Here's a profound observation - life doesn't always turn out like you think.
As we said in my obnoxious youth, no duh. Growing up, kids think being an adult is all about having freedom, i.e. control, but as I age, I believe it's mostly about realizing just how little control we have. Life is very much a game of timing and chance.
I remember playing a game as a child, naming four boys, four careers, four types of houses, cars, etc., then drawing a spiral with my eyes shut for a few seconds. You counted the rings of the spiral, then counted through your choices to that number, crossing out the choice you landed on. Over and over the counting went, until the player was down to one choice in each category, and that was who you would marry, where you'd live, etc.
One of those categories was how many children you'd have. I don't remember anyone ever putting 'zero' down as one of the choices, any more than we would have put down "nobody' as a possible spouse choice. We all presumed life would progress the 'normal' way - first comes love, then comes marriage....you get the jist.
In my twenties, I spent no small amount of time, care and worry making sure those life progressions took place in what I was raised to believe was the correct order. Hey, I'm a Southern girl. My mama raised me a certain way.
Even when I married at 29, I was in no rush to bring a child into the picture. I could kick myself now for being to cavelier about the passage of time, but at 30, I liked our life just like it was. I truly felt that if it were just me and B forever, that would be fine. And I didn't want to have a child just because it seemed like the logical next step in life. A child, I reasoned, should come when it was wanted more than my next breath.
Sounds great. Just one problem - I presumed, stupidly, that my body would cooperate with all of this. It never crossed my mind that when I got ready, the universe wouldn't just hand me what I wanted.
Have no doubt, I am now ready. It was my happiness with B that once gave rise to thoughts that the two of us alone might be enough, but now that happiness has grown, and I want so much to create and raise a child with this wonderful man. I want that little piece of him; to look at my child's face and see his features; to see my husband's wonderful character, humor and intellect in my baby.
But after over a year with no precautionary measures and a few months of calculated efforts, no baby. I've had dozens of positive ovulation tests and one positive pregnancy test that evaporated the next day, leading me to believe all is in working order, but nothing to show for it but a higher frustration level.
I don't want to give up hope, but as days and months pass, I am beginning to worry. I worry I will never get pregnant, but I also worry that I will. I can't ignore the risk that rises as I age - risk of complications and health problems for me, and those take a back seat to the chance my baby will suffer because I delayed so long. How long is it okay to keep trying, readers? When do I begin to explore other options? Or do I keep trying for the duration, believing God will deliver the desires of my heart?
Just like the decision of when to start trying, the decision of when to stop haunts me. It's a decision I never thought I'd ever consider, and now it seems to be the only one that matters.
Monday, November 24, 2008
Monday, November 17, 2008
I'm really not all about me.
I mean, I think of others. I consider feelings other than my own. My whole job, in fact, revolves around taking on the worst of what happens to others and shouldering that burden of seeking justice on their behalf. I *don't* just barge through life worried about number one. Really, I don't.
But just try to tell my husband that. Oh, no. You try to protect yourself one little time, and suddenly you're all about throwing everybody else under the bus, into the line of fire. I say, you can't blame me. I blame my job. It gets in your head, always making you think the worst.
Case in point - last weekend. My husband and his friend do a little call in radio show on Friday nights. We live in South Georgia, and football isn't big here. It's everything. They spend six hours every Friday night talking about high school football. Hundreds of people call in to pontificiate. It's kind of a thing.
First, from 6 p.m. until the games start, they talk about what games are going to be played that night. People call in, make predictions, talk about the various permutations of what could happen that night and the playoff implications.During the games, people call in to give score updates, describe what's happening at whatever game they are at. They also have a report on Georgia Bulldog football that they do during that time. Then after the game until midnight, people call in and talk about the games played that night, the playoff implications, and who is playing who next week.
I like to say they talk about what's going to happen, then they talk about what's happening, then they recap what just happened. For six hours.
