Good With Cheese

I’m hungry.

Right now, my stomach is growling and I ought to go eat something.  But getting up, walking to the kitchen, staring into cupboards and fridge…nah.  Don’t wanna.

My demand-feeding has been sidetracked for a while now due almost exclusively to my laziness.  It takes planning and thinking to figure out what I might want to eat and to prep it and pack it all up and I’m just not interested.  So, I’ve been rotating the same couple of breakfasts, the same couple of dinners (which is kind of a misnomer, because some stuff stuck in a pita isn’t really a ‘dinner’ so much as ’stuff stuck in a pita’), and the exact same lunch every day. 

Even my snacks are routine now.  Yogurt and granola.  Apple and cheese.  Protein bar. Repeat as needed.

I’m bored with food, bored with thinking about it, prepping it, packing it.  Bored with dishes and shopping.  Bored, bored, bored.

Soon I’m going to be existing solely on fruit and crackers and iced coffee and then the rickets will set in and it will be my own silly fault.

Anyone know where to get one of those food replicators from Star Trek?

I have a lot of scars. 

 Growing up, I never let things heal. If there was a skinned knee or scratched shin, that scab was coming off.  Multiple times.  I’d peel it off and watch the blood and couldn’t wait until the scab came back again.  I’d tear the tissue-paper skin off blisters then press my finger against the raw pink flesh underneath to feel it burn. If I had a bruise or goose-egg, I’d prod and poke at it, feeling that dull, deep ache. 

And I was a pretty accident-prone child, so opportunities abounded.

Now, I still take myself apart in little ways.  My cuticles are shredded most days; one on the thumb of my right hand stays perpetually bloodied.  I chew the inside of my lip until it bleeds when I’m nervous or upset or…well…awake; it’s always salty and raw.  When I’m feeling particulary anxious, my first instinct is to always make something hurt.  Hurt brings me back.  Hurt is real.

This post by Teppy really resonates with me and makes me think about something I generally try not to.

The first man who pointed out my fatness is the one I chose to marry.

Yeah, that’s so far beyond a bloody thumb, huh? 

It happened the first time a couple months after we’d started dating; we were shopping for these specific shirts for his mom and sister, both wisps of women, and I said we could probably get something cute in the kids’ section since they’re both so thin.  He looked at me and said, “Are you jealous?”

The second time was a few months later; we were deciding whether or not to continue with our relationship and he was concerned because I wasn’t “active.”  Which is total code for “fat,” right?

The next week I started my diet.

My husband has worked really hard to make up for those things and he has since been incredibly cautious about not making me feel badly about my body.  He’s been supportive as I’ve gained these 20 pounds and tells me he thinks I’m even more attractive now.

But in the back of my head, I’ve always felt like there’s a condition there, like 146 is okay, but if I go up to 156 or 166 or back to the 180s where I was when we met, then I’ve let him down. 

It says something important about me that I choose to have the primary relationship in my life be one that hurt me.  And I sometimes wonder when I’m going to stop hurting myself. 

Or if I’m going to stop hurting myself.

So, yesterday I mentioned a couple of things that I find troubling.

One, I’m still hanging on to smaller-sized clothes.  Why?  Well, clearly, because I’m under the impression I may spontaneously lose weight and fit into them again.  There can’t be any other answer.  I’m not starting a clothing museum, I’m not expecting a tapeworm anytime soon, and there is no smaller-sized naked person living in my house who needs clothing.  So, if I’m keeping them, I’m keeping them for some future, thinner version of me, right?

Two, I’m weighing again.  Not necessarily multiple times a day (though not necessarily not multiple times a day) and not always daily, but the scale has taken up its former residence in my bathroom and been reintroduced to the morning routine.  I’ m not living and dying by it, bu what’s it doing for me?  What information am I seeking from it that I can’t tell by how I’m feeling?  If I feel bloated and like my skin is too tight, then I don’t need the scale to tell me I’m probably heavier that particular day.  But damned if I don’t drag myself onto it anyway.

The barbarians are always at the gate, aren’t they?  You can fight one battle after another, and even if you win a lot of them, it doesn’t stop the war.  And if I lay down my weapons and my armor and assume that because I’ve won a couple of battles, I’ve won the war?  Then I’m setting myself up to lose everything.

I can’t let these little habits, these little dieting behaviors, creep back in.  I’m not willing to lose this war.

So, I’m setting a date, because I love the feeling of a deadline and how a timetable makes things feel so tidy.

October 16.  That will be 6 months from the End of the Diet.  My body size hasn’t changed since the latter part of June, and I’m feeling pretty settled into this range.  By October 16, I expect I’ll have a pretty good idea of where my natural weight range is and so by that date, two things are going to happen.

