Might as Well (Not) Jump

I was going to write a nice little post about my High School reunion. It was gonna be full of old friends and jello shots and puppies and gobs and watermelontinis. You would've loved it. I was going to mention the sound grown women make when they greet each other after such a long time apart (kind of a hybrid of the tween/teen squeeeee! and the college girl/young adult woman wooooo! - and don't pretend you don't know what I'm talking about, 'cause you do). I was going to mention the things that change and the things that don't. I was going to talk about actually putting your arms around someone you've been virtually (((hugging))) for two years - and feeling theirs around you. I might've made a gentle winking reference to reading glasses and pill-minders and hot flashes. It would've been the feel good post of the year.

It would've been those things - it was all written out in my head - I just needed to find some computer time.

Between the time I wrote it in my head and I actually got computer time, though, something awful happened.

Classmates posted their pictures.

And I died.

There were seriously tears as I looked through the first batch, and numb resignation as I looked through each subsequent batch. That is NOT me. How can that be ME?

The pictures weren't the only reminder that things had indeed changed (for me). A lot. Let's just put it this way: If you're significantly overweight and have degenerative arthritis in your knees and David Lee Roth tells you you might as well jump, you should probably ignore him because it will be a very bad idea and hurt for a week. It won't hurt as much as looking at those pictures, but still...

Damn, I wish I could find a way to make the outside match the inside.

I'm not - this.

I'm nothing like this.

I guess you're just going to have to trust me on that one. Can you trust me more than you trust your eyes? Can you take that leap? Can I? Or will what's inside eventually morph into something as ugly as what's outside - just to bring balance to this dichotomy?

I know - there are people in the world with real problems. Hell, there are people in my very immediate world with real problems. People I love are hurting - and I am literally brought to tears because of what I look like. It is shallow and ridiculous and vain. I need to get over myself and put it in perspective.

And yet...

People tell me the pictures are great, and I die even more - because in most cases, the people who are saying this would die - DIE - if they looked in the mirror and saw something that looked like me gazing back at them. (Wow - drama much? Read that sentence again and see if you can't manage to swoon just a little. You know. Before you DIE!)

I just need to avoid cameras. They are a serious buzzkill. And - despite all I've said here - the reunion really DID provide a pretty darn good buzz.

And as badly as my knees hurt now? I'm still glad I jumped.

Antici............................pation

Hello, Classmates!

Can you believe it's been thirty years?

When that invitation arrives in the mail it strikes fear in the heart of most of us who have gone ahead and aged like mortals. I skipped the last one. It's not much fun to be the one who "got really fat" (I hope you read that in a stage whisper so I would/wouldn't hear you...) Who can forget the words of Suzanne Sugarbaker when she accepted an award for 'Most Changed' at her reunion on the They Shoot Fat People, Don't They? episode of Designing Women:

Well, this is quite a surprise. I guess maybe I deserve this award for the Person-Most-Changed, but (pause) not for the reason you think. Last night I got my feelings hurt because I came to this reunion thinking I was beautiful and what I find out was that I'm fat (pause) at least you think I am. But that isn't the biggest change in me. The biggest change is that the old Suzanne wouldn't have shown up here tonight. She would've just gotten thin before the next reunion and then she would have gotten even. But I'm a little older and I hope a little wiser than that person used to be.

A lot of things have happened to me. A lot of things have happened to all of us. Sandy Smothers was killed the night before we graduated. Diane Mitchell's got two sets of twins and Gayland Chadwick's working in the White House. We had a lot of dreams together and there's no point in pretending some of mine came true and some didn't.

I met a little boy from Africa tonight whose family died of starvation and I realized that I spent the whole day at home worrying about the fact that I had too much to eat. I'm not sure the old Suzanne would have appreciated the absurdity of that but this one does.

Some of you men wanted to know about my bra size, but I’d rather talk about my heart because (pause) it's a little bigger than it used to be. The old Suzanne wouldn't have forgiven you for the things that you said, but this one will. Because when I look around this room tonight, I don't see receding hairlines and the beginnings of pot-bellies and crow's feet. I just see all the beautiful faces of old girlfriends and sweet young boys who used to stand on my front porch and try to kiss me goodnight. And you can remember me any way you'd like, but that's how I'll always remember you.

And so I thank you for giving me this award for the Person-Most-Changed, however you intended it. I'm gonna treasure it because #1. I love trophies and #2. I earned it. Thank you.

Suzanne rocked, no doubt.

But I've never had Sugarbaker strength. I am not going into it feeling beautiful. I feel - ashamed. I hate that I will be judged by it, but I will. It's not fair, and it's not right, but it will happen. I don't know if knowing that - like I do - or not knowing it - as was the case for Suzanne - is worse. Just because it won't catch me by surprise, doesn't mean it won't hurt.

