How I Lost 0 Lbs in 6 Weeks ...

About two months ago, Smilin' Vic and I decided the time had come to get back to a healthier way of life.  We decided to step away from a daily glass of wine and replace it with a lot more water.  To put away the occasional takeaway menu and stick with home-cooked meals.  To chuck the can of diet cola and take the juicer out twice a day.  To get off the couch and step outdoors for a walk.  To put away the i-Pads and go for a swim with Kiddo.  To get back into a healthier state of mind and true fitness ...

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For me, that meant the radical move of hiring a personal trainer.  After several years of decline into a perfectly sedentary lifestyle, my body and my mind no longer had the strength or the will to allow me to do this on my own.  So I decided to spend some bucks on me and put my money where my mouth is.  

Six weeks ago, those first few workouts compelled me to write about the 'F' word:  FEAR ...

Fear was holding me back in so many ways, and at first I wasn't sure I'd ever manage to overcome it.  Fear of humiliation, fear of injuring myself, fear of stinking when I sweat, fear of grunting when I pushed, fear of not trying hard enough, fear of tripping over my own feet (justifiable ... it DID happen), and on and on.  

But mostly fear of failure.  Fear of trying and failing.  Fear of convincing myself that quitting would be the better alternative, because if you don't try, you can't fail, right?

That fear of failure was what killed me every time I did my weekly weigh-in.  Half a lb. down one week, one lb. up the next.  Never really wavering.  Except the one week the doctor put me on Diclofenac Potassium* to reduce the inflammation in my piriformis ... that week I went up 5 lbs!  

I Googled ''HIIT training but not losing weight'', ''juicing and weight gain'', ''not losing weight when you start training'', ''gaining weight when you increase water intake'' ... I came up with every possible word combination to try to figure out the unwavering figure on the scale.

All the sites said the same:  calories in must be less than calories out, whether you exercise or not.  But I wasn't quite ready to give up the healthy appetite I've had for the last 44 years.  In my shattered and weakened physical state, taking on a radical change in eating habits together with such an increased level of activity just seemed insurmountable.  So I kept on eating healthy food - in copious amounts.  

A few times, it really felt like I was failing.  The weight was falling off Smilin' Vic faster than you could utter his 1-syllable name.  Obviously my inability to shed a single lb. meant I was doing something seriously wrong?

Then one day at work, someone asked me what I was doing differently, why was my skin 'glowing' all of a sudden?  Then someone else asked, and someone else, and someone else.  

Last week, on our 4 a.m. walk, we came upon a foot-high concrete block (the sidewalks in Doha are littered with sign posts, potholes, broken jersey barriers, and all other manner of debris).  I said ''Look what I can do, Smilin' Vic!'' and proceeded to swing my arms and jump up onto it, landing smoothly with both feet squarely and firmly onto the block.  This might not seem like much to some, but a few short weeks ago I could barely hop one foot at a time onto a 6-inch curb.  

Three weeks ago, when I noticed the weight wasn't coming off, I decided to take my measurements.  This week when I measured, I'd lost an inch off my waist, half an inch off my hips, half an inch off my bottom, and half an inch off my thighs.  Small changes, but changes nonetheless.

Smilin' Vic told me a few days ago that I never snore anymore.  I know, hard to believe that a vixen like me would have ever displayed such uncouthness, but alas it's true.  I was a light but constant snorer.

That may account for the fact that I'm sleeping much better.  No more waking up throughout the night and scrunching up the pillows or rearranging the blankets in a desperate attempt to achieve zzzzzz's.  

Which probably explains why I'm no longer tired during the day.  I wake up refreshed and only rarely click on snooze these days.  Granted we're usually in bed by 9:00 p.m., but when 4:00 a.m. rolls around I actually look forward to donning my sneakers and heading out for a walk.

My sciatica and back pain have eased significantly.  They're not gone, but they don't dictate my every sleeping and waking moment.  This may be partly due to the vitamin B12 injections I've been receiving, but I think the increase in vitamins through vegetable juicing and the increased mobility from exercising are definitely helping as well.  

My pants are looser, did I mention that?  Not substantially, just enough so I feel comfortable and no longer have to fear taking out someone's eye if a button all of a sudden pops off.

