Monthly Archives: April 2015

Broccoli on the Spiritual Path

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I started this blog as an avenue to get thoughts out of my head – to help me wave away the mental gnats that kept getting in my eyes, buzzing in my ears, and generally distracting me from getting on with living.  But one of the benefits of having this blog is that it’s opened up a whole community to me – I’ve been able to read the thoughts of so many others, on a variety of subjects – discussions of spirituality, living with mental and physical illness, and where to buy the coolest new scarves ever.  It’s a virtual buffet; there’s some of everything here.  And I’m free to take a little taste of everything – if I don’t care for something, I don’t have to take additional helpings – I don’t even have to finish what I’ve dished out, and if I love something, I can have it delivered to my inbox as soon as the casserole comes out of the oven.  Sweet and savory, healthy and indulgent  – it’s all here and it all contributes to my level of balance.

So this morning, I read a post that got me thinking – BEFORE I EVEN HAD ANY COFFEE.  (This is not insignificant, by the way.)  So I’d like to share that post here.  It’s from a fellow WordPress blogger that I follow for a regular dose of spirituality that speaks to me.

In this particular post, the author talks about graduating with a Chemistry degree, and accepting a gig at a call center shortly after graduation to make ends meet.  She goes on to explain that the call center job helped her develop skills that were of tremendous value to her eventual career.  This spun off into a “what does God’s plan mean, anyway?” discussion, which you can find here: Whoa! How Did I Get Here? Posted by K. L. Register on “The Ninth Life”

I have been working on developing and solidifying my spiritual beliefs.  I’m familiar with Christianity, but I can relate well to “many paths of enlightenment”; my belief is that God makes Himself known to us in a variety of ways and in a number of forms, and that we call him by a number of names, but it all rolls up to the Big Head Honcho eventually.  I suppose that makes me more of a Deist.    I don’t really need a label, and I fully embrace and support that other intelligent folks will experience life differently than I do, and may look at the same facts and circumstances and arrive at a completely different conclusion.  That’s awesome, because differing opinions help us understand each other better (well, when we’re not fighting about them.  So let’s not do that here, mmmkay?  So if you call God by a different name, or just have an unnamed Higher Power – I’m down with that.   And if you’re an atheist, I still like you.  Heck, I married one!  I’m fully on Team Coexist here.  Join me – we have the best cookies.)

Since I follow a Higher Power that I call God, I sometimes wonder about God’s Plan, and what that means for me.  Is there a plan?  If so, how do I know I’m following it?   As I reflect on this in the context of where I am and what I’m trying to do with my life, I had a couple of thoughts on that subject….

1.  The decision can be the lesson.  Sometimes, God’s plan isn’t dependent on which choice we make – it’s the process of MAKING the choice that prepares us for what’s next.

Let’s say you’ve been feeling a bit trapped living in a really little town, working a steady, but uninspiring, job for a few years.  A new opportunity drops in your lap suddenly….do you relocate 1000 miles away, where you know no one, to embrace a completely new adventure?  Or do you reject the adventure to embrace the stability and non-drama of regular income and a fairly predictable schedule?

You begin the analysis of “should I move across the country for a fabulous yet challenging Job A, or stay in Podunk, PA working at a job that keeps me ‘safe’ and ‘comfortable’ yet painfully restless?” Whatever choice you eventually select, you’ll have learned something about yourself and what you truly want.  You’ll likely have learned what you truly value. And you can use that knowledge to make changes that enrich the very essence of who you are and who you were meant to be.

You make take the new gig, or you may stay local and enrich your wanderlust in other ways (Volunteering?  More travel?  New extreme hobby?) but just making the decision will change you.  Based on the experience alone, you have more insight about who you are, and how to feed your soul, than you did before – regardless of which door you eventually walk through.

2.  A little growth is good for you.  Sometimes, we reach a crossroads, and we’re presented with options we just don’t like.  There’s no easy decision to be made, no option that’s obviously less painful. You just can’t understand why your otherwise happy and stable life got choked up by this event; you were doing FINE without this complication – and you might even wonder how you ticked God off so badly as to put you in this position.

This is not unlike when we were kids, where your delicious plate of mac-n-cheese was accompanied by a pile of GREEN THINGS.  And no way did you want the green things.  But Mom put them there because they’re good for you.  And you usually managed to choke down some of them.  Some, you buried in the cheese sauce.  Others, you tried to feed to the dog (and invariably, got caught.  Mom always knows.)  But you did eat them, albeit reluctantly.

But veggies are good for you.  You wouldn’t be a strong, healthy, robust person on a diet of mac-n-cheese alone.  You need balance; you need variety.  You need the nutrition that the veggies provide in order to grow.

And you know what?  Once in a while, you were surprised to find that the offending GREEN THING really wasn’t so bad.  (Side note – try roasting.  Brussels sprouts are DELICIOUS this way – and I am not a veggie lover.)

Besides – on a constant diet of your favorite childhood dish, wouldn’t you eventually tire of it?  On a consistent helping of everything you think you wanted, at the very least, you’d grow bored.  You’d likely take it for granted.  And after a while, as strange as it sounds, you might actually come to resent it.

It seems that we all need some contrast in our lives.  Conflict to appreciate the peace.  Noise to appreciate the silence.  Chaos to appreciate the monotony.  Pain to appreciate joy.

I’ll admit that there are days where I’d really like a smaller helping of what I’ve been dished up – on some days I want to send the entire dish back to the kitchen and complain to the chef.  But I have faith that as unpleasant as some of these life experiences may be, they’ll help me develop the spiritual muscles that I need in order to grow into exactly what I’m supposed to be.

