Tag Archives: mental health

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. 

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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13

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.

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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’.

You Put One Foot In, You Got One Shoe Out

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Before I start on yet another brain dump on the grenade my spouse dropped on our marriage last week, I want to thank all of you who have reached out, commented, and connected with me.  I don’t have anyone to talk to about this in real life, and I can feel your support seeping through the interwebs like the heat from a camp bonfire, where we sit around and melt away the chill and make calorie-free, gluten-free s’mores with peanut butter and drink wine.  (You are also free to roast hot dogs if you like, but with that as an alibi, don’t ask me what’s on the end of MY stick.  Mkay?)

I appreciate y’all sticking around while the power’s out.  Hopefully the generator will kick on shortly.  Thanks for sitting in the dark with me and keeping me company.  It means more than you know.

As long as I can remember, I’ve been the sort of person that craves both security AND independence.  I think this can be best illustrated by a story my mom likes to tell:  When I was a baby, she would occasionally stick me in the playpen. (This was, of course, back in the 70s, when playpens were actually death traps, and I would’ve apparently been safer playing with a hair dryer in a shark-infested bath tub.  But no one knew this at the time, and I’m pretty certain she wasn’t plotting to kill me.  That came later, when I became a teenager and fully deserved it.)

Anyway, when Mom needed just five minutes to take cookies out of the oven, or use the bathroom, or whatever, she’d plop me in the playpen, pulling the sides up so I couldn’t wander off.  This was my cue to scream, cry, and generally throw an Oscar-worthy hissy fit.  I HATED being trapped in there.  Shortly, she’d decide that neither her sanity nor her bladder could take the wailing, and, resignedly, she’d put the side down and let me out.

But then, a couple of hours later, a funny thing happened.  I’d creep over to the playpen and, noting the sides were down, crawl RIGHT IN and blissfully play with my toys.  Putting the sides up turned it into a torture chamber, but with the exit wide open, I was perfectly happy to hang out there all day.  (Even as a baby, I drove my poor mother nuts.  I’m sorry, Mom.  I love you.  Thank you for letting me live.)

And this is, historically, how I have approached relationships.  I want you to stay, but I can’t be confined.  And, now that I’ve been forced to reflect, I see that this has been true with my current spouse – even though I thought he was the love of my life*, I’ve kept the escape hatch propped open.

*He may still be.   Or he may meet the fate of the aforementioned hot dog.  Jury’s out yet.

For one thing, when we got married, I didn’t take his name.  Well, I did, but I hyphenated it with my ex’s name.  It made sense at the time; I had 12 years of professional experience under my previous name, plus I wanted to share a last name with my kids.

Lately I’d been toying with the idea of dropping my ex’s name from the two.  It’s part of my legal name, but I never actually USE it, and incidentally, hyphenating is a royal pain in the keister.  (Don’t ever do it, ladies.  JUST PICK ONE NAME.  Otherwise you’re constantly wondering which name (or names) you’ve used on which credit cards and internet sites, and you’ll never remember which company’s systems use hyphens, which use spaces, and which just shove both names together into an intimidating tangle of letters, and you’ll have to spell every possible permutation of your name EVERY SINGLE DAMN TIME anyone has to look you up.  By the way, no two airlines handle hyphens the same way.  This keeps you on the short list for free invasion of your personal space.)

Anyway, I haven’t dropped the prior name yet.  Just didn’t get around to it.

Hmm.

Another example that perhaps I wasn’t all in:  My spouse and I keep separate finances.  Remember how I said I was a math geek?  Well, every month, he pays the mortgage, and I pay the rest of the bills.  I enter everything into a spreadsheet, and we “true up” at the end of the month.  We even buy a lot of our own food.  I know it SOUNDS ridiculous, but we never fight about money.  And in my last marriage, I was the sole breadwinner while my spouse stayed home buying old watches on eBay.  I was NOT having any of THAT again, so I control my own funds.

It’s always seemed to make sense for us, but with the current filter on my lens, it seems to suggest that I was keeping the sides of the playpen down.

Oh, another thing.  I have this tattoo (I swear it’s less crappy than this photo makes it look):

tattooIt’s a kokopelli – he represents the spirit of music, and he’s also a prankster.  Even if you’re not terribly spiritual, you can usually hang with a fun musical deity.  There are three music notes beside him – one for me, one for my son, and one for my daughter – symbolizing our survival of the divorce.  (And to further drive that point home – I bought this tattoo with the money I made hocking my first wedding ring set.  Heh.)