Am I where I want to be?  Not really.  But I'm on my way.  Do I still care about what the scale says?  Hell, yeah!  But I'm not afraid of what it tells me; it's becoming a much smaller part of the equation.  Am I still sore?  Every. Single. Day. A new muscle or joint makes my acquaintance daily by sending a shot of pain to my brain.  But it's okay; I'm actually getting to know my body - the neighbour I had for 44 years and only met formally last month.

This morning I came back from the gym exhausted after a work-out that ended with 5 rounds of stairs and burpees knowing that I am getting stronger.  Still, my body's asking me to get a bit leaner.  Not much, but a little bit will make it easier on us both I think.  And as of today, I'm feeling strong enough physically and mentally to start logging my food and sticking to a daily nutrition goal.  

Have I lost a single lb. in six weeks?  Nope.  Zero, zip, nada.

All I've gotten for my efforts are healthier skin, fewer wrinkles, better sleep, more flexibility, greater strength, increased energy, slightly more muscle tone, a better back, a positive outlook, and an overall sense of wellbeing.

Have I failed?  I'll let you be the judge.

*  Non-steroidal anti-inflammatories have been reported to cause water retention and temporary weight gain in some individuals.

I am the pampered cat ...

It's 6:45 p.m. and the sun has set.  But the dark doesn't dispel the heat; it's 36C and the humidity sits at 67%; perspiration tickles my brow and trickles down my back.  It feels like I'm bathing in thick vapour, surrounded by a warm, damp cotton ball.  

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The longer I stay, the more the heat exerts itself, intensifying despite my motionlessness.  Within minutes I'm drenched in sweat, having barely lifted a finger but to type these few lines.

My discomfort is great; sometimes I find myself thinking that the August sweltering heat is just unfair, just too much to bear.  

But don't pity my plight.  

For I am the pampered cat.  

Nobody's forced the heat on me; it's a self-inflicted painless pain.  No forced labor or toiling for hours on end in the sun.  I live indoors, and can come and go as I please.  I'm out here by choice, a victim only of my desire to sneak in a smoke outdoors as I blog.  The a/c will be waiting for me once I've exhausted my sweat reserves.  

Once my low threshold for pain has been crossed, I will retreat to the cool, and stay there until my 1st world addiction lures me back out.

As I sit here typing and smoking I'm trying to ignore the two teeny tiny stray kittens begging me with their painful meowing to be owned.  

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Stray cats ... a dime a dozen here in Qatar.  Sometimes their prevalence makes them fade into quasi-inexistence; they desensitise those around them to their plight by their sheer numbers and seemingly insurmountable circumstances.

It becomes almost easy enough to forget about them when they're just a part of the crowd.  Even when they're right there in front of you, hot, and hungry, and thirsty, and begging to be acknowledged.  The reality is, the guilt that comes with acknowledgement is almost too much to bear; sanity hinges on turning a blind eye.

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But always there are moments like these, when you suddenly find yourself face to face with one, maybe two. When you see them as individual little creatures who weren't lucky enough to be born a house cat.  When they actually try to befriend you.  When they stare you in the eye, and sneak their way closer to the doorstep, trying desperately to soak in the little bit of cool seeping out from indoors.  When you picture yourself battling the matted old 20 lb stray that you know is just waiting around the corner to pounce on one of your new little buddies.

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There are those moments where you find yourself sitting out there with them in the sweltering heat, stuck smack-dab in the middle of the devil on one shoulder and the angel on the other.  The one telling you that you can't save every single stray in Doha - you're not the Cat Lady after all.  The other one dreaming up cute kitty cat names and thinking that feeding them 'only this once' wouldn't make them 'yours'.

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But you know the truth.  You know that the second you open that door, even for a moment, there's no turning back.  The second you open that door, you and only you will be 100% responsible and accountable for those little lives.  Opening that door a fraction will mean opening your heart fully.  

I stay outside far longer than I should tonight.  I stay until sweat pours freely and I literally feel light-headed.  I tell myself that I can comfort them by staying out there just a little bit longer with them; by showing solidarity.  I encourage them to drink from the little fountain in the back yard.  I tell myself this will give them some relief, which is better than none at all.

But when the heat becomes truly unbearable, I go back in to the cool indoors.  And I close the door behind me.

