Hate Protection

Posted on by
Reply

I think I’ve mentioned before that my day job is HR –  Human Resources.  A lot of people have heard of this, but have no idea what it really is.

Essentially, it’s managing the people asset of the business.  There’s a decent overview here, but the short version that I give (so they quit with the blank staring) is something along the lines of “I manage stuff like benefits, employee relations, talent development, recruiting, safety and risk….”  To which either their eyes glaze over and they stumble off, or they ask me if I have to fire people.

Fire people?  Yes, yes, I do; typically it’s the person’s manager that has to do deliver the specific “your employment is terminating effective immediately,” but I’m the happy little elf who gets to try to explain COBRA and hands you a box for your things.

Does it bother me?  Well, sure, sometimes.  I’ve worked for some very, very big companies; some of which restructure / downsize / whatever the kids are calling it this week every six months or so.  Layoffs suck.  They’re absolutely no fault of the employee; they’re just caught up in a cost-savings measure.  It also sucks when the employee is really, really trying and just cannot do the job.  Unfortunately, effort =/= results, and sometimes that results in having to make a really difficult decision.

But some terminations don’t bother me in the least.  Especially when you’ve received consistent, progressive notice that you aren’t doing your job, or need to quit calling in with spring fever to go golfing, or, for the love of chocolate and cheese, don’t watch porn at work, do NOT make photocopies of your most prized body parts, and freaking KEEP YOUR HANDS (and aforementioned copies) TO YOURSELF.  In most cases?  You’ve earned this termination, so here’s your diploma, go out and make your way somewhere else now.

In other words, if there is inappropriate behavior, you’re outta here.

Which is why I was – what’s the emotion here?  Shocked, disappointed, floored – by this ruling by the NLRB this week.

Let me back up a bit.  Most employees in the US are not unionized.  There was a time, though, maybe 100 years ago, where there weren’t any laws in place to protect workers.  So people started banding together collaboratively to negotiate better working conditions, wages, hours, etc.  Since that time, a lot of laws have been passed that define these things – OSHA for safety/health, FMLA for medical leave, FLSA for wages, etc.  (There are about 5,234,755,989,212 more. Ping me if you have insomnia and need further reading.)  As a result, there are fewer folks currently unionized – the laws have made unions somewhat redundant – but unfortunately, some employers are VERY badly behaved, so there’s still a place for unions.

When there’s a union in place, the union and the company negotiate a contract that spells out the wages, benefits, working hours, etc.  These contracts do expire eventually, though, and have to be re-negotiated.  At that point, if the workers/union and employer can’t agree on the next contract, one of the things that can happen is that the workers will “strike.”  The unionized workers all agree to slow down, or not show up at all, until the company can agree to their demands.

This means that no one’s at work, making the product the company sells.  This can also mean that there’s a picket line, where the union (usually the local employees, but they often bring other union members in for support) protests right outside the employer.

So, if you’re an employer, you have sort of a situation here – you have customers who need their plastic forks, or tires, or whatever you make, and no one to actually MAKE the stuff.  You can’t let your orders go unfilled – that will mean loss of business, which could lead to layoffs – once you tick off a customer, it’s super hard to win them back.  So you often have to make the decision to bring in temporary workers to get the job done.

And this is where it can get ugly.

When you cross a picket line (which is what these temps had to do to get to work, obviously) you’ll get yelled at.  Called names.  (“Scab” is the common one.  But it can get downright ugly.  Go to the ruling for this case and look at page four to see some more specific examples of what you might hear on a picket line.)

In the case of Cooper Tire, several of the employees took things a step further – and made racist remarks.  One of the employees was caught on video saying, “Hey, did you bring enough KFC for everyone?” and “I smell fried chicken and watermelon!”

So Cooper Tire fired him.  I mean, no company should tolerate blatant racist comments, right?

Not so fast.

See, when you have a union, they will represent you in “employment actions” and for your participation in “protected concerted activity.”  So if you get written up, or fired, you can file a grievance, where the union will defend you to the company.

The union actually agreed to defend this guy.

AND THIS GUY WON.

From the ruling:  “(The employee’s) conduct and statements did not tend to coerce or intimidate employees in the exercise of their rights…nor did they raise a reasonable likelihood of an imminent physical confrontation.”

Wait…what?  Racist remarks don’t “coerce or intimidate”?  Marijuana isn’t legal in Ohio yet so I have NO IDEA what this judge is smoking.

Apparently, when you’re “engaged in protected activity,”  i.e. a strike, as long as you’re not violent, ANYTHING GOES.  Anything.

Including a complete disregard for basic human rights.

Are you disgusted?  You should be.  Cooper Tire had to REHIRE this clown – AND reinstate the wages he lost while this was going on.

So – I’m calling you out.  You, all employees who are represented – who PAY a portion of your NEGOTIATED wages – to have the United Steelworkers represent you?  THIS is what they’re representing.  To yell out to a bus of temporary workers, “Go back to Africa.”

United Steelworkers DEFENDS these actions.

You’re PAYING for this representation.  You voted them in.  If you don’t agree with how they’re representing  you – if you don’t agree with this – hold them accountable.

Contact your union steward and make yourself heard.  Contact USW directly here.

Or take it a step further and decertify the union.  Make no mistake – unions are strong.  It won’t be easy.  That stuff you heard about on the picket lines?  Snuggles and hugs compared to what you might see if you take this on.

But if you don’t take action – you’re supporting the action.  You’re funding this abominable, repulsive behavior.  You’re not holding the shovel, but there’s a hole in front of you and your hands are just as dirty.

Cooper Tire is appealing the decision.

We ALL should.

Very Inspiring Blogger Award!

Posted on by
3

Thank you to Cindy at Mermaid in a Mudslide for this nomination!  (You should totally check out her blog…everything from spiritual food to squid ink…I kid you not!)

bloggerawardDA RULES (cut and pasted) for the Very Inspiring Blogger Award:

  •  Thank the person who nominated you for the award.
  •  Add the logo to your post.
  •  Nominate ten (10) bloggers you admire and inform them of the nomination.

Indisposed and Undiagnosed – she’s really young, yet so strong and wise.

Undiagnosed Warrior – Ditto!

Arms Akimbo – just started following this one – I like her grit.

luvbearlvx’s Blog – just because he cracks me up.  If he were local we’d be out for beer far too often.

Lyma’s Life – again, ditto, except this one’s a she.

Brighton Bipolar – very brave, very honest.

gathering the pieces of me – this is some of the best, and most raw, writing you will find online.  Powerful intelligence and powerful pain.

theGoodVader – bite-sized bits of peace.

The Persistent Platypus – contagious energy.

betternotbroken – required reading for anyone leaving an abusive situation.

