Uppercase Woman

Food, Health, and why YES I'm still in a good fucking mood

Tomorrow at the ungodly hour of 7:30 am Charlie is getting an ultrasound of his gall bladder. Why? Well, he had a handful of super painful abdominal "attacks" that may be related to gall stones. (Or, as he likes to point out, pancreatic cancer.) While we've been waiting for the test, one of the ways he's been trying to treat the problem is by following a low-fat diet for the first time in his life. It's worked very well and he hasn't had an attack since he started keeping his fat content down to about 40-50 grams a day.

That might seem like a lot of fat, but in truth, we had developed some VERY bad habits as a family. Slowly but surely our diet went this way: okay breakfast, possibly okay lunch, then some fucking crap for dinner. Take-out or fast food or pizza. Then, without us even realizing it, Tori went on a food strike and one of the few things we could get her to eat regularly was a Happy Meal, and suddenly, we were eating fast food a couple days a week for both lunch AND dinner.

I know.

Tori stopped her hunger strike ages ago but we kept on eating the crap. Until my birthday (April 26) which was the last day either of us had any fast food (okay, not true -- I ate Taco Bell once since then out of desperation one night but I kept it somewhat healthy).

It's quite possible that Charlie's stomach ailment was, basically, Super Size Me syndrome (we'll know more after the test tomorrow). I didn't realize how much the food was making me feel generally crappy, because we were staying generally active and I also didn't gain any weight (I know! I can't believe it either). But I did. I felt CRAPPY. My digestion was off, I felt sluggish and tired all the time. It sucked.

Since my birthday, we've drastically changed our diet as a family. Both of us have started incorporating lower fat food into our diet. This was easy for me, I'm an old hand at moderating my food intake, but was all new to Charlie. He frequently marveled over the fat grams in some food item ("Did you know these Cheese Danishes have 35 grams of fat?!"), and couldn't believe how many grams of fat he was eating a day (more like 40-50 grams per meal instead of per day, plus a peanut butter and jelly sandwich before bed).

In typical male fashion, Charlie's dropped nearly twenty pounds and is now weighing what he did when we first started dating (with a little help from a stomach flu in the spring). Fucker. Heh. I've also lost about twenty pounds, but you can't really notice it on me yet (maybe if I manage to drop another ten). Charlie both looks and feels better, and so do I.

The only thing we haven't yet been firm about adding to our routine is exercise, but that has changed in the last week. Since I've felt my antidepressants kick in, I've felt very motivated to GET OUT AND DO THINGS, and I keep dragging Charlie behind me in my wake. We've been walking every evening for about an hour (it's not a long walk, but with Tori, it takes a while because the whole world is just so DARNED FASCINATING AND MUST BE EXAMINED IN MINUTE DETAIL), plus our hiking and swimming (at the pool I've been taking the time to go do some laps in the deep end). I feel sure that we are on our way to a much more healthy, active life style.

The funny thing about the dietary changes is that never, not once in all the years I've been with Charlie (17 years this November, holy fucking crap) have we ever changed our food as a FAMILY. In the time we've been together I've ballooned up in weight four times and lost it three; once with drugs (not recommended, very very expensive), once with a rigid weigh-and-measure-every-morsel-plus-no-white-flour-or-sugar diet, and once with Giant Weight Loss company counting points. All those times I ate alone, eating food I made for myself, while Charlie ate his normal food and chips and cookies. Doing it as a family is not only easier; it doesn't feel like I'm dieting. (It doesn't feel like I'm dieting because, well, I'm not; I'm just eating more low fat, which is not the same thing at all.)

The funny thing is, of course, that healthy eating begats healthy eating (sorry about the begats lately; perhaps it's a new favorite word). The more healthy food I eat, the more I WANT. The more likely I am to just not consider crappy food as an option. Combined with my new found exercise enthusiasm, well, it's no wonder I feel like a new person, eh?

We still do take out; but we stick to things that are lower fat (Vietnamese, for instance) and make better choices. I am cooking more, which is great, and we've found some pre-packaged foods that are healthy and work for us when we don't feel like cooking. It's been great.

I'm not sharing this to brag or anything like that. I just feel like my life has turned around and I wanted to share it with you all. Spring has sprung in Cecilyville, y'all. It's kinda fucking awesome. Wish Charlie luck tomorrow and think good thoughts, will you? :)

Balance Vs. Flexibility (a completely stolen topic and title)

So my new buddy Meagan (who was with me in California) wrote the most awesome post on her blog the other day about balance in parenting and here I am totally and utterly stealing her idea. So go read her first so I don't feel too guilty, would ya?

Okay.

I think about balance a lot (I've written about it here and here) and how hard it is to manage work, marriage, self-care and parenting all at once. At times like now when I have a lot of balls in the air... balance feels like an impossible dream. I feel like my whole life is words these days; between my paying job, my posts over at Savvy Source Parenting, the Philly Moms Blog (gee, have I mentioned I'm writing for them now?), and this blog here, it's all writing all the time. I can't even THINK about my book proposal right now. I cannot find a way to achieve anything like balance.

Luckily, Meaghan's post lets me off the hook. She mentions that it's quite clear that parenting, especially parenting of very young children, makes balance an impossible goal. She instead suggests that we shoot for flexibility instead. What a brilliant idea, eh?

I have found the idea of flexibility is working great with my new approach to food. I'm using my "detox" status (no dairy, wheat, or sugar) as my "baseline." But instead of treating it like a diet, I am trying hard to be flexible. So, last night, when we went to dinner to celebrate Sarah's husband's birthday at an Indian restaurant, I ate naan without feeling guilty or like I was breaking my "diet." For years and years my pattern has been the following:

• Follow rigid diet plan
• Do this successfully for a while, lose a bit of weight
• Slip up after weeks of rigidity
• Figure "fuck it" and eat whatever, whenever, for a period of time that might last years

So not effective in any way. It's still a struggle, but I do know I feel better without eating that stuff (particularly sugar; I had some sugar last Friday and it led to a HORRIBLE hypoglycemic crash at the playground where I got all sweaty, dizzy, shaky and pale). But the key has been flexibility rather than recrimination. And it's working. I feel better, and I don't at all feel like I'm dieting (for lunch I ate refried black beans, guacamole, hot pico de gallo salsa, and corn chips. Yummy!). It's been a move away from balance, if you will-- my food plan is random and changeable instead of rigid and "balanced."

So perhaps I'm being foolish to also be working so hard to achieve balance at home. Like I said, I have a lot on my plate these days, which is awesome (I am doing what I love, after all). But sometimes it's okay to let Tori have a bit more television time than I think is ideal to meet a deadline, or to go ahead and put off a work project while Tori and I play with play dough. And sometimes it's not even so bad to post a quick, funny list post here because I really can't focus on a full, thoughtful blog entry. Right? Heh.

Sure, in an ideal world I'd do two hours of parenting, two hours of work, two hours of "marriage" time, two hours of pet care, and two hours of "me" time a day. But the likelihood of that happening is ZERO. Why do I push so hard to try?

It's a small change in my outlook, but one I am grateful for. Because anything that takes off the pressure of being the perfect damned mother, wife, writer and woman is pretty fucking awesome by my book. Sometimes going with the flow--in a responsible way, of course--is the best way to be.

