Tag Archives: body image

Fueling the Food Beast

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Have you ever monitored a toddler’s diet?

If you have kids, you probably remember the many, many questions you had about the proper feeding of a two-year-old:

How long can a sippy cup stay out of the fridge before we risk botulism?

Are six bites of turkey really enough to sustain this kid until dinnertime?

That’s a remarkable diaper load for six bites of turkey.  Oh, look….he apparently ate a blue crayon, too.

Please don’t tell me he’s chewing on the French fry we gave the cat to play with.

<at a ballpark, or church>  Oh look, he’s eating…um…a saltine?  WHERE DID HE FIND A SALTINE CRACKER?!?

(Side note:  Rest assured, I totally did not poison my kids.  Well, not on purpose, anyway.  You do the best you can, but those suckers are quick when they wanna be.  Toddlers totally fool you with their propensity for copious amounts of drool and general lack of motor control.  You let your guard down and risk a quick blink, and when you open your eyes you find them covered with a massive wad of ick.  This is why my daughter’s first solid food was actually a ladybug.  But we were just notified yesterday that she received a full scholarship to the university of her choice, so either bugs are good for you, or they clearly didn’t slow her down much. #mombrag)

Anyway.  The point here is that toddlers’ lives aren’t focused on food.  To them, food is fuel.

Kids have a normal, healthy relationship with food.  When they’re hungry, their little bodies TELL them to eat – so they reluctantly stop trying to draw on the cat with a Sharpie, and find Mom or Dad to demand a snack.  And when they’ve had enough, and are no longer hungry, they throw the rest of their food on the floor so they can be released from the restraints of the high chair and go do something devious fun or educational.

Toddlers don’t eat when they’re bored or when they’re sad.  They have lessons to learn, things to break explore….They’d MUCH rather be playing, or throwing a tantrum, or plotting to smear something red and sticky on something CLEARLY not meant to be sullied, like the wall, the couch, or the carpet, than sit down and refuel.

Simply put, toddlers have better things to do than center their lives around food.

That must be so very…freeing.

I mean, these kids – babies, really – have a completely unadulterated approach to food.  Get some when you need it, forget about it when you don’t.  It’s that simple.

<insert philosophical quote about the innocence of youth>

I cannot be the only person to whom this seems to be a completely foreign concept.  Can I?

Dr. P (the therapist) and I talked about this a bit.  Eating “normally” is a long-range goal for me.  (Or so SHE says.  I’m not quite ready to accept “normal” if it makes the scale go up.  Sigh.  She’s got her work cut out for her, that’s for sure.)

But what does “normal” even LOOK like?

Maybe I can learn something from my toddler days?

<looks under hotel bed for abandoned potato chip>

OK, maybe notsomuch.  I mean…yuck. <shudder>

But defining “normal” eating isn’t all that easy.  We can define an eating disorder pretty quickly – here’s an example found on ANAD.org*:

An eating disorder is an unhealthy relationship with food and weight that interferes with many areas of a person’s life. One’s thoughts become preoccupied with food, weight or exercise. A person who struggles with an eating disorder can have unrealistic self-critical thoughts about body image, and his or her eating habits may begin to disrupt normal body functions and affect daily activities.

*National Association of Anorexia Nervosa and Associated Disorders.  You’re welcome.

So whatever we consider “normal” eating isn’t…that.  Okay.

Perhaps it means tossing the food scales, deleting the food tracking apps on my phone, and just eating when I’m hungry, stopping when I’m full, and letting my body weigh what it wants to.

Sounds simple.  But then, the most complicated things often do.

Sadly, one of the consequences of a life filled with the all-or-nothing yin-yang of food extremes is that you completely lose the ability to discern when you’re actually hungry.  It makes sense, really – if you’ve spent years spinning yourself around in a constant complete 180 between splurging and starving, dieting and binge-eating, deprivation and indulgence – is it any wonder that I have no natural ability to know when and what I need to eat?

After 30+ (!!!) years of gaining and losing weight – of alternating between Dieting:  Extreme Edition and gorging on the all-you-can-eat platter at the Screwitall Grand Buffet – I have no idea – zero – on how to listen to my body.

I’ve spent most of my life basically flinging my appetite back and forth violently between the ceiling and the floor trying to break it.  It should be no surprise that I’ve been successful.

Left to my own devices, I truly think I could go for days without feeling hunger.  And then, once I realized that yeah, I probably need to eat something, the dam would break wide open, and it’s all HIDE YOUR KIDS, HIDE YOUR WIFE in my kitchen.

My fridge be all like:

(Retro meme from back in the day for y’all)

In all seriousness – very occasionally I feel hunger – but not often.  But when I “allow” myself free reign – eating what I “want” – I can eat WELL past the “full” point, until my stomach is sporting a food baby that would fool the eye of the most experienced midwife, and I seriously do NOT have room even for the legendary wafer-thin mint. (Bonus points if you know the reference.  My apologies if you didn’t, and clicked on the link, and now cannot unsee it.  I truly am sorry.  Here’s a bucket.)

When I’m in “food mode,” I can easily keep up, volume-wise, with my 6’4″ hubs and I blow right past my 15-year-old.  Yes, I can eat more than a growing teenage boy.  Why is there no trophy for that?!  (Probably the same reason that there is no award for stopping up a commode that you bought SPECIFICALLY because it can flush an ENTIRE BUCKET OF GOLF BALLS.  Not that this has EVER happened.  If it did, I’m not sure whether the perpetrator (poopetrator?) should be mortified or impressed.  Probably both.  But that’s beside the point because THIS IS ENTIRELY FICTIONAL AND TOTALLY DID NOT HAPPEN.  GOT IT?)

Maybe I’m actually part camel.  Perhaps eating nothing for weeks and then EVERYTHING in a day is normal…for me.

This is FINE, as long as my body does what my mind wants it to and drops ten pounds.  But that clearly isn’t how it works for the camel.

camel:

That’s hott.

I very much do NOT wish to resemble a camel, in any way, shape or form.  But I suppose being cool with my body, regardless of its size, is PROBABLY part of this whole “normal” dealio.

Right?

Except….what woman in the US is OK with her body as-is?

Anyone?  Anyone?

<crickets>

We know that nearly 35% of the US population is obese.  And despite the fact that only (only!) 1 in 5 American women are on a diet – and that this number’s lower than it was a few years earlier, when it was closer to 1 in 3 – we’re not happy about how we look.  It turns out that two-thirds of women are trying to lose weight, and 39% of us let it impede our happiness.

I guess we’re just not using the d-word to describe all the meal-skipping, raw vegan, high-protein gluten avoidance we’re trying.  Diets are so 1990s, anyway.  It’s all lifestyle choice, right? Or was that what we were calling it in 2005?  <head scratch>

Regardless of whatever label we’re slapping ourselves with this week, a lot of us are still desperately trying to be thinner.

So…given all that….what, then, is normal?

And if I’m not clear on the what, how on earth do I find the how?

I don’t wanna be a camel.  I want to be a car.  Cars have it pretty easy – they have a gauge right on the dashboard that tells you how full or empty they are.  (They even have a little arrow to tell you WHERE TO PUT THE FUEL.  Well, unless you’re Nissan, then SCREW YOU, I guess.)

gasgaugesucks

Actual gas gauge from actual rental car. Actual WTF moment.

And once you get the pump set up?  It automatically SHUTS OFF when the tank is full.  It’s nearly* idiot-proof, stopping when the car’s had “enough.”

*Yes, I still occasionally get gas on my shoes.  Because I even overfeed my car.  I HAVE A SERIOUS PROBLEM.

It’d be hella easier if we had dashboard gas gauges.  Maybe I can get one installed with the next upgrade.

Until then, we’re stuck trying to tame the food monster.  Which makes a harmless, innocent cookie…

giantcookie

Ginormous cookie served BETWEEN lunch and dinner at a recent conference. Because OBVIOUSLY sitting on your duff learning about the Affordable Care Act works up an appetite. Note size of cookie relative to pen. Yowsa.

…look a bit menacing.

pepperface

ROASTED RED PEPPER REVENGE YO

I’m not sure I can wrestle the monster back into its cage.  I think after 30 years of having unrestricted freedom, it’s gonna put up a fight.  And frankly, I’m not sure I’m ready to invest the effort and energy to work on containing the beast.

But I do know that food isn’t a monster.  Food isn’t the enemy.

The enemy is the one staring back at me in the mirror.  And she’s gonna be pretty tough to tame.

When the Heart’s Desire Is a Little Backwards

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So it appears that there’s a Harry Potter marathon on TV this weekend.

