I am feeling the need to keep you updated (via video) throughout the week as I am progressing in my new motivation for losing the few that I need to. And I need to make a few clarifications:

Caveat #1: I don’t think I am fat. But I have gained about 15 pounds in one year, which is way too much. And my jeans (the ones that do) barely button and let’s just say the middle of me just doesn’t sit nicely anymore. Bulging occurs, and well, you can imagine.

Caveat #2: The weight gain had caused me to lose some fitness. I had been quietly cutting down the lengths of my runs from 5-6 miles every day to 3-4 a few times a week. I can feel it (the extra fifteen, that is) in my rear end as I try to heave myself up a hill. (Read: “I can walk faster than I am shuffling….”).

Caveat #3: I am NOT trying to say (in the video posted below) that I look good or anything like that. Embarssing myself, I make some comment about this is what I look like BEFORE I go to the gym. Which is true. But, what I should have said is that when I come out of the gym I’m all greazzy and sweaty and icky. So, the video, purposefully, was shot pre-workout, so not to expose the entire world to my greazzy-ness.

Caveat #4: I talk a little about my food journal. Let me clarify: the only times in my life when I have been remotely successful with weight loss has gone hand in hand with journalling my food. The way my journal looks now is a small spiral notebook, with each page divided in half horizontally. Each page has two days. I write down the calories, protein and the food item on the lines and also track what exercise I’ve done. That simple. I tally my totals at the end of the day, and once a week I write in my new weight. Simple and it helps to keep the hunger wolves at bay.
And lastly, Caveat #5: Those of you who have left comments and are praying for me (and others), THANK YOU! I am working through your blogs to wish you well, and I am praying for you each by name. I am so excited that some of you are experiencing success!

Weigh-in is Monday…hopefully this weekend won’t kick my butt (but if it does, there are 15 extra pounds of cushion to shield me – or 12.6 if you are counting).

Gym Parking Lot from Sarah Markley on Vimeo.

Long before there was four of us, there was just me.

I was part of my family, my father and mother, and my sister. But in the end, when I grew up, it was just me. I was me-centered, me-thinking, and me-feeling.

Then I got married. Very young, by some standards. And there were two of us, but we were supposed to be one.

Move as one, live as one, agree on movies and politics and money. Most of the time we lived as two, and not as the one we were meant to be.

Then we added two more to the mix. Two pixie girls: one with auburn hair and brown eyes who brings fire with her into every room; the other blonde wispy and blue whose laughter is contagious.

And now there are four of us:
“Markley, Party of Four!”
“Two adults and two children, please.”

Much of the time, however, we move in threes. With their father at work or church, we cross our town “just us girls” each day and adapt to life spent as three. Three of us sit down to lunch; three of us hold hands going across a parking lot. We are three when he leaves the house some days before any of us get out of bed. Three of us feels right a lot of the time.

Until 4:30 in the afternoon, when all of us long for the fourth to come home and offer us distraction from dirty fingernails and stop-fighting-with-your-sister reprimands. Four. And then (usually) all is right in the world.

I know that three or four will seem true for a long time.

Then one long haired, auburn teenager will want to leave. And then there might be three again for awhile. Until the littlest one goes too.

Then there will be two. Very close to where we began.

Where I began: trying to live as one with my God-granted partner. Hopefully we will have learned a little about numbers along the way.

At the playground, my two-year-old, Naomi, is always vilified as some sort of monster by the older, more experienced preschoolers.

They must protect the fort, secure the ship, or bar the slide from the slithery sea monster that is, in fact, my sweet toddler.

When I was skinny, I thought I was fat. I’d look at my (toned) legs in the mirror and think, Gosh, I really need to do more lunges.

When I was fat, I thought I was “not that bad.” I’d look at my (wide) rear end in the mirror and think, I could probably lose a few, but I have an okay face.

And right now when I am somewhere in the middle, its hard to know what to think. I’ve never really been able to get a hold on the true version of me. I really don’t know what I look like.

I mean, I know how much I weigh. I know what size jeans fit me (and the ones that used to fit me). I have full length mirrors in my bathroom and I know that I can fit into the seat of the Matterhorn ride at Disneyland and not fill it up. I know that my hips just brush the edges of a plane seat (coach) but don’t spill over toward the guy sitting next to me. But I’ve always had a hard time really knowing what I really look like.

I don’t know if there is a practical, tangible solution to try to morph my brain into understanding reality as it truly is. I can’t trust my own view of myself.