Fit VS. Fat

I realize, now--after the last two posts--why I've been so reluctant to write about the election. Over the course of the last three years I've managed to establish a lovely balance with my readers, regardless of our political affiliations or beliefs, and I cherish that. So when I get all blunt and mission-statementy, I invariably piss off a lot of people. Either those that send me links to articles that prove gay marriage ends traditional heterosexual marriage, or someone who had a horrible experience with military health care is angry when I say flippantly, "well, it's better than nothing," or someone else is totally shocked that I think Obama will lead just fine with only 143 days of experience in the Senate (and I'm suppressing, sort of, the urge to add in a snarky, "But hey, didn't Bush technically have experience? How did that work out?" OK, maybe not suppressed at all).

I don't like having an imbalance in the comment section of this blog, and I always feel a little worried when suddenly people are having conversations (or, really, arguments) in the comment section between each other and I think, "No! Blog is place of peace!" and therefore I should keep my mouth shut. Sigh.

But I wouldn't be me if I didn't talk about it. Plus, I know as the election draws nearer that I feel more and more rigid and intolerant in my beliefs. Most of the time I'm pretty good at listening to the other side, but right now I feel so fucking terrified of eight more years of the same that I find myself screaming in my head, "You guys had your chance! It's our turn! Get out of the way!" I'm sorry. I know you are all used to me being more polite. I'll try. I don't want to create acrimony, and everyone has a valid opinion. Even if it's wrong. Heh.

So, anyway, on to a new topic!

Several folks emailed me this article. Turns out, a major study found that sometimes it is better to be fit and fat than to be skinny and unhealthy. Isn't that just the most exciting news? Meaning, "we're the fattest nation and we're all gonna diiiiiiiiiiieeeeeeee!" hysteria that has become part of our culture is, as many in the fat acceptance movement have been saying, complete bullshit. Here's a snippet:

Last week a report in The Archives of Internal Medicine compared weight and cardiovascular risk factors among a representative sample of more than 5,400 adults. The data suggest that half of overweight people and one-third of obese people are “metabolically healthy.” That means that despite their excess pounds, many overweight and obese adults have healthy levels of “good” cholesterol, blood pressure, blood glucose and other risks for heart disease.

At the same time, about one out of four slim people — those who fall into the “healthy” weight range — actually have at least two cardiovascular risk factors typically associated with obesity, the study showed.

The article goes on to say that, sure, worrisome health factor exist in fat people, but "overweight" is NOT synonymous with "unhealthy." Read it. It's quite interesting.

I've known this for a while. These days, I go back and forth between trying to monitor what I eat (by that I mean, dieting) and practicing intuitive eating as part of the HAES philosophy. But this summer I've also been working hard at doing something, anything, physical every day to increase my fitness. Lately I've been taking the dog for a brisk 1.5 mile walk (a walk where the dog drags his ass behind me because he hates walking fast) up and down some slight hills. I've found this helps not only my overall health but also my migraines as well as my mood. Fitness is definitely the way to go.

This last two weeks Charlie and I have been working hard on only eating good food, and skipping restaurants and takeout. We're doing that "shop around the edges" of the grocery store thing and cooking everything from scratch, which means that the food is better tasting and lower calorie. We've also been trying to do the prep in advance, although some of that kind of failed (apparently, you cannot slice potatoes in advance and then leave them for four days before cooking. They become very wood-like). It's working; the scale is moving and we're both feeling better. But while I like that, of course, I more like the fact that cooking food, and cooking food that tastes great (I made this awesome penne with Gorgonzola sauce I found in Cooking Light that rocked, for instance) makes me feel cared for. And for me, feeling cared for benefits my well-being more than anything else.

What I'm still working on, ad infinitum, is my relationship with my body. Recently I "friended" a guy on Flickr--the guy who did the original drawing that became the tattoo on my back--and he posts a lot of (basically pornographic) photos of women, including the fantastic April Flores (who's website goes by the I-wish-I-thought-of-it name Fatty Delicious). Anyway, Coop has posted photos of April like this one (probably not safe for work), and she is so unbelievably hot and beautiful--and self confident-that it makes me want to cry. Because I know for sure that there was a time when my body looked a lot like that. In fact, it didn't look that far from that right before I started infertility treatments (God, I was in such great shape then) and I had NO IDEA. I hated my body with a passion then, as well as when I was younger and had big, glorious perky breasts that I had absolutely no appreciation for (men did, though, and this led to my attempt-to-develop-self-esteem-through-slutiness days).

After infertility, pregnancy (and loss), and finally, breastfeeding, I've learned to be so much more tender with my body. I still struggle with hating elements of it (you can take my belly flap when you go, thanks), but overall I find myself, now, at forty, finally feeling a kind of fondness toward my poor, beaten body. It's not what it was, and without major miracles and expensive surgical intervention it never will be. But it's mine, and it housed and fed the most amazing person I know.

So I will continue on this path of self-acceptance, and focus on fitness rather than my fatness. Hopefully it will also continue to be easy to good good meals for my family (Charlie sharing cooking duties is helping a LOT). But I have to say, it makes it easier to stay the course when I have scientific studies to back me up. Heh.

It's NOT Just Me After All

So I've been on the Metformin for almost two weeks now. Blessedly, I've had minimal negative side effects, at least as far as the whole intestinal thing goes. Admittedly, I've been watching what I'm eating to some extent, and being careful to not overindulge in super carb- and fat-laden meals.

I've had two interesting positive side effects, however.

First off, it's like I got my brain back. I can't believe how much clearer my thoughts are, how much sharper my memory. My overall mental sluggishness has vanished. It might be a lot to ask for, but I'm hoping now that I'm finally no longer sick (still coughing, but otherwise normal) I might also get some physical energy back as well.

Secondly,it does appear to help with weight loss. In ten days, I've lost ten pounds. No, really.

The most astonishing thing about the weight loss (which I understand may not last, especially if I don't continue to watch what I eat), is this: finally having proof that it is NOT all my fault. For me, some of this weight is about having an issue with my metabolism. Sure, those (life saving) bags of cheetos and ice cream I ate like nobody's business after I lost the boys contributed to my overall poundage. But the fact that it has been so impossible for me to lose, and so easy for me to plateau when I DO lose--that might, in fact, be metabolic.

You have no idea what it feels like to be given this little gift. Or maybe you do. I use to pray (mostly because I was young and an idiot) that it would turn out to be my thyroid. But it never was. When I proved to be firmly in the insulin resistance category BEFORE I got pregnant with Tori, the doctor I was seeing at the time didn't want to treat me. This fact makes me SO ANGRY. I should have been on this medication years ago.

But for now, I'm basking in the immense relief I feel. I'm suddenly finding it very easy to practice the HAES philosophy again, but that might be largely because I know that I'm likely to have horrid diarrhea if I eat too much crap. Heh. But I'm finding it easy to eat in a simple and rational way, keeping my portions small, and feel full. I'm no where NEAR as hungry (is that the medication too?) as I was two weeks ago. It's awesome.