Of course, upon making this discovery, we immediately abandoned our plans (which, admittedly, weren’t any more ambitious than to order takeout and to bingewatch Season 4 of Friends.  But Friends is on Netflix ANY time, right?  Okay, Harry Potter probably is, too, but it’s just DIFFERENT when you can’t pause it AND it’s peppered with commercials for fast food, pharmaceuticals, and feminine hygiene products, and it’s ONLY THIS WEEKEND so we HAVE to watch it NOW NOW NOW!)

<cough>  Anyway.

Since we’re ordering takeout today, I’ve already wasted much of the morning agonizing over THAT Big Life-Changing Decision – what to get, how much to get, do I splurge on pizza or stick to steamed veggies and chicken, and don’t even THINK about ice cream….

If you live in this hell, you know the drill.

<strums guitar> Come on and join me in the campfire singalong!

Can I eat this many calories today?

Will the sodium bloat me for a week?

Will the kids notice if I only eat half of it?

Will I be able to only eat half of it? (HAHAHAHAHA no)

How long will it take to run this off?

Can’t you all just shut up and let me freaking EAT?

Um…What’s for dessert?

Compounding the struggle to complete this mental exercise is the painful guilt bruise I’m sporting courtesy of last night’s food bender.  In addition to a balanced, healthy dinner (OK, it was Taco Bell, SHADDUP) I managed to stuff both a 6-serving bag of cheese popcorn AND two Hershey bars down my pie hole.  (This dalliance will take at least three runs to burn off.  UGH.)  So I shouldn’t be eating much today.  But I should eat SOMETHING, but I don’t know what, or how much, and I’m not even have no right to be hungry anyway, right?  RIGHT?!?

And dammit, none of this is worth the energy I spend on it.  It’s just food, not deciding which kid to feed to the dragons first.  (Although today one is sporting a significant ‘tude that might make THAT selection pretty simple.)

While I was arguing passionately with the voices in my head, a scene from the movie (Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone) interrupted the melee and momentarily silenced the crowd.

<cue scene>

Harry’s skulking along under a camo tarp that makes him invisible, spying on his teachers (we ALL wanted a peek at what REALLY goes on in the mysterious Teacher’s Lounge, didn’t we?) when he stumbles upon a magical mirror.  When he peers into it, what he sees reflected back is an image of himself – WITH his parents.  Now, Harry’s parents were killed by the Main Scary Evil Villain Dude when Harry was a baby, so he actually has no memory of his parents…but there they are in the mirror, looking back at him, smiling away all normal like they’re ready to toss him a football and bake him some cookies or something.

Harry eagerly brings his token redhead buddy to the mirror, excited to show proof that he didn’t self-generate from an unfortunate chemical spill.  But Copper Mop doesn’t see Harry’s folks in the mirror.  Instead, he sees himself actually passing gym class, or something.  (Lame.)

But it wasn’t some evil ginger magic that broke the mirror.  We learn this from the Grand Poobah Wizard Bro, who swings by in a few and says when he looks in the mirror, he only gets to see himself holding a pair of socks.  (Lame, but less lame than gym class.  I mean, socks can have, like, penguins on them. Penguins trump gym class any day.)

So it turns out that the mirror is rigged to reflect “only the deepest desire of our hearts.”

But now that the cool trick is revealed, the Head Honcho in a Poncho says he’s going to go off and hide the thing in a land far, far away.  Because people are stupid, and lack willpower, and will sit in front of the blasted contraption for hours, days, even WEEKS, going bonkers, dying of starvation, or both, while obsessively staring into the glass, seeing exactly what they want to see.

(So, basically…it’s TV tuned to Say Yes to the Dress, or Keeping Up with the Kardashians.  Come on, TELL me you haven’t lost HOURS of your life riveted to that drivel.  Ah well.  Since so many establishments deliver food via text or emoji nowadays, at least we won’t starve to death.)

(AND AND AND.  Come on, Dumbledore.  “I’m gonna hide it, but don’t you dare try to find it, because it’s bad for you.”  Dude, that didn’t work on any kid, EVER, for shiz like Christmas gifts or Halloween candy; how exactly do you picture this working for something as SUPER AWESOME as an enchanted mirror?  Clearly you don’t have much experience with the prepubescent set.  I guess that’s why your magic school doesn’t start with pre-K.)

So it’s clear that this mirror is powerful, but dangerous. Dumbledore says something fairly profound about it:

<insert the brrrrrrrpt of a needle being abruptly dragged across an LP>

Wait.  What?

“It does not do to dwell on dreams and forget to live.  Remember that.“

Whoa there, Sorcerer Santa Man. That hits pretty close to home.

All this extraneous noise in my head – how big are my thighs, how much food did I eat, what do I weigh today, can I eat anything else, when can I eat again, when will I get a grip and stick to a diet and finally lose weight – isn’t that dwelling on dreams?  Shooting for a fictional figure, a meaningless number?  Aiming for a target that darts and hides, and gets smaller and smaller, shrinking and reducing itself as I do?

Aren’t all these voices – with their commands and beratings, with their taunts and threats – distracting me from real life?  From what should truly matter?  From what I really could be?

I’ve been staring into this mirror for the better part of thirty years.  It’s a permanent fixture in my spiritual home; it has a featured spot right in the entryway to my funhouse.

And it’s kept me from truly living.

I understand now why Professor DumbleD was trying to hide this thing.  It’s been a major time-suck and hasn’t done me a lick of good.  I’ve wasted years of my life stuck right in front of it, starving myself and sacrificing my sanity in an attempt to match the reflection.

If only I could get my hands on a house elf.  Maybe, when he gets a break from washing the windows, he could get that sucker unloaded on eBay or something, and buy me a nice, benign, limited-edition Kinkade to hang in its place.   A painting that, when you pass it, lets you stop and gaze for just a moment, recharging your spiritual batteries instead of draining them.  A thing of beauty that gives you a small serving of light and peace, packed lovingly in a to-go box so you can carry it with you, taking small nibbles as you need them as you go about living your day.

That sounds like a nice change.   Soothing.  Healing.

If only I could tear this mirror out.

Breaking a mirror is rumored to bring you seven years of bad luck.

I’m holding a sledgehammer and preparing to swing.

<deep breath>

You may want to back up a bit.  This might get messy.

Renovating the Funhouse

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Having an eating disorder is a bit like living inside a funhouse.

funhouse1 (1)

Remember the funhouse at the local carnival?  You voluntarily handed over your ticket, and left all reality behind as you entered a world where gravity, balance, and perception shape-shifted, bent, and distorted, constantly causing you to question your instincts as you jumped, blinked, and were thrust unceremoniously into the wall.

funhouse2

Except this funhouse was, well, FUN, because it was temporary, and because eventually, someone would let you out and you’d go get a funnel cake and some cotton candy.

funhouse3As part of my attempt at recovery from the food-issue funhouse, I’ve tried a few different things.  But regardless of what I attempt, the well-established distortion I’ve been living with is difficult to work around.

For example – books.  I’ve read tons of books on eating disorders.  After story upon story of experiences with intubation, heart attacks, and grieving families, my reaction isn’t ANYTHING like “Oh. Wait.  This shiz could kill me if I did it right.”  Nope.  It’s more like “gosh, if I just had more willpower, I could finally, REALLY, be thin.”  And, I’m embarrassed to admit, occasionally I wonder if eating cotton balls really WILL fill me up.  (No, I haven’t tried it, and I don’t recommend you do it, either.  But part of the funhouse effect is that stuff that appears to be TOTAL craysauce to normal people starts to actually sound logical.  Think I’m joking?  How many of YOU have tried Slim-Fast?  Or the Cabbage Soup Diet?  See? SEE?!?)

I also have flirted with trying meditation.  In my quest for inner peace, I have discovered that

Wait, what is my cat doing over there? 

Can I get MY leg over my head like that?

I haven’t eaten chicken in awhile.  Maybe I’ll make paprikash next week.

Suffice it to say I sort of suck at meditation.  NEXT.

I did attend therapy for awhile, too.  Was it helping?  Hard to say.  Like exercise, it was exhausting and painful, so I didn’t exactly look forward to GOING.

Yet – also like exercise – once I finished a session, I was usually glad I had gone.

That didn’t make it any easier to keep scheduling appointments.  You don’t get the warm fuzzies until you’re done wringing out your brain…and you don’t exactly look forward to the inevitably draining part that has to come first.  The relief at the end is barely a consolation prize, much like a small lollipop for getting a tetanus shot.

So why did I quit?  It’d be easy to say “well, I was busy.”  But if I’m honest with myself, I think it’s more because I was actually making some progress – I was beginning to redecorate the funhouse.  Yet I wasn’t quite ready to part with that mental ottoman and its contrasting overstuffed sofa, nor start to repaint some of the walls I’d grown accustomed to seeing.