And the little kittens are exactly where they were before I ever entered their lives - on the outside looking in.

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And I will be a little sadder for a while; a little more thoughtful.  I'll be more grateful for what I've got and a little more thankful.  

But in the end, I am where I've always been.  

I am the pampered cat.

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BTW ... this post is about so much more than cats ...

Well, Shucks, Y'all!

This week, I had the honour of being featured on Internations.org , a really cool website for people who live and work abroad.  I am so chuffed!

Trying to depict some of the many contrasts of being a Canadian woman working in the Middle East ... savoury and sweet, black and white, the iconic Canadian little rebel (Anne of Green Gables) and the Ideal Muslimah.  

Internations is a great place to interact with like-minded expats, particularly when you're new in town and not quite sure where to start.  Local forums include Q&A, jobs and marketplace sections that allow new arrivals to find out more about their host country; likewise, they allow seasoned veterans to share their lessons learned. 

I was first contacted by their friendly team last January for an interview to be featured in their 'Recommended Expat Blogs' section.  But what with death in the family, multiple long-haul flights to Canada, a bout of grieving/depression, work, vacation and life in general, I never got around to completing their interview.  Since this summer has brought with it some renewed enthusiasm about my expat life, it felt like the time might be right to share a bit about me and my blog.

So click here if you'd like to read a bit more about the gypsy behind the blog ...

And let me say thanks to the team at Internations for their interest and to all of you who've dropped by and/or followed me over the last year and a half.  It means a lot!

And then one voice rang out ...

The point of this blog has never been to make a political statement.  It's never been a platform to promote my views or solicit support for a culture, an ideology, a movement or a people.  It's never been anything more than a sounding board for me to work through the good, the bad and the ugly I deal with on any given day.  And hopefully to come out with a greater understanding, acceptance and appreciation of my life in the Middle East.

Sun setting over the Dead Sea.  Seemingly endless possibilities in that sky.

I purposely steer clear of contentious debates.  

Partly because there are much wiser people in this big wide world who are arguing their causes on all sides.  If politicians, activists, and victims haven't solved the world's woes, how in the world could I ever hope to?  

Partly because I want this blog to give me and others a little hope.  And sometimes after watching the news or listening to people lecture from their soapbox, it almost feels like no hope is left.  

But mostly I stay silent out of fear, selfish fear.  Fear that committing something to writing actually makes it real.  Fear that voicing my beliefs will expose me.  Fear that putting words to fears will make me vulnerable.  Fear that writing about atrocities being committed in Syria, and Iraq, Palestine and elsewhere will hurt too much.  Fear that my words are weightless anyways, misinformed by a panoply of radicals on all continents who bombard us with their perception of right and wrong; misinformed by a multitude of media outlets that contradict each other depending on where their home office sits, on their perception of events, on what spin will generate the highest ratings.  Fear that the agony I feel will be mowed down and made to seem misguided or outright wrong by people who hold far different views and who can express them much more eloquently than I.

So on paper, on this blog, I mostly remain silent.  Silent and afraid.  

But in a recent post, I talked about fear and how it's held me back, how it's stopped me from truly appreciating what I'm capable of, how it erases possibilities, how it stunts growth.  

And that post got me thinking about what I fear most in my writing.  I'm sad to say I'm not yet mature, wizened, or enlightened enough to face all my writing fears, but my reflection gave me at least enough strength to tackle today's post on 'voice'*. 

Not mine.  

That of a young Palestinian girl I met 6 years ago on a day-trip to Mount Nebo in Jordan.

I don't know her name; I never took the time to ask.  But I will never, ever forget her voice.  It rang out so loud and clear as she shouted out to us; the voice of a lone little girl looking for acceptance, looking for a smile, looking for her chance to shine.  

My chest tightens whenever I think of her enthusiastic, smiling voice.  And I wonder where she is today.  I pray her voice still rings loud and clear.

But let's go back to the beginning.

In 2008, we decided to take a trip to Jordan.  After 16 months in the Middle East, I still considered myself a relatively inexperienced expat (still do after almost 8 years), and didn't quite know what to expect.  A Jordanian fellow at work told us to wrangle fearlessly with the drivers at the Ammam airport for a decent taxi fare to the Dead Sea.  He assured me that his Jordanian brothers would eventually lower their price if we maintained that ''Omar'' had guaranteed us fair prices and great hospitality in his homeland.  I seem to recall that we got a good deal.