Retail Therapy = Instant Gratification

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Had another therapy session on Friday.  And none too soon, I might add.  I had been stressed and irritable all week – very much on edge, like a cat that you’ve repeatedly pet backwards from tail to head.  As the week went on, I was bristling more and more, flexing my claws and waiting to lash at the VERY NEXT PERSON who DARED utter something mortally offensive, like “Hi” or “What time is it?”

Therapy is one of those spinach-and-broccoli exercises.  You don’t really want to chew and swallow what’s in front of you, but you know it’s good for you do to so, and besides, there isn’t really a more effective way to clean it off your plate.  It’s not like some mental Labrador will come by and happily lick it off for you and make it magically vanish.

So I went.  And we talked about how I had cleaned out my closet, per our last session.  We then went back to talking about my marriage and our relationship.  Although things had been better since he threw out the shirts, I just didn’t understand why I was so angry and irritable this week.

After some back-and-forth, it came out that I’m simply not getting enough attention.  Yep.  Like a spoiled child, I need more focus on ME ME ME to be happy.

I just want some dedicated focus from my husband.

Back story that I should explain – the hubs is, we suspect, on the autism spectrum.  His older boy has the official diagnosis, but in all honesty, he’s just like his daddy.  Back in the day <cue old fogey music and bored teenagers rolling their eyes> they didn’t diagnose all these disorders and spectrums and so forth.  You just sat in class and did the best you could, and if you slipped up, you got whacked with a ruler.  WHICH THEY’D TOTALLY ARREST YOU FOR NOW.

Anyway.  So one of the behavioral markers for autism spectrum disorder is an intense focus on certain items of interest.  Need new shoes?  Drop everything and ORDER IMMEDIATELY.  Think you might need a new car?  Be first in line on Saturday to test drive, after staying up all night reading back issues of Consumer Reports.  Got a new video game?  MUST PLAY UNTIL VICTORIOUS WITH ALL CHARACTERS.

This trait makes the hubs really good at programming.  (Some companies specifically recruit those with autism/Asperger’s to program.  Really.  Check it out!  Diversity is something that a lot of companies claim to embrace, but until they take a swing at neurological diversity, they have a ways to go yet.)

This hyperfocus is also EXCELLENT when we have a home improvement project.  Recently, the hubs redid one of our bathrooms.  It was something of a HGTV “Before” picture – gold-flecked sink circa 1970, dark brown vanity and cabinet that had a thick layer of chocolate brown paint (obviously a failed refinishing project, unless they MEANT it to look like a half-melted, lint-covered Hershey bar,) and mauve tile 3/4 of the way up the wall, with lovely “accent” tiles featuring shiny gold outlines of fish.  The fish even had little bubbles rising from their mouths.  Except HALF OF THEM WERE UPSIDE DOWN so the bubbles were heading south.  (“Mom?  What exactly is the fish supposed to be doing here?”)  Anyway.  Hubs decided we’d redo the bathroom, and he’s spent nearly every waking moment since then ripping out, destroying, re-tiling, grouting, and painting the bathroom.  It’s just about finished now, and looks beautiful, but it wasn’t all smooth sailing.  There were days he got frustrated:

We call this one "Anger Management."

We call this one “Anger Management.”

This is what happens to naughty tile that won’t cut in a straight line without chipping.  (I have no idea what the garage wall did, though.)

So, as of late (several months, at least) – this laser-focus attention has been on the bathroom, the floors, the garage, the kids, the video games, work….but not on me.  And apparently, I miss that.  I miss having him want to spend time with me so badly that he stays up past 10PM.  I miss the dates we used to have – the outings he’d plan, where we’d go to a baseball game, or stroll the art museum, or watching the British Arrows Awards (if you haven’t heard of this, you’re missing out.)

Nowadays, I seem to be more of an afterthought.  He seems to enjoy my company, but not to the point of planning activities for us, or making “us” time a priority.  It makes me sad, sure, but it surprised me to discover that it also inflames my food issues.  Why?  Because when I was ten pounds thinner, I got WAY more attention – because he was worried about me, sure, but it was dedicated attention!  (And the behavioral experts are always telling us that negative attention is better than being ignored; children will misbehave just so someone notices them.  Apparently, I misbehave by slowly starving myself to death.)

Now?  I’m…average.  And average doesn’t get attention.  It’s beige in a world of glitter and rainbows.  It’s flat, dull, and uninteresting.  Blah.

So my homework is to tell the hubs (and we worked on how to say this so I don’t sound whiny, thanks Dr. P!) that I love spending time with him, and back when we were dating, it made me feel very special, valued, and very loved when he’d plan activities for us to do.  And that I enjoy his company thoroughly, and would love to have him plan an activity so we could spend time together building memories and enjoying each other.

(Barf.  I know.  But I need to say it, because it’s something I need, and I need to find my voice and use it vs. silencing it with fistfuls of popcorn and chocolate or shouting over it that I’m disgustingly fat and gross.)

So, therapy was Friday morning.  And since I wasn’t feeling up to any big conversation, and since I had a couple empty hangers in my closet, I decided to go shopping.  (Dr. P approved; even though we realized that it might be an experience that soured quickly, if I could find something I felt good in, in the size I wear now, it might help.)