Not that therapy got me any further than the redecoration equivalent of picking out a toilet paper holder.  But it was a start, and starting is closer to finishing.  And I’m just not ready to let go of things like attaining my dream weight or wearing a certain size.  Nor am I ready to embrace the possibility of being comfortable wearing a few sizes BIGGER than what I wear now.  (Just typing that got a rousing “Oh HELL no” outta me.  Which got me some glances from my compatriots at the airport.  Move along, folks.  There’s PLENTY more interesting to see around here, trust me.)

Maybe I’m not quite ready to commit to recovery.  I have a lifetime of destructive habits, thoughts, and patterns to renovate – that’s a TON of work, and I’d be fooling myself if I thought for a moment that it’d be easy.  After all, I’ve been this way since I was 10 years old and one of my brother’s friends said I was getting as fat as he was.  I don’t remember caring ANYTHING about my weight before that.

But from that instant, it was all that mattered.  Well, for the most part.  Looking back, I did actually have a couple of periods in my life where I just didn’t CARE so much.  And I’m not entirely certain why I didn’t.

First up:  1993.  This was the year I got engaged and married (to my now-ex.)  I just wasn’t thinking about dieting, exercising, binging, starving…any of it.  I had just finished college (well, I finished GOING, anyway.  The actual degree came later, technically.  But that’s a story for another day.)  I ate what I want, when I wanted, and indulged frequently and often.  Fast food?  Yes please.  Fried food?  Why not?

Looking back, I wasn’t really binging – I was eating heartily and lustily, and enjoying it.

It was nuts.

I actually remember attending a family reunion with my then-newly-wedded spouse, and a relative of his commented on how many brownies I was eating.  I told her “Meh, I’m married now, it’s all good.”

<brrrrrrrrrp> WHAT.

I WASN’T EVEN DRINKING DIET SODA.

I’m more than a little horrified at how out-of-control this sounds.

Topping out at about 180 or so, I got married in a size 16 dress that nicely framed my hourglass figure, and kept up with the wed-and-fed bliss until about a year into the marriage, when I realized that the marriage sort of sucked, and to deal with that I lost about 65 pounds.

That actually brought me to a healthy weight for my height, and I maintained that weight before and after two pregnancies.

So I looked healthy…but the patterns were etching themselves back on the funhouse walls.  The thin wallpaper I had hung to disguise them was faded and torn.

Fast forward about thirteen years to the year my divorce was being finalized.  I started to date again…and dating typically means a LOT of happy hour beer, nachos, and cheesecake.  (I suspect the kids do it differently nowadays….?)  As I started to date the now-hubs, I wasn’t thinking about my weight all that much.  Yeah, if you asked me, I’d readily admit that I could lose some weight, sure.  But I was happy, and he certainly had no complaints.

During our courtship, I did gain weight, and this time, I got married in a Jessica McClintock halter-style number that again showcased my curves nicely.

I was about 150 pounds, and I felt beautiful.

So why now, at nearly 40 pounds below that figure, do I feel fatter, wider…bigger?  And why am I less satisfied with how my body looks?

It’s because the funhouse feels like home.

I really like wearing a small size.  When I go to a store, and the smallest size fits, it means I’ve won.  And next time, it should be too big for me.  #bossstage.

I want to be the smallest and thinnest.  Second place just isn’t good enough.  Try harder.  Eat less.  Run more.  Win.

I know that in my funhouse, the couch cushions are ripped. I’m aware of the chips in the end table.  I know the floors have a definite tilt to them; you can see it when you set down a glass or drop a marble.

But it’s home.

I’m not quite ready to get a modern sofa.  My TV will look outdated if I replace the carpet.

However, I know I desperately need to replace the windows so they keep in the heat and let in the light. The current ones are draining me dry.

But if I do this, will I adjust to the new view?  With more light in the room, what will I see?  What will I have to address?  What will cry out for repair?  What else will I need to replace?

Sigh.  With an older sofa, I don’t have to fret about spilling red wine, right?

I do recognize that all this mind-chatter is a complete waste.  I mean, with all that I could offer the world, why is THIS what I focus on as my life’s directive?  Given an alternative outlet, maybe I could have cured cancer by now.  Or at least given SOMETHING of value back to the planet.  Right?

Since I seem to have my butt firmly planted in this decrepit, ancient funhouse recliner, I’ll read you a fairly tale.

<blows dust off cover>

Once upon a time, there was a bright-eyed, energetic girl named Katie.

One day, someone gave Katie a cookie. 

With a smile, she politely said, “Thank you!” 

She ate the cookie and went on with her life as if nothing had happened at all.

THE END

I know.  It’s just a fairy tale. 

Midweek Marketing: Going Against the Grain

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As you know, I started this blog  with the intent of focusing on recovery.  But as of late, I’m not feeling all that brave, especially after recent events, and more especially because I’m just coming off a two-day food bender, and subsequently have gained two freaking @Q#(#@$(#@* pounds, which will take me four weeks and a blowtorch to undo. IF I’M LUCKY.

*insert a few more expletives.  Colorful, vibrant, grandmother-shocking expletives. 

UGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGH

Transitioning from a full-on binge to “normal” (read: diet.  re-read:  not) eating is tough.  Your body is coming off its sugar high, and the afterburn sends mixed messages to your brain.  And by “mixed” I mean that every voice inside your head, along with a few it’s recruited from the outside, are SCREAMING at you to EAT EAT EAT EAT.

Blah.

Two f(#@*F&G** pounds.

**More expletives, please.  Get creative, peeps!  Use your favorites as noun, verb, and adjective. 

So, while I’m sitting on my hands trying not to stuff my face with both Ben and Jerry, I’ll leave you with some of the other random thoughts in my head.

A few days ago, Nikki at The Undiagnosed Warrior was kind enough to nominate me for the Encouraging Thunder award.  Now, Nikki is an amazing young woman who has been dealing with a debilitating illness – the cause of which has continued to evade many trained medical professionals.  Ya gotta be brave to face chronic illness day after day; that’s true tenfold when your illness doesn’t have a name.  So if you need a story of perseverance and determination, check out her blog!

encouraging1DA RULZ:

When you get this award, you can:

  • Post it and the logo on your blog
  • Pay it forward by nominating others

You cannot:

  • Abuse or misuse the logo
  • Claim the logo is your own

If you receive the award you should:

  • Give thanks via comments and likes in the blog of the person nominating you
  • Mention the person who nominated you in your award blog
  • Discuss your purpose in blogging in your award blog

I feel a bit like I’m cheating, because I actually won this award before.  But the rules don’t SAY only one per participant.  Not that this would stop me.  If I can scarf through an eight-serving bag of popcorn in one sitting, do you think I’m gonna even blink at a “limit one per customer” rule?

If you’re still not sure, ask the demonstrators at Costco how many Bailey’s truffles I scored last weekend.

Wait.  On second thought? Don’t.  I don’t think we need, like, an actual NUMBER here.  Never mind.

So anyway.  You can read about why I started this blog here.  Essentially, I was taking a wild stab at recovery.

As I mentioned above, though….these past two days were bad.

Very, very bad.

This weekend, ice cream and dill pickle popcorn were my binge foods of choice – namely, because I had them in the house. See, that’s how binges normally work:

Step 1:  I buy groceries like a normal person, taking time to select items that actually sound good.  (Side note:  I know the experts say never to shop when you’re hungry…but if I don’t, I won’t actually BUY anything.  I have to shop when I’m physically hungry, or I leave the store with new makeup instead of anything I can actually eat.  And if I don’t buy food that looks appetizing, it just sits about my pantry like ugly wedding gifts, and I just won’t ever get around to using it.)

Step 2:  I fall off the wagon and binge-eat a certain food item (or items.  Yeah.  More like items.)

Step 3:  I CAN NEVER BUY THAT FOOD AGAIN because I will eat it all in one frenzied nonstop session like there’s a prize at the bottom and getting it is my JOB.

This is why I can’t buy stuff like frozen pizza, ice cream, pudding, cookies, chocolate peanut butter, kettle corn, potato chips, anything from Culver’s, or cereal.

Especially cereal.

Cereal is the WORST.

One time?  I ate an entire fifteen-ounce box of Peanut Butter Puffins.  IN ONE AFTERNOON.  (Note to self.  Do NOT eat whilst Facebooking.  It’s trouble.  Especially when peanut butter anything is involved.)

barbaras product image:

Image from http://barbaras.com/

And don’t let’s pretend “well, at least this is HEALTHY food,” mmmkay?  Because the second ingredient is – guess what? – SUGAR.  And the box is SUPPOSED TO FEED FIFTEEN PEOPLE.  That’s 1,650 calories of cereal, folks.  (And it wasn’t even the only thing I ate that day.  NOT EVEN CLOSE.)