So why don't I just skip it, then, for Pete's sake? Well, blame FB for that. I've renewed contact with so many friends from that period of my life. We've shared our stories - our trials and our triumphs. I would hate to deprive myself of the opportunity to spend face-time with these people just because my face now sports an extra chin (or so...).

So I stress about it. I've stressed about it since the invitation arrived months ago. I stressed about it every time I saw a classmate on FB mention that they hoped they could drop ten pounds before the reunion. I could gain or lose ten pounds without it being noticed. I suppose there's a sort of comfort there. Nothing to be done about it - certainly no quick fix. I'm not going to look good - no amount of torture at this point - or at the point where I got the invitation - is going to change that.

I should be packing, today. Packing for our trip, that begins with the reunion and ends with the shore with a lot of relative-visiting in between. I should be packing. I should be making my house ready for the time we'll be away. But I'm not. I'm trying to do a hundred things at once and not doing any of them well. I'm sitting here with a rock in my stomach, certain that I'm going to hurl. I can't concentrate on anything. I am - in a word - manic.

What the hell?

I'm sure I'll be telling you in a few days about how much fun it was.

Pretty sure.

Mostly sure.

But right now? I'm just gonna sit my fat self in a corner and rock. And maybe hurl.

Shape Up!

Perhaps you've see the commercials for Skechers Shape Ups. If you have been in a shoe store or a department store recently, you have almost surely seen a display. Joe Montana even touted their efficiency in a Super Bowl commercial. But if you're still unfamiliar, they are shoes designed to promote weight loss, tone muscles, and improve posture. As my new PT job requires me to be on my feet for a solid three hours every day, and I needed new shoes anyway, I allowed myself to be pulled in by the promises. I felt a little bit like a sucker as I tried them on and carried them to the counter. I knew in my heart that they weren't going to live up to the hype, but, like I said, I needed new shoes anyway and I figured it was worth a shot. Stereotype alert: Fat chick heading to the counter with the next miracle fix.

But here's the thing: I put those bad boys on and noticed an immediate improvement in my posture. Cool. One promise fulfilled out of three made isn't bad. It's a better promise to fulfillment ratio than I experienced when I was dating. It's a way better promise to fulfillment ratio than I experience from my kids. I considered the purchase to be a success.

A few days later, standing tall and straight, a little girl I know came over to me, excitedly pointing to my new shoes. She was having a pretty darn enthusiastic reaction to them. "New shoes! New shoes!"

"Yes, I got new shoes."

"MY shoes!"

"No, sweetheart, they're not your shoes. They're my shoes." I pointed to further make my point, "My shoes - your", I slowed down here as dawn broke on marble head. This little girl has multiple disabilities, and one of them is that one leg is shorter than the other. My built up shoes looked a whole lot like her built up shoe. She had clearly never seen a shoe like hers on someone else before. It made her happy. It made me ridiculously warm and fuzzy.

Better posture and a warm fuzzy feeling. These kicks are just paying for themselves.

Later in the week I found a new use for them. I was out with my sister having a couple beers. Please don't have a heart attack and die from the shock of that. The shoes became a good indicator of when enough was enough. These shoes require a certain amount of balance to maneuver in, you see. I knew if I could make it to the ladies room and back, I was ok. They were very fun to walk in with a little beer buzz, too. I always appreciate a good challenge. Bonus. Next up in Tammy and Wendy's Drinking for Fitness regimen: Jello shots on a Bosu ball. Maintaining your balance through that feat is sure to strengthen your core while weakening your inhibitions. Win/win.

But there was one more benefit to be derived. This morning when I put on my fresh-from-the -dryer jeans, I did not need to lie on the bed or jump up and down or perform any sort of acrobatics at all to get them zipped. That's right, kids. I appear to have dropped a couple pounds. Nothing significant - nothing you'd notice - I only noticed because of the difference in the fit of my jeans. But still. Something. Sure, sure, it could be because I'm standing three hours every day that I would've otherwise been sitting. Or it COULD be because I'm standing on my new Shoes of Wonder.

That promise to fulfillment ratio just shot to 2:3. With two bonus benefits that HADN'T been promised. Dude. They're not very pretty, but I'm going to wear them EVERY day.

(Oh, and just to be clear - this was a completely uncompensated endorsement. Though if future compensation should come my way, I'd be willing to change that line about them not being very pretty. I'm sure a free pair would be very pretty indeed.)

I Had a Dream

I dreamed last night that I went to a weight loss website (and folks, that right there proves I was dreaming, because as a fan of my own sanity I stay away from them like I stay away from sites dedicated to kicking puppies) and right there - on their front page - was a big article on abuse. An article on taking control and not allowing anyone to abuse you. Helpful links and advice on where to go if abuse had already occurred. I remind you, my friends, that this was only a dream. If it was real, I would be signed up for their service, providing links, and offering to pay THEM to advertise in my sidebar.