Rather than stay home alone, sometimes I like to go with them to the city they broadcast from and spend a little me time while they're doing the show. I have dinner alone, go the bookstore, and usually see a movie. I pitched an idea where I would see a different chick flick every Friday night, review it on the show, and maybe the movie theater would give a free pass in exchange for the publicity. The boys thought it was better to stick to football. Whatever.
So last Friday, I tagged along as usual. The boys like to go eat before the show, so I accompanied them to their favorite chinese restaurant. They love this place - it's cheap, the portions are HUGE, and the staff knows them by name. I love it because it is spic and span clean every time we go in there.
We got to the place just after their 5 p.m. opening, walked in the door expecting to hear our normal shouted greeting. Nothing. There was nobody there. No customers, no staff, no cashier, nothing. We wait, and wait, but......nothing. B and his buddy start walking back toward the kitchen area, when they look around for me, and I'm.....well, I've got one hand on the door, ready to make a run for it.
Maybe I'm too into my job, maybe I've seen one too many movies, but for that few seconds I had no doubt in my mind what was going on. The nice Asian man who usually greets us and his cheery wife were in the office, hands on heads, on their knees, and gunmen were cleaning out the place. I was absolutely sure the place was getting robbed. So when B and his pal asked me what the heck I was doing, I didn't filter. I told them straight out - "if this place is getting knocked over, I"m getting the f#$% out!"
Of course, thankfully, the staff was just in the kitchen, prepping for a busy night. B and his friend are still laughing at me.
But I still maintain it was a logical conclusion.
I mean, I think of others. I consider feelings other than my own. My whole job, in fact, revolves around taking on the worst of what happens to others and shouldering that burden of seeking justice on their behalf. I *don't* just barge through life worried about number one. Really, I don't.
But just try to tell my husband that. Oh, no. You try to protect yourself one little time, and suddenly you're all about throwing everybody else under the bus, into the line of fire. I say, you can't blame me. I blame my job. It gets in your head, always making you think the worst.
Case in point - last weekend. My husband and his friend do a little call in radio show on Friday nights. We live in South Georgia, and football isn't big here. It's everything. They spend six hours every Friday night talking about high school football. Hundreds of people call in to pontificiate. It's kind of a thing.
First, from 6 p.m. until the games start, they talk about what games are going to be played that night. People call in, make predictions, talk about the various permutations of what could happen that night and the playoff implications.During the games, people call in to give score updates, describe what's happening at whatever game they are at. They also have a report on Georgia Bulldog football that they do during that time. Then after the game until midnight, people call in and talk about the games played that night, the playoff implications, and who is playing who next week.
I like to say they talk about what's going to happen, then they talk about what's happening, then they recap what just happened. For six hours.
Rather than stay home alone, sometimes I like to go with them to the city they broadcast from and spend a little me time while they're doing the show. I have dinner alone, go the bookstore, and usually see a movie. I pitched an idea where I would see a different chick flick every Friday night, review it on the show, and maybe the movie theater would give a free pass in exchange for the publicity. The boys thought it was better to stick to football. Whatever.
So last Friday, I tagged along as usual. The boys like to go eat before the show, so I accompanied them to their favorite chinese restaurant. They love this place - it's cheap, the portions are HUGE, and the staff knows them by name. I love it because it is spic and span clean every time we go in there.
We got to the place just after their 5 p.m. opening, walked in the door expecting to hear our normal shouted greeting. Nothing. There was nobody there. No customers, no staff, no cashier, nothing. We wait, and wait, but......nothing. B and his buddy start walking back toward the kitchen area, when they look around for me, and I'm.....well, I've got one hand on the door, ready to make a run for it.
Maybe I'm too into my job, maybe I've seen one too many movies, but for that few seconds I had no doubt in my mind what was going on. The nice Asian man who usually greets us and his cheery wife were in the office, hands on heads, on their knees, and gunmen were cleaning out the place. I was absolutely sure the place was getting robbed. So when B and his pal asked me what the heck I was doing, I didn't filter. I told them straight out - "if this place is getting knocked over, I"m getting the f#$% out!"