It was a beautiful vacation, and we did all the touristy things one would be expected to do while visiting Jordan.  We floated in the Dead Sea, we slathered ourselves with its shore's healing mud, we visited Petra, we toured Jesus' baptismal site on the River Jordan, and finally, we made it to Mount Nebo, where it's said Moses gazed upon the Holy Land.  

A very young Kiddo ... obviously not convinced there's anything medicinal about the Dead Sea mud ...

We were so well received everywhere we went, and our hosts and guides did everything to make us feel safe and comfortable.  Even when we slowed for check points on the road to Petra, with armed soldiers sitting atop tanks, machine guns strung over their shoulders as they asked us to produce identification, our guides reassured us that all was well - nothing untoward - just a routine check.

Our first glimpse of the Treasury in Petra.

On our tour of the Baptismal site, when a sonic boom shook the ground and rattled our core, our guide assured us that it was nothing more than practice fire, no reason to be alarmed - continue on, there's much more to see, down to the banks of the River Jordan we go ...

The history of this place seeps into your very being; never in my wildest dreams as a child did I ever think I'd get the opportunity to visit this site.

A loud explosion, followed by smoke in the distance ... nothing but a chain link fence and a few miles between us and it.

Going for a stroll in an unfamiliar land ...

On the banks of the River Jordan with Kiddo.

On the day we visited Mount Nebo, our guide for the day left us to explore a bit on our own.  As we gazed over the Promised Land, we were filled with awe.  It seemed every step of our journey had driven us to silence ... every bit of Jordan we visited was so majestic, so significant, it seemed that speaking out loud would diminish us even more, render us more minuscule and trite than we already were in the face of the history and the beauty that surrounded us.

Kiddo and me atop Mount Nebo ... where Moses is said to have stood to gaze onto the Holy Land.

But as we made our way around the Byzantine chapel, we were suddenly engulfed by excited chatter.  As I held my Kiddo close and turned to see what all the commotion was about, I found myself suddenly flanked by a bevy of young girls, ranging from about ages 12 to 16.  My surprise quickly gave way to fear, as these young girls, most in hijabs, circled tightly around us, reaching out to touch my daughter and me, babbling briskly and loudly in English and what I presumed to be Arabic.

That's me in the middle of the crowd, surrounded by young girls all vying for a turn to touch Kiddo.

I tried to back away quickly, away from the groping hands and foreign tongues.  My eyes desperately shot out to Smilin' Vic, who I saw standing behind the group, speaking to a woman also wearing a hijab.  He smiled reassuringly my way, and mouthed 'it's ok'.  He made his way slowly through the throng of young girls, and told me that the woman he'd been speaking to was accompanying these young girls on a tour of the historic site.

Smilin' Vic's perspective was quite different.  He saw the smiling young faces.  I just felt myself suddenly surrounded.  Amazing what a different view a different perspective can give you.

She'd explained to him that their excitement was largely due to the freedom they were feeling on this day.  You see, these young girls, Christian and Muslim, were all here on an outing from the UN Palestinian refugee camp they called home.  Seeing as how it's difficult for your average first-world teenage girl to contain emotions on any given day, it stands to reason that this group of young girls on a rare outing was bursting at the seams with excitement.

Smilin' Vic retreated then, and the young girls moved forward once again.  I stood there for a good thirty minutes as they touched my hair and Kiddo's, as they marvelled at how light it was and how fair our skin was.  They gently touched Kiddo's soft fatty arms, the result of loads of sunscreen and tons of pampering and never wanting for food or shelter.  Every last one of the girls held Kiddo and got a picture taken with her.

Young girls, so happy at the chance for a photo op with my little girl.  A moment I simply couldn't appreciate without letting go of my initial, baseless, ridiculous fear of being surrounded.  Note the Brazen Serpent cross in the background, a present-day reminder of the parting of the seas.

They giggled, and coddled, and kissed, and squealed.  They tickled Kiddo.  They covered her in kisses and smothered her with their hugs.  They leaned in shyly to hug me, asked me my name, asked me where I was from (is it true that it's really cold in Canada?).  