My current spouse wondered aloud why there wasn’t a note for him.  We were engaged when I got it…surely he’d be a permanent part of my life, right?

But I didn’t add a little note for him.  I’ve thought about going back and doing it…but….

(Yeah, I know, you never ever EVER tattoo yourself with a relationship.  Not ever.  Here’s another reason why not to, I guess.  I mean, don’t be this guy):

(By the way?  Don’t bother sending this to your friend Brenda.  Trust me, she’s already seen it.)

One more thing.  I have a backup plan.  I just wrote about that a week ago.  I SAID it was in the event of my spouse’s death.  But perhaps I was keeping my parachute packed not just in case of sudden engine failure, but also in the event that I didn’t like where the plane was going.

Given all this, maybe I wasn’t truly as blindsided by this as I originally thought.

When I’m poking around my brain, it’s definitely one of the tender spots.  For some reason, I keep rubbing it to make sure it still hurts.

One positive to this whole mess is that it’s been a super-effective weight loss plan.  Based on my complete loss of appetite, and my stomach’s reaction to stress*, I’m sure I’ve dropped a few pounds.  I won’t actually know until Tuesday, because in order to keep from being obsessive, I’m only allowed to step on the scale on Tuesday morning.  (Perfectly logical, yes?)

*When I’m stressed, I normally eat.  However, when I peg the meter – divorce hearing, child illness, or, apparently, your husband flipping the “Available” light on the commitment taxi – my stomach pulls the evacuation alarm, and suddenly there just aren’t enough lifeboats on the Titanic, if ya know what I mean.

About 2-3 years ago, I was at my lowest weight since my anorexic high school days, due to some stomach issues and recurrent mononucleosis.  Since then, I’d put on ten pounds and just haven’t been comfortable in my skin.  So when I put on another five recently, I stepped up my game.  My weight loss has been…slow (which is expected, as I wrote about here.):

  • Week 1:  six pounds (Whoa. Clearly I was retaining water like the Hoover Dam.)
  • Week 2:  zip
  • Week 3:  one pound
  • Week 4:  donut
  • Week 5:  GAINED A F%(^!N& pound

Week 6 is Tuesday.  I think I crushed the plateau like Godzilla in a bad Japanese movie.  ROWR <stomp stomp stomp>

Ironically, my low weight hits the same time frame as the rest of this whole debacle.  Which would lead a normal person to NOT want to be that weight again, right?

But then, if food and I were normal, I wouldn’t have started this blog in the first place.

Sigh.

In the meantime, since food doesn’t appeal, I’ve been binge-shopping.  I stocked up on new workout gear on Friday, and today visited the local farmers market and treated myself.

In addition to veggies, I bought myself flowers:

FarMktFlowersAnd because flowers die, I bought some jewelry, too.  BECAUSE I DESERVE IT.

Silver and clay ring:

RingClayAnd a couple of pieces from Mind of Madness Design:

Red agate/silver on braided leather

Red agate/silver on braided leather

Necklace

Hot pink and gold. LOVE THIS

Necklace2

Here’s what it looks like on. Bold, eh?

I may be all scrambled up like a smoothie on the inside, but I’ll glam up my game face and keep my brave on.

Fake it ’till ya make it.

Glass Slipper, Revisited: What to Do with the Other Shoe

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My last post was decidedly unfunny.  I’d apologize for that, but it’s not every day that the man you married confesses to dabbling with Ashley Madison.  I think I’ve earned a temporary hall pass on that.

This post won’t be all that hilarious, either.  I need to take some time to purge the thoughts in my head.  It’s like I binged on a full jar of chocolate peanut butter and a large pizza; it’s bloating me and congealing on my insides, and I’m desperate to get it out as quickly as I can before it consumes me.

I’m finding myself trapped in the incongruous dichotomy of having a racing mind, yet not being able to actually feel anything.

I’m keenly aware of a number of thoughts (How did I miss this? and My spouse cheated) bouncing uncontrollably around my head like a giant tub of Super Balls broke and scattered all over a gymnasium – hundreds of thousands of pinging bullets that roll and bounce and refuse to be stilled.

Yet, at the same time…I should be upset.  It would be natural to be angry.  Logical to be yelling.  You might expect me to cry.

