Yesterday, I did a Google Image search for “shingles” – and trust me, Internet, that is not something that you want to do.

I am not a hypochondriac, I promise. But I think I might have shingles. Yes, shingles: a form of HERPES. Julie, the soon-to-be nurse, checked out the small patch of – I don’t know, what should I call them? blisters? scabs? rash bumps? – and consulted a physiology textbook for reference. No conclusive evidence was found…

But I am calling it shingles.

Maybe it’s eczema. Maybe it’s psoriasis. Maybe it’s just… random shaving nicks that landed far from anywhere I use a razor? But I think it’s shingles. It might be an allergic reaction to high heels and elevator Muzak. It could be stress related – or punishment for an unconfessed sin – or perhaps my body’s way of saying, “Stop eating brie for dinner every single night.” But I think it’s shingles.

(Oddly enough, this is not the first time that shingles have been mentioned on this blog.)

As one without health insurance, I am combating this ailment with an old cure-all: baking soda. Seriously, is there anything that baking soda doesn’t do? It takes the stench out of a fridge. It cleans teeth. It erupts 5th grade science project volcanoes. And yes, it mixes with water to form a healing paste.

I sound like such a hippy. Who needs Mary Kay when you have castor oil? Who needs shampoo when you have egg whites? Who needs antibiotics when you have Arm & Hammer?

But… (ready for the segue?)… I spend enough money on my jeans to make up for my thrifty health and beauty habits. And yesterday on my lunch break, having a gift card from Christmas and a big need for some new fancy pants, I went shopping.

So, there I was in the dressing room, pulling on what seemed to be the perfect pair: long enough, dark enough, fit in all the right places. From the front, they seemed to get the job done, if you know what I’m saying. But then I did that awkward twisty-turn in the mirror to see my backside, and y’all:

They were smooth butt jeans.

You know the type – no back pockets whatsoever.

I’m sorry, but I don’t do smooth butt jeans. I am not in a rodeo. I need back pockets. Where else would I put my Benjamins when I club-hop? Where else would I stash all of the numbers on cocktail napkins? Where else would a boyfriend put his hands as we slowly and awkwardly waddle through the mall?

That is, if I haven’t completely blown my dating life by mentioning the fact that I HAVE SHINGLES.*

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*It’s probably not shingles.

Our bodies don’t always do what we want them to. This is terrifying.

For as long as I can recall, I have carried tension and stress in my neck and shoulders. I remember being 6-years old and going to see a chiropractor – I was complaining about back pain in kindergarten. As I’ve gotten older and my life has been filled with adult responsibilities, questions, and anxiety, the pain has only increased.

I tell myself to relax, to breathe deeply, to roll my head down to my chest and stretch out the muscles, willing myself to let go of the tension. But my body just doesn’t respond – it doesn’t listen. I walk around in a state of permanent rigidity and strain. This pain is exacerbated by repetitive movements that I do daily: typing, playing guitar, holding a phone to my ear. It’s hard to know how to change my lifestyle in order to improve my discomfort.

Recently, the pain has been spreading. I’ve been having headaches, and my jaw feels permanently locked and tense. Again, I tell myself to unwind, loosen up, calm down… but my body refuses to comply. I want to take out my muscles and stretch them like rubber bands, forcing the kinks to be pulled back to a healthy form.

Last night I went to the store to look for muscle relaxants. One time, we gave muscle relaxants to our dog, and she peed all over the big comfy chair – but frankly, this is a risk I was willing to take. I asked the pharmacist if they had anything over the counter, and she looked at me like I had asked for cocaine. “No,” she said. “Those are available by prescription only.” So I found the next best thing – Excedrin Back & Body – and took 2 before bed.

This morning, I still hurt.

How can I force my body into submission? I wish that I could will away the pain, or refuse to let stress take up residence in my muscles. But the body has a mind of its own – and unfortunately, it’s not MY mind. The body and the brain are divided by the Great Wall of China. And it’s a scary thing to feel out of control.

