I was doing so well, back in February of last year, nearly a year ago.
I was working regularly, and back into a routine.
I was leaving work a little early to go hiking before it got dark, sometimes hiking after the sun set just so I could get it in.
I didn't want to let myself go. I wanted to be in shape and a healthy weight for me. And I was trying really hard.
But as the pressures of my new job started to get to me, a job which unraveled as quickly as it began, I gave into the many temptations of office life. One slice of pizza turned into an entire personal pizza all for me. Flavored seltzer water turned into beer at lunch. Healthy snacks turned into handfuls of M&Ms.
When that job ended, I was determined to keep up my fitness routine, particularly now that I had plenty of time to devote to hiking and swimming during daylight.
And then arrived the ultimate sabotage: I got rear-ended, giving me whiplash and a brain injury, exacerbating my preexisting fibromyalgia, sending me into physical therapy three times a week for three months, plus weekly visits with a talk therapist and nearly daily phone calls with an attorney. It was hard to find time to exercise. It was hard to get out of bed. It was hard to move at all.
Even as my physical condition improved, my head wasn't ready to get back into any physical activity that required thought, or choreography, or navigation.
I was stagnant because I needed to be. My focus was on getting better.
But all of these traumas – and dating someone new – brought on a significant amount of anxiety that I'd never experienced before, obliterating my appetite and twisting my stomach into knots. I lost ten pounds in a month. At the time, I attributed it to having a new boyfriend and being motivated to look good naked, and when it didn't work out between us and ended unceremoniously, I started letting myself go.
Sure, it was the start of the holiday season – first my birthday, then Halloween and pumpkin spice everything, then Thanksgiving and Christmas and New Year's Eve and rainy days and Mondays – but I deliberately let myself go, I decided to let myself go, because it became clear to me that my looks didn't matter. Even at my most beautiful, I would not be beautiful enough for LA. I clean up good, but not good enough.
So why bother stressing myself out over weight loss, hair removal, manicures, makeup, contacts, blowouts, fashion? I had enough to worry about: my own physical and mental health, my dwindling finances, my spiraling career, and more.
So I stopped worrying about how I looked. I stopped getting my hair done. I stopped wearing makeup. I cried so hard and so much, my tears ate away at the skin around my eyes, creating red sores and scaly patches. I wore the same pajama bottoms as pants every day. I ate whatever I wanted, and watched my body expand exponentially.
It didn't matter. I was letting myself go. I was letting myself fatten up like a Christmas goose. I was not just allowing it to happen, I was making it happen.
At least I could make something happen. I didn't seem to have control over anything else in my life.
And what a relief not to count Points or calories or fat or portion size. What a relief to say "I can" and "I will" rather than "I can't" or "I won't." What glorious comfort I received from chocolate and chips and pizza and pasta and calamari and cookie dough, when I needed it most.
But when it came down with it, I was inconsolable. I knew I was destroying myself, but I couldn't stop. I'd been here before, these familiar feelings of shame and loneliness and failure and addiction and obsession. We do strange things to survive. We do what we can, left to our own devices.
But there was an end in sight for me. At no time did I tell myself, "This is my life now." This stage of letting go, falling off the wagon, was always meant to be temporary. I just had to get through spending the holidays in LA alone, and then I could get back on track.
I knew it was a cliché, but I just couldn't wrap my head around depriving myself of these comforts until January 2.
And when the New Year came, I was ready to let everything else go, and take myself back. The benefits of hedonism have now been outweighed by the disgust I feel when I look in the mirror, the pain I feel when I wake up in the morning, and the time it takes to find something to wear that fits.
I haven't had a drop of alcohol since January 1 (11 days and counting), the longest I've gone dry since July 2012. I've been following Weight Watchers again. I've gotten back into hiking, and have gone back to the gym.
I'm the heaviest I've been since 2010. I'm very out of shape. And, for the timebeing, I'm very sore from the increased physical activity, after months of stagnation. I feel a little better, but I've got to be in it for the long haul. This isn't just a New Year's resolution. I have to take back my life, and find myself again, whether or not I'm working or dating someone.
I've gotten buried somewhere underneath all of these crises and circumstances, and it's time to dig myself out.
Related Posts:
Letting Go
That Which Weighs Me Down
Getting Back on Track
The End of Acting Out
Making up for lost time and missed opportunities, one adventure at a time.
Showing posts with label ODBAFA. Show all posts
Showing posts with label ODBAFA. Show all posts
January 12, 2015
August 12, 2014
Getting Back on Track
It's so easy to get derailed in this life.
There are slings and arrows coming from every direction, and next thing you know, you wake up covered in cheese dust with swollen eyes and salt-stained cheeks, on sheets you haven't changed in months, because who would notice?
For those of us who are particularly sensitive to the vibrations of the universe around us, it's hard enough to stay on track during one of life's tumultuous events, like a lost job or a lost love. But when love is gone, friends are far, money is tight, work can't be found, the bed is empty, the bank is empty, the gas tank is empty, and all you feel is physical pain and heartache, how can you not think that all is lost?
I was never going to love again.
I was never going to work again.
I was going to lose my apartment, and have nowhere to go.
I was going to gain all of that weight back. It had already started to happen.
I didn't wish for any of these things, but I'd lost control over all of them, and as though in a dream, all I could do was watch the events as they unfolded. I couldn't stop them. I could only make the predictions and try to prepare myself for the worst.
Sometimes, you can't steer or brake or maneuver yourself out of a crash. You just have to duck for cover.
I've been so lonely and isolated for so long – sure, for my whole life, but particularly these last few months. When I'm working and have got some money, I manage to socialize with strangers, though it never fills the vacancy of the close friends that are back East, with whom phone conversations are too few, and the distance grows greater as our in person visits become more infrequent. But when times are tight and I don't know how I'll pay the next month's rent, all I can do is hunker down, try not to spend any money, or break anything, or get sick or hurt, in the body, the heart, or the mind.
I don't know what happened on the earth or in the stars in early July, three months after the shit hit the fan in my life in a perfect storm of life-altering crises, but things started to change.
On Independence Day, a couple of friends gave me the one thing I needed the most: they reached out, spent time with me, and just listened.
A shift ensued.
The next week, I started an eight week group therapy session that started helping me untwist my thoughts, and feel like I'm not the only one who thinks them.
The same day, like a gift from the Universe, I met someone who has given me hope, and who has helped put my heart back together, even just a few pieces at a time.
Since then, I've lost seven pounds. I've sold more photos and more writing. My unemployment went through.
And it looks as though I might actually work again.
I'm not back on track yet, but I'm getting there. For some reason, in addition to my persistent depression, I have more anxiety now than I've ever had before, and I've got to figure out how to manage that. But I've been happy to wake up in the morning more than a few times (particularly when there's someone to wake up to). And that's really something.
The thing is...
I can do bad; I'm used to bad.
But please don't take this good away from me...
Related Posts:
The Forever Now
Feeding the Multitudes
My Time Has Passed
There are slings and arrows coming from every direction, and next thing you know, you wake up covered in cheese dust with swollen eyes and salt-stained cheeks, on sheets you haven't changed in months, because who would notice?
For those of us who are particularly sensitive to the vibrations of the universe around us, it's hard enough to stay on track during one of life's tumultuous events, like a lost job or a lost love. But when love is gone, friends are far, money is tight, work can't be found, the bed is empty, the bank is empty, the gas tank is empty, and all you feel is physical pain and heartache, how can you not think that all is lost?
I was never going to love again.
I was never going to work again.
I was going to lose my apartment, and have nowhere to go.
I was going to gain all of that weight back. It had already started to happen.
I didn't wish for any of these things, but I'd lost control over all of them, and as though in a dream, all I could do was watch the events as they unfolded. I couldn't stop them. I could only make the predictions and try to prepare myself for the worst.
Sometimes, you can't steer or brake or maneuver yourself out of a crash. You just have to duck for cover.
I've been so lonely and isolated for so long – sure, for my whole life, but particularly these last few months. When I'm working and have got some money, I manage to socialize with strangers, though it never fills the vacancy of the close friends that are back East, with whom phone conversations are too few, and the distance grows greater as our in person visits become more infrequent. But when times are tight and I don't know how I'll pay the next month's rent, all I can do is hunker down, try not to spend any money, or break anything, or get sick or hurt, in the body, the heart, or the mind.
I don't know what happened on the earth or in the stars in early July, three months after the shit hit the fan in my life in a perfect storm of life-altering crises, but things started to change.
On Independence Day, a couple of friends gave me the one thing I needed the most: they reached out, spent time with me, and just listened.
A shift ensued.
The next week, I started an eight week group therapy session that started helping me untwist my thoughts, and feel like I'm not the only one who thinks them.
The same day, like a gift from the Universe, I met someone who has given me hope, and who has helped put my heart back together, even just a few pieces at a time.
Since then, I've lost seven pounds. I've sold more photos and more writing. My unemployment went through.
And it looks as though I might actually work again.
I'm not back on track yet, but I'm getting there. For some reason, in addition to my persistent depression, I have more anxiety now than I've ever had before, and I've got to figure out how to manage that. But I've been happy to wake up in the morning more than a few times (particularly when there's someone to wake up to). And that's really something.
The thing is...
...when it's going well,
it's so scary,
because suddenly I've got something to lose again.
I can do bad; I'm used to bad.
But please don't take this good away from me...
Related Posts:
The Forever Now
Feeding the Multitudes
My Time Has Passed
February 15, 2014
The Gender Gap in Getting Fit
Why do workouts that are specifically designed for women insist on encouraging sexiness?
I go to a gym or a dance studio or a workout class to get some exercise, learn a new skill, tone my body, relieve stress, and get healthy (and maybe lose weight) - not to be sexy.
When I go to the pool to swim laps, I don't think about how "sexy" my backstroke is. I'm thinking about not crashing into my neighboring swimmer by keeping perfect form and swimming in a straight line. When I do it right, maybe it looks sexy. But that's not the point.
Sure, I get it. Whatever it takes to make an activity palatable - especially for women who might be feeling gross when they sweat, or uncomfortable watching themselves in the mirror. Trust me, I get it.
But when I'm taking Zumba, I don't want to turn around and smack my own ass. I don't want anybody smacking my ass.
When I take bellydancing, I don't want to know which move is especially sexy - they're all sexy, it's bellydancing, a dance of seduction. I want to learn how to make my stomach muscles do that thing. I want to realize that shimmying while moving my hips in a figure 8 is so fun that I want to do it while I'm standing in line at the grocery store.
Why do women have to take classes like Catwalk Cardio in high heels and S-Curve and X-Pole on the stripper pole, all to be bootylicious and beach body ready?
Maybe sex appeal is an inner motivation for some. But take any personal training session with a guy - or Crossfit, Krav Maga, spring training, football training, Bowflex, bodybuilding, whatever - and the encouragement (or drill sergeant beratement) is about strengthening, tightening, leaning, building. Sure, those tight abs are sexy. But that's not the point of the whole thing.