Well, I'm sorry posting has been lame over the last few days (this post isn't much better). I swear something good is brewing. I hope. :)

Stuff I Am Not Going To Talk About

Hello! It's sunny out after a day of non-stop wind and rain. Tori is at morning care, after being trapped in the house with her all day yesterday--boy was that fun! Somehow, I managed to get caught up on work anyway. Imagine that.

But I say all that because I don't want to talk about stuff that's really going on. Particularly anything to do with food and weight. Nope, don't want to discuss it.

I don't want to talk about the fact that a chair broke under me--again--at a meeting today. It was only a little broken, and I was able to hide it during the meeting (it's not like that time I broke a camping chair and collapsed into a big pile on the ground). And maybe it's just a cheap folding chair, and was already broken, or close to it, before I sat down in it. I don't know, but I'm not going to talk about it.

I'm also not going to talk about watching a video blog post I recorded about this time last year, and how much thinner I looked then, even though I didn't weigh all that much less. But I was doing that point-counting diet at that time, and I didn't have the eating-whatever-I-want face bloat. I most definitely don't want to talk about the fact that I haven't recorded a video blog post recently because when I do, and then I watch it, I really hate how I look--so I never post it. Definitely going to avoid discussing that.

I don't want to talk about buying new shorts for the summer because the pair I wore most of last summer is just a little bit too tight, and is therefore uncomfortable. Nope. Absolutely will not be going into that.

I'm not going to address how I feel like a Healthy At Every Size (HAES) failure because I decided over the weekend that no matter how much self-love I practice, and how much I try and try to accept my body as it is, that it really, truly is just unacceptable. I cannot live at this weight, I do not like it, and I want to change it.

So if I'm not going to talk about all that, then I guess I won't be admitting that I've decided to try that oldest diet of them all--counting calories. It's been at least a decade since I counted calories, but it really is the simplest way to go, and allows me to utilize some nifty online tools that have developed so I can track the food I eat. Because if I talk about that, then you will all know I REALLY am a HAES failure because I'm practicing the D word--dieting.

And I guess I won't address the confusion I feel about the whole issue, and the rationalizations about food that fill my days--both while I diet and while I don't. Nor will I spend much time trying to understand why I feel like I'm treating my body better when I restrict and diet and exercise, instead of doing that intuitive eating thing that HAES recommends.

Since I'm not talking about any of that stuff, I can't talk about the fact that I am going to try to incorporate intuitive eating WHILE I count calories. Or the fact that I am allowing myself a generous daily calorie intake--just a few hundred calories less than is needed to maintain a body this size. Just enough to lose maybe a half a pound a week or so. Not much. Not a strict severe diet at all. But since counting calories doesn't forbid any certain foods, I am going to have to practice intuitive eating so that I can continue to eat in a sane way while controlling my volume. Because I certainly don't want to admit here that I can use up my whole daily calorie allotment with cheetos.

Nope. I am not going to talk about any of that stuff.

So what should I discuss instead? Hmmm... well, maybe I'll just direct you all to my latest post about Mommy Blogging over at Type-A Mom. Cause it sure is quiet around here.

Food and a Healthy at Every Size Update

So, have you heard? Sarah quit smoking. Before you get all, "Wait--Sarah smokes?" know that for many of us recovering drunks and junkies, well, the smoking can be the very last thing to go. In fact, I've been to more than one funeral (three, in fact, I can think of off the top of my head) for folks with lots of good, solid recovery who were killed by their inability to give up cigarettes (bladder cancer for one, throat cancer for another, emphysema for the last). Sarah made the decision very quietly (like she totally surprised me), and I'm very proud of her. I quit smoking myself ten years ago (St. Patrick's Day, in fact, was ten years for me) and have never regretted it, and have almost never missed smoking (except when I lost the boys; it would have been very, very nice to smoke then).

Sarah's inspired me to take another step forward in my food and healthy living journey. I've been practicing the Healthy At Any Size (HEAS) tenets, and it's been pretty amazing, I have to say. Living without feeling some form of guilt or shame--or pride, truth be told--about each bite put into my mouth has been uniquely freeing. And aside from a few incidents with the flaming hot cheetos (soooo good), I have found it easy to eat in a way that satisfies my body's need for nourishment and be healthy and self-loving at the same time. To tell the truth, even if I was rigidly dieting, I would be just as likely to eat the cheetos--and far more likely to feel like shit about it afterwords.

My weight has fluctuated a bit; I lost about eight pounds for a while, and then gained it back again (birth control pills might be playing a role here). We'll see what happens. Two other things have changed. One, I managed to get Charlie to go to the gym with me. This was a VERY. BIG. DEAL. Trust me. So that, with any luck, will be a more frequent occurrence over the next few weeks until we are hiking in the mountains more. Secondly, I've come to realize that some of the food I eat regularly doesn't make me feel very good.

I know I've told you all before that I ate a no sugar and no white flour diet for about three years. I also weighed and measured all my food during that time, down to the tenth of the ounce. I was a bit of a nut-job while doing this; if I had an extra baby carrot or accidentally ate some gravy (gravy has white flour in it, you know) I FREAKED THE FUCK OUT. So, while I lost a butt load of weight, I was crazy and miserable.

I did, however, feel great physically. I had more energy and slept better and generally had more... I don't know, just MORE. So, inspired by Sarah's not smoking, I'm going to start letting sugar and white flour slowly go from my food. I'm not going to be insane about it, and I am not going to weigh and measure everything again. I'm not going to diet.

Let me say that again; this is not about DIETING. It's about being healthy. I have to remind myself of that. So, on my birthday, I will probably have some cake. And that will be OK. But in general, what I'm going to have in the house is going to be low sugar (fifth or below on the ingredients list, with only one form of sugar total on the list) and whole grain only.

This should be interesting. For me this whole HAES is such a delicate balance; I have to say to myself, sure, OK, I really feel like I NEED the cheetos or I'm going to feel deprived. But do I need the giant bag? Will I feel satisfied if I just get the smaller bag? And then I have to stop for a moment, and just be quiet and listen to myself--really listen--and I tell you what, about 50% of the time, I don't actually need the damn cheetos (or candy bar, or whatever it is) at all. But if I decide I do, it can be the small bag, and the baked kind. It doesn't have to be the large one, ever. Well, someday it might and that will be OK. But it hasn't yet.

But learning to listen to myself when it comes to food, to tune out all the old tapes that are blasting at top volume in my head is HARD, I've got to tell you. First is the "YOU SUCK YOU FAT PIG YOU SHOULD NEVER EAT AGAIN." Then right below that one, just as loud, is "YOU ARE SO PATHETIC YOU WILL NEVER LOSE WEIGHT WHY FUCKING BOTHER EAT WHATEVER." Under that is one that just says "loserloserloserloserloserloser." There are like sixty more I have to shuffle through before I can dig deep enough to find out what I actually think and feel. Isn't that fucked up? This is what thirty years of dieting and being an American woman have given me. Sheesh.

Anyway, I'm enjoying discovering a different way to be. I still have not yet come to a place of body acceptance, and there is a not-small part of me that is hoping that I'll shake some weight off by giving up the sugar and white flour. But it's not my PRIMARY motivation.

