The Health and Happiness Society by Katie Cross Book Tour and Giveaway :)
Bon Bons to Yoga Pants
The Health and Happiness Society Book 1
by Katie Cross
Genre: Chick Lit
*Winner of the 2015 Watty Awards Best of HQ Love*
Lexie Greene has always had such a pretty face.
Unfortunately, that's where it seemed to stop. She's grown up hearing her Mother constantly remind her that she needs to lose weight. And twenty-two-year-old Lexie knows she's overweight.
With her younger sister's wedding on the horizon and a crush to stalk on Facebook, Lexie's had enough. She gives up her constant daydreams about food and joins a dieting group. As the pounds melt away at the gym, she finds that life on the other side of junk food isn't what she thought.
Bon Bons to Yoga Pants is an inspirational hit about a girl coming to terms with herself, and her past, all while navigating a world of food and fitness.
I Am Girl Power
The Health and Happiness Society Book 2
Cardiac nurse Megan Bailey has it all. Until she doesn’t.
Thanks to a string of horrible relationships, an unexpected twist in her career, and mounting credit card bills, Megan escapes to Adventura Summer Camp to work as camp chef.
Instead of a relaxing summer in the mountains, she faces a persnickety oven, squirrels in the kitchen, and a host of uncertain staff. With the help of her twin brothers and a quiet, blue-eyed camp ranger named Justin, Megan will have to navigate the treacherous waters of a storm she never expected: her parents possible divorce.
I Am Girl Power is the second book in the quirky new Health and Happiness Society series. Join Megan as she experiences heartbreak, laughter, and the frightening winds of change.
**Kindle
countdown deal from Nov 6th – 13th!!**
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.99 cents Nov 6th - 8th
Only.$1.99
Nov 9th-11th
Only
$3.99 Nov 11th - 13th
You'll Never Know
The Health and Happiness Society Book 3
Rachelle Martin is a hot mess.
After losing 110 pounds, she expected to be happily flirting her way through countless dates, not lost as a college dropout. Now that she’s arrived at her ideal weight, why isn’t she happy?
When an injury prevents her from running her dream race, she realize she can’t run from her ghosts anymore. Rachelle must take the one step she’s sworn she’d never take: professional therapy.
Can Rachelle push herself through pain and let go of the past? Or will her demons continue to haunt her one bad decision at a time?
You’ll Never Know is the unforgettable novel in the groundbreaking Health and Happiness Society series. It tackles the false idea of conditional happiness and the exhausting path to self forgiveness.
**Kindle
countdown deal from Nov 13th – 20th!!**
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.99 cents Nov 13th - 15th
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Nov 15th-17th
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$3.99 Nov 18th - 20th
Hear Me Roar
The Health and Happiness Society Book 4
Bitsy Walker is a woman in control.
She eats 1200 calories a day, prepares three rounded meals on a budget, runs her own cleaning business, and never leaves the house with an unmade bed.
When her ex-husband crashes back into her immaculate world, her daughters fall in love with their father all over again. Rumors of joint custody surface, driving Bitsy to the edge of dieting desperation.
Can she handle losing control without giving into binge eating? Or will losing the battle make everything unravel—even her?
Join Bitsy in her journey through calorie counting, the intricacies of self care, and surrendering control in the fourth book in the Health and Happiness Society Series.
**Kindle
countdown deal from Nov 20th – 27th!!**
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.99 cents Nov 20th - 22nd
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Nov 23rd-25th
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$3.99 Nov 26th - 27th 
What Was Lost
The Health and Happiness Society Book 5
Mira Montgomery is the only one left.
Her brothers unexpected death leaves her tragically alone. No kids. No husband. No family.
Fifty-one years of unrealized dreams crash down on her when a real estate development company threatens the only stability she has left: her store. To make matters worse, her friends in the Health and Happiness Society have more good news than ever before.
Mira is faced with the decision to walk away and start fresh, or stay and fall apart.
