Mini Me

Olivia, my new Mini

"Though she be little, she is FIERCE."

~ Billy Shakespeare

The first time I saw a Mini Cooper up close was when Mike bought a BMW in 2003. The dealer sold both, and they had a number of Minis in the used car lot.

"What kind of clown car is that?" I wanted to know.  Brian, the salesman, told me about Mini Coopers. "Hmmmm.  Not my kind o' car."

Over the next two years, I saw Minis all over the Nashville area. They started to grow on me especially when I saw a bright yellow one with black sport stripes on it parked in front of my store one morning.  I talked with the owner who told me how much she loved it.  A few days later, I talked to a guy in the grocery parking lot about his red Mini, and he reassured me that it was such a fun car.   When it came time for me to trade in my 10-year old Explorer, though, I told Mike I wanted a sporty Crossfire. Considering I'm not that much into cars, that was out of character for me, but I thought I'd have some fun with a sports car.

Mike humored me, and we went to the BMW/Mini dealer to test drive the used Crossfires they had. Straddling the sleek, black Crossfire that interested me were a red and a blue Mini. I stared at them.

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"That red car is smiling at me," I said to Mike.  He rolled his eyes and advised me not to tell Brian that I thought the car was smiling at me.  "I want to test drive it," I added, and soon I was driving the Mini down the street.  I also drove the Crossfire, but it didn't stand a chance.  A few days later, the Chili Red Mini was mine.  It has been the best car I've ever owned.

Fast forward ten years, and Röd (Red in Swedish) started having problems. Within the last year or so, we've had to replace brakes, battery, struts, tires.  Sometime last fall, he started moaning when I turned the steering wheel.  Automobile arthritis had struck, and I started looking for another car.  I admit that I went to other dealers—Fiat, Smart, Volkswagen—but I didn't like any of them as much.

The new key fob is bigger than the car

"You need to stick with a Mini," Mike advised.  He knew how safe I feel in it and how much I like how it handles.  "You're not going to like anything else." i didn't.

On Saturday, we went to Carmax to look at a Mini they had there. It had a number of the options I wanted (sun roof, navigation, storage package) but lacked a few others (heated seats, back-up camera, comfort access doors).  It drove okay, but I wasn't sold. I drove a Fiat and a Smart car, too, and we left.  "I'm not ready yet," I told Mike.  "And I'm not looking at anything other than a Mini from now on."

I love the LED lighting in the cockpit.

Back home, I decided to check the Mini dealer again.  I had decided I wasn't going to buy from the dealer, but I thought I'd look.  Darn if they didn't add four "new" used cars to the lot that morning.  Back down to the valley we headed, and I fell for a metallic hot chocolate Mini with 12,400 miles and heated seats and the pepper white Mini with 8700 miles and everything else (but the back-up camera).

"Do you think the white one is smiling at me?" I asked Mike. He rolled his eyes.  I put it out there on Facebook, and everyone agreed that it was.

Very uncharacteristically, then, I decided the pepper white was the right car, and we signed the papers Saturday afternoon.  (You have to know that I usually take forever to make a decision on almost everything. When it's right, though, I guess it's right.)  Giving us a tremendous deal (less than what we paid 11 years ago for the red Mini with 19000 miles) and a lot more than we thought they'd give us for the trade helped in the decision.  "Can't walk away," Mike said.

The door handle lights up

So, I brought the white one home today.  As much as driving her is similar to driving the red one in a lot of ways, there are a number of differences in comfort and ambience.  Both the drive and the ride are smoother, although considering technology is more advanced, I'd expect that.  Then again, I drove a Fiat and a Smart car, so maybe not all auto manufacturers are into improving comfort.

One thing that I really like is that Mini now has ambient LED lighting in the doors and on the cockpit dash.  I set mine to pink surprising, I'm sure, absolutely no one. If I can't have a pink roof yet, I'll have pink light in the car.

By the way, I did name the car, Olivia.  It just happened, and I can't take it back now.  She apparently likes it because she's been smiling wildly since I christened her.