Slow and steady progress, eh? :)

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Speaking of slow and steady, the Tip Jar is doing very well! 2/3 of the way to my plane fare! You guys rock! And will you EVER FORGIVE ME for asking around tax day? Sigh. I should have waited a couple of weeks until you all had your rebate checks. Heh.

Body Image and Haircuts

So the gym is a thing, now. I go. Like, a lot. And going with a friend who only wants to lift weights keeps me honest and keeps my time there short (around an hour) so I'm not over doing it. Instead, I feel great.

For the first time in forever, I went to buy new clothes for our trip and didn't hate every single item I put on. I'm fucking THRILLED that tunic-length shirts are all the rage this season (thank GOD) and I even bought some stuff with *gasp* color in it and some other stuff with *bigger gasp* sequins (tasteful, rather hot cleavage-enhancing black sequins, I assure you). I bought new bras (no more nursing bras--whoot! Tori's down to nursing for about two minutes, if that, in the morning these days). One bra was RED.

Go me.

Tomorrow, I am taking the next step and doing something about my hair. Since having my hormones completely and utterly ass-fucked for five years between infertility treatments, pregnancies, and breastfeeding, it's now much thinner and finer than it used to be. The style I've had for, oh, FOREVER which is basically almost no style at all (long layers with bangs) no longer has any life to it. It just lays on my head like a dead beaver and does nothing for me. I'm sick of it. I want life and movement. Also? I want pink.

I was going to wait until my 40th birthday to get some pink strips in my hair, but since we will be visiting some of the coolest people on the planet on our trip, what the fuck, right? So I have NO IDEA what my hair will be looking like at this time tomorrow. All I know is that I am open to new ideas, even possibly something in the SHORT arena *gasp again*.

It's amazing how simple something like exercise--and only because it makes me feel good and not for any particular goal--can change my outlook. I'm thinking about this a lot as I watch Sarah struggle to cope with her 12-year-old daughter's first foray into body hatred. Ye gods, if you could see this kid--she's a toothpick! But she thinks her thighs are fat. Her thighs are thinner than my upper arms, just so you know. And lovely. She looks like a supermodel, she does. Sigh.

I swear I will look Tori away, home school her and keep her on a media blackout if I have to. Anything to keep her from this crushing self-hatred that is the cross every American women seems to bear (I know we don't have a monopoly, but it does seem like we have it bad)! Of course, I'm right now trying to fight it at the route source--here at home, in how I discuss my body and my self. Hopefully a hard working, exercising, fat, pink-haired mom will keep Tori on the body positive side of the street. Right?

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Thanks for all the great travel tips. I really couldn't wrap my mind around the whole car-seat-on-the-plane thing, but you all convinced me; we bought an inexpensive and lighter one (thank you Bookmama) that will actually be great for Charlie's new toy. US Air apparently does NOT count the diaper bag as one of our carry-on bags, so that's good news. I still have no idea how we'll get everything through the airport, but we shall see, shan't we? You all I done it, I guess we can too. 

Working Out

The first time I joined a gym was about five years before I got sober (which was, lord almighty, 17 years ago). There was one right next door to where I worked, and they were offering a discount to the neighbors, and I had a fat friend who wanted to use their pool but was nervous about going by herself. So I agreed to go.

I was actually not in bad shape back then. First off, I was young (which helps, damn it). Working as a veterinary technician I spent my days on my feet, wrestling large dogs and cats (and let me tell you, the strength you get holding down a 140 pound Akita while it gets a nail trim is nothing to sneeze at) all day, not to mention actually hauling the sleeping animals around after surgeries. But the gym was new to me, and it wasn't long before I moved from just using the pool to trying the other equipment. Eventually, I became a serious gym fanatic. I had the bug.

Turns out, the bug I actually had was really an extension of my bulimia. I didn't know I was bulimic (I was unaware that you could be bulimic and still be fat; I always thought bulimics were skinny) until I'd been sober about five months and my sponsor gently pointed out to me that other people did NOT eat entire bags of hot chips, drink a gallon of milk, and then make themselves puke it up (boy was THAT fun coming back up, lemme tell ya). That was my last binge and purge episode using puking, but I was unaware of a little something called exercise bulimia back then. Exercise bulimia is just what it sounds like--you work out and work out and work out so that you can eat and eat and eat, or you eat and eat and eat and then you work out and work out and work out in penance.

Back when I first joined the gym, I thought I was being fit. I was going in to work at 8 am, working until 7 pm, then hitting the gym. At first, I was just swimming. Then I began using the treadmill. Then the stair master (which was all the rage back then). Then weights. Eventually, I was at the gym until it closed at 11pm. After working at a physical job all day. Then I would go home and eat and eat (of course, I'd go to the gym without eating dinner first). I remember standing in the kitchen after my roommates had gone to bed just wolfing down whatever I could fit in my stomach.

To give you an idea of just how much food I was managing to eat, I did NOT lose any weight (bear in mind, I was also still drinking at the time). While I wasn't on any specific diet back then, I was a vegetarian. I did this whole routine at least four or five days a week. It was insanity.

Each time I've joined a gym since then the same pattern has emerged to some extent. I try to limit the amount of time I spend to an hour or so, but eventually it creeps up to two or more hours. It was never worse than when I was doing that world-famous point counting diet--because you got MORE POINTS for exercise. Technically you were supposed to restrict it to only four points more no matter how hard you worked out, but I found some other hard core exercisers online who had a system, damn it, and they knew what they were doing, and they knew just what to do. So I got myself a heart rate monitor and followed their instructions and before I knew it I was working out hard enough to give myself 12 or 15 more points worth of food a day. It was awesome. I was in great shape, I was a size 14/16 (a size I dream of today), and I was totally fucking crazy out of my mind obsessed with point counting.

It was NOT SANE. I know that now.

For the last two weeks that I've been really, really trying to practice this "healthy at every size" mentality, where I am simply not allowing myself to worry about what I'm eating or what I weigh (OK, not doing so well at staying off the scale--I'm trying here). It's going well. It's amazingly freeing. I am simply unwilling to apologize for myself anymore, and I like the freedom I feel having let go of the idea of dieting.

But as part of that plan, I do need to be more physically fit. So I upped my membership at our local YMCA so that I can make full use of their (astonishingly awesome) gym facilities. I managed, without too much effort, to put in twenty minutes each on a recumbent bike and an elliptical machine today. I'm going with a buddy (our friend that's been working on our house, the one that's trying to get sober? Turns out he wants to play baseball this summer and needs to add some bulk, so there you go--an exercise buddy--don't hate me, Liana), and that helps. It also turns out that the Y is a great place to go because for the first time in all my gym going experiences, NO ONE STARED AT ME. I am so used to being gawked at, the fat chick in the gym, that it was rather astonishing and I felt almost disappointed since I'd worked so hard to prepare myself for it (I really have to don my emotional armor the first few gym trips). No one even looked at the tattoos. Sheesh.

The most amazing thing about it was this: while I was idly aware of my heart rate and pace while working out, I did not focus overly much on it. I barely noted the calorie count (which, as you know, is wildly inaccurate on those fucking machines anyway). The grace that the whole "healthy at every size" gives me is that I am working out ONLY to get in shape, not for the sake of ANY FUCKING NUMBERS. Not the numbers on the machine, not the number on the inside of my jeans, and not the numbers on the motherfucking scale.