Can she survive life without the comfort of her friends? Or will she fall farther into her depression than ever?
Join Mira on her new path through old grief, new loss, and the burning importance of gratitude in the fifth and final book in the Health and Happiness Society series.
**Kindle
countdown deal from Nov 27th – Dec 4th!!**
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Nov 30th – Dec 2nd
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Finding Anna
A Health and Happiness Society spinoff
Anna Buchanan is a freshman college student with one plan: travel abroad.
Except . . . college life isn’t what it’s cracked up to be. Her new roommate definitely has a quirky side. All those romantic comedies she watched growing up? Not happening. Money is harder to come by than she thought, and her first kiss is less-than-foot-popping.
Not to mention the fact that there aren’t enough hours in her day to sell blood plasma, work at the deli, and volunteer at her dream internship.
All of Anna’s hard-thought dreams tumble around her ankles when she buries herself too deep in dreams. Then the most terrifying news hits her like a slap in the face.
Can Anna salvage the time and money needed to fulfill her dreams? Or will she have to face the truth: that sometimes our greatest adventures never take us very far away.
Join Anna Buchanan in Finding Anna, a heartwarming novel about odd roommates, unattainable college boys, and the epic quest to find yourself.
My world revolves around my husband (who is a major hottie), my precious kids, my Vizsla’s who act like children, and the mountains.
I wear hiking boots instead of heels when I need to feel powerful, and on a bad day, I love a weightlifting workout. Actually, I love it on a good day.
I don’t eat bread because my thyroid doesn’t like it, although there are days I miss it. Especially ciabatta. Sweet potatoes are kind of my thing. Cookies too.
I write because I never stopped.
Author of The Network Series, The Dragonmaster Trilogy, and The Health and Happiness Society.
GUEST POST
Confessions
of a Chubby Girl
A
monster lives inside every girl.
Sometimes
it’s a big one that drowns out all the others.
Sometimes
it’s not.
Sometimes
it’s a crowd. Sometimes it’s just one. My biggest monster was a
creative beast that craved chocolate and felt good if I drowned her
in starch and, on occasion, an overabundance of exercise that
cancelled out ALL those calories.
Then
she spawned a piece of art I never anticipated.
The
Chubby Girl Monster
By
twelve years old, I was blatantly imperfect, flawed, and terribly
insecure about it—like a lot of humans. So I did what any hormonal,
emotional wreck-of-a-tween would do.
I
turned to the loving, constant arms of food.
Brownies
were a favorite, though I wouldn’t turn down Ben and Jerry’s or
mozzarella sticks or any other battered goodness that I could just
pop in the oven or microwave. Fistfuls of animal crackers? Perfect
snack with a quart of sugary-sweet guava juice from concentrate. Mom
cut up carrots and apple slices, but I dipped them in gobs of peanut
butter.
Nutrition
therapy at it’s finest.
Growing
Up Chubby
Being
a kid is hard enough, but being an overweight kid is even harder.
Combine frizzy hair, an odd obsession with books, and an absent
father, and I was a walking monster mine. By third grade, I knew I
was a “big girl” because the other kids told me.
That’s
when my whispering monster started.
I
didn’t really notice the monster at first. I mean, I did. When
you’re in fifth grade canvassing a room to see if you’re the
biggest kid in there, you know something is different about you. But
I didn’t really understand how much power the monster had until the
cutting verbosity of seventh grade teenagers shredded holes in the
curtain of my denial.
You
need to be smaller, the monster would say. Look at how big you are.
I
won’t get into details, but suffice it to say that kids and
monsters are mean.
Learning
to Wog
Fortunately,
I had many friends that loved me in spite of my mongster, one of them
being the lean, red-haired, spit-fire Breanna. She invited me to jog
with her one day when I was in 8th grade. Because I wanted her to
like me and I wanted to be cool and svelte like her, I agreed.
The
monster, for once, was quiet.