First, I’m going through every last item of clothing that still lives in my house and anything that doesn’t fit and feel good as of that day leaves the house.  That includes things that almost fit, sort-of fit, fit but are uncomfortable, fit but make me feel lumpy and weird, or look like they belong on someone else.

Second, I’m finding a permanent home for my scale.  That permanent home must require me getting in a car and driving more than 5 miles in order to access the scale.  Because I’m lazy and would never do that, I think that’s fairly safe.

So.  October 16.  That’s the plan.

I’ve been working out a lot lately because I’ve been enjoying it, and the ridiculous temperatures have made my appetite disappear, so I’ve been eating lighter than what is typical.

 Guess how much weight I’ve lost?

None.  Hee!

I have conflicting feelings about this.  The Secret Dieter who still lives in my head is very upset; she doesn’t understand how this could happen.  It’s calories in v. calories out, after all*, and far more has been going out than in.  The math!  The math should work!  The math has never failed us before!!

However, the Non-Dieter is quite pleased.  Basically, even though I rationally accepted the idea of a natural weight range, I was pretty sure I’d be the exception.  I assumed that eating in a normal, appetite-driven way would continually push my weight up, up, up.  That there would be no stopping point, that I would gain and gain and gain.

But that hasn’t happened.  When I stopped my disordered behaviors, my weight zoomed right up to the 145 - 148 range and…stopped.  It was like…wait for it…it wanted to be there!  Like my body had some kind of wisdom about what I should weigh.  And now, here I am in this range and the weeks I exercise only minimally and drink extra glasses of wine and say yes to dessert, I stay here.  And the weeks I work out for hours and eat only whole foods, I stay here.  There’s about a 3-pound range that I scoot around in and it seems pretty independent of how many miles I ran the day before.  It’s freakin’ fascinating, the way my body seems to want this weight.

But I’d be lying to you (and to myself) if I said that the Secret Dieter wasn’t the first voice I heard when I weighed this week.  The disappointment came hard and fast, but it was just a reflex.

I’m not perfect at this and I have no expectation that I’m going to suddenly get perfect at this.  There are still clothes at my house that don’t fit anymore but I can’t bring myself to give them away, after all.  But I’m also in a place right now where my feelings about my weight are very separate from my feelings about my body.  My body?  I really like it.  It fills out a pair of britches quite nicely and I so dig not seeing my sternum.  My body is strong and powerful and capable of blinding my enemies in bright sunlight (thanks, European ancestors!).  The number on the scale may bug me some days, but I recognize it’s not about my body anymore.  It’s about clearing out the junk in my head that says only certain weights are acceptable for me.  And it’s probably also about moving the scale back to that high closet shelf and tossing those smaller-sized clothes. 

I am so much more than a number.

*We all know the Secret Dieter is oversimplifying here, but she’s not up to complex thought.  She’s very hungry, after all.

If there’s anything more delicious than iced coffee, I don’t know what it could be.  But it’ll be a miracle if I sleep at all for the next three days.

I went out to dinner with my sister last night and we talked about the Weight Watchery.  She said she basically just felt really out of control about how she was eating and wanted structure; she talked about binging, about secret eating, about all those deprivation-driven behaviors I know so well. 

Oh, I hooked her up.  She left my house with four books about emotional eating and body acceptance and learning to eat intuitively.  I gave her the lowdown on how diets like WW can teach you how to ignore your hunger and satiety cues, and that until you get in touch with those, food is always gonna be more complicated than it needs to be.

She seemed really receptive and eager to look at the books.  I just love her so very much and think she’s beautiful, and damn it, she should get to think she’s beautiful, too.

I’m taking a road trip this weekend to visit my husband while he’s on a special assignment (because I am a sucker for staying in hotels), so I won’t be around until probably Tuesday. 

Have a great weekend!  And drink lots of iced coffee because it’s fantastic!

Dear Random Lady in the bathroom at work,

I know we see each other in here a few times a week.  I think your name is Vivian, but I can’t be sure because I don’t talk to people in the bathroom because…it’s a bathroom.  A definite no-talking space for me.

For all intents and purposes, I am a stranger to you.  So, I was quite confused when you asked me if I was pregnant.  Because, well, I DON’T KNOW YOU.  And I was pretty sure it was bad form to ask someone if she’s pregnant unless you’ve been, like, invited to a baby shower or seen an ultrasound or something.  Just looking at a woman’s body and then asking her if she’s pregnant?  That, dear Random Lady, is bad manners.