But other than one or two stray tears, I’ve been numb.  I’ve been walking around like I’ve been mentally anesthetized.  I feel detached; I’m absently letting the situation play in the background like some third-rate sitcom while I nonchalantly go about my business, seemingly unaffected.

This can’t be real, can it?  This is just a very long, drawn-out dream; soon I’ll be rudely interrupted by the morning show blaring through my clock radio and be jolted into a perfectly normal day.

You’ve certainly heard the old adage, “Pinch me, I must be dreaming.”  Unfortunately, I’ve tried that, and it just isn’t effective.  I used to pinch myself when I was dreaming – but my brain outsmarted me by allowing me to feel pain while I sleep.  I’d actually feel the pinch, but wouldn’t wake up.  So I devised a new trick to help me discern dreams from reality:  telekinesis.  If I can move things with my mind, I’ll know INSTANTLY that the situation isn’t real, and I can happily coast along knowing it’s just a dream and I’ll wake up soon and it’ll all go away.  When I’m having a bad dream, I focus on something lightweight – a tissue, a piece of paper (because even though it’s a dream, we don’t want to get all crazy here by trying to throw cars.) If I can get it to move – if I can get that piece of paper to twitch, even just a little bit – it gives me the courage to stand up to whatever demon is chasing me, because I’ll know I’m only dreaming.

Suffice it to say on Thursday night, and at least hourly since then, I’ve desperately tried to get papers to flicker.  I’ve begged tissues to please, please, just flutter a teensy bit so I know this will be over soon.

But all the paper products have conspired against me and refuse to budge.

What the hell do I do now?

I work in HR.  My career is built on how I react when people surprise me.  But this has struck me as unexpectedly as a truck barreling through a stop sign, hitting me so hard that I’m having a discarnate experience, watching my body violently bounce off the hood while thinking, “Dayum…that’s gotta hurt!” as I painlessly float above the carnage.

He tells me that, although he was on the site, he didn’t actually meet anyone.

In the unlikely event that it isn’t blatantly obvious, this article provides an excellent summary of everything that’s wrong with this.  But, in the spirit of trying to get it to soak in so I can accept it and address it, I’ll list it out.

He set up an account, with a new email I’d not been aware of.  Deception with intent to harm.

He paid for the account.  To the tune of $250 or so.  And when I think of all the forgotten birthdays and neglected anniversaries, this is the closest I can get to tears.   He’s never spent that much on me.  His wife.  Yet he found it a worthy investment to make in the collapse of my trust.  (Him:  “I promise there was no further money spent.  I didn’t mortgage the house.”  Me:  “No.  Just our marriage.”)

He contacted two women and communicated to four.   But he insists that he never met any of them.  And it was two years ago.  In the past.

Where I struggle with this:  My gut is convinced he’s telling the truth.  But based on how many clues I missed – based on how completely oblivious I was to his discomfort when the data breach broke – I can’t trust my gut.  I would be foolish to do so.

And frankly, what would YOU tell your best friend in this situation?  If she said, “He was on the site, but he swears he never actually met anyone”?

<cue the rousing chorus of “Yeah…riiiiiiiiiiiiiight.”>

I am a smart woman.  Aren’t I?

How can I possibly believe him when I can’t believe myself?

He tells me that he’s tried a number of times to tell me.  (Well, once the news broke and it was conceivable that he’d get caught.  Eyeroll.)  To his credit, he knew it’d be better if he told me, as opposed to waiting until I found out.   And there were a number of reasons why it wasn’t a good time – the kids were home all day during the summer, which segued into my super-busy season at work – and he knows about my food issues and my anxiety and wanted to wait until a time where I’d be better equipped to handle it.

As misguided as it was, he was sort of trying to do the right thing.  (Which would have been a much nicer sentiment when he was whipping out his credit card to buy deception and lies. Obvs.)

But there’s no good time for bad news. HR folks talk about this quite a bit, in the context of “what’s the best day of the week to fire someone?”  Is it Friday, so they have the weekend to cool down? Is it Monday, so they have a full week to job hunt and file for unemployment?  There is no clear answer.  (Although, if you can avoid canning someone on their birthday, they usually appreciate that.  My sincere apologies to Pat.  Know that I learned from it, and I always check birthdays before a layoff now.)