No, it was a dream alright.

It was a dream because all you have to do - in January - is turn on your TV, or walk into the grocery store, or - hell - have a conversation with your friends to determine that abusing the sort of folks who might benefit from a visit to a weight loss website is not only acceptable but encouraged. In a society where perfectly average sized women complain about their weight and are encouraged to be thinner, you aren't likely to find what I found in my dream - a place that will help one lose weight if one needs or wants to, but in the meantime informs them that it is NOT ok for them to accept abuse - neither physical nor emotional.

No, that was a dream alright.

It was a dream, because we expect abuse from others, those of us who are bigger than what society dictates as acceptable. We feel like we deserve it. We walk with our heads down and try to be as unobtrusive as big people can be to avoid looks and comments. We try to be invisible when we go out, if we go out at all. We know we incite fear and disgust. Disgust with what we are and fear that 'something like that could happen to me' (usually followed by the comforting thought, 'I would NEVER let something like that happen to me'). We expect it. We try to avoid it, but when it comes we blame the abused rather than the abuser.

Yep, it was a dream alright.

It was a dream because we're encouraged to abuse ourselves. We're barraged with commercials and products - particularly at this time of year - that remind us that we're disgusting and unworthy, but with a lot of money from us and a little help from them we can be acceptable once again. Oh happy day. Sellers of false hope like Jillian Michaels, Special K, and Nutri-System can collectively kiss my fat white ass. There's plenty of room.

Now here's a little meta-blogging for ya: as I was reading this post over, the rant about the TV and grocery stores and conversations rang familiar in my ears. I went to my archives and found this: Battling the Two-Headed Beast - written last year in - what do you know? Early January. 'Tis the season.

But I had a dream...

A dream where people were encouraged to be who they are - right now - not who they could be if they bought the right product or plan. A dream where healthy people come in all shapes and sizes. A dream where designers at all price points made lovely, flattering clothes for women with all body types. A dream where it was no more ok to abuse someone because of their weight than it would be to abuse them because of their race, religion or creed (for the record, I do know that people are still abused on all three of those counts, but it is not societally acceptable and certainly not societally encouraged).

I had a dream. It's still early. I wonder if I could still get back to sleep?

Randomness and a Winner

I heard you missed me, I'm back. I brought my pencil - er - netbook. Give me somethin' to write on...

I'm looking forward to visiting with everyone this week, which is really the only thing I'm looking forward to upon returning home. Away = Good; Home = Suck. But hey! Time for the interwebs! So it's not all bad.

First order of business - a winner of the pay it forward giveaway has been drawn. A couple days later than I promised, but I wanted to include pics of the drawing to keep it on the up and up and, as I mentioned, for some reason neither Tom nor I can figure out, I can't download pictures on the road, even though I have all the same equipment with me. He actually used that as a selling point when I was so bummed about coming home, "But when you get home, you can download your pics!" Always look on the bright side of life. (this is the part where I whistle...)

So without further ado:
We decided to do the drawing on the boardwalk in front of the casino, since a drawing is SORT of like a gamble, even though you don't really have anything to lose. Also because we were in Atlantic City so we could.

We put everyone's name on a slip of paper, but then couldn't decide what to draw it from. Pink was along for the ride, so we put her to use. Practical AND beautiful - is there anything that owl can't do? Lea is pretty cute, too.

A wider view of the boardwalk.

Turn around 180 degrees to this.

Pick a good one, Liv!

Savant is a wiener! (I always suspected as much) Congrats, Savant! I'll send you an email soon to clear up the deets.

And in birthday news, today is Tom's birthday. He got to spend it driving from Atlantic City to Uh-hi-uh. Try not to be jealous of his amazing good fortune. At this moment, we are sitting still in traffic somewhere in West Virginia. See? Everything about going home blows.

If you look in the mirror and don't like what you see, you'll find out firsthand what it's like to be me. (yeah, my angsty teen and tween are into My Chemical Romance. What can I say? It's a good lyric.) So I've written about weight and weight issues before (sigh). This weekend we went to Tom's HS reunion. I was nervous because I so hate the way I look and I didn't want it to reflect badly on him. I spent weeks trying to convince myself it didn't matter, but it always does. I can't tell you how many times I thought about bagging it. But go I did. I was so nervous. Meeting people has been scary for me ever since I gained the weight (before I put it on, meeting people was my favorite favorite). But I went and I quickly downed some liquid courage and before long it didn't matter if I was cute or not because I was having so much fun. Switched from vodka to rum and found myself doing the Time Warp (again). Next morning a lot of people had posted pics on Facebook and I was all, "Oh my SHIT I'm fat!" (Also - drunk doesn't look as good as it feels. Frack.) But you know what? The bottom line is that I DID have fun, a LOT of fun, actually, and if anyone judged me OR Tom because of it, I didn't know about it. (And I usually do know or at least suspect - there's a certain paranoia that comes along with hating how one looks.) Maybe I'm the one who needs to become less judgmental. If I'd let my insecurities keep me in I would've missed a really good time.