Shopping?  Don’t have to ask me twice.  <screech of tires and whiff of rubber>

Miracle of miracles:  I found not one, but TWO pairs of pants that fit me PERFECTLY and that I didn’t look completely hideous in.  Seriously, I actually didn’t feel the need to sob uncontrollably, take a flamethrower to the dressing room, and dive headfirst into a pizza.  A MIRACLE, I TELL YA.

I also found this…dress.  I think it’s a dress.  It may be the abandoned love child of Cookie Monster and Big Bird.  I didn’t buy it, so if you head to Saks Off 5th, it can still be yours for the low bargain price of $805.  <choke>

CookieMonsterBigBirdLoveChildDress

Clearly, I will never understand high fashion.

Oh, but don’t worry, kids.  I did get the shoes.

Have I mentioned my love for shoes?  I big-puffy-purple-glitter-sparkly-heart LOVE shoes.  Especially heels.

So after spending considerable time “just looking,” this cute little pair followed me home last night.  How could I possibly say no?  CHECK OUT THESE DOPE KICKS.  I’m in love.

  FABULOUS SHOES

I’m nearly 5’10” in these shoes.  BOOM.   And – of course – they were 40% off.  SOLD.

I realize that shopping didn’t magically fix my issues – it was only a detour on the way to working through some things; a procrastination tool to delay a more difficult conversation.

But, like a mini-vacation, it refreshed my spirits just a bit.  I had fun…and I can’t stop smiling at my feet.  A little burst of happy at a great price is always a fantastic value.  It’s a small investment in my soul.

Be Careful What You Wish For

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A couple of years ago, for the first time in my entire life, I lost a bunch of weight pretty much by accident.  I was plagued by a sick stomach, and generally felt queasy for much of the day.  This was paired with some odd, dull pains in my upper stomach, bloating, and the strangest, most disturbing mushy grinding noises from my lower abdomen.  (These were actually quite amusing – often, I could generate additional noises with a well-placed poke or a brief massage.  I’d record the sounds and send them via text to my kids to gross them out.  You see what you resort to for entertainment when you stop springing for cable TV?)

This came a couple years after my marriage.  While the now-hubby and I were dating, I had admittedly packed on a few pounds, thanks to dates of late-night nachos and Molten Chocolate Cakes.  I had managed to squeeze into a size 9 wedding dress, but I was about 25 pounds heavier than I wanted to be at the time.  So the weight loss was welcome.  I lost those 25 pounds, and then ten more.  At this point, I was loving the weight loss, but figured I best check in with the doc.  You know, just to make sure I wasn’t dying of anything.

Over the next several months, I was screened for pretty much anything that can cause weight loss.  Ovarian cancer, pancreatic cancer, colon cancer.  Celiac disease.  Ulcers.  Parasites. Cat scratch disease.  Lyme disease.  Pregnancy.  (Three times.)  The results were inconclusive:  I wasn’t dying of anything, but something was effed up in my immune panel.  My doctor threw up her hands and said “try not eating wheat, see if it helps.”

During all these tests, I managed to drop a few more pounds.  I was loving wearing a size 0, loving when I’d walk into a store and everything was too big, but I was not loving feeling exhausted and ill all the time.

As I was going through this, I did learn that some foods managed to make me feel worse – particularly, foods with white flour and processed sugar.  In other words – FOODS THAT MAKE LIFE WORTH LIVING.  Twinkies.  Nutty Bars.  Fresh Italian bread.  Those Zingers with the coconut on them.  Cake. Cookies. Donuts.  CAKE.

So I quit eating those foods, and eventually gave up on wheat all together.  And occasionally, when there was an office birthday party or Donut Friday, people would ask why I wasn’t having any. (Because, if you haven’t noticed, people are freakishly interested in what you are or aren’t eating.  I mean, I could light my desk on fire and sacrifice the company’s 2012 tax records while performing an ancient rain dance, wearing only a garbage bag and Crocs, and folks would barely blink. But skip a slice of cake at a company function and suddenly you are the most interesting person on the planet and EVERYONE wants to know what the heck is up.)

So I’d tell them:  “Oh…I can’t eat baked goods.  They make me kind of sick to my stomach.”

Invariably, the response was (I bet you know it, kids, so sing along!) “Wow, I WISH I had that problem!  Then maybe I wouldn’t eat so much!”

Well. About that.

No.  No, you don’t wish you had this. You really do not.  And here is why.

Because when eating a food makes you ill – guess what?  IT TASTES JUST AS DELICIOUS AS ALWAYS.  But after you eat a couple of donuts, or a plate of pasta, about an hour later, it haunts you.  Not just in the usual way – you feel not only fat, gross, and like a complete failure because you YET AGAIN totally blew your diet…as a bonus, you ALSO feel bloated, lethargic, queasy, and drained.  You feel like you’re trying to digest a lump of wet concrete.  (Don’t try this at home, kids.  Suffice it to say it doesn’t feel great.)  So, now you have a double whammy – you can beat yourself up both mentally AND physically with just a single slice of cake!  Two for the price of one!!

Yay.

So, in this process of trying to figure out what makes me ill, after a few years of dealing with this, I’ve come to another surprising conclusion.

Sugar messes with my head.

I’ve finally figured out why I’m such a mess on Sunday nights – because on the weekends, I let my eating “relax” a bit, and indulge – sometimes it’s ice cream, sometimes it’s a gluten-free cookie. (Which generally is not the tastiest of treats, but if you MUST have a cookie, and you don’t want to bite into a flavorless mass of disappointment, try these.  Actually, on second thought, don’t. Don’t even click the link, because you won’t be able to eat fewer than four at a time.  Don’t ask me how I know this.  Moo.)

