Good With Cheese

I don’t have a lot to say today because I spent the vast majority of the afternoon napping on the couch, but I have two very important (to me) things to cover.

1.  My treadmill is DEAD.  DEAD, DEAD, DEAD.  It’s been acting…skittish for the past few weeks, but I’ve been babying it along and it’s been working okay for the most part.  However, on Tuesday night, my husband decided to run on it for the first time in months.  Apparently, my 145-ish pound body was manageable, but his 225 pound body was not.  The belt just flat-out stopped moving (mid-run.  Hee.  Apparently, it tried to toss him into the wall).  And now there’s an unusual, burn-y kind of smell coming from the motor. 

So, no running for two straight days, as it is dark out when I get home from work and I’m a giant baby about running outside in the dark.  And the dead treadmill is lying on its side in the middle of my workout room, so I can’t even get in there and do a video.  I am curiously okay with all this.  So, I’ll be taking a brief break until I can go treadmill-shopping this weekend.  This will be a good opportunity to test my fear about not working out, no?  Rather good timing, I’d say.

2.  I went shopping this morning looking for new pants and sweaters.  I found myself trying on clothes that I normally wouldn’t because I’d always believed they were wrong for my shape (in other words, would make me look fatter).  

To hell with that.  I came home with three sweaters that looked adorable on me without trying to create any dramatic illusions about my shape.  It was liberating.  And even as I was standing in the dressing room in my socks and underwear, I felt okay about what I was seeing in the mirror.  No, not okay.  Happy. 

Happy.

About my body.

It was a good day.

Kate Harding has a (typically) brilliant post up about The Fantasy of Being Thin.  If you haven’t read it, go right now.  I’ll wait.

Okay, finished?  Was that not some serious nailhead-hitting?

I’ve been reading it and re-reading it and reading the comments, then coming back five minutes later to check for more comments, and I keep nodding my head, and thinking, “Yes, yes, yes!”

We are so not alone, y’all.

For me, thinness promised acceptability.  It meant I’d no longer have to be the self-deprecating chubby girl because I would instead be the bona fide hottie.  I would run effortlessly.  My cellulite would disappear.  My hair would inexplicably and immediately reach the middle of my back, have lovely golden highlights, and I would wear it in a ponytail on Saturday mornings while brunching on croissants and freshly-squeezed orange juice.  I would have a closet filled with saucy skirts and sleeveless tops to show off my golden, toned limbs.  I would go camping and swimming and I’m pretty sure I’d suddenly receive a master’s degree in some challenging field of study.  I would be bubbly, effervescent, charming in all situations.  I’d be so pretty.

I achieved a relatively-thin size 4 and held onto it long enough to discover a few things about what I’m really like when thin.

As a size 4, when I woke up on Saturday mornings for my same ol’ breakfast of toast, egg, and milk, my hair was still short, still brown, and still generally appeared as though a goat had been sucking on it all night.  My cellulite was worse (all…deflated.  I still feel deeply betrayed by that).  My skin was the same shade of pale.  I had the same job, the same hobbies, the same education.  I remained nervous around people I didn’t know well, was completely not bubbly, and was charming only in a dorky kind of way.  And as for pretty?  Well…I looked the same.  I was narrower in some places, bony in others, but the basic parts didn’t change.

The Reality of Being Thin also meant I’d become wicked insecure.  Any body confidence I had previously had vanished right along with the pounds; I became more ashamed of my body because the more I focused on my flaws, the more of them I saw.  I gave up the few hobbies I did have because there wasn’t time for anything but exercise and meal-planning; my only hobby was running — not even outside where the sun could shine on me, but indoors, on the treadmill, where I could track every mile with precision.

The Thin Me?  She was a concentrated version of all my worst traits.  More anxious, more isolated, so-much-more depressed.  My periods stopped, I was consumed with thoughts of food, and I gave up reading anything except fitness magazines and cookbooks.  It was the loneliest time of my life, even worse than sophomore year of college when I slept 16 hours a day and went for days without speaking to another living soul.