I just spent two weeks in Eastern PA and South Jersey and didn't even make an ATTEMPT to hook up with any of the people I TRULY MISS because I am so embarrassed about how I look. How freakin' dumb was that? Cut off my nose to spite my (ridiculously round) face.

Workin' on accepting who and what I am. Baby steps, baby steps.

Well, back to the grind. In as much as my life of leisure can be considered a grind. The laundry will wait, unpacking will wait, groceries will wait - I wanna see The Time Traveler's Wife. (Maybe that explains all the time jumps in this post. Am I home? Am I at the beach? Am I on the road in West Virginia? - yep, that's it. Time travel. I'm all of those places and more.) And download a bunch of pictures. I wonder why nothing ever gets done around here? Weird.

Battling the Two-Headed Beast

I am surely reminded, as I am every January, that having a bigger than average body is the scariest most horrifying thing in the world. Having a bigger than average ass is an almost unspeakable abomination. I am reminded of this every time I turn on the TV, walk into the grocery store, have a conversation... Folks will do anything to fend off fat cell growth - employing all manner of unnatural devices behaviors and eating plans to do so. Do whatever it takes or you might get fat! And then what? Shudder to think. On second thought, don't even think. Just buy this this and this, join this this and this don't eat (or drink) this this or this while eating (or drinking) plenty of this this and this. Ka-ching! While this goes on all year, of course, there's a big surge in January to further motivate the resolution warriors.

People who go to the gym regularly - a group I used to be part of and hope to be part of again within the next couple of months - look at these resolution warriors as a scourge at worst and a joke at best. I remember the year I was pregnant with Olivia. I continued going to the gym after the pregnancy was confirmed, but very shortly after that the pregnancy was deemed high risk and my activities were limited. Doctors orders were to stay away from the gym and any other remotely vigorous activity until 6 weeks after the baby was born. No big - a pregnant me was a compliant me, for sure. It was less restrictions than I'd faced with Lea's pregnancy (which had me spending 3 months or so lying on my left side with next to NO activity...) No big - except that Liv was born November 25, making 6 weeks post-partum just a week into January. I really sweated this - I even considered putting off starting back a few extra weeks, lest I be mistaken for a resolution warrior. (I ended up going back the first day I was allowed. Figured everyone who knew me at the gym knew when the baby was born and knew my plans were to return as soon as I was allowed. I decided I didn't care about what anyone who didn't know me might think. But I really did put quite a bit of thought into it...)

But back to the scary part.

Last week over at Shapely Prose a lively discussion emerged on a similar topic. When it was mentioned that this was scary scary stuff for most women, a lot of folks - bigger folks, like me - started chiming in about how awesome we must be because we face that fear head on every day and still manage to continue existing. I told Tom that since I was able to face the two-headed beast of fat and aging in the mirror without perishing I must be some kind of superhero. I live with what you fear daily and survive! Yay me!

Except that's not honest. I guess I don't fear it any more. Guess I've got that part conquered. But I don't exactly live with it in peaceful harmony. I, too, give it - the two-headed beast - more power than it deserves.

The other day a dear friend confessed that she'd always been jealous of me. This really threw me for a loop. I couldn't begin to imagine what would make her feel that way (and she wasn't divulging). I am entirely unenviable. I really couldn't figure it out.

Then I put some thought into it. I really do have it very good. I have caught a lot of breaks and been afforded quite a few opportunities that not everyone has. I'm educated, well-traveled and happily married. I have a home (humble as it is) and enough money (no extra, so I find time to whine about that, but always enough). My family is relatively happy and healthy. Damn! That is some enviable stuff, for sure! But I convinced myself that I am unenviable because I am fat and my once exciting life has become mundane. Good heavens! All of those wonderful things negated so easily! Wow! That two-headed beast is powerful indeed!

It shouldn't be so scary. We're all different sizes and shapes and ages. It would be terribly dull if we weren't. Easier to look at, by societal standards, perhaps, but dull all the same.

When I do go back to the gym in a couple months, I know what I'll be. I'll be that person you look at who gives you just that little extra push. "Damn, if I don't keep running/stepping/pedaling/lifting I might end up like that." Instant power surge. You're welcome, I guess. No one sets out to be a cautionary tale. But if that's my role, I suppose I'll take it.

