e.e. cummings

i carry your heart with me(i carry it in

my heart)i am never without it(anywhere

i go you go,my dear;and whatever is done

by only me is your doing,my darling)

i fear

no fate(for you are my fate,my sweet)i want

no world(for beautiful you are my world,my true)

and it’s you are whatever a moon has always meant

and whatever a sun will always sing is you

here is the deepest secret nobody knows

(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud

and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows

higher than soul can hope or mind can hide)

and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart

i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart)

To Err is Fattening

Remember how I said in my food post a couple of days ago that I still make bad choices from time to time? Well, I made one last night.

After a long, emotional roller-coaster day, I asked Hubs if he wanted a treat. (That's code for "I'm going to send you out to get something bad for me.") He did, and so he went, and he returned with ice cream and a Slurpee for me. The Slurpee was tiny -- and it should have been enough. I dug into the ice cream anyway. Mmmm...cookie dough.

Within two bites, I was done. It was inexpensive ice cream, the kind that's a little gritty. It was a little too sweet. It wasn't what I wanted. But I kept eating. Bite after bite, a little more, a little faster, and before I knew it I was on the verge of speed-eating the entire pint. I wasn't even tasting it, wasn't even present, if that makes any sense. I was just consuming.

Something made me snap out of it; I don't know what it was. I looked down and saw that in about five minutes (maybe less), I'd inhaled almost two-thirds of the container. Two-thirds of an 800-calorie, 40g of fat container of lousy ice cream. My heart was in my throat; the spoon was still in my hand and I could feel it wanting to dig into what was left. "Go on, you've already eaten most of it. Just finish it off!"

I didn't.

I didn't finish the pint. For a single moment, the small part of me that's strong and steely and food-resistant jumped up and said NO. I clapped the lid on the carton as fast as I could, and ran downstairs to put it in the freezer. NO MORE.

I didn't want that damn ice cream. So why did I eat it? Because I had a sort of crappy day. Because I want to work out and I can't. Because being alone for almost two weeks has made me neurotic and paranoid and slightly depressed and I wanted something, anything, to make me feel happy. Guess what? After I ate that stupid ice cream, a wormhole didn't open up and erase my crappy day. I still couldn't work out. I was still feeling neurotic and paranoid and slightly depressed. That stupid, lousy, not-worth-it ice cream didn't fix anything.

It may seem like common sense -- how could food fix anything? Emotional eating has been my M.O. for so long that I hardly ever question it. I suppose in some ways it's like an addiction; there is a need, a huge, screaming, demanding need and I answer it. I give it what it wants because (used to be, anyway) for however short a time, filling that need with food makes everything else disappear. For those few fleeting moments, my brain checks out, my hands and mouth do the work, and everything goes away.

I don't want to check out anymore. I want to be here. I want to be present. I want to deal with things instead of hiding behind food, and fat, and funny.

Frankenbelly

There's a four-inch incision in the middle of my lower belly. At present, it's held shut by a row of shiny metal staples. Kid pulls up my shirt to see it, a look of doctorly concern on his face. "That's Mommy's boo-boo!" I tell him. He nods, knowingly. Pulls my shirt back down, pats me gingerly. Then he points to his most recent bruise or bump or scrape. "Mama?" he says, little eyebrows pointed up in a question. "Yep, buddy, that's YOUR boo-boo." Solidarity.

Does he remember, I wonder, coming out of my belly? The quick yank that brought him out of the warm, aquatic world of my abdomen, and into the dry brightness of his life outside of me?

I remember it. Strapped to the table with my arms spread wide, barely able to see over the surgical drape. Pressure, voices, clinking of instruments, and then that little squall of him, tentative at first and then louder, louder, louder still. Startled by the separation, maybe? Or simply cold, or made grumpy by intruding, tugging hands.

Four times now I've been on the operating table. He was the first, and the scariest. Everything was new, unknown. How quickly it's become routine: bloodwork, IVs, nurses and doctors and gurneys with wheels that rattle and squeak as I'm taken from one room to another. Drugs that make me babble and cry and (sometimes) flail as I wake up, my own rude awakening, pulled from anesthesia into consciousness again.

My little man looks at me with his tiny doctor's face, furrowed brow, and I look back at him. We understand the journey. Solidarity.