He tells me that he’s incredibly sorry, and that he’ll do anything – ANYTHING – that I need him to do in order to make this work.  He’s already offered me full access to all of his PCs and his phone; he’s volunteered to carry a GPS 24/7.

He’s begging me to stay.  To give him another chance.  He pleaded with me to go to counseling with him, to please, please let him try to fix this.

He’ll do anything.  Anything.

He’s doing his best to give me space, backing off quickly when I don’t want him near enough to touch.

Over the last two days, he’s broken down completely.  I’ve never seen him close to anything like this.  We’re talking big, ugly, snot-dribbling sobbing here.

While I sit there, numbly, listening.

It’s so surreal.

He is absolutely terrified that I’m going to leave him.

And I don’t know that I won’t.

My heart desperately wants to forgive him.  My head, however, knows that I need to do my due diligence here – while it may be a long time before I can trust him, he can certainly work his a$$ off proving to me that he means what he says in the meantime.

I’ve told him that I don’t know where this will go.  That I may seem fine some days, and then suddenly be angry, and I have every right to react in whatever way my emotions choose to express themselves.

He said he’s just thankful I haven’t left yet.  That I’m talking to him.  He said he’ll take any and every moment now, because he realized in full force what it would mean to lose me.

All the right words.

Will the right actions follow?  As we say in HR: “Immediate, significant, and sustained improvement is required for continued employment.”

Show me.

I attempted to escape from this today by taking my bike out.  I thought a long ride would do me some good – if I logged a solid 20 miles, perhaps I’d burn off some of this numbness and be able to sleep.

It was a beautiful ride.  Good for the soul.

bikedam1 bikedam2 bikecity1Unfortunately, I got lost, and ended up clocking 27 miles before I got home.  But, as with my marriage, I can take all the time I need.  There’s no deadline here; I can take it moment by moment, stopping to snap some pictures or to rest a bit, and head home – or wherever I want to be – when I’m ready.

Glass Slipper, Shattered

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This week, I had an unexpected visitor.

It was someone from my past.  Someone who, in the back of my mind, I feared would come to visit me one day.  And although I certainly wasn’t looking forward to her arrival, I fully deserved her company.

Sure, I had cut off all contact with her, or at least I TRIED to.  But she found me.  How?  Well, I suppose I could blame this blog; while it’s anonymous, my guest this week is quite resourceful at connecting the dots, and I did throw some things “out there” to the blogosphere, and to the universe.  I started this blog to fix the issues in my head, but sticking my Swiffer into the cobwebs meant sharing some dark, dirty corners of my life that my friends and family aren’t typically privy to.

That’s the risk you take when you’re honest.  Someone might find you.

And she always does, eventually.

Obviously, I didn’t want her to find me.  While I wanted to use my writing to expunge some demons, I certainly didn’t want them to darken my doorstep in real life.  But she found my address, and it’s my own fault that she did, and now I need to find a way to make room for her in my life, because I have no right to ask her to leave.

She came knocking at my door on Thursday night, pulling her overstuffed, heavy Louis Vuitton roller bags, and when I opened the door just a crack, she came barging in, her luggage banging on the floor and denting the walls as she roughly threw an impossible number of suitcases and steamer trunks in a huge pile in the center of the room, forcing me to face it all and deal with the mess.

She turned her back to the giant, precarious stack.  Haughtily, she stood facing me, her feet firmly planted to the ground in a wide stance in severe Prada ankle boots, her Chanel power suit inexplicably perfectly pressed.   She looked me directly in the eye, then, her eyebrows slightly raised and her right hand assuming the position of authority on her hip.

Challenging me.

Daring me to speak.

I blinked.  Once.  Twice.  My mind racing.  Why was she here?  What does she want?

I didn’t have to ask that question aloud.  You never do with her.  She knows.

She stuck her perfectly manicured hand (OPI’s I’m Not Really a Waitress) into her sleek Gucci messenger bag, and pulled out a document and handed it to me.

A hollow, cold blackness tore through my heart and slowly snaked its way to my brain as I read the words in front of me.

The document?  This.

The mysterious Angel of Vindication had found me.

Her name?  Karma.

KarmaKnot

And she was forcing me to be held accountable for the most despicable, wretched thing I’ve ever done.

It was time to pay the piper.

She watched me with an ironic, sanctimonious smirk as I digested the evidence she had presented.

I closed my eyes for a moment.  Hadn’t I always suspected she was coming?

I looked at her then, resigned.

