About This Blog

What this blog IS

This blog chronicles the (mis)adventures of an unathletic, overweight, clumsy woman in her mid-30s going carless in Phoenix, Arizona. That may not seem like a blog-worthy big deal, but I haven’t ridden a bike in any real sense in at least 20 years and haven't had to use public transport since I was a teenager. I'm also not great at reading maps and by "not great" I mean "totally incompetent".

I am pretty handy, being a fountain pen tinkerer and take-apart-the-toaster kind of gal, so I'm actually looking forward to learning about bike maintenance, but I suspect there will still be plenty of surprises in store.

I'd like this blog to be useful to other people considering going carless who may not already be an avid cyclist. Whatever I learn, and how I learn it, you'll learn too by reading this blog.

To prepare for this rather major transition, I’ve been doing a lot of research. That in and of itself has been an eye-opening experience and a bit intimidating.

So, going carless will either be awesome or catastrophic, but regardless, it’s happening.

But why go carless? 

Initially, my husband and I began to discuss going carless because I simply hate -- and I do mean hate -- driving. Especially in Phoenix, where using a blinker to politely indicate a desire to change lanes is apparently an act so offensive that the car one has signaled to will invariably make it its life's mission to never let you get into that lane, ever, period.

Everything about driving makes me stressed or angry. Parking. Looking for parking. Getting into the car in the summer when it's an oven. Other drivers. My driving (I suck at it and hit my share of curbs parking). Paying for the car. Paying for the insurance. Turning left against traffic. Waiting at stop lights. Getting honked at for taking longer than a nanosecond to go once the light turns green. The panic-inducing chaos of a four-way stop in which manners and obscure, confusing rules must fight to the death. The underlying fear someone drunk or on meth will crash into me and end my life.

I am the person with their hands at 10 o'clock and 2 o'clock clutching the wheel and going exactly eight miles over the speed limit that you skilled, happy drivers probably hate. Nice to meet you. Bet you didn't know it's not fun for me, either, did you?

My husband doesn't drive anymore because he lost his peripheral vision and the center of focus in one eye after a catastrophic vehicle accident in 2008. My husband and I are both very independent people so me just driving him around was not a solution for us.

We're also fairly environmentally conscious and have even driven an all-electric Nissan LEAF since 2013. We loved the LEAF, but it didn't make driving any less of a dread-inducing experience for me.

So initially we considered going carless as a way to reduce stress and save money. Some of the money we'd save we had planned to put towards a medical debt relief program we're enrolled in, thus cutting the remaining time on that program in half and increasing our cash flow.

But then our multiple-times deferred student loans came due. My husband, the only one of us who made actual grown-up money, was out of work for five years. During that time, I did not make enough to support us and we had to pay for some of his rehabilitation out of pocket. Hence the debt and inability to make student loan payments.

I'm happy to say we're now back on track and have been for several years. But that also means we can (on paper, technically) make our loan payments. The problem is they come out to even more than our car payment and just $30 shy of our car payment and insurance payment combined.

Which basically means we went from going carless for economic, environmental and personal reasons to going carless because we can't afford a car, at least for about a year and a half.

I won't lie -- that made it feel like a totally different situation and not an encouraging one. It feels like I put myself through college to not be downwardly mobile, though intellectually I know that's absurd. Our home is lovely, our bills are paid, we have food on the table, our cats are fed and cared for. A car is, after all a luxury and not a need.

But still, it was less fun to turn in the LEAF than I had thought it would be. And simply not having the option to get a car if we need one is unsettling.

Regardless of how I feel about it, however, the end result is still the same. I'll be carless for the first time since I was about 20 years old, or 15 years. (I didn't want to learn to drive and didn't until I was 18 years old.)

What this blog is NOT

We bought a house with some pretty major issues (that we love) primarily due to its proximity to public transportation. 

Let’s just get the weight thing out of the way, shall we?

Although I’ve been overweight for most of my life, and am currently (successfully) working on that, I did not go carless to lose weight and this blog is not about my weight loss journey. 

But this is America, so everyone's going to make it about my weight anyway. 

So fine. Here's all the stuff about my weight in relation to going carless I can imagine anyone ever asking about. 

Let's just get through this once and then we can all move on. 

