Good With Cheese

It’s Public Service Employees Recognition Of Willingness To Be Paid Peanuts And Get Yelled At Week, or something like that, so the office party-people have planned events for each day.

They all involve food.

I like food.  Like, a lot.  But it’s such a semi-painful experience to be in an office filled with disordered eaters and watch them navigate the minefield that is a box of donuts. 

Should they?  Shouldn’t they?  Perhaps just one?  Perhaps just that harmless, glaze-glistened yeast one?  That’s a better choice than the chocolate iced, right?  Or the one with the lemon filling and drifts of powdered sugar?

It goes on and on, and then my head falls off and rolls under my desk.  Or I wish it would.  Either way.

Today was Cake Day.  At precisely 2 PM, the cake was due to arrive.  The Weight Watchers began discussing whether or not they would be having said cake at 1 PM — yes, a full hour before it got there.  They asked if I’d be having cake, and I told them I had no idea if I’d be hungry or even want cake in an hour, so I couldn’t say.  And the cake arrived and a while later I got hungry, but for yogurt and crackers, so I had that instead.  I don’t have to eat cake just because it’s there and/or free.  They were befuddled by that.  I remember that befuddlement.  I’ve been there, too.

Honest truth is, I’ve been feeling sorry for myself for a couple of days because my brain has been spreading rumors that my body is lumbering and awkward, that it is Too Fat.  And I’ve been kicking myself rather endlessly, both for being such a tool for believing that “Too Fat” is a Bad Thing, and for being such a sap for believing my giant ass is anything but revolting.  Kick, kick, kick — for falling short in every possible way.

But these two days of watching my coworkers turn pastries into morality plays reminds me of what I have to treasure.

Hard days happen.  Even the most deeply rooted belief can shake if the wind blows hard enough.  But even on those hard days, I know my value isn’t dictated by my menu or my jeans.  I’m lucky, because even when I don’t like what I see in the mirror, I still get to feel love for it in my heart.

Happy International No Diet Day, everybody. 

In the last few weeks, something has begun shifting for me.  It’s been a revelation, because I wasn’t aware how super-secretly I was hanging on this idea.  But I get it now.

I’m not going to lose any weight through the power of intuitive eating.  I’m just not.  And it’s okay.

Because honestly?  I’ve still been clinging to a tiny, shredded hope that my weight was going to “settle” lower than it is now.  I thought this stop in the high 140s was temporary, just a response to feeding 5.5 years of denied cravings.  I was secretly convinced that when things settled, I’d end up in the mid-130s.  After all, I’d maintained there for several years with only moderate restrictive eating and fewer than 5 hours of exercise a week.

Yeah, the fact that there had to be “moderate restrictive eating” to keep me there should have clued me in that 135 wasn’t a natural weight for my body, but I’m not always Ms. Self-Aware.  Also, I’d stopped taking BCPs before I got into the really disordered dieting and then resumed them the same month I stopped dieting, so I rationally should have expected some new weight as a side effect, huh?

But I didn’t.  I still believed that 135 would be my number, and I stubbornly held on to certain clothes and checked my body against them periodically to see if I was back to that size yet.  I wasn’t going to do anything to try to get my weight back there; I simply believed it was going to happen.

And then…some part of me (a part that I’m awfully grateful to and probably ought to pay more attention to) began rejecting that.  I started looking at myself in the mirror and not comparing this body with the 135-pound body I was waiting on.  And more and more, I found myself thinking it was time to get on board with what I’m seeing now because this is what I look like.  This is my body.  It might be skinnier or fatter or exactly the same in the future, but that doesn’t matter –  right now is all that matters.

It wasn’t, like, a big epiphany with a heavenly choir and rays of light shining down or anything, but my body just became real to me.  The whole thing felt like my spirit just shrugged and said, “Okay.  This is what I look like.”