I'm really tired of taking classes where I'm instructed to look in the mirror, imagine my guy there, and seduce him. I don't want to strike a pose. I didn't shower this morning, my shirt has a salt streak down the middle of the back from sweat, and my stomach is getting in the way of some of the moves.
Maybe I should be taking more yoga or pilates, which are typically focused more on correct posture and form.
Maybe I shouldn't take classes at all, and restrict my fitness routine to solo efforts like hiking and swimming. If I'm in a room full of women who are not my romantic prospects, who smell like yoga mats and feet and sweat and farts, I do not feel sexy, and will not act sexy. I have a problem with authority. I am your eyerolling student. I think I know everything, and when I don't, I burst into tears.
I cried recently during the last half of a Bollywood dance workout class, a discipline I really enjoy and am generally good at. But I didn't know some of those particular moves, and I was the only student who showed up. Instead of being able to hide in the back, or show off to the rest of the class how good of a grasp I had on the moves, all I could do was watch myself - a big, white cow - lumbering around the dance studio in the giant, unavoidable mirror wall.
To comfort me after class was over, the instructor tried to tell me - convince me - that I'm beautiful. But that's not the problem. I don't care if I'm beautiful or not. I have been more beautiful than I am right now; I have been less beautiful than I am right now. But right now, I'm overtired, underslept, overworked, underpaid, underloved, misunderstood, misanthropic, fibromyalgic, rheumatic, arthritic, astigmatic, dysthymic, dystopic. Telling me I'm beautiful doesn't fix any of that.
Telling me to act sexy doesn't empower me. It disenfranchises me. It makes me feel like it's my only recourse - a panacea for all my professional, financial, personal, and romantic woes.
And besides, you can't teach sexy. You're either sexy or you're not. And if you're not, you can't just act sexy. That doesn't do anything for anybody.
Related Post:
Not Hot Enough
I go to a gym or a dance studio or a workout class to get some exercise, learn a new skill, tone my body, relieve stress, and get healthy (and maybe lose weight) - not to be sexy.
When I go to the pool to swim laps, I don't think about how "sexy" my backstroke is. I'm thinking about not crashing into my neighboring swimmer by keeping perfect form and swimming in a straight line. When I do it right, maybe it looks sexy. But that's not the point.
Sure, I get it. Whatever it takes to make an activity palatable - especially for women who might be feeling gross when they sweat, or uncomfortable watching themselves in the mirror. Trust me, I get it.
But when I'm taking Zumba, I don't want to turn around and smack my own ass. I don't want anybody smacking my ass.
When I take bellydancing, I don't want to know which move is especially sexy - they're all sexy, it's bellydancing, a dance of seduction. I want to learn how to make my stomach muscles do that thing. I want to realize that shimmying while moving my hips in a figure 8 is so fun that I want to do it while I'm standing in line at the grocery store.
Why do women have to take classes like Catwalk Cardio in high heels and S-Curve and X-Pole on the stripper pole, all to be bootylicious and beach body ready?
Maybe sex appeal is an inner motivation for some. But take any personal training session with a guy - or Crossfit, Krav Maga, spring training, football training, Bowflex, bodybuilding, whatever - and the encouragement (or drill sergeant beratement) is about strengthening, tightening, leaning, building. Sure, those tight abs are sexy. But that's not the point of the whole thing.
I'm really tired of taking classes where I'm instructed to look in the mirror, imagine my guy there, and seduce him. I don't want to strike a pose. I didn't shower this morning, my shirt has a salt streak down the middle of the back from sweat, and my stomach is getting in the way of some of the moves.
Maybe I should be taking more yoga or pilates, which are typically focused more on correct posture and form.
Maybe I shouldn't take classes at all, and restrict my fitness routine to solo efforts like hiking and swimming. If I'm in a room full of women who are not my romantic prospects, who smell like yoga mats and feet and sweat and farts, I do not feel sexy, and will not act sexy. I have a problem with authority. I am your eyerolling student. I think I know everything, and when I don't, I burst into tears.
I cried recently during the last half of a Bollywood dance workout class, a discipline I really enjoy and am generally good at. But I didn't know some of those particular moves, and I was the only student who showed up. Instead of being able to hide in the back, or show off to the rest of the class how good of a grasp I had on the moves, all I could do was watch myself - a big, white cow - lumbering around the dance studio in the giant, unavoidable mirror wall.
To comfort me after class was over, the instructor tried to tell me - convince me - that I'm beautiful. But that's not the problem. I don't care if I'm beautiful or not. I have been more beautiful than I am right now; I have been less beautiful than I am right now. But right now, I'm overtired, underslept, overworked, underpaid, underloved, misunderstood, misanthropic, fibromyalgic, rheumatic, arthritic, astigmatic, dysthymic, dystopic. Telling me I'm beautiful doesn't fix any of that.
Telling me to act sexy doesn't empower me. It disenfranchises me. It makes me feel like it's my only recourse - a panacea for all my professional, financial, personal, and romantic woes.
And besides, you can't teach sexy. You're either sexy or you're not. And if you're not, you can't just act sexy. That doesn't do anything for anybody.
Related Post:
Not Hot Enough
February 07, 2014
That Which Weighs Me Down
One of my proudest accomplishments is losing 50 pounds in 2010.
One of my most tragic humiliations is gaining 20 of it back.
I haven't wanted to write about it because that would mean acknowledging it as true.
But I must write about it, because a culture of secrecy is what feeds these things that eat away at us - addiction, affliction, abuse, binging, purging. My mother was a secret eater. Last I knew, she was over 200 pounds at only 5'1".
I don't know what happened to me. I was at a peak low weight in September 2012 after spending another month in Joshua Tree. I was in shape, eating healthy, drinking less, and feeling good. I'd been so successful for over two years. I'd shared my story with everybody. It became part of who I am.
But something derailed me.
My birthday was not tragic in 2012. Not that year.
For some reason, by Halloween, I was already feeling fat again, not happy with the photos of myself in my "Diamonds Are a Girl's Best Friend" / "Material Girl" pink gown with the giant bow. I wasn't hiking every day like I had been in Joshua Tree. I wasn't working, and had no regular schedule, no routine upon which to rely.
In November 2012, I'd probably gained ten of those pounds back already. I was so stir-crazy and broke that I took a job at the mall, which made me more active with eight consecutive hours of standing and running between racks and dressing rooms, but more inactive on my off days, feet hurting, lower back aching, brain fried, tired of talking. Without reliable lunch breaks and rest periods, I rewarded myself with post-shift happy hours and martinis and dinners, spending most of my paycheck and piling on the calories.
I was very hard on myself back then, ten pounds heavier than my lowest weight, only about three pounds over a healthy weight range for my height.
It feels like I've been torturing myself about my weight forever. I don't know how to stop. I wasn't even happy at my lowest, because it literally only lasted a day, and I couldn't get back to it, no matter how hard I tried.
I wish I'd been happy with myself back then. I wish I could be happy with myself now.
Things actually got worse when I resigned from my mall job, despite having freelance work (in my actual career) to occupy me. In the months that followed, I lost two guy friends - both of whom were treasured confidantes - because of complications associated with their "taken" status. I had a one night stand with a stupid drunk Silverlake hipster who told me I reminded him of a Botticelli painting, at which point I knew it was time to leave. Around the same time, I finally relented and accepted the advances of one of the few age-appropriate single men in my life, only to discover that he was - at best - a chubby chaser who wanted to bury himself in my rolls of fat. I was only a little overweight at that point, and he treated me like an all-you-can-eat buffet. He called me his "big girl" and wanted me to say things like, "I'm your big girl."
I wasn't even that big back then.
I tried complying, but I was traumatized. Worst of all, he was putting his own pleasures and desires above my general mental health and body image. It didn't matter how much my perceived rotundness turned him on, I couldn't feel good about it. There is a giant leap between "I love you just the way you are" and "Your stomach is huge! I love it!" It pains me to even type the words and have my eyes read them back to me.
Although a situation like that might make most people want to never eat again, it sent me snacking and drinking, making worse the very thing I hated, that which I'd tried so hard to get away from.
In June 2013, I rejoined Weight Watchers, having fallen off the wagon and skipped meetings for a year and a half. I spent six months feeling like I was starving myself, and never losing more than six pounds, eventually gaining it all back - and then some - by the end of the year.
During Christmas break back in Syracuse, I was like a heroin addict getting reintroduced to smack. I consumed Christmas cookies for every meal, with no pause in between. I didn't want to eat anything else, and I couldn't stop. I hadn't been home for an entire year - didn't I deserve a little treat?
But it wasn't one little treat. It was a constant flow of sugar and fat and chocolate and peanut butter down my throat, barely pausing to chew or even roll the deliciousness around my tongue.
Around New Year's 2014, four years after first joining Weight Watchers, I was too sick to get back on the wagon, bed-ridden and forsaken by the one person in LA I thought I could count on. That entire month, my weight kept going up, every week.
I started a new job on January 15, generating a professional stress-level I had not experienced for six months. As my weight continued to go up, I considered switching from Weight Watchers to some other diet plan. I considered appetite suppressant powders and pills. I wished I could develop an eating disorder.
Instead of drinking and eating my sorrows away, I started leaving the office early enough to go hiking before sundown, and on some nights, hiking in the dark (which everyone knows I hate doing). I started booking aerobics and dance classes, taking my sweaty ass home afterwards instead of going out, and feeling good about it. I've been bringing my lunch every day, avoiding the free snacks in the kitchen and the daily lunch delivery orders made by all of my coworkers. I'm trying to eat half what I was eating before, and drinking even less. I'm trying to cut back on Diet Coke. I'm trying coffee without sweetener.
After a week of not cutting corners and playing by the rules instead of trying to cheat the system, I lost 4.6 pounds, making my meeting leader's eyes bulge when she weighed me in. I just nodded and cast my eyes downward, saying, "I know. I had to."
I don't know what it was, but something clicked. I don't want to be dependent on anyone or anything, much less sugar, caffeine, and fatty, crunchy, doughy, cheesy things. I want to feel better because life is better, not because I'm acting out or breaking the rules or self-medicating.
I don't care if I ever eat again, but unfortunately, I have to. I can't go cold turkey like an alcoholic. I can't avoid kitchens and grocery stores. There's no methadone for pizza and doughnuts.
I don't care if anyone else ever sees me naked. I want to look in the mirror and smile.
I want to see my cheekbones.
I want to find my bellybutton.
I want my clothes to fit, my beautiful new wardrobe to which I finally committed (after months of wearing clothes too big) because I thought I would be able to stay at that weight.
I want to sleep well.
I want to get out of bed in the morning without limping. I want to do everything without pain.
But I also don't want to live life with limitations, wondering what to order and when I can eat again, passing on offered options because they're not on plan or they'll trigger me. Turning anything down is torture for me. I want to try everything, taste everything.
So what do I do? As I round out my second week of being back on track - really on track - I'm curious to watch the scale when I weigh in on Monday. I used to skip breakfast, wear skimpy clothing, and remove all my jewelry and shoes when I weighed in, hoping for any tenth-of-a-pound difference it might make. Now I at least eat a small bowl of cereal and just wear jeans or whatever I'm wearing to work when I get on the scale. It's not a competition. I'll either get back there or I won't. There aren't any tricks to it.