So that’s today’s Top 10.  Thank you ALL for being a chunk in my mental stew…. 🙂

Self-Improvement, Interrupted

Posted on by
13

After coming off of your last therapy appointment, you spend a week attempting, once again, to be thin.  You’ve lost relevance with your spouse, and with your kids, and really, with life in general, and punishing yourself by starvation seems to be the only appropriate action, the only thing that will make a discernible, desirable difference.

At the end of the week, you fall off the wagon just a bit (OK, a lot) with a leftover half-bag of Doritos (which you don’t even LIKE, but whatever.)  This is followed by your childhood favorite, a Reese’s peanut butter cup sundae from Friendly’s, the five-scoop, which, incidentally, has more calories than you normally permit yourself in a single day.

You catch your breath.  Refocus.  This isn’t working, clearly, and you WANTED to get WELL this year, right?  Beating yourself up with hot fudge and a maraschino cherry when your soul is starving for meaning isn’t exactly super effective towards the desired result.

You remember recently downloading a book that you thought at one time might help you. It’s sitting on your Kindle, in the front of the queue of books.  You have a two-hour plane ride ahead of you, so why not?

Resolutely, you drive to the airport, drinking lots of water to flush your system of the excess sugar.  Upon arrival at the airport, you notice just a touch of hunger.  Instantly, your stomach reminds you of the food court.  There’s pizza there.  You decide that you’re going to do a better job of LISTENING to your body, instead of mentally flogging yourself every time it asks, very politely, to be fed.

You peruse the pizza.  Even though you know you’re not supposed to eat wheat, if it’s pizza your body wants, you shall have it.  You look, and are surprised to discover that the pizza actually doesn’t look all that appetizing.  Wait – pizza doesn’t look good?  Nope. What you really would like is some cheese popcorn.  You stand there for a moment, amazed.  This listening to your body actually works!  You find a small bag of all-natural popcorn and eat every kernel.

Once you’ve boarded, you dive into the book. Meh. It’s OK.  It doesn’t tell you anything earth-shattering – trust your body, listen to what you need.  Get some sleep, exercise.  Focus on what you’re eating, and what makes you feel good – and what doesn’t.  Once you detox, she says, your body will TELL you, definitively, what it needs.  Except the author’s pretty sure you don’t need sugar, dairy, wheat, corn, soy, or caffeine.  (Hmph.  She’s clearly never tried to listen to MY body at 7 AM.)  Experience your emotions; don’t eat them away.

You finish the book quickly on the plane.  Despite the anti-coffee stance (she will pull the coffee out of your cold, dead hands, after a battle where both sides will be hurting, BAD) and the lack of depth, you actually feel…pretty good.  A bit re-energized.  You decide that you CAN get better.  You CAN have feelings. You CAN express your emotions instead of eating them.

And you’ll start tonight – instead of turning inward, sulking about how difficult Sunday nights are – instead of binging on the contents of your pantry while hating yourself and the fat, sodden mess you’ve become – you will, in a very mature fashion, tell your spouse what you need to help you cope.

You can do this!

Head held high, you pick up your luggage (it’s actually arrived, and in a timely fashion – this is a good sign!)  You walk out to the pickup area where your loving husband is waiting for you.

You get in the car.

And, rather quickly, it becomes clear that he is NOT in a good mood.  At all. Issues with the ex, you know.  She’s admittedly giving him a hard time, but….

You let him rant for the full twenty-minute ride home.   You can give him this; you can speak up later.

And once you get home, he insists you look at some artwork he’s getting for his car.  Now.  Before the bags get unloaded, before anything else is tended to.

You take a deep breath.  You have needs, and you need to respect the relationship enough to let him know.

You start to speak.

Instantly, you’re scolded.   You physically recoil as his words slap you – he’s had a rough day, he’s EARNED this rant, he doesn’t NORMALLY rant about this but he NEEDED to today!  And so on.

Chastised, you retreat. You apologize.  You reassure him that OF COURSE it’s FINE to rant; that you truly appreciate him picking you up from the airport and OF COURSE he doesn’t usually rant for the whole ride; that you’re sorry; that it isn’t him, it’s just your issues, and you are sorry he’s dealing with this, sorry you interrupted when he needed you, sorry, sorry, so very, deeply sorry.

Inwardly, you apologize for having needs.  You apologize for existing.

He goes on to spend the evening preparing for a “discussion” (read: showdown) with his ex later in the week – of course, on one of the nights you both normally have free.

Desperate to fill the empty, gaping hole that the reprimand left – the raw place created by you daring to not only have needs, but express them – with something, anything – you reach for an industrial-sized bag of treats from Costco.  It’s about half-empty.

You finish the entire thing.

And you hate the fat, sodden mess you’ve become.

Clearly, this isn’t working.

You catch your breath. You drink some water to flush out the onslaught of sugar.  You weigh and measure a two-hundred calorie portion of food to take to work the next day.  You lay out your running clothes so you can start your day with a calorie deficit.

The next day, after determinedly sticking to your meager rations, you come home from work, where you find your husband feeding rich ice cream treats to his two (very thin!) boys.  He asks you if you want any. Of course, the answer is “no thank you.”  You quickly plan to skip dinner, as your spouse will be so involved with planning his “conversation” with his ex, that he won’t even notice.

You measure out two hundred calories for the next day’s meals.

You lay out your running clothes for your AM calorie burn.

You resolve, once again, to be thin.

Conceivably, then you’ll be worthy of feelings.

Perhaps then you’ll be deserving of the needs you have.

And maybe, just maybe, you’ll have earned your husband’s love.  Or attention.

But if not, at least you’ll be thin.

That may have to be enough.

I Was in It for the Frosting

Posted on by
7

Today, I need to write about something different.

It’s about a darker time in my life.  A time I’m not proud of; a time where I’d use an “undo” button if there ever was one.

But as I work on recovery, I feel the need to purge my soul of this.  I don’t pretend that simply writing it out has any impact whatsoever in undoing any hurt or pain I may have caused.  I acknowledge that it’s probably selfish of me to post about it at all; I really should carry the pain to my grave.

I hope in reading this that you will be able to continue to accept me, warts and all, as a flawed, damaged human being who royally screwed something up.

And perhaps – just maybe – I can reach someone else who’s toyed with making the same mistake.  And if I ask the universe for forgiveness, maybe I can finally start to forgive myself.

Affairs are like this: Imagine that you love cake.

Cake is sweet and moist. It comes in a variety of flavors. It’s a treat. It’s something you have for special occasions; on days worth celebrating. Cake highlights and underlines events, transforming them from “ordinary day” to “celebration”.

And the reason we eat cake? FROSTING. Gooey, sweet, decadent. It comes in many colors. It adds beauty, flavor, and pleasure to your cake experience. Let’s face it: Cake is the avenue by which it’s socially acceptable to eat spoonfuls of sugar and fat mixed together. Casually nosh on a stick of butter rolled in sugar, and people will raise eyebrows; whip it and place it artistically atop three layers of cake, and you’re a genius.