This summer, I am reaching a milestone: I have maintained a healthy weight for 5 years.

Most people in my current everyday life did not know me between the years of 2000-2002, when I gained not the freshman 15, but literally, close to the freshman 50. I moved away from home, had access to a surprisingly palatable college cafeteria, went to Taco Bell almost every night, and hated to exercise. Period. It was that simple – and before I knew it, my face and my fingers and my waistline had ballooned up to form a person I couldn’t recognize. I was completely uneducated about health, and calories-in versus calories-out. I quickly spiraled into a depression, and hated myself for being fat. And until I finally got my act together and was empowered to do something about it, I lived a reclusive and self-loathing existence.

Through the difficult, old-fashioned method of decreasing my calories and increasing my exercise, my body is now very, very different than what it once was. But my mind is the same. I look in the mirror and criticize my form. I live in fear of the number on the scale creeping up. I feel guilty every single time I eat a cookie. I exercise as punishment for over-consuming. I beat myself up for what I am, and what I am not.

And I know that I am not the only one.

Due to the media or the culture or the devil, our minds have a skewed expectation of what we should be, and what we should look like. While I know that it affects certain men, I am confident in saying that women have taken on the lion’s share of this curse.

I have heard some of my most beautiful friends refer to their bodies as “disgusting,” “heinous,” and “foul.” I have used similar words in reference to myself, too. This both angers me and breaks my heart. Everywhere we look, there are cruel reminders to hate our legs, to hate our hips, to hate our _____. You name it. It feels like a hopeless situation and a vicious cycle – will it ever end? What’s it going to take?

I honestly believe that it’s going to take an entire generation of women saying, “Enough is enough.” Changing our way of thinking. Doing the hard work of taking each negative thought captive, and transforming our self-talk. Vowing to never use harsh and hateful words to describe our bodies. Step by step, learning to love and care for what we have been given. Refusing to teach our daughters to hate their fleshy arms or stomachs or thighs.

But before an entire generation can do this, it has to start with individuals.

This is my hope and my prayer for myself. I do not want to spend the next 50 years condemning the body that is so faithfully getting me through this life. I want to be grateful to it, and take good care of it, and find contentment in less than perfection. Wouldn’t life be easier if I could be kind to myself? If you could be kind to yourself?

I’ve always known that thinking highly of oneself is vanity. But recently, I have been realizing that thinking lowly of oneself is another form of vanity. Because in either case, we are giving ourselves too much credit.

In the spirit of the ever-elusive hottness, I have decided that I have gone long enough without exercising. It is time to recommit. Never would I have guessed that this was going to be the last time I ever moved a muscle, but sadly, I have been confronted with the truth that deep down, in my corest of cores, I am positively slothful.

The Big Trip, which encompassed the days between September 10 and January 4, was a glorious lethargy, a near-4-month hiatus from all things health related. Drink wine at least 5 nights/week? Check. Eat nothing but cheese? Check. Quit exercise cold-turkey? Yes, please.

The result was a gaining of 12 pounds, and I know that it was precisely 12 pounds, because I keep an eye on the scale. I watched each pound as it schmooped itself onto my body, and before I knew it, I didn’t have a single pair of pants that fit me. This didn’t stop me, though, because believe it or not, it is quite pleasant to do nothing but consume wine and cheese. And there are always skirts, right?

Eventually, I landed here in Nashville, and for the past 2 months, have been getting myself back onto a healthy diet. I’ve been calorie counting, and eating from the food pyramid, and trying not to eat too many brownies. This has helped get the number on the scale back down to where it should be, but ultimately, my body has been crying out for a challenge. My muscles have atrophied, but more depressingly, my spirits have been at a low that can only be attributed to a lack of endorphines.

So, when I found out that there is a gym in the building at work, I told myself that now was the time. I signed up.