Either I can do it again, or I can't.
I guess I'll find out.
Related Posts:
Hello to the Old Me
What Goes Up, Must Come Down
That Which Haunts Me
One of my most tragic humiliations is gaining 20 of it back.
I haven't wanted to write about it because that would mean acknowledging it as true.
But I must write about it, because a culture of secrecy is what feeds these things that eat away at us - addiction, affliction, abuse, binging, purging. My mother was a secret eater. Last I knew, she was over 200 pounds at only 5'1".
I don't know what happened to me. I was at a peak low weight in September 2012 after spending another month in Joshua Tree. I was in shape, eating healthy, drinking less, and feeling good. I'd been so successful for over two years. I'd shared my story with everybody. It became part of who I am.
But something derailed me.
My birthday was not tragic in 2012. Not that year.
For some reason, by Halloween, I was already feeling fat again, not happy with the photos of myself in my "Diamonds Are a Girl's Best Friend" / "Material Girl" pink gown with the giant bow. I wasn't hiking every day like I had been in Joshua Tree. I wasn't working, and had no regular schedule, no routine upon which to rely.
In November 2012, I'd probably gained ten of those pounds back already. I was so stir-crazy and broke that I took a job at the mall, which made me more active with eight consecutive hours of standing and running between racks and dressing rooms, but more inactive on my off days, feet hurting, lower back aching, brain fried, tired of talking. Without reliable lunch breaks and rest periods, I rewarded myself with post-shift happy hours and martinis and dinners, spending most of my paycheck and piling on the calories.
I was very hard on myself back then, ten pounds heavier than my lowest weight, only about three pounds over a healthy weight range for my height.
It feels like I've been torturing myself about my weight forever. I don't know how to stop. I wasn't even happy at my lowest, because it literally only lasted a day, and I couldn't get back to it, no matter how hard I tried.
I wish I'd been happy with myself back then. I wish I could be happy with myself now.
Things actually got worse when I resigned from my mall job, despite having freelance work (in my actual career) to occupy me. In the months that followed, I lost two guy friends - both of whom were treasured confidantes - because of complications associated with their "taken" status. I had a one night stand with a stupid drunk Silverlake hipster who told me I reminded him of a Botticelli painting, at which point I knew it was time to leave. Around the same time, I finally relented and accepted the advances of one of the few age-appropriate single men in my life, only to discover that he was - at best - a chubby chaser who wanted to bury himself in my rolls of fat. I was only a little overweight at that point, and he treated me like an all-you-can-eat buffet. He called me his "big girl" and wanted me to say things like, "I'm your big girl."
I wasn't even that big back then.
I tried complying, but I was traumatized. Worst of all, he was putting his own pleasures and desires above my general mental health and body image. It didn't matter how much my perceived rotundness turned him on, I couldn't feel good about it. There is a giant leap between "I love you just the way you are" and "Your stomach is huge! I love it!" It pains me to even type the words and have my eyes read them back to me.
Although a situation like that might make most people want to never eat again, it sent me snacking and drinking, making worse the very thing I hated, that which I'd tried so hard to get away from.
In June 2013, I rejoined Weight Watchers, having fallen off the wagon and skipped meetings for a year and a half. I spent six months feeling like I was starving myself, and never losing more than six pounds, eventually gaining it all back - and then some - by the end of the year.
During Christmas break back in Syracuse, I was like a heroin addict getting reintroduced to smack. I consumed Christmas cookies for every meal, with no pause in between. I didn't want to eat anything else, and I couldn't stop. I hadn't been home for an entire year - didn't I deserve a little treat?
But it wasn't one little treat. It was a constant flow of sugar and fat and chocolate and peanut butter down my throat, barely pausing to chew or even roll the deliciousness around my tongue.
Around New Year's 2014, four years after first joining Weight Watchers, I was too sick to get back on the wagon, bed-ridden and forsaken by the one person in LA I thought I could count on. That entire month, my weight kept going up, every week.
I started a new job on January 15, generating a professional stress-level I had not experienced for six months. As my weight continued to go up, I considered switching from Weight Watchers to some other diet plan. I considered appetite suppressant powders and pills. I wished I could develop an eating disorder.
Instead of drinking and eating my sorrows away, I started leaving the office early enough to go hiking before sundown, and on some nights, hiking in the dark (which everyone knows I hate doing). I started booking aerobics and dance classes, taking my sweaty ass home afterwards instead of going out, and feeling good about it. I've been bringing my lunch every day, avoiding the free snacks in the kitchen and the daily lunch delivery orders made by all of my coworkers. I'm trying to eat half what I was eating before, and drinking even less. I'm trying to cut back on Diet Coke. I'm trying coffee without sweetener.
After a week of not cutting corners and playing by the rules instead of trying to cheat the system, I lost 4.6 pounds, making my meeting leader's eyes bulge when she weighed me in. I just nodded and cast my eyes downward, saying, "I know. I had to."
I don't know what it was, but something clicked. I don't want to be dependent on anyone or anything, much less sugar, caffeine, and fatty, crunchy, doughy, cheesy things. I want to feel better because life is better, not because I'm acting out or breaking the rules or self-medicating.
I don't care if I ever eat again, but unfortunately, I have to. I can't go cold turkey like an alcoholic. I can't avoid kitchens and grocery stores. There's no methadone for pizza and doughnuts.
I don't care if anyone else ever sees me naked. I want to look in the mirror and smile.
I want to see my cheekbones.
I want to find my bellybutton.
I want my clothes to fit, my beautiful new wardrobe to which I finally committed (after months of wearing clothes too big) because I thought I would be able to stay at that weight.
I want to sleep well.
I want to get out of bed in the morning without limping. I want to do everything without pain.
But I also don't want to live life with limitations, wondering what to order and when I can eat again, passing on offered options because they're not on plan or they'll trigger me. Turning anything down is torture for me. I want to try everything, taste everything.
So what do I do? As I round out my second week of being back on track - really on track - I'm curious to watch the scale when I weigh in on Monday. I used to skip breakfast, wear skimpy clothing, and remove all my jewelry and shoes when I weighed in, hoping for any tenth-of-a-pound difference it might make. Now I at least eat a small bowl of cereal and just wear jeans or whatever I'm wearing to work when I get on the scale. It's not a competition. I'll either get back there or I won't. There aren't any tricks to it.
Either I can do it again, or I can't.
I guess I'll find out.
Related Posts:
Hello to the Old Me
What Goes Up, Must Come Down
That Which Haunts Me
June 19, 2013
Hello to the Old Me
I love to talk about how much I've changed since I moved to California, but lately, I'm feeling a little like my old self again.
Well, that is, I'm looking like my old self again.
I lost 52 lbs. between January 2011 and September 2012, when I hit a low weight I'll never be able to maintain. As of last week, I'd gained back 19 of those pounds. I found myself self-deprecating more than usual, calling myself "fat" and self-flagellating over my failure to keep the weight off. People kept saying, "But you look great!", but then again, they said that at my peak weight, too, when I was desperately overweight. I was depressed and stressed and lonely, so I ate and drank more. Watching myself gain the weight back depressed me more, so I continued to eat and drink.
But two years ago, in the summer of 2011, I'd lost 35 lbs. - the most weight I'd ever been able to lose, and more than my goal - and I was elated. I bought my first string bikini, which set off a shopping pattern in which I could not stop buying bikinis and finding excuses to wear them, even photographing myself in them and posting them online for the world to see. I was proud of my new body. I was seeing someone who loved the way I looked both 35 lbs. heavier and 35 lbs. lighter, and I was thrilled. I was happy. I wasn't ashamed.
I weigh exactly the same now as I did then. I am 35 lbs. lighter than my heaviest weight. And regardless of the fact that that means I am now more than 15 lbs. heavier than I was last fall, I am trying to remember that pride I once felt at this weight, at this size.
It's not easy when the numbers are going up instead of down.
It's not easy when your clothes don't fit because they're too tight instead of too loose.
It's not easy when you're less comfortable physically, sleeping worse, and still feeling hungry and deprived.
It's not easy when you're trying to do it all alone.
I fell off the Weight Watchers bandwagon when I moved to LA, two years after I first joined. I tried going to meetings at first, but it was nearly impossible with my work schedule in and commute to Venice. When I switched jobs that relocated me closer to my own neighborhood, I tried attending meetings before work, or skipping out on my lunch break, but my job was so demanding - and my coworkers focused so much attention and curiosity on the plan, what I was eating for lunch, what happened during meetings, why I would want to work for them anyway, etc. - that I got tired of explaining myself, and felt embarrassed that everyone else seemed to be able to just work out a lot and starve themselves in order to maintain their weight, and I had to go to some kind of group therapy for the community support.
Still, I went to as many meetings as I could, until the end of 2011, when I scrambled to finish all my work before returning to the East Coast for Christmas. When I returned to LA for the new year, I couldn't bear the thought of returning to meetings, which would surely be jam-packed with new and returning members trying to keep their New Year's resolutions. I kept telling myself I would go back soon. Then I told myself I didn't need the meetings, that I could do it on my own. (And truthfully, I hit my peak loss without going to meetings, after a good bout of desert detox.)
I lapsed on meetings (and, eventually, tracking and all the other stuff I'm supposed to be doing on the plan) for a year and a half.
And now, 19 lbs. heavier, I've gone back.
I've gone to three meetings so far. I gained two pounds between the first and the second. I lost three pounds since last week, netting me out at just one pound lighter.
It's a pound. A pound up or a pound down is nothing.
But at least I'm doing something about it, rather than bemoaning the failure and only making it worse through self-destructive behavior.
At least it's moving in the right direction.
I've done this before. I should be able to do it again. It's a rollercoaster I wish I didn't have to ride, but this is my life. This is it. I accept it, and move on.
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Well, that is, I'm looking like my old self again.
I lost 52 lbs. between January 2011 and September 2012, when I hit a low weight I'll never be able to maintain. As of last week, I'd gained back 19 of those pounds. I found myself self-deprecating more than usual, calling myself "fat" and self-flagellating over my failure to keep the weight off. People kept saying, "But you look great!", but then again, they said that at my peak weight, too, when I was desperately overweight. I was depressed and stressed and lonely, so I ate and drank more. Watching myself gain the weight back depressed me more, so I continued to eat and drink.
But two years ago, in the summer of 2011, I'd lost 35 lbs. - the most weight I'd ever been able to lose, and more than my goal - and I was elated. I bought my first string bikini, which set off a shopping pattern in which I could not stop buying bikinis and finding excuses to wear them, even photographing myself in them and posting them online for the world to see. I was proud of my new body. I was seeing someone who loved the way I looked both 35 lbs. heavier and 35 lbs. lighter, and I was thrilled. I was happy. I wasn't ashamed.
I weigh exactly the same now as I did then. I am 35 lbs. lighter than my heaviest weight. And regardless of the fact that that means I am now more than 15 lbs. heavier than I was last fall, I am trying to remember that pride I once felt at this weight, at this size.