And by Sunday night, I’m a mess.  Psychologically, I’ve completely fallen apart.  I hate myself, I’m a fat slob, I need to lose ten – no, fifteen – pounds, I’m NEVER EATING AGAIN but OH LOOK SUGAR I MUST HAVE MORE SUGAR CHOCOLATE ICE CREAM CANDY BARRRRRRRRR

<ERROR:  Circular Reference in Prior Logic>

It’s a vicious cycle.  Once I eat a sugary treat, my body releases the food demons.  I’m like a sucrose vampire.  I.  MUST.  FEED.  I.  MUST.  HAVE.  SUGAR.   (I’m visualizing a tray of sugar cookies with terrified faces cowering in fear as I lurk in the shadows waiting to churn them into crumbs.)  It’s an animalistic drive; one I can only sometimes, and only barely, control.

Not only does eating sugar make me crave more sugar, but it also seems to anger those defeating voices in my head.  The voices that tell me I’m fat, and that until I lose some weight, absolutely nothing else matters.  My husband won’t find me attractive. I’ll fail at my job.  I’m a horrible mother to my kids.  And I’m fat.  Huge, wobbly, saggy, weak, worthless, disgusting, nothing.

It’s as if sugar makes the weeds grow.  They pop up and choke out all the peace and harmony I’ve tried so hard to establish and root.  They wilt the buds of hope I was so delicately trying to get to bloom.

I’ve actually tested this theory. I’ve gone for a week or two without any sugary treats, and the stability of my mood is remarkable.  Sure, there are ups and downs, but I can speak logically to myself and back away from the ledge.

Then, once I’ve indulged…well, the baboon is out of the cage.  AND HE AIN’T HAPPY BRO.  I hate myself, and won’t be worth the air I breathe until I get my weight down to 110…105…99.  But I’ll never, ever GET there because I simply cannot stop eating ice cream and kettle corn, along with any random foodstuffs that happen to be innocently lying in their paths.

It takes a few days before I can keep my head above the waves of self-loathing long enough to really be able to see the shore I so desperately want to swim to.  It takes water and clean eating and exercise and rest.  And time.

Last night, I tested myself again.  This week’s leap into the abyss featured a DQ Blizzard.  A stupid Blizzard?  Really?  Not even something GOOD like Ben and Jerry’s or Culver’s, but a lame-o crappy Blizzard?

I’m weak.  Or so the Blizzard is telling me.

I’m working so hard right now to keep the riptide from ripping off my life vest.  I ate fruit and an egg today, and chili and a baked potato for dinner.  No candy, no ice cream, even though the mean, hateful voices in my head are telling me I’d be a size 00 if I had any willpower at all while simultaneously screaming at me to GET A $&%(@$! FROSTY ALREADY.

Sigh.

Why do I keep doing this to myself?!

Because, dammit…sugar tastes good.  The bitter aftertaste doesn’t kick in right away.

It’s still delicious.

It lies.

I wish I could bottle up this feeling and sprinkle it all over all the peanut butter cups and ice cream pints on the planet.  I wish it turned them all a sickly, neon green and make them impossible to swallow.

Until then…it’s like a bad hangover.  I know, at least intellectually, that my body WILL figure this out in a couple of days, and I just have to nurture myself with good food and rest while my body works the poison out of my system.

It takes time to heal.  Things will look better tomorrow…at least somewhat.

Hang on, Kate.  Hang on.

Fowl Play in the Workplace

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And now for something completely different….

I work just outside of a major metropolitan area.  But, like most cities, we’re fairly compartmentalized – once you get outside of the beltway, you’re in the wilderness fairly quickly.  We’re only about 10 miles from a large city, but very quickly, the 4-lane highway dissolves into a two-lane road, and you’re driving past fields and farms in short order.   When we have visitors coming out to the facility, part of my directions include “drive past the chicken farm and over the train tracks, then turn left.”  And the directions are accurate.  There is a legit free-range chicken farm not 2 miles from work.  Unlike the legend, these chickens seem to know better than to cross the road…

…unlike the turkeys.   But more on that in a sec.

Over the last few years, our metro area has had some challenges with an overrun of Canadian Geese.  The geese are awful.  They’re loud:  HONK HONK HONK EVEN AT FREAKING 6 AM YO.  They’re messy:  They leave droppings everywhere – on walking trails, in parking lots….and these are large birds, so they leave a LOT.  And they’re extremely territorial:  Once they decide to nest somewhere – a watershed, a man-made lake, the base of a light post, between lanes at the bank drive-up window, RIGHT OUTSIDE YOUR WORK EXIT…you can forget about using that space for anything else.  They’ll hiss, honk, chase, AND BITE you to get you to stay away.  Trouble is, some ding dong marked these suckers as “protected” – so you can’t (legally, coughcough) shoot them.  So they crap all over everything and terrorize us as we DARE cross the pavement trying to get to the safety of our cars.   Fortunately for me, I can move pretty quickly in 4″ heels, so I haven’t been pinched in the calf by a ticked-off goose…yet.

Since it’s finally looking like spring around here, unfortunately, the geese are starting to come back.  However, to their credit, the geese have acclimated to people enough to understand traffic, for the most part.  They generally tend to stay off the roads, save the occasional exception where a family is crossing with hatchlings.  SUPER FUN when you’re late to work and all four lanes of the beltway come to a screeching halt to avoid flattening the baby pest parade.  <eyeroll>

So, while we’re used to the geese, we seem to have a new addition to the wildlife assortment this year:  wild turkeys.  I suppose they’ve always been in the area, but for some reason (global warming?  food foraging?  running for office?) they seem to be more prolific as of late.