“Jogging”
is an generous term for what I did. (see shuffle and walk.) But it
didn’t matter. It was one of the first times that exercise felt
good. Breanna didn’t make me feel like the fat kid, and helped me
learn how to breathe through side cramps. Silencing the monster felt
amazing.
“The
world is much more clear after you run,” she pointed out one day. I
remember blinking rapidly because she was right. Even my vision had
came into sharper focus through the lens of exercise.
After
profusely apologizing for being slow, I decided I could do more of
this “running” and asked if we could go again the next day.
And
the next.
It
became our thing together. We’d run in the country by her grandpa’s
house. We’d run along the canal. Through the neighborhood. At the
cabin. Anywhere. My wog slowly turned into a trot, and then a jog,
and eventually I could almost keep up with her on the sprints at the
very end.
But
never, ever did I beat her.
My
monster reminded me all the time.
Fairytales?
Pah
I’d
love to tell you I slimmed down to a lean size 6, started a spinning
class, and ate only sprouts and carrot sticks sans peanut butter, but
it didn’t happen. Sometimes, my love of exercise cancelled out my
greater love of food, but not enough to make me like myself. Or be
actually healthy. In fact, I kind of went crazy on both in middle
school.
In
ninth grade I satisfied the monster and joined a gym. I’d work out
for an 60-90 minutes after school. My favorite? Walking 4.0 mph on
the treadmill until it maxed out at 100 minutes while reading cheesy
romance novels.
Hey, I
was exercising, so the monster was quiet. Then I could dream of being
a damsel-in-distress. Remember, I was kind of bookish weird?
I went
from a size 18 in seventh grade to a size 12-14 sometime in ninth.
For the most part, I hung out around there. It was a far cry from the
emotionally fragile seventh grader that had been made fun of so much,
but my insecure monster still thrived, never satisfied. She chanted
to me late at night.
Must
get smaller. Must get smaller.
Not
even exercise could silence the monster now.
Hobby,
Shmobby
After
getting my RN at twenty and working as a pediatric nurse, my
obsession with nutrition and exercise became my favorite hobby.
I dove
into half marathons, marathons, centuries (100+ mile bike rides),
snow shoeing, lots of hiking, and trail running with gusto. Did my
weight drop? Nope. I leaned out, could hike like a boss, but the
scale never seemed to go anywhere. I counted calories, drank water,
avoided pop, and worked my butt off.
Not
literally, of course.
Ever
run 20 miles and watched the scale maintain? #frustratingas@#$*(!%*(
Must
get smaller, sang the monster. You’re still a size 14. Must do
more. Must get smaller.
Figuring
It Out
Thanks
to other issues in my life, I started seeing a professional therapist
and learned that food had *gasp* become the way I didn’t cope with
my emotions. Truly, I’d never, ever, ever comprehended that food
was an emotional escape. It seems to obvious to me now.
*face
palm*
Happy
ending?
Not
quite. Because no matter what, the monster reminded me that I still
wasn’t smaller. Despite an active lifestyle, the pants size didn’t
waver. My health was good, and I felt okay with how I looked. A
veritable 3-4 on my self-diagnosed “Hotness Scale”.
Then I
met the love of my life at 24 and suddenly my perception of health,
self, and food took on a whole new meaning. The mega attractive,
sarcastic, intelligent guy I was dating didn’t care that I was
still imperfect, insecure, needed therapy, size 14, and loved
California Pizza Kitchen to a fault.
He
also didn’t know about that niggling monster who insisted
you aren’t small enough for him.
Loving
the Chubby Inside Me
Meeting
my husband and realizing that he didn’t care about me being smaller
threw everything I perceived about myself into question. I started
realizing that I’m good enough just because I’m me, not because I
measure up to some defined quality of beauty established by a
magazine.
I’d
love to tell you that I banished the ugly monster who controlled me
like a puppet, who reminds me that my weight hovers dangerously close
to Husband, that a wife should be smaller. I’m still not model size
perfect and never plan to be. I still love CPK, and I still battle
food cravings and the need to turn to food for comfort on a daily
basis.