It's not easy when the numbers are going up instead of down.
It's not easy when your clothes don't fit because they're too tight instead of too loose.
It's not easy when you're less comfortable physically, sleeping worse, and still feeling hungry and deprived.
It's not easy when you're trying to do it all alone.
I fell off the Weight Watchers bandwagon when I moved to LA, two years after I first joined. I tried going to meetings at first, but it was nearly impossible with my work schedule in and commute to Venice. When I switched jobs that relocated me closer to my own neighborhood, I tried attending meetings before work, or skipping out on my lunch break, but my job was so demanding - and my coworkers focused so much attention and curiosity on the plan, what I was eating for lunch, what happened during meetings, why I would want to work for them anyway, etc. - that I got tired of explaining myself, and felt embarrassed that everyone else seemed to be able to just work out a lot and starve themselves in order to maintain their weight, and I had to go to some kind of group therapy for the community support.
Still, I went to as many meetings as I could, until the end of 2011, when I scrambled to finish all my work before returning to the East Coast for Christmas. When I returned to LA for the new year, I couldn't bear the thought of returning to meetings, which would surely be jam-packed with new and returning members trying to keep their New Year's resolutions. I kept telling myself I would go back soon. Then I told myself I didn't need the meetings, that I could do it on my own. (And truthfully, I hit my peak loss without going to meetings, after a good bout of desert detox.)
I lapsed on meetings (and, eventually, tracking and all the other stuff I'm supposed to be doing on the plan) for a year and a half.
And now, 19 lbs. heavier, I've gone back.
I've gone to three meetings so far. I gained two pounds between the first and the second. I lost three pounds since last week, netting me out at just one pound lighter.
It's a pound. A pound up or a pound down is nothing.
But at least I'm doing something about it, rather than bemoaning the failure and only making it worse through self-destructive behavior.
At least it's moving in the right direction.
I've done this before. I should be able to do it again. It's a rollercoaster I wish I didn't have to ride, but this is my life. This is it. I accept it, and move on.
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August 15, 2012
Desert Detox
I was looking forward to this brief little respite in the desert. It's nice to step away from your life for a couple of weeks. Even if there's not that much to step away from.
I was actually planning on spending a good solid three weeks out here in Joshua Tree, but obligations - and car wreckage - forced me to insert a three-day return trip to LA in the middle of it, breaking my retreat up into two nice chunks.
And then Carrie, my friend and proprietor of The Desert Lily, for whom I was housesitting, came back a week early.
I actually wasn't even sure if I would go back to LA immediately upon her return anyway, regardless if it was the 18th or a week before, so when she said, "You know, you don't have to leave right away..." I was relieved. I could stay the week as planned, or I could stay longer.
Or, if I wanted to, I could leave early.
I still don't know when I'm going back to LA. One of the reasons I wanted to come out here was to detoxify my life a bit, break the cycle of work-and-wine, of sitting at restaurant bars hoping to meet someone who will change my life. And hopefully, in the process, I'd lose the ten pounds I'd gained since May.
Now that I'm out here, I feel great. I cook my own breakfast every day, and dinner almost every night. I stay in and watch the sun set rather than lingering at the saloon. I go to bed early and set my alarm for 6 a.m. I sleep well with a nightly low of 80 degrees, without air conditioning. I am limber and strong. I am hiking and swimming, and I am resilient. I search for art and I seek beauty. I clear my head of poisonous thoughts.
I do everything I want to do.
And sometimes, I do nothing.
I marvel at how much healthier I am - both physically and mentally - now than I was three years ago. I'm not pressuring myself to do - or not do - anything.
So why leave? Why go back to LA early? Why not stay, as long as this place is good for me, and as long as I am welcome?
As long as I don't succumb to snakes, tarantulas, floods, wildfires, excessive heat, and a remarkably poor sense of direction...
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March 24, 2012
Dying for It
One of the things I've learned from Weight Watchers* is to not eat something that's unhealthy (or, in my case, not "on the list") unless you're dying for it.
If you're dying for the peanut butter fudge brownie, eat it. Don't eat five of them, but allow yourself to have one. (Just not every day.)
But don't eat the dried-out, crumbly cookies that have been sitting out for hours in the office just because they're there and they're free. Don't drink the God-awful vodka sodas at the open bar, even if they do the job just as well as something delicious. Don't eat your burned dinner. Throw it out and start over again.
The same can be said for many other aspects of life besides food and drink. If you're not dying to watch a show or hear a song, change the channel. If you're not dying to have sex with a person, kick them out before they take it out.
The thing is, sometimes you have to eat, and there's nothing good to eat around. You're relegated to the mall food court or a freeway rest stop, with no healthy options at hand. But you have to eat something.
In this instance, you have two choices: try to select the healthiest unhealthy thing you can (e.g. a chicken soft taco from Del Taco), or chalk the meal up to an exception, a one-time desperation, and get the burger, onion rings, apple pie, the whole shabang. Because they offered no kale. Because maybe you weren't dying for it, but you were dying for something.
And so you settle for what you can get.
*I am a Weight Watchers employee but I am writing about my own personal experiences and views. The opinions expressed here are my own and do not reflect those of Weight Watchers.
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If you're dying for the peanut butter fudge brownie, eat it. Don't eat five of them, but allow yourself to have one. (Just not every day.)
But don't eat the dried-out, crumbly cookies that have been sitting out for hours in the office just because they're there and they're free. Don't drink the God-awful vodka sodas at the open bar, even if they do the job just as well as something delicious. Don't eat your burned dinner. Throw it out and start over again.
The same can be said for many other aspects of life besides food and drink. If you're not dying to watch a show or hear a song, change the channel. If you're not dying to have sex with a person, kick them out before they take it out.
The thing is, sometimes you have to eat, and there's nothing good to eat around. You're relegated to the mall food court or a freeway rest stop, with no healthy options at hand. But you have to eat something.
In this instance, you have two choices: try to select the healthiest unhealthy thing you can (e.g. a chicken soft taco from Del Taco), or chalk the meal up to an exception, a one-time desperation, and get the burger, onion rings, apple pie, the whole shabang. Because they offered no kale. Because maybe you weren't dying for it, but you were dying for something.
And so you settle for what you can get.
*I am a Weight Watchers employee but I am writing about my own personal experiences and views. The opinions expressed here are my own and do not reflect those of Weight Watchers.
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January 01, 2012
A Tale of One Dress
I have one dress that, over the years, has been my go-to for special occasions.
I don't remember when I bought it, but I remember where I bought it. It was at the Strawberry in Union Square, when I was still shopping at Strawberry, because everything was so cute and so cheap there. And there was something about buying clothes in Junior sizes that made me feel still young.
This dress, the strapless hot pink dress with the black polka dots, and the poodle skirt with black crinoline, made me feel thin and pretty. This dress made me feel like a girl.
I don't remember when I first wore it, but I remember I wore it to the party for my 30th birthday.
"I don't remember ever seeing you in this dress before," my friend George, the owner of the bar where I held my party, said.
"I don't wear it that often..." I said.
"Well," he said, looking at me deeply with those eyes, and one brow cocked just a little bit, "You should wear it more often."
Truth is, I usually wore it to weddings outside of New York. I'd worn it to Steve's wedding in LA, when I made our friend Eric drive my ass around, and I broke into the Beverly Laurel pool after hours and hooked up with Steve's best friend. I'd worn it to Jon's wedding in Upstate New York, when his best friend and best man got so drunk I had to lure him back to the car with my boobs. (I had boobs back then.) I wore it again to James' wedding in Connecticut, where I salsa-danced with the father of the bride, such that now when he sees me, he says, "I remember you - good dancer!"
In September 2008, I'd been invited to Jen's wedding as her friend Rob's date, but I'd gained so much weight that none of my dresses fit me anymore. I went shopping for a new outfit but couldn't find anything. And in the final hour, I resorted to the one dress that had done me right over the years: that hot pink and black polka dot dress.
Sure, it was tight on me. It barely zipped up. But I threw a sweater over it and took to the dancefloor like a pro, trying to forget my heft, trying to forget my heartbreak, trying to feel like a pretty girl despite how I suspected I looked.
That dress hasn't fit me in a while. After losing 51 pounds, I haven't been a size 13 in a while. But I couldn't let that dress go. I couldn't donate it to Goodwill like I had so many other pants, skirts, shirts, and dresses inside which I now swam. So I got it taken in at the tailors, and suddenly, years later, it was like new again.
And in my new hometown, far away from New York, on New Year's Eve, it was time to wear it again.
So I wore the hot pink and black polka dot dress last night with high hopes for a New Year's Eve that wouldn't break my heart.
I hoped for a midnight kiss, which at one point in my youth, was all I ever wanted on New Year's Eve night.
My wish was granted by the first guy I saw, who complimented me on my dress the minute he saw me (it).
But this year, I wanted more.
What I got?
"You look like a ladybug," a friend said, after I complimented him on his suit.
"Is that a compliment or an insult?" I asked.
"It's an observation," he stated, deadpan.
"So you're saying I look like a bug..."
"A very ladylike bug..."
At this point I walked away. My dress was hot pink, not RED. I did NOT look like a ladybug.
Did I?
Had I looked like a ladybug all these years?
I went to two different parties searching for something more, leaving behind my midnight kiss and friends, seeking affirmation, reinforcement, flattery, seduction, I don't know what. At the next party, I was complimented in kind by a cute guy: "I like your watermelon dress," he said.
"Uh, thanks," I said. Also not what I was going for.
So maybe I've outgrown this dress. Maybe the dress that got me through my 20s has been ready to be retired for some time now. Maybe Californians just don't get this dress. Maybe even though I got it taken in, it just doesn't fit me anymore.
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May 11, 2011
Taking Care of Myself
Long gone are the days when my reaction to things going wrong is to self-destruct.
I so clearly remember coping with work stress - long hours, and a boss who was cheating on his wife with a coworker - by getting drunk every night, staying out late, waking up hung over and overtired, and going back to work and starting all over again.
I gained a lot of weight then.
When I got laid off in 2001, I was actually thrilled. Four months' of severance seemed like a fortune, and I was free to go out drinking every night of the week and not have to get up and go to work. I could be hung over all day at home.
I gained even more weight then.
When my next job went sour in 2008, I started drinking and eating a lot again. I probably gained about 20 lbs in less than a year. But the tide started to shift: when I felt really, really bad, and wanted to escape my life, I started to travel. I went to Death Valley. I went to Morocco. I went on every business trip and visit that presented itself to me, whether it was to Southern California, Philadelphia, Boston, Minneapolis, Detroit, Chicago, DC, and especially Turks & Caicos.
After I quit that job, I spent a year drowning my sorrows. And then I decided to do something good for myself: I joined Weight Watchers, and I used my free time to attend meetings, go grocery shopping, cook at home, and buy new clothes that actually fit. During a crisis last summer, I was momentarily tempted to get drunk in the afternoon and eat (literally or figuratively) a bowl of bacon, but instead, I went to my Weight Watchers center and cried my eyes out to my meeting leader.