While I am still not fully willing to let go of the fantasy of being thin (dudes, I am going to keep linking to that damn post until it sinks into my thick fucking skull)--I must confess to wanting a one instead of two in front of the number on the inside of my jeans--I feel like I always do after I exercise. Like I live inside of my body. Like it's mine. Like it's strong. Cause it is. It hold me up every day, after all.

I will be going back. And even more amazing? I can't wait.

Food, Glorious Fucking Food

So I've been making some slow attempts to input the philosophy behind the Healthy at Every Size into my life (this philosophy, of course, was brought to me by the lovely Kate Harding at Shapely Prose). I have been trying to just eat food that tastes good to fuel my body without judging the food or my responses to it.

It is nearly impossible.

The other day I promised myself that I would not, under any circumstances, make any unkind or recriminating remarks to myself about what I was eating--either to myself or to Charlie. By the time I chose what to eat for BREAKFAST, I'd had to stop eleven different negative or judgmental food thoughts. And I wasn't choosing between a pound of bacon or a pound of sausage, either; I was choosing between a bowl of yogurt and granola, oatmeal, or eggs and toast. Nine thoughts were about things like "oh, the yogurt is whole milk yogurt so that's bad" (except of course that whole milk yogurt is so fucking GOOD) or "but if I have toast I'll want to use butter on that bread because the I-can-easily-believe-it's-not-fucking-butter tastes like shit on it." Two of the thoughts were me apologizing to Charlie about what I was eating, prompting him to make a common statement, which is, "I'm not the food police." Which is a truly awful thing to do him, you know--make him feel like he's forced to be my food "confessor."

It's blown me away, how deep this food shit goes.

I've spent so long manipulating, managing, controlling, and just generally fucking with my food that I don't know how to shut my head up and just EAT IT. I really don't. I have realized that after all of these years of dieting and shaming and self hatred what I really want is to just be free of it. If I could, I would stop eating all together--the way I've stopped drinking or doing drugs. IT WOULD BE SO MUCH EASIER. But now, instead, I'm trying to heal a very sick head while I just eat the food that tastes good and fuels my body.

I struggle, too, to find balance. I heard an interview yesterday with Michael Pollan, author of the book In Defense of Food:  An Eater's Manifesto and I found myself fascinated by so much of what he said, especially about how we don't eat food any more, we eat "food like substances." He talked about how we need to stay away from the center part of the grocery store, and stick to the outer edges (produce section, etc). He kept it simple; "Eat food. Not too much. Mostly plants."

Which all sounds great, right? But then, twenty minutes later, I'm beating myself up for not cooking enough, for giving Tori goldfish crackers, and BAM! Just like that, I'm back to that place where I'm blaming and shaming myself for something food related.

Honestly, I know I'm repeating myself here, but this is the hardest shit I've ever done. I do not know how to simply eat healthy food without spending a lot of time THINKING about it. How do people just put food in their mouths and go on with their days? I mean, each meal for me requires about three hours. An hour to debate myself about what I'm going to have, a hour to prep it and eat it (or order it and pay for it), and then an hour to either feel self-righteous about what I ate of to feel shitty about it afterwards. And then it's nearly time to begin the process all over again. So that means that FOOD IS MY WHOLE DAY, WHETHER OR NOT I AM DIETING.

Is that some fucked up shit or what? This is what nearly thirty years of dieting and food obsession has done to me. I am fat and fucked.

I have decided that the next thing on my list of things to do is to find a gym I can stomach and join it (please don't suggest I join Curves--and here's why). I have never done the exercise thing--which I actually truly love--without dieting. It will be fascinating to give it a shot. I'm very excited about the prospect, and it fits right into the Healthy at Any Size philosophy.

And good news--there's science saying that it's the right thing to do! A new study states that exercise, not drinking too much, and eating lots of fruits and vegetables can add 14 years to your life--NO MATTER WHAT YOUR SIZE. So take that, size 00 Hollywood. I'm gonna have my carrot cake and walk too.

I hope this gets easier. Because right now? I'd rather get re-addicted to heroin and then try to get off it several times. It would be easier. And I'd be less hungry.

Another New Year Begins...

I've been finding myself feeling more rueful than usual as this year draws to a close. This is the last year I'll be in my thirties--I'll turn 40 this spring--and while that is generally rather meaningless, I can feel the shadows of a midlife crisis circling.

I have such a good life; I have a man that loves me unconditionally and passionately. A daughter that is perfect, charming, adorable, and enchanting (do you know what she's just started doing? Every time I tell her I love her she comes and gives me a hug. Could she be any cuter?). I have the best dog ever™. A cat the mostly uses the litter pan, and doesn't ever bite Tori, not matter how hard Tori pulls on her tail. A best friend many people would kill for. A mother that loves Tori and lives close by. A new car. A nice house that gets nicer every minute that our buddy Fred keeps hanging around fixing things.

But I find myself feeling a bit sad about stupid things; I no longer have the power to draw men's glances across a bar (OK, maybe it was just the big "slut" sign on my forehead, but I did have that power at one point). I have reached that age where most people see a "ma'am" instead of a "miss." No one would ever card me for beer or cigarettes (and I no longer indulge in beer and cigarettes, which I also find myself missing a bit today). It's unlikely that I'll find myself in the flush of new love again; and while I have something so much more amazing now--a deep and abiding true love that cannot be matched--I sometimes miss the days of burning so hot that I out shined the sun.

I'm firmly entrenched in the middle of my life now. I'm no longer at the beginning. I can see, now, why people have affairs (calm down, Charlie, I am so NOT going to have an affair), or buy fast cars, or take up rock climbing (I might, however, take up rock climbing). It feels a little bit, now, like I've done it all--like there's nothing new to explore. I've already lived six or seven different lives, some of them in different parts of the country. I am now simply placing one foot in front of the other, waiting for the next thing to happen.

There is great joy in this, of course. I now actually have the ability to live in the moment, to find the hope and magic in the mundane. I no longer feel the compulsion to change the world--and, honestly, that is so freeing. Changing the world is a big job, and I don't really want to have to do it. I have the capacity to sit still now, to listen to a piece of classical music and really hear it without the impatience of youth demanding that it fucking end all ready. I can enjoy just laying in bed with my husband, our arms loosely entwined, feeling content to just be. I can sit on the floor with Tori and watch her push the triangle through the triangle shaped hole over and over again and applaud it each time with equal enthusiasm because I have the patience that nearly 40 years of being on this planet has given me.

But sometimes it's hard to just smolder when you used to burn. It's one of the joys of growing old, but one of the big lessons in humility that comes with aging as well. I know I don't want to be like those people you see trying so hard to stay on fire with the surgeries and the crazy hair and make-up and inappropriate clothes. I am trying to let my skin settle comfortably around me, and just trust that it belongs where it falls, even if part of me thinks perhaps it should still be up a tad (ok, a lot) higher.

Because the truth is, as I head into 2008--a number that is as completely unspectacular as my life is--I have everything I want. I have a perfect life. I have become an ember instead of a flame, and I am learning to be content with that. I plan to head into the new year with only this one resolution--to continue to trust that my skin does, in fact, fit me. I wish the same for you as well.