And you love frosting so much that not only do you covet the corner piece with the largest frosting flowers, you also, when no one is watching, run the spatula just a little bit to the side to pick up the frosting borders that others have left behind, saying, “It’s too sweet, it’s too much.” You also pick up that super-thin, extra-moist layer of cake often left on the serving board. That smear of cake, mixed with forkfuls of frosting, is absolutely heavenly. It’s the very best part of cake.

Imagine now that you have heard, through a friend of a friend, that there is an elaborate tea party planned at the fanciest local hotel. Many prominent members of the community will be attending; it’s rumored that some well-known celebrities will be there. You know the venue well; it’s a glamorous space, replete with luxurious, graceful silk drapes and chandeliers rich with sparkle and shine.

You didn’t receive an invitation, but your friend says that he knows someone who is working the event, and he’s quite sure he can get you in. There will be cake, he says, and he knows how much you love cake.

The day of the event, you don your prettiest dress. You fuss with your hair and carefully select jewelry and shoes that communicate sophistication and quiet glamour.

When you arrive at the event, you notice the other attendees. Ladies are dressed in their finest frocks, complete with pearls, slingbacks, and even gloves! You look down at your outfit and wonder if you’re underdressed.

You glance at a passerby and notice, in her hand, a richly embossed invitation that exudes understated refinement. A bellman, impeccably dressed in a crisp uniform, begins to admit the patrons. The attendees start to enter the hotel, handing their invitations to the bellman.

You glance around wildly. You don’t, of course, have an invitation of your own, and you can only stand outside for so long before others start to stare. After most of the guests have gone inside, you finally see, out of the corner of your eye, your friend waving to you from the side of the building. Relieved, you go to him.

Your friend takes your elbow, and walks you around the side of the hotel. He guides you down a side alley, which is littered with an empty fast-food bag and a few abandoned fries. You notice a skittering as a small mouse scampers away from the scattered crumbs.

Your friend turns the corner, and you find yourself at the back of the building. The wall is the same gray, stained, industrial concrete as the stoop, beside which is a dumpster.

“Wait here,” your friend says, as he enters the back door.

As he enters the building, you stand outside, waiting. There’s a window in the door, and when you peer through, you first see the kitchen on the right. It’s clean and bustling, as servers and chefs perform their elaborate waltz.

You continue to watch, taking your gaze to the left. You gasp. The hotel is elegant, beautiful, refined. The chandeliers are shining, sending glittery twinkling sparkle all around. And the flowers! Copious volumes of the whitest, fattest blooms are everywhere, adding to the gorgeous, glamorous picture.

It’s magical. It’s breathtaking.

You watch the guests as they are seated. The staff gracefully begin to serve tea. You notice the ringing of spoons stirring sugar into delicate fine teacups; you hear the sophisticated laughter of happiness and delight.

And then you see the cake.

The cake is absolutely stunning. It’s at least four feet tall, and eloquently decorated. Opulent layers of rich, pearl-white frosting cascade over the many tiers.

You watch as the cake is cut. One by one, the slices are distributed. You can see the guests’ faces light up in sheer pleasure as they take delicate bites of the decadent treat. You watch, longingly, as the cake slowly begins to disappear, piece by piece.

You shift your weight from one foot to the other, noticing the pinch in your heels. It’s hot out here. You suspect that your makeup is beginning to melt a bit; your hair is surely wilting. An unpleasant, decaying odor hits your nostrils. You turn and see the dumpster just a few feet from the door, sticky puddles underneath it, oozing into the sidewalk.

You continue to wait. You hear the clink of plates as the serving pieces are cleared. You desperately want to sit, but you’ll surely get dirt on your dress, and it can’t be much longer now, can it? Has your friend forgotten that you were here, waiting in the alley with the mice and the dumpster?

Finally, your friend emerges. Relieved, you step towards him. He holds up a hand to stop you from entering the building. You pause, confused. But he’s smiling.

“I have something for you,” he says.

He hands you the nearly-empty serving platter. You recognize the hotel’s logo on the heavy, expensive tray. On the plate is one small slice of cake, broken from handling and travel, and a thin, filmy layer of cake from where the pieces were incompletely served. Around the edge of the plate are several abandoned lumps of frosting.

“It’s your favorite. I brought this out just for you!”

A dark wave washes over you; the air escapes your lungs as your stomach clenches. You swallow back bitter disappointment as you attempt to smile bravely.

He hands you a fork, and returns inside to the celebration.

Resolutely, you sit on the stoop, no longer caring about your frock. You take the fork and begin to eat, tears rolling onto your feast. You realize you have absolutely no right to cry, because you’ve received exactly what you thought you wanted, and nothing that was ever yours.

 

Step-Ball-Change and Jazz Hands

Posted on by
2

There was one other thing that Dr. P and I talked about in my therapy appointment on Friday.

Dr. P asked me what else, other than the art fair, I wanted to do for my “birthday weekend.” (Other than weigh 15 pounds less and have my husband pay attention to me, you mean?  Sigh.)

I mentioned that I had been toying with the idea of getting a new piercing.  I love body art – I have two holes in each earlobe, a helix piercing, my navel’s done (yeah, I know, that’s SO 2003) and I have two tattoos. I’d been thinking about getting something else done – maybe a second helix piercing, or the tragus (here’s a chart – I like to SOUND hip, but in reality I always have to look up the actual names of the ear parts.) But what I really wanted – and have wanted since I was 18 years old (which was about 150 years ago, I KNOW) – was to get my nose done.

Dr. P was enthusiastic about this.  Overly so, in my opinion.  I threw out the usual excuses (i.e. I work in “corporate America”; not everyone is as free-thinking about body art as I might be.)  However, my current workplace PROBABLY wouldn’t mind…maybe.

Dr. P encouraged me to go for it, reminding me that the worst that could happen is that they ask me to take it out or cover it up.  True.  I do, however, work in HR, and as luck would have it, I JUST updated the company’s dress code LAST MONTH, and one of the (many) changes was to replace the “no visible piercings or tattoos” part with “piercings and body art must be tasteful and in line with the company’s mission and values.”  All of the executives heartily approved the policy, but if I run out two days after I issue it and get my nose done, they’re gonna feel like they were set up.

I said I’d think about it.

I mentioned in my last post that I was going to the art fair.  It went about as I expected.  The hubs came along – eager at first, of course! – and I have to admit he was a trooper.  I actually got about 3/4 of the way through it before he actually said out loud that he was bored.

But, kudos to me and for standing up for MY needs – I told him he could go home if he wished, and I’d call him when I finished.  He actually opted to stay…and I actually opted NOT to feel guilty or rushed about taking my time to enjoy MY day.

Go me!