"Go do something for you," she said. "What do you like to do? Besides drink and eat bacon. Do you like to go to the park? Go to the movies? Figure out something you love and go do that."
I sniffled and nodded, and set a course for home. I realized the thing I wanted to do most in that moment: watch General Hospital.
That day last summer was a huge turning point for me, and put me on a course of mental stability that has allowed me to weather this most recent layoff with a fair amount of grace and resilience. Sure, I went and cried on the phone in the Whole Foods parking lot. But when I asked myself, "What am I supposed to do now?", I didn't fall back on those old standby behaviors.
I went and got myself a nice lunch, with one glass of wine.
I went and got my hair done, with one glass of champagne.
I went and got my nails done, and serendipitously met a recruiter sitting next to me.
I felt good, and I looked fabulous.
And when my old phone short-circuited (probably because of the tidal influx of post-layoff emails/txts/calls), I went and bought myself a shiny new Blackberry.
In the days that have followed, I have found cute younger boys to kiss, gotten my hair done again, gotten properly groomed at the spa, changed the sheets on my bed, washed the dishes and cleaned up the apartment. I deposited checks in the bank. I mailed a birthday present.
I am taking care of me, because nobody else is going to do it, and because I have to be strong for whatever opportunity presents itself next. The universe is speaking to me; I'm just not sure what it's saying...yet.
Whatever it is, I am going to be ready for it.
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I so clearly remember coping with work stress - long hours, and a boss who was cheating on his wife with a coworker - by getting drunk every night, staying out late, waking up hung over and overtired, and going back to work and starting all over again.
I gained a lot of weight then.
When I got laid off in 2001, I was actually thrilled. Four months' of severance seemed like a fortune, and I was free to go out drinking every night of the week and not have to get up and go to work. I could be hung over all day at home.
I gained even more weight then.
When my next job went sour in 2008, I started drinking and eating a lot again. I probably gained about 20 lbs in less than a year. But the tide started to shift: when I felt really, really bad, and wanted to escape my life, I started to travel. I went to Death Valley. I went to Morocco. I went on every business trip and visit that presented itself to me, whether it was to Southern California, Philadelphia, Boston, Minneapolis, Detroit, Chicago, DC, and especially Turks & Caicos.
After I quit that job, I spent a year drowning my sorrows. And then I decided to do something good for myself: I joined Weight Watchers, and I used my free time to attend meetings, go grocery shopping, cook at home, and buy new clothes that actually fit. During a crisis last summer, I was momentarily tempted to get drunk in the afternoon and eat (literally or figuratively) a bowl of bacon, but instead, I went to my Weight Watchers center and cried my eyes out to my meeting leader.
"Go do something for you," she said. "What do you like to do? Besides drink and eat bacon. Do you like to go to the park? Go to the movies? Figure out something you love and go do that."
I sniffled and nodded, and set a course for home. I realized the thing I wanted to do most in that moment: watch General Hospital.
That day last summer was a huge turning point for me, and put me on a course of mental stability that has allowed me to weather this most recent layoff with a fair amount of grace and resilience. Sure, I went and cried on the phone in the Whole Foods parking lot. But when I asked myself, "What am I supposed to do now?", I didn't fall back on those old standby behaviors.
I went and got myself a nice lunch, with one glass of wine.
I went and got my hair done, with one glass of champagne.
I went and got my nails done, and serendipitously met a recruiter sitting next to me.
I felt good, and I looked fabulous.
And when my old phone short-circuited (probably because of the tidal influx of post-layoff emails/txts/calls), I went and bought myself a shiny new Blackberry.
In the days that have followed, I have found cute younger boys to kiss, gotten my hair done again, gotten properly groomed at the spa, changed the sheets on my bed, washed the dishes and cleaned up the apartment. I deposited checks in the bank. I mailed a birthday present.
I am taking care of me, because nobody else is going to do it, and because I have to be strong for whatever opportunity presents itself next. The universe is speaking to me; I'm just not sure what it's saying...yet.
Whatever it is, I am going to be ready for it.
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December 31, 2010
Open Letter to 2010, A Fond Farewell
Dear 2010, oh year that has passed,
It is with no remorse that I bid you adieu, a fond farewell for the times we have shared. I had such high hopes for you. And, in many ways, you were good to me. I am grateful for you.
But it has not been easy.
You wanted me to lose weight, as did many of the years that came before you. I knew it for a long time. And even though I thought it would be impossible to lose as much as my 30 pound goal, I managed to lose nearly 50. Thanks to Weight Watchers, I am empowered, a master of my own domain. I needed success desperately. I had no idea how much I also needed the help and support.
Maybe thanks to the weight loss, or thanks to traveling alone, or to moving to Queens, I started dating again. It had been a long time. It was about time. But my timing is still off: I still can't manage to find someone when they're available, or manage to fall in love with someone who will love me back. Romances that initially seem destined eventually fizzle without reason. Calls and text messages just stop coming. Second dates never turn into third dates. And the older I get, the less hope I have for ever getting married. I thought this might be the year that could make it seem possible, but I'm no better at having a relationship now than I was ten years ago. I'm just better at eliciting invitations for first dates.
Thank God I didn't get pregnant. I can't believe I still have to worry about that, not only because of my lack of insurance, but because of my perpetual singlehood.
I also worried about paying the rent, even more during your year than I ever had before, even after having moved to Queens to reduce the rent by half. I paid the rent on a credit card, something I haven't had to do since 1997. And although I finally got an apartment with a bedroom, it was someone else's apartment, making my bedroom the only part of it that felt like mine.
Twelve months ago, I placed very few demands on you, 2010. I only requested a few simple things. And despite all of the good things you brought about (though 2009 put you to shame in terms of my career success and stability), you need to own up to your shortcomings.
You broke my heart on Valentine's Day.
You left me alone on Independence Day.
And you most certainly are going to make me cry tonight, on New Year's Eve, a night I'd had such high hopes for. What's left of my heart to break?
So I ask you, on our last night together, to be gentle with me. Treat me kindly and gingerly, for I am delicate and sensitive. Let me pass peacefully in the night into the new year. Hand me off to 2011 with as much love and luck as you can. I needed so much more from you than you could give me. And so it is time for us to say goodbye.
But I will not forget...
Fondly,
Sandi
Related Reading: Open Letter to 2010
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It is with no remorse that I bid you adieu, a fond farewell for the times we have shared. I had such high hopes for you. And, in many ways, you were good to me. I am grateful for you.
But it has not been easy.
You wanted me to lose weight, as did many of the years that came before you. I knew it for a long time. And even though I thought it would be impossible to lose as much as my 30 pound goal, I managed to lose nearly 50. Thanks to Weight Watchers, I am empowered, a master of my own domain. I needed success desperately. I had no idea how much I also needed the help and support.
Maybe thanks to the weight loss, or thanks to traveling alone, or to moving to Queens, I started dating again. It had been a long time. It was about time. But my timing is still off: I still can't manage to find someone when they're available, or manage to fall in love with someone who will love me back. Romances that initially seem destined eventually fizzle without reason. Calls and text messages just stop coming. Second dates never turn into third dates. And the older I get, the less hope I have for ever getting married. I thought this might be the year that could make it seem possible, but I'm no better at having a relationship now than I was ten years ago. I'm just better at eliciting invitations for first dates.
Thank God I didn't get pregnant. I can't believe I still have to worry about that, not only because of my lack of insurance, but because of my perpetual singlehood.
I also worried about paying the rent, even more during your year than I ever had before, even after having moved to Queens to reduce the rent by half. I paid the rent on a credit card, something I haven't had to do since 1997. And although I finally got an apartment with a bedroom, it was someone else's apartment, making my bedroom the only part of it that felt like mine.
Twelve months ago, I placed very few demands on you, 2010. I only requested a few simple things. And despite all of the good things you brought about (though 2009 put you to shame in terms of my career success and stability), you need to own up to your shortcomings.
You broke my heart on Valentine's Day.
You left me alone on Independence Day.
And you most certainly are going to make me cry tonight, on New Year's Eve, a night I'd had such high hopes for. What's left of my heart to break?
So I ask you, on our last night together, to be gentle with me. Treat me kindly and gingerly, for I am delicate and sensitive. Let me pass peacefully in the night into the new year. Hand me off to 2011 with as much love and luck as you can. I needed so much more from you than you could give me. And so it is time for us to say goodbye.
But I will not forget...
Fondly,
Sandi
Related Reading: Open Letter to 2010
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December 29, 2010
My Six-Word Year In Review
For as verbose as I can be on this blog, I actually embrace the freedom and creativity brought about by the restrictiveness of brevity. I'm not only an active Tweeter, but also an avid six word memoirist for SMITH Magazine, whose Six Word stories were originally inspired by the flash fiction of Hemingway.
For the second year in a row, I won SMITH's year-end contest with WNYC, and their popular local NPR radio show, "The Leonard Lopate Show."
Last year, I won for my Six Word Resolution: "End my twenty month dry spell." (A resolution I kept, by the way.)
This year, my two winning Six Words on 2010 (the only winner for two entries) were:
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For the second year in a row, I won SMITH's year-end contest with WNYC, and their popular local NPR radio show, "The Leonard Lopate Show."
Last year, I won for my Six Word Resolution: "End my twenty month dry spell." (A resolution I kept, by the way.)
This year, my two winning Six Words on 2010 (the only winner for two entries) were:
- "Went from self employed to unemployed"
- "Lost 50 pounds. Found myself underneath."
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December 13, 2010
The Vanity Files
I admit it. I'm vain.
But I'm not only a writer and a music industry executive - both of which are somewhat "behind the scenes." I'm also a performer.
And performers must, by trade, be vain.
We have to worry about our gray roots growing in, our shaggy eyebrows, our yellowing teeth, our rosy cheeks, our sagging bustlines and our muffintops. It's part of the job.
I've been a hired spokesperson on QVC for two years now, selling music on behalf of my former employer who now hires me freelance to hawk their musical wares. Over the first year, I watched myself gain so much weight that my bras stopped fitting - something never as noticeable as in my eight minutes of camera time.
I could hide from mirrors and from my reflection in dark window panes along New York City's streets, but I couldn't hide from my own demo reel.
Sure, I'd done my job well on QVC. I'd sold boatloads of CDs and more than earned my fees. And I'm sure, at that size, I was an accessible, realistic depiction of a young woman that QVC audiences could relate to. But I hated the way I looked.
So although I was getting physically injured from all the weight that I'd gained, and was in constant pain and fatigue, it was shame - and, ultimately, vanity - that pushed me into joining Weight Watchers last January.
Now, nearly a year later, I've lost almost 50 pounds, and I'm going back on QVC. And I can't wait to see myself.
I know it's vain. I know it shouldn't matter. But I wonder: will the weight loss give me a renewed confidence and heightened attractiveness that will sell even bigger boatloads of product? Or will I transform from the sorta chubby cute girl next door into the scantily-clad new neighbor from Brazil, an outsider, an other, and therefore a threat to the entire block?
When Stella gets her groove back, does she lose the trust and confidence of all those around her who have also lost their mojo?
Cross posted on Extra Criticum.