So at the tail end of my dill-pickle popcorn binge, I was watching the Patriots totally SPANK the Cowboys, and between plays they announced that Jason Witten (tight end, Dallas) now has his own breakfast cereal.

(The stars were not so lucky on Sunday.  BOOYAH.  SUCK IT COWBOYS.)

So as I’m sitting there on the sofa, crashing rapidly from my sugar rush face-first into a carb coma, I started thinking about other cereals the NFL could market.

And they sounded…kinda dirty.

(Just in time, too, since apparently you can’t get your jollies from the pictures in Playboy anymore.)

What do you think?  Would you buy any of these?  Tape them to your face, go long, and not stop until someone calls a personal foul?

In Chicago:  Cutler’s Crispy Bits

New England:  Brady’s Frosted Patriot Power Os 

Denver:  Peyton’s Protein Clusters

Pittsburgh:  Big Ben’s Marshmallow Poofs

Seattle:  Wilson’s Brown Sugar Nut Toasties

I can’t say any of these splits MY uprights, exactly.

Yum, yum.  Guten appetit!

For this award, I’ll nominate a2eternity, adjustremembered, and wehaveapples.  Thank you, ladies, for saying some of the many things that need to be said!

Throwback Foodday and a Day (of Food) in the Life

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As you already know, I have some “food issues”* that I’ve been dealing with since I was ten, when a solitary comment from a friend of my brother caused a seismic shift in food’s role in my life.

(“Food Issues” = currently read: EDNOS, or Eating Disorder, Not Otherwise Specified, or, re-read: Eating Disorder, Not Committed Enough to Qualify As A Real Illness.  There’s actually a whole alphabet soup of different subtypes of eating disorders – you can read about them here.  I have a wardrobe full of ’em myself.  A few fit me better in high school than they do today, but I keep them around and try them on once in a while just for giggles.  Bulimia is the bell-bottom of eating disorders, anorexia is menswear – just when you think they start to look ridiculous on you, they come back into fashion and all the models are sporting them on the cover of Vogue.)

Before that time – when I was a kid, and didn’t know any better – food was a calm, tranquil creek.  When life had some hard edges, I could visit a favorite snack for brief moments of joy and delight.  (Not that life was all that dramatic when I was ten.  My biggest issues were probably the indignity of having braces and wearing really thick glasses AT THE SAME TIME. Trust me – highly traumatic, especially when you’re ALSO in band.  It’s the grade-school trifecta of uncool.)

Food was comforting when I needed it, and unobtrusive when I didn’t.  It was like a favored toy, satisfied to patiently wait on a shelf until I might want to take it out to play.

And play I did – heartily and often, with frequent trips to the convenience store for any one of the Hostess frosted confections (or those amazing little donuts with the crunchy bits on them!) topped off with an RC Cola or a Veryfine Papaya Punch.  (Which, sadly, no one seems to make any more.  Boo.   It was refreshing, not too sweet, and was the color of sunsets.  The perfect accompaniment to BBQ Corn Nuts.  I haven’t had a beverage with calories in years (except wine, duh) but I still wish they had it, because I might want it SOMEDAY, ya know?)

snackdreams

oohhhh….yeah, baby….

There was more.  Pizza and Pepsi every Friday.  Homemade Tollhouse cookies.  A large casserole of scalloped oysters at Thanksgiving, and a fruitcake at Christmas, “because Katie loves them.”  (As I write this, it suddenly strikes me that these were treats that Mom loved, too.  I wish she had realized that it was perfectly OK to make them even if SHE was the only one who wanted to eat them.)

And there was always good food at Grandma’s house.  From Dad’s mom:  chocolate pudding – the kind you cook on the stove, of course – made with marshmallows and served warm, with milk, in Depression-glass dessert dishes.  JiffyPop served in green glass bowls.  Frosted chocolate-walnut refrigerator cookies (which, despite reading many recipes and attempting several trial batches, I have never been able to replicate.)  Smokehouse almonds and 7-Up.  Cashews after piano practice.

Mom’s parents also fed us well.  Grandpa was a fisherman (who, as I’ve mentioned, used to nail salmon heads to trees), so Saturday dinner at Grandma’s place meant a fish fry, complete with her famous yeast rolls:

Man, I could eat four of those during a meal.  FOUR.  And one or two for snack later on.  Makes me realize how innocent I was….I had absolutely no idea about the frightening number of white-flour calories I was ingesting.  (Nor did it occur to me to care.  Ah, youth.)  My sister, the quintessential picky eater, pretty much lived off these rolls – these, plus Grandma’s deviled eggs, filled her plate for every holiday meal.

Grandma’s house also meant dessert.  (Obviously. What’s Grandma without dessert?)  The aforementioned rolls, with homemade jelly – strawberry, grape, or sometimes tomato. (Only once.  Because yuck.)  Homemade apples, stewed with Red Hots.  And fruit crisps: Rhubarb, of course.  Apple.  And, interestingly, zucchini.

Yes, zucchini – the vegetable that you only grow if you have a TON of friends, and if that ton of friends are people you want to have avoid you all summer lest you share the crop that keeps on cropping.

Even if you’re not a fan, you have got to try zucchini crisp.  Really.  It’s surprisingly good.  If you like apple crisp, you’ll be all over this.

Zucchini Crisp
 
 3-4 Cups zucchini (peeled & deseeded), cut in thick pieces.  

Cook in 1/3 C lemon juice until tender.
 
 Add:
  1/4 tsp cinnamon
  1/8 tsp nutmeg
  1/2 C sugar
 
 Cook 1 minute; will be very juicy.
 
 Mix together: 
  1 1/2 C flour
  3/4 C sugar
  1/4 tsp salt
 
 Cut in:
  1 1/4 sticks margarine
 
Press 3/4 C of mix in bottom of 8X8X2" pan. Bake 10 min at 350.  
Pour cooked squash over baked crust.  
Cover with rest of crumb topping. Bake 40 min. at 350.  
Serve with vanilla ice cream or whipped cream.

OMNOMNOM.  I actually made a version of this over the summer – without butter, of course, because butter is terrifying, and with honey instead of white sugar.  And it was delish all the same.  I promise this isn’t some cruel joke, like raisins in cookies or white chocolate in your Easter basket.  It’s legit awesome.  And reminds me of Grandma. 

For the first ten years of my life, food was a celebration.  Food was an expression of love.

Food was joy.

And then one day, suddenly, one comment turned food from friend to foe.  From best friend to mortal enemy.

Food – the security blanket I turned to when craving love and affection – responded to this spasmodic paroxysm by transmogrifying from a much loved teddy bear to a hulking, sinister bully.  It recruited the scale as its dictator and judge, and together, the two mocked, harassed, and tortured me.

(And you thought Decepticons were terrifying.  Sure, stuff blew up, and people died.  But Megan Fox was still skinny.  AND HER WHITE PANTS STAYED CLEAN.  I wasn’t even allowed to wear white pants until I was…well, by then I was too fat for white pants.  Besides the fact that they do nothing to smooth, soften, or minimize, you also have to plan your undercrackers carefully, because you can see the print – stripes, polka dots, and baby ballerina whales – RIGHT THROUGH most of them.  So no white pants.  But I digress.)

So what does a day of food look like now?

Well, it looks a lot like this:

day_of_food

Now, normally, I don’t eat quite this much packaged food.  But I wasn’t going to be home for lunch or dinner, so I had to pack food that could travel.  Otherwise, dinner would likely be something predictably healthy, like baked fish and a veggie. Or a stir-fry.  (And I couldn’t show you a picture of tonight’s dinner, because, well, it was SUPPOSED to be curried squash and potatoes (465 calories,) but I had 45 lives hoarded on Candy Crush, and it’s level 492, which is HARD, and somewhere between “hey, I got time” and “is something burning?” I cooked those cubes which I VERY painstakingly chopped into uniform pieces down into a gargantuan wad of bright orange wallpaper paste.  Despite its attempts to resemble fluorescent mudding compound, it was actually pretty dang tasty.  Just not terribly photogenic.)

Anyway.  The point here is that 1200 calories is…not a whole heckuva lot of food.  The breakdown:

  • Breakfast (178 calories):  Smoothie.
  • Lunch (370 calories):  Madras Lentils (300) and a nectarine (70).
  • Snack (80):  Dried plums. (That’s hippie talk for “prunes.”  Which your grandmother ate.  I only eat dried plums.  Now get off my lawn.)
  • Dinner (460 calories):  Quinoa salad (340), cheese stick (80), clementine (40).
  • Snack (100):  Yasso bar (frozen yogurt.)
  • TOTAL:  1188 calories.