Despite a gloomy forecast, the weather was BEAUTIFUL, and I found some gorgeous things at the art fair, so I’ll give the artists a shout out here. Yes, of COURSE I bought jewelry. But, like a grownup, I ALSO bought art.  Legit art for the walls.  Wow, I’m so, like, sophisticated and fancysauce here. <raises pinky>

So here’s the haul:

For the bedroom, we bought three prints by Mary Johnston (the ones with trees and leaves, in three different themes/color schemes.)  Our bedroom is lilac (hey, the hubs picked THAT color out!) and these will look really sharp above the headboard.

We also bought Joy, Peace, and Perpetual Motion by Chris Ann Abigt.  Scroll down on the page, past the trees and the rocks, to the whimsical paintings at the bottom.  The colors are amazing – they remind me of Dr. Seuss!  They will be lined up side-by-side over our TV.

I know bupkas about art, but these make me smile.  So they’re mine now.

And for jewelry….it was so hard not to buy ALL THE PRETTY PRETTY SPARKLY THINGS.  I showed an impressive amount of restraint, thankyouverymuch.  After much deliberation, I finally selected an Open Circle pendant by Spirit Lala (side note: that is ACTUALLY her name. FOR REALZ.  I mean, how could you be anything BUT an artist then?)

These are really unique pieces – the fronts are original drawings, and the backs have motivational or inspiring phrases.  The pendant I bought has several colors – orange, red, yellow, blue – on the front, and on the back it says, “It’s what’s on the inside that counts.”

A good reminder, I suppose.

I hope I can do more than just wear it.

P.S.  Oh…one more thing.

I DID IT.

nosejob

I recognize that this may be what we refer to in HR as a CLM – Career-Limiting Move.

But F it. It’s my birthday.  🙂

Two Steps Forward…Three Steps Back

Posted on by
5

Last week was a hell of a week.  First, work was absolutely frantic, and I was feeling substantially and simultaneously overwhelmed and underqualified.  Even though I’ve been in this field (Human Resources, super duper exciting, right?) for over twenty years, and I know, intellectually at least, that my boss appreciates the work I do, I kinda have this imposter syndrome thing going on where I’m sure one day someone will notice that, like the infamous Emperor, I’ve essentially been parading around naked, and they’ll all realize that I’m woefully inadequate for the gig and will hand me a box to pack up my things.

Anyway, in addition to work being a chaotic mess, I’ve been sucking wind on the recovery/eating side, too.  I’ve essentially been on a week-long binge that started when I was trapped at the airport last week.  By day, I ate healthy snacks, but once I got home, I was a human backhoe, shoveling food directly from the pantry into my pie hole at an alarming rate.

Which, of course, did nothing for my weight, and hence my self-esteem.

So I ended the week anxious, stressed, and exhausted.  And to top it off, my birthday was Saturday, I had nothing special going on, and I WAS GOING TO BE FAT FOR MY BIRTHDAY.

(Yes, I realize how pathetic that sounds.  I really do.  But suffice it to say it was causing me a great deal of heartache. Rational thought be damned.)

I had another therapy appointment scheduled for Friday.  I came very close to cancelling it.  I mean, by this point, I’d been in therapy for just over three months, and all I have to show for it is a two-pound gain.  WHICH IS UNACCEPTABLE YO

But since I’ve already met my deductible, it wasn’t going to actually cost me much to go.  (And how often can you say THAT regarding ANYTHING involving health care anymore?!)  I decided I’d show up, and if I wasn’t getting anything out of that session, I could always leave…right?

So I went.

And she wished me a happy early birthday (SHE didn’t forget.  My auto insurance company called me to wish me a happy birthday, some clinic where I received two facials in 2008 sent me an email birthday wish, and my THERAPIST noticed it was my birthday.  But my husband?  STILL NOTHING. And yeah, STILL BITTER, party of one, sitting here typing.  But I digress.)

Dr. P asked me what I had planned for my birthday weekend.  I told her that I don’t really “do” birthdays…but that I was kind of disappointed that the hubs hadn’t really planned anything for our upcoming weekend together.  Again.

(One of the things that’s been weighing me down is hubby’s hyperfocus on everything BUT me these days – he’ll spend hours working on projects or playing video games…but when it comes to dates?  Nada, zip, zero.  Even though Saturday and Sunday come at relatively the same time every week, in his world it apparently pops up out of nowhere and he’s struck with the brilliant, innovative plan of “uh…I dunno….I got nothing…what do YOU feel like doing?”  Sigh.)

So, as a preemptive strike, I did some Googling and found that there was an art fair in one of the suburbs.  I love art fairs.  They close the streets and regional artists come to showcase their wares.  You can find pottery, jewelry, handmade clothing, paintings, jewelery, fantastic metal sculptures, jewelry, photographs, leather goods, and jewelry.  Did I mention jewelry?  PRETTY SPARKLY THINGS EVERYWHERE that you just can’t find at Mall of America.

So, since the hubs hadn’t planned anything, I decided that I was going to the art fair. The hubs said he wanted to come along.  I knew he’d be bored in short order.  But, dammit, it was MY BIRTHDAY and he certainly hadn’t offered up any alternatives.  So that was MY plan and he was welcome to join me.

Then, we talked about my week-long binge.

Dr. P:  So, how many calories do you think you ACTUALLY ate last night?

Me:  <panicking at not wanting to say THAT NUMBER out loud>  Um. Well.  1500?  Maybe?  <ha, well over 2000, easy>

Dr. P:  Uh…are you sure?  Because that’s a lot of calories, and…

Me:  Well, fine.  Let me tally it up for you.  First I got home and made a turkey sandwich.  200 calories for bread, 75 for turkey, 110 for lowfat cheese, and I didn’t measure the mustard this time but it was easily 4 teaspoons, so let’s say 20.  That starts you with 405 calories. Then came the chips, 130 calories per serving, 7 servings per bag, I ate over half the bag, so about 500 calories in chips. Then a half jar of salsa, which is 15 calories per serving, 14 servings per jar, that’s 210 calories, so say 100 more, where are we, 1000 right there, and then I ate these little chocolate blueberry things, 5 of them are 230 calories, and I know I ate at least three servings, probably four, so 690 calories if it was three which is 1690 calories but could have been more.

Dr. P.  <blink>  Oh.  So you really DID eat 1500 calories.

I don’t know how anyone can specialize in treating folks with eating disorders and have any doubt that WE KNOW EXACTLY WHAT WE ARE EATING.  I’ve been counting calories for thirty-four years by now, chica.  Trust me when I pitch you a number that I’m not embellishing for the sake of added drama and glitter.  (Interestingly, on my initial intake form, she said I didn’t have an “official” eating disorder.  She may be eating those words now.  Hopefully with some crow and chocolate syrup.)