To answer your question, no, I am not pregnant.  But don’t worry.  If I choose to make a life-changing decision like conceiving a child, I’ll be sure to swing by the bathroom here at work and let you know first.

Sincerely,

The woman who should have punched you.

Greetings, coworker who lacks an internal censor,

Asking me why I have a “black girl’s booty” is not appropriate work conversation.  It’s also not a question I can answer.  So shut it.  And seriously, stop looking at my ass.

Regards,

Me and my sizeable shadow

To the good people of the Spangler Candy Company:

Your Dum Dums are delicious.  I particularly enjoy the butterscotch, though the “mystery” flavor intrigues me with its inscrutability.  Keep up the fine work.

Many thanks,

A sucker-lover.

Maybe I missed that day in school, but was there, like, a special assembly where they sat us all down and informed us that we had a responsibility to society-at-large to be “healthy” and “in shape”?  Really, I didn’t have perfect attendance, but I do love an assembly, so I can’t imagine I would have missed that day.

There’s an interesting discussion over at BFD about fat-as-feminist-issue, and the comments fascinate me. I’m particularly struck by some clearly intelligent commenters talking about fat as a matter of health. I’m sorry, but without even addressing whether or not that’s true, who freaking cares?  That’s not the issue.  I don’t have to meet anyone’s standards of health; I don’t have to stay “in shape” for the greater good.  What you choose to do with your body is completely your business, as is what I choose to do with mine.  And FAT AND HEALTH ARE NOT MUTUALLY EXCLUSIVE.

And now I break it down:

1. Health has a lot of definitions, and I can meet my definition or my doctor’s definition without meeting yours.  Health is not the same for every person.
2. You cannot look at the size of my ass and tell how healthy I am, unless my medical records have been tattooed on it.  My ass does not equal my blood pressure, my cholesterol, my mental well-being.  It may tell you what size pants I wear, but that’s probably as much information as you’re gonna get.
3. I am fit.  I can run for miles and miles, I lift very heavy weights quite regularly, I’m fairly bendy, and my core can take a pretty good punch.  And yet I look most decidedly not fit to the casual observer.  I wear a size 12 in pants and have jiggly parts and tip the scales (to use the Obesity Epidemic vernacular) at 146 pounds.  I am, like, only the tiniest margin below the BMI cutoff for “overweight”, but probably pass back and forth over that line as my weight naturally fluctuates.  And I did just drink a big glass of water, so I may be “overweight” as I write this.
4. I eat in the range of 1700 - 2000 calories a day, mostly made up of lean proteins in deference to my cholesterol, veggies, fruit, and whole grains.  I work out hard 90 minutes a day.  This is not enough to make me thinner.  I dig the laws of thermodynamics as much as the next chick, but I’m not dropping pounds like a high-school wrestler because my body is not identical to every other 5′5″, 146-lb woman’s body out there.  Our metabolisms vary, so while Woman A may be able to stay a trim 130 while running 3 miles a day and eating 2000 calories, those same behaviors will cause my weight to increase.  Because we’re not the same person.  Really.  I know.  It’s mind-blowing, but what’s true for Woman A may not be true for me.  Scandalous, isn’t it?
5. For me to be thin and to therefore look “healthy”, I must engage in behaviors that are unhealthy.  I have to overexercise and chronically restrict what I eat.  I have to run until I pass out or throw up and I have to develop stress fractures and I have to engage in unrelenting self-injury.  Thinness requires a complete disregard of health FOR ME.  And that’s the only person I can really get all het up about, so bummer for you.
6. To most observers, I’m not fat.  I’m just sort of in-between.  I don’t get discriminated against, I don’t get called names, and I am well aware of how kindly society treats me compared to fatter women.  But I’m also well aware of how much better society treated me when I wore a size 4.  And it pisses me off, because my value is not dependent on my weight.
7. If I decide tomorrow to stop working out 90 minutes a day and maybe go for a nice walk in the evenings or play with my dogs, and if I decide to eat Cheetos with my lunch instead of carrot sticks, and if I have a beer with my whole-grain veggie pizza instead of a big glass of water, then that’s my decision.  I’m not entirely clear on why anyone else would care.  Do people really have that much spare time that they can emotionally invest themselves in my fat ass and how it affects and/or offends them?

I don’t have to meet your definition of health.  I don’t have to be fit.  I don’t have to be thin or “lean” or “take care of myself” or look any specific way.  If you don’t like looking at me, don’t look.  If you don’t approve of how I choose to watch Iron Chef on Sunday nights instead of using that hour to run an extra six miles, don’t associate with me.  If you value thinness, that’s your value system, not mine.  You probably find me lazy and unmotivated and I can’t really help that, like you can’t help that I think you’re judgmental and self-righteous.  We’re both probably at least a little bit wrong anyway.