Happy New Year, everybody. May you find happiness in the skin you're in.

Same War, New Battle

Tori is at that age; the age when a toddler climbs up onto her mom and cuddles up on her mommy's lap. Only there's one problem:

I don't have a lap.

I've always carried my weight in my belly. Technically, I'm more pear than apple, however, twenty five years of weight swings (some topping 150 pounds), two pregnancies, and that bastard gravity has left me with a large flap of belly fat. When I sit, I look pregnant. Only about ten inches of my thighs is available for Tori's squirmy little butt.

If I was wealthy, I would go--tomorrow--to every single plastic surgeon I could find until I could talk one into removing that belly flap. I would like nothing better (OK, maybe a pro-choice, pro-gay-marriage, pro-environmental democrat in the White House) than having a normal-sized belly. Even if every other part of me has to stay fat.

I have made no progress in the battle to lose weight since Tori's birth. I spent a brief period counting points, and another period giving up certain foods for both dietary and migraine-fighting reasons, but I haven't maintained the change. Other than the initial 40 pound loss after her birth, I'm the same weight I was when I got pregnant with her, and that is more than I want to weigh.

The truth is, I do not want to diet. For a million reasons, but the main one? Because it doesn't fucking work. Not permanently, anyway. Never permanently. The weight always finds me, and it's found almost every single friend of mine that's lost it.

I spend a fair amount of time reading fat acceptance blogs. They are quite fascinating; they often point out research that shows that being fat is not the death sentence the media makes it out to be, and that folks that are fat can be healthy, fit, and active. They also teach me a great deal about trying to learn to love and trust your body, and help me retain a rational attitude about fatness in the face of a media that is screaming at me--constantly and at full volume--that I am an ugly loser that is about to die. (For an example of the good fat acceptance can do, check out Kate Harding's Illustrated BMI photo project--view it as a slide show for full effect).

But I can't find a way to just accept my body as it is. I always place conditions. "Body," I say, "I'll love you when I lose 100 pounds." Or, "I'll love you when I have a flat belly." Or, "I'll love you when you get back in shape."

For many years I was able to maintain a positive attitude about my body because I knew I was fit. But you know what? That was over THREE FUCKING YEARS AGO. I am not the same woman that hiked every weekend. I'm older, I'm more fat, and I'm more goddamn tired. My body is not being treated well by me and it shows.

The problem is, I don't know what to do. Here are the various ideas I have, in no particular order:

• Win the lottery so I can hire a private chef and a trainer.
• Never eat out again.
• Never eat sugar or flour again (I did this for two years--it worked, but I was NUTS)
• Go on some magic combination of pills that prevents me from wanting to eat. Ever.
• Win lottery and get the fat all surgically removed.

Note that nowhere on that list is "begin eating more healthily, and start exercising." I am so fucking exhausted with picking my fat ass up by the flabby handles and changing my whole fucking life to lose weight for a few months or, possibly, even a year or two. IT. NEVER. LASTS.

Some of you are probably already heading down to the comments section to suggest gastric bypass surgery. Sure, it's an option. I'm sure I could get my insurance to cover it. I know it has worked for some people--that many feel it was just the miracle they needed. But it's not for me; to me it feels like self mutilation (please forgive me, bypass supporters--I mean no judgment).

There is nothing wrong with how my body digests food. There is no need for me to undergo a surgical operation to correct it.

Honestly? I'd be more likely to consider electric shock therapy. The problem is not in my body, folks. It's in my brain.

I am not radically altering the way my body functions to be thin (note: I do see the irony that I would pursue plastic surgery but not gastric bypass. I do have my reasons--plastic surgery is a on the surface, and doesn't radically change how your body processes food, so it seems slightly less invasive. Plus, I'm kidding about getting plastic surgery--mostly). Truthfully, I don't have enough of a reason to go that route yet. My cholesterol is awesome, my blood pressure low, my blood sugar is normal. I have no physical barriers to exercise. A surgical solution is not for me, not right now (fat hysteria people are all now shouting, NOT YET! Because fat people are ticking time bombs, just ask any media anything anywhere and a lot of doctors that read studies funded by the billion dollar diet industry--one of the only industries that makes a ton of money yet has a 95% failure rate. Ahem.).

I'm not going to fill this post with empty promises, as I've done so many times before. I am tired of making resolutions and making changes. Instead, I'm going to only try one tiny trick (learned again from Kate Harding) called "demand feeding" (she explains it well here). I am not going to restrict anything, but I am going to try to develop the habit of listening to my body to see what I'm actually hungry for (I did this on Saturday and ended up at Mickey D's instead of its rival because I knew they had a better salad--but I still had fries. Eh, it's an improvement). I am going to try for feeling better, instead of looking better.

Now that the weather is changing (sort of) to cooler temperatures, exercise is more likely. We went hiking on Saturday (Tori walked almost a mile, we think, between turns in the backpack), and I hope to do that again sometime this week. But no pressure. Pressuring myself, beating myself up, all that shit--it gets me nowhere, just back to fatness, with even more self hatred.

I don't know if I'll ever find my lap for Tori. We've found plenty of ways to cuddle around my big belly (she's fond of resting her head on a boob), so I don't think she'll love me any less for not having it. But if you meet some plastic surgeon that wants to do a free tummy tuck? Well, feel free to give him my number.*

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Many of you may have read Patty's comment to my last post. Patty's husband died in his sleep on Monday; he was 37, and they don't know why. She has two boys, a three-year-old and a six-week-old (six! weeks!). You can read more about her husband here. He sounds like an amazing man, and I'm so sorry I never got a chance to know him. Please keep her in your prayers, will you?

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On a slightly more cheerful note, here are some awesome photos of Tori at the park (here is the full set if you want to see a million more).

*Please, for the love of God, do not post links here about how being fat is going to kill me. Do not link to obesity studies. If you do, I will never, EVER, post photos of Tori again. I swear. You think I don't hear the news about being fat? Come on. I live in the US. I own a television. I do not need to hear it again from you. Thank you.

Fat, Fat, Fat, Fat- Fashion

I was in sixth grade, I think, when I realized that I was too short, too curvy, and too brunette to be considered beautiful. Of course, I was still a pretty thin and muscular kid at the time with barely any curves and I was, in fact, quite pretty. But I had no idea then how intense that disconnect between my perception and my reality would become; back then I had only a small sense of imperfection, one that later grew to astronomical proportions that, in the end, fueled my compulsive eating and my subsequent hatred of my body.

But it was back then, in those early days of uncomfortable self-awareness that my mom's friend Jan said something I've never forgotten. Jan was a wonderful woman, warm and loud and funny. She was also round and soft and hug-able (at least to my 11-year-old self) like my mother. We were visiting Jan and she was showing my mother a fashion magazine full of leggy and scrawny models and said, "It's no wonder all those models look like 17-year-old boys; the designers are all gay men!"

Mild homophobia aside, she had a point. Fashion designers (many of whom are decidedly NOT gay men) do not design clothes for women's bodies. They design clothes for the bodies of extremely tall and extremely thin young men.

