Weigh-In #1.

Weigh-in day sneaked up on me even though I've been gabbing about it for the past two entries. And so as not to keep you in suspense, the results are in!

Lbs lost: 4.
Lbs left to lose: 96.

It seems like nothing, I know. Believe me, I know. But I figure that 90% of this first 2 weeks was just supposed to get me used to working out/eating right and now it's time to step it up. (A teeny, wangsty part of me would also like to blame my stupid ear infection for throwing off my groove, but please, feel free to ignore this).

Either way, results are results. Despite my horrific ear problems, I'm still feeling pretty good (though motivating myself to go to the gym is steadily becoming more and more difficult). Somehow, 96 lbs is a lot less daunting than 100. I think it's the triple-digit thing.

But yes. I can do this. I am doing this. Proof.

And then my ear exploded and ruined my week.

It's been a rough week.

I've been dealing with an ear infection for a little while ("dealing with" = "taking lots of ibuprofen and pretending it's not there") and yesterday it got so bad I had to hit up the doctor. So now I have his awful medication dripping into my brain, I didn't get to go to the gym yesterday because my head felt like it was going to fall off and I feel like a lazy, sickly, unmotivated turd.

[/complaining]

Weigh-in #1 is happening in just two short days. GET PUMPED while I take a nap.

I am too old to watch high school sitcoms.

You know what I love? Fat bitches on TV shows.

These days it's like Hollywood thinks we're all idiots, though. Like, seriously, I'm supposed to believe that the spindly chicks playing "the fat girl" are/have ever been/were ever picked on for being a Fat Chick? Puh-lease.

For example: I'm unabashedly obsessed with Pretty Little Liars, a horrible, wonderful show on ABC Family. One of the titular characters is played by Ashley Benson (pictured right) and is supposed to be a Former Fat Chick who vomited her way into popularity. This would be all well and good (believable, anyway)...if it weren't for the flashback scenes. They show Benson looking just as hot and svelte as I'm sure she always does (but in a sweatshirt), yet for some reason, her friends heckle her for being fat and she supposedly shops at some hilariously named plus-size store. Bad form, ABC Family.

I mean, it's not like I expect a ton from ABC Family to begin with and I'm not advocating for actors to fluctuate in weight for believability, but it's just sooo silly. I'm not self-righteously insulted or anything. I'm not gonna whine about the sort of message this puts out to kids about healthy body standards because kids should have more common sense than that. If they don't, they probably have bigger things to worry about than body image.

You know what show did Fat Chicks right, at least briefly? Degrassi: The Next Generation. Though I absolutely loathed the Fat Chick character, Christina Schmidt (left) is an actual Fat Chick, which was heartening. Then her character suffered a massive head injury and she left the show. But don't worry, they still talked about body image. And by "they still talked about body image" I mean "they made like, 25 skinny bitches anorexic or bulimic." Sigh.

And then there's this new show, Huge, starring Nikki Blonsky (who is once again typecast as a Fat Chick with Body Issues, wah wah wah -- you don't get a picture of her).

Why are we expected to hate ourselves if we're fat, again? I don't hate myself. Being fat, to me, has never been so Earth-shatteringly horrible that I cry about it or can't make friends or can't get laid, etc. Sure, there are insecurities that come with being fat, but there are insecurities that come with being super skinny, too. Or freckled. Or brunette. Or, you know, alive. Everybody's insecure. So why do all these high school sitcoms that I watch only show Fat Chicks dealing with being fat? There's so much more to the life of a Fat Chick than that.

In other news, 3 days 'til weigh-in #1!!

The Body Canvas.

Happy fathers' day, gang! It's the first weekend of my magical weight-loss adventure and tomorrow will mark my first weekiversary! I've seen some teeny-tiny differences in my body already -- nothing major, of course, and I'm not weighing in until next Monday -- but there definitely little, heartening changes. My face has slimmed out a little from all the water I've been drinking and I dig it!

So I want tattoos. Correction: I want more tattoos. I have one on my ankle (a nice, safe place for a tattoo if you're a Fat Chick) and I want dozens more, but it's tough to plan for permanent body-art when you're living in a body you don't particularly want to live in.