It’s what made me able to give away those too-small clothes.  And it’s made me comfortable wandering around the house in my underwear, because I have nothing to hide (I’d always claimed modesty, but it was really shame).  I’m happy to find that I’m not disappointed; this is the first time in my life I have a (mostly) healthy relationship with food and exercise, so this is the first time I’ve ever had a chance to see what healthy looks like on my body.

It looks perfectly okay.  And it’s nice not to be waiting anymore.

This week’s question for Aunt Fattie has gotten me thinking about how I define Health At Every Size for myself.  As best I can tell, it usually goes something like this:

Today, I practiced HAES. 

I woke up at 6, which meant I got about 8 hours of sleep last night. I function best with 9 hours, but it’s not always possible.

For breakfast, I had a toasted whole wheat English muffin with peanut butter and strawberry jam, coffee, and a glass of milk.  I usually have something with more protein at breakfast, but I wasn’t feeling it today and I no longer believe in eating things I don’t want just because I think I should.  And my English muffin was awesome.  I drank two more cups of coffee as I read the paper.

I then showered and got dressed for work, making a point of putting on sneakers because my feet are achy from running yesterday; I probably need new running shoes, so I’ll pay attention to the signals my feet are sending and go shopping this weekend.

At work, I drank a glass of water and took regular breaks from my desk (usually to head for the bathroom, tiny-bladdered-freak that I am).  Around 10, I snacked on some carrots and hummus, and two squares of dark chocolate.  Tasty!

Lunch was pretty typical: ham and cheddar on whole wheat, a huge banana, a cookie (today was double chocolate chunk), and coffee.  I took the stairs back up to my office because it’s faster than the elevators.

Mid-afternoon, I got peckish, so I had a granola bar and deeply regretted not packing cheese and crackers this morning because that’s what I really wanted.  Oh, well.  Sometimes I just have to eat what’s available when I’m hungry; I don’t always make perfect food matches.

I got home a little later than usual because it was my on-duty day at work and I had to see all the walk-in clients.  It’s always super stressful and when I got home, I wanted nothing more than to pull on my comfys, pour a glass of wine, and spoon Little Dog.  During my dieting days, I’d usually force myself to run even though I didn’t feel up to it, but these days I know my health isn’t just about my body; my spirit counts, too.  So, a glass of shiraz, a Sudoku, and one sleepy wiener dog were healthy choices for me today.

Neither my husband nor I felt all that inspired at dinner, so we grilled some chicken and had it with brown rice, veggies, and a few fantastic strawberries.  After dinner, I played a little Wii and then had my nightly ice cream.  This week’s flavor is Turtle Brownie, and while my husband wasn’t looking, I dug out a few extra brownie chunks for my bowl.  I felt pretty calm and centered today because I managed to eat all day without counting calories one time.

Today I took care of myself: by eating foods I liked, not foods I thought I should eat; by wearing comfortable clothing and shoes; by passing on formal exercise because it felt more punitive than pleasant; by getting enough rest; by engaging in activities that reduce rather than elevate my stress levels.

HAES, for me, means taking good care of myself regardless of the physical appearance of my body.  It doesn’t mean eating in a certain way or working out X number of times per week.  It doesn’t mean perfect food choices or textbook intuitive eating.  It doesn’t guarantee that cancer or heart disease or Alzheimer’s won’t find me in the future (the only guarantee of that would be, like, getting hit by a bus tomorrow.  I’ll pass, thanks).

Good caretaking is acknowledging what my body and spirit are asking for today and meeting those requests to the best of my ability as often as I am able.  It’s treating myself as valuable and my needs and preferences as real.

So, today I practiced HAES.  I’ll practice it tomorrow, too, though it may look like a 5 mile run and tacos for dinner, or maybe yard work and a grilled cheese sandwich.  What exactly I do changes day to day, but the goal always remains the same.

Whatever you did today that made you feel happier or stronger or calmer or more like yourself, that felt good in my body and your soul?

That’s HAES.  You’re doing it exactly right for you.  And good job.