The only answer is outside of myself. And much bigger than me.

I am who God says I am.

I am loved and understood. I am created and beautiful.

I am whole (and no longer broken). I am healed (and no longer sick). My identity, my purpose, is determined by the Creator of the Universe.

So, in the end, it doesn’t matter if I can never get a handle on my own view of myself. I know a God who has a view of me that is much more stable and much more distinct than my own. In essence, He knows me better than I know myself.

And I can rest in that. Fat or skinny, old or young, beautiful or plain. I am seen by Him.

Please don’t read this as if I am claiming that lychees aid in weight-loss or anything like that.

They don’t.

But, I couldn’t resist. They were sitting there last week at Trader Joes in a neat little plastic container. Lychees….a snack fruit common in China with a peelable outside and a sweet, white fleshy fruit.

Why not? I’m trying new things this week (like posting my WEIGHT online for the world to know). Why not try a new fruit?

I did partake on camera: peeled it, cut off a section and ate it for you.

Just watch and see.

Lychees and Weight Loss from Sarah Markley on Vimeo.

Thank you all for your prayers and your support. Leave a comment to either let me know how you are doing, or if you want to join us in our group effort to be disciplined and accountable.

Or just leave a comment.

I’m praying for you too!

I miss my daughters.

And I haven’t been gone. I’ve been here. We’ve been here doing the summer things that are easy and expected: mornings inside in pajamas, playing in the water in the backyard, lunches at the kitchen table, resting on the sofa for an hour and backyard play again.

Dinner,
baths
and bedtime.

But I still miss them, as if I haven’t been here.

And maybe I really haven’t. I’ve been distracted, burdened by exterior responsibilities and jobs that I haven’t been able to say NO to.

I miss my husband. We’ve both been here, but we’ve been passing each other like coworkers in the hall:

How are you today.
Fine, you?
Going to the meeting this afternoon?
I think so; I’ll let you know how my days goes.

I know what is going on with him via his Facebook updates throughout the day, but I miss him. Passing each other like this lends to extra arguments and unnecessary disagreements.

I’m done missing them. They are here with me in this home. They are near me, begging me to play a game or to laugh at his jokes.

So to them, today, I’ll say YES.

Sometimes change and instability makes you stronger.

I ran my trail this morning on purpose.

From my house to the top of the hill and back, it is only about a 4 mile round trip, with three of those miles in a hilly, dusty open space. I run about a half mile from my house, and then turn off the street to a dirt road, which turns into a trail that goes straight up.

I pass mountain bikers, other runners, dogs off of their leashes, and an occasional quail or rabbit. I know there are other animals in the brush, mostly birds, but there are also snakes, coyotes and possibly mountain lions. Because I can’t be too safe, I carry rocks when I run, one in either had, in case I meet an unfriendly visitor. When I jog by myself, I am especially careful to watch the trail for snakes and listen carefully for anything that might be nearby.

Trail running isn’t easy, and I cursed my choice half way to the top and promised I’d run the local high school track tomorrow to take a break. The path is bumpy and rocky; I dodge the ruts in the road and hop across to avoid the soft sand and run on the more packed dirt. My feet push off uneven rocks and pebble patches; there is even about a quarter mile so steep that I have to stop jogging, and walk (almost grapple) to climb the hill.

It is good for me.

The trail makes me speed up and slow down for the downhills and uphills; the hazards on the road itself train my body differently than running on the street or on a flat trail. I begin to understand my limits. The uneven surface works my core muscles in ways that track laps or treadmills don’t.

Change is good. For my body. Instability is good for my fitness. The muscles in my legs become stronger in different places that leg or calf presses at the gym could not accomplish.

I have to remember this when things don’t go the way I plan, when my life doesn’t “turn out” like I thought it would. I have to remember that change and instability is beneficial to me.

That I chose this trail and that it is making me stronger.

So far so good.

But this “experiment” (me testing whether posting horribly embarrasing information about myself on the internet, namely my weight, will help me stick to a plan) seems to be working. It really does.

I’m not obsessed, but I am constantly thinking that I can’t give into my sense of self-entitlement or indulgence simply because I can. I have decided that I am going to lose 15 pounds. And I’m going to do it publicly.

Although, I am officially going to do my progress video and weigh in report on Monday, I’m learning a lot this week about myself already.

Which friends, brings me to a simple nugget for a Friday:

WE NEED EACH OTHER.

Simply that.

Accountability from Sarah Markley on Vimeo.