On Monday, I left for work feeling pretty accomplished – because, this past weekend, we FINALLY took down our Christmas tree.  (Yeah.  I know.  I procrastinate, what can I say?)  But my mood went south as I noticed that my 25-mile commute was heavier than usual.  With the arrival of spring comes the return of everyone’s favorite travel season…ROAD CONSTRUCTION.  So one of the major highways I take was reduced to two lanes.  The annual appearance of orange (just like the first winter snow, first thunderstorm, or any display of flashing lights) turns everyone into a COMPLETE FREAKING MORON.  In this state, we merge “zipper style.”  This means that you use ALL lanes up to the merge point, and then take turns merging.  Believe me, this is CLEARLY marked and there are signs ALL OVER THE PLACE, but I swear, once you put people in the safe cocoons of their cars, they lose both natural fear of being struck AS WELL AS THEIR FREAKING MINDS.  So merging (which the locals cannot figure out; it’s not car dancing, SOMEBODY @$#$%!NG GO ALREADY) slows everything down for miles and (obviously) gives me mild road rage.

<pausing to breathe slowly into a paper bag and go to my happy place>

So once that was behind me, and I got off the main highway, I was surprised to find a similar backup at a traffic light a few miles later.  The cause of this backup?  A very confused turkey.  Right in the middle of the intersection.  Poor thing was just wandering around aimlessly, taking its time going absolutely nowhere, and having no clue (or care) that it was making pretty much everybody irritated and late.

I eventually got to work.  (Fortunately, no one cares what time I get there.)  And as I was juggling my coffee, my smoothie, my giant purse, and my lunch as I headed towards the front door, I found that we had a visitor.

TurkeyPretty, isn’t he?

So on Monday, he just wandered around the main entrance.  He watched people as they came and went, and was generally a source of entertainment for everyone.

On Tuesday, Luke (come on, he TOTALLY looks like a Luke, doesn’t he?) was back…a little bolder, a little badder.  He decided to engage us all in a game of hide-and-seek that no one knew they had been invited to play.  The rules:  Hide behind something – a car, a transformer – and when a person comes by, jump out in front of them.  Fortunately for me, I have a main-floor office right by the front door, so I got to watch several folks jump out of their skins as they turned the corner and were face-to-face with a giant bird.

After most of our employees had arrived for the day, he decided, like most good performers do, to up the ante.  He flew up to the roof of the building (OK, I knew turkeys could fly, but up to a 3rd story?) and proceeded to sing us the Song of His People.  For his stage, he chose the corner just above the (ironically appropriate) CEO’s office.  GOBBLEGOBBLEGOBBLE GOBBLEGOBBLEGOBBLE…for a full half-hour as he splayed his feathers and strutted back and forth, showing off for everyone.

Unfortunately, Luke’s thirst for danger was increasing.  On Wednesday morning, I got a report from our 2nd shift customer service department:  the night before, when one of our new hires went outside for a quick smoke, Luke decided to turn hide-and-seek into a game of tag.  He managed to chase this poor woman around the corner – and when she screamed and jumped up on the picnic table, he followed her there, as well.  (I am VERY SAD that our security camera cut off the feed as she turned the corner.  VERY. SAD.  Why have a security camera system if you can’t catch instant YouTube classics like this?!)

Time for a strategy meeting.  (Because, when you work in HR, turkey removal is part of your job description, right?!)  My suggestion – that we blast him with pepper spray and roast him over a company bonfire – was rejected.  (Why?  People are starving in this country, folks!)  We decided to ask our publisher (our company owns and runs a hobby magazine as well) what he might do, because our publisher is one of those absent-minded-professor-crossed-with-a-hipster types who is quirky, deeply intelligent, has both an extensive vocabulary and an insanely quick wit, and has had a deeply rich and fascinating life and knows something about pretty much everything.  So we figured he’d be our best bet in turkey eviction.

He responded to the challenge immediately, with enthusiasm and vigor.  “No no NO!  You CANNOT let the turkey chase people.  It has now established dominance over people and will never leave.  You can’t run from it. You gotta be BIG, you gotta be LOUD, and you need to BE THE ALPHA!”  He then stomped into the lobby and grabbed a six-foot walking stick that was inexplicably leaning there against the grandfather clock (seriously, the random things you find in family-owned businesses) and rushed outside.

Luke was strolling at the side of the building.  The publisher glared at his target.  He sturdied his stance, as a baseball player staring down a star pitcher, mentally preparing to hit a home run.

He shook his hips, and beat the stick onto the ground, once, twice…three times, eyeing his opposition menacingly.

Then he raised the stick over his head, screaming a battle cry that he probably learned from studying ancient Viking slaughter rituals, and took off full force after Luke.  “GAAAAAAAAAA GAAAAAAAAAAAAWWWWWWWWWWWWW GAAAAAAWWWWW”

Right in front of the executive suite, and in full view by the conference room holding a meeting with international vendors.

I love privately held companies.

Luke ran around in circles for a bit, attempting to charge some onlookers, but they gamely stood firm in “looking big”.  Defeated, Luke flapped his wings and retreated to the roof.

Twenty minutes later, Luke waltzed up to our main entrance and took a massive dump just outside the door.  (“Oh look!  He signed up for direct deposit.”)