Yesterday I cleaned out my closet and dresser of everything that is, by my own definition, “too tight.”  Goodbye, size 10s!  Granted, my husband is bereft because he likes me in too-tight pants, but as they made me feel badly about my body, he’ll just have to get his kicks in some other way.

I loaded up a huge bag of clothes and another huge bag of shoes (including a few pairs I’d never even worn, so that’ll be fun for someone else!), and donated them to a local women’s shelter.  They’ll serve a much better purpose there than in my closet, encouraging me to hate on myself.

In related news, I spent the weekend out of town with my mom, sister, and Girl Cousin, and we took lots of pictures of our adventures.  I was looking at them on Sunday afternoon after we got home, and I was struck by how pretty I looked. 

Pretty.  Me.  All 149 pounds and 31 years of me.  I looked relaxed and happy and my skin was all glowy and my body looked strong and I didn’t look tired or gaunt or terrified.  I can’t remember the last time I looked at a picture of myself and thought I was pretty.

During the dieting days, I would scan pictures for proof of my “hard work,” trying to spot bones or sinew as evidence that I was getting skinnier.  At the very worst of my behaviors, I saved pictures that showed a too-frail wrist jutting from a sleeve or a visible hipbone pressing against my pants, and I reviewed them regularly because it kept me focused on my diet.  Even then, though, I never found the pictures pretty; I’d mention how badly I photographed and I’d avert my eyes from the sad, scared face looking up from the glossy print.

But these pictures?  That girl is pretty.  So that must mean…I’m pretty.

It’s amazing what you can see when you start looking through your own eyes.

I ran outside today for the first time since last fall.  I twisted all through our neighborhood, breathed in warm spring air, listened to birds singing, coveted brilliant jewel-box flower beds.

But none of that is the exciting part.

The exciting part is: I ran in shorts and a sleeveless tank.

Okay, so that doesn’t sound like Big News.  But here’s the thing:  the last time I ran in shorts was almost five years ago.  I was just learning to run (that sounds…weird.  But you know what I mean), it was one heck of a hot summer, and I only wore the shorts because I was running at 5:30 in the morning before it was light out. 

I’ve never felt comfortable exposing my pasty, chubby thighs to the world;  even at my thinnest, I didn’t wear shorts out of the house.  It didn’t matter if it was 100 degrees out; I was running in track pants and a t-shirt with sleeves.

But I’ve decided that I’m not going to continue to treat my body like it’s shameful in this one area of my life.  After all, my legs deserve air and sunlight and balmy April evenings.  And for the love of baby-flavored doughnuts, running feels best when I’m comfortable and shorts are comfortable.

And you know, anyone who doesn’t like looking at my chubby thighs? 

Well, they can survive the five seconds it takes me to leave them in my dust.

The weatherman promised me 84 degrees today, so I found myself in my closet this morning facing last summer’s clothing.

I tried on a lot of pants.

Some things were snug; they weren’t necessarily unwearable, but a few were tighter than I generally like my clothing unless I’m, you know, cat-burgling or jewel-heisting.

There was that moment.  You know the one.  When you stand there and you face slightly-too-small clothing and you think, “I could probably get back into those if I just dropped a couple of pounds.”  In that moment, it seemed entirely reasonable and somehow easier to consider restricting my food intake and exercising until I break instead of buying new pants.

I knew this was coming after the recent Shorts Incident.  I knew a reckoning of last summer’s wardrobe with this summer’s body was headed my way.

Alas, it seems I have to do some shopping and buy a lot of new pants.  And like every woman ever, I struggle with finding pants that fit my unique snowflake of an ass, so having to give up the pants in my closet that actually worked on my body?  Well, that’s kind of angry-making.

But the thing that I keep coming back to is this:  If I had left my body alone, if I had avoided wandering into Disordered Land, if I had let HAES help me find a healthy weight for my body, then most of the clothing I own would be 12s.  And they would FIT ME NOW.  Because the clothes that are too snug?  Are all 10s.  I am not a 10.  I haven’t been a 10 since a brief pass-through as my weight normalized last year. 