The good news is that, although I’ve been binging, I’ve been keeping it down.  Not that I haven’t been tempted by the calorie-cleansing benefits of a good hurl – but that’s a very dark alley I can’t even peer into – once I stick a toe in THAT whirlpool, I may as well give it up because I’m gonna drown.  It’s a black hole…a point of no return.

But I DO need some tools to help me stop a binge before it skates off the rails and into the wall – some sort of virtual air horn that bleats “STOP” before I’ve eaten enough food to keep a room of gamers full on a tournament weekend.

Dr. P reminded me of HALT – don’t let yourself get too

  • Hungry
  • Angry
  • Lonely or
  • Tired

While I’ve known of that acronym for forever, and actually rattled it off with her, it’s a good reminder; I think this week’s been a combo platter of all four, and I need to start helping myself to a different buffet.

She gave me some excerpts from a book called Hunger Pains, too.  I asked her if I should read the book, or if it’d be “triggering.”  She hesitated – I think she was a little surprised that I knew that word (thank you, pro-ana sites, for educating me so I look at least somewhat legit when I clearly weigh too much to actually have an eating disorder.) She said she wasn’t sure, and that she’d review the book before recommending it to me fully.

So far, the excerpts aren’t exactly mind-blowing.  They’re useful tips like “think about your feelings before you eat” <eyeroll> and “exercise daily and buy nutritious foods” <are you for real?> and “learn to use hunger to regulate your eating.” <choke> HAHAHAHA WHAT?  I suppose the “Smoking Pains” book is equally useful, telling you not to buy cigarettes and to avoid lighting them?

Much like quitting smoking, I don’t need someone to tell me my food issues are bad for me. I don’t need someone to tell me to stop.

I need someone to tell me HOW.

But, as of today, after my non-birthday and the resulting disappointment, I’ve done a full 180 from stuffing my face uncontrollably, and I’m back on the restricted-food bandwagon.

Binging is SOOOO last week, anyway.

I’m over it.

For now.

Sigh.

Can someone bring this emperor a kimono?

Just Another Day

Posted on by
7

So yesterday, I had a birthday.  I turned for thirty-fourteen.  (Side note:  Would you believe that someone actually called me “childish” for stating my age as thirty-something?  HELLO – THAT’S KIND OF THE POINT.)

Normally, I don’t make a big fuss over birthdays.  Not because I have some underlying fear of growing older (although, since I’ve been frantically searching info on Botox and fillers, maybe I do.)

I don’t “do” birthdays – or much with other holidays, really – simply because I don’t want to be disappointed when they don’t meet my expectations.  Special occasions aren’t magically special to the rest of the world. For the most part, it’s just another day.

Sure, when I was a kid, we did up birthdays a little – there was a home-baked cake, and there were presents – nothing extravagant; my folks were of VERY modest* means.  But when I was ten or so, I spilled some milk on the carpet in the living room, and was promptly scolded – as my tears fell, I remember the distinct realization that birthdays didn’t give you an enchanted force field around the otherwise painful things in life.  To a frazzled parent trying to run a business and make ends meet, it’s just another day.

*OK, let’s be clear here:  we were poor.  As in “made $50 too much this year for us to get free lunches from school” poor.  Also as in “Dad’s boss gave us his kids’ hand-me-downs so between that and the dresses Mom sewed, we girls wouldn’t be naked.”  They did a decent job keeping that from us, though.  I didn’t figure out how tight money really was until high school, when my folks were really grumpy for awhile, and the mood in the house got really dark; I was feeling abandoned, and it all came to a head when Mom found a list I had left in my room outlining ways to kill myself, and she and Dad came to talk to me and shared that they had lost $3000 (a fortune in the mid-80s) to a customer who defaulted on an order.  They were super stressed but they loved me very much, blah blah blah.  There were tears and hugs and then things went back to normal, meaning I started a new diet and got much better at keeping my disquietude on the DL .  But that’s a story for another day.

Fast forward to high school prom.  Special time, right?  You’ve been looking forward to this for MONTHS; you’re all dolled up in a glitzy dress; your date has a tux – an actual TUXEDO, like he might wear to your WEDDING someday! – and you’re at a spendy, trendy, restaurant, actually EATING.  (I quit eating two days ahead of time so that I could allow myself to have a decent meal with my boyfriend.  I weighed about 102 at the time and he LOVED to see me actually eating – probably because I never really DID that, ya know – so I guess this was a special occasion for him, too.)

As I was looking around, taking it all in, a couple not with our group came into the restaurant…in JEANS.  HELLO PEOPLE – this is PROM here; shouldn’t the world be dressed up, too?  Don’t you think they’d, like, close the restaurant or AT LEAST up the dress code for a day so we don’t have to see non-prom unfancy people in here?  YOU’RE TOTALLY BRINGING DOWN THE VIBE HERE.  But no, to those folks…it was just another day.

I had the same feeling at my first wedding.  You come out of the church chucking rice or quinoa or biodegradable soy-free non-toxic glitter confetti or whatever it’s PC to throw nowadays, and the same homeless dude is sitting on the corner holding the same “WILL WORK FOR FOOD BEER” sign he was holding yesterday.  Where is the bewitching sprite with the magic wand turning the world into fairy tales with happy endings and unicorns?  Well, dummy, she doesn’t exist.  It’s just another day, after all.

And then there was Mother’s Day.  If I were holding out hope for having a day to feel special…Mother’s Day took care of that.  You know how some spouses will buy you a card, or flowers, on Mother’s Day, because he really appreciates all you do to help raise your beautiful children?  Yeah, I didn’t marry that guy.  He got a card for HIS mother, of course – he made it clear that she was his top priority*, after all.

*Later in that marriage, when things were really falling apart, I asked him point-blank about this.  I told him that, as his WIFE, I should be a higher priority than his mother – and that if things were going to work out, he needed to put my needs ahead of hers. 

His answer?  “Well, she won’t be around forever.” 

Me:  So…I need to wait for her to die for me to be a priority for you?” 

He didn’t answer.

I left him in 2005 and she’s still alive, so I’d still be waiting. 

Fast forward to my second Mother’s Day.  I had a toddler and a newborn; I was nursing the latter and the former still wasn’t sleeping through the night, and I was (obviously) BEAT.  My baby was asleep, and my daughter wanted to play outside.  But, sadly, there was a gruesome scene in our backyard – one of the neighborhood cats had completely decimated a bunny.  I couldn’t let her see that, so I asked my husband if he could please take care of it so I could take our daughter outside.

He told me that he couldn’t do it right now, because he really needed a nap.

I think that was the beginning of the end.

I left my little girl inside while I found a coal shovel.   I hauled the broken little bunny over the side of the embankment, tears streaming down my face from exhaustion, frustration, sadness, and disappointment.  That poor little bunny.  My poor, sad, pathetic crappy marriage.  My broken heart and broken dreams.