It’s an amazing thing to feel muscles begin to work again. They remember! They remember how to be strong, even if they’re not back to fighting form yet. My bum hip is crying out, but as I stretch it and work it, it’s feeling better. My lungs feel positively mighty. My heart can’t quite keep up with my will yet, but the day will come when I’ll be back to my mega-workouts.

This is the only body I get, flaws and all. I choose to treat it well. This is my recommitment.

Praise the Lord.

This gives “smart ass” a whole new meaning.

I arrived back in Kansas City last night to find my nephews, Micah and Tyler, spending the night at my parent’s. SLEEPOVER! I know that I say this all the time, but there is nothing that brings me more joy than spending time with those little nuggets.

Late in the evening, Tyler, who is 2 1/2, stubbed his toe. His face was this heartbreaking mix of shock and pain, because can you imagine? Stubbing your toe for the first time? And the unbelievable amount of agony that occurs? He was traumatized.

To curtail the tears and take his mind off of his aching toe, I quickly lied down on the floor with him and said, “Tyler, wanna see MY owie?” I rolled up my jeans to show him my bruised and scabbed knee. He, being the sweetest child alive, quickly said, “Don’t worry, I will kiss it.”

Now, picture this. He and I are lying side-by-side on the living room floor, my pant leg is rolled up past my knee – and my mom walks over, manhandles my calf, and bends it back over my body toward Tyler’s waiting lips. I am resistantly folded in half, because no, I’m sorry, my body does not willingly bend that way. I cry out in discomfort, but Tyler is eager to kiss my knee, so Mom pushes harder. I yowl, she pushes, he waits with his little lips puckered, and the human angle becomes smaller and smaller and smaller.

Finally, his lips connect with my knee.

And he declares, “Hmmm, it’s kind of furry.”

Listen up, Pounds,
I knew you would show up – it was inevitable. Throughout my life, you have come and gone as you have pleased, but The Big Trip in particular has been made of conditions favorable to you: travel, friends, 4,000 miles of sitting, delicious food, celebratory drink, and a complete and utter lack of routine or discipline. A few of you were welcome for a little while, but now? Really, Pounds? There are too many of you.

You have taken up residence wherever you have seen fit: a little here in the thigh, a little there in the waist. You never asked if I welcomed your company; you simply arrived, and then invited your friends. You have been sneaky – never fully crowding me out of my clothes, but just making them fit differently. And I did not pay a ridiculously high price for jeans only to have them optimistically tugged and stretched.

I have always had a love/hate relationship with you. With one halting hand at the end of a stiff arm, and the other beckoning you to come hither, obviously you may have been confused. I have sent you mixed messages, and for this, I apologize.

But how could I have acted any other way? How could I ever resist you? You have come cloaked in chocolately-fried-goodness, and have been effortlessly washed down in a deluge of red wine. We have had a love affair every night for weeks, but I have been dumbfounded and irritated to find you still at my side (and on my side) the morning after. You are annoying. You cramp my style. I do not want to share my young, single, glamorous existence with your vexatious kind. Get out of my bed, and off of my body.

Sorry, Pounds. It was fun while it lasted, but your day is over. I will destroy you with an arsenal of aerobic activity. One or two of you can stay, but the rest of you: prepare to perish.

See ya, wouldn’t wanna be ya,
Annie

There was once a time that I thought of myself as strong. But I have met my match, in the form of the new agey, sizzling activity known as HOT YOGA.

I am a 5′8″ cardio addict and gym rat. Walking, running, elliptical training, hiking, biking, kick boxing… you name it, I love it. When it comes to aerboic activity, I am confident and gung-ho. However, something has been missing from my workout routine – a little something known as “strength training.”

After having it recommended to me subsequently by my friends Mary, Matt, and Blake, I decided to give hot yoga a shot this afternoon. In case you haven’t heard of it, hot yoga is yoga (all those freaky bendy poses) in a 105 degree, 40% humidity, swelter-chamber. Never having done any yoga before, let alone hot yoga, it would be baptismal by sweat for me. Luckily, I was feeling adventurous, and so I showed up in my shorts and tank top, ready to take on anything.