Since chasing the turkey with a stick proved to be SUPER EFFECTIVE (uh…notsomuch) a couple other folks decided to give it a shot.  (We’re always looking for creative and innovative (read: free) additions to our wellness program….)  One lady, bless her heart, just wasn’t in peak turkey-pursuit condition.  Luke barely glanced at her over his shoulder, slowly taking a couple half-hearted steps away from her as she waved the stick, approaching him with what can best be described as a very determined stroll.

As she quickly ran out of breath, she passed the stick to our champion athlete (he rollerblades marathons for fun.  FOR FUN.)  This dude, as lean as the stick he wielded, ran back and forth across the grassy areas of the site for a good twenty minutes, waving the stick, and dodging and weaving like someone avoiding gunfire (just to keep the turkey guessing…?  I cannot imagine what was going through this turkey’s head.)  Eventually, he managed to successfully chase Luke off the property and across the street.

He was back an hour later, pecking at dead bugs off everyone’s license plate, looking up and gobbling at me through my window every time a train went by.  (Even the turkeys complain about the working conditions.  Sheesh.)

Sadly, it was time to admit defeat.

But not for long….wild turkey season opened on Thursday.

I like to think that Luke retreated and went into hiding, and that he’ll come visit us again one day.  Maybe we’ll try to coax him out of hiding to come say hello at our next board meeting.  Judging by what the board said about my last compensation proposal, I think he’d really bond with a couple of our members.

The Warped Playback of My Own Demons

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I mentioned in my last post that I spent Easter weekend with my family, and that I had had a pretty good week, recovery-wise, until I went there.

Family is always tough.  Visiting your folks is like some sort of twisted time machine – you immediately forget what a capable, mature adult you are, and instantly regress into the persona you wore as a teenager.  In our normal, everyday lives, we’re psychologically on trend with midi skirts and fringe, but step into the kitchen of your childhood and mentally you’ve teased your bangs, popped the collar of your polo, and pegged your jeans.  I don’t know WHY this happens, but it’s pretty common.  It doesn’t make much sense, though – my psychological leg warmers were itchy, and didn’t warm the parts of me that really needed some heat….but in my mind, I’m reaching for them every time.

My childhood was, on the surface, quite tame and non-dramatic.  Two parents, married to each other.  No drugs, alcohol, teen pregnancies, or arrest records.  (Well, there was that one cousin who gave us gossip fodder at family potlucks.  But it was pretty minor stuff, relatively speaking.)  I have a sister and a brother, and our biggest issues were spending too much time on the phone (sister) and occasionally stretching curfew (me, because my siblings didn’t have one, not because Mom and Dad were unfair, but because my sibs had the sense to come home at a decent hour.)

What is clearest about my childhood (given my issues, it’s pretty obvious) is the dieting dichotomy.  We had a dual-food household – meaning, Mom dieted, and Dad did not.  We had two of everything in our fridge:  real butter and diet margarine, soda and diet soda, Miracle Whip and Light Miracle Whip, whole milk and skim.  By middle school, my brother was a bit chubby; and one of his comments was what sent me down the path of messed-up eating.  I got a bit too skinny in high school; I suppose, in hindsight, that may have been discussed by the relatives.  I remember being called down to the guidance counselor’s office once, and I fed her a complete BS line of eating healthy and exercising, and never got any more flack for starving myself.  I also remember being dragged to the doctor once.  He very helpfully encouraged me to eat more.  My blood pressure at the time was 80/40.   (Yeah, I’ll get right on that cheeseburger, doc.  Thanks for being clueless so I can continue counting how many Cheerios I can eat today without pesky interference.)

So my brother and I dutifully counted calories and watched our belts all throughout high school.  My baby sister, though….well, she was the pretty one.  Petite, blond, and blue-eyed, she ate WHATEVER THE HELL SHE WANTED and just did not gain weight.  She was a notoriously picky eater, often eschewing our family dinners for a bowl of cereal.  As she got older, she’d supplement these meals with Burger King runs, and she drank non-diet soda, and snacked on Fritos dipped in Miracle Whip.  (I am totally not kidding here.  FRITOS. And MIRACLE WHIP.  !!!!!)

Suffice it to say there was significant resentment there.  I didn’t help matters much; I found out which boys she had crushes on, and dated them.  (Yes, I realize that this makes me a horrible person.  I feel bad about this to this day.  But if I couldn’t be the pretty one, I could be the fun one, and high school boys were pretty receptive to the funny girl who was forward enough to ask them out.  I was just desperate to be pretty, to be acceptable.)  The end result is that my sister and I barely spoke for nearly eight years; we didn’t reconnect until I filed for divorce and found my voice and stopped competing/comparing myself with her and got to know both who she was, and who I was.  We actually have a pretty solid relationship now, and I’m so thankful for that.

It didn’t occur to me until I tried therapy a few years ago that perhaps my childhood wasn’t as happy as I recalled.  The only “benefit” I got from that therapist was the realization that my mom favors my sister over me.  Honestly, I think I was happier not knowing this.  Because now, every visit is punctuated with that realization.  Every slight and favor is highlighted with neon-green clarity.  It hurts my heart, and I either eat my feelings or resolve to starve so I can fade away into nothing.   This visit, I chose to eat everything in sight, because if Mom made gluten-free Chex mix and sweet potato casserole and peanut brittle, I can show her that I love her best by accepting her offerings, right?

On Sunday mornings, my folks usually go out to breakfast.  This is good for my dad, who is recovering from two strokes and a massive heart attack he had in December (he’s doing really well; not quite 100% where he was, but considering he should have died, the fact that he gets up, gets dressed, and works every day is nothing short of miraculous.)