To become a fan on Facebook, click here.
But I'm not only a writer and a music industry executive - both of which are somewhat "behind the scenes." I'm also a performer.
And performers must, by trade, be vain.
We have to worry about our gray roots growing in, our shaggy eyebrows, our yellowing teeth, our rosy cheeks, our sagging bustlines and our muffintops. It's part of the job.
I've been a hired spokesperson on QVC for two years now, selling music on behalf of my former employer who now hires me freelance to hawk their musical wares. Over the first year, I watched myself gain so much weight that my bras stopped fitting - something never as noticeable as in my eight minutes of camera time.
I could hide from mirrors and from my reflection in dark window panes along New York City's streets, but I couldn't hide from my own demo reel.
Sure, I'd done my job well on QVC. I'd sold boatloads of CDs and more than earned my fees. And I'm sure, at that size, I was an accessible, realistic depiction of a young woman that QVC audiences could relate to. But I hated the way I looked.
So although I was getting physically injured from all the weight that I'd gained, and was in constant pain and fatigue, it was shame - and, ultimately, vanity - that pushed me into joining Weight Watchers last January.
Now, nearly a year later, I've lost almost 50 pounds, and I'm going back on QVC. And I can't wait to see myself.
I know it's vain. I know it shouldn't matter. But I wonder: will the weight loss give me a renewed confidence and heightened attractiveness that will sell even bigger boatloads of product? Or will I transform from the sorta chubby cute girl next door into the scantily-clad new neighbor from Brazil, an outsider, an other, and therefore a threat to the entire block?
When Stella gets her groove back, does she lose the trust and confidence of all those around her who have also lost their mojo?
Cross posted on Extra Criticum.
To become a fan on Facebook, click here.
November 23, 2010
More Than Just Fine
Now that I've lost a lot of weight (and am still losing), I'm having a hard time finding clothes that fit. Although there's a part of my wardrobe that now fits me properly after having been worn too tight (or, in some cases, way too tight) for way too long, jeans must be held up by a belt, sweaters fall off one shoulder, blouses must be tucked in and yoga pant cuffs drag on the ground beneath my heels.
So although I'm not in a financial position to renovate my entire closet, I need some new clothes.
Last night while walking down 34th Street, I noticed that everything is 25% off at Banana Republic through Sunday, so I stopped in. I brought a little black dress (a necessity I'm now without) into the fitting room and tried on the size 6, two or three dress sizes smaller than I ever was, ever in my life. Still unsure of my ability to pull certain clothes off (despite my bravery in donning a two-piece Middle Eastern costume for Halloween), I stepped out of my stall and sought the opinion of the fitting room attendant.
"What do we think?" I asked, as I posed, hand on hip, red carpet style.
Disaffected, he paused, and said, "It looks...fine."
I stared at him in horror.
"That's not the ringing endorsement I was looking for," I said, giving him a chance to do his job and sell me the dress. When he continued folding other customers' discarded clothes and placing them back on hangers instead of replying, I stomped away in a huff.
In my room, I unzipped the side zipper of the dress, taking one last look at myself, muttering to myself, "I'm not paying $150 for a dress that's just fine."
It's not just that I was looking for a compliment, which I was. It's not just that I seem to need constant reassurance that my smaller size is real, which I do. And it's not just that I always feel a little weird vulnerably changing my clothes in the same room as a strange guy with only a partial door separating us. But this guy was so apathetic, not only to me and my needs, but to even doing his job. Forget my emotional reliance on the fitting room attendant to lavish me with praise even when I'm wearing a size 12 that should probably be a size 14. The floor clerks are there to get me into the dressing room. The dressing room clerk is there to seal the deal, not to just fold and hang the dresses I decide I look too fat in.
If this guy doesn't really want to be working at Banana Republic surrounded by a bunch of neurotic women, shouldn't he get a job elsewhere? And if he can't get a job elsewhere, if Banana Republic is his last resort, shouldn't he be so grateful that he actually has a job?
But, in the end, maybe the dress was only fine, and not great. I'm not in a position to buy any new clothes that aren't great right now, so I can only feel grateful for his honesty.
It didn't have to be the best dress I ever wore, but why settle for anything less than great?
To become a fan on Facebook, click here.
So although I'm not in a financial position to renovate my entire closet, I need some new clothes.
Last night while walking down 34th Street, I noticed that everything is 25% off at Banana Republic through Sunday, so I stopped in. I brought a little black dress (a necessity I'm now without) into the fitting room and tried on the size 6, two or three dress sizes smaller than I ever was, ever in my life. Still unsure of my ability to pull certain clothes off (despite my bravery in donning a two-piece Middle Eastern costume for Halloween), I stepped out of my stall and sought the opinion of the fitting room attendant.
"What do we think?" I asked, as I posed, hand on hip, red carpet style.
Disaffected, he paused, and said, "It looks...fine."
I stared at him in horror.
"That's not the ringing endorsement I was looking for," I said, giving him a chance to do his job and sell me the dress. When he continued folding other customers' discarded clothes and placing them back on hangers instead of replying, I stomped away in a huff.
In my room, I unzipped the side zipper of the dress, taking one last look at myself, muttering to myself, "I'm not paying $150 for a dress that's just fine."
It's not just that I was looking for a compliment, which I was. It's not just that I seem to need constant reassurance that my smaller size is real, which I do. And it's not just that I always feel a little weird vulnerably changing my clothes in the same room as a strange guy with only a partial door separating us. But this guy was so apathetic, not only to me and my needs, but to even doing his job. Forget my emotional reliance on the fitting room attendant to lavish me with praise even when I'm wearing a size 12 that should probably be a size 14. The floor clerks are there to get me into the dressing room. The dressing room clerk is there to seal the deal, not to just fold and hang the dresses I decide I look too fat in.
If this guy doesn't really want to be working at Banana Republic surrounded by a bunch of neurotic women, shouldn't he get a job elsewhere? And if he can't get a job elsewhere, if Banana Republic is his last resort, shouldn't he be so grateful that he actually has a job?
But, in the end, maybe the dress was only fine, and not great. I'm not in a position to buy any new clothes that aren't great right now, so I can only feel grateful for his honesty.
It didn't have to be the best dress I ever wore, but why settle for anything less than great?
To become a fan on Facebook, click here.
October 31, 2010
Grinning and Baring It
Until this year, when I've been asked what my best Halloween costume ever was, I've cited the year I went as the Incredible Hulk, draped in a plastic smock, breath steaming behind a green plastic mask.
Ever since I can remember (though I don't remember many of my early childhood costumes, and have no photos of them), I've been draped in something for Halloween, hiding beneath plastic, swimming inside capes, while everyone around me seemed to shed all of their exterior layers and let their freak flags fly. I didn't dress as a princess; I dressed as a witch.
For years as an adult, I insisted that I don't wear Halloween costumes, that I merely accessorize, resulting in a collection of kitty ears, devil horns, glittery masks, and ladybug and fairy wings (now in storage) that don't constitute a costume per se but at least give a touch of festive flair for the holiday. And after years of gender-neutral and unisex outfits, generally of the ghoulish variety, in my 20s and early 30s, I just wanted to be seen as cute.
But of course I love dressing up. I'm an actor, after all. I've just never felt like I could compete with the other New York girls on Halloween, in this city whose parade is world-famous and whose population is intimidatingly attractive.
But I've longed for the sexy ensembles that surrounded me: the French maids, nurses, angels, cheerleaders, and superheroes with their short skirts and hot pants, bare midriffs and decolletage. I've ached to be the one that everybody wanted their photo taken with. I've craved the confidence it takes to wear an outfit like that, and dare to be photographed in it.
And then this year, I lost 45 pounds. I turned 35 years old. And suddenly, as my body got a little better, my brain got a little braver.
I was determined to dress up this year.
I wasn't sure which iconic figure I was going to select, so I started shopping early. Nearly immediately after moving to Astoria, I began hitting all the party stores, Ricky's, and Halloween pop-up shops I could find - of which there are plenty - to scope out the offerings for this year. And then I found a gold chain bra in 1980s packaging that touted, "A perfect accompaniment to your harem girl costume!"
DONE.
Given my recent travels in North Africa and interest in Middle Eastern culture, and my experience studying bellydancing, the outfit was a no-brainer. And given my new relocation to Queens, I was sure to be able to source most of my outfit locally. Slowing accruing the basics - red bra and boy shorts, a sheer red wrap - and additional accessories - slave bracelet, anklet, belly jewels, veil and shoes - I assembled an ensemble that was my sexiest and most revealing ever.
The only problem?
I had to wear it in public.
Friday night, I was standing in my bedroom, overhead white light blaring, staring at myself in the full-length mirror, wrapping my arms around my exposed waist and doubling over in fear. How was I going to even leave my room, much less the apartment, much less the building? What was I thinking? What was my Plan B??
But as I slowly emerged, first poking my head out of my door and then an arm, then an exposed leg, I surprised my roommate, who in shock said, "Oh my God! You're hot! Look at you!"
Although that gave me the confidence I needed to walk down 30th Avenue, I then had to take the subway, walk into a brightly lit bar full of people, stay there and actually talk to them for a couple of hours.
The horror!
In the end, I survived. Some people averted their eyes, others couldn't stop hugging me. An Egyptian man tried to give me his phone number on the 7 train platform. A Brooklyn man asked for three wishes. A band from Atlanta sent me drinks from across the bar. People called out to me, "Hey bellydancer!" And I was brave enough to actually wear the costume two nights in a row.
Even after losing 45 pounds, I'm only now right at the very high end of the healthy weight range for my height. I'm a pound or so away from not being overweight for the first time in my entire life. (I was born three weeks late and therefore a big baby.) I'm not thin, per se - at least not by any conventional American standards - but in Brooklyn and Queens, the resounding reaction was, "You're hot!"
I'll take it.
As scary as baring my midriff is - especially because most of my bikini-clad time has been spent underwater and therefore not that exposed - I'm glad I did it. After spending the last 10 months slowly losing the equivalent of a small child, I don't have to suck my stomach in all of the time. I can see my feet.
And a bellydancer should have a little bit of belly...something to shake, at least.
To become a fan on Facebook, click here.
Ever since I can remember (though I don't remember many of my early childhood costumes, and have no photos of them), I've been draped in something for Halloween, hiding beneath plastic, swimming inside capes, while everyone around me seemed to shed all of their exterior layers and let their freak flags fly. I didn't dress as a princess; I dressed as a witch.
For years as an adult, I insisted that I don't wear Halloween costumes, that I merely accessorize, resulting in a collection of kitty ears, devil horns, glittery masks, and ladybug and fairy wings (now in storage) that don't constitute a costume per se but at least give a touch of festive flair for the holiday. And after years of gender-neutral and unisex outfits, generally of the ghoulish variety, in my 20s and early 30s, I just wanted to be seen as cute.
But of course I love dressing up. I'm an actor, after all. I've just never felt like I could compete with the other New York girls on Halloween, in this city whose parade is world-famous and whose population is intimidatingly attractive.