In this way, I’m lucky.  I’ve been thin, so The Fantasy of Being Thin…well, I’m fortunate to know first-hand that thin doesn’t change me.  And while that hope of becoming someone perfect is really, really hard to let go of, it’s easier when you know that artificially becoming thin doesn’t guarantee anything other than…well..hunger and self-loathing.

I remain convinced that it is a million times harder  to live in this world and not diet than it ever is to count calories, Points, or pounds. 

Giving up dieting, accepting your body, letting go of excuses…it’s really, really, really hard.

But that’s not a reason not to do it, right?

I was thinking last night, as I was chugging along on the treadmill and watching a special on VH1* about plastic surgery, that so many of my decisions are made out of fear.  Almost all of the important ones and, really, the vast majority of my unimportant ones are the direct result of my being afraid.

Afraid of not being good enough, of not being loved, of not being acceptable.

Of failing.

That is no way to live a life.

I exercise every day because I’m afraid that if I stop, I won’t start again.  I still find myself “paying attention” to what I eat because I am afraid of getting fatter than I already am.  I have decided not to have children because I’m terrified I will become my father and destroy them.  I stay in a job that sucks the joy right out of my soul because I am afraid of trying and failing at something else, afraid of even trying to uncover what my dreams are.

You know, though, I’m not feeling sorry for myself about any of that, and honestly, as downer-ish as it all seems typed out, I am glad to know this.

Because by knowing it, I can correct it.

If I stop exercising for a day or five, I’ll start again because that’s just how I live my life.  I am an exerciser.  It works for me better than antidepressants and I honestly enjoy a good sweat when I don’t make it mandatory.

If I really, genuinely eat whatever I want, I won’t get any fatter than my body wants to be.  And even if I were to gain 20 or 200 more pounds, it wouldn’t change the facts of who I am, and the people who love me will continue to do so.

If I have a child, I won’t parent him/her like my father parented me because I am not cruel.  I wouldn’t do it.  I just wouldn’t.

If I change jobs or go back to school and fail miserably, it’s still better than miserably sitting at this desk for the next 25 years.

I don’t want a life lived in response to fear.  I want a life lived in search of joy and happiness and pleasure.

I can’t help feeling the fear, but I don’t have to follow it.

*I promise I only watch complete junk whilst on the treadmill.  It’s mindless and makes the time go by, but honestly?  VH1 kind of screws with my head, so I probably need to give that one up.

Dear Body,

I owe you an apology. 

You and I will be celebrating 31 years together in just 10 more days.  Thirty-one years of constant companionship, not one single moment spent apart.

When I took those first toddling steps way back in ‘77, you provided the equipment.  Throughout a ridiculously clumsy childhood, you endured a series of scrapes, gouges, and bruises that resulted from my poor decision-making and complete lack of depth perception, and we suffered through, what was it, a good two-dozen cases of poison ivy?

You’ve allowed only one case of strep throat and two cases of the flu to ever take hold, and your vigilance has kept serious illness at bay.

You have run when I asked you to run, bent into freaky positions during badly-done yoga, carried boxes and children and one small, rage-filled dachshund, and for the last several years, you have done all this with too little food and too little rest.

And even worse than that, you’ve done it while being called the most hurtful names I could imagine.  You’ve functioned exactly as you were designed to, and received only scorn in repayment.

I am so sorry.  I am so sorry for not giving you your due.

For not looking at you with wonder and gratitude.

For not loving every square inch of you.

For not feeding you well and moving you compassionately and letting you nap on the couch when you needed it.

I promise to do better.  Even though it is hard (so hard, so much harder than hard), I am not spending another year battling you.  I am not spending another year living only in my head while castigating you for your entirely reasonable requests of enough food and enough rest.

We’re going to have bad days.  Of course we’re going to have bad days.  But I need you.

There is no me without you.

So here’s to many more years.

Love, Me.

It’s been seven months and one day since I gave up my 5.5 year diet.

Seven months v. sixty-six months.  No wonder the diet junk still rattles through my head every now and then, huh?