So on Sunday, he was asking Mom when they were going for breakfast.  I was awake, as was my son.  My daughter and my sister were still asleep.  Mom got dressed and ready to go…but as we were getting our shoes on, I found out that she wasn’t going to breakfast, after all.  Why?  Because she didn’t want to leave my sister alone.  My sister, WHO WAS ASLEEP and most likely would STILL be when Mom got back.  (Plus, my daughter, who is a champion sleeper, was home too.)  But Mom decided she’d rather stay home with my unconscious sister than spend time with me.  It is what it is, I guess….but yeah, that stung.  My son and I did take my dad out to breakfast, and I cherish that time spent with him, since we really don’t know how much more time we’ll get with him.  It was just soured a bit by Mom being really obvious about preferring my sister’s company.   (And yes, she WAS still asleep when we got back.  Sigh.)

Anyway.  Back to childhood.  My sister was beautiful in high school.  (Let me clarify right here that throughout this, my sister was, and is, and will always be, beautiful.  This is more of an outline about weight….and while her weight has changed over the years, her soul has only grown, and she’s a gorgeous person and always will be.)  When she went to college, she, like so many of us, gained weight.  And, sadly, entered the club of hating her body.  I watched her gain the Freshman 15, and a few more.  She lost some weight before her wedding, but being married to a guy who loves his food…well, it’s HARD because dudes can eat a LOT and not pack on the pounds.  <whine> IT’S NOT FAIIRRRRRRRRRR  Her hubby had decided long ago that he was going to enjoy life, and if that meant he was fat, well, then, he was going to be fat.  And it’s tough to pick at a salad when the hubs is downing nachos, ya know?

About three years ago, she lost the extra weight.  All of it.  She now weighs what she did in high school.  And she is gorgeous.

The end, right?

Sadly, no.  Her struggle with her weight gave her free admission into the “I hate my body” club.  And I hate that for her.  This is a club that isn’t terribly discerning about accepting members…but once you join, it’s nearly impossible to leave.  <cue Hotel California>

I honestly didn’t realize the extent of her struggle until we were driving home on Sunday afternoon.  We made a pit stop at Dunkin Donuts, because the kids NEEDED coffee (read:  coffee-like drink laden with cream and sugar that is basically dessert in a to-go cup) and a donut (because Dunkin is THE BEST. No Krispy Kreme for this family.  Their offerings sit like a wad of lard and concrete in your gut, and who wants to eat something with the name “Krispy Kreme,” anyway?  It sounds like something you dropped jelly-side-down onto a dirt floor.  Bleck.)

My sister came into the store with me to buy a diet soda. (Don’t we always start out with that sort of good intention?)  Once she faced the rack of freshly-baked donuts, she HAD to have one.  She made her selection, and then proceeded to put on her verbal boxing gloves and give herself a prize-winning flogging.

I don’t need this.  I’ve eaten so much this weekend.

I’m not even hungry.

I’ve gone over my calories for the day and I haven’t even eaten dinner yet.

I can’t keep doing this….the fat will come right back.

And on and on and on.  It’s a song I know well; one I have memorized and perform pretty much every time I eat.   And, like any well-rehearsed performer, I wanted to sing along.  But this wasn’t the part I knew.  It was as jarring to me as putting Rhett in a dress and having Scarlett utter “Frankly, my dear….”  It was as unnerving as hearing Britney Spears attempting to channel the Rolling Stones.  (Don’t click this.  Really.  It’s bad and there isn’t enough ear bleach to scrub it out.)

But I tried.  I parroted to her the things I was used to hearing.  Enjoy it and start over tomorrow.  You’re beautiful.  It’s just a donut, not a statement of your self-worth. 

Words I’d heard, but never believed.

Words I firmly believed were true for her….but not for me.

I love my sister.  I love her so much that I wish we didn’t have this in common.

I wish there was a hypnotist or a lotion or a hug that would make the self-doubt and hate go away.   If they made a pill for this – only one – I’d give it to her with a big glass of water, and I wouldn’t leave until she downed that thing.

No one deserves admission to this version of hell.  But after hearing this from her, this thought hasn’t left my mind:  Am I causing my husband this much pain when I break out into a chorus of the same song?

I’m trying to be more aware.  Trying to censor these thoughts a bit; trying not to share every insecurity out loud.  Because maybe it’s not all about me; maybe it tears at the joy of those around me.

Maybe someday, I won’t have these thoughts at all. Maybe I’ll be OK with what I look like, even if that body has been through childbirth and a few too many chocolates and pizzas.

Maybe that gift will come with smaller thighs and a rainbow unicorn.

<sigh>

Purging the Pollutants and Poisons

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So…in case you’re wondering (and I’m sure all three of you who read this have been waiting with bated breath just DYING to know how this turned out, ha ha) – I gave him the letter.  I did it.  I actually did it.

I had had a night of very little sleep when I wrote that post.  I saved it, and rushed off to church (of COURSE I was late. If I show up anywhere early, assume aliens have taken possession of my body, and what you’re seeing isn’t me, but an imposter, and shoot me with a green laser gun before I take over the planet.)

After church, we sat on the couch and talked.  Well…I tried to talk.  I was too upset to say much.  Finally, I told him, “I wrote you a letter.  I don’t want to give it to you.  It may be hard to read.  Some of it isn’t very nice.  But you need to understand it comes from a place where I am hurting.  I hope you can read it in the spirit in which it is intended.”

He asked for the letter.

