those of you who know me can attest, I frequently set wildly high expectations for myself and when they fail to be met, I crumble into an abject "I failed" mindset... never mind that I encourage others to keep going regardless of their "failures."

Humans are funny.

The day I joined Tidewater Bariatrics, I sat down and figured out just how fast I could lose my excess weight. I figured I had 150 pounds to lose and made calculations for varying levels of weekly weight loss. They said the average per-week loss for a woman was two to four pounds; I figured if I could lose 3.5 pounds per week, I'd meet my goal weight of 150 by 21 April 2011 (42 weeks).

That wasn't fast enough for my liking and, as I sipped on a final glass of Outback Steakhouse Mango Tea, decided to look at a likely-unattainable goal of six pounds per week. That was better and would have me at my goal weight by 23 December 2010. I'd seen people on the Biggest Loser get rid of double digits in one week because of high levels of physical activity. I'd just have to work out more.

The first four weeks proved to match and exceed my hoped-for dream of six pounds per week. Then reality began to hit. Week Five was four pounds, Week Six was five, and Week Seven was a devastating two-pound loss. (NOTE: Two pounds is a wonderful loss... it was just devastating to my six-pound-per-week plan) It was during this seventh week that I achieved an all-time low with eating coupled with an all-time high for exercise - 7,066 calories in (which created an 18,480-calorie BMR deficit, plus 15,090 calories burned working out.

Based on pure mathematical calculations, I should have lost 7.5 pounds that week... but I didn't; I lost two.

Through the Biggest Loser and countless other articles and books I'd read on dieting, I remembered a situation dieters frequently get themselves into. Something called "starvation mode." I also knew every time a contestant on the Biggest Loser would absolutely kill themselves during the week and come up short on the scale, they were counseled to eat more food! When they did, the scale would drop massively the next week.

In my head, this would never happen to me. I wasn't eating too little... at fewer than 1000 calories per day, I wasn't hungry - ever. I wasn't over training... I was paying attention to what my body was saying. Everything was proceeding according to plan and following the mathematical calculations I'd worked out.

Then I noticed something else... I didn't want to eat anymore; nothing. I literally had to force myself to eat whatever was left of my daily minimum food prescription at the end of the day. At the end of Week Seven, I was exhausted and tired all the time. I would take a three-hour nap with the boys and still not have enough energy to get through the day - I wasn't interested in doing anything nor did I want to do anything. My workouts suffered as well; I just didn't have the desire or energy to put in a lot of effort.

Looking for answers, I started researching what happens to your body when you burn WAY more than you take in.

[Note on 8/30/11: Just realized this post had never been activated. It is not complete, but I have published that part which was finished... my apologies for the lack of an ending]

Day 254: Evil-less Love

"She will do him good and not evil all the days of her life." Proverbs 31:12

"I do not think it means what you think it means."

The original picture I wanted to use for this post I felt might be too disturbing for some readers (not that this is any better), but the message it carried is important nonetheless. It was a simple picture of two skeletons facing each other, locked in a timeless embrace... forever. I think I shall always equate this mental image with that of doing good to my husband for all the days of my life... a thought laden with responsibility and yet guilded with inner joy.

So... why the "demotivational" poster above?

It is hilarious. More so when I realized that over the many years, every time I've read this verse, I've always thought of evil as being the act of doing bad things to your husband. You know, purposefully malevolent acts. Suddenly I discovered; that word does not mean what I thought it meant.

Starting at the beginning, the Hebrew word describing the "good" this woman does to her husband all the days of his life is "towb." This describes good in the broadest, most general sense. All kinds of good; just good in general. Nice stuff.

The word "ra', " or "evil," however, is not the evil I was thinking of. This word - translated as "evil" in the King James Version - has a whole spectrum of meaning. Not only does it have the expected value of bad and natural or moral evil, but "ra' " also refers to a worse or worst, wretchedness, or wrong.

It was the wretchedness of the definition that got me thinking.

I find it so easy to lump my behaviors, especially where my husband is concerned, into this innocuous package which may not have all the expected virtues, but at least I'm not like "that" or I would never consider behaving like "that."

It was upon intropection that I realized the ugly truth. Many of my poor attitudes toward my love monkey, while they do not fall into the moral evil or general badness, do sit smack in the center of wretchedness or wrong. A wretch is a miserable, unhappy, or unfortunate person, thus to be in a state of wretchedness is to be miserable, unhappy, or unfortunate.

I don't believe I have ever really dealt with the true meaning of this verse. I've always kind of skipped over it, patted my brain on the cerebrum and stated for the mental record that I don't have a problem in that area. Yet, how often has a disrespectful response or reluctant behavior, a careless word or a heartless response brought a state of misery to my husband?

