Started From The Bottom, And I’m Still Kind Of Here…

I’ve been struggling, guys.  I’ve been down and out and I haven’t even able to drag myself out of my slump, and get my shit together.  I’ve listened to self help, motivating books.  I went on a vacation to Arizona (thanks Steph and Josh!). I force myself to the gym to train.  It’s not enough. 

So, let us back up a little bit so you know where I am coming from. REcap: I started blogging when I was a very heavy, very unhealthy, very sad ‘wunner’. That’s how you got to know me.  After I sucked you in, with humor and wit, I told you about how I was a foster mom.  Bomb drop!  This foul mouthed half healthy half fat kid was literally given a license to care for children.  You know what? I’m pretty fucking awesome at it.  However, I may have downplayed that role, a little bit.  In reality, I am a foster-to-adopt mom, which is very different.

Unfortunately, my story is long, sad, and depressing; and even more devastating is that I AM NOT ALONE.   Whether we want to admit it or not, this the story I have is very real, and very common.  I’m not going to bore you with years and years of details,  but I’ll do a quick TL;DR (‘too long; didn’t read’ for you common folk).

TL;DR:  I had two daughters that I was involved with for over a year, nine months of which, they lived with me full time.   The plan was to adopt.  In reality, they went home. This happens more often than it should, for a myriad of reasons.  Unfortunately, with the children gone, it’s left me with too much time, not enough motivation, and feelings. So. Many. Feelings.

This one will be short, because I want to focus on being positive, and to be honest, I still have a hard time being positive about any of this.   

This is my ‘you get knocked down, but you get up again’ moment.  This is for ME.  Some day, I’ll look back at this post, and remember that I didn’t give up, no matter how much I wanted to.  In fact, I’m pumping myself up writing this, when in full honest reality- I don’t even believe myself.

Guys, the whole ‘getting back up’ thing is REALLY hard. 

PERSONAL GOALS:  Stay positive. Stay focused. Make ME happy.


Boxed Water Is Better

The struggle is real.  Like, for real, for real.  I still can’t do my running ‘warm-up’ without literally feeling like I’m dying while I’m heaving for air.

No matter the day, no matter the work out, the warm up sets the tone for the rest of my training session.  I am just a hot ass mess.

On this particular day, I started out running up and down the track.  The first trip back, I every so slightly tap punch Franz on the arm.  Immediately, I knew I made a mistake.  I knew I’d pay for it.  I ran away, doing my second trip and down the track, and make my way back to Franz who not so slightly slams his knuckles into my arm.  Wincing in pain, and laughing at the fact that I brought this on myself, I finish my last two trips down the track.  As I finish, my chest is burning and I am desperately trying to breath.

The work out that Franz planned, brings us to the back of the gym.  All around us are bottles of water that people had mistakenly left behind.   After doing about 476 long jumps, I sit on a block, trying to catch my breath.  Next to me, is a box of water.  You know, that cleverly marketed ‘Boxed Water Is Better’ carton…  half full.  And, since it wasn’t MY carton of water, I just know that it was full of backwash.  It had to be.

As I sit with my elbows on my legs, and my head hanging down, sucking in any air I can get, Franz comes over to me like I am a boxer in the ring, between rounds.  He dramatically encourages me to continue on, grabbing my sore shoulders, and then decides to ‘pump me up’ by refreshing me with a splash (read: long pour) of room temperature backwash water…. from the lonely carton of water sitting next to me.

In a matter of seconds, my sweat, warm water, and what I believe is most definitely someone else’s spit, comes streaming down my face, off of my hair.  There’s literally nothing I can do.  I just start to laugh.  I wipe my face off, and threaten Franz’s life, and get back to my long jumps.  Each jump sending drops of water all over the floor.

It’s hard to feel grosser than I usually do when I’m at the gym, but on this particular day, I did.  I was disgusting.   Par for the course, I guess.


I’ve been Franz’d.

Goldfish Are The Devil

Kids’ snacks are the fucking worst.  I’m not kidding.  Hear me out.  First of all, they’re almost always salty and delicious.  Second, they are easy to grab a fist full, and pop into your mouth.  Last, but certainly not least, they’re fucking everywhere; like, the kid dropped one?  You just grab it.  Cleaning the high chair tray?  I’ll just eat those, instead of throwing them away… NO WASTING!


If you don’t already know this about me, I am a foster mom.  That means that on occasion, I get some awesome littles who visit my house.  Recently I had a two-year-old, which obviously means I have to have two-year-old approved snacks.  A.K.A- Goldfish.