It was just another day.

So, I learned to keep my expectations pretty low.  It was the only way I could protect my heart from the fissures that cracked and spread when expectations failed to bloom into reality.

Despite all this – despite the fact that I know better than to expect anything different – it still really, really hurt that my husband completely, totally, and utterly forgot my birthday.

We don’t do much for birthdays.  His is three days after mine; we usually hit up Benihana for a free meal a time or two in June, and we usually buy something for the house (this year, it was chairs for the yard.)

But he always gets me a card.  Sometimes two – one funny and one sappy.  But at least one.  And he always says “Happy Birthday”….

Not this year.

No card.  Nothing.

This year, his hyperfocus (I wrote about that a bit before) is on Destiny – he needs to beat some level and he’s been playing a ton – I think six hours yesterday and so far two today.

I know, I know – you canNOT rely on others for happiness; you have to create your own.  And I did my best to do that – I may write more on that later – but still, is it too much to ask to have your HUSBAND just say “Happy birthday, hon!” ?

Apparently, it is.

Sadly, my reaction to this is to quit eating.  Why talk about it?  It just hurts, and the best way to get out of the painful, neglected feeling is to jump right back on the back of the crocodile.  Why?  Because it’s super effective.  Screw recovery – all it’s done for me is turn me beige in a world of color.  It shoved me into the background, unnoticed.  At a normal weight, I’m no longer special. I’m no longer worth worrying about.  No need to be fussed over.  No need to make me feel special, unique, appreciated, or loved.

I’m just another person, and it’s just another day.

So today, I start over, renewed.  I’ll weigh out my food, including yellow mustard (because at five calories a teaspoon, it DOES add up.)  I’ll run four days a week.  I’ll carve out my path with my clavicle and my hipbones.

I’ll obsess over every bite.  I’ll plan and measure every calorie I eat.  I’ll chart every half pound lost, every quarter mile run, and every step taken.  I’ll fret over falling asleep without a rumbling, empty stomach.  I’ll grab handfuls of flesh and scrutinize every lump, bump, and jiggle when I look in the mirror.  And I’ll drink water and coffee and I’ll smile and say I’m fine, just fine.

In other words…it’ll be just another day.

Observations from the Airport

Posted on by
13

I’m not sure if I’ve mentioned that I travel quite a bit- about every two weeks or so. This is one of those things that sounds quite glamorous and worldly…until you actually have to DO it. 

Today I’ve had the (dis)pleasure of being trapped in one of America’s busiest airports for four long, freezing, germy, frustrating hours. In one of the few airports with NO FREE WI-FI.  OH THE OUTRAGE!!  HOW DOES THIS HAPPEN IN AMERICA. 

Initially, when I got off my first flight, I was thoroughly enjoying the irony. Historically, when I’ve taken this airline, I have a 90-minute layover. But United likes to keep it interesting, so my first flight is 45-75 minutes late – EVERY TIME, bringing my connection to a paltry twelve minutes. (My 5k PR has NOTHING on my time getting from gate E26 to C4. NOTHING.)

But today?  My first flight got in early…and flight #2 is 170 minutes late, and counting. <insert array of colorful expletives>

So here are some observations. 

1.  Even in my travel-disheveled state, I must look OK, because some dude chatted me up.  He was as hairy as a pool ball, had a ball cap resting atop his dome at a jaunty (read: misjudged how low the plane ceiling was) angle, and was dressed in more flannel than the Chicago metro area had seen since  probably buildings were invented, and he was THISCLOSE to asking me to join him for dinner when I just sort of nonchalantly wandered off. Thank goodness I had a cell phone to pretend to be interested in.   I know, rude. But I’m married. And flannel. 

2.  There are no good gluten-free options in this airport. And by “good”, I mean pizza. Or a sandwich. It’s Sunday  night – I get CRANKY on Sunday nights, people! -I’ve been on a sugar bender all weekend (including a particularly naughty threesome involving me and my two favorite men Ben and Jerry) and ALL I WANT IS A FREAKIN PIZZA YO. Or a sandwich. A nice sandwich. NOT AN EFFING SALAD.   Salad is NOT food. It’s what you eat when you’re pretending to eat. 

The oh-so-helpful menu guide on the interwebs tells me that there are some good gluten-free friendly options here. Like… McDonalds. WHAT. OH HELL NO

After wandering around for two hours in a sugar-crashed stupor (nope. Can’t eat that. Not that either. Don’t want this.   Can’t eat that. Really, Chicago- hot dogs, gluten-laden pizza, and Starbucks is the best you can %#%@&$?! do?) I started to quasi-hallucinate. I became <insert angelic choir> One With Foodstuffs. I realized that Food Is Magical and if I wished really, really hard, all the gluten would magically disappear and I COULD EAT ANYTHING I WANTED. 

3.  Magical thinking is dangerous.  Urghhh…never again. <urp>

4.  Magical thinking should probably NOT be followed up by a ginormous bag of Raisinettes. 

5.  Binging in the airport?  Stupid expensive. Sorry, kids- I guess you’ll have to sell plasma and a kidney to pay for college. 

6.  4th flight delay announced. Man sitting next to me blasts out of his seat and storms off in a huff. (Where he’s going in such a hurry, I have no idea. Maybe he spotted an abandoned Segway; it’s certain no actual PLANES are going anywhere anytime soon.)

The seat is very quickly taken over by someone roughly my father’s age. He’s  got his hands on the seat on either side of him, and while he isn’t making eye contact or small talk, I notice that every time I look, it seems like his hand is just a touch closer to my thigh than it was before.

I have to be imagining this, right?  I mean, since WHEN is travel-rumpled post-sugar binge anxiety a freakin’ pheromone?  The vibe I’m casting is slightly less cozy than “F OFF” or “FALL IN A PIT AND DIE”…yet the hand is creeping closer. 

I have no choice. Because I have to defend myself…and more honestly, because I just ate wheat for the first time in 18 months.

I take a deep breath, tighten my diaphragm, and release an abdominal-rippling belch that rattles the pens on the desk six gates over.

And, like a satisfied smoker inhaling her first post-relaxation puff, I exhale a cloud of pepperoni and garlic in Creepy Hand’s direction. 

He quickly jerks his hand away and sits straight up in his seat. (Which I may have melted slightly.)

Success!

And the plane is boarding, finally. I guess Chicago is done with me for today. The airport is ready to spit me out into the workweek-  a bit weary and bleary-eyed, and wary for the next round.

See you in a couple of weeks, Chicago. Next time I’m bringing a full supply of snacks, sneakers, and sarcasm- be warned. 

P.S.  Official arrival time: 3 hours late, on the nose. Bonus: the plane smelled like diapers. Travel is soooo glam. 