But I've longed for the sexy ensembles that surrounded me: the French maids, nurses, angels, cheerleaders, and superheroes with their short skirts and hot pants, bare midriffs and decolletage. I've ached to be the one that everybody wanted their photo taken with. I've craved the confidence it takes to wear an outfit like that, and dare to be photographed in it.
And then this year, I lost 45 pounds. I turned 35 years old. And suddenly, as my body got a little better, my brain got a little braver.
I was determined to dress up this year.
I wasn't sure which iconic figure I was going to select, so I started shopping early. Nearly immediately after moving to Astoria, I began hitting all the party stores, Ricky's, and Halloween pop-up shops I could find - of which there are plenty - to scope out the offerings for this year. And then I found a gold chain bra in 1980s packaging that touted, "A perfect accompaniment to your harem girl costume!"
DONE.
Given my recent travels in North Africa and interest in Middle Eastern culture, and my experience studying bellydancing, the outfit was a no-brainer. And given my new relocation to Queens, I was sure to be able to source most of my outfit locally. Slowing accruing the basics - red bra and boy shorts, a sheer red wrap - and additional accessories - slave bracelet, anklet, belly jewels, veil and shoes - I assembled an ensemble that was my sexiest and most revealing ever.
The only problem?I had to wear it in public.
Friday night, I was standing in my bedroom, overhead white light blaring, staring at myself in the full-length mirror, wrapping my arms around my exposed waist and doubling over in fear. How was I going to even leave my room, much less the apartment, much less the building? What was I thinking? What was my Plan B??
But as I slowly emerged, first poking my head out of my door and then an arm, then an exposed leg, I surprised my roommate, who in shock said, "Oh my God! You're hot! Look at you!"
Although that gave me the confidence I needed to walk down 30th Avenue, I then had to take the subway, walk into a brightly lit bar full of people, stay there and actually talk to them for a couple of hours.
The horror!
In the end, I survived. Some people averted their eyes, others couldn't stop hugging me. An Egyptian man tried to give me his phone number on the 7 train platform. A Brooklyn man asked for three wishes. A band from Atlanta sent me drinks from across the bar. People called out to me, "Hey bellydancer!" And I was brave enough to actually wear the costume two nights in a row.
Even after losing 45 pounds, I'm only now right at the very high end of the healthy weight range for my height. I'm a pound or so away from not being overweight for the first time in my entire life. (I was born three weeks late and therefore a big baby.) I'm not thin, per se - at least not by any conventional American standards - but in Brooklyn and Queens, the resounding reaction was, "You're hot!"
I'll take it.
As scary as baring my midriff is - especially because most of my bikini-clad time has been spent underwater and therefore not that exposed - I'm glad I did it. After spending the last 10 months slowly losing the equivalent of a small child, I don't have to suck my stomach in all of the time. I can see my feet.
And a bellydancer should have a little bit of belly...something to shake, at least.
To become a fan on Facebook, click here.
September 30, 2010
These Gifts I Give Myself
There was only one thing I knew for certain that I wanted to do on my birthday: go out to breakfast.
It's my favorite meal of the day, and somehow I rarely get to eat it, my homemade morning meals leaning more towards later-day, lower calorie, unsweetened, ungreasy foods ever since I joined Weight Watchers in January. In the past, I've treated myself to a favorite sugary cereal (say, Peanut Butter Crunch) or basically an entire tube of Pillsbury Cinnamon Rolls to kick off my birthday. But this year, attempting to stay on track, and although it would mean setting my alarm and getting up early on my birthday, I took myself out.
I ordered French toast, recalling the many birthdays of my childhood when my mother would cook whatever breakfast I wanted rather than pouring a bowl of cold cereal. I always had a hard time getting up then, too, and on the mornings of a hot birthday breakfast, I would get hollered at for dawdling in bed while the egg yolks hardened and the French toast overcooked or simply got cold.
Today, I dawdled in bed for as long as I could, arriving to Sanford's in Astoria a mere 15 minutes before their official breakfast hours ended. Instead of Tropicana Pure Premium orange juice, I drank decaf brewed coffee with a splash of skim milk and one Sweet and Low. Instead of struggling to cut crispy fried eggs with semi-solidified centers with a fork, I scooped runny poached eggs (liberally dosed with salt and pepper) with a spoon. And my French toast arrived hot and thick, splayed across a huge platter and topped with toasty turkey bacon.
And I ate it slowly, alone, checking my phone as the emails and text messages started to roll in, notifying me of Facebook wall posts from high school friends, former lovers, and guys who haven't bothered to call me back.
I lingered as long as I could there, in that booth built for four that I requested to sit in alone. A booth of three Greek men, meticulously ordering their espressos "thick," studied me from across the way, and appeared to be discussing me. I smiled and shrugged as I gestured for the check.
The rest of the day was as wide open and as shut tightly as it could be for me. There was nothing else I wanted to do, and yet there were a world of things I wished I could do. With the coming storm, a lack of funds, and nearly all of my friends at work, in school, or out of town, I faced the day ahead alone.
How would today be any different than any other day since I've moved to Queens? Or since I returned from my last trip to California?
I wished I could get my hair done in a salon today, but it would be unwise considering the high winds and humidity and the forecast's impending doom.
I wished I could get a manicure and pedicure at a nail salon today, but my toes still have not recovered from this summer's various hiking accidents, and I've had to sacrifice a fair amount of vanity in favor of buying groceries and paying the rent.
I wished I could get a job today.
I wished people would apologize today.
I wished my ex would pay me back the $1500 he borrowed from me six years ago today.
I wished for the people I care about who are far away today, so that I could hold them close, their love and affection being greater than any gift wrapped in shiny paper under a sticky bow.
But none of these wishes will come true. Not today anyway, not on my birthday.
Last year, I would have wished to lose the weight I'd gained during my painful departure from my last job. It's taken me nine months, but at the very least, that's the gift I've given myself this year.
So although I'm inclined to make today all about food - get drunk in the afternoon, eat pizza til I burst, lick frosting from my fingers and fall asleep with a half-chewed donut hanging out of my mouth - I don't want to undermine all the work I've done. Such a great sense of accomplishment is not only priceless but rare, and it's something I can really hold onto when I feel like a failure in love, labor, life.
I only hate half of my French toast this morning, bringing the rest home, where I sit now with pale wet toenails from a pedicure given to myself, waiting for the storm to come, waiting for my friends to shed their daily responsibilities and celebrate with a little dinner, a few drinks, and a lot of love.
To become a fan on Facebook, click here.
It's my favorite meal of the day, and somehow I rarely get to eat it, my homemade morning meals leaning more towards later-day, lower calorie, unsweetened, ungreasy foods ever since I joined Weight Watchers in January. In the past, I've treated myself to a favorite sugary cereal (say, Peanut Butter Crunch) or basically an entire tube of Pillsbury Cinnamon Rolls to kick off my birthday. But this year, attempting to stay on track, and although it would mean setting my alarm and getting up early on my birthday, I took myself out.
I ordered French toast, recalling the many birthdays of my childhood when my mother would cook whatever breakfast I wanted rather than pouring a bowl of cold cereal. I always had a hard time getting up then, too, and on the mornings of a hot birthday breakfast, I would get hollered at for dawdling in bed while the egg yolks hardened and the French toast overcooked or simply got cold.
Today, I dawdled in bed for as long as I could, arriving to Sanford's in Astoria a mere 15 minutes before their official breakfast hours ended. Instead of Tropicana Pure Premium orange juice, I drank decaf brewed coffee with a splash of skim milk and one Sweet and Low. Instead of struggling to cut crispy fried eggs with semi-solidified centers with a fork, I scooped runny poached eggs (liberally dosed with salt and pepper) with a spoon. And my French toast arrived hot and thick, splayed across a huge platter and topped with toasty turkey bacon.
And I ate it slowly, alone, checking my phone as the emails and text messages started to roll in, notifying me of Facebook wall posts from high school friends, former lovers, and guys who haven't bothered to call me back.
I lingered as long as I could there, in that booth built for four that I requested to sit in alone. A booth of three Greek men, meticulously ordering their espressos "thick," studied me from across the way, and appeared to be discussing me. I smiled and shrugged as I gestured for the check.
The rest of the day was as wide open and as shut tightly as it could be for me. There was nothing else I wanted to do, and yet there were a world of things I wished I could do. With the coming storm, a lack of funds, and nearly all of my friends at work, in school, or out of town, I faced the day ahead alone.
How would today be any different than any other day since I've moved to Queens? Or since I returned from my last trip to California?
I wished I could get my hair done in a salon today, but it would be unwise considering the high winds and humidity and the forecast's impending doom.
I wished I could get a manicure and pedicure at a nail salon today, but my toes still have not recovered from this summer's various hiking accidents, and I've had to sacrifice a fair amount of vanity in favor of buying groceries and paying the rent.
I wished I could get a job today.
I wished people would apologize today.
I wished my ex would pay me back the $1500 he borrowed from me six years ago today.
I wished for the people I care about who are far away today, so that I could hold them close, their love and affection being greater than any gift wrapped in shiny paper under a sticky bow.
But none of these wishes will come true. Not today anyway, not on my birthday.
Last year, I would have wished to lose the weight I'd gained during my painful departure from my last job. It's taken me nine months, but at the very least, that's the gift I've given myself this year.
So although I'm inclined to make today all about food - get drunk in the afternoon, eat pizza til I burst, lick frosting from my fingers and fall asleep with a half-chewed donut hanging out of my mouth - I don't want to undermine all the work I've done. Such a great sense of accomplishment is not only priceless but rare, and it's something I can really hold onto when I feel like a failure in love, labor, life.
I only hate half of my French toast this morning, bringing the rest home, where I sit now with pale wet toenails from a pedicure given to myself, waiting for the storm to come, waiting for my friends to shed their daily responsibilities and celebrate with a little dinner, a few drinks, and a lot of love.
To become a fan on Facebook, click here.
September 08, 2010
What Goes Up, Must Come Down
The stress of moving over the last month or so wreaked havoc on my weight loss efforts. I literally spiraled into eating cheese curls on the couch, the biggest culprit behavior of my massive weight gain to begin with.
One week during the last month, I was so worried about gaining weight after such successful weight loss so far (which has peaked at 38 pounds since the new year) that, although I continued to attend Weight Watchers meetings, I refused to weigh in.
And then when I went back and braved the weigh-in, convinced I'd bounced back and would have at least maintained my weight, it turned out I was overconfident and had gained 0.4 pounds.
The next week, I gained another 0.2 pounds.
Granted, we're still only talking about a half a pound here. But it's the trend that worried me: the scale was moving in the wrong direction, and that's not the progress I wanted, not the progress I'd been seeing for the last eight months. After all, I'm such a good student. To gain a half pound at weigh-in - something I can usually at least fudge by taking off my glasses, watch and ring and wearing the teeniest shorts and tank top - was like dropping from an A+ to an A.
Unacceptable.
But one of the things that they teach you in Weight Watchers is that you have to accept the rollercoaster of weight loss, like the rollercoaster of life. Sometimes the number won't go down. Sometimes it will actually go up. It may go up for weeks in a row. But as long as the overall trend is down, and you're able to stay on track and not become completely derailed by events like vacations, weddings and stressful times, then in the long run, in the end, you'll be OK.