Unless they just aren’t

I could have called this blog ‘Cheese-It’s Are The Devil’, or ‘Peanut Butter and Jelly Sandwiches Are The Devil’.  I mean, really, you can just plug your own food in there.  What food does your kid eat, that you can’t keep your grubby hands off of?  Animal Crackers?  Pretzels?  Or, are you the fucking organic Cheddar Bunny type???

I need to get a hold of myself.  I know I have control, deep down inside me, some where.  I mean, I made the kid macaroni and cheese multiple times, and even though I wanted to hold the pot to my mouth and guzzle the cheesy goodness, I HELD BACK.  I haven’t had pasta since January of 2017, and I certainly won’t be fucking that up on boxed macaroni and powdered cheese (even if it is organic… only the best for her!).  However, stick a bowl of popcorn in front of me, and I won’t be able to stop until every kernel is gone.

goldfish*stolen from the deep dark internet*

I have issues.

Umm, You’re Bleeding…

I hate my hair.  Really.  My whole life, I have hated my hair.  It started when I was little, and I had uncontrollable curls, and I would scream when my mom would brush it.  Eventually, she cut it off and I had a super stylish puffy mess of hair on the top of my head, that everyone in school dubbed my ‘fro’.  That was middle school.  The worst time to have something that is so easy for kids to pick up on, and make fun of.

Fast forward… As an adult, I (mostly) learned to love my curls, found products that worked in my hair, and even had some decent days, where it didn’t look like a… fro.  I even learned how to straighten it myself.

Since I lost weight, I also lost hair.  I always had an issue with it not growing, but it started to fall out in a glorious fashion when I lost weight.  Apparently this is normal.  I did everything I could to keep it healthy.  I took vitamins, I got it cut on a regular basis, I stopped straightening it, I even stopped coloring it, yet nothing seemed to help.

Finally, I decided, I would color it, but only enough to give it the illusion that I had thicker hair.  You know, color play…  It didn’t work.  I hated it.  I seriously hated it.  I don’t know if I can say that I have ever actually liked when someone did my hair.  I’m so critical, and I expect so much more when I have the reveal in the mirror.  Why can’t I have the “What Not To Wear’ experience??

Anyways, I lived with that hair color for months.  I never stopped complaining about it, and I never went back to have it fixed, or cut.  One, because I was scared again, and two, because I really didn’t want to spend the money, any more.

One day (who are we kidding… one very early morning at 3 a.m. when I wasn’t sleeping), I had the bright idea to find and order hair color on Amazon.  And I did just that.

Two days later, a bottle of color arrived.  I have NEVER colored my own hair.  I am petrified of fucking shit up, and only being able to blame myself. Yet, here I am, about to color my own hair.

I completely protect the bathroom from being stained with color, change into an old shirt, and get going.  Two hours later, I wash out the color, watching a bright red swirl of water run over my white tub, and down the drain.  The more I washed, the more color came out.  I figured I was all set, wrapped my head in a towel, and let it dry.  When I took the towel off, I was a little scared, and then I looked closely.  I actually liked it!  I don’t know if I was convincing myself that I liked it, or if I really did, but either way, I was satisfied.

Over the next couple weeks, every single time I washed my hair, I would watch the swirl of red dye go down the drain.  Every time I went swimming, I would watch it roll down my shoulders off of my wet head.  In fact, I refused to put my head under water in a pool knowing that I’d leave an embarrassing trail behind me.

It didn’t matter.  I didn’t care.  I liked the color, and I felt slightly bad-ass for how bold it was.

What I didn’t even think about, or anticipate, was what would happen when I sweat.

So, here we are.  It’s gym day.  No more ‘Upper Body’, ‘Lower Body’ crap.  Every time I am there, it’s a full body, full speed (until I die), don’t quit, ‘you can drink water later’ kind of work out.  Every time I’m there, I sweat like a monster… because I’m disgusting, and also because it’s hot as balls in the gym.  This day was no different.

At the end of my session (one where I believe I may or may not have actually shed tears when Franz told me to flip the tire), we walked out of the gym together.  We got outside, the hot sun shining on my already steamy, sweaty head and face.  In the middle of a sentence, Franz pauses and looks at me completely concerned.  A face I haven’t seen before, because usually it’s a ‘I literally don’t care if you die’ kind of face.  While looking at me concerned, he says, ‘Umm, I think you’re bleeding!’

‘What?’ I asked, while looking at my arms, and shoulders… (turf burn is real, I swear to GOD!!!!)

‘You’re bleeding’, Franz repeats, while motioning to his neck.

‘OHHH!  No, that just my hair dye.  No big deal….totally normal’ I say.

I start laughing, and Franz just looks at me like I am a complete moron.  He laughed a little and told me I was dumb.  And to be honest?  I probably looked pretty dumb…. with red dye ‘blood’ sweat, dripping from my head, down my neck and shoulders.