Smilin' Vic took pictures, and this thrilled them to no end, as they pushed and shoved to make it to the centre of the frame.  And they smiled.  The whole time.  Despite the fact that this was just a single blip of freedom, just a moment of escape.  They smiled.  

They smiled ... and for a moment, they were just teen girls out for fun on a day trip with their friends.

Eventually the novelty wore off, and they started to break off into groups and move on to explore more of the site.  We gathered our things and set off to head back to the retreat of our 5-star hotel, oddly deflated by that privilege when we knew that few if any of these girls would ever in their lifetime experience such a pampered getaway.

And then one voice rang out ...

A single voice.

''Sir, please take my picture Sir.  I'm Christian, please take my picture.''

A little girl, perhaps 12 or 13, holding up between her thumb and index finger a tiny gold cross that hung from a chain under her hijab.  A coming together of different worlds, a clashing of cultures, a religious spectrum, a world of promise - all of this hidden behind a wide smile, reverberating in this tiny voice before us.

''I'm Christian, please take my picture, Sir.''

One tiny little voice.  Perhaps thinking that she would hold more value for us if she stated her religion.  Perhaps wanting to shout out to the world that she was Christian.  Perhaps just wanting to be heard, or thinking we would better identify with her beliefs than we would with her.  Or perhaps, like so many of us, just wanting to hear the sound of her own voice in the crowd.

Whatever her reasons, we heard her.  Smilin' Vic very gladly took her picture.  And we have never since been able to 'un-hear' her.  

That single voice.

Not because of what she said.  Simply because of the innocence with which she sought to be seen, to be heard.  Simply because her voice rang out.

I often think about that little girl, about all those little girls.  I think about their collective enthusiasm, their frenzied excitement, their happy chatter.  And I have no doubt that many of their voices will have changed six years later.  Surely some will have become pained, perhaps bitter; hopefully some will have become stronger; sadly, some will have been forever silenced.

And all around the world, views continue to differ on the fate of these little girls' voices.  Some will argue that the voice of one is the price to pay to erase the tyranny of many.  I disagree.  With all my heart and soul, I disagree.  What is wrong with humanity, that we think by silencing promise we will negate 'evil'?  

I don't have answers, only questions.  There's no conclusion to my story really.  Only more questions, more confusion, more sorrow.  And prayers.  Lots of prayers.  That the one voice that rang out continues to do so.  That it continues to ring out loud and clear.  That one day it will truly be heard across nations and cultures and religions for what it conveys ... not for what it says.

I pray that the radical voices, no matter what religion or nationality, will be silenced.  That no more innocent children will lose their lives for the sake of a cause or a kingdom.  That the world will open its eyes and recognise only the voices it once silenced; those of countless children being traumatised and battered in Syria, in Palestine, in Iraq and elsewhere.  

As a mom, as a woman, as an expat in the Middle East, I hear a lot and it makes me fear a lot.  But I am determined to fight my fears, and open my heart, and always reconsider my perspective.  So that I don't miss the smiles and the wonder and the beauty.  I am determined to always listen. 

Because that voice, the one behind that little girl who smiled, the one that rang out, it didn't need to tell us anything.  That voice helped us  'see' the little girl who smiled, acknowledge she existed, remember her.  That voice was crying out for her to matter.  It wanted her to somehow leave a mark.

She did ...

Her friend rushed over and wrapped her arms around her for a chance to be in the pic.  But the little girl on the right ... the one with the beautiful smile ... she's the one whose voice we heard.  The one whose voice we'll never forget.

*Voice (extracted from the Encyclopedia Britannica, under an article on the importance of voice in philosophical feminism):  2. Independence and self-determination for women can be achieved only by “speaking in one’s own voice”—i.e., only by thinking and acting in ways that genuinely reflect one’s perspectives, experiences, feelings, and concerns as an individual.

Child Labor ... Of the First World Kind ..

I may have mentioned that our maid is gone back to the Philippines for five weeks.  Which has meant some serious scheduling and coordination challenges in the Gypsy household.  Particularly since this is probably the worst possible time of the year for someone to be maidless in the Middle East.

The deceivingly sweet instigator of weekend woes ...

