I don’t like before and after photos. They’re misleading. And yet, here I go making my own of sorts. Before*, middle, and end… of the year, definitely not the end of my efforts to improve myself and my health.

In fact, I can’t see myself stopping any of the new good habits I’ve learned and honed over the year. They feel like second nature. Even when I feel lazy, I know that cooking my own food will be healthier and will save me money (a lot more important to me these days). I crave fresh fruit and vegetables. When I slack off on running or going to the gym, I miss the runner’s high and the good feelings I get after getting my heart rate up and breaking a sweat. I like cooking and my new, awesome apron. I don’t even mind the cleanup, I like washing dishes.

It’s the fact that these habits feel like part of me now that I know I will keep moving forward, accomplishing new health and fitness goals.

I have a number in my head. It’s arbitrary. I’m not there yet. I don’t know if I even really want to get there. A few months ago, I told myself I’d stop when I could fit in to my sister’s pants. I tried on some new slacks she got as a Christmas present. They fit fine, if long. Once she gets them tailored (we’re the same height), I know I’ll be borrowing them.

So, now what? I’ll get down to the arbitrary number just because I know I can. If you know me and my mini obsessions, you can probably guess what it is. I’ll maintain that and add some new fitness goals.

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“You’re doing great,” the receptionist said as she recorded my weight and pasted the sticker recording my progress for that week in my pocket guide.

“Thanks,” I said and smiled.

“You’re doing so great. Do you recognize yourself?”

I paused, unsure of what she was asking and how to respond.

“Yeah,” I said tentatively, but wasn’t sure.

I slipped my shoes back on, grabbed my purse and took a seat. As I thought about the receptionists question some more, I realized she asked a different question. At first, I heard, “do you recognize your weight loss progress with small rewards?” Then I reinterpreted it as, “do you recognize the changes in habits — both eating and exercise — since January?”

That was not her question. She asked, “do you recognize yourself… when you look in the mirror?”

“Yes,” I thought to myself. Of course. When I see my face, I still look like Cindy. I don’t even feel that I look much different unless I look at photos. And even then, I see more differences in my clearer skin complexion, or the great tan I had over the summer. Unlike my padrino José, I don’t think my nose looks more prominent or that my face is more “afilada.”

Other people think differently. A few weeks ago, Papá Chepe told me he confused me for my sister, Lori, when he first saw me. Other family members say I look more like my mom (as a 20-year old bride) or cousin Sandy.

Part of me takes the comments as a compliment, another indicator of my progress. But there’s a nagging critic that says, “they don’t recognize you without all the extra weight, that’s why they compare you to your thinner sister, cousin and mom. They’re like the bouncer who didn’t believe you were the girl on your driver’s license.”

I’m still me. I know I am.

“You have knee pain?” asked the young dermatologist who had just come in to the exam room.

“Yeah,” I replied. “But it’s only after I run.”

She nodded, still looking over my intake survey.

“So it’s exercise induced?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh, so you’re a runner.”

I half-nodded, feeling a bit like a fraud. Being called a runner was like being called a writer.

Me? Really? Sure you’re not mistaking me with someone who is serious about running/writing? Someone like Haruki Murakami*? Okay, maybe not Murakami. I shouldn’t compare myself to a novelist who runs marathons annually.

I write and I run. I enjoy both and know I can improve, but right now I’m not dedicated enough to feel comfortable when someone calls me a writer/runner.

I’m going to change that and earn both titles. It’s going to take a lot miles and pages.

No problem, I have plenty of time.

Thanks to Oso recommending Murakami’s memoir What I talk about when I talk about running. It was a good read.

If you’ve looked at my weekly photo posts, you’ll notice that there are quite a few grainy MacBook Photobooth self portraits. I wasn’t being narcissistic just for the sake of it. Instead, I was tracking the changes in my face as I lose weight*.

The photos are a nice companion of the other signs of my progress: the line graph charting my weight loss from week to week; the bags of clothes I’ve removed from my closet and given to Mamá Toni to take to Tijuana; the new clothes I’ve had to buy; my endurance and strength increasing; skin clearing up as I put healthier food in my body; and unexpected cravings (e.g., my mom’s oatmeal, calabaza).