And, if I stick to this very religiously (as I explained here), I can expect to lose roughly a half pound a week.

<insert underwhelmed, halfhearted “yay.”>

With maybe four exceptions to the 1200-calorie-a-day rule (seriously, I can count on ONE hand how many meals have been off the boat, and have one finger left over.  GUESS WHICH ONE) here’s how this has played out in reality over the last few weeks:

  • Week 1:  down six pounds (Six, yo.  Salt much???)
  • Week 2:  flatline.
  • Week 3:  one pound gone!
  • Week 4:  donut.
  • Week 5:  GAINED A F%(^!N& pound (My body haaaaaaaaaaaates me)
  • Week 6:  Lost SIX pounds (on the Ashley Madison diet.  10/10 would not recommend)
  • Week 7:  Gained two pounds.  (FML)
  • Week 8:  Goose egg (FUUUUUUUUUUUuuu)

Hmm.  Wait a sec.

<scratches head>

As maddening as this roller-coaster ride has been, I guess I HAVE lost ten pounds in eight weeks.

Whoa.

I BEAT MATH.

I’m…MAGIC.

catunicornwarriorAnd a magical being needs magical hair…right?

So I treated myself to some color today:

fallhairColor makes me happy.  Color brings me joy.

AND IT DOESN’T WEIGH ANYTHING.

Unfortunately, it isn’t cheap.  Neither is a bad shoe habit.  Or new clothes.  Or all the nose rings I want from RockYourNose (which you should check out – her stuff is amazeballs.)

But with all the drama as of late, my ego has taken a beating.  So, while I haven’t found the exact recipe for the perfect frosted chocolate-walnut refrigerator cookie, or a palatable low-sugar, gluten-free fruitcake, I think it’s perfectly OK to indulge in some pretty, shiny things here and there.

Little morsels of joy, fat-free.

A Kitten of Schrödinger

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Remember Schrödinger’s cat?

We all learned about this from Big Bang Theory, right?  Essentially, you have a cat sealed up in a box, maybe with some poison.  The theory is that, as long as the box remains closed, you don’t really know whether the cat is alive or dead.  (Let’s assume this is a soundproof box, and one too heavy to lift and shake.  Because otherwise, the cat would make its displeasure quite obvious, and if it didn’t, we’d all be rattling the box  trying to get the thing to respond.  Or opening cans of tuna.  Because any cat not responding immediately to the mechanical crunching of a can opener is obviously dead.)

I realized today that I have some weird, mutant form of this thought experiment kitty going on in my marriage.  With my spouse’s revelation last week, I’ve spent a lot of time in a thick fog, unable to visually articulate whether my marriage is dead, or alive.

And right now?  It’s kind of…both.

Because it’s been all I’ve written about for two weeks, you already know this, but to recap:   the hubs told me that he had, about two years ago, opened an account on Ashley Madison.  He claims that, while he spent over $250 freaking dollars on it <insert colorful expletive of choice> he never actually met up with anyone.  He had some fairly surface-level electronic conversations…but that was it.  Eventually, he closed the account and walked away.

That was that…until the news broke of the security breach.  At that point, he knew he had to tell me, before one of my less-trusting or drama-seeking friends “accidentally” found out, and felt compelled to let me know.

I’ve been struggling with whether to believe him or not.

And I’ve come to discover that it doesn’t really matter all that much.

Now, before you examine my cranium for dents, let me explain.  It’s basically that philosophical feline, both alive and dead because it is neither.

catnotdead

Not actual thought-experiment cat. Not suspecting any sentient thought at all. Cat eventually proven to be alive when he passed gas and startled himself. Keepin’ it classy and highbrow, ya know.

I have a choice here.  I can spend a shiz-ton of time examining, inspecting, and analyzing every nuance and detail of every exchange and communication over the last two years, trying to find the golden nugget of information that will lead me to a conclusion.

Or, I can accept him at his word.

Either way, the sooner I can get out of this dark cloud of over-thinkingness, the sooner I can choose to forgive him.  The sooner I can forgive him, the sooner I can get on with life – MY life – whichever direction that may be.

In other words…it kinda looks like this:

decisiontree

The hubs and I spent a lot of time talking last weekend.  We had our first counseling session, where he spent a full hour eating crow, barely choking on the feathers.  On Saturday, I said I wanted to be outside, so he took me to one of the most gorgeous spots I can get to in under two hours.

hike1hike2hike3You just can’t waste a day like this, ya know?  And when the thinks and the thoughts try to smother your joy, there’s nothing like sunshine and giant rocks to bring your inner child out to play.

hike5

hike6

We hiked up and down the rocks for nearly four hours.  On the way, we spotted some really cool ‘shrooms.  It’s kind of neat that God’s crayon box is open even to the lowest fungi.

hikeshroom3

Author’s Note: No mushrooms were harmed, or licked, during filming.

hikeshroom2hikeshroom1Some of the rock formations formed natural “potholes” (although they look more like tunnels to me):

hikeholeAnd there were several cliffs and bluffs, most of which were clearly made before the 80s (when we could learn by reading, instead of by, say, life experience or common sense, that it was not safe to use your toaster in the bathtub and that coffee is generally served hot) because there aren’t any guard rails or restraining bars.  Theoretically, you could gently nudge someone to Absolute Enlightenment, or pay your own tuition to harp school, with a little chutzpah and a committed shove.

(Don’t think I wasn’t tempted to wing out an elbow.)

hike16hike19hike20

And eventually, we ran into this cool little fella.  He didn’t have a whole lot to say.  (The truly cool never do.  They just hang out lookin’ fly while you wish you could be them.)

hikesnake1hikesnake2

I was going to try to pick him up, but I don’t know enough about snakes to know which ones can kill me, so I opted out of THAT little adventure.  I found out later that it was probably just a harmless milk snake, and the worst he’d probably do is try to hug you to death, and really, aren’t there worse ways to go?  (Like having your deranged spouse kick you in the left kidney, sending you tumbling down a rock face into a murky river where you’re run over by a dinner cruise teeming with drunken nuns?  Did I mention I was tempted?)

(Side note:  I did add a snake pic to my Facebook page.  In which I promptly tagged my spouse.  One part passive-aggressive…forty-seven parts immensely satisfying.   Heh.)

I still have a lot to work out – with myself, with my spouse, with the state of my marriage.  But you can’t spend a day in THIS and not be able to think that somehow you’re gonna be okay.

hike11

hike12

hike13hike14

hike15hike17I put my toe on the edge of a bluff.  Not ready to make a decision, this is as close as I can stomach to stand to the edge.

hike21

Yeah. I’m chicken.

Calm, overwhelmingly blue skies above.  Exciting river of energy below.  A few rocks to clear that keep you grounded in rugged reality.

hike18Every direction is intriguing.  I have all the time I need to choose which way to go, and if I take my time and plot my course carefully, I can easily turn around if I want some different scenery.

I can’t speak for Schrödinger, but MY cats sure as heck ain’t gonna starve to death any time soon.

I think I’ll just breathe for a while and take in the view.

The Gray of Storm Clouds, the Tarnished Silver Lining

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In our last episode (OK, the last three), Kate was struggling with her spouse’s recent revelation that he established an account on Ashley Madison two years ago.

So, for any of you who haven’t bailed on this leaky tugboat…here’s an update.  Sorta.  It may just be more blommit.

I love that word.  Blommit.  Super-big puffy heart it so hard.  And I love you guys, too.  MWAH

I am still largely numb.  There are occasional brief bouts of anger, and there’ve been a couple of tears…but apparently, I’m still in shock.  What he did is so incongruous with the behavior of the man I married – the man I THOUGHT I married – that I’m having trouble reconciling the two.

Sometimes, I even forget for a while that this is actually happening.

Emotionally, anyway.

Physically, it’s a different story.

I feel raw.  Hollow.  Like my soul has been in a horrible motorcycle accident;  I’m covered in road rash on the inside, the smashed fragments of my heart staining the pavement a bright red.  My mouth tastes of metal.  My stomach randomly churns and dips as if I’ve been blindfolded and thrown upside-down onto the Gatekeeper at Cedar Point.  I’m exhausted, yet wide awake.  I spend much of my day feeling like one does the day after a bad stomach flu.  Drained.  Empty.

Weak.

Sometimes I am weak, sometimes I am strong.

I am strong because I am demanding the space and time that I need to think this through.  I am weak because sometimes I still want to hug him and hold his hand.

I am weak because I realize this sends mixed signals.  I am strong because I don’t care.  The final decision is up to me, when and if I make one, regardless of how he perceives I am feeling today.  Regardless of what HE wants.