P.S.  I dyed my hair three times with that bottle, and I ordered a new (similar) color… Can’t wait to see how bad I look, when I sweat, this time!!

Turf Burn

The Green.  It’s literally the place I hate the most in the gym, next to well…. the entire gym.  I call it ‘The Green’ because it’s usually a turf covered area full of complete torture.  This is where I used to push the sled, while Franz went for a free ride.  This is where I have done 3,827 lunges and 4,567 push ups.  ‘The Green’ sucks.

I’ll tell you a quick story from WAYYYY back in the day, probably when FGW (Fat Girl Wunning, KEEP UP!!) just began.  Back at my old gym, I had this one trainer (amogst many others) for a short time.  I don’t remember his name, and I can’t for the life of me remember what he looked like.  I probably blocked the memory of him… or it could be old age, who knows.  What I do remember is that I didn’t like him, and he didn’t listen to me when I complained.  I mean, it could be the whole ‘Boy Who Cried Wolf’ thing, but sometimes you just gotta trust ‘Boy’ when she says her knees are starting to chafe.  This trainer would make me do things on the hard rug at the gym, without a rubber pad.  I would literally go home with bloody knees.  So, you may now be able to understand where my hatred of ‘The Green’ began.

Last week, Franz had me lay down on the floor on ‘The Green’ to do an exercise where I would hold my hands back over my head, using the biggest kettle bell as an anchor, and I would lift my legs up to work my core muscles.  I won’t lie… every time we work core, I get a little excited, because this is where I struggle the most, and I feel like I have so much to improve.  The first few reps were fine, and then it started to happen.

Turf Burn.

My bare shoulders and the exposed parts of my back were rubbing, on the oh so wonderful rough, green, plastic turf.  Every time I would lift my legs back and up over my body, my back would slightly shift, and I could feel the shitty floor ripping up my delicate lady skin.  By the third set of 10 leg lifts, I looked up at Franz and did what I do best… complained.

Me:  ‘Oh my GOD!!  The turf is killing my back…’
Franz: ‘Stop complaining… 2….3…4…’ He continued to count my reps.
Me:  ‘I know you hate me, but I’m pretty sure you don’t understand’
Franz:  ‘I understand.  Stop complaining.  7… 8… 9…’
Me:  Slightly under my breath (who are we kidding, I can’t whisper), but also while heaving and struggling with my workout, ‘I have a serious case of turf burn’.

Like usual, we both started to laugh, and it got bad enough that we had to wipe our eyes… him from laughing at me.   Me, from laughing at myself, slightly crying, and also the sweat dripping into my lookballs.

And then in typical ‘I NEVER FORGET THAT I’M HERE TO KILL YOU’ Franz fashion, he yelled at me to get up and do 10 sumo squats with the massive kettle bell.

That night, I went home, and stood in a mirror examining my back. I expected to see grass stain type marks, but instead of grass stains they’d look all scratchy, and red, and outside the lines of my shirt.  More like, well… like fucking turf burn.

I’d like to report that, as much as I searched for it, I didn’t have any Turf Burn.  My back was slightly red, but that was most likely from the fact that I had been sitting out in the sun, in the same shirt, earlier.

…but whatever…..  Turf Burn is real, and it sucks.  I’m sure of it.


Ridiculous Updates

This will just be a post full of updates and additions to previous entries.  Enjoy.

Update #1.  This is following the story about how I have been called a Melting Gumby.  Don’t remember?  NO WORRIES!  I got you…. Gumby.

My two favorite little people in the world came to visit, a few weekends ago.  I was snuggling up with Lila, my 5 year old niece, while she read me a book.  She put her hand on my stomach, to adjust her position, and looked up at me with this very concerned face.  With no hesitation, she says (and I quote), “You’re belly is very…..soft”.  Thanks, Lila.  So I’ve heard…..

If you know me well, then you would know that I immediately tightened my stomach, and said, ‘TRY NOW!!’.

Update #2.  This one is a quick update, and validation, to one of my most recent posts, That Time I Ran.  Hope you caught up!

Upper Body Murder Day, and Franz decided to train me, in his words, ‘a little differently’.  To put it in simple words, I used to think that Franz was trying to murder me, but now I know he is. The work out was a mix between lifting and cardio, and as we all know, I suck at cardio.

Here is where the validation comes into play. I looked up at Franz, from the floor, while I was heaving for air.  I had just finished running up and down the track and I was struggling.  Franz looked down on me, and said, ‘Just so you know, I can’t run a mile.  I can sprint, but I can’t run a mile.  Runners aren’t built like you…’

I won’t lie.  That made me feel so much better.  I was never a runner… and I don’t think I ever will be, but if I can build up my endurance with cardio, then I’ll be happy.