Spiritual Pruning

Posted on by
1

This week, this article became a topic of debate* amongst my peer group:  How Christian America Dies.

DISCLAIMER:  Let’s call out the obvious slant here, lest you think I don’t know the pictures on the wall are crooked.  🙂  This article is from a site called The American Conservative, and the article is written by Pat Buchanan – I make no illusion that this is a balanced reference, nor does it reflect my personal views.  But I want to talk about it anyway, so if you lean the other way, bear with me here.

*Clarification:  When I say “debate,” I mean that someone posts the article on a message board.  The usual participants gather up mud and feces to sling at the “other team,” and very quickly the conversation, if there ever really WAS one, deteriorates into the usual Republicans vs. Democrats, Obama Sucks vs. Obama Saved Us, Christian vs. Atheist, Us vs. Them name-calling.  I should add that this is a “professional” bulletin board.  Working in HR, I can only assume that for some folks, having to be civil for the majority of the day takes its toll, and if these folks can’t spew venom SOMEWHERE, they’ll explode all over an unsuspecting employee, get fired, and become “part of the problem.”  Meh.  I guess trolling is cheaper than therapy.  But I digress.

Anyway.  Back to the article:

“This is a Christian nation,” said the Supreme Court in 1892. ”America was born a Christian nation,” echoed Woodrow Wilson. Harry Truman affirmed it: “This is a Christian nation.”

But in 2009, Barack Hussein Obama begged to differ: “We do not consider ourselves a Christian nation.” Comes now a Pew Research Center survey that reveals the United States is de-Christianizing at an accelerated rate.

Whereas 86 percent of Americans in 1990 identified as Christians, by 2007, that was down to 78 percent. Today only 7 in 10 say they are Christians. But the percentage of those describing themselves as atheists, agnostics or nonbelievers has risen to 23. That exceeds the Catholic population and is only slightly below evangelicals.

Those in the mainline Protestant churches—Presbyterians, Lutherans, Methodists, Episcopalians—have plummeted from 50 percent of the U.S. population in 1958 to 14 percent today. By accommodating the social revolution of the 1960s to stay relevant, mainline churches appear to have made themselves irrelevant to America’s young.

The decline in Christian identity is greatest among the young. While 85 percent of Americans born before 1945 still call themselves Christians, only 57 percent of those born after 1980 do.”

The author (go here if you want to read the article) then goes on to discuss why Christianity is on the decline, and some of his thoughts on the potential consequences.  As you can probably guess, he doesn’t find those consequences favorable.

I’m gonna throw out a differing viewpoint here.

This isn’t how Christian America dies.  This is how Christian America GROWS.

Here’s why.

It’s easy to be Christian when “everybody else is.” Back in the day, it was more of a societal norm. So easy to blend in. “All” schools did Christmas programs.  “Everyone” had a tree.  We all said “Merry Christmas” at the holidays, and the assumption and expectation was that it applied to everyone.  The bandwagon was full, but comfortable.

Things are different now. As a nation, we’ve evolved into much less of a melting pot, where everything has been masticated and homogenized, and more of a delightful stew, where there are hunks of beef, carrots, peas, potatoes, celery, onions, and a beautiful array of spices that make a rich broth unifying it all.

(Side note:  I’m not crazy about peas, and not a fan of cooked carrots.  But I support your right to chuck ’em in the stew – heck, you probably feel the same way about onions, right?  They all come together to enliven the broth that holds this together.  And if I really can’t stomach one more carrot, I can leave it on the side of the plate.)

In the United States today, these divergent (from “traditional Christianity”) viewpoints have become more mainstream.  They’re more common, more outspoken. They’ve come out of hiding and shown their faces to the sun. And in the light and the open air, they begin to take root, to grow, and to thrive.

This changes things for those folks who were so cozily sitting on the bandwagon where everyone agreed on things.  You can no longer assume that everyone is generally going to be supportive of your viewpoint.  In fact, if you come out with guns a-blazing, trying to violently shove your views in someone’s face…it might not go so well.

Your bandwagon is pulling away without you.  You can’t just state your beliefs and expect heads to nod in agreement.  You now need to be prepared to defend and support those beliefs with rational thought and research.

That isn’t going to be easy, especially if you just assumed the belief system you were raised with. Which a lot of us did, frankly.  I suspect that’s why the Christian numbers were higher in the previous generation – it was a family and social thing for many of us.  Mom and Dad took us to church, and we took OUR kids there, too, never really questioning it…it’s just what we DID.

But now it’s time to really dig in and find out WHY you believe what you do, and WHY -or <gasp> IF – it’s the right decision for you.

It’s challenging. It can be frightening. I mean, what if it turns out that everything you ever believed isn’t what you believe anymore? What if it’s no longer true for you?

What if you find out you were…wrong?

As difficult as this can be, this is an opportunity for you to really strengthen your faith.  You can truly challenge your core belief system by digging deeply into your faith, and finding out WHY you believe what you do.  You’ll delve into some readings, explore some scholarly data, read sermons and Bible studies, and talk to pastors. You’ll find out why others DON’T believe what you do, and you’ll likely discover why different faiths make sense.

You’ll prepare yourself to civilly and confidently express a logical, rational position on your beliefs.  (Because, let’s face it – “because Mom said so” isn’t exactly going to get you taken seriously.)

While you’re working through this exercise, one of two things will happen – you’ll either decide that you really believe something else, OR you’ll solidify your beliefs more strongly.

Either way, you’ll grow.

Admittedly, there is some fallout. Not everyone who deeply explores faith comes to the conclusion that Christianity truly represents their beliefs. But, for those that DO arrive there, their faith is undoubtedly stronger.

So, there are fewer, but those that remain are solidly set.

A firm foundation.

It’s like pruning a rosebush. You cut off the parts that weren’t really helping you bloom.

No matter where you land – Christianity, Buddhism, humanism, atheism….or some general sense of “everything is all tied together somehow” – you’ll undoubtedly stand more strongly.  You’ll have provided spiritual fertilizer, water, and sun, and your roots will stretch deeper into your soul.

And – having all of these different belief systems coexisting really gives us the opportunity to find out what we truly have in common. It allows us to dissent peacefully with the goal of deeper understanding. It teaches us that different is just that – different. It can teach us humility and humbleness as we are presented with fresh challenges, additional trials, and new information.

For those of us not secure enough in our spiritual walks to have a healthy discussion, these conversations can lead to insults and hurt feelings. But that exercise does NOTHING to deepen us spiritually as individuals. And in many cases, it’s lead by fear and insecurity. (But whether this applies to YOU or not, I can’t say – that’s between you and your soul/spiritual guide/God/conscience/brain.)

The Founding Fathers came here so that they could worship in the way that made sense for them.  Several of them were reported to be Christians (albeit different denominations), but a couple of them may have been Deists.  Thomas Paine challenged us to step outside the pews and look around a bit.