Disabling Cookies

At my request, Hubs brought home some Pepperidge Farm cookies on Tuesday night. My two favorite kinds: Milanos and Brussels (I've got a thing for Europe, what can I say?). After dinner, I put two of each cookie on a paper towel and nibbled them as I cleared the table and played with Kid. The strangest thing happened while I ate them:

I REALIZED THEY WEREN'T VERY GOOD.

This realization gets its own line, and capitalization why? Because I love cookies. ALL cookies. But especially Pepperidge Farm cookies. I used to wait until they were on sale and buy bag after bag of them, stashing them everywhere, eating an entire package at a time. I would go into a cookie trance: hand to bag, hand to mouth, hand back in bag. I even tried to hide how many of them I was eating by crumpling up the empty paper cup thingies and using them to prop up the last cookie in the bag. (My idea was that if somebody peeked in the bag, they'd see that cookie and think it was the last one in the first layer of cookies.) When I started getting in shape for the nine millionth time, I issued a self-imposed ban on these little buggers. No more! I said to myself. Not in this house! NO COOKIES!

I caved on Tuesday and asked Hubs to bring them home because I'm struggling with serious sugar cravings right now, mostly because I'm taking pain medication. As I've mentioned before, every time I go on heavy-duty pain meds (i.e. Percocet), I end up with insane, mind-bending sugar cravings that can only be eased by eating, well, SUGAR. My theory is that because the pain meds slow down my digestive system, my food is being digested/absorbed much slower than usual. And then I think my body kind of panics and says, "THERE'S NO FOOD IN HERE! SEND SOMETHING QUICK!" and makes me berserk for the easiest, quickest energy source (sugar). I've been keeping the Sugar Monster at bay by eating fruit and sucking on the occasional LifeSaver -- although quite frankly after the hospital I'm sick of those things -- but on Tuesday it was just out of control.

So there we are...another food obsession seems to have bitten the proverbial dust. I'm feeling a weird combination of relief, pride, and sadness. Relief, because really? Who wants to be a slave to a cookie? Pride because I can now see those cookies anywhere and know they're not the boss of me anymore. But why sadness?

I'm a little sad I suppose because who I am is changing (has changed). So much of my identity is based on me being the chubby, nerdy best friend, the funny fat girl, all of those stereotypes. But I don't want to be that anymore. I don't feel like I am that as much as I was even a year ago. And that leads me to the question, "Who am I NOW?" Or, more importantly, "Who do I want to be?" The answers to those questions aren't totally clear just yet. I know I have a lot of changing left to do, both internally and externally. I know that one's identity is never really set or fixed; it's always in flux, and that's okay.

Who do I want to be?

La Mer

We made an impromptu trip to the beach today. I fussed a little -- none of my shorts fit, so I had to lop off a pair of khakis. I ended up looking a little like Smee from "Peter Pan," complete with red cap (bandanna). I grumped at Hubs for not packing more towels, or snacks, or drinks. Not a great start to our trip.

I had a minor panic attack when we (me, Hubs, Kid) walked over the hill and onto the beach. There were people -- not a huge crowd, but more than I'd expected. I immediately felt self-conscious and wanted to go home. But I didn't. I wanted my son to play in the sand, and the water, and have fun with his daddy. Hubs, of course, could care less what anyone thinks and walked straight into the water with Kid in his arms, not caring that he was in shorts instead of swim trunks, not caring that people were looking at us like we were kooky European tourists. I stood uncomfortably on the sand, taking pictures with my phone and trying to act like I didn't think everyone was staring at me.

And then it occurred to me that I was letting these stupid, completely ridiculous, self-defeating feelings get in the way of me having fun with my family. I felt like an idiot. Who cares what random people on a beach think of me? Really. WHO CARES?

So I put my phone away and waded into the water, getting my shorts and shirt and everything else completely soaked. It felt so good. I forgot how much I love the water, the sand, the sun, the breeze. It felt so good that I decided on the spot to come back again, and soon, and in my bathing suit, and everybody can kiss my fat, lumpy behind. I want to have fun again.

Tidal

I remember learning to swim when I was little, not in the pool with my favorite aunt, but at the beach with my dad. He wouldn't allow me to be afraid of the ocean. He picked me up in his arms, turned his back to the waves, and let them crash over us, telling me when to close my eyes and hold my breath. Telling me when it was safe to open up and breathe again. As I got bigger, I could stand in the breakwater myself, bracing my little body against the impact. I remember anticipation, waiting for the dull smack of the water, secretly hoping for a huge wave that would knock me off my feet and drag me out to sea. I loved the disorientation that came when I was trapped under the wave-belly -- where is up? watch your bubbles -- the near-panic of running out of breath and then the euphoria of breaking the surface and gasping for air. Dragging myself back onto the shore, still panting, then running back to do it all over again.