Waiting.

She met my gaze for a full half minute, drinking in my discomfort.

I braced myself for the inevitable.

Finally, she spoke.

Two words.

Ashley Madison.

She let the words hang in the air for a moment, watching my reaction with a satisfied glare.   Then she turned on her heel and marched toward my bedroom, slamming the door hard.

There was a brief silence as her words, and what they meant to me and my marriage, sunk in more deeply.

As the noxious fog of her message crept into my pores, poisoning my soul, I was startled out of the eerie quiet as a loud crash of glass shattered the silence.

Hesitantly, I stepped toward the unstable, haphazard pile of baggage, unsure what had broken, yet afraid to look.

I saw the remains of a single glass slipper, smashed to unrecognizable bits by its plunge to the hard, cold floor of reality.

He confessed to me on Thursday night, under the cloak of darkness that only a rainstorm can bring.

About two years ago, he established an account.  He took the deliberate steps to set up a new email address, he paid the fee, and he contacted two women, conversing with four.  He claims he never met any of them.

Of the many, many thoughts, fears, and questions racing through my mind, there are two dominating thoughts.

The first:  How did I not know?  How did I miss this?  My career is reading people, for f#ck’s sake.  And yet, my own husband was able to deceive me. Effortlessly.

We had talked about the Ashley Madison data breach over the dinner table.  I had heard about it on NPR, and brought it up merely as a point of conversation. Weren’t we all talking about it?  Unlike politics or global warming, this was actually kind of…fascinating. Juicy.

(Funny how quickly that juice turns into a rancid vinegar once it’s served to you at the dinner table in your own home.)

It would certainly have been more interesting news had I realized that my husband turned several shades of red and started to sweat when I brought up the subject.

But apparently, I didn’t even notice.

Not even a blip on the radar.  No thread of a red flag.  Clueless.  Oblivious.  Chalked it up to my spicy tofu stir-fry.

But if I look back…I mentioned in this post that the hubs had recently stepped up his game.  He’s been, and I quote, “absolutely amazing lately.”

Lately = last couple of weeks.

The data breach hit the news July 15.  I made that post September 9.

Usually, I like math.  (Karma knows that, too.)

In retrospect, I know I had casually made the observation that he had seemed to lose much of his appetite.  (He’s 6’4″, and he’s a dude.  Big cup of DUH there.)  And he started therapy a couple of weeks ago; he said it was to better manage his ability to hold eye contact with people at work.  (He is on the autism spectrum, after all.)

The clue phone was clearly set to vibrate, sending those calls right to voice mail.

It was like I was happily tapping along on my mental laptop, not worrying about saving my work because it was plugged in, after all, and was confused when the battery suddenly died and I discovered that in my foolish reliance on the consistency of the power cord, I had apparently neglected to actually plug the damn thing into the wall.

Despite all of our challenges over the last year, the one thing I knew – I KNEW, with absolute certainly and with the absence of any and all doubt – was that I could rely on his faithfulness.  We’d talked about it; we’d said on several occasions that if we ever felt the need to step out, we respected each other enough to discuss it first.  Decide whether to fix it or move on. Like adults in a mature relationship.

Of course, that was all hypothetical, because it was never going to actually happen.

And now, I’m like the child who has discovered that there is no Santa Claus, that peanut butter cups will always have too many calories, and that, simply put, there are no fairy tales.

I have to face the reality that my husband and I aren’t unique or special.  Our relationship is no longer a beautiful story that little girls dress up and dream about.  It’s as raw, gritty, and real as everyone else’s, with rough edges that snag the tulle and sticky dust that dulls the sparkles on your tiara.

Our relationship is painfully human.

So now, I’m looking for a dustpan that I never thought I’d need, as I begin sweeping up the pieces of my broken glass slipper.  I’m just starting the cleanup, and there are little shards everywhere – under couches and in the African violets – so it’ll take a while.

This is messy work, I’m finding, and the slivers are getting under my fingernails and into my eyes, contorting how I see the comforting and familiar into caricatures with a different shape and color.

I don’t know where the scars will land.

Which brings me to my second thought.

As my spouse was confessing – as he was purging his soul of the demons that have occupied him, as he was begging forgiveness – I didn’t feel anything.

No sadness.   No anger.

I suppose I was, and have been, in shock.

Instead, inside my head was a clear, calm, meditative treble, that simply stated:

Now you never, ever have to eat again.