I’m not quite at my goal yet, so the photos below are not representing before and after. It’s more like before, current and in-between. As you’ll see, they’re all focusing on my face, I’ll get around to full-length photos later.

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I spent a lot of time looking at myself in the mirror today. I examined my reflection in new and old outfits as I sorted through all my clothes and decided what to give away and what to keep. I found a bag of old clothes I intended to give away after a previous cleaning. I must have forgotten the clothes — all one or two sizes smaller — because I still had the bag. I pulled out my old favorite pair of jeans circa 2004, a cute paisley blouse, and some more items. The jeans were too loose, the blouse fit just fine. I kept some of the clothes in the bag and put the rest in the give away pile. In the end, I filled three bags with new-ish clothes and hung up some old clothes.

Later, I went shopping for jeans that fit and didn’t make me look like a teenage guy sagging his pants. Once again, I stared at my reflection in the mirror trying to notice the changes.

Where is the weight coming off? My legs? My thighs? My butt? My arms? My stomach? My breasts? My face?

All of the above.

My friends and family notice the changes too. Some of the comments are funny (are you doing speed?), some make me feel self-conscious (have you had to buy a new wardrobe yet?), and some confuse me.

A few days ago my tía Martha asked, “¿Estás enamorada?”

“Yeah,” I told her, not quite sure what being in love had to do with weight loss. I heard the same question once before several years ago from my roommate’s mom. Is this a Mexican saying? Does it have something to do with being so smitten or broken-hearted that you can’t eat?

There are some things that don’t change. I went shopping yesterday to search for a dress to wear to MEChA de UCLA’s 40th anniversary dinner. I tried on several dresses at a few different stores, but I came home empty-handed. I still don’t like shopping* (shoes excluded).

* Attributed to a combination of (a) not willing to pay $168 for a dress I’ll wear a few times; (b) my codo, see (a); and (c) selection sucks, especially for short women.

Mamá Toni repeats the story every time there’s pan dulce on the table.

“El pan para la noche,” she says imitating me and giggles. “No te recuerdas?”

I shake my head no. All I remember of my trip to El Cargadero that summer was the excitement of being on a plane without my parents, running around the large plaza in front of Papá Chepe and Mamá Toni’s house playing games with the neighborhood kids, and getting hooked on Rosa Salvaje. I must have blocked out my love for pan dulce and the result.

When Danny and I returned from El Cargadero, I had gained weight. Again, I don’t remember this, but my mom and Mamá Toni insist that El Cargadero was the turning point. I was no longer average. From ‘88 on I was chubby/chunky/fat/whatever/insert your own euphemism.

While I don’t remember the result of my trip to Zacatecas, I do remember my First Communion the next spring. I wore the white custom-made dress I wore as a flower girl for my Tía Nellie’s wedding just a few weeks earlier. While waiting for the ceremony to begin, mom talked to Mrs. Millan, my Brownie troop leader. Mrs. Millan complained about finding a dress for her small and skinny daughter. Mom told her she had the opposite problem, but was lucky I had the flower girl dress. I was embarrassed and felt like hiding.
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I sat in the middle between Lori and Adrian. My brother tagged along simply for the post gym trip to Costco. Lori and I had business. She needed to start up her gym membership after letting it lapse recently and I needed to sign up. We gave our IDs to Philip so could start the process.

Adrian asked, “Can you put me down as a referrer so I get he next month free? What if you add me to Lori’s family plan. I want to pay less too.”

“No,” Philip said and explained that I couldn’t be counted as a referred because Lori was not technically new and I was being added to a pair/family plan. He was nice about it though, and joked with my siblings whom he both recognized as regulars at the gym.

A few days later I was alone and without my sibling to hold my hand through my first session at the gym. While I consider myself fairly independent and willing to do most things alone, I was intimidated by the gym and any workout that wasn’t simple jogging around the local high school track or swimming.

I called Lori for some advice.

“Um… I’m going to the gym. I don’t know what to do. Help!”
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