For some reason, I’m fixated on the 1-year mark.  I feel like, when I get to that one year mark, I’ll have a pretty solid idea of what size my body will be with normal (for me) exercise and normal (for me) eating. 

Right now, I’m a size 10-12 in my lower body, a medium in my upper body.  I’m very much rocking the pear-shape these days.

Sometimes I press my hands against the sides of my upper thighs and imagine a world in which my saddlebags do not exist, but for the most part, even in my undies, I think I look okay.  Kind of cute, even. 

Most of the time I eat exactly what I want in the quantity I want and that still feels alternately terrifying and joyful.  But the joyful moments make the occasional terror worth it. 

I still work out a lot, but I’m not making myself follow any plan.  Well, any plan other than, “Work out regularly lest the Crazy take over.”  It’s all about holding the Crazy at bay, not about burning X number of calories or running X number of miles or, my favorite, putting in 11 hours of cardio a week.  Really.  Eleven.  How did I ever come up with that one?

It’s all progress and I think I’m getting that, for me, body acceptance is more journey then destination.  I always have to keep taking steps along the road; I’m not just going to arrive there, give my bags to the bellman, and go lounge by the pool with a rum-based beverage. 

But at least it’s a journey I get to take without being underfed and injured all the time. 

That’s a win any way you look at it.

You know, I’d really forgotten how freaking awesome it is not weighing every day.

There’s such…relief. 

Example:  Yesterday, we had a work party and lunch was provided, so I ate a non-typical lunch that included Doritos.  Oh, Doritos, your Cool Ranch flavor is so enticing.  And then, as yesterday was National Bundt Day, I clearly had no choice but to bake a Bundt cake, a delicious applesauce-chocolate chip-cinnamon-y treat.  So, yesterday was full of “risky” foods. 

But this morning, I didn’t have to weigh and see what the ’damage’ was.  My clothes still fit, and I  don’t have to confront some, oh, 1.3 pound weight gain that will only serve to make me regret having some food-fun yesterday.  No regret.  Only relief.  Love that.

Scales suck.  Bundt cakes rule.  Doesn’t get any simpler than that.

Today I am not hungry.

This is unusual.  I typically have an appetite unfazed by anything but the highest drama.  The last time I remember actively not wanting to eat was when I broke up with a serious boyfriend way back in ‘00.  I was quite heartbroken and just the sight of food was gag-inducing.  I lived on coffee and Dr Pepper, lost about 20 pounds in 2 months, then got over myself, resumed eating, and went on with my life.

I try not to talk about a lot of personal life here that doesn’t relate to my relationship with my body because, really, how much self-pity can you pile on the internet before the wheels go flat, you know?

But things not related to my body are hard right now and I think I am too young to feel this…trapped.  Actually, I think anyone who isn’t yet dead shouldn’t have to feel trapped.  As long as you’re breathing, you have options, right?

I want to exercise some options.  I want things to change.

I also want to dream my (tiny, really oh-so-tiny) dreams without my husband kicking my feet out from under me first.

He’s always more often than not terribly negative and it makes me want to punch him and then possibly move away in the middle of the night.

I can stay right here, right in this tiny little world with a job I don’t like and a body I fight with and feel like my brain is probably shriveling up and my joy right along with it, or I can do something different.

Maybe not even do.  Maybe just allow myself to imagine, you know?  To dream those tiny dreams, to remind myself that I am not, in fact, trapped.  No matter how it feels sometimes.

I don’t require support, but it’d be nice to have.  And I certainly can’t keep asking for it and not getting it, because, man.  I just shouldn’t have to.

Anyway, no appetite.  Only happens when a great shift is coming.

Wonder where I’ll settle.

I had today off work, thanks to a government job and a holiday.  I spent it exploring antique shops with my mom, and having our annual Veterans Day lunch of quiche, soup, and baked fudge.  YUM.

After our little jaunt, we stopped by Hallmark because my mom needed a couple of cards*.  While she was looking, I browsed the rest of the store because I’m a sucker for shiny trinkets.  Anyway, amid the address books was something called a “fitness journal.”  Of course, I had to look at that.