Yes, biking more will probably help with my ongoing weight loss and is by default a healthier lifestyle. And that’s great.

I’ll probably even give occasional weight-loss updates (after all, the lighter I am the easier biking will become, right?). Since being fat impacts everything about one’s life, I’m sure there will be some relevant incidents where my weight comes up as a factor. For example, no one makes bike shorts in my size, which was not surprising, but nonetheless disappointing. 

But don’t think of this as some inspirational, “This Woman Went Carless And Lost X Lbs.!” Upworthy-esque story.

It’s actually crucially important for my own mental well being that this decision and blog are not about my weight.

A large part of my decision to go carless has to do with my multiple-year, ongoing attempt to stop hating myself. And by "myself" I mean my body, which it turns out isn't actually the sum total of myself after all.

As I’m sure many other fluffy people will understand, it is utterly exhausting to beat yourself up all the time while society beats you up, too.  Like all overweight children, I was bullied in school. Unfortunately, I was also regularly fat shamed by some family members at family functions. To be clear, my family was very loving in other ways and was not neglectful or abusive or horrible monsters or anything. But family dinners were definitely a fraught and formative negative experience for me. 

This constant reminder of my apparent fundamental failure as a human, i.e. being fat, did not “inspire” or “help” me to lose weight. Probably because fat shaming doesn’t work.

It did, however, cause me to put myself under a self-imposed exile from my family when I moved to Arizona in 2010. For the first four years I lived in Arizona I refused to go home because the only thing my big, German family does to celebrate anything is to have a big family dinner. 

In the years since my self-exile began, I have missed watershed anniversaries, birthdays, Christmases, and more. 

And no, I don’t regret it, at all. And no, I highly doubt I'll regret it when those family members pass away. The sad truth is it was empowering and liberating. I did repeatedly invite my family to visit my husband and I, but I also made it clear I wasn't interested in discussing my weight and made sure non-eating activities were planned.  

One year, I did almost cave and considered going home for Christmas. But then my brother asked if he could get me a weight loss cook book for Christmas. I was immensely relieved he asked over the phone first -- in terms of my family discussing my weight, this was a huge improvement in both courtesy and tact. But the thought of my weight being highlighted, again, at a family function was enough to bring on flashbacks of Christmas dinners past, and just the thought of that made me change my mind about visiting, that Christmas or any Christmas ever. My brother meant well (don't they always?), but it hurt nonetheless. I told him thanks, but no. 

That year I celebrated Christmas in my most favorite way, shamelessly eating Chinese food in my pajamas with my husband while watching Christmas movies. (No, it's not a binge-eating bacchanalia or anything, but it is eating without needing to be furtive about it, and that's a wonderful thing for those of us who grew up trying to eat only in secret while alone.)

The moral of this story is that if you’re really concerned about your family’s member’s “health”, then let your loved one's weight be their business. Don’t bring it up unless they do, don’t complain about your weight and hey, here’s a thought, just focus on something – anything, really – else.

Basically, if you wouldn't say it out loud out of politeness to a stranger, then don't say it out loud to a family member in front of everyone.

Your "concern" is not a license for cruelty and does not eliminate humiliation on the part of the recipient. Just because you wouldn't find a comment or unsolicited advice offensive or hurtful doesn't mean your overweight family member should or even can react the same way. You, Concerned Family Member, Friend, Colleague, or Stranger In The Grocery Store, are not the emotional barometer for all of humanity. People have a right to their own feelings and reactions, regardless of what you think they should be.

But there was (and is) still work to do under the hood, too

So, while my self-imposed exile was helpful, those same years were still some of the most difficult of my life. And, as with most of us who struggle with our weight, that naturally resulted in weight gain. To be clear, I’m not trying to abdicate responsibility -- no one put the food in my mouth but me -- but I think it’s fair to say I wasn’t always well-positioned to make the best food choices. 

Most of the challenges from those years stem from a catastrophic vehicle accident my husband had in 2008 during which he sustained several major injuries all over his body. His recovery lasted years, and he wasn't able to return to work until 2013.

The financial, personal, psychological and spiritual challenges of those years reverberated through our lives in ways we never expected. As my husband recovered, I worked multiple jobs to support us. We both struggled to adjust to our "new normal". We had no friends in Arizona and the perpetual, white-knuckle financial strain exacerbated the stress our marriage was already under.