Older and bigger, I stopped turning my back to the waves. I faced them and learned to dive into them, more in control of where I ended up. The thrill of truly swimming, able to outstroke the currents, clear the breakers, and glide out into the deep, deep water where feet and sandy bottom drew further and further apart. Floating on the surface of swells, human sargasso weed, watching the sky and losing my bearings, drifting, drifting, drifting.

Sometimes a storm, sometimes a flat, glassy sea. I swam, always.

I don't remember when it changed. But it did. Fear and caution make a timid swimmer, one who waits for the waves to die down before wading out, eye to the shore, remember where your towel is, don't go too far astray. Self-conscious (who swims in a T-shirt and underpants?), self-doubting (I can't), self-defeating (I never really liked this anyway).

I want returned to me what fear and caution took away. Brashness, and boldness, and not-giving-a-damn. Let the tsunami come; my feet are in the sand and my back is to the sea, I want it, I'm waiting, I'm holding my breath and closing my eyes and waiting.

Radio Silence

A lot has happened over the last few weeks. I haven't had any interest in writing until this morning, when I decided to just sit down to write. What happened of course is that I got distracted by the oh, thousand emails in my inbox (forgot to close Mail before leaving the computer weeks ago). And now here I am with about twenty minutes to write before I have to go upstairs and get ready.

So what is there to say? What's the big drama that's kept me from blogging for weeks on end? Part of me doesn't even want to rehash it all this morning. Part of me wants to pretend like everything is the same and bang out a funny blog post with no "real" content. And the other part of me wants to lay myself open like a map and show you all how I got from there to here.

I'll compromise. I'll give you this: All is not right with my world at present, and that's okay. I am physically well but emotionally bruised. There has been good news and not-so-good news. I'd be lying if I said I'm doing my best to deal with all of it, but after another perfectly-timed kick in the ass from Smith last night, I'm done with the sniveling pity party. A good portion of the mess I'm in is my own damn fault, and thus it's my own (damn) responsibility to claw my way out of it.

Self-Esteem

Self-esteem. We throw that term around a lot. But what does it really mean? Does it mean that you're impervious to jokes (even the mean ones), that nothing ever bothers you? Does it mean that you do get upset, but you hide it? I don't think so.

I'm no expert here, seeing as how my own self-esteem is not the highest, but it seems to me that feeling good about yourself means you can stand up for yourself, or at the very least let someone know when they've upset you. I think I do a pretty good job of that, most of the time. I've also learned (especially recently) that there are a lot of things that you just can't take personally, no matter what they are or who they come from; you've got to shake it off.

People have said and done terrible, horrible things to me in my life. I could probably make a whole blog just on jokes made about me. I've spent many an hour hiding in the bathroom (hello, my entire junior high experience), hiding behind weight or funky clothes and hair (hello, most of my 20s), or just plain hiding my feelings. Most of the time, I rip on myself, beating others to the punch. Sort of like Cyrano de Bergerac, only less articulate.

I've also wasted a lot of time waiting for other people to build my self-esteem for me. News flash, kids -- it's called SELF-esteem for a reason. Nobody else can give it to you, and once you get it, you can't let other people take it away from you. This is something I'm still struggling with; I think I rely a little too heavily on those around me to boost me when I need it. I need to focus on what I can do to boost it myself. I started making lists of things I'm good at, accomplishments I'm proud of, and things I can do that no one else can. These are private lists, and I go to them when I'm feeling low.

But what about when people tease me? Because hey, they still do. Like me, most of my friends show their affection by ragging on me. Ninety-nine percent of the time, it doesn't bug me, because I understand the motivation, which is usually "LIGHTEN UP, JENNY!" But every once and a while, something will be said or done that gets to me. It's not always something big, but things do get through. For example...I hopped off a barstool in my kitchen, and Smith pointed out that I'd left a spot on the chair. I was HUMILIATED. I was ashamed that I'd dared to let my bottom get warm and sweaty. "How gross are you?! You're so big and fat, even your ASS sweats! UGH!" I thought. I could have cried. I wanted to cry. Instead, I just let myself feel bad for a second, and then I tried to think about it rationally. Smith wasn't pointing it out to be mean or make me feel bad. For Pete's sake, he didn't even know what it WAS. He pointed it out because he noticed it, and he thought I'd want to know there was something on the chair that needed to be cleaned off. Once I realized that, it wasn't even worth it to say anything, because I wasn't upset anymore.