And I
still have a monster inside me.
Write
It Out
That
monster is why I started writing Bon
Bons to Yoga Pants. I knew I
couldn’t be the only person to have a chubby girl monster, because
there are skinny girl monsters, and straight hair monsters, and
knobby knee monsters.
There
are monsters for everything.
Lexie
Greene is born from that insecure, flawed little girl I told you
about at the beginning of the post. Like me, Lexie struggles with
weight, she doesn’t want to diet, and when things get tough, she
turns to Little Debbie. Lexie and I are not the same person; I love
exercise and she tolerates it. She has a sister and I don’t. But we
are the same insecure little girl with similar monsters.
We’re
all fighting monsters. But that doesn’t mean we fight them alone.
We are
perfect just the way we are.
The Scale of Hotness
Where
the scale of hotness is concerned, I broke the rules and married
someone way hotter than me.
Before
you throw tomatoes at me with You’re
Beautiful Just The Way You Are written on
them, let’s turn down the Bruno Mars song and have a frank
discussion.
The
Scale of Hotness
I grew
up with a bowling ball face, a frizzy mess of curls a mile wide, and
what curves I did have had certainly weren’t in my chest. While I
never had the curse of braces, the tune of ‘you’re just big
boned,’ whistled in my ears from total strangers.
Trust
me, that’s way worse than braces ‘cuz you can’t change bone
structure.
I’d
walk down the halls at school and hear my teachers say, “She has a
great smile, doesn’t she?” While my brothers friends said, “Well,
she’s not the brightest bulb on the tree.”
Fast
forward a decade and I landed on my feet, a full-time RN, living in a
downtown and working with kids. My career made me awesome, but not
enough. Here’s the shocker: I was single.
I
dated all kinds of guys. I mean all kinds. I got an Air Force guy who
yelled at me for not being willing to pick him up on our first date.
A gentleman that worked for the forest service who was so quiet that
I had to lean over my pasta to hear what he said. Then there was, of
course, Mr. Medical School Man. He used me for a few rides, a couch
to crash on, then broke up with me over a text message.
Classy.
The
common thread was this: they were all pretty much my facial equal.
Attractive enough, but nothing so beautiful that I wanted to attach
to it with suction cups and scream, “Never let me go!”
Changing
Tunes
Then I
met the most beautiful man I’d ever seen.
I was
twenty four. We’d been emailing for weeks via eHarmony before he
flew out to see me. He was an Army officer just off deployment, had
thick eyelashes I’d kill for, and more sarcastic humor than I could
handle. I’d already had a good feeling about this one, and I was a
pro about dating vibes, so I pulled out all the stops and dressed in
my girl power outfit: black yoga pants, a vest from Eddie Bauer with
fuzz on the inside, and hiking boots.
Yes,
hiking boots.
My
curly hair is an entity until itself, so after an hour-and-a-half
battle, I’d tamed the tresses into straight, highlighted strands,
then arrived at the airport with my hands steepled in prayer, begging
the gods of first dates that I wouldn’t get sweaty pit stains.
Which I so did.
He
strode off the plane and right into my heart. The moment I saw him my
mouth dropped open, my hands turned to ice, and all I could think of
when I stared at his strong jaw and crooked smile was, oh no. He is
way too attractive for me.
Although
I stood there like a mute, he put his muscled arms around me in a
warm hug. I melted like butter in southern Alabama on a hot July
afternoon. My heart fluttered. Is this real?
Is this a joke? He’s too beautiful. I could
feel the suction cups forming on my fingertips. He wasn’t Calvin
Klein model perfect: he was rugged, manly,
five-shades-of-stubble-in-the-morning perfect.