Weight! Weight! Don't Tell Me, II

 

Arugula & fresh tomato pizza = Good (in moderation)

“I finally figured out the big, elusive secret 

to weight loss. Don't eat! Who knew?”
― Richelle E. Goodrich

 My post yesterday got a lot of people talking about weight, diet, exercise.  Great! I have a few additional thoughts and comments that I'd like to add. I wanted to wait to see if anyone commented before I wrote this part. (Actually, that's only partially true.  I was dead tired last night when I wrote that thing since I had slept only two hours the night before and had spent the day car shopping. I'm not sure I could have written anything more that would have made sense.) 

So, if you permit me, I will step on the soapbox a bit.  ( I'm writing stream of conscious here, so I hope it all blends together....)

We all struggle to some degree with weight and body image. A number of you have written me privately or via FB to mention that you do not think of me as "fat."  Neither do my doctor or husband, but here's the thing:  It is a self image.  As I mentioned yesterday, my dear mother had a need to remind me that I was bigger than she. The problem was more hers than mine in the beginning, but it did affect me even to this day. I started, at some point, rebelling by eating just to show her. It gave her more fodder and me more despair. I knew what I was doing, but it was a vicious cycle.  Up. Down. Up. Down. Up. Down. Up.

Tangerines = Good

After Mom passed 10 years ago, I lost weight and was down to what I weighed when I was 25. Most of my friends thought I was too thin.  *I* thought I was too heavy.  What did I do?  I ate.  We moved back to Las Vegas, and I ate more. Up. Up. Up. Down. Down. Up. Up.  There is one person to blame, and you'll be surprised, maybe, that I'm not blaming Mom.  It is I.  I *know* what I have to do, and i *know* how to do it.  The thing is that i *have* to do it.  Exercise. Diet. Food choice.

I was going to talk about European lifestyle and food and such, but I deleted all of that because I thought I sounded preachy. I don't mean to be. I just like the fact that there I walk and eat differently. Can I do it here?  Of course, and I do to a point.  I buy fresh produce as much as possible, and if it isn't available, I'll buy frozen.  The only canned vegetables I buy these days are beans for chili or tomatoes for sauce. We've cut portions greatly, and we try to eat main meals earlier many days.  That does make a difference. 

Mixed vegetable salad = Great

I don't, however, walk as much, and that is my fault. No excuses. It's my fault.

When I was in with Dr. Bedotto two weeks ago, we had a short conversation about exercise.

"Do you exercise regularly?" he asked me.

"Regularly? How regularly?" I was thinking that once every six months is pretty regular as long as I keep it on a regular schedule.

He apparently thought something different. "At least 5 days a week. "

"I have a sedentary job," I replied in hopes that it would end the conversation.  He just stared at me, so I continued.  "No. Truth is, I'm lazy. I hate exercise."

"Do you hate walking, too?" The man did not give up.

"No. I walk all the time in Italy. The only time I'm in a vehicle is if I'm in a train." I was pretty proud of myself.

"Well, you should go to Italy then."  Hey.  I was not going to argue.  "Until then, you can find 30 minutes a day to walk here. Start now."  ZING.


 "I'd rather just go to Italy."  He was not amused.

Cookies, milk, & cocktails = BAD BAD BAD

 So, I bought a Jawbone. As I mentioned last evening, I do need a good kick in the ass someway to be accountable, and it entices me to walk more because I set a goal of 10000 steps/day.  I've not hit it yet, although I'm working on it. When I was sick from the allergy crap last week, I  walked around the house just to put in steps since I couldn't go outside. Before the concert last week, I walked up and down the steps of the theater to put in some exercise time. I ended up walking about .75 mile in there.  

Now if I can only keep it up.

Weight! Weight! Don't Tell Me!

Ouch!