If we want to support why this nation was founded, we’ll do just that.

So – read, learn, study. Meditate/pray, if it applies. Think. And listen.

Peace, all.

Let Them Eat Cake

Posted on by
8

Dear Jerkface Coworker:

(OK.  That wasn’t very nice, I’ll admit.  Let me try again.)

Dear Busybody Employee:

(Better.  Maybe.)

I feel the need to address you again after our brief conversation in the break room on Wednesday.

Allow me to refresh your memory:  It was around noon, the day we had our quarterly employee meeting.  As you may recall, refreshments were served.  (This is common; if employees are stuffing their pie holes, they’re more likely to sit and listen vs. make snide remarks or check Facebook.  I know this because even though I work in HR, I’m an employee too, and am probably doing the same thing when the CEO isn’t looking.)

So. Refreshments.  We had coffee cake.  And it appears that the Activities Committee ordered a bit too much, because they were cutting “slices” that could clearly feed a third-world country for a week.  We also had fresh fruit available.

Later, the extra coffee cake was placed in the break room.  (This is where all “meeting room food” goes when the meeting is done – anything you put up there with a “free” sign magically gets eaten before the day shift leaves at 3 PM.)

I wandered up to the break room at about noon to get some hot water for my decaf herbal tea.  I noticed two large cake boxes on a table.  I went over to have a look.

I opened one of the boxes.  There were four gargantuan pieces in there, each likely adequate to choke a blue whale.  I inhaled.  I’ll admit, that cake smelled wonderful – warm, toasty, buttery; vanilla, cinnamon, and sugar.

Our finance dude came up next to me and took a slice.  He added it to his vending machine stash of a sandwich, a candy bar, and a soda, carrying in one handful more calories than I get in two days.  (Side note:  Do men have ANY IDEA how good they have it?  Between their metabolisms, steady hormones, no monthly “surprises”, and earning a dollar for every 78 cents I earn?  It’s no wonder we’re occasionally mad at you for no discernible reason.)

I closed the lid and walked away.

Then, uninvited, you joined the conversation in my head.

“Go ahead.  Have a slice.”

I paused.  I said, very politely, “Yeah…no thanks.”

Let me point out that in normal, polite society, this is where the conversation would end.

But you’re not normal, polite society, are you?  I’m afraid not, as you continued:

“Why not?  Have some cake!”

Why not?

Well, the simple answer is that I don’t eat wheat, and cake is typically a carrier.

But it’s just not that simple.

Cake is full of sugar.  Sugar completely effs with my mood, my psyche, and my inner peace.

And cake has lots of calories.  Fat, sugar, carbs.

So, this torrid threesome will sit in my guts, punching me from the inside as my body tries to digest it.

It will poke the sensitive sections of my brain, judging me for being weak while simultaneously begging for more, more, more – demanding candy and chocolate and cereal and donuts and cake and SUGAR SUGAR SUGAR which you might as well eat since you’re a hopeless, worthless lump of fat anyway.

This single slab of cake will alter my vision, so that when I next step in front of a reflective surface, my wide, flabby thighs and bloated, shapeless gut will be magnified, swallowing up every last bit of self-confidence I carry.

So.  How do I answer your question, rude as it was?

Well, I do speak American.  Specifically, I speak American Woman.  So, biting my tongue (who really wants to tell you to F off, and by the way, rethink the navy tights with the white sandals, OK sweetie?) I sigh, and say,

“Do you know how far I’d have to run to burn that thing off?”

Seeing understanding nods from the other ladies at the table, I turn my back and tend to my tea.  I think we’re done here.

But you’re not done.

You sneer.  I hear you snort.  (Legit snort.  Are we twelve?) I hear you roll your eyes.  And you say, “yeah, RIGHT”, dripping with so much sarcasm I’m afraid you’ll slip, fall, and make me file a worker’s comp claim.

And then you approach me, and repeat yourself.

“YEAH.  RIGHT.  SUUUUUUUURE.”

I’m making my tea and trying not to throat punch you.  That would be, as we say in HR, a career-limiting move, even though you’ve clearly earned a right hook at this point.

I look up. You’re pretty much up in my grill now.

“And exactly how far DO you run every day?”

I can tell by your expression that you’re trying to call me on my bluff.  And suddenly, I realize something.

This isn’t about me.

It’s about YOU.

This is about YOUR insecurities.  This isn’t about whether I run or if I eat cake.  It’s about you, and your struggles.

It’s about facing, every day, the impossible job of being an acceptable-looking female.  It’s about the media-created fantasy where you desire to be able to bake the treats in Good Housekeeping, yet still look like the front cover of Vogue.

It’s knowing that this is impossible, but wanting it anyway.  Because that’s what society tells us to be.

It’s about you wanting validation that it’s OK that it can’t be done.

And somehow, if you can prove that I wear the size I do while lounging on a recliner eating hunks of cake the size of a politician’s ego – if you can show that there’s no correlation between what you eat and how you look, because some people are just born that way – you’ll feel better.

But I’m still mad at you – or, more accurately, I’m frustrated and exhausted by my own demons so I don’t have time or energy to help you with yours.  So I shatter your small light bulb of hope and let you know that I do, in fact, run 3 1/2 miles several days a week.  And I once again decline the cake.  “But, if it makes you feel any better, I did have an orange this morning.  So I suppose I’ll have four Cheerios instead of six for dinner.”  And with that, I leave the room.

I’m not proud of this.   Hey, I’m human; sometimes painfully so.

But now that I’ve had time to think it over, I wanted to say that I’m sorry.

I’m sorry that you, like me, have your own demons to wrestle.

I’m sorry that sometimes, your own voices tell you you’re not good enough.

I’m sorry that you allow the airbrushed, exaggerated media to help define you.

And I wanted to also say thank you.  Because, really, if I think about it, you gave me a tremendous compliment:  You not only think I look pretty good, but apparently, you think I make it look easy.  Like it comes naturally.  And while that couldn’t be further from the truth, it was, at its core, complimentary.  With a little more patience and social maturity, perhaps, in the future, I can respond with, “I will choose to take that comment in the spirit in which I’m sure it was intended, and say, ‘thank you.'”

We women have a tough path – trying to balance career and family, trying to nurture our husbands and children while depriving ourselves, all while attempting to live up to impossible physical expectations.

The best thing we can do is lift each other up. We can lean on each other.  We can applaud our victories, share our joys, and pass out wine and tissues when we’re hurting.  We can work to love our souls and sign peace treaties with our thighs.

We’re all on the same team here.

So, while I can’t eat the cake just yet, I will have just a small dish of frozen custard tonight.  And instead of forgiving myself, I won’t apologize in the first place.

And I hope that the next time there’s cake, you take a piece just because you want one, and enjoy every buttery, sugary, joyful crumb.