Other times, people have said things that I couldn't justify or rationalize. And when that happens, all I can do is tell them (privately) that what they said or did upset me. Guess what, though? If I don't tell them I'm upset, then I can't be mad at them for acting like I'm NOT upset. For all they know, what they said was fine and didn't faze me. If they apologize, then that's it, it's done. If I'm still upset about it, that's my problem. (I've never had anyone NOT apologize, so I don't know where you go from there.)

People often say or do things they regret, myself included. I think if I ever joined a 12-step program, it would probably take me years to work through the "amends" portion. That filter between my brain and my mouth doesn't always work so well. I'd like to think that I do a decent job of catching my mistakes, and correcting them if and when I can, but who knows? There's always going to be someone for whom "I'm sorry" isn't good enough.

NOTE: Please know that this post is not an attempt to criticize, "call out," or bash anyone. These are just my own thoughts as they've popped into my head today.

Introspection

Part of my weight loss journey has been about figuring out the "whys" of myself, like why I chose to stay overweight. I'm not usually one for navel-gazing, but lately I've been forcing myself to take the time to think and write about how I really feel about my life.

One of the things I've been focusing on is work. I can't really call it a career, because honestly, pulling espresso and pushing overpriced sugary coffee drinks isn't a career I want. I've also got massage therapy under my belt; I just need to take my national exam to be considered a certified therapist. I have to say that the more I think about things, though, the less I'm interested in any sort of "real" job. At first I thought this was just laziness -- not wanting to have to get up, get dressed, and go out every day. Then I thought I might be too attached to the Kid to put him in someone else's care while I work. But as I wrote those thoughts down in my journal, it started to hit me. It's not laziness, it's not fear, it's not lack of ambition. Having a regular job is just not what I want to do. Period. Full stop.

So what DO I want to do? What makes me happy? What makes me feel fulfilled? Those are the tougher questions to answer, but as the days go by, I'm feeling more and more like what I'm best at and what makes me happy is to be here, in my home, taking care of my family. The whole time I'm at work, I'm thinking about being at home. And while I'm at home, I'm so happy to be there -- even on the days when the Kid is a pain, or the dogs barf somewhere, or I have to clean toilets or fold everyone's underpants.

When I first started working less and staying home more (last October), I felt really overwhelmed and stressed. I still feel that way from time to time. What I've figured out, though, is that it's not the home stuff or family stuff or marriage stuff that's stressing me out. It's the fact that I have to put those things aside to go to a job I don't like. It's having to put my family life aside every evening so I can go to bed early enough to get up for work the next day.

All I want to do is take care of my family, my home, and myself. I love cooking, gardening, playing with my son, having dinner with my husband. I love the tiny daily details of keeping house. I love planning my week, and my errands, and having friends over for dinner. Can this be my job, please? Sadly, the answer to that question is NO. For now, I have to keep working, just for financial reasons. But knowing what I really and truly want to do, being honest with myself about that, is going to make it easier to bear.

What does all this have to do with my weight, you might be wondering. Well, the fact is, when I'm happy, I don't overeat. I don't punish myself with food. Happy Me likes to get up and run, eat good food, rest. Happy Me takes care of herself. So figuring out why I haven't been happy is really important.

Good Week, Bad Week

After my big loss last week, I've taken it a little too easy this week. I haven't been pushing myself as hard on my runs. I've kept my food in check, though, and I've been really trying to pay attention instead of just cruising along in auto-pilot mode. I've done a lot of writing (just haven't published all of it), and spent a lot of time thinking about what's up with me lately.

Some things I've figured out:

Most of the "treat" food I think I want is really, really, really not worth it.

I had lunch with Smith and his wife on Thursday. We got takeout pizza from the Italian place by my house. This is pizza that I LOVE, like eat it once a week because ohhhh the greasy goodness LOVE. I was really hungry when the pizza arrived, and it smelled so good. But halfway through the second piece, I just realized that it didn't really taste that good. It was greasy, salty, everything I thought I wanted, but...bleh. It wasn't disgusting, don't get me wrong, and Fattie was certainly delighted. It just didn't taste as good as I remembered. And afterwards, I had a bellyache from the grease. Urp.