The last time I ever ran, I was entered in a small 5K. I was in pretty good shape at the time - I'd been working out/training pretty heavily and my strength and endurance were probably the best they've ever been. But I was still fat. Because that's how I am. Anyway. I started running and there were two girls behind me. One said to the other, "Ohmygod - how's THAT for motivation to keep doing this?" Then they giggled. Now let's think about that for a moment. I was probably both twice their size AND twice their age, yet they were looking at my caboose in a race. How is it that I'm still the punch line in this joke? Yet I somehow was. I made it through that race, but never entered another. Know your place. I kept going to the gym though. And I kept being fat.

So I've got to tame that two-headed beast - somehow strip it of its power - because it isn't going away. Power to those of you who continue to try to fend it off. Because I guess you're kind of right. It IS scary.

Living in the Present

It feels like I should be posting reflections from the year past and resolutions for the year to come. It's what's done, no? So I tried. Truly I did. I thought about the year past - the highs and the lows - but mostly the pleasantly mundane middles. I thought about the things I should resolve to do in the year to come. I couldn't come up with anything that held my interest long enough to bother to write about it.

Last night at a New Year's Eve party, there was some discussion over whether we live in the past, present or future. We all agreed that we spend some time living in all of those places. I know I do. But if I'm going to be honest with myself, I do spend a lot of time living in the past. My past was more interesting. It was more exciting. It makes for a better story. My present, while certainly more pleasant than my past, doesn't make for a good story. Let's pitch the book, shall we?

Ok, it's about this middle-aged unemployed-by-choice chick who is happily married and living in the suburbs. Also she's overweight.

Where's the conflict?

There is no conflict. She goes about her life and is mostly happy and content. Sometimes she gets frustrated, though. Is that a conflict?

Depends - what frustrates her?

Well, her kids don't always listen to her. And the world isn't always nice to people who are overweight.

That? Is not a story anyone would want to read.

No, I guess it's not. So I think about my wild misspent youth. I think about how much better the music and movies were when I was younger. I listen to said music and watch said movies whenever I get the chance. I impose them on my children so they'll "know what good is".

Speaking of children, Tom and I are constantly telling Lea to live in her present. She, like so many of her generation, will be out somewhere - with actual people - but will continue to do most of her socializing via text. We remind her to enjoy the people she's actually with. "Be where you are", we say to her. She rolls her eyes, puts the phone away for a moment, and has it out again the next time our backs are turned. I've stopped coming down on her so much about it, because I recognize that it's not just her. It really is the hallmark of this generation.

But not mine.

So I think, if I'm going to make any resolutions at all, that my resolution will be to live in the present this year. I will go to the gym because I feel better when I work out, not because I am working towards a weight loss goal I'll never achieve. (hold me to that one, will you please? It's so hard not to fall into the "this time it's gonna work - for real - I just have to want it badly enough" mentality) I will live today for today and not long for yesterday or dream of tomorrow. Ok, I'll still totally do both of those things, who am I kidding? But I'm going to resolve to give today precedence.

Why I *Heart* Facebook (and other confessions)

I didn't go to my last High School Reunion.

Why? Those of you who read my blog with any degree of frequency have probably guessed: It's because I got fat.

What's the first thing one does when one finds oneself in a reunion situation? One does the little inventory. Who got gray, who got bald, who's hotter than their spouse (and whose spouse is hotter than them), and, of course, who got fat. Part of that inventory involves the comparison game. "I look older than her, but younger than her." "I'm fatter than her, but not as fat as her." We've all played it.

That becomes a lot less fun when you become the negative basis for comparison.

So I've avoided it.

But now Facebook has afforded me the opportunity to get to know people from my past in a way that allows me to sidestep superficialities. Sure, there are pictures, but I can pick and choose (and crop, and soften, and...). It has allowed us to reconnect in a way that doesn't begin and end with, "damn, girlfriend got FAT!".

This has been such a thrill for me.

And next time there's a reunion, I'll know there's at least a little group of people who will be happy to see who I am, not just gleeful to have someone against whom to compare themselves positively.

Maybe next time I'll go.

Don't Go Changin' to Try to Please Me

In my last post I talked about treasuring the various stages of childhood for what they are, and it got me to thinking about how it doesn't stop there. We need to treasure the various stages of adulthood for what they are, as well. Our little girls are trying to look like they're 20 and our older women are trying to look like they're 20 and I just sort of had to pause and think: what's so great about 20?