"Don't be a strong, motionless oak tree!" my meeting leader Lauren told us. "You have to be like a willow, and bend."
It's a good lesson that goes way beyond the scale.
As I endure my own life rollercoaster, my weight went back down 0.2 pounds this week, once again moving in the right direction. Just another 0.4 and I can forget all about the stress of the last month.
"Like a willow / I can bend..." - Stevie Nicks
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One week during the last month, I was so worried about gaining weight after such successful weight loss so far (which has peaked at 38 pounds since the new year) that, although I continued to attend Weight Watchers meetings, I refused to weigh in.
And then when I went back and braved the weigh-in, convinced I'd bounced back and would have at least maintained my weight, it turned out I was overconfident and had gained 0.4 pounds.
The next week, I gained another 0.2 pounds.
Granted, we're still only talking about a half a pound here. But it's the trend that worried me: the scale was moving in the wrong direction, and that's not the progress I wanted, not the progress I'd been seeing for the last eight months. After all, I'm such a good student. To gain a half pound at weigh-in - something I can usually at least fudge by taking off my glasses, watch and ring and wearing the teeniest shorts and tank top - was like dropping from an A+ to an A.
Unacceptable.
But one of the things that they teach you in Weight Watchers is that you have to accept the rollercoaster of weight loss, like the rollercoaster of life. Sometimes the number won't go down. Sometimes it will actually go up. It may go up for weeks in a row. But as long as the overall trend is down, and you're able to stay on track and not become completely derailed by events like vacations, weddings and stressful times, then in the long run, in the end, you'll be OK.
"Don't be a strong, motionless oak tree!" my meeting leader Lauren told us. "You have to be like a willow, and bend."
It's a good lesson that goes way beyond the scale.
As I endure my own life rollercoaster, my weight went back down 0.2 pounds this week, once again moving in the right direction. Just another 0.4 and I can forget all about the stress of the last month.
"Like a willow / I can bend..." - Stevie Nicks
To become a fan on Facebook, click here.
July 20, 2010
Retreading Old Ground Part II
I usually have a selective memory.
I choose not to remember a lot of events (and people) from high school, because why should I?
I remember all the terrible things my mother did to me, and none of the good things she did for me.
But when it comes to the last couple of years, I downright have a case of amnesia, that's for sure.
Now that I've lost 34 pounds (and counting), I almost have forgotten entirely what it felt like to be any heavier. It's like it's 2003 all over again.
With my recent reticence to commit to anything, this week I signed up for a 30-day membership to New York Sports Clubs, a gym I frequented from 1999-2003. The last time I joined, I reallocated the money I was spending on therapy to getting healthy and losing weight. Of course, it was four years before I lost any weight.
But returning to the NYSC on 49th and Broadway today, riding the familiar whir of the escalator to the second floor elevator bank, finger instinctively pointing to the 15th floor button in the elevator, my body responded automatically as though no time at all had passed.
But is it a good idea to forget all the bad things? Can you still learn from them without remembering them? When you block out the negativity - refusing to empower it with acknowledgment - aren't you making it somehow permissible?
Don't demons deserve a proper exorcism?
I have to admit, not everything was identical today upon my return to my gym of 10 years ago. The locker room seemed cleaner, the pool lanes smaller, the water less chlorinic. And I, more lithe, more endurant, less distracted.
Can a decade pass and life still remain unchanged? I, still single, still looking for work, still trying to lose weight... only moderately successful at one and no more successful at any of the others.
When things come full circle, what could possibly be next?
Related post: Retreading Old Ground
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I choose not to remember a lot of events (and people) from high school, because why should I?
I remember all the terrible things my mother did to me, and none of the good things she did for me.
But when it comes to the last couple of years, I downright have a case of amnesia, that's for sure.
Now that I've lost 34 pounds (and counting), I almost have forgotten entirely what it felt like to be any heavier. It's like it's 2003 all over again.
With my recent reticence to commit to anything, this week I signed up for a 30-day membership to New York Sports Clubs, a gym I frequented from 1999-2003. The last time I joined, I reallocated the money I was spending on therapy to getting healthy and losing weight. Of course, it was four years before I lost any weight.
But returning to the NYSC on 49th and Broadway today, riding the familiar whir of the escalator to the second floor elevator bank, finger instinctively pointing to the 15th floor button in the elevator, my body responded automatically as though no time at all had passed.
But is it a good idea to forget all the bad things? Can you still learn from them without remembering them? When you block out the negativity - refusing to empower it with acknowledgment - aren't you making it somehow permissible?
Don't demons deserve a proper exorcism?
I have to admit, not everything was identical today upon my return to my gym of 10 years ago. The locker room seemed cleaner, the pool lanes smaller, the water less chlorinic. And I, more lithe, more endurant, less distracted.
Can a decade pass and life still remain unchanged? I, still single, still looking for work, still trying to lose weight... only moderately successful at one and no more successful at any of the others.
When things come full circle, what could possibly be next?
Related post: Retreading Old Ground
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July 03, 2010
Showing My Stuff
Today I wore an itsy bitsy teenie weenie hot pink string bikini to a pool party in the Valley.
What IS this body that I'm occupying?
I mean, what person have I become? Who AM I?
I have definitely weighed less in the past than I do now. I have definitely been in better shape than now. But the closest I have ever gotten to today's getup was appearing in a push-up bra, hot pants and tights for my college production of Chicago, in which I danced and sang in the chorus. I think I was fatter then. I don't really remember.
What in God's name possessed me to go out in public like that today? Is it California?
Or is it just that I feel so much better now, thirty pounds lighter, than I did six months ago when I started this new regime? After taking only two years to gain 20 pounds, I barely recognized myself anymore at the start of the new year. And now, six months later, I still barely recognize myself.
Maybe it's also that I just don't care. When I tried on the bikini, I told myself, "Someone has to wear the size Large, otherwise they wouldn't sell it. It might as well be me."
Even with my grotesque bruises from my hiking yesterday, my pale white untanned midriff, and the light purple scar on my side, I was OK with being practically naked in front of other people. In fact, I kind of couldn't wait to take my clothes off and jump in the pool.
It was just a couple of weeks ago that I wore a bikini - a much more modest one - for the first time ever in my conscious life. (I have no memory over what my parents dressed me in as a baby, and it doesn't count.) Now that I've finally been brave enough to show my stuff, and people have not recoiled in horror, I can't really imagine ever covering it up again.
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What IS this body that I'm occupying?
I mean, what person have I become? Who AM I?
I have definitely weighed less in the past than I do now. I have definitely been in better shape than now. But the closest I have ever gotten to today's getup was appearing in a push-up bra, hot pants and tights for my college production of Chicago, in which I danced and sang in the chorus. I think I was fatter then. I don't really remember.
What in God's name possessed me to go out in public like that today? Is it California?
Or is it just that I feel so much better now, thirty pounds lighter, than I did six months ago when I started this new regime? After taking only two years to gain 20 pounds, I barely recognized myself anymore at the start of the new year. And now, six months later, I still barely recognize myself.
Maybe it's also that I just don't care. When I tried on the bikini, I told myself, "Someone has to wear the size Large, otherwise they wouldn't sell it. It might as well be me."
Even with my grotesque bruises from my hiking yesterday, my pale white untanned midriff, and the light purple scar on my side, I was OK with being practically naked in front of other people. In fact, I kind of couldn't wait to take my clothes off and jump in the pool.
It was just a couple of weeks ago that I wore a bikini - a much more modest one - for the first time ever in my conscious life. (I have no memory over what my parents dressed me in as a baby, and it doesn't count.) Now that I've finally been brave enough to show my stuff, and people have not recoiled in horror, I can't really imagine ever covering it up again.
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June 10, 2010
Almost There
I am 19 weeks into my membership at Weight Watchers.
I am 28.5 lbs down.
My initial goal was to lose 30 lbs, the weight I was able to shed in 2003 in preparation for my high school reunion that no one attended. (I actually lost 33 lbs.)
But now that I'm close to that goal, and I realize that the published BMI index of healthy weight for my height is actually more than 10 lbs lower than that initial goal, I wonder how far I can go.
It feels good to be good at something, to succeed.
So why not keep on, keepin' on?
I feel harder, better, faster, stronger, and that I could do this forever. It's not about being skinny. I don't think I'll ever be skinny.
That which doesn't kill me can only make me stronger.
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I am 28.5 lbs down.
My initial goal was to lose 30 lbs, the weight I was able to shed in 2003 in preparation for my high school reunion that no one attended. (I actually lost 33 lbs.)
But now that I'm close to that goal, and I realize that the published BMI index of healthy weight for my height is actually more than 10 lbs lower than that initial goal, I wonder how far I can go.
It feels good to be good at something, to succeed.
So why not keep on, keepin' on?
I feel harder, better, faster, stronger, and that I could do this forever. It's not about being skinny. I don't think I'll ever be skinny.
That which doesn't kill me can only make me stronger.
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April 20, 2010
Make a Wish
Among the nicknacks that I've actually kept in my apartment is a little blue Egyptian glass perfume bottle. A friend saw it on the shelf and joked, "Is there a genie in that bottle?"
"Huh, I wish," I sniffed.
"Oh yeah, what would you wish for?"
I turned the corners of my mouth down. "Well, I know I'm supposed to wish for more wishes..."
"Yeah..."
"But I think I'd probably wish that I could eat whatever I want and not get fat --"
"--and stay healthy," he interjected.
"Right."
Really? That's what I would wish for? So much for being pro-social, passionate about free speech and human rights and open spaces and historic preservation.
But the whole genie-in-a-bottle wishing thing never works out anyway, so what's the point of the exercise? For one wish, you have to use up all of your other wishes to make sure it goes right. If you wish to fall in love, you have to also wish that he falls in love with you, and that you're able to be together for a certain minimum period of time, etc. etc. etc.
The randomness of it all makes any wish-come-true fertile ground for unpredictable entropy, and the inevitable realization that what you wishes for isn't what you really wanted at all.
Better that it all be left to chance...
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"Huh, I wish," I sniffed.
"Oh yeah, what would you wish for?"
I turned the corners of my mouth down. "Well, I know I'm supposed to wish for more wishes..."
"Yeah..."
"But I think I'd probably wish that I could eat whatever I want and not get fat --"
"--and stay healthy," he interjected.
"Right."
Really? That's what I would wish for? So much for being pro-social, passionate about free speech and human rights and open spaces and historic preservation.
But the whole genie-in-a-bottle wishing thing never works out anyway, so what's the point of the exercise? For one wish, you have to use up all of your other wishes to make sure it goes right. If you wish to fall in love, you have to also wish that he falls in love with you, and that you're able to be together for a certain minimum period of time, etc. etc. etc.
The randomness of it all makes any wish-come-true fertile ground for unpredictable entropy, and the inevitable realization that what you wishes for isn't what you really wanted at all.
Better that it all be left to chance...
To become a fan on Facebook, click here.
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