And I was put through 90-minutes of absolute slogging.

Let me let you in on a little secret about Annie: I like to be in control AT ALL TIMES. I prefer situations for which I can plan ahead, dress appropriately, look cute the whole time, not draw any undesired attention to myself, and always, always succeed. But today, hot yoga shattered that calm, composed version of myself. I did not know that my body could sweat so much; I was unaware that eyelids and ear lobes and ankles and fingers were capable of perspiration. My body was twisted and stretched into bizarre contortions, worked over until every limb was shaking – nay, trembling – from fatigue. My ass has never been so kicked.

And just like that, I am hooked.

Ironically, the reason that I loved the experience so much? The mirrors. For a girl with pretty significant body image issues, I would have thought that an hour and a half of watching myself bend and shake and stretch and grimace – in short, confront my physical limitations – would be just about as appealing as having toothpicks shoved underneath my toenails. But I was shocked and amazed to discover that the opposite was true. Yes, at times I felt weak and inadequate – but simultaneously, I felt strong and amazed at what my body is capable of. Beneath the lacquer of sweat, I watched my muscles in action.

And wonder of wonders, I never once criticized the image in the mirror.

And that is reason enough to return.

Who wears short shorts? Apparently, I do.

I have walked 10 miles today. It was supposed to be 14, but Megan wasn’t feeling up to the additional 4. :) When my heart feels down, or when I have lots of thoughts to spin around in my brain, I go all Forrest Gump and just keep moving. Despite it being March in Seattle, complete with heavy clouds and a low-40’s temperature, I decided that I should wear shorts for this urban excursion. I can handle the cold – that’s not the issue.

The issue is the legs.

The issue has always been the legs. When I was 13 years old, I stopped wearing shorts for complete insecurity over the shape of my limbs. I wadded up my short overalls and shoved them in a drawer, which, let’s be honest, was a good decision. Since I definitely wore a belt through the belt loops.

I muddled my way through junior high, high school, and college without ever donning anything less than long pants. Hot Colorado summers? Pants. Hiking in Utah? Pants. The beach in Mexico? Pants. Always pants. Pants were my camouflage – the thing that would prevent attention from being drawn toward my ultraviolet shanks.

I don’t know what I expected. Throughout this time, I didn’t really exercise – why would I assume that my legs should be svelte and toned? But half-way through college, I really got my act together, educated myself on nutrition, started working out, and as a result, lost 45 pounds. I felt great – so proud. But the insecurity over my legs hung on for dear life – try as I might, I could not shake it.

I bought some shorts for hiking and backpacking last summer out of sheer laziness, because really? I didn’t want to carry the extra weight of long pants on 24-mile trails. Even in the wilderness, even 100 miles from civilization, even with just two of my best girlfriends, even when I had much bigger worries (like the fact that we were teetering on foot-wide ledges and we had to carry BEAR SPRAY), internally, I was obsessing over my legs.

I am embarrassed by my self-centered, petty frame of mind.

Last night, I went to a Women & Wine night at a friend’s house. I knew no one except the host, and she had invited women from all different areas of her life: college friends, church friends, work friends, wives of her husband’s friends, all for the purpose of drinking wine and eating treats and connecting with each other. I went alone – sometimes it’s better that way, no one cramping my style – and found myself to be the youngest person there.

And my conclusion: I cannot wait to turn 30.

These women were absolutely delightful – intelligent, curious, real, funny, successful, deep. And here’s the thing: they were comfortable. They accepted and embraced their physical imperfections, and were glowing with undeniable beauty as a result. I was inspired, and their comfort with themselves allowed me to be comfortable with myself.

So today I put on shorts. I walked my 10-miles with my white legs, and I thought my thoughts that needed thinking – and not one of them involved how mortifying my legs are. It gave me such hope that as I grow in age it is truly possible that I might grow in grace.

But I will never, never wear a belt through my overall shorts again.