(I am praying for each of you who left a comment on Monday telling me you are joining me in this quest to be more disciplined. If you don’t know what I am talking about, click here. )

My family is full of educators.

Me. My sister. Both of my parents-in-law. My cousin. My aunt. My mother was briefly. My grandfather. I’ve grown up around teachers and schools.

Last night after dinner my mother read a book about teachers to my two-year-old.

Teachers are caring. Teachers are smart. Teachers help others.

She asked Naomi in her best talking-to-a-toddler voice, Do WE know any teachers?

Of course we do, because in my family, the answer is practically “everyone”. Now understandably, my toddler does not know the occupation of all members of our family, but for a two-year-old, she is pretty with-it.

Naomi answered, Mommy!

[Okay, she gets a point for knowing that A.) I have a Masters of Education or B.) I used to be a teacher, or C.) that my mothering skills are so rich with teaching points and she gets an education just being in my presence... I'm voting for the second one.]

My mother countered, Okay, but what about Auntie Chi-Chi, Mimi, Pappa Rob? Are they teachers? These are the people who are currently being paid to actually teach groups of students in classrooms.

Naomi, in all of the wisdom of a toddler and with the matter of fact clear in her voice, said, No, they are family!

Even my six year old is beginning to understand that people have multiple roles: Daddy is also a son and a brother, Mommy has friends and is a wife too.

For some simplistic reason, my toddler did not want to separate these people whom she loves dearly with the fact that to her, they are first and foremost family. The only identifier anyone needs to have is that they are family, not teacher or grandmother or aunt. In her tiny, minimalistic way of thinking, she put her whole world into the same category.

So maybe, let’s treat everyone like this. As if we are family. Where even if there are differences in politics and theology, or there are disagreements in the way things are done, at the end of the day, we still belong to the great, big amazing family of God.

Let’s get rid of judgment and identifiers, and categories and worry more about being sisters and mothers and family members.

How
much
would
everything
change!

I wasn’t kidding when I said my family is full of teachers; even down to the littlest one.

I really should have taken a picture. I’d pretty much licked my plate clean, but the rest of the group had created some kind of mealtime war zone on their 3/4 of the table. But I didn’t snap a photo – I just stared, the lettuce of my salad barely quenching the hunger.

Naomi had somehow missed her lunch, and replaced it at noon by helping herself with servings of ice chips and goldfish crackers from the kitchen. By dinner time, she was ravenous. Hope had recovered from her breathing problems enough to attend her nature camp today, and was famished from the activity and outdoor air. My husband’s ADD medication had worn off (which, during the day, has an appetite suppressant side affect) and he was eyeing the teriyaki tacos with gusto.

When the appetizer of French Fries arrived (which, now that I think about it, I don’t understand being that each of their meals came with an order of seasoned fries), the three of them dove into the basket. The girls snapped at each other, no that’s my fry, and Chad snapped back, share, willya? I just sat in my post-afternoon haze, letting the three of them argue.

I was being good. I was being disciplined. I did NOT partake.

The actual meal arrived:

• a cheeseburger with tomato for Hope (which she ate in about 7 minutes without a breath),
• a thick, buttery grilled cheese sandwich for Naomi (which she ate ALL of unexpectedly as she normally nibbles making us sorry we ordered a 7 dollar kids meal for her in the first place),
• the Yaki Tacos for Chad (his favorite go-to comfort food at Islands)
• and, for me, on my plan of disciplined eating, a Greek Salad, no feta cheese and no dressing. It consisted of romaine, cucumbers, onions, some chopped chicken, and… no, that’s it. Mostly lettuce.

Even though I ate ALL of the lettuce they’d given me leaving the bus boys nothing to scrape into the trash, I wasn’t interested in the fries any longer. I was still a little hungry, thus the residual grumble in my stomach, but I felt good.

I felt like I’d eaten healthy, and that I’d stuck to my plan today. I would still eat a healthy snack later, before bed, but I didn’t feel bloated from any supper-time indulgence.

The picture I should have taken tonight wasn’t of the “lopsided” table (half-eaten fries, ranch dressing smears and salt and pepper littering the entire table except for the square foot in front of me). But I should have taken a “picture” of the way I felt after a healthy meal and a day of controlled eating.

And I did: I’m writing this post and remembering how good it felt which is enough motivation for a new day.

(Check out Natalie. Here and here. She talks about spending the same kind of energy to get your body in shape as you would your spiritual “body”. She talks about discipline and focus. Natalie is honest and transparent and I love her perspective.)