Page after page after page, it had places to record your food (plus calories/points), exercise, daily weight, water consumed.  It was, like, my dream journal from when I was dieting.

It looked so innocent, all neatly bound with its precise little checkboxes and pretty, feminine cover.  So discreet, so perfect for tucking in your bag every day.

So harmless.

My first thought was, “Where was this when I wanted it?” 

 My second thought was, “Wow, disordered eating needs accessories.”

Isn’t that just a big bucket of suck?

It makes me sad, how normal and expected it is that we’re all dieting all the time.  I think the feminine print of the cover is what bugs me most of all: as though being a woman means you should have to be trying to shrink yourself down all the time.  That you should always try to be less than what you are.

But it doesn’t mean that, or at least it doesn’t have to mean that.  I want to be more than what I am, not less.  I want to expand, not make myself tiny and undernourished and fragile.

I sit here in my size-12 jeans and my tummy is rolling over the top of my pants and I don’t have a damn idea of how many calories I’ve eaten today, but luckily, none of that says anything about who I am as a woman.

It just says I’ve learned to care about more important things. 

*I think the incredibly specific nature of Hallmark’s cards is freaking awesome.  Cards for being cancer-free for a year?  Check.  Cards for coming out?  Check.  Cards for making Eagle Scout?  Check.  It’s amazing!

Last November, I made it my mission to get through the holidays without gaining a single pound. 

Being an overachiever, I arrived on New Year’s Day weighing three pounds less that I did at the beginning of the season.

I viewed that as a victory at the time, a triumph of will over the evils of…I dunno…stuffing?  Green bean casserole?

I turned down everything good for a solid two months.  I passed on homemade fudge and Christmas cookies sparkling with sugar and eggnog and hot apple cider and I ate only one piece of my own birthday cake, a ridiculously good chocolate cake with caramel filling and caramel cream icing.

I eased the restrictions only on Thanksgiving Day (after putting in a five-mile run that morning) and Christmas Day (six miles that day).  But even then, I was excruciatingly careful about what I ate.

Honestly, it was horribly sad-making, trying to approximate a 3-ounce serving of turkey and measuring out a 1-inch wide slice of pumpkin pie with one tablespoon of whipped cream.  I mean, that’s totally how the Pilgrims did it, right?

I’m not going to give myself any rules this holiday season.

I started 2007 with a three-pound weight loss and a deep sense of loneliness because I had essentially spent the holidays holed up in my house with my measuring spoons, my treadmill, and my scale.

It’s not just about the food; I’m not planning on eating the world over the next two months because I like having a functioning digestive system and I don’t want to break it.  But I turned down a lot of invitations and celebrations because of my fear of the food that would be there.  Not doing that this year.  I’m saying yes to everything good that comes my way.

Even extra slices of birthday cake.

I’m teaching myself to sew.

I have a sewing machine, a hand-me-down from my step-mother-in-law, but I’ve never used it.  In my entire life, I’ve sewn one seam of stitches.  That’s it.  No more.

My mother made a point of not teaching me and my sister how to sew.  She didn’t want us to feel like we had to do traditionally female domestic chores; it’s the same reason she didn’t teach us how to cook.

Luckily, we’re both bright enough and have learned how to cook.  And now I want to learn how to sew.

I’m starting with the easiest skirt ever, a simple a-line with a drawstring waist.  I’ve got it mostly completed, just need to finish the hem, but OH!  SEWING IS FUN!  I had no idea!

And more importantly, sewing your own skirt for your own body?  Kind of makes you not hate your body.  Because the skirt can be made to fit; the skirt needs to change, not the body.  And it’s not like I have to make some kind of insane alterations to the skirt to make it fit.  It’s just small adjustments here and there.

So, every time I’ve stood in a dressing room trying to figure out why nothing seemed to fit and blaming my freakish, lumpen body?

I’ll be damned if it really wasn’t the clothes that were the problem.

Between this and the miracle pants, I think my clothing situation is looking up.