Update#3.  The following is an update to a blog that confused people, InBody Proof.  The original blog was full of numbers, percentages, and terms like “Body Mass”.  Apparently that confuses some of my followers, but that’s ok.  I wrote the post with the sheer intention to explain how the scale doesn’t always matter.  The number on the scale, for me, hasn’t truly changed in probably 6 months (except for the +/- 4 lbs fluctuation).  Instead, I based my success on my InBody results.  So, below is the latest update!

                                                    11/2017                    1/2018              8/2018

skeletal muscle mass           60 lb                    62.2 lb                     60.8lb

body fat mass                         42.6 lb                   39 lb                      40.3lb

 percent of body fat                 28.2%                  25.7%                  26.9%

If you notice, my Body Fat went up a little and my body fat mass went up slightly… basically the same thing.  But this is how I know what I need to work on!   It’s great!

This is the part that I think I confused people on in the first entry, the most.  I called it my “E.T. Score”.  What I was talking about, was my ‘trunk’.  My stomach area… The part of me that looks like E.T. since I lost all the weight.

November:  112.8% lean mass and 48.6 lbs. January: 114.3% lean mass and 49.3 lbs.   August: 112.1% lean mass and 48.1 lbs.

That’t huge.  That’s a big sign that SOMETHING is still happening.  That what I am doing is still working for me.  So, for those who message me asking for advice, and talking about the number on the scale, I highly encourage you to find a nutritionist/gym/doctor who has an InBody machine, and BEG to be able to use it.  It really is the best way to see progress.  Fuck the scale.

OK, onto the next post…. it’s good!

Wardrobe Malfunction

You’d think this would be easy; dressing myself, that is.  You’d think that when you lose 100 pounds that you can wear anything, and feel good in anything.

In my case, you’d be wrong.

Let’s start way back before I lost the weight.  I had style.  I shopped for clothes like it was my job.  I spent too much, had too much, and loved every single item I owned.   I had clothes for my ‘skinny’ days, and clothes for my ‘fat’ days.  I knew what necklace/cardigan/scarf to layer with each shirt/pants/skirt.  My closet was packed to the brim, and I had something to wear for every occasion.

As I started to lose weight, I was most excited to be able to buy jeans that were a little cuter, than the ones I previously wore.  I began to notice that I struggled to find shirts that I liked, or that the shapes of the shirts I was finding, were not good for my new body type.  So, I did what any Wardobe Challenged person would do, and I started to literally live in gym clothes.

Since losing weight, I have sold all of my precious, beautiful (and not so beautiful), loved clothing on Poshmark.  Deep down I felt like I was selling my beloved on the black market… but really, it’s nice knowing that other people get to wear what I previously loved.   It’s even nicer knowing that I have made a little money, to buy NEW items that actually fit me.  The problem is,  I have no clue what to wear.

I live in yoga pants, gym shirts, sweatshirts, and sandals.  On numerous occasions I have casually mentioned that ‘dressing up’ means I put on jeans and a real bra.  This can’t be normal.  This can’t be real life.

I find myself searching Poshmark, and other stores, for items that LOOKED like my old clothes.  The same styles, the same colors, the same shapes.  It was my comfort zone, and I knew how to make myself look good in it.  Who knew I’d have so many issues putting outfits together, now that I can wear (what is seen as) normal sized clothing.


As I sit here writing this, I am in yoga pants, a gym shirt, and a sweatshirt (stolen from my brother).  To prove that I’m not kidding about only wearing items like this, I shall tell you a wee story.  The time I went to a pool party at the house for the boy I nanny.  Now, on any given day that I work, I show up in (you guessed it!) yoga pants, and a gym shirt.  On this day, I decided to dress a little better.  I popped on a real bra, and slid my skinny jeans on.  When I got there, I walked into the backyard, where the crowd was sporting bathing suits (duh, it was a pool party… I just couldn’t bring myself to wear a suit).  My boss did a double take, and then said, ‘Oh!!  Hi Ally!  I didn’t even know that was you!’

She didn’t know it was ME.  BECAUSE I WAS WEARING NORMAL CLOTHING.  I smiled, and said, ‘That’s because I have real clothes on!’.  We laughed, and laughed, and laughed….. no we didn’t.  We kind of weirdly giggled and then she said, ‘You’re probably right’.

I know I am.

So anyways, I am struggling to dress this new melting gumby body of mine.  And you know what?  I look cute in my yoga pants and crazy gym shirts.  🙂

In the meantime, if someone wants to suggest some ways to layer clothing without making me look like a snowman, I’d appreciate all the help I can get.

(Also, if you are looking for clothing ranging in all sorts of sizes, check out my Poshmark Closet!)