Now that I'm thinking about it, my size has always had some hand in dictating the way I express myself. When I was 13, I cut my hair really short and was mistaken for a boy, credit carded by a girl who, when I turned around, exclaimed, "Oh shit, it's a girl!" Yowch. Ever since then, I've kept my hair as long as it'll grow before becoming ratty with split-ends.

But hey, there's a big difference between a 13-year-old in shapeless parachute pants and a baggy Powerman 5000 T-shirt and a 21-year-old in curve-hugging jeans and cleavagy camisoles. These days, I could probably pull off short hair without looking like my own twin brother, but I won't try. Pixie-cuts are a skinny person thing, my brain tells me. If Kelly Osborne weren't famous, she'd look like a boy. Or a lesbian.

This whole fear thing, fear of trying and failing to look how I want to look, being mistaken for something I'm not (see: boy, lesbian), is for the freaking birds, man. And why is it that I look at skinny people with short hair and don't automatically assume they're gay-slash-quasi-transvestites? It says something about me more than anything else. It says that despite my feminine wardrobe and the fact that I was only mistaken for a boy that one time, I still care far too much about what other people think of me.

This whole experience is already putting me out of my comfort zone -- I would never ever have been caught dead in shorts in public before, just for example -- that I can't help but be hopeful that by the time a year's gone by, I'll have a whole 'nother comfort zone to call my own. That excites me. It exhilarates me. It motivates me. Stand back, bitches. My body will be my masterpiece.

Now to turn it over to y'all: What do you guys think about tattoos? Body decoration or body defamation? (I think you guys can guess where I stand...)

Booze (or a lack thereof).

So I'm sure you've all figured, because I am so awesome and dedicated to this process, that in addition to cigarettes and all the horrifically fattening foods I love, I've also given up alcohol and all the empty calories therein. Well, I have. Now.

Yesterday was my BFF Kelly's 22nd birthday, so I went out with she and a couple of our friends. I was planning to be sneaky. I was planning to pretend to order some kind of hardcore, badass vodka-rocks-type drink and covertly sip water for the duration of the evening.

As it turns out, Kelly forgot her wallet and so we ended up at Kroger pursuing the dieter's Pandora's Box: the beer aisle. I'll admit it, y'all. I caved. I bought a 6-pack of that 55 calorie Budweiser which, as it turns out, is more of a tragically mislabeled and funny-tasting seltzer water than a beer. The mere 55 calories per bottle seemed doable, but then drinking your own urine is also doable. Doesn't mean you wanna do it.

After an evening of silliness and instant beer-drinking regret, I headed home and climbed into bed, waking every few hours as I sometimes do when I drink and using the opportunity to get some late-night laundry done. Happy endings all around, no consequence to my actions, tra-la, tra-la.

I. Wish.

I just got back from the gym and the workout I've been steadily growing used to and even starting to enjoy absolutely kicked my ass. Your body knows when you've been drinking after a month or two of sobriety and your body knows when you wake up and walk around in your underwear doing laundry at 3 a.m. And it doesn't like it.

So, lesson learned. No more booze apart for special occasions, and sleep, sleep, sleep. A good amount of sleep is important for your body's natural regeneration, or so I hear from like, everyone. Insert credible medical source here.

I'm really loving this so far even though I'm only 4 days in and it's probably a little premature. I know there'll be times when I won't see results right away and I'll be discouraged and frustrated and wonder why I'm bothering with this whole thing in the first place, but for now, I'm feeling good. I'm proud of myself. And this feeling is way better than a 12-pack of Blue Moon could ever hope to be.

Food is fuel, not friend.

I'm not one of those people who habitually turns to food to make themselves feel better, though I hear that's a big thing amongst the overweight set. It never even occurred to me that food had any real impact on my life (I know, I know) until I was in bed last night trying to sleep and my stomach suddenly yowled like a trapped cougar.

I was hungry. Like, really, really hungry. And I realized with something like disgust that I hadn't been really hungry in a long time.

My name is Liz Lucas and I am a snacker. (Hi, Liz).

I'll reach for crackers or chips or some kind of sugary drink to sate my potential hunger before I even have a chance to feel it. That's no bueno, amigos. Yesterday, the official start of my Life-Changing Ludicrous Adventure, I missed out on breakfast in favor of studying (I know, I know), went to the gym, had a decent lunch and a decent dinner, but without the snacks in between that I was accustomed to, my stomach gurgled unhappily into the night.

And it felt awesome.