I suppose in your early 20's your skin is at its nicest. Acne is (for the most part) in the past and wrinkles are (for the most part) in the future. Your body tends to behave better - maintaining a reasonable weight is easier for most of us. It certainly was for me. But these are small things, in the grand scheme, and it seems so odd that we would value that era so much. Let me clarify. We certainly SHOULD value that era, as we value any other. I guess I just don't understand why we see it as an ideal we must try to reach when we're obviously much younger or much older. It's a stage, like any other.

We work so hard to maintain that illusion of youth.

A few months back, Tom and I took Olivia to a concert at The Columbus Music Hall (RIP) to hear Ralph Sharon (longtime pianist for Tony Bennett) play. As a pianist, we thought it would be a treat for her. The crowd skewed older, with Tom and I definitely being among the youngest. Olivia didn't like it at all. When I took her to the restroom, she confessed to me that she felt out of place. She said, "Look around. You have brown hair. Dad has brown hair. I have brown hair. Everyone else here has white hair except for that one lady with red hair and I don't know who she thinks she's kidding."

Setting my child's apparent ageism aside for a moment, I focused in on the end of her statement.

Who, indeed, does she think she's kidding?

A couple weeks ago at a festival we saw a guy with a thick gray ponytail. Kudos on the gray hair, but - he had said hair parted neatly about an inch above his right ear.

Who does he think he's kidding?

I started thinking about designers and fashion critics who describe certain pieces or styles as "slimming".

Who do they think they're kidding?

I bought into that for years. I know all the "rules". Here's the thing: so does everyone else. I recall one day about a decade and a half ago. I had the same figure type that I have now, it was just a little smaller. I've always referred to my figure type as pear shaped, but Igigi refers to it as a figure "8", and I think that's perhaps a little more accurate. Anyway. I remember distinctly having a coworker say to me, "Wide belt to emphasize a narrow waist. Well played." She knew the rules, too. I wasn't kidding anyone.

I am a big girl. No amount of careful wardrobe planning is going to make me look like I'm not. I can make choices that flatter me, and indeed I should, but I'm kidding myself if I think an outfit is going to make me look slimmer.

So I've made the decision to wear things I like. Some of them follow the rules, some break them blatantly. For instance, about 2 years ago I decided it was time to start wearing sleeveless tops again in the summer. They're comfortable and they're cute.

Let your freak flaps fly.

Let your bald flag shine.

Let your gray flag flow.

Because aging isn't such a bad thing.

About a decade ago I went to visit my Uncle Bill for the last time. He was quite old. We both knew it would be our last visit. And it was the only time in my life that I wished I could paint. My uncle was deeply wrinkled. He was covered in age spots. He was far too thin. He didn't have a lot of hair on top of his head, but there was a nice shock of hair growing out of his left ear. And he was one of the most beautiful creatures I'd ever seen. I wanted to paint him. I was actually a little angry that I couldn't. As far as creative talents go, I've always been happy enough with the ones I have, but on that day I would have traded them all for some skill with a paintbrush.

How different - and pathetic - it would've been if he'd attempted to hide those things.

Now I'm not against a little hair color - it's fun. I used to play with it a lot myself. I've already allowed Lea to start playing with it. I have no issue with that. It's when we're using it to desperately try to hide something - to be something that we're not - that I take issue.

The 20's are awesome. It's the beginning of adulthood. Beginnings are exciting. The world is your oyster.

But the 30's are awesome, too. You're a little more comfortable with the adult thing. I got married and had my babies in my 30's. The 30's rocked.

I'm a little more than halfway into the 40's. There's a lot of up-side here, too. I have experience behind me that I didn't have in my 20's. I believe this has lead to a depth of compassion I wouldn't have been capable of when I was younger.

I am STOKED about the 50's and beyond! I look forward to embracing each step rather than fighting it.

It's ALL good!

The Horns of a Dilemma

I've mentioned before that my injury lead to an even more sedentary lifestyle which lead to inevitable weight gain.

Since then, I have discovered the size acceptance movement online and it has given me a lot of comfort. I have been presented with research that states that weight is not necessarily an appropriate marker for health. I have been presented with an intriguing study which proved that it is as difficult for a thin person to be fat as it is for a fat person to be thin. I know it would be responsible to link to that research, but I didn't bookmark any of it. Just read it and moved on. More importantly, I have been introduced to a lot of folks who eat right, exercise, and do not lose weight. This is who I was a year or two ago. The difference is, they have come to terms with it and continue to engage in healthy habits just for their health - not with a weight loss goal.

I need to find a way to get there.

When I was working out, it became an obsession for me. I truly loved it. Well, not all of it. I loved walking and I loved weightlifting and I loved classes. I didn't love cardio so much - viewed it as a necessary evil - but even with that, I got a real thrill out of setting goals for myself and surpassing them. I loved going to the gym and I loved going to the park and I loved going to total fitness classes and yoga classes - I just loved the whole lifestyle.