Friends back in Canada will read this and think 'whoop dee doo, welcome to the real world Princess'.  But friends back in the real world probably have child care arrangements in place, whether a family member, a summer camp, or a trusted 14-year-old happy to earn some extra dosh babysitting for the month.  

Here in the Middle East, we have no family nearby to help keep an eye on Kiddo for the month.  Summer camps have mostly shut down or only run half-days given that most kids have accompanied their parents on an escape from the Qatar summer heat.  And that means that any potential 14-year-old sitters have also left for the month.

Had we known about Tita L's desire to go home earlier, we would have likely had solid arrangements in place.  However, when we tried to use foresight back in March this year by asking her when she'd like to go home, she said she didn't want to go back this year.  Somewhere around July 20th, she changed her mind.  Which left us scrambling to buy a last-minute ticket and find part-time help to keep an eye on Kiddo while we're at work.

Luckily, we were able to find someone; I go pick her up every weekday morning, and Smilin' Vic brings her back every evening after work.  It's not ideal, but it works.  We don't expect her to do much but keep an eye on Kiddo and do some very basic housework.

To keep things running smoothly, Smilin' Vic, Kiddo and I have committed to certain tasks.  They're tasks that we're normally meant to do, but that Tita L. will step in to get done when we're not quite on the ball.  Silly things, like make the bed as soon as we get up, put out the empty water bottles for weekly delivery, and water the plants.

To help keep Kiddo's routine on track and her days fairly full, we wrote out a weekly schedule that includes a list of daily tasks that must get done before Smilin' Vic and I get home from work.  We wrestled with the idea of attaching a prize to successful completion of tasks, given that these are everyday things that SHOULD be getting done, but in the end, in the interest of accomplishment, we promised her a dress and shoes of her choice for a wedding we'll be attending in Canada in October.  Provided she complete EVERY task, EVERY day.

Not too harsh; it's not like we've got her milking the cows or baking bread every day or anything ...

Kiddo loves lists, so she attacked the tasks with fervour on day 1.  Day 2 took the whole day to get through.  By the end of week 1, the schedule had become nothing more than an annoyance.  Guilt got the best of Kiddo on the last day of the week; she called me at work to admit that even though she'd checked off ''clean kitty litter'' the previous day, she hadn't actually done it.  She assured me that her deceptiveness had kept her from sleeping properly, and that even though it meant she probably wouldn't get the dress and shoes, she just couldn't live with the lie.

Being the quick thinker that I am, and not wanting to completely kill her motivation or divest her of the hope of a brand new fancy frock, I told her that Smilin' Vic had actually noticed that the kitty litter hadn't been cleaned (we hadn't actually noticed), but had agreed that she had 24 hours to come clean and admit to her untruths.  Which she had.  So no penalty.  But no more chances.  (I know; I'm good.)

So this morning, Friday, the first day of the weekend in the Middle East, we noticed that our little tiger cat had been particularly messy going about her business:

A fairly unwelcome sight early on a weekend morning ...

We called Kiddo down, and told her to make sure to sweep up the mess and scoop out the kitty clumps.  We were completely unprepared for the stomping feet, pounding fists and teeth gnashing that our request prompted.  Both Smilin' Vic and I watched in silence, mouths slightly agape, as our normally gentle child erupted into a fit of angry tears.

''I can't believe this!  I can't believe you'd make me do this!  It's the weekend.  You're seriously making me work on the weekend?  I can't believe it!  You're not even giving me one day off from the grossest job in the world!  I'm just a kid.''

Smilin' Vic and I let her finish the tirade before actually bursting into peals of laughter.  This only aggravated Kiddo's already fragile state.  She stomped up the stairs in a volley of tears, mumbling something under her breath about 'life being unfair' and how she couldn't believe 'parents would laugh at their own kid'.

We let her fester in her downtroddenness for a few minutes before marching her back down to her task.  We took a minute to share with her the philosophy behind her obligations:  the cat is hers - the poo is the cat's - hence the poo is hers (and hers to clean).  And since poo doesn't take weekends off, neither would she.

Child labour of the 1st world kind ...

It's days like these when I realise how totally spoiled we've all become ...

The perpetrator of the crime looks on shamelessly as the poor little rich girl slaves away, disposing of all evidence.