In that moment this morning, I had a choice to either punish my body for not fitting the clothes, or to continue to love my happy, healthy size 12 self and just buy new pants.  The decision took less than 30 seconds.

Tell me that’s not progress.

March zoomed by in a blur of reality television and college basketball and many hours of Wii boxing (because throwing wild punches into the air soothes the savage beast that is my soul), and I’ll be damned if it’s not already April.

So, this upcoming Wednesday is the first anniversary of giving up my diet; it was on April 16, 2007, that I wrote my contract with myself to try three months without dieting, overexercising, or weighing.

One year.  And I really am beginning to feel okay.

It sounds a little crazy to me — a whole year, and I’m just to “okay” on the self-love continuum?  Not “awesome” or “completely self-accepting” or “body image rockstar.” 

Just “okay.”

But you know?  That’s good enough.  That’s Megan 1, Diet 0.  The diet is now in the past.  But me?

I’m still here.  I survived the 2o+ pound weight gain.  I survived leaving behind the 4s, 6s, 8s, and most of the 10s, and every morning, I pull on my size 12 britches and the world doesn’t end.  I’m still loved.  I’m still me.

I’m just not afraid anymore.

As for food, I ate the world for a while and then I stopped eating the world and now I just eat.  I pick what I like and what makes me feel good; my food choices are no longer little dances I do with my disordered body image.  I don’t have to go hungry now.  It remains such a tiny ecstasy, this eating-to-fullness — it still sometimes takes my breath away.

I’ve been working out consistently, intensely, thrillingly, these past several weeks, and it’s been an actual pleasure.  I run hard, I sweat, I push my limits — but I don’t have to do it.  I do it because I can.  Because I am strong. Because I am powerful. 

I stopped feeling those things when I was abusing my body, but now?  I feel like a force of nature.  I didn’t know I could be so proud of my body in a way that doesn’t even consider how it looks in shorts.

It all sounds better than “okay,” doesn’t it?  But in all honesty, there are still moments when I miss certain items of clothes that don’t fit now or when the Weight Watchers talk about that thrill of a lost pound.  In those moments, I hear echoes of my old self-loathing.

But they are just echoes.  And every day, they sound farther away.

So, one year.  I can’t really sum it up in any way that sounds profound, so I’ll just steal this quote from Winston Churchill:

“Every day you may make progress.  Every step may be fruitful.  Yet there will stretch out before you an ever-lengthening, ever-ascending, ever-improving path.  You know you will never get to the end of the journey.  But this, so far from discouraging, only adds to the joy and the glory of the climb.”

Yeah…happy anniversary to me!

I’ve had a pretty significant shift in how I eat this last week or so, and I’m quite excited about it.

Many of my food rituals while dieting were built around the clock: breakfast at 6, snack at 9, lunch at 12, snack at 3:30, dinner at 6:30.  I didn’t deviate from this schedule and, of course, there were also all kinds of rules about what I could eat at those times, but all in all, I was quite time-focused.  Frequent small meals = calorie-burning machine, after all.

Since giving up my diet, I’ve found myself still eating on that schedule for the most part.  There may have been a 10 or 15 minute window around those times, but my hunger usually appeared right on cue at those dieting times.  It was a clearly a habit, and one that made me crazy.

But here recently I’ve noticed that something has sort of just clicked off in regards to the clock.  I’m zooming through most of my morning without feeling like I need to eat: no 9 AM snack.  I get close to my lunch break before I even feel the early stirrings of hunger.  And, like, real hunger - not just a response to the clock.

This is a small thing, but it carries big importance for me.  These little shifts in my thinking add up, these moments when I eat a hamburger without feeling guilty or when I snack because I’m hungry even though I just ate an hour ago or when I stop running at 2.41 miles even though I had 4 planned just because my knee feels wonky and I don’t want to injure myself.