So why did I leave it, and why can't I find my way back to it?

Well, as a woman with extra weight, it's hard to not gauge progress by the scale. And I was very aware that others were watching. This is how it goes for a big gal in a small gym: At first, people think you're not going to last. They don't pay much attention to you at all because you're not really worth investing in. A lot of fat people join gyms. Not many of them regularly use them. Then you sort of prove yourself after going very regularly for a couple months. Regulars start to nod in acquaintance and eventually casual conversations begin. And they almost ALWAYS begin with some variation of, "you've really been working hard - how much have you lost so far?". Small numbers seem to disappoint them. "Well, keep at it, you're doing great." A few more months go by and you're up to an hour on the elliptical daily followed by lifting what seemed like MASSIVE amounts of weight a few months ago, sometimes followed by a brisk walk through the park. You are feeling fierce. But you're still fat. People give you unsolicited advice. Mostly people who have lost weight themselves - helpful, kind people who want to share what worked for them.

I started noticing people's muscles. Men and women - it wasn't a sexual thing at all - it was purely aesthetic. And more than a little envious. I could FEEL some of those muscles becoming more developed in me, but I couldn't see them through the extra layer of fat. And they looked so beautiful on other people. Some of whom weren't working nearly as hard as I was. It pissed me off.

The straw that broke this camels back was when my personal trainer told me that a lot of her other clients were telling her how inspirational they found me to be. You know, "if she can keep doing it, I can keep doing it".

I quit doing it.

Now I want to get back. I'm unhealthy. I'm out of breath going up and down the stairs. The size acceptance folks have convinced me that there really is such a thing as a "set-point", but I'm about 30 pounds past mine. I don't feel well. I know what to do and how to do it, but I'm so afraid to start. I'm afraid that if I get some momentum going again I'm going to start forgetting that it's ok to be big as long as you're healthy and start wanting to be thin at all costs. Because, lets face it, it does suck a little bit to be working harder than some of the thin folks just to maintain a fat (healthy) body. Also, repetitive cardio like the elliptical or even walking in the park gives you lots of time to think. And fantasize. "If I keep this up, surely THIS time I'll lose the weight". Realistically, the older I get, the less likely this is to happen.

And well-meaning folks do say things.

The timing is right. The kids are back in school, I only have one more week of classes. The job search hasn't been going well, so I remain basically unemployed (1 night a week schlepping pizzas hardly counts). I have time to devote to myself. How lucky am I?

So the dilemma is: how do I manage to balance taking care of myself and being healthy with accepting my outer shell just as it is?

Seriously. I'm asking.

You Look Mah-velous

I've been spending a lot of time visiting size acceptance blogs and read recently about someone's decision to not compliment people on weight loss. As someone who gains and loses a lot, it made a lot of sense to me. "You look great": nice compliment. "You look so skinny": WTF?

I had coffee with a friend today who doesn't wait for the compliments, she gives them pretty freely to herself. She was telling me that her daughter had told her that the shirt she was wearing "made her look really skinny". I took that opportunity to tell her that I'd decided to stop equating skinny with good. Her eyes got big - she was quite taken aback - and she said, "but how could you? I don't even know how to wrap my brain around that." Well, I consulted the thesaurus, and it did not find the two to be remotely synonymous.

I know what she was saying, though. Society certainly equates the two. This wasn't something she made up. (And I fear I may have jumped down her throat a little more than was necessary) She's just living in the world. She was so taken aback by my response because it certainly does not represent a world view.

But now I'm even more determined to keep it up.

You, by the way, look great. :-)

What Goes Up, Must Come Down

I have noticed a definite pattern in my weight gains/losses and it became very clear to me over the last 2 days when I actually bought myself some new clothes. I am normally and comfortably a size 18. Not thrilled with that, but that's where my body seems to be most comfortable. That's where I've spent the majority of my adult life. I can get down to a 14 (still not anyone's ideal, by current societal standards, for sure, but a personal best) through SERIOUS diet and exercise. I can get up to a 22 through serious depression and lethargy.

One would think, then, wouldn't one? that my wardrobe would be predominately size 18 clothing with a few 14's, 16's, 20's and 22's hanging around for when they're needed. But that's not how it works. I'm not thrilled with 18 being my normal size, so I really tend to just buy the basics I need to get by in that size. Lot's of jeans and T-shirts and a few dresses (most of which can be worn in the 16/20 days, too). I have NOTHING in my closet that is a size 16 or a size 20. Now here's the part that's interesting to me: The nicest clothes I've ever had have been the 14's (that makes sense) and the 22's (hubba wuh?).