Of course, thankfully, the staff was just in the kitchen, prepping for a busy night. B and his friend are still laughing at me.
But I still maintain it was a logical conclusion.
Wednesday, October 15, 2008
Him
We all have him. You know who I mean, girls. Him. You know - that guy you could never resist, the one you knew was bad, bad, bad news, but you kept....well, in the interests of keeping this PG-13, let's say you kept 'dating' him. He's the guy who wrecked your car, almost got you fired, evicted, arrested or killed, but you kept going back for more. You know him. Yeah, that guy.
Mine was/is J. He had dark curly hair, green eyes, and a wicked grin. It said, 'yes ma'am, I will get you in serious trouble. Doesn't it sound like fun?' He was tall and lean and way too confident. He had swagger.
We met cute in an elevator in my building a dozen years ago. In just twenty seconds on the way to the third floor, his manner was so intimate that I stepped off the lift blushing. His words were perfectly gentlemanly, but his tone, his gaze were so familiar, I felt as though he knew all my secrets. I smiled for an hour afterward, amazed at seeing someone that good-looking in real life, rather than the movie, or at least TV, screen.
I figured I'd never see him again, but he'd actually moved in down the hall. The second time I saw him, again in the elevator, he asked me to dinner. I was in total shock. I was much thinner back then, but still not thin. I don't remember the details of the date, but I do remember his goodnight kiss, and his disbelief when he realized he would not see my bedroom that first night.
Now, I've always been a good girl (at least at first), and I was a bit put off by his, um, fervor. It had been a year since the obligatory breakup with the college boyfriend, and there had been no one - no one in that time since. I liked being wanted, but there was a pressure there, an insistence that seemed to have little to do with me. I ignored his calls the next day, and his knocks on my door. Yeah, I know now it reads loud and clear - stalker. But this was during The Wilderness Years, when all I had was work to fill my days and nothing but TV for my nights. The attention seemed exciting to me. The rejection was clearly exciting to him. He pursued relentlessly.
So we went out again, and then again. I really, really liked him; we had more fun together than I have had with any man before or since. And then it went bad.
It doesn't matter how or why. I won't bore you (or embarrass myself) by telling you how long it took me to figure out he was an alcoholic. So naive, I thought drunks drank hard liquor. In the morning. He only drank beer, and only at night, and occasionally at lunch, so it didn't occur to me he might have a problem. You don't need to know how many mornings I was late to work after late nights with him, or how often I called in sick to work to drink with him, reasoning I was revisiting my college days. I won't tell you how mad I was when he accompanied me to a doctor's appointment, pretending to be a doting boyfriend, only to ask for my keys and forget to vent the car, so that I was knocked over by the residual pot smoke when we returned to the parking lot.
I will also leave to your imagination my embarrassment when I was called home from work by my landlord's threats of eviction and found him Drunker Than Cooter Brown, as we say in the South, at 11 a.m., blasting the Allman Brothers so loud you could hear it a block away. And the day the deputy sheriff visited me at my office, looking for him on that outstanding felony probation warrant he'd never mentioned? You don't need to hear about that.
Simply know that we broke up, but not before he actually told me his ex was coming into town, and I should 'lay low' for a couple of days. I asked him if she would be at a hotel, and he not very convincingly told me that she would. He lied. That was it. I will allow myself to be taken advantage of, used, lied to, fooled and humiliated in a number of ways, but I will not be cheated on.
I gussied myself up that morning and showed up unannounced at his job, telling him in what is now my courtroom voice that as a country girl, I had been around shit all my life. I'd seen it shoveled onto growing crops, out of chicken coops, and bought in clean plastic bags by ladies for their flower beds, but that I had never seen it in such a well-dressed and charming package such as him. And then I told him to go to hell, turned on my heel, and went to work on time for the first time in weeks.