He read the letter while I cried.

Then he said, “I love you, and I want to talk about this.  But first, let me change my shirt.”

And then he went to his closet and THREW THE MEAN SHIRTS AWAY.  ALL OF THEM.  Every last one.

And then we talked.  Really talked.

I was stunned – still am, frankly – that he actually threw those shirts away.  He must really love me.  I’m overwhelmed by that.  How can I mean so much to him?

He really is an amazing guy.

I walked around for the next week feeling like I had removed an eighty-pound backpack that I’d forgotten I was carrying.  Drama is like that – it starts out as a flashy new bag, which is hip and cool and fun to show off as you twirl and strut.  But as time goes on, it collects rocks and dirt and lead and concrete. It gets heavier and heavier, and for some reason, you keep carting it around like you’re doing it a favor.  As if it benefits you in some way.  It’s only when you eventually unload it that you realize how soul-suckingly bad it was for you, how much of a drain it was on your energy and your joy.

So I spent a full week feeling almost normal.  And then things went sideways again (due to a visit with my folks…doesn’t visiting your parents always remind you of the ways you’ve failed them?  I may write more about that later.)  Suffice it to say I had plenty to talk about in my appointment with Dr. P this week.

One of the things I’ve been struggling with is accepting myself at a higher weight.  I hate saying this, because I KNOW how lame, pathetic, and first-world-problemy it sounds. Really.  I’d totally be rolling my eyes (and mentally slapping her) if anyone ELSE told me how hard it was for her now that she’s eaten her way out of a size zero and is ALL THE WAY up to a size two now.  Boo freakin’ hoo, right?

But when it’s your own body?  When the sign of success you previously had (BMI of 18, yeah!) has faded away? When your clothes are getting tighter?  When no one gasps at how skinny you are anymore, and the one thing you used to be good at, the ONE AREA you could excel in, the ONLY area that anyone in society seems to value (and certainly the one that’s the most prized, yet least attainable, by you) is now an area where you’re not in the best 5%?  Where you’re now just…normal?  It kind of sucks.  It feels like failure.

AND THAT’S STUPID.

Intellectually, I know I am not a fat monster.  I can’t be.  The numbers do not add up.  Even if I looked 20 pounds heavier than I am, logic tells me I cannot possibly be a huge beast.  But when I look in the mirror, my thighs are bulging out in all directions, and my stomach poofs out in an unflattering not-sure-if-she’s-pregnant bloat.  Flesh hangs over the tightening waistband of my pants (hello, back fat.  Who invited YOU, anyway?)  Pants in the smallest size are uncomfortably snug and emphasize every flaw.

Ah, yes, the pants.  I have clothes that have been hanging in my closet, unworn for several months, mocking me.  You can’t wear me.  I cut you sharply across the waist; I stretch in a most unflattering fashion across your thighs.  I’m here to remind you that you will NEVER be good enough. You will never be perfect.  What a shame that you lack the discipline to stick to your diet.  How pathetic that you have so little control.  I’m a prize you don’t deserve to have.

How ironic.  Apparently, it wasn’t just my husband who had hurtful things in his closet.

So, during my session with Dr. P, we decided that I’d clean out my closet.  I had mixed feelings about this.  First and foremost (if you’re female and have ever struggled with your weight, you’ll guess this one) – “WHAT ABOUT WHEN I GET THIN AND CAN WEAR THEM AGAIN?”  I know I’m trying to learn to accept myself at a healthy weight, but I’m not ready to say that I will never be 107 pounds again.  And that’s OK – I’m not there now, but I’m not ready to let go of that quite yet.  In the meantime, the pants don’t fit me well now, so why keep them when all they do is make me unhappy?  And, as Dr. P reminded me, “if you do need that size later, you’ll want to buy new stuff anyway.”  Good point.

And today I did it.  I went to my closet and ruthlessly pulled out all the size 0 pants.  I went through EVERYTHING (and I have a BIG closet, folks.  As if I would live in a house with inadequate closet space. AS IF.)  and bravely deposited in the Donations bag a grand total of…

<drum roll, please>

one skirt and two pairs of pants.

<cue sad trombone>

Wait…that’s it?

All that fuss for TWO FREAKING PAIRS OF PANTS?

(Wow.  Drama much?)

I stared at my small offering in disbelief….Yup.  Out of an entire wardrobe of “clothes I’m too fat for,” I had two – TWO – pairs of pants that are a bit snug to be flattering.  And you know what?  THEY NEVER ACTUALLY FIT ME WELL IN THE FIRST PLACE.  The brown pants were too short in the rise <coughcoughcameltoecough> and the black pinstripe pair were flattering but were always gave me a bit of back fat.  The skirt was skin-tight, but always had been, really, and I hadn’t worn it much because it was borderline inappropriate – a little too Jessica Rabbit for the office.

What’s amazing me about this is the power that these unworn pants had.  I mean, I have like 10 pairs of other pants – that FIT – and I wasn’t enjoying them because I had two ill-fitting pairs in my closet?  And WHY WAS I NOT BLAMING THE PANTS?  I can’t possibly expect every pair of pants to fit well and be flattering.  But…isn’t that what I’ve been doing?

The mean pants are in the donation sack, ready to leave my life completely tomorrow.

And, just like that, I have a closet full of pants that fit.

All my clothes fit.

That sort of feels…good?  Wait, that’s not the word.  More like “not a failure.”

I’ll take it.  It’s not my usual style, but the cut is surprisingly comfortable, so I’ll try to work it into my wardrobe.