Then last night, I had to go to my store's Holiday meeting (not a party, we just sit around and talk retail). All of the holiday pastries we are selling this year were set up on the tables, cut into convenient bite-sized pieces. In years past, I have eaten at least a half to three quarters of a tray of these things. This year, I had a small piece of each just so I could taste if they were any different from last year, and then I was done. And again, it really didn't taste that good. I didn't feel tempted, I didn't feel like it was a big deal to say "No, I tried that one, I'm good."

I need to focus on my victories, no matter how small, instead of beating myself up.

Anyone who knows me will tell you that I'm the queen of self-depracating humor. I learned a long time ago that if I beat everyone to the punch, and come up with the meanest or funniest joke, then nobody else will take a stab at teasing me. The problem is, nobody wants to tease me anymore (well, except maybe Smith and Hubs when they get together), so I don't need the defense mechanism. What I need to do is remind myself that for the most part, I am a pretty kickass person, and I deserve to feel good about myself. For example, I've lost a total of fourteen pounds. FOURTEEN POUNDS IS A BIG DEAL, even when I know I have many, many more pounds to lose. Another example? What used to be my ZOMG DEATH ON TEH TREADMILL running pace is now my "warmup" pace. Oh yeah, and how about the fact that I've shrunk out of my jeans AND two sizes of underwear?

Routine is very, very good for me.

To some it may seem boring, or even robotic. But for me, doing the same thing, in the same order, every day is extremely comforting and sustaining. Get up at the same time, eat my same breakfast, same bedtime, same same same same same. Routine is what makes it easier to get up at 3 AM and run, to turn down junk food, to keep the house under control.

My uterus is not the boss of me.

I used to blame everything on Aunt Flo. Gained weight? Her fault. Feeling tired? Her fault. Being an insanely cranky bitch and biting the heads off everyone around you? So totally her fault. But guess what? Her = me. And I'm not going to lay around on the couch for a week eating crap and allowing myself to get away with it because my uterus is in purge mode. It's become clear through this and a couple of other minor physical challenges that my brain can convince my body to do (or not do) whatever it wants. I'm just going to keep doing what I'm doing, and my body can cooperate or get left behind.

So I'd say it's been a good week overall, and I'm going to finish strong with my run and workout tomorrow. RAH!

The Fear

I tried changing up my run this morning (yes, I'm already done at 3:50AM). Instead of running a whole 1.25/1.5 miles, I started with five minutes of walking. Then I ran half a mile, then walked a quarter mile, then ran another half mile. I was going to walk another quarter and finish with a half, but I had to stop. Why? Because I started hyperventilating. Argh!

This hasn't happened since my panic attack on the track (hey, that rhymes!). This time, I totally felt it coming, but I couldn't stop it. I started to feel a little weirdness in my ribs on the right side, and before I knew it, I couldn't breathe (or at least that's what it felt like). It's hard to explain the feeling...it's almost like that feeling you get right before you cough, where you can't quite get the air all the way down into the bottom of your lung.

So the next question is, why did this happen? What was I thinking about when it happened? Oh yeah...the 5k. And how I'm nervous about running in public, running outside, running so slowly that the guy in the golf cart will have to haul me to the finish. Stupid, irrational, ridiculous, overblown fears. Excuses waiting to happen.

Today I'm going to be thinking about what I'm really afraid of, and when I run tomorrow, I'm NOT going to hyperventilate again. DO YOU HEAR ME, LUNGS? DO YOU HEAR ME, BRAIN? Y'all are going to cut the shit, and we're going to do this.

Frustration

I'm about at the end of my rope with this hernia thing. I was in agony for a week, then woke up the other day with zero pain (no gut pain, no back pain). Now my back is starting to hurt again, just when I'd decided to start running again. Yeah, I was going to flip my surgeon the bird and get back on the treadmill. But now, my entire low back, hips, and heiny are ablaze with aches and twinges. AGAIN.

I'm so over this. I'm so tired. And the worst part is, the self-doubt has given up on tiptoeing and is now stomping into my mind with huge steel-toed boots. THIS IS YOUR FAULT. IT'S PSYCHOSOMATIC. YOU'RE MAKING IT UP. SEE, NO ONE BELIEVES YOU. THEY JUST THINK YOU'RE A BIG FATTIE WHO'S TRYING TO AVOID WORKING OUT.

It doesn't help that I'm frustrated with the Hubs, too. And mad that I can't work. And worried about money. And just all around losing my shiitake.