There's definitely something to be said for putting your all into things, especially when you're me and your favorite food is the honey barbecue chicken strip sandwich from Whataburger. Wow, I feel fatter just having written that. It's a 960 calorie monster.

This got me thinking about this whole undertaking and how, if I want to achieve my Great Big Goal, I'm going to need to make up some rules to this game. I'm so freakishly motivated right now. So here goes:

1.) I will go to the gym 5 days a week (M-F), changing my workout routine every week but sticking to the same general pattern: Cardio, weights, cardio.

2.) I will drink 8 glasses of water a day, as recommended by like, every doctor ever.

3.) Whenever I find myself with an urge to break out the yogurt pretzels or the jalepeño Cheetoes, I will drink water instead and find something with which to busy myself.

4.) (And here's the one that makes me whimper a little bit) As it is my absolute favorite vice, I will refrain from eating Whataburger until June 14th of next year, when I accomplish my Great Big Goal. Then and only then will I allow myself a celebratory honey barbecue chicken strip sandwich.

Only 364 days! I can so do this.

Would you rather I call myself a "diva"?

What is it about the word "fat" that's so upsetting? Why is it insulting to call someone fat? Why, when I was 11, did I throw a stick through a bus window to strike a little boy who yelled "Fatass!" after me as I departed at my stop?

There's a lot of taboo attached to fatness. Fatisity. Fatitude. I like that. "Fatitude". I've always referred to myself as a fat chick. I'm certainly not uncomfortable with it, but I've found that more often than not, it puts people off. They feel compelled to quietly insist, "You're not fat," gasping at the very idea, like being fat is the absolute worst thing I could say that I am.

It has to do with self-image, plain and simple. There's a huge difference between seeing yourself a fat person and seeing yourself as a person who happens to be fat. I fall into the latter category. I was fortunate enough to grow up surrounded by a support system of friends and family who never treated me any differently because of my weight. I've been big my whole life, and of course there have been times when all I've wanted to do was climb out of my permanent fat-suit and go about life like a normal person would, but it doesn't work that way. You either accept the way your body is, or you take steps to change it.

Even after I lose the weight, I can pretty much guarantee I'll still refer to myself as a Former Fat Chick. It's the kind of thing you shouldn't let go of. My BFF Friedrich Nietzsche once said, "That which does not kill us makes us stronger," and since I haven't died from my fatitude yet and I wouldn't be attempting this epic turnaround in my life without it, I figure it's one of those stepping stones, the things that will ultimately make me into a stronger and more well-adjusted human being.

I'm proud to be a fat chick. Everybody needs to start somewhere.

Awww, here goes.

I'm no good at dieting.

And by "I'm no good at dieting", I mean "I've never really tried dieting."

I can't help it! I'm a lover of life, a lover of myself. I'm young. I love my big, fat ass and the huge boobs that are an incidental perk of the whole being a fat chick thing.

But here's the deal, y'all: I'm unhealthy. I've reached this conclusion, finally, after years and years of doctors ham-handedly trying to politely tell me how fat I am. Struggling up stairs instead of walking up them. My jeans wearing out at the upper, inner thigh because my legs rub together when I walk. Gross? You bet. So why haven't I wanted to do anything about this until now?

I don't know. Laziness definitely has something to do with it. Insecurity probably moreso. I want very much to be able to say it's because I'm so secure with myself and my body that I just don't care how it looks or how people view me, but that sure as hell ain't the case. I'm dreadfully self-conscious when it comes to my body image. I don't hate myself. I love myself. And because I love myself, I've decided that I'm going to do myself a favor and finally, after 21 years of being a fat chick, I'm going to lose the weight.

This blog, I hope, will serve to keep me on track and keep me motivated, for you see, Dear Reader, I have a goal. I have a few goals.

Goal #1 (aka The Big One): By this day exactly one year from now, I will lose 100 lbs.

If that seems excessive, let me put it into perspective for you: Right now, I am almost 100 lbs heavier than my heaviest friend. Luckily, I don't look that heavy (I'm pretty sure that all of that weight has been making its home in my tits, but who knows), but the number is pretty devastating.

But it isn't about numbers. It isn't about poundage or muscle mass or body fat content. It's about my health and my happiness. This leads me to my next goal.

Goal #2: Be happy.

Sound reasonable? I think so. So here goes nothing.