By Kate

I have tracked every calorie I have eaten or burned since June 2009. Every meal, snack, and workout has been logged in the Lose It app on my iPhone. I can look online and tell you the foods most frequently eaten over the last 12 months (tomatoes, hummus, lettuce, peanut butter, and spinach) or which exercises I have spent the most minutes doing (running, walking, yoga, and bicycling). I can see line graphs showing my weight or calorie trends for the last year, or any number of other useful bits of information.

Sound like an obsession? Probably. But I enjoy tracking, logging, and analysis. Admittedly, I also have a tendency toward obsessive self-documentation — hello, Twitter, Flickr, Facebook, Dailymile, and WordPress.  These things satisfy me somehow.  I like record keeping. After all, what is more fascinating than one’s own life, captured in all its glorious minutiae? Uh, right?

Nonetheless, I think I’d like to eventually move away from tracking all of my calories every day.  I don’t think I want to be using the Lose It app as a maintenance tool for the rest of my life.  But when should I stop the tracking, and how?

For one thing, I’m not really sure how many calories I should be eating on the average day.  Yes, there are tons of places one can go to find an approximate number, but the numbers I get for my height, weight, sex, and activity level are anywhere from 1600-2100 calories, which seems like a big range.  That 500 calories could mean the difference between having fries and a beer with my veggie burger or going side-salad, no-bun, ice-water style. Those are two very different dinners, you know?

So here is my plan for the moment: I am still tracking everything, staying between about 1600-1800 calories per day (the lower end on rest days, the higher end on work-out days), and weighing in every week.  So far my weight has only fluctuated up or down by about a pound every week for the last month. If I can keep it steady like this for another month or so, I think I will be ready to try life without food tracking. I’m not sure what that will look like or if I will have a specific plan for how I’ll go about it, so I’m open to suggestions from you guys. I’ll be honest, though: the idea of intuitive eating is a little scary. Last time I was left to my own devices, I gained weight like Homer Simpson at an all-you-can-eat buffet.  Can I trust myself to know when to stop eating?

By Kaitlyn

In the past four years I have gotten pregnant twice, given birth twice and lost upwards of forty pounds twice. I have run one full marathon, three half marathons, two 10k’s, two 5k’s and a sprint triathlon. I have counted more Weight Watchers points than I care to imagine. I have spent hours criticizing my body.

Along the way, it became less about the number and more about being empowered. Completing a marathon was a life changing experience. I have spent countless hours in pain, covered in sweat, my feet pounding the pavement. I have worked hard to be healthy and strong. It has not come easily. Every pound I lost I worked for, every ounce of confidence I gained has been an equally difficult path. But. Here I am.

I am confident enough to cheer for my peers who are faster or stronger than me, instead of being intimidated by them. I am happy when people find an eating plan that works for them and makes their body feel good (Primal, vegetarian, IF) without feeling like my own food choices are being attacked. Last week, I stood up in a room filled with 70 other people and spoke calmly and confidently into the microphone. And I wasn’t nervous. I *like* myself, and that’s a big deal for me.

But, I have a secret.

I weight, on any given day, about 135lbs.

I head to the Weight Watchers office every second Monday to get weighed. And the number matters to me.

It embarrasses me to say this because I truly believe that we should not determine our value from a number, be it body weight of BMI or pants size or hell, even age. We’re better than that. I’m better than that, I know.

I tell myself, have told myself over the past year, that weighing myself keeps me on track. And it *does*. If I don’t get weighed at least twice a month, I start to gain weight. But recently it occurred to me that if (or should I say when) my weight increases slightly (the highest I ever tend to hit is 140lbs, and that’s usually due to that lovely time of the month), I feel bad. Guilty! Like a FAILURE! Unlovable! WHAT IS THE POINT OF GOING ON?! (You get the picture.)

I’d like to say that I do not, in fact, own a scale and never have. I also eat very healthy. Zero processed foods, never fast food, an ungodly amount of vegetables, and extremely limited grains (but no breads or pastas, unless I’m carbo loading for a long run or race). I mean, most of the time, right? I do indulge, but that’s not what this post is about.

What I need to figure out is if my relationship with the scale is healthy. Is it? I’m really not sure. And yet, *not* weighing myself, simply not knowing (but more than that, not CARING), is foreign and honestly? Frightening. What if I gain weight? What if someone ASKS?

Then again, I have my clothes to be the judge. If I gain weight, I know the signs. Baggier shirts, looser pants, avoidance of jeans and all things bikini. Do I use the scale as both punishment and reward?

How about you guys, what is your relationship like with the scale? Has anyone actually completely ditched it and is living life unaware of what they weigh? Is this possible? I’d love to hear what you think.