Miles and Miles

I did my first run on Saturday morning. Smith was at our door at six, went through some stretches, and then put me on the treadmill. After doing a tenth of a mile walking briskly, I had to ramp up the speed and actually run (well, jog I guess...whatever...it's fucking running to me) for another four tenths of a mile. And campers, it was hard. I didn't think it'd be so hard. I didn't think my lungs would burn, or that I'd sweat, or that I'd tell Smith I felt like I was going to die (his response to that? "It's okay. I know CPR. KEEP GOING.").

What surprised me even more was that the feelings I'd stirred up the night before started bubbling away while I ran. I tried to block them out and stare at the mileage on the treadmill's display, but Smith caught me and covered it up. He made me think about my breathing, getting it in rhythm with my stride. It helped, both to keep me from passing out and to keep me from crying. He kept telling me, "Go to that place. Go where you need to go."

And I did.

It happened really fast, but for just a few moments, I knew what he meant. My feet were thudding away on the treadmill, and the thought came to me:

"I AM NOT A BAD PERSON."

Thud. Thud. Thud. Breathing. Again:

"I AM NOT A BAD PERSON."

Thud. Thud. Thud. Breathing.

For that thirty seconds or so, I got it. I understood, finally, that this was going to be my way to let it all go, all the bullshit, all the sadness, all those steamer trunks of garbage that I've been hauling around for years. I wanted to stop, and sob, and let it all out in an avalanche of feelings, but I didn't. I kept going, I finished my half-mile.

After the run, I was in the kitchen, coughing my brains out and slurping water. Smith heard me and said, "You knock some stuff loose there?"

Yep, I sure did. But not from my lungs.

Epiphany

Smith asked me a really simple question during our sit-down meeting on Friday night. After we'd gone over the outline of his training plans, my goals, and such, he said, "You already know all this stuff. So, what's keeping you from doing it?"

That's the first time anyone's ever asked me that question. Seriously -- no one's ever asked me why before. Why do I do this to myself? Why do I let myself stay obese when I know exactly how to get rid of the weight? I told Smith I didn't know, squirming in my chair. But when I crawled into bed on Friday night, the answer came to me. It hit me in the chest like a fastball, knocked the wind out of me.

Because I feel like I deserve to be punished.

Typing that sentence brings tears to my eyes. Most of the people who know me these days can't imagine why in the world I'd ever think something like that. But that's it. That's the reason.

The truth is, I've done some really god-awful things in my life, things I'm too ashamed of to ever write about here (at least at this point, anyway). I've hurt a lot of people and done a lot of damage. And I've never forgiven myself. Instead, I've spent years doing whatever I can to keep myself from being truly happy, because how could somebody as awful as me ever deserve happiness?

I don't know why this has never occurred to me before. It makes perfect sense, though. Every time I've ever given up on something I was good at, or something that made me happy, deep down I felt like I had to because I didn't deserve it. Giving up on the things I love, keeping myself fat and miserable, that's my punishment. That's my penance for doing the wrongs I've done.

I think it's going to take me a while to get through this part. I've been crying off and on since Friday night, barely made it through a wedding and time with friends last night. I don't know where or how to start the process of forgiving myself. I just know I have to.

NOTE: Please don't interpret this as a plea for positive comments, affirmations, or "OH, but you're so AWESOME!" messages. I'm not fishing for love this morning, honest.

Nerves A-Janglin'

So Smith is coming over tonight to go over Operation Un-Fat Me. I'm excited, but a little nervous, too. I've never had anybody (well, other than my mom) act as my trainer before, so I'm not quite sure what to expect. I know it'll be good, and I also know it's going to be hard. It's like the first day of school, or something. I just keep telling myself, "I can do this. I can DO this. I CAN DO THIS O MY GOD I MIGHT BARF."

Oh god, what if I barf on Smith? He'd probably think it was funny. But still. Oh god.

Momentum

The Right Stuff - 1983

Do you know this scene? It's when the astronauts are doing their lung capacity test. It turns into a competition, all the guys fighting to keep their little red ball afloat. This is kind of how I feel right now. All of my effort is directed at a single goal. 

I feel good. Things have been going smoothly. I talked to Smith for a while about training (turns out he wants to work with the Hubs, too!), my mom treated me to a family membership at the Y, and everything around the house has just fallen into place. I'm cooking healthy dinners, packing lunch for the Hubs, and even eating a real lunch myself every day. Everything's just sort of rolling along, gathering speed.