I moved away not too long after that, but I have settled back in this same town, and he's still here. I've not seen him, but my husband, also an attorney, has encountered him in court as a defendant, which B thinks is hilarious. Obviously, for J, not much has changed.
But oh, how I've changed. I have my law degree now, a job I love, and the respect of those I work with. I am confident enough to stand up for myself, and wise enough to see through the con I so eagerly fell for back then. I have a wonderful husband who is crazy about me. He also happens to be successful, politically influential, and very well respected, in this small town and around our state. We have a modest but nice house, good friends, and wonderful families.
If I did run into him, what would he see - the accomplished woman and hard-ass prosecutor, popular in my community and in love with my life? Or that lonely twenty-three year old, 100 pounds heavier and twelve years older, beginning to age, with blonder hair and better jewelry?
Which change do I use to define me? Do my accomplishments matter, or just my body? In the past dozen years of your life, dear reader, what consumes your time and thoughts - is it your inner life, or your outer one?
Mine was/is J. He had dark curly hair, green eyes, and a wicked grin. It said, 'yes ma'am, I will get you in serious trouble. Doesn't it sound like fun?' He was tall and lean and way too confident. He had swagger.
We met cute in an elevator in my building a dozen years ago. In just twenty seconds on the way to the third floor, his manner was so intimate that I stepped off the lift blushing. His words were perfectly gentlemanly, but his tone, his gaze were so familiar, I felt as though he knew all my secrets. I smiled for an hour afterward, amazed at seeing someone that good-looking in real life, rather than the movie, or at least TV, screen.
I figured I'd never see him again, but he'd actually moved in down the hall. The second time I saw him, again in the elevator, he asked me to dinner. I was in total shock. I was much thinner back then, but still not thin. I don't remember the details of the date, but I do remember his goodnight kiss, and his disbelief when he realized he would not see my bedroom that first night.
Now, I've always been a good girl (at least at first), and I was a bit put off by his, um, fervor. It had been a year since the obligatory breakup with the college boyfriend, and there had been no one - no one in that time since. I liked being wanted, but there was a pressure there, an insistence that seemed to have little to do with me. I ignored his calls the next day, and his knocks on my door. Yeah, I know now it reads loud and clear - stalker. But this was during The Wilderness Years, when all I had was work to fill my days and nothing but TV for my nights. The attention seemed exciting to me. The rejection was clearly exciting to him. He pursued relentlessly.
So we went out again, and then again. I really, really liked him; we had more fun together than I have had with any man before or since. And then it went bad.
It doesn't matter how or why. I won't bore you (or embarrass myself) by telling you how long it took me to figure out he was an alcoholic. So naive, I thought drunks drank hard liquor. In the morning. He only drank beer, and only at night, and occasionally at lunch, so it didn't occur to me he might have a problem. You don't need to know how many mornings I was late to work after late nights with him, or how often I called in sick to work to drink with him, reasoning I was revisiting my college days. I won't tell you how mad I was when he accompanied me to a doctor's appointment, pretending to be a doting boyfriend, only to ask for my keys and forget to vent the car, so that I was knocked over by the residual pot smoke when we returned to the parking lot.
I will also leave to your imagination my embarrassment when I was called home from work by my landlord's threats of eviction and found him Drunker Than Cooter Brown, as we say in the South, at 11 a.m., blasting the Allman Brothers so loud you could hear it a block away. And the day the deputy sheriff visited me at my office, looking for him on that outstanding felony probation warrant he'd never mentioned? You don't need to hear about that.
Simply know that we broke up, but not before he actually told me his ex was coming into town, and I should 'lay low' for a couple of days. I asked him if she would be at a hotel, and he not very convincingly told me that she would. He lied. That was it. I will allow myself to be taken advantage of, used, lied to, fooled and humiliated in a number of ways, but I will not be cheated on.
I gussied myself up that morning and showed up unannounced at his job, telling him in what is now my courtroom voice that as a country girl, I had been around shit all my life. I'd seen it shoveled onto growing crops, out of chicken coops, and bought in clean plastic bags by ladies for their flower beds, but that I had never seen it in such a well-dressed and charming package such as him. And then I told him to go to hell, turned on my heel, and went to work on time for the first time in weeks.