I am strong because I’m getting myself tested, and requiring him to do the same.  I am weak because my gut tells me that this isn’t necessary, because he’s telling the truth.  That he never met any of these women.  That nothing physical ever happened.    I desperately want to believe this is true.  Every fiber of my being tells me he isn’t lying.  But that’s the same clearly faulty intuition that completely missed this was happening in the first place.  IT WENT ON FOR FIVE MONTHS AND I HAD NO IDEA.  (Sporadically, he says.  But the window was open, so SOME sulfur must have blown in.)

I am strong because no one at work has any inkling of the internal chaos I’m carrying.  (I even finished that blasted EEO-1 report – EARLY – go me!  Although of COURSE now that I’m DONE I see they extended the deadline A WHOLE MONTH.  I put in 3 hours on my day off and NO ONE THOUGHT TO TELL ME I HAD 31 EXTRA DAYS?!?  <stabs air wildly and sprouts hissing rattlesnakes from scalp>)

I am weak because I don’t trust any of my family or friends enough to share this burden.  And because saying it aloud will make it real, and I don’t know if my heart can sustain the blow.

I am strong because even though I had previously quit going to therapy, I made some new appointments today.  (And he’s going to pay for them.  OBVS.)

I am weak because I still love him.  And because part of me thinks we can fix this, and a bigger part of me still wants to.

Is there any chance at all that he’s telling the truth?  Is it possible he was just window-shopping, clicking on the pretty things he’d like to have and adding them to his cart, only to abandon them by closing the browser instead of clicking “Complete Order”?

Does it matter?

I am strong because I’m keeping to my exercise routine.  I ran yesterday and today.  Although I am weak because I’m just not eating.  My body simply doesn’t want it.

My run times are suffering – badly.  I’d been doing a 9:20 mile, and this week it’s been 9:45-10.  Ouch.  (Side note:  The fact that I think a 10-minute mile is “bad” is freaking hilarious.  I spent most of my life being completely unathletic, and I am realizing as I’m typing this that I sound like an ex-smoker telling tobacco users that they smell bad.  I’ll slap myself FOR you, so you don’t feel you have to do it.)

<slap>

So, as I write this, it’s Tuesday, and that means…

…it’s time to face the scale.

I mentioned in my last post that I was pretty sure I’d lost some weight this week.  After all this, that’d be a definite plus, right?

I thought I was looking a bit thinner these days.  I mean, I believed I could actually see a difference.  And that NEVER HAPPENS.  This morning I went as far as to take some pictures, because it felt like a pretty dramatic loss, and I was thinking I would have a physique I could actually show off a bit. <strut strut>

But when I looked at the pictures, I saw this fold here and that bulge there, and promptly hit delete.  Must have been an optical illusion.  I should know better than to trust my vision at 6 AM, before I’ve had any coffee.  HELLO.

It was time to face the music.  Numbers don’t lie.  Let’s get today’s.

I went for my slog run.  I came home.  Peeled off the sweaty running togs.

I dust off the scale with the broom (because I have three cats, and hair weighs something.  So does dust.  Can’t be too careful when you’re letting an inanimate object set your mood for the week.)

(Quit looking at me like that.  I KNOW you have your scale rituals, too.  Shave first?  Pluck your eyebrows?  Visit the restroom for one last hurrah?  Yeah, I’m on to you. <points finger-scissors at eyes, then back at yours>)

I step on.

I look down.

HOLY FREAKING FAINTING GOATS BATMAN.

I LOST SIX EFFING POUNDS LAST WEEK.

ALL HAIL THE ASHLEY MADISON DIET!

Seriously, do they need a new spokesperson? I hear they’ve had some publicity issues.   And I have WAY more mass appeal than that Jared ex-Subway clown.  (Especially now.  Couldn’t set THAT bar much lower.)

All kidding aside – I know I need to eat.  After living on swallowed angst all weekend, I’ve been trying to force myself to eat one good meal a day.

But I’m struggling.

I don’t want to eat because I want to lose weight.  (That’s a given.)

I don’t want to eat because starving myself will hurt my spouse.  A sweet, slim revenge for what he did to our marriage, a full dish of piping-hot guilt stew to go with that regret roll he’s been noshing on.

I don’t want to eat, because I normally don’t want to WANT to eat, and eating when you don’t want to ACTUALLY eat seems like a waste of a perfectly good gift horse.

I don’t want to eat because my heart is screaming that it’s hurting.  It screams so loudly that no one can hear it.  Eventually, maybe they will see the screams.

I don’t want to eat because I want to disappear, fading gracefully into the ether, drifting off to a place of peace where no one hurts.

Is that weakness, or strength?

Does it matter?

My spouse says he’ll do absolutely anything to keep us together.  He’s had a taste of what it might be like to lose me, and it’s wrecking him.  I can see he’s lost weight; I can see the anguish in his eyes and feel it vibrating from his very core.

He’s terrified.  Absolutely frightened.

(Good.)

I have agreed to try counseling with him.  I have also insisted (as I said above) that he get physically tested.  He didn’t even hesitate.  Didn’t protest “but nothing happened”- he understands why I might not can’t believe that right now.  He even offered to go to a Christian counselor (remember, he’s been a fairly hostile atheist, so him seeing a Christian counselor is kind of a big deal.)

What else should I ask for?  What would YOU ask for?  What would you need him to do?

Am I an idiot for giving this a chance?

I know that doesn’t matter.

As long as I’m at peace with whatever I decide.

Speaking of peace, here’s a giant chicken.  BECAUSE GIANT CHICKEN.

giantchicken

He lives at the Farmers Market. I have no explanation.

Bawk bawk, homies.  Thanks for hangin’.

Food Issues Aren’t Child’s Play

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Remember the playground?

When your parents parked the car, or when the bell for recess FINALLY rang…where did you run first?

I was all about the swings.  Unlike the monkey bars, they didn’t require much athletic ability, and they didn’t scald the skin on your thighs like the metal slide did on a hot summer day.  Didn’t we all pinch our fingers in the chains at least once when we were lost in the challenge of swinging hard enough to fly all the way around the bar?

(I recognize that some of you are too young to remember a playground that had actual safety hazards.  But back in MY day <hitching up suspenders> we didn’t have plastic coatings over the chains.  We had shiny metal slides that heated up to skin-blistering, egg-frying temperatures in August.  Seat belts on the swings?  You have GOT to be kidding.  And we had NONE of that sissy-boy recycled-tire mulch at the bottom of the monkey bars.    We had good old-fashioned DIRT.  Soft landings = soft adults!  Got a boo-boo?  Pop that sucker back into joint, rub some gravel on it and get back outside!)

Anyway.

As adults, I think we look for that same thrill that the playground used to give us.  We all need to find our fun, right?

Some of us look to extreme sports (100-milers.  The Ironman.)  Others look to death-defying activities.  (Bungee jumping, anyone?  Skydiving?  That’s a big helping of NOT ME.  But you go on with yo’ bad self.)  And a few get way too absorbed in the drama of politics, Big Brother, or Facebook.

Some of us get a little lost looking for that playground thrill.  That’s where things like gambling and alcohol come into play.  And for me, obviously, food.

Recently, the hubs and I went to our local State Fair, where they historically feature diabetes and obesity “on a stick.”  (Delicious, delicious diabetes.  OMNOMNOM)  You can find something for every palate – pickle juice Popsicles, chocolate-covered bacon, funnel cake, and deep-fried everything from candy bars to cookie dough – even butter.  (But butter sort of terrifies me, so we are NOT having any of THAT.)

I joke occasionally that the State Fair is “the one day I allow myself to eat.”  Now, I’ve been trying desperately to get these last ten fifteen five few pounds off, and I’ve been trying to not go all eating-disorder starvation crazy about it.  For the last four weeks, I’ve conscientiously eaten 1200 calories a day and gone for a run 3-4 times a week, with long bike rides on the weekends.  Balanced.  Healthy.  Right?

So I knew the fair was coming up, and I know I like to eat fair food, so I decided to just have a day of “screw it” and eat what I felt like eating at the fair.  One planned afternoon of once-a-year treats.