This ought not to be. And yet, the woman this man was tasked in finding was one who would do him good - in the complete and generic sense of the word - and not evil - to include inducement of a state of misery or unhappiness - all the days of her life. Not a weekend act, but a lifetime commitment.

I know I will never view this verse the same and I hope the same for each of you. It doesn't matter if you're married or not, these principles still apply. After all, you never know who's looking, now. Do you?

My intention is to shoot higher on the happy meter for my awesome love monkey; he really does deserve a wife who will do him all manner of good and who will refrain from causing grief and misery for as long as she lives.


Definitions and lexicon references taken from scripturetext.com and thefreedictionary.com. Photo courtesy of motifake.com

Day 249: Buttering Up

"How many sticks of butter have you lost?"

This was the question that greeted me this afternoon on my Facebook page (and that picture IS of fifty pounds of butter). The basic starting premise is that 0.2 pounds of body weight lost is equivalent to getting rid of a stick of butter. That idea seemed interesting... a stick of butter didn't seem that much, until I started adding it all up!

In the past six weeks, I've lost 37 pounds. Going on the idea that 0.2 pounds lost equals one stick of butter, this would mean that every 0.8 pounds lost would be a pound - that's one package as seen in a supermarket near you. I usually go to CostCo which would mean every 3.2 pounds I lose would equate to the four-pound bundle I would frequently purchase (I think I was buying one a month).

End result. I have lost 46.25 pounds of butter. That would be 46 normal packages of butter (plus one stick) or, for the CostCo and Sam's enthusiasts, 11.5 of their four-pound bundles! Yuck! I have this vision of a shopping cart FILLED with butter packs. Look at the top of the page... that's 50 pounds... I'm almost there! Don't get me wrong, I do like butter... but that much is just sick!

Visualization is such a powerful tool when dealing with all sorts of life situations... in particular, what you are putting into your body when you eat. The method of using pictures and comparisons to drill the message home is becoming more and more popular in the weight-loss community as dietitians and doctors use more and more hands-on, in-your-face, blunt comparisons.

Sometimes it comes in book form with lots of pictures showing better choices (Eat This; Not That), sometimes it is the placing of a 25-pound weight on your lap (graphically showing how much weight you've lost), sometimes it is by comparison (that Dairy Queen Caramel MooLatte has the sugar equivalent of twelve Dunkin' Donuts Bavarian Creme Doughnuts).

I know I, for one, never really thought about (or cared) what equivalents I might be eating and I have found visual comparison to be extremely powerful.

Although what I call negative comparison (i.e., this bad food is equivalent to this bad food) is entertaining and has a certain element of shock value, I think I more prefer to go the route of positive comparisons. With these negative comparisons, I find that even if I haven't had the slightest thought of drinking a Starbucks Caramel Frappuccino (not true), seeing a picture of it standing in frosty resplendence next to a glistening stack of its sugar equivalent in freshly-baked Krispy Kreme Original Glazed Doughnuts would not cause me to avoid either of these tasty treats. In fact, my response is quite the opposite: I want to drink the frappuccino (just the tall size...) and THEN go get those tantalizing equivalents (only one or two... I mean, it's not like I'm going to eat the whole box... today...).

What works so much better for me is seeing and understanding what I CAN have. I would rather see the tiny little sugar-free, fat-free, nine-ounce, 720-calorie muffin standing starkly to the left side of an equal sign and see on the right side a 720-calorie spread consisting of a pineapple, half a cantaloupe, half a kiwi fruit, half a papaya, five ounces of grapes, two pears, and two whole wheat rolls! The focus with this description is changing what you choose and getting more for that choice; a swap for the better. So much more powerful than the taunting pictorial comparisons of yummy evil.

Even better is this thought for the day: it is far better to focus on what can be then what cannot be. I have found that to choose to think about - with respect to dieting - what I CAN eat and the creativity which I must bring to bear within those dietary parameters. In day-to-day living, thinking about what I DO have - beautiful family, loving and supportive husband, air condition, running water - instead of things I wish I had makes for such greater contentment and peace within me.

Contentment has been one of my life's greatest challenges and it required God to do some truly out-of-the-box maneuvers to get me to the level of contentment I am today (which is WAAAY more then I ever was). I am no where near perfect, but simple reminders keep me thinking about what I DO have and not on what I WISH I had. Big difference.

Count those blessings! I know I feel better for doing that... positive is in and it's great!

Photos courtesy of cleanliv.in, rawfoodlivingdiet.com, and pictureperfectweightloss.com