By Emily

“Vegetarian” Taco Soup

• 1 tbsp olive oil
• 1 small to medium onion, diced
• 1 can kidney beans
• 1 can pinto beans
• 1 can yellow corn kernals (I personally like yellow and white)
• 1 can rotel (diced tomatoes with green chilis)
• 1 can diced tomatoes
• 1 packet taco seasoning
• 1 packet dry ranch dressing mix

Pour olive oil in a soup pot over medium-high heat.  Add onion to saute.  When onions are translucent, pour all reamingredients into a soup pot.  Stir.  Heat until bubbly, then let simmer as long as you want.  I find the longer I let it simmer the better it tastes.  I love this soup all on it’s own, but sometimes garnish with a few baked tortilla chips and a tiny bit of low fat shredded cheese.  (Note:  I’ve noticed lately that this is high sodium, so you might want to try to find low-sodium versions of the ingredients and/or drink lots of water!)

By Wendy

Memory is such a tricky thing.

For example, you slog through nine months of pregnancy feeling sick, then tired, then swollen, then fat, then crabby, then fatter until FINALLY! you get to birth your loin fruit in some manner that is bound to be uncomfortable at best. And how are you repaid? By not getting to sleep for several weeks or months.

And then? You start to forget. Or maybe not forget, but maybe the edges of your memory begin to soften and the whole picture loses that sharp focus of pain and frustration and you start to think that “hmm, that wasn’t so bad. I think I liked being pregnant” (this despite the fact that there is clear written evidence that at 41 weeks pregnant in summertime in freaking Arizona you DID NOT LIKE being pregnant). You might even find yourself feeling a little wistful about maternity clothes and may start having inexplicable urges to sniff the soft head of whatever little sleep snatcher happens to cross your path.

I should pause here to reassure my husband that I am not pregnant, nor have the condoms been tampered with (but maybe someday…).

I started thinking about the tenuous relationship that memory has to truth when it came time for me to lace up my running shoes last night. I was exhausted last night. I am in the midst of one of the single busiest weeks of the year at work and I had been in motion or conversation all day. Now, at home, a half hour before my son’s bedtime the very last thing in the entire world I wanted to do was go for a walk/jog. I wanted to commune with the couch. I wanted to fall face first in to a vat of something filled with refined sugar. I wanted a magazine or the Internet or the TV– something, anything to get comfortably numb.

But I had a friend waiting. A friend who, following an truly horrible day, probably needed to talk. So I went, reluctantly.

And, wouldn’t you know it, I had a kick-ass workout. I ran more than I have in months and months and when it was over I felt refreshed and free of the headache that had been plaguing me all night.

The thing that is so duh about it is that the very day before I forced myself to go on a bike ride when I didn’t want to because I was feeling too stressed about work and, duh duh duh, I felt amazingly better after the ride. The squeezing knot of anxiety that had been resting in my chest all day was gone and I was thinking more clearly than I had all day.

So, why can’t I ever seem to remember how good the after feels when I am dreading the workout? Why can’t I call back the glowy, positive feeling of a good sweat when I’d rather do anything but sweat?

Am I the only one who apparently has the short term memory of a goldfish where exercise is concerned?

********

Quick update to the last post: I am the Ruler of Amusements this week! I beat my husband by 18 minutes of exercise and lost 2 pounds in the process. Sweet.

By Chelsea

On Friday, August 13th, I ran four blissful miles.  It was 78 degrees outside, with a light breeze, and I was fresh off of the vacation high.  It was one of my best runs in a long time, and I was grinning as I stepped into the shower.

Two days later, I’m making an ass out of myself at the local driving range and step on a golf ball.  I turned my ankle, blah blah blah.  A week later, I’m at the doctor’s office because Its Not Getting Better.  Turns out I have a severe sprain and an avulsion fracture.  My next 3-4 weeks involves a walking boot, flare leg jeans, and gimping.  No running for God knows how long.  (That 10K I’ve been training for all summer?  Buhbye)

Now, the ankle is not broken.  I’ll be back.  But I’m mourning the loss of my momentum.  I’m one of those people that hates change.  That lives by routines.  That wants to know The Plan For the Day right when I get up.

The biggest change thus far is the complete disintegration of my routines.  I’ve had my evening routine down to the minute for the last few months, and absolutely LOVED it.

I’m going stir-crazy in the house between 6:30 – 7:30 because I’m usually outside or in a gym.  I wander around the kitchen, idly stuffing things into my face, because we don’t eat dinner until after 8pm.  The dog starts dropping toys into my lap at 9pm, as I’ve been unable to take him to the dog park like before.  I know I need to get into a routine again, but it’s hard when you’ve been told to sit on the couch with your foot up in the air.

I had a whole post written last week about triggers – and asking how you all deal with triggers.  How do you deal with massive disappointment?  And drastic changes?  Do you eat your feelings, like I have been for the last few days? (I think I stated on Friday ‘I want pizza and I want it NOW’)

How do you snap yourself out of a funk?