During this period I got jobs I was immeasurably grateful to have in one sense -- they saved us financially, though it still just barely kept us afloat -- but those same jobs were also two of the most miserable work environments I have ever experienced. I nearly stopped writing altogether as a result of one of them and left both rather depressed.

Needless to say, while all this was going on I gained a ton of weight. It wasn't until 2013 when I went to the doctor after years of not having health insurance that I learned I had gained over 100 pounds.

Of course I knew I had gained weight, I had to buy bigger clothes, a process even online shopping was a multi-day ordeal (two days to build the courage to measure myself for the size chart, another two days of utter and abject misery and self-loathing after doing that, then finally actually ordering the clothing).

I came home from the doctor's office that day and just sat on the couch utterly dismayed. Oddly, I felt like I had let myself die and was attempting to grieve myself. Sure, I'd always been fat. But this, this was a whole new level even I didn't expect to ever reach. I felt like everything every bully or family member had ever said about me was true, and nothing else about myself even mattered.

I decided something had to be done. No, whatever it took come hell or high water would be done.  I decided the family exile would remain in place, if not continued for the rest of my life if need be. My husband was working again, my business was getting clients, it was time to focus on me. 

So, my husband and I adopted the usual healthy habits, which we still do today. We don't drink soda or keep snacks in the house, we cut down red meat and switched to skim milk. We have salads instead of fries. We swapped out our evening TV munchies for only an hour of television a night (these days, we may not even do that) and celery. All those little steps that seem big but aren't really all that bad when you get used to them.We've had bouts of working out and bouts of not, but for the most part for the past four years we've done all right.

Mostly. I love to bake and we probably ate more baked good than we should have. Our cheat days went way off the reservation. Still, there is no denying we gradually had honestly changed our eating habits. So although initially, we lost a lot of weight, (42 pounds for him, 30 for me), we did basically gain it back again (but, crucially, in my opinion, not more). On the other hand, we kept up the good habits and by 2015 we both agreed we felt better and it was easier to make better choices.

The key wasn't what you think it was

Meanwhile, I made important, non-physical progress, too. 

Psychologically, by distancing myself from my family I was eventually able to eat in restaurants (most of the time) pretty confidently, even in front of new people. That may not sound like a big deal, but as my husband will attest that specific situation has always terrified me. Intellectually, I knew it was ridiculous, but the thought of eating in front of new friends or co-workers actually made my hands clammy.

It took an actual breakdown in an Applebee's restroom -- my husband had eaten dinner, I hadn't, he ordered a plate of broccoli and I ordered an entree, I panicked because of course everyone in the restaurant had to be thinking, "Oh my god look at that fat cow stuffing her face while her husband makes good choices" -- but eventually I did get over it.

I just finally broke. I had cared so long, so much, about other people watching, judging, analyzing me and my food choices I just couldn't find it in me to care anymore. I was completely drained. I had literally hated myself into a numb acceptance of myself, that has since grown into a very stong like, if not love, of myself.

Having health insurance again also forced me to actually think about my whole body. I had hair, teeth, eyelashes, decent skin. I was told by a friend I had a great laugh and realized how long it had been since I'd had a compliment at all or thought I was worth complimenting.

I realized I was not stupid, but I am caring, fun and lots of adjectives that have nothing to do with my weight. There were people who actually wanted to be around me. There were also people who actually cared about what I had to say. Several different people told me I was funny and I had never thought of myself that way. None of these people seemed to be overly concerned with my "health", either.

Now for the dark side 

To be real for a moment, I'll admit I still hate cooking, and chopping the week's snacking veggies makes me grumpy and resentful of the time it takes, but I never regret doing it in the long run.

So make no mistake: it's not all sunshine and cauliflower over here. It's still hard every day and some days discipline comes easier than others. Sometimes discipline takes a day off. But I've learned it's like a puppy, it'll come back eventually when it gets lonely. Or when the bad food gives me the runs and I'm like, "My god, how did I eat ever eat this crap all the time?" 

So yeah, I still slip up on occasion, and some days I admit I just say screw it and order the mac and cheese or have the blueberry muffin. Some days I'm tired or dealing with personal stuff or just had a bad day and quite simply don't have the energy or willpower to give a shit about what I eat. I just want melted cheese because there are no wounds melted cheese can not heal.