“I want to weigh less, not through diet and 

exercise, but by acquiring a faulty scale.”
― Jarod Kintz

I had another medical appointment yesterday, this time to go over the results of the gall bladder tests the Dr. Emery ordered and I did not have because I didn't want yet more radiation and nuclear crap near the body. However, given the fact that I've had a horrible sinus infection due to all the mulberry, juniper, grass, dust, and other pollens (exacerbated by the horrible wind this week) in the air, it was a good thing I went in. I needed to beg for a Kenalog shot and to talk to him about diet and exercise, two subjects I hate to approach.

Like most of the population, I struggle with weight, and my obsession depression battle started way too long ago. I blame my mother with body obsession depression battle issues (More on that later), but I have to start getting serious since Dr. Bedotto, my cardiologist and Dr. Emery, my internist, have been after me to exercise regularly.

Two buffalo wings and two fries are okay.

After scolding me for not having the gall bladder tests, praising me for staying in the house for two days while the winds blew the valley to kingdom come, and telling me I needed aforementioned Kenalog shot, Dr. E brought up exercise.

"Funny you should mention that. I have to talk to you about weight," I said.  He rolled his eyes.  "I really need to get serious and lose weight and start exercising. Now Dr. Bedotto wants me walking a minimum of 30 minutes a day."

"What do you want me to do for you?" Dr. E asked, "exercise for you?"

"That would be great," I replied. "When can you start?" He clunked his head on the metal computer desk. "I'll give you my Jawbone so it records your my steps."  He stared at me.

Fresh fruit is #1.

"It's exercise and portion control," he finally said. "You're a smart woman. You know that. You did it before."

"You're a smart doctor. You know I'm one of those people who needs..."

He finished my sentence.  "A kick in the ass."  Actually, I was going to say I needed someone to hold me accountable, but I guess it's sort of the same thing.  "You're not that overweight," he continued,  "but you should exercise more. That will help you lose what you need to lose." 

So, this conversation—particularly his last comment about not being *that* overweight—got me thinking about our obsession with body size and such.  It's not really a new thing...at least I don't think it is. As I mentioned before, I blame my mother for my personal battles. (Of course, most of us probably do if truth be told.)

My mother, God rest her soul, was a tiny thing. She stood 5'1" tall, and her average weight was 102 pounds. I remember the moaning she did when she weighed 110 pounds one time when I was in high school.  You would have thought she was as big as a house.

I was a lot taller and bigger-boned than my mother although through high school, college, and early adult years, I probably weighed no more than 15-20 pounds more than she.  I gained a little weight my freshman year in college, and she more than noticed.

"My God, Christine," she exclaimed. "Did you eat everything in sight? Look at how big you are."  Considering the fact that I still fit into my clothes even though they were a little tight, she hurt my feelings. "Who's going to look at you if you look like that?"  She threw similar comments at me a lot, and while I now realize it was my mother's own poor self-image that caused her to talk like that, I didn't know that at the time.  In turn, those remarks did a number on my own image.

Bad, Christine! Bad!

At any rate, all this led me to think about clothing and such. Back when I weighed little more than my mother, I wore a bigger size of clothes than I wear today. Seriously.  So, I did a little research on this.

Did you know that the average American woman today weighs the same as the average American man did in the 1960s?   How about this one: In 1970, a woman with a 26-in waist wore a size 12. Today, a woman with a 39-inch waist wears a size 12.  Or this one: Clothing manufacturers define their own sizes today, and any given size can differ by as much as five inches depending on designers and manufacturers.  It's vanity sizing today.  They changed the sizes so that women don't "think" that they're bigger than they used to be.  I go along with that. I shop at Chico's for a lot of reasons, not the least of which is their sizing.  I can go in there and buy any piece of clothing in my size without trying it on because I know it will fit.  Besides, Chico's sizes their clothes from 000-to-4.  Wearing the small size I do helps repair the damage my mother did to my psyche so long ago.

Don't even think about Nutella.

At any rate, I'm going to work this weight thing out over the next four months.  Dr. E is going to monitor my progress monthly or, to quote him, "....give me that kick in the ass." Hopefully I'll get to the point that I'll feel crappy if I don't walk or go to our fitness center or something. We'll see. I'm more prone to more sedentary addictions.