And eat I did.  I had:

  • a blueberry/honey/chipotle muffin (they were gluten-free, so I had to try one)
  • a scoop of chocolate raspberry wine ice cream (fabulous)
  • a beer-battered fried brat (also gluten-free!)
  • a “triple peanut threat” milkshake (peanut butter, Reese’s pieces, and Butterfingers, which probably aren’t gluten-free, but my throttle was jammed firmly into don’t-give-a-s#it gear at this point.
  • a chocolate-coated pecan nut roll (gluten?  WHO CARES SUGAR SUGAR SUGARSUGARSUGARSUUUUUUUGAAAARRRR)

Now, that’s a lot of food, but trust me, in past years, when I didn’t need to worry about not eating wheat, I’ve done a LOT worse.  (Add not one, but TWO, orders of deep-fried cheese curds, and probably a chocolate sandwich, which YES, is as good as it sounds, and maybe some sweet potato fries with a small lake of ketchup.)  So, given that this was a planned indulgence, this wasn’t TOO bad for a full day of food, especially when you’re walking all day, too.

Right?

Right  If I’d have STOPPED there.

I had been having quite a time on the monkey bars, enjoying the view up high, until I slipped, fell hard, and whacked my elbow on the unforgiving pavement.  THUD.

Unable to do anything halfway, I gave moderation a hostile middle finger and ate half a king-sized pillow bag of popcorn once I got home.

And, despite sticking religiously to my diet for the rest of the week – zero weight loss.

Well, what did I expect, exactly?  I guess I should feel lucky that I didn’t gain from my dalliance with debauchery.  I know that one day off from diligence – one bad meal, actually – will cost me (I wrote about why here.)

But I also know it’s dangerous to dance close to the edge of that oh-so-slippery slope.  Because with eating disorders, there is no “just once.”  There’s no minor diversion.  No day off.  It’s black or white.  All or nothing.

It’s kind of ironic, actually.  I mean, when you’re starving yourself (alternating with periods of stuffing yourself senseless) you spend a lot of time on a scale.  And if you’ve ever waded in past your knees in the eating-issues pool, you have a food scale, too.

The scale.  A symbol of balance.  A precise measuring device calculating, gram by gram, the distance of an object from zero.  Calculating the mass between the amount of space you take up and the amount of space that’s acceptable to occupy.

Physically, you’re constantly working with this instrument to find balance.

Yet, when it comes to the food?  Mentally, we can’t get off the seesaw.  Up.  Down.  Back up.  Quickly down.  One minute, you’re briefly at the top, and in the next moment, you’re bouncing painfully off the ground when your partner bails from the ride.

It’s all or nothing.

And we all know how it SHOULD be, right?  Mentally, we should strive to be balanced, aiming mightily for that elusive “moderation” bullseye, while physically, the scale should be an occasional, twice-a-year checkup at the doctor’s office.

My relationship with food, and my weight, should look like this:

But it feels more like this (except picture the elephant tumbling @ss over teakettle to the ground in a thunderous crash):

Or this:

Or, more accurately, this:

Somehow, I need to move myself to the center of the seesaw.  It doesn’t HAVE to be all-or-nothing, right?  Most people eat when they’re hungry, stop when they’re not, and don’t burn up so much freaking mental energy on this stuff.

They just DO it.  It’s like breathing.

It’s not so automatic for me.  I have to keep reminding myself to find my balance.

Keep shifting to the center.

Try to balance.

Fall.

Get back up.  Rub some dirt on it.

Try again.

<sigh>

Anyone wanna go back to the swings with me?  Let’s leave all this food baggage in Mom’s purse on the ground, and just rock back and forth for a while.

If I lean back, and point my toes to the sky, I’ll go higher and higher, alternately reaching for the moon and gently floating back to earth, not having a care in the world.

For a moment.

See Saw, Margery Daw

Katie shall have a new master

But she shall lose just two ounces a day

Because she can’t starve any faster

The Future’s So Right…. I Gotta Get Weighed

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I love a good challenge…gets me off the inertia couch and writing…SOMETHING.  It generally ends up being a word salad, but salad is good for you, right?  I like to think my word salad has lots of crunchy, salty bits, a bit of sweet, and a deceptively creamy dressing that is miraculously fat-free.  But I may be dreaming.

Speaking of dreaming…fattymccupcakes, who is going to be my new best friend if she ever moves here (that’s not creepy, is it?) nominated me for the Future Challenge.  So thanks for the mental shove, chica.  (And if you haven’t picked up her blog – she is freaking hilarious.  So you need to totally go read her.)

DA RULZ:

  • Thank the blogger who nominated you.
  • Next, link back to the original creator of the challenge, Dreams and Movie Screens, so they can see how far their challenge has spread.
  • Then, share 5 things about your future.
  • Finally, nominate 5 bloggers to share their own future.

So, about my future….

The challenge didn’t say I had to be totally realistic.  (Not that I’m a great rule-follower, anyway.  Speed limits?  MERELY A SUGGESTION.)  But I think it makes sense to chuck your desires at the universe.  You can look at it as a goal to reach for, or a dream to follow, or some woo-woo hippie-dippie full-bore shot at The Secret.

Either way, I can’t help but believe that thinking positively does me more good than embracing gloom-and-doom.  (Remind me of this in the middle of the night when my mind is racing maniacally to the tune of “the EEO report is due this month and I have to read 500 reviews and book flights for November before the holiday traffic takes all the good seats and someday my cats will die, my parents will die, and what if my kids or the hubs dies, they’ll ALL die someday or maybe one of my flights will crash and none of this will matter except then how will my kids buy shoes and why can’t I sleep EVER and my run tomorrow morning is gonna SUCK if I can’t get more than four hours of sleep and will my knee hold out, because if it doesn’t I am totally doomed to be fat forever and….” Do you know this one?  Sing along when we get to the chorus.  Anxiety always suckers me in to attending the after-party, and there’s no mental Uber to give me a ride home at 3 AM.)

Side note:  I’m one of those peeps who copes by attempting to take control by taking action.  (Which kind of explains the whole eating disorder dealio.)  So, for example, if I’m having a craptacular day at work, I peruse job boards and send out a couple of resumes.  To that end, I actually have a plan in place should something happen to my spouse:  I’m selling off most of my belongings and moving somewhere warm – probably Arizona – but I’ve been eyeing this little town called Truth or Consequences in New Mexico. There aren’t many jobs there – most of them are entry-level – but housing is cheap, and I’d use this as an opportunity to simplify and scale back.  Plus, the neighboring town is called – get this – Elephant Butte.  Which makes me giggle, because mentally, I’m still twelve.

Barring tragedy, though…given the canvas I own and the paints I have, here’s how I’m sketching out my future:

Financial Health:  I’ll have sufficient funds to retire more than comfortably by age 55.  (OK, admittedly a stretch.  65?)  And by “comfortably,” I mean I’ll have enough to both travel AND to make Christmas really special for the kids and grandkids.  (Of which I’ll have four.  NO PRESSURE KIDDOS.)

Physical Health:  I’ll be in excellent shape (relative to most of the US – not planning on doing an Ironman or any of that cray shiz) and quite active.  Since I’ll be retired, I’ll have plenty of time to work on my landscaping, as well as go hiking and biking as weather permits.  And I’ll still be able to complete the airport sprint (when you have 15 minutes to get to your gate 1.2 miles away) at a dead run if I need to.  My knees and hips will be in top form, and my bones will be strong.  People will marvel at my energy level, and won’t add “for your age”, because they know they’ll get a fierce roundhouse kick to the cranium.  BOOM.

Spiritual Health:  I’ll be at peace with myself and with the universe.  I’ll still read a lot, and talk up the issues, because that’s how we learn, right?  The grandkids will seek advice and guidance from me because of how grounded and non-judgmental Grandma is:  cool and calm, untroubled and relaxed, dynamic and feisty.  (See “roundhouse kick” above.  I don’t ever think I will suffer fools well.  That ain’t in my DNA.)

Mental Health (#1):  I’ll have found my voice and stood up to the bullying taunts in my  head that tells me I’m not enough.  I’ll know that I AM enough.  I am whole and complete and have value.

In the future, I’ll be able to believe it – and I’ll live my life that way.

Mental Health (#2):  I will finally be at peace with my body.  I will have forgiven myself for taking up so much space, and will issue my thighs a pardon for their genetic makeup.

No.  Wait.

Forgive?

What was the crime, exactly?

I guess I have a way to go before I get to this Future place.  But I knew that; that’s kind of why I’m here.

But, try as I might, I still can’t envision a future without a scale in it.  I can’t wrap my mind around how to exist without it.  It’s easier to picture other what-ifs, like my relocation contingency plan above.

I’ve made some attempts at getting better – I’m working on some healthier habits, and tried therapy. Well, for a while.  I haven’t been totally consistent, other than when I fall, I’m trying really, really hard to get back up. And I usually do.

The funny thing about failing at life?  If you look outside your lane, you see you’re not the only one sprawled on the cinders.  There’s camaraderie in life’s pileups.  That’s why we lean on each other in the blogosphere, right?

I think the key is to keep going.  And if we don’t like the direction we’re headed, we can always turn around.  Or start over.