I
pulled myself back together, managed a somewhat coherent mumble, then
started toward my car so I didn’t have to see his face. We took a
forty five minute drive up a gorgeous canyon to a famous diner for
brunch. My eyes never strayed from the road. His gleaming, angelic
face would certainly blind me if I looked over. More than that, I
didn’t want to face the reality behind the voice in my head.
He’s
way too hot! Scale of hotness is tipped! Must. Stop.
Breaking
the Rules
We sat
across from each other at a shabby table in a kitschy restaurant
filled with people, sunshine, and odd decor. I glanced up to find the
undeniable truth again: He was beautiful. He was everything sturdy
and strong that I ever wanted. The voice screeched on in the back of
my mind.
You’re
breaking the rules!
Never
mind that we hit it off like a pair of gloves missing their mate.
Never mind that his eyes sparkled when he laughed at my snarky
comments because he thought I was funny. Never mind that he held my
hand that night and it felt like coming home. All I could think was:
I can’t do it. I’d never match up. I have big hips and volatile
hair. I love food way too much—and it shows. Doesn’t he see the
issue here?
To my
dismay, he didn’t seem to get it.
It
would have been a lot easier if he would have just stepped away after
the first date with a kind smile and flippant Hey! Let’s do this
again! just like the rest of them. But he didn’t. He wanted to see
me in the morning, so I took action into my own hands. This beautiful
man would not be forced into an unequal relationship that surely he’d
regret.
The
next day, after washing my hair into its
full-scale-curly-haired-massive-glory, and ensuring it was full and
wild, (because who wouldn’t that scare off?) I picked him up from
his friends house. My plan was already in action.
“Want
to go for a run?” I asked.
That’ll
show him, I thought with smug superiority. He’ll see my wobbly legs
and butt trying to get up the hill and he’ll realize what I’ve
seen since the beginning.
“Of
course!” he said, as I knew he would.
We ran
up a mountain trail (where I practically reached down and grabbed
handfuls of dirt to rub on my face as I went) and then back down. We
laughed when he accidentally embarrassed himself by farting—twice.
We swapped stories about nightmare dates. We enjoyed the sun and
crisp mountain air. He didn’t turn away in disgust, the jerk.
No, we
just kept having a great time.
Breaking
the Scale
Three
days later, my heart broke as I watched him walk back into the
airport on Valentines day. Our weekend of sharing frozen yogurt,
cuddling up to Finding Nemo, and star gazing from the top of a
mountain had altered my universe forever. He was my perfect match in
all ways . . . except one.
I
wouldn’t hear from him again, I already knew that. And really, who
would blame him? The scale of hotness never lies. It cannot be
broken. There was a Mrs. Perfect with blonde hair and blue eyes
waiting for this Mr. Perfect. Except she was probably wearing heels,
not hiking boots, and spreading her divine glitter over orphaned
puppies. I couldn’t deprive the world of their stunning children,
so I drank in his perfect smile and brown eyes until he disappeared
from view.
Every
heartbeat on my drive home caused me pain. Just as I was sitting down
in front of the TV, Lifetime movie at the ready, a barrel of fun
sized snickers and a box of tissues in hand, the doorbell rang.
“For
you,” a delivery man said, holding out a long box that said
1-800-Flowers on the side. I dropped the Snickers, slammed the door
in his face, ripped the box open, and found a dozen red roses nestled
inside. A note accompanied them.
Thanks
for the perfect weekend of running, laughing, and playing. I can’t
believe this is real, and I can’t wait to see you again. I’ll
call after my plane lands. Can’t wait to talk to you again.
My
hands trembled. I blinked in disbelief and fell to the chair behind
me. The letter, and the gorgeous crimson flowers with dark veins
running through the petals, were from him, there was no doubt. But
how could that be?
The
scale of hotness never lies.
Right?
Shattering
Old Beliefs
After
8 years of more gritty-faced runs, listening him say I
love your beautiful face, wife and staring at
his stubbled jaw, I’ve realized that the scale of hotness I judged
myself by was never really a thing
after all.