I'm not used to this. Part of me is waiting for something to go wrong, waiting for the other shoe to drop. Like on Tuesday - I drank a root beer. (It tasted AMAZING. I highly recommend ice-cold IBC on a hot day!) "Well, that's it, you had a SODA! You might as well just give up now. Sheesh!" I thought.

Nope. Not giving up, not going to pig out just because I drank a single root beer and enjoyed it. Nor will I beat myself up for having pizza last night - I ate less than normal, and I had a big salad with it. For me, that's progress.

They're Just Food, They're Not Love

I spent the better part of yesterday wallowing in self-pity. By mid-afternoon, I managed to snap out of it, and decided I'd enjoy making a good dinner in my new kitchen. So, yay for getting over myself, but seriously? I'm so sick of the numbers on the scale dictating how I feel.

Yes, I gained about four pounds. I know exactly why, and I know exactly how to get rid of it. So why do I spiral down into a pit of misery and try to self-medicate with the very stuff that makes me feel shitty in the first place? I AM FAT. I GOT SLIGHTLY MORE FAT. SO HEY, LET'S EAT LEFTOVER CUPCAKE FROSTING AND POTATO CHIPS UNTIL WE FEEL BETTER. But guess what...it never feels better. Because after I'm done, I look at the dessicated remains of whatever I've devoured, and I get mad at myself for being "weak." I put it in quotes because I'm not really sure that weakness is what makes it happen. I think it's just a habit: Feel bad? Eat. Feel lonely? Eat. Feel anything...EAT. That's the habit I need to break.

You're Pushing Maximum Density

In my first post here, I mentioned that my current weight was only three pounds shy of my "highest recorded weight." That'd be the 239 pounds I reached a few months back. I wrote it on a Post-It note and stuck it on my computer monitor. 

I couldn't stop looking at it. 239. Closer to 250 than 225. The weight of a pro-football player a foot taller than me. 80 bags of bananas from BJ's. Two...thirty...nine. Ugh.

Needless to say, the Post-It got crumpled up and tossed in my trash can. Angrily. Fuck you, 239. My scale's broken, that can't be right. I don't weigh that much! Look at me. I look FINE. And I just had a baby, for Pete's sake!

But wait. My scale's not broken. It is right. I do weigh that much, I don't look fine, and that baby? Well, he's almost two.

There's no more time for excuses. My current weight puts my BMI over 40, which is very, very scary. Scary because I've been in denial of it for so long, and also scary because I know all about the health complications that occur when you're "morbidly obese." This is why I have to change, and I have to change NOW.

What's In A Name?

I had a list of blog names going in a little notebook next to my bed: mostly self-deprecating, a few downright hateful, some just ridiculously lame. Finally, I settled on Foodie versus Fattie. Why? Because part of my problem with weight is my totally unhealthy relationship with food. I don't just like to eat. I love to eat. But here's the catch -- I'm a food snob. So when I binge, it's not Fritos and Big Macs that I'm stuffing down my gullet. It's organic this, field-raised that, hand-crafted-by-hippies-in-Vermont stuff that packs the caloric equivalent of six hours at the Old Country Buffet.

My inner Foodie understands that these amazing things are supposed to be enjoyed in small portions, the two- or three-bite dishes you see on Top Chef. Beautiful food. Passionate food. Artfully prepared food. You know, FOODIE food.

Fattie, on the other hand, has no understanding of "less is more." MORE is more, and more is better, right? If an ounce of fresh buffalo mozzarella, sandwiched between home-grown basil and a slice of organic heirloom tomato, is good, then a whole pound of mozzarella is fucking Shangri-La.

So the battle rages on...Foodie spies high-end goods at the store and loads up the cart, imagining fantastic meals for everyone. Fattie gets to the car, waits 'til no one's looking, and scarfs down half a baguette before leaving the parking lot. It all sounds very schizophrenic, and in some ways I guess it is. But what they both have in common is that they're emotionally attached to food. Foodie is getting high on flavor, and Fattie is self-medicating (a habit that started back in the period I like to call Eating My Way Through My Parents' Divorce).

I just want to eat in peace. I'll never be one of those people who can see food purely as fuel -- I think that's kind of a sad way to live (unless you're a pro athlete or something, and you HAVE to live that way). But I'd like to be able to eat a meal without ten steamer trunks of emotional baggage tied to my fork.