Good With Cheese

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.

My last two posts have reflected the drift I’m feeling lately, the move away from my body-acceptance journey toward one seeking a broader self-acceptance.  I feel like I’ve held the body image stuff in my hands for so long now, turned it over, examined it from all sides, lifted it to the light.  I think I know it pretty well.  But I also now know it’s just a puzzle piece, not the puzzle itself.

I am ready to pay more attention to who I am and how I am and why.  I want to learn things about myself beyond how many miles I can run or how I take my coffee.

I’ve always been disappointed with my natural inclinations.  I’ve fantasized about being strong and stubborn and courageous, carefree and brash and assertive.  I like the idea of those things, how powerful they sound.

But the truth of who I am?  It is not those things.  And that is okay.

I am quiet and cautious and safe.  I listen to both sides.  I frequently change my mind.  I wait until I am certain.  I look, then step gingerly off the edge, leaving the leaping to lords.  Security matters to me.

It all doesn’t sound very exciting; Wonder Woman doesn’t wait for safety nets.  But I am not Wonder Woman.  I am Megan.  I like to be prepared.

And you know?  Confidence isn’t always brash.  Smart isn’t always stubborn.  I can be my own version of those things.  The Wonder Woman type is only one variation.

I think self-improvement has its place.  There’s something to be said for becoming more well-read, or a better cook, or fluent in another language.  Those things are all awesome and worth doing.  But too often, we make goals of changing the fundamental traits of who we are.  We look at our brashness or shyness, our restlessness or stillness, and we see them as flaws to be overcome.  We focus on improving what is already acceptable and, in doing so, we tell ourselves over and over and over that we are not good enough.

Who you are?  How you are?  Those qualities and characteristics that are unique to you?

They are all good enough.

Be proud of them.  Love them.  Be proud of you.  Love you.

And happy Valentine’s day.

The farther I get from dieting, the better I can see what it gave me.

Oh, restrictive eating and the accompanying illusion of control, how you soothed me.  Oh, punishing and endless exercise, how you numbed and distracted me.  Oh, single-minded purpose of becoming smaller and smaller, how you turned my attention away from my broken places.

I am dissatisfied so much these day, so full of vinegar and fury; it spills everywhere across my life. 

It terrifies me.  It’s asking for sweeping changes, loud declarations, cleaned slates.  It would be so much easier to starve it into silence, to tire it out on the treadmill until it is limp and weary.

But I’ve learned self-punishment can’t be my sedative.  So I don’t self-punish to contain my rage; I let it seep into corners and across pages and I hope that by letting it out, it will let me go.

I have a spent a lifetime not being good enough.  I have spent a lifetime apologizing for being me.  For being not-pretty, not-clever, not-graceful, not-lovable.  Apologizing.  Diminishing.  Hoping that if I make myself small enough through word and deed, then I’ll be allowed to pass by unharmed. 

I made myself small for my father.  For my classmates.  For too many men.

And eventually for myself when I believed they were all right about me.

I don’t want to be small anymore.  I don’t want to be small in my own esteem, small in my body, small in my life.  I want vastness, fullness, depth and breadth.

More than just wanting though?  I believe I deserve it.

I am not apologizing anymore.

Dear Women I Work With,

To begin, I am not interested in what you are eating today unless you also brought some for me.

If you tell me about some kind of “dessert” you fashioned out of rice cakes, fat-free Cool Whip, and Splenda, don’t expect me to say it sounds good.  Because I won’t.  Because I’m not that good of a liar. 

I am not going to tell you that you are “good” for eating an apple no matter how much you fish for that.  I eat apples almost every day and I’ve yet to achieve sainthood, so I think there’s not actually a moral component to apple-eating.

I do not care that you lost five pounds.  That’s why I shrugged and said, “And?”  It’s not because I’m rude; it’s because I don’t think your worth is measured by your weight.

When you say you “shouldn’t” have that piece of chocolate, I will agree only if it turns out you stole it from either a small child or me.  Otherwise, it’s chocolate.  It’s delicious.  Get over yourself.

And lastly, this is an election year.  Our nation is at war.  The Super Bowl is this weekend.  The Oscars are coming up.  There are million things we can talk about besides how fat you think you are.

Please stop being so boring.

Sincerely,
Megan.

So, at work, every available surface is PLASTERED with Weight Watchers flyers.  Thus far, I have resisted the impulse to rip them down, but only by this much. 

But after two weeks of seeing them every day, I have reached my breaking point.  I’m working on a flyer of my very own all about HAES.  And I’m going to be hanging one next to every damn WW flyer in the building.

The thing is, last year before I quit dieting, I had no ideathat not hating myself was even an option.  After all, my fat was completely the result of my Very Bad Couch-Sitting and Constant Donut-Eating.  All I had to do to fix it was control my calories in v. calories out with, well, chronic undereating and overexercising.  And if I still didn’t achieve thinness, then I just needed to try harder.  You know, eat less and move more, even if “eat less” really meant “attempt to starve” and “move more” meant “spend hours on the treadmill every day while ignoring friends, family, pets, sleep, and ONE’S OWN SANITY.”

But then I found out that my body wasn’t an object of shame.  I found out my health, which is a real and tangible thing, had meaning that was not relative to my pants size, an arbitrary and inconsistent thing.  I found out that exercise didn’t have to be punishment.  I found out that constant hunger was a sign of a problem, not a symbol of my virtue.  I found out that beauty isn’t a BMI.

I still have hard days.  But even on the hardest days, I still know the truth.  There’s no un-learning body acceptance.  Even when you want to ignore it because in a lot of ways it’s easier to go back to being a good-for-dieting fat girl, you can’t forget it for long because you know better now.  And the part of you that knows you deserve kindness and love?  It’s going to fight like hell to keep you from going back.

I’m a reserved and quiet person.  And so, I’m not much of an activist because I’m not quick with the talking and the smartness; I’m better at applauding from the sidelines.  But you know?  I can’t use that as an excuse.

Even I can wrangle a few flyers and a box of thumbtacks.  And that’s a start.

Dear Santa,

I’d like to get over myself.

Sincerely, Megan.

Dear Megan,

Then just do it already.

Love, Santa.

So, an ice storm moved through, well, most of Oklahoma on Sunday.  Lots and lots of ice.  Lots and lots of tree branches snapping off and falling onto power lines.  And as a result, lots and lots of people with no electricity for lots and lots of days.

Here’s a quick rundown of my week:

• Our power went out early Monday morning. 
•  I watched five of our six trees fall to the ground that afternoon, thankfully only grazing the house.  
•  I threw out everything in the fridge and freezer on Wednesday. 
• I reached my official breaking point around 4 pm on Thursday. 
• Around 5 pm that day I consumed two whiskey-based beverages and felt a little bit better. 
• Around 6 pm our power came back on.  It’s entirely likely I cried when that happened. 

 I asked my husband if he’d ever been happier in his whole life.  He said, “Yes, when I asked you to marry me and you said yes.”  I told him not to lie, that electricity is so much better. 

But power remains out for much of my family, so my sister and her kids have been sheltering here in our home since Friday.  The washing machine never stops running; the dishwasher fills up in what seems to be minutes.  But I am happy, happy, happy that we are able to take them in and hopeful their power will be back on soon. 

So, just checking in to report I am not frozen here on the Oklahoma tundra (and Jill, I hope your power is back on by now!!).   I’ll be back with a real post soon. 

In the meantime, I’ll be composing long, flowery, and incredibly sincere love letters to linemen, and of course, doing another load of laundry.

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!