I've spoken to fashion designers about this. The standard answer that I've heard repeatedly is, "But on those bodies, the clothes hang beautifully." And there--right fucking ther--is the problem: clothes HANG on hangers; clothes should be WORN beautifully.

The reality show Project Runway had an episode in the third season that required the designers to make clothes for the mothers and sisters of the other designers--none of whom were models. (You can read about the episode and see the designs here.) Several of the moms were plus sized--by fashion standards--and the things the designers said! Lordy. You would have thought that they were being asked to design clothes for serial killers; the vitriol and disgust was horrid.

I have yet to meet a designer that makes clothes for the bodies of real women. A perfect example is the low-cut pant (by low-cut I mean the "waist" is actually down somewhere around the hips--it's entirely possible that I have my terminology wrong). Everyone wears them these days--I mean, it's not really like we've had a choice. I haven't been able to find a pair of jeans that had a "normal" waist (except at KMart and they had an elastic waistband) in years. But how many women actually look good in them? Any woman who has actual hips--you know, that part of the female anatomy that is a bit wider than the waist so that it can fit a BABY in there--look awful. The pants cut into the the hips in an unflattering way, causing "muffin top" syndrome on even skinny women (that woman would look stunning in pair of normal jeans). Put those pants on someone shaped like me--someone who not only has hips and a butt but also suffers from an unflattering flabby stomach--and you've got someone who can't button her pants without causing actual pain.

What galls me most about this is that when you ask designers about it, instead of actually making clothes that fit the round shapes of women's bodies, they instead sneer and suggest diets and exhibit actual signs of nausea at the idea of designing clothes for fat women. I know. I've watched their faces.

For five years I worked at an art college that offered a fashion design major. I enjoyed the annual fashion show (it was the senior thesis show), but each year I had to endure the parade of unreasonably tall and gangly young women that came to audition to model for the show (they always ended up lost in my store). But a couple of years ago some women that could be called almost "normal" appeared; while still tall, they were much more shapely and feminine. It turned out that one senior had decided to create her thesis around plus-sized women. I knew the student, in fact I thought she was lovely, so it was with great excitement that I attended the fashion show that year.

But what did she make her "plus sized" models wear? Overalls. And not only overalls, but overalls shorts with poofy, pleated, and gathered legs. Clothes no fat woman--hell, no woman--I know would EVER wear.

It's no wonder as a "woman of size" that I find shopping for clothes so horrid. Even in my thinner stages of life (you know, like the last time I was a size 18) I find shopping difficult, but when I'm bigger? Like now? It's just nightmarish. Besides the fact that I am not happy with how I look, most clothes are actually uncomfortable for me.

Most plus-sized fashions are merely larger versions of "normal" sizes. Rare is the clothing designer that take into account the actual shape of larger women's bodies, making the clothes wider in some areas and not in others. So a shirt that fits over my breasts and belly comfortably often has the shoulder seam about half way down to my elbow, with the "short" sleeves coming to the elbow. Or jeans that fit my waist and hips but are massively baggy in the legs. (Oddly enough, Old Navy was one of the places that did adjust the fit accordingly in their plus-sized line, but then they negated all that good will by removing their plus-sized clothes from the actual stores, making them only available on line.) I find this infuriating and find myself often in a dressing room staring at clothes that fit in some places but don't in others, making me look awful. AWFUL.

I don't really want much. I want shirts that go past my waist and down to my hips, offering a little coverage of my least flattering attribute, my large belly. I want pants that don't pinch at the waist but don't bag around my legs. I want skirts that hang past my belly and don't cling to it. Why is this too much to ask?

Lucky for me I don't actually have the money to go shopping these day. Right now, as the weather gets cooler, I'm making do with that pair of jeans from KMart with the elastic waist and dreading hitting the stores. There may be some designers that make flattering clothes for fat women (I'm sure you will all point me toward some), but the rare ones I've found have been far out of my price range. So I will make do with what I find. But I'm not looking forward to it.

Patience is Trying

So, one whole week into the new venture, I find myself of two minds.

First off, I was completely startled by my emotional reaction to making the decision to make a change. I suddenly was able to smile more easily, laugh more easily, and I felt a hundred pounds lighter (truthfully, I'm 15 pounds lighter now). It wasn't nearly as painful to walk away from Tori in the morning and go to work. I had no idea how miserable I'd become in these last few months.

But on the other hand (why is there always another hand?), I feel overwhelmed and mildly defeated. As of now, I've sent out over 30 resumes. And have heard back from exactly one (and that position was filled). Of course I know it's only been a week; and truthfully, I'd like to stay where I am now through the academic year anyway (I don't want to leave them in the lurch--they have been really, really good to me--but if the right opportunity came along, I'd go sooner). But I do feel like I have a lot to offer and I'd really thought I'd be able to begin brushing up on my interviewing skills by now--at least by phone.

Patience is not easy for me.

This morning I found myself once again feeling immensely sad as I kissed Tori goodbye (she, of course, barely noticed). My feet felt heavy as I got off the train and walked to the college. My initial burst of joy and relief is being overshadowed by my old buddy hopelessness.

God. Hopelessness is like a rut in the road my tire fits perfectly; it's just so easy to go there. Even when I have wonderful things happening, I can't seem to shake it. For instance, I'm quoted in this truly marvelous book--it's a great study of the pain of unanswered prayer, told from a Christian perspective. The author excerpted this prayer I wrote over a year ago (his essay around it is just marvelous--my favorite part is when he says something along the lines of "I can't quote it completely and still call this a good Christian book" because I so rock the swearing). What an amazing honor to be included! Yet, today, I still feel flattened.

I doubt this will last--these little dips I get never do. Especially because tonight my dear, dear friend Dave and his girlfriend Deni are coming into town to stay with us for a few days while they go to a wedding. Dave is one of my touchstones, a man so spiritually grounded that talking to him makes me feel better in under thirty seconds (he usually does this by making me laugh at myself--if he wasn't on a plane right now flying here and I was telling him all of this on the phone all he'd have to say is "CEC...", in a tone that indicated to me that I was allowing myself to be a victim of self-centered fear. Then he'd laugh, and I'd have to laugh too). So by this time tomorrow, I'll be feeling much, much better.

But right now, when I look over the long and beautiful list of books you guys suggested for me to read to Tori (thank you so much!), I just feel so sad that I can't sit her down right this very minute and read her one. I want to give her a big ol' squeeze (she has just started squeezing back). I want to put her to my breast instead of the damned pump. I want to look across the room at her playing with her toys and watch her face light up when she sees me watching her.

*snuffles with self-pity*

Alright, I'm getting tired of myself. Self-pity and self-centered fear are so damned unattractive. Things will happen when they are meant to. As one mildly bitter person said once, "All in God's time... but I sure wish I could sneak a peek at his calendar."

Off to send another resume.

Take a deep breath, and take that next step...

So.

I've come to a decision (no, it's not about this blog--calm down).

Many things in my life have fallen away since Tori was born. Most importantly, and most obviously, my focus on recovery and my spiritual growth has vanished. Lately I've been lucky to get to a meeting at all, and when I do, Tori is usually with me so I don't get that much out of it. I've known for a long while that this has to change, and soon, or I'm going to go crazy.