Is this the end, or the beginning?

…to be continued….

Humpday Chuckles: Photopourri

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Have I mentioned that I’m not a fan of clutter?

Long before Hoarders became a watercooler topic, I had a Hoarder-like experience with my ex and his family.

The ex’s parents had a four-bedroom house crammed full of…stuff.  Clothes, books, shoes, more clothes.  The bedrooms were wall-to-wall, floor-to-ceiling piles with a narrow path from door to bed.  The family room was only half-useable; the rest was filled with “stuff we might need someday.”

His mom was a child of Depression-era parents, and she couldn’t bear to donate or toss anything that might have use.  His dad?  Well, he retired early and frequented garage sales, auctions, and flea markets, and accumulated an impressive collection of…

Guess.

No, really, c’mon.  Guess.

CAKE PLATES.

Were you close?

No, of course you weren’t.  Of all the things for a seventy-year-old man to collect, this probably wasn’t one of your first five thousand guesses.  But for some reason, this is what he always found – and brought home.  And he had HUNDREDS.  I’m literally being literal here. HUNDREDS.  Stacked along every wall, shelf, crevice, and ledge.

But I married his son anyway.  (And that wasn’t even the biggest red flag.  Not by a longshot.)

I should have known I was in trouble when he wouldn’t let me cancel the newspaper subscription – even when several weeks’ worth were found – not only unread, but still rolled up – under the couch.  The tipping point came several years later when we bought our second house – it came with a four-car garage, but we had so much stuff THERE WAS NO ROOM FOR ME TO PARK.  My reaction was to throw out an entire closet full of plastic Cool Whip and cottage cheese containers.  NONE OF WHICH HAD MATCHING LIDS ANYWAY BUT FOR SOME REASON WE HAAAAAAAAAAAAD TO KEEP THEM

<breathes deeply into paper bag>

To this day I have an aversion to clutter.  When I relocated out West, and had to move from my three-bedroom, two-bath abode, the movers scheduled 8 hours and an empty tractor trailer to pack up the contents of the house.  They were finished by 11AM and had my life’s belongings in less than a fifth of the trailer.

Anyway.  I was thinking of this as I went to organize my Blog Pictures folder (which now has a sophisticated system of color-coded subfolders.)  As I was reorganizing, I found some…uh…gems…that I haven’t posted yet.

So before I file them, I thought I’d share them in one big honkin’ motley medley picture parade.

Let’s start with a billboard.  I pass this one on occasion when I’m traveling and it always makes me chuckle.  I mean….well, look at it:

billboard1Belle:  “Oh, Beauregard….of COURSE I’ll marry you!  Where ever did you FIND this GEM? It’s so…”

Bo:  “I giddyapped and went to Kirk’s!  YEE HAW!”

Belle:  <weeps softly into her sweet tea>

Today’s Weather:  Rain, yo.

That’s chill.

Word.

rain_word

Next, I’d like to share a religious symbol with y’all.

I may have mentioned that I sing in a band on occasion.  Normally, when we perform at a church, we’re up front, to the side of the altar, facing the congregation.  At this gig, we warmed up and started the service – so far, so good.  Then, as the pastor started to speak, I turned toward the altar to face him…

…and I saw…

This.

DoveUnfortunately, the keyboardist and I saw it at the same time, and turned into poorly-behaved schoolkids who could. not. stop. snickering.

(We haven’t been invited back to the church yet.)

I’m sure one of the church elders lovingly handcrafted this artifact and graciously donated it to the church, along with a significant endowment, resulting in no one wanting to offend the dude and his money by suggesting they display a nice spray of lilies instead.

One question.  If a dove bearing an olive branch is a symbol of peace, what is this supposed to symbolize?

Never mind.  I do NOT wanna know.

Here’s a feline edition of “Where’s Waldo?” adapted from my cat’s last trip to the vet. Can you find him?

CarrotVet

You know how cats like boxes?  Mine turned into one.

Olliebox

One more.  A little while back, I posted about my hair.  I really like my hair.  It’s really thick and wavy, and it’s supposed to look something like this:

FabHairYoBut wavy hair often has its own ideas.  Today it had something a bit more avant-garde in mind:

bedhead

#iwokeuplikethis LEGIT.

Thank goodness for hats.

becausehatsHave a great week, peeps.  😉   <MWAH>

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>