I moved away not too long after that, but I have settled back in this same town, and he's still here. I've not seen him, but my husband, also an attorney, has encountered him in court as a defendant, which B thinks is hilarious. Obviously, for J, not much has changed.
But oh, how I've changed. I have my law degree now, a job I love, and the respect of those I work with. I am confident enough to stand up for myself, and wise enough to see through the con I so eagerly fell for back then. I have a wonderful husband who is crazy about me. He also happens to be successful, politically influential, and very well respected, in this small town and around our state. We have a modest but nice house, good friends, and wonderful families.
If I did run into him, what would he see - the accomplished woman and hard-ass prosecutor, popular in my community and in love with my life? Or that lonely twenty-three year old, 100 pounds heavier and twelve years older, beginning to age, with blonder hair and better jewelry?
Which change do I use to define me? Do my accomplishments matter, or just my body? In the past dozen years of your life, dear reader, what consumes your time and thoughts - is it your inner life, or your outer one?
Tuesday, October 7, 2008
Cooking for One, and Other Strange Gifts
Razors pain you,
Rivers are damp.
Acids stain you
and drugs cause cramp;
Guns aren't lawful;
Nooses give;
Gas smells awful;
You might as well live.
- Dorothy Parker
One of the weirdest gifts I have ever received was Cooking for One.
I was in what I call The Wilderness Years, those years just after undergrad, before law school, when I lived alone, worked too much, ate too much, and grew so much. I was living in a rambling old Victorian cut up into four apartments, the other three of which were occupied by people I am now sure were on felony probation. I had no TV, but spent my time cooking, eating, reading, and writing. I was lonely, but part of me enjoyed the solitude. It was the time in which I learned to be alone, to be my own company, a skill that serves me well today. It was tough, but I could feel it making me tougher. I could have gone home every weekend to visit my parents, but I wanted to have this experience.
I didn't think much about how others saw my situation, until one Christmas when my weird aunt gave me a cookbook - Cooking for One. What the hell kind of gift is Cooking for One? Why not give me Eighty Ways to End It All? COOKING FOR ONE?? Why not call it You're Pathetic, but You Gotta Eat. Or maybe the point was 'cook for one, fat-ass, because it appears you are eating for three.'
Probably she just thought hey, she's one, she needs to cook, and it can be hard to cut down recipes to just one portion. I am, after all, famously bad at math. But I kind of don't think so, because the gift didn't end at Cooking for One. There were also the cheesecake pans. Pans. Plural. So I've not only got Cooking for One, subtitled forever in my mind as Just Kill Yourself. Now I have two spring form cheesecake pans along with it. It's so confusing and surreal. Who puts those two things together? I still don't get it.
Though Cooking for One and the cheesecake pans top the list, there have been other strange gifts over the years. Once, my whole family received a thumbnail sized portrait of my uncle's family - not one for each of us, but one tiny picture for the four of us to share. Another year, my brother and I received manicure sets. I was nine; he was four; neither of us cared that much about our nails. I've received earrings before my ears were pierced; bedroom shoes made to look like Santa and Mrs. Claus; a silver cup with a 'B' etched in it (not my initial); a tiny spoon with a map of Malta in the bowl, and a mug with a wheat field scene that proclaimed me to be A Wonderful Uncle.
When I think about these gifts today, though, they say much more about giver than they do about me. The manicure sets say "I have no idea what kids like," while the Santa slippers say "I don't really care what Onederwoman likes." The 'B' cup was a wedding gift from an elderly woman I've known since childhood, and it says she wanted to give me something nice, but didn't have the money to buy something new - the yellowed tape on the box gave it away. I love that cup, even if everything drunk from it does taste like pennies. The Uncle mug tells me my high school secret pal, an exchange student from China, likes a wheat field scene. And the spoon