Yesterday it was a beautiful day here, and I happened to know that a meeting was happening around lunchtime just a short walk away, so I went. And as they can often be, it was a real eye opener. It helped open my eyes to a situation that has been bothering me for a long, long time.

As you may know, it's currently Lent. At church, my pastor is taking a moment each week to discuss how important it is to evaluate ourselves during this time and search out and target specific things we want to eliminate--both in ourselves and the world. The first week, it was prejudice and racism. Last week, it was pride and arrogance.

Then, lo and behold, pride was also mentioned in the subject of my meeting. Meaning that I'd twice in a week heard about pride in a spiritual context. And at the meeting, they were speaking specifically about setting aside your pride and trusting in God to take care of the things you can't.

Now, me and God have had a rocky relationship this last couple of years, as you know. For a long time after I lost the twins I hated God passionately. Eventually, I found myself less angry, and now that Tori is here, it's hard for me to not feel full of love towards everything, even God.

I realized at the meeting that while I no longer hate God, and even occasionally feel fondly in God's general direction, I still don't trust the tricky bastard. I do not feel like I can turn things over to God and trust that they will be taken care of. Because, after all, exactly WHEN has that worked out for me?

Well, gee. Maybe this? Time to set aside my pride, wouldn't you say? Cause my life is pretty damn great, at least as far as my family is concerned.

But I've been struggling with something for months. I need to make a change, and it's scary as hell. I'm terrified. I have no faith whatsoever that things will work out. But as they say, leap, and with any luck, the net will appear.

Well, folks, I'm leaping.

We Begin Again

So, I finally did it: I went and signed up for a weight loss program. I have begun, once again, to watch my weight--or be a weight, shall we say, watcher (like how clever I got to try to foil random searches?).

I went to a local church, went up the stairs (funny, how for-profit meetings held in churches are always upstairs, while non-profit recovery meetings are always in the basement), paid my $15, got my booklets and sat down for the meeting. I calculated my "point" allowance, and was happy to see that thanks to being a) a nursing mom and b) fatter than hell, I get roughly a gazillion points a day. The last time I was a committed WW, I got about half the points I get now. Amazing.

I sat and listened to the leader. Oh, she was cheerful. Optimistic. Enthusiastic. And I hated every minute of it. The meeting was crowded, of course, being a new year and the "free sign up" that's currently available. Nice people, all of them. But GOD how I hated it.

I don't care how excited the leader is about it, this is a DIET and is not a "lifestyle." Who the fuck would chose a lifestyle where you take the calories, fat, and fiber of every food you eat, use a little cardboard calculator to assign it a "point" value, and then write it down in a little journal and THEN go to a meeting once a week where you are publicly weighed and measured.

Seriously.

I knew it was time to go. Unlike everyone else there, it isn't a New Year's Resolution for me (I only made one resolution--to be sure to kiss Tori at least 100 times a day all year. Easy to do). I chose this time to go because Tori has had breast milk for a full six months+, and is now eating solids a couple of times a day. Therefore I can take a small hit to my milk supply, should one happen, with a radical decrease in my calories. I am still trying to pump once or twice a day PLUS do all her feedings on the breast while I'm still home from work (I go back to work Tuesday--sob!). This should keep my supply up fairly well even though I'm eating a lot less.

So far, I've been "on point" for 48 hours. I do feel like I'm hungry all the time, but that's OK. I'm surprised to realize just how much I've been eating. Yikes. I'm hoping to hit my 10% goal by my birthday at the end of April. We shall see.

I find myself facing this, this yet another fucking diet, with a leaden resignation. It's different than the way I've dieted before. Sometimes I've tried to start a diet when I wasn't yet willing (like after I lost the boys). Sometimes I've been ready and enthusiastic and pleased as punch to do it.

But this time, I just know it's time and it's the right thing to do. I really want to be a bit lighter and in better shape by the time summer camping season comes around. I want to have a body light enough to run after Tori with ease when she begins walking. It's time, and I'm ready.

But I'm not happy about it. Just so you know.

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Last night my mom babysat Tori again and Charlie and I got to go see another movie. We chose "Children of Men" because of its excellent reviews and Clive! Owen! is in it.

I haven't read the book it's based on; but as Brooklyn Girl pointed out recently, in the book it was the MEN that were infertile. In the movie, naturally, it's women that are infertile (just in case you weren't sure that Hollywood is misogynistic).

It's seriously depressing. I mean DE-PRESS-ING. But it's also really good. Great acting, incredible story, beautifully filmed. Tough, though. Not sure I could have handled it if Tori wasn't in my life (we both felt the need to run home and see the baby after). So if you are still climbing up the infertility hill, you might want to skip it.

However, it's finally provided something to say to people who don't understand infertility. The movie beautifully captures the loss of hope, faith, and joy that comes with infertility. Every moment of the movie is like an illustration of the grief and rage, apathy and exhaustion, misery and hopelessness that is the life of an infertile.

So if anyone asks you what it's like, just tell them to see that movie. It's perfect.

Fashion Follies of the Fat Pregnant Chick

So…have I mentioned that I’m pregnant?

Well, suddenly, I actually look pregnant. Mostly I’ve just looked like I was getting fatter—something I’ve been doing for months—so it wasn’t noticeable. This last week, however, I’ve begun to look like I’m hiding a basketball under all my fat. It’s odd, but nice and reassuring.

I’m also off balance. Putting on underwear is a challenge—I can’t bend forward, quite, like I used to, and it’s a challenge to put on shoes that require things like tying or pulling. This morning I tried to put on my very hip motorcycle boots (they’re kind of big on me, I thought that they might fit my elephant feet) and I couldn’t manage to pull them on without starting to tip over. Oh well.

It’s gotten chilly here on the East Coast, and I was surprised to realize that none—not even my lovely, big loose turtleneck sweater—of my cool weather clothes fit me any more. Plus, as I’ve mentioned, shoes are an issue, so I’ve been wearing my sandals and it’s making for some darn chilly toes. My store is about 10 degrees cooler than it is outside, so I’ve been freezing my tits off all week.

So I broke down and went shopping yesterday.

Payless gifted me with a not-too-hideous-or-uncomfortable pair of shoes, slip-ons with closed toes. Ah. Toes are nice and toasty today, even if ankles are bulging in an unsightly manner above the shoes. Then, it was off to try to find clothes.

Since you can’t walk into a store and buy plus sized maternity clothes, I just went to my normal fat girl store and hoped to load up on a couple long sweaters. Nope. Sweaters are short cropped this year (something I would love, normally, being insanely shortwaisted) but they won’t cover up the big blue patch in the front of my maternity jeans.

So the only thing I bought was that current silly trend, a poncho.

I grew up in Albuquerque, New Mexico, so I was wearing ponchos thirty years ago. It’s made me somewhat homesick to see so many young women wearing them this year. I’ve been considering one since I noticed they were going to be this year’s trend, but I figured that covering my large round body with one object of clothing would be, er, unflattering.

How wrong I was! A poncho, it turns out, is a fat pregnant woman’s best friend! It’s black (not a shock, all I wear is black) and the point is long and hangs in the center just above my knees. Turns out it’s about the most flattering piece of clothing I’ve donned in months. I feel rather sassy in it. I imagine it will be my new best friend this whole winter.