I
created those rules and bounds in my own mind and then put them onto
my perfect mate. (Don’t get me wrong—we’re not perfect at all.
We’re imperfectly perfect, which is way better.) Out of a place of
insecurity, I led myself to believe that no one could possibly love a
girl that’s sometimes not functional, is abhorrent with fashion,
forgets her phone and keys in the most random places, loves
adventure, carries her own gun, hikes every day, and loves to laugh,
simply because she’d believed in a cultural scale that said she
didn’t measure up.
But
the truth is the opposite: the scale of hotness existed in my own
mind, and my worth has nothing to do with the size of my hips, the
spread of my hair, or the fact that I sweat on hot days just like
everyone else.
Marrying
Mr. Right didn’t even teach me that—I spent the first 5 years of
my marriage believing myself to be inferior, when in truth I was just
right. It took a lot of digging into belief systems I had in place
that were false—and working with a professional—for me to see the
truth.
That
I’m just as hot as my husband, and just as imperfectly perfect.
If
you’ve ever believed in the scale of hotness, let me shatter that
one for you. Because here’s something I never understood at the
time:
Looks
don’t really matter.
You Can’t Quit Food
You
know what’s ugly about food addiction?
You
can’t quit.
Isn’t
it interesting that a lot of addictions start with our base needs?
Food. Drink. Happiness. Sex. Safety. By avoiding what we actually
need and diving face first into what we want, we end up creating a
complicated mess.
Like
an unhealthy self perception and the idea that we need food for
comfort.
Now
that is something you can never actually “quit”.
The
Grocery Store
This
problem is never more apparent to me than when I go back to the
grocery store.
I’ve
contemplated ordering and picking up—just so I don’t have to go
inside and see the endless options. Smell the saccharine scent of
donuts in the air. Dream about loading my cart up with the cakes that
are not only on display—but look so freaking pretty!
(It’s
really unfortunate that food has to be so visually appealing too. A
pile of sawdust sure doesn’t draw me in.)
For
me, ordering and avoiding the store is a great strategy when I’m
going through a hard time or am super busy. But I’ve found that
avoidance just breeds more fear. Fear of the food itself. Fear of
choices. Fear of myself because I lack the control to hold back.
But
really—fear that I’m not enough.
Most
of the time, it takes me going to the grocery store and facing those
fears to really face the issue.
No, I
say, I am good enough even if I buy a brownie as a treat and not
because I feel I need it to cope with my day. Or I still have value
even if I don’t look like that model. (Yeah, I often have to do
that just while grocery shopping. These fears crop up.)
Why is
this important? Because otherwise, I grab food for comfort. If I
don’t face the demons, then I hand the control over to fear.
It
Comes Back
Even
though I’ve learned how to love myself in an imperfect state, that
doesn’t mean I always do. There are days that I forget how much
food is an obstacle to me. Then it comes back.
And
suddenly I remember it all so clearly.
There
are days where I have to double my meditation time just so I can
confront a crowd of people as an author and still feel I have value
even if I’m not perfect. There are days when I have to coach myself
in the mirror to remember that I have important things to say even
though I don’t have a stick thin body. Or I have to calm the panic
that rises if I don’t get a work out in, or ate too much dessert.
It’s
all right, I have to tell myself. My worth is not based on my workout
or my food intake. I’m sorry, body, for not treating you right.
We’re going to do better.
Because
even when I try really hard to remember, it comes back.
Sometimes
I have to dig deep to find that morsel of self love. Sometimes I
don’t believe myself, so I turn to my people. The ones that stand
behind me. That affirm my value without certain perfections being
met.
Even
then . . . sometimes I just have to remember me.
Me.
That
me is good enough without a single digit jean size. That me is
perfect now even when it all seems to hopeless. Health, longevity,
and feeling good in my own skin are my goals.
No
matter what, it always comes back. Why?
Because
you can’t quit food. And that’s okay.
I
wouldn’t ever want to.
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