With this accident and other factors that have kept me pretty sedentary this spring/summer, I'm sorry and a little ashamed to say I've gotten myself back into the 22's. I've been feeling really yucky about it, and I've been looking pretty yucky, too, trying to squeeze myself into the size 18 clothes that just no longer reasonably fit. So a couple days ago I resigned myself to it and bought a pair of shorts that actually fit (instead of being something I could manage to get into). The difference they made in my mood the next day was amazing. So I went shopping and got a few outfits in this new (and, don't get me wrong, utterly distressing and unacceptable) size. And they're CUTE! And I can't wait to get out and wear them! I actually want to go out!

So this is how the cycle works, if past experience has taught me anything (and it is so odd to realize this in the MIDDLE of the cycle) : I gain weight, resign myself to it, and decide if this is the weight I'm going to be, then I'm going to have to accept that and make the best of it and look the best I can. I buy clothes and start making more of an effort with hair, makeup, etc. Then, I start to feel better about myself and I find it easier to exercise and eat better (and, as previously mentioned, leave the house). The obvious result is that I lose weight. But when I'm in a "lose" cycle, I don't want to stop at 18! Losing is fun! And it's addictive! And this time it will stick! So I plateau around that size 18 for awhile - where my body wants to be - but if I work really hard and am really determined I can work through the plateau and diet down to 14. At this point, I'm so proud of myself that I buy a lot of new clothes. I don't know why I don't buy 20's or 16's on the way up OR down - I guess I just don't notice one size difference, but I sure notice two. At this point I give away all of my "fat clothes" (like 14 is skinny. eyes rolling) Anyway - I start to feel good, and comfortable, then the pounds start inching back on - trying to get myself back to that place it likes to be. And there I'll stay until the next crisis has me packing it back on.

Rinse. Repeat.

My hope is - that by writing this out on the internets - I'll recognize it for what it is and perhaps, when I start inching down again - which I inevitably will - instead of defiantly throwing these clothes out because "I'll never be that fat again", I'll instead box them up and store them. Just in case. I envision a big clothes rack in the basement separated by little size dividers like they use in the stores. Maybe I could even get some 20's then 16's this cycle through, so I can ALWAYS be wearing something that actually fits.

Because it really does make a difference.

It's Who You Look Like, Not Who You Are

It's a game we all play: making snap judgments about what people are like based upon their appearance. Smart, stupid; sophisticated, simple; preppie, yuppie, hippie, druggie, all the various and sundry "ies"; the way they dress, the way they wear their hair, the way they carry themselves, the way they speak all give us clues as to what combination of qualities they possess.

But sometimes we get it wrong.

I've been wondering a lot lately how often I get it wrong, because I've been acutely aware of how different my inner self is from the outer shell to which the world has quick visual access. I present, I know, as a frumpy, significantly overweight, middle-aged woman. This is so distant from who I feel like on the inside! Yet it's how all strangers and many acquaintances see me. How could they not? There it is.

And yet, inside I feel bohemian and artistic. I feel earthy and worldly at the same time. Inside, when I work out, I get results. Inside, I'm a good mom who always knows what to say. Inside, I am a world traveler and a patron of the arts. I wear clothes that express these things. They look good on me. I don't so much mind the age that I am - every age can be beautiful. Inside.

Outside is another story. First of all, society in general makes a very quick judgment when it sees someone who is overweight, and that judgment is: worthless. Usually followed by, if it's even given a second thought: lazy, sloppy, hedonistic, stupid, the list goes on. This is not paranoia, either. People would rather die than be fat. We see this through the epidemic level incidences of anorexia and bulimia vexing not only our young women, but people of both genders and all age groups. We see this through multi-million dollar businesses that promise to get (or keep) us thin. We see this through the rise in weight loss surgeries. We see this. My comic heroine, Gilda Radner, once, in her Rhonda Weiss persona, rather prophetically stated, "It's a proven fact that most guys prefer skinny girls with cancer to healthy girls with bulging thighs".

So let's say you're very evolved and you get past the fact that I don't wear a size 6 (or 8. or 10). You're still not likely to see all that other inside stuff. (Which, I'll admit, sounds pretty wonderful - maybe I need to take a moment to get over myself...). Travel and the pursuit of the arts was put on hold (I refuse to say abandoned) in the interest of raising a family. No regrets there. I can get back to it. The Greek Islands aren't going anywhere. And I'm a decent enough mom. I make mistakes, like we all do, and I apologize for them and move on. As for appearance OTHER than the weight issue... I suppose that's the one thing I could work on. There aren't a lot of clothes out there in my style, size and (probably most important) price range. (add work to travel and the arts as things I put on hold to raise a family) But I bet if I worked hard enough and made it a priority and perhaps dusted off my sewing machine, I could pull some things together.

So, my resolution is to try to stop judging others on superficial qualities. Maybe in so doing, I can learn to be a little kinder to myself.