And when that happens, I just let it (it doesn't happen too often, at any rate). I eat the food, I feel better, I move on with my life the next day like it never happened. Some weigh days there were minor consequences, on other weigh days there weren't. Overall, I'm still down nearly 40 lbs. in the past year so I'm just going to keep on keepin' on.

But most importantly, even junk food is no longer a commentary on who I am as a fundamental human being. 

And yeah, I have Doritos and half a cookie with my Subway sandwich. But I usually still lose weight that week so I don't beat myself up about it. I'll never see the point in being ultra-healthy if you're also miserable.

How all of that led to carlessness

As my attitude about food and myself changed, I began to think back on memories of who I was and what I liked to before I got really overweight, which was probably around third or fourth grade. 

I made a list of things I used to do and how I used to think of myself and to my own surprise, a lot of that list involved physical activity.

I used to love riding my bike. I popped wheelies on speed bumps, rode down the concrete steps at the park, did wide, sweeping, leaning turns while standing one pedal.

My favorite thing to do at summer camp was rock climbing. I still miss it. The last thing I did was my third year at camp when we learned to repel, and to this day I remember smiling the whole way down.

I remembered I loved to swim, and used to spend entire days in the pool.

I loved roller blading and would do it backward and leap off curbs.

I used to play on the monkey bars during recess and even had a signature move I called a Cherry Bomb where I swung by my knees and flipped off the bar and landed on my feet.

So why did I stop all that? What the hell happened?

The usual reasons. My brother's friends and other kids at the park dished out the usual cruelty. When I did cherry bombs, a group of boys at school pretended there was an earthquake, a joke they thought was so hilarious they started doing it when I sat down in class. In middle school, someone put notes in my locker, almost every week, calling me Shamu, Fatty Flip, and worse with drawings of me flattening the Earth. In a cruel and heartless move I will never comprehend my gym teacher made a rule we couldn't change in the stalls anymore.

And I loved reading, too, so I guess at some point it was just easier – safer – to just stay inside.

Yeah, yeah, great sob story. What is your point?

So, the short version is, I wanted to get back to riding a bike and walking and really, just plain moving, to remember what it was like to do something physical and have it not be about my weight, or calorie burn, or fitness.

I wasted a lot of the years I could have been outside playing inside hiding from jerks. Well, I'm taking those years back and going outside to play. And as a 35-year-old woman, I'm pretty sure I now have an answer for any jerks who want to voice their opinion about it. 

For the inevitable trolls

1.) No, it’s not actually as simple as calories in, calories out. That's why I've decided to adopt the rule that if a habit isn't something I can reasonably or realistically do for the rest of my life, I'm not doing it. It's why I've bypassed meal replacement shakes (what happens if you can't afford them anymore), cutting out any food entirely (I don't want to live in a world without bread, period) or diet pills. 

2.) I’m not “unhealthy.” I know, it seems to bug my doctor, too.

But all my blood work is fine. I’m not on any blood pressure or other medication, I’m not diabetic, my cholesterol, glucose and A1C, all great. Sorry to disabuse of your preconceived notions. I even went to a cardiologist recently for a “well, while I still have health insurance might as well” check up and he was thrilled with my heart and said it was fine. 

I don’t know why this is true for me and not other overweight people, but as I said, we actually do eat pretty healthily fairly consistently and have for several years now. I doubt this would have been the case six or seven years ago.  I didn't have health insurance at the time so didn't go to the doctor, but I can guess from how I was eating my blood work probably would have told a totally different story.

I was diagnosed with sleep apnea (also, troll, not related to weight as previously thought; athletes with huge necks also end up with it and it's a genetic marker, so no, try again). Treating that has made a huge difference in how I feel and how quickly I lose weight. 

3.) Me not hating myself for existing is not, in fact, “promoting obesity” or encouraging people to be unhealthy. It’s just me not hating myself. It feels pretty fucking great, too, so take your self-righteousness somewhere it actually might have a place.

And if there are other fat people out there who don't hate themselves, all the power to them. There are plenty of trolls like you to hate and shame us; we don't need to contribute to it ourselves anymore.