It’s so easy not to give ourselves credit for the daily tiny steps we take, for those small choices we make that honor our bodies instead of harming them. But enough of those tiny steps? 

Well, we can cover a lot of distance that way.

There is not so much to say right now.

The weather these past few days has been hinting at spring, all coy sunshine and soft breezes, and when I walk out to get the paper in the mornings, birds are singing in the trees.

It makes me want to go outside and lift my face to the sky and take deep breaths.  It makes me long for a hammock and a book and a tall glass of tea.  It makes me think of shaving my legs and putting on my shorts* and letting the sun warm my winter-white skin.

Oh, but alas.  My shorts.  They are too small now.  I can put them on and zip and snap and all that, but they fit more snugly than I’d like.  My shorts were once baggy.  They used to rest on my hips.  Now they squeeze.  It makes my heart sad.

This last week-and-a-half, I’ve been back to a more consistent and intense workout routine, but I’m appalled at how weak I’ve become.  My triceps dips yesterday were pathetic.  I feel limp and loose and floppy.  I don’t like my weakness.  I don’t like not feeling strong.

I know my tight shorts are not related to my noodle-y muscles, but my brain has tied these two things together in a way that makes me think too much about my food and makes me want to chart my workouts neatly on the calendar.  I feel like I’m holding the ticket back to CrazyTown; I just haven’t decided whether or not to have it punched.

I know I can get stronger again.  I know I can work back up to knocking out set after set of perfect dips.  And I know it’s okay to want that.

But if it’s okay to want that, how do I keep from wanting something as simple as my shorts to fit again?

*They’re not really shorts, in that they actually reach just past my knee, but they’re the only shorts I’ve ever bought and worn as an adult, without shame or discomfort.  They’re only one size down from what I wear now, which is how they survived the purge.  Tragically, I bought them 2 years ago, so there’s no chance of finding them now.

I was thinking yesterday, if I could back to how I was before November 2001, before I ever went on that diet, before I ever decided that fat was a bad thing to be, would I?

You know?  I don’t think I would.

I do miss my blissful ignorance about the unacceptability of my fat ass.  And I would like to have back some of the awfully cute size 16 clothes I had then, as well as the ability to look at my thighs and ass without only seeing cellulite.

But while I was accepting of my body then, I didn’t take very good care of it.  Honestly, I didn’t even thinkabout my body; I lived from the neck up.  HAES was something I’d never heard of, and as a young, living-in-my-first-apartment, no-clue-how-to-cook, hot-damn-food-costs-money girl, I ate a lot of quick and cheap prepared foods.  I also didn’t exercise, because I’d never thought of myself as someone who could be athletic.

Now here I am, 6 years and 4 months away from that decision to make myself smaller.  My weight has stabilized 40-odd pounds below my highest-known weight, but 20 pounds above my lowest.  I have a belly and squeezable thighs and broad hips.  I also can run harder and farther than I could at either my highest or lowest weights.  I don’t get lightheaded every time I stand up (as a side effect of not eating enough), nor do I get as tired as I did when I never moved and ate nutritionally inadequate food.

I am healthier than I was at 187 or 126.  I feel better.  My body never feels like it’s breaking down these days; my limp is gone.  I don’t find myself wondering how many more miles I can get out of my ankle before I damage it too much to run at all, because I don’t push through injury now.

More importantly, I think I love my body more than I could have if I hadn’t dieted.  Dieting (and eventually overexercising) made me aware that what I do to and for my body has consequences.  If I eat junk and don’t move, I feel run down.  If I don’t eat enough and move too much, I feel broken down.  I have learned there’s balance to be had, that there’s an equation where eating enough and moving enough and resting enough add up to a body that feels comfortable.  Strong.  Happy even.

So, are self-love and self-acceptance more meaningful if you go through self-hate and self-harm to find them?  I can’t say that’s true for everyone.  But for me, my dieting and disordered behavior led me here, to a place where I neither ignore nor harm my body, but live with it and through it.

And that’s a pretty great place to be.