We can only really start from where we stand right now, right?

I’m putting on my sneakers, my knee brace, and my zaniest running capris.

The door’s open.  I just have to keep putting one foot in front of the other, visualizing the finish line so I have a better chance of crossing it.

I’d like to invite these five bloggers to step into the TARDIS* and share their own futures.  Have at it, ladies!  🙂

*This isn’t my typical genre, but the kiddos got me hooked, and for the record?  I am TOTALLY TEAM TENTH DOCTOR.  In fact, I had a dream about David Tennant the other night that was so <cough> detailed and explicit, I couldn’t look the hubs in the eye for two whole days.  Anyway, if you haven’t watched, take a gamble and add it to your Netflix queue.  At the very least, you’ll understand all these vague pop-culture references that erupt on your Facebook feed.  And you’ll never look at angel statues the same way again.  <shudder>

Liebster, Revisited: Part 2 of 3: High School Never Ends, Cars, and Christmas Trees

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This is a continuation of my last post, where I started responding to sonofabeach96’s  nomination of me for a Liebster Award:

liebster3Because I’m the verbal equivalent of Niagara Falls, I couldn’t get it all into one post.  So here are three more of the questions…and three more long-winded answers:

What were your high school days like?  Good, bad, or indifferent and why?

On the surface, high school wasn’t that bad.  I wasn’t really bullied.  I had friends.  I was involved in every music activity our small district had available.  I got excellent grades.

But it’s hard to reminisce about high school without noting, as a point of reference, where I was with my eating disorder.  It’s like having a sterile, undisturbing stock photo of a smiling family set inside a dusty, chipped, weather-beaten picture frame.

The story’s in the setting, not the scene.

Ninth grade started with a bang, because <dramatic pause> I met a boy.  When you’re fourteen, this is typical.  When you’re fourteen and chubby, and he likes you back, it’s life-changing.   He was older (by one year – oh, the SCANDAL!) and was (of COURSE!) as thin as a rail with a sky-high metabolism.  (Seriously – weren’t they all?)  I coasted through most of freshman year with a lot of “firsts” – first kiss, first date, first formal – and, for the first time since fifth grade, didn’t focus too much on my weight.

I ended my first year of high school wearing a size 11 and weighing about 145.

And then summer hit.  And with the heat came last year’s clothes that were way, way too small.  And by August, I was appalled to discover that my marching band uniform had shrunk.  Significantly.

Now, as an adult, I can objectively look back and see that truly, I was pretty much “normal.”  Probably a bit chubby, especially compared to the track stars and cheerleaders.  But surely I didn’t stand out as the fattest kid in the class.  I understand intellectually that I didn’t look all that different from my classmates – to this day, when I occasionally page through an old yearbook, it never fails to strike me how downright NORMAL I appear.

But at the time?  I was FAT.  And Something Had To Be Done About That.

I knew all too well what worked.  I quit eating.

I started tenth grade a good 25 pounds less than I had ended freshman year.  I walked into my first day of my sophomore year with my size 7 jeans hanging off me.

Bolstered by success and compliments from my classmates, I kept going.  I kept going despite occasional blackouts.  Despite a blood pressure of 80/40.  Despite lectures from the school nurse.  Despite missing family meals.  Despite peer praise turning to worry.  Despite bodily functions ceasing to exist.  Despite my (new) boyfriend begging me to eat.

I finally settled in at just barely over 100 pounds, logging every calorie and measuring every morsel of food (including mustard and Crystal Light – I was hardcore, bro).

This was my existence for the next two years.

Outwardly, things looked to be great – I was thin, I was active in music stuff, I had a boyfriend who loved me dearly and was going to take care of me ALWAYS, and as long as I controlled my body and the food I put into it, I was safe and secure.

Then, during my first semester as a senior, my boyfriend – my first love, the boy who swore he’d marry me one day and would love me forever – unceremoniously dumped me.  (Because college, ya know.)  Suddenly, after over two years of coasting in the shade, the sun was beating down on me, burning off the fog and forcing its bright, harsh light directly into my eyes, commanding my pupils to constrict as my eyes ached from pained, constant squinting.

With absolutely no idea how to cope, I started to eat.

Once the dam broke, it was impossible to stop the flood.  I gained fifty pounds the last half of senior year, as I filled the time with extracurricular activities (read: boys) trying to find my self-worth while simultaneously feeding my starving soul with anything I could get my hands on.  (Unfortunately, I was feeding it the equivalent of onion rings and Twinkies.  But I had to start somewhere.)

I left for college in the fall with the Bright Future of weighing 170 pounds and having absolutely no idea what to do with my life.

So…yeah.  High school was…high school.

KatieSeniorPic

And here I am, twenty-five over twenty years later, still wrestling the same pigs and getting just as dirty.  True, I have cuter shoes and no boa.  But still….

What was your first car? 

The first car that was actually MINE was a 1991 Chevy Lumina.  I’d love to say it was a sweet ride, but the only people to say that about this car is the bluehair-and-Bingo set. 

I mean…just…gaaaah: 

Really makes a statement, doesn’t it?  In addition to its edgy, bad@ss look, it also featured a speedometer that pegged at a hairnet-blowing 85mph.  Which is totally un-American, and un-German, and un-everything-under-age-seventy.

So why did I have this?  Well, as is the case with most first cars, I wasn’t actually involved in picking it out.  It actually came into my possession courtesy of my now-ex-in-laws.

See, my former mother-in-law cleaned houses for a living – generally for the elderly.  Consequently, they often paid her in either quarters, baked goods, or castoff clothing.

Still, she persisted.  We think she was hoping that someday, one of her clients would kick the bucket and mention her in the will.

That never happened.

But, since most of her customers were in their late eighties, they did hop the heaven bus to harp lessons on occasion.  And, as the stereotypes dictate, they often left behind an older, low-miles vehicle – which she’d then volunteer to buy, at a bargain price, from the grieving family.

I kid you not.

(I guess it’s a small reward for choking down loaf after loaf of soggy, well-intentioned pumpkin bread.)

At the time, my then-spouse and I were newlyweds – and I had finally, after years of resistance*, learned to drive.  So we needed a second car, and this one met all of our requirements and qualifications (read:  it ran and it was cheap.)  It wasn’t exactly hip and trendy, but it was only a couple of years old with less than 15,000 miles on it.  SOLD!  I drove that sucker into the ground, tooling around in it until we eventually popped out some offspring and traded it in for a minivan.

*Side note:  I didn’t actually learn to drive until I was 24.  Why?  Well, if you asked me directly, I’d tell you, as I flipped my hair and narrowed my eyes coyly, “I always had a boy or two to drive me around.”  That was partially true; I also had an older brother and a younger sister who were more than happy to play chauffeur.  But the truth?  I’m hopelessly uncoordinated, easily distracted, and a champion procrastinator.  Plus, I wanted to spend my babysitting dinero on clothes and shoes, not gas and insurance.  Priorities, ya know.

What is the one thing that grates on your last nerve?

OK, there is NO WAY I can only pick only one thing.  I talked about a few Things I Hate in the Love/Hate Challenge (which took me SIX posts.  I am ridiculous.)

But out of all those posts, there was one thing I missed that absolutely drives me to shoot fire from my face holes and rant in unholy tongues.

It’s Christmas lights that BLINK IN SECTIONS.

They don’t twinkle.  They don’t flutter off and on to music.  They just ALL flip on and off AT THE SAME TIME, like some idiot minion is half-wittedly turning the switch off and on, off and on.

Off.  On.  Off.  On.

These are usually at the house that’s hung just one string, usually lining a roof or a window. Or part of a roof.  Or half a window.  Or until the string of lights just ran out.

THEY’RE LIGHTS THAT DON’T EVEN TRY.

And please note – when I say “you didn’t try,” I have a pretty high threshold for what I consider gallant effort.  Witness our family Christmas Tree a few years ago:

frogpoolnoodletree

Shout out to Problems with Infinity (http://problemswithinfinity.com/) – see? SEE?!?

Yes.  It’s a stuffed frog and a pool noodle.  BUT IT SAYS “TREE” SO IT’S LEGIT.  And I didn’t have to step on a single needle.  I WIN.

This tree is creative and unique (and affordable, I might add!)  But lights that blink in sections?  It’s like Christmas just gave up.  It’s Christmas sadness.

Don’t be that house.  Don’t be the Holiday Spirit Slayer.  Leave your lights on, in all their energy-sapping, glowing glory.  Your neighbors will shovel your walkways and bring you cookies, and there will be world peace and harmony.

Or, at least, I won’t have to violently hurl the Fruitcake of Christmas Past through your front window.