I just wished we spent more time talking about the ways in which women are just freaking awesome instead of the ways in which we don’t find each other acceptable just as we are.

That’s the conversation worth having.

You know what I like?

This feeling I’m having this week of leaving myself alone, of not being under construction.  I’m happy in my body right now.  I’m not interested in the size of my thighs, my hair is freshly-cut and therefore fuss-free (yay for short hair!), I’m wearing clothes that don’t squeeze me, make-up has been minimal, and exercise has been consistent but not cruel.

I like not being a project.  I like not feeling as though I should be working on New! Improved! Me!  all the time.  I’m not trying to get skinnier or grow my hair out or make my skin less glaringly white or my cellulite less bumpy or my skin smoother and my lips plumper.  I’m not looking through magazines and cataloguing the ways I don’t measure up.  I’m not wandering through the drug store looking for the next magic product that will make my teeth brighter and my pores smaller and my hooves softer.

I’m just living my life in an imperfect body, and you know?  People aren’t running away screaming, children aren’t bursting into tears at the sight of my dry cuticles and uneven complexion, and my husband hasn’t divorced me for a wife with less-pronounced smile lines and a flat stomach.

All that stuff that the world tells us matter oh so very much? It just doesn’t.  It doesn’t matter if you have gray hairs or pale skin or stretch marks or back fat.  Those things don’t affect the quality of your life until you let them.

My favorite pair of sneakers looks pretty rough around the edges.  The rubber is worn and the laces are dingy, but they have taken me places.  They have earned that wear; it’s proof of a life lived.

I’m going to look at my body the same way.  It’s imperfect because I’m using it.

And that’s worth celebrating.

So, I’m back from dinner with my mom and sister, and nary a Weight Watcher word was uttered.  We all even shared dessert.  My sister, she’s good people.  She knows diet-talk is hard for me to hear, and I think she’s making a concerted effort not to trigger The Crazy. 

You know, any time I go out to eat, order what I want, eat it, then come home and don’t eat the contents of the kitchen?  Still feels like a victory.  During the dieting days, eating a meal that wasn’t planned or calorie-counted kicked off that blown-diet mentality.  I’d feel like that particular day was shot, so it didn’t matter anymore, and I should eat while the eatin’s good.  I’d graze through the cabinets, the pantry, the freezer.  Even if I was so full it hurt, I’d keep forking food in because I knew that the soon enough, I’d have to live with feeling hungry all the time again.

This evening, I came home full of a really awesome chicken salad and 1/3 of a brownie fudge sundae, and I just felt…full. Not like I’ve failed.  Not guilty or regretful.  My stomach is full and that feels comfortable and cozy, but more importantly, it doesn’t make me feel anxious or scared that this is the last time I’ll be full for a good long while. 

I’m not even heading straight to the treadmill to put in a hour or two of running.  I’m going to park my full, contented self on the bed with Little Dog, watch TV, practice folding origami cranes, and work on my list of three things to do this weekend that aren’t about my body.

Oh, and this is the third day in a row of general awesomeness — consider the streak started!

I think I slept approximately 56 minutes last night, and work was nutty today, so I’m feeling a bit wonky.  In light of that, I’m going to simplify things with a quick list of what’s on my mind today.

1. I bought different yogurt on Sunday due to my grocery store being out of my normal brand.  It wasn’t until I got home that I realized it was some kind of faux-gurt, all full of aspartame and high fructose corn syrup, and, by the taste of it, EVIL.  Tragically, this is basically the kind of yogurt I ate as a dieter, and I’m very sad that I thought that was even food-like, let alone actual food.
2. Tomorrow night I’m having dinner with my sister the Weight Watcher and my mom.  The question of how to be supportive of my sister without being supportive of her diet is knocking around my noggin, because I know that topic is bound to come up; any suggestions?
3. I hate lunges.  And squats.  But mostly lunges.
4. While I was working out today, I thought about the fact that a good 85% of my body has never been objectionable to me.  I basically put myself through years of misery because of the 15% of my body that’s upper thigh and ass.  How freakin’ crazy is that? 
5. Both yesterday and today were good days.  I did nothing in regards to my body that felt punitive or sad-making, and I felt…sparky.  Excited.  Even with minimal sleep and 5 AM wake-ups.  If this repeats tomorrow, I’m going to call it a streak.
6. Some days, I feel like a different person than I was four months ago.  It’s been hard, and there has been backsliding and doubt and tears, but I am so proud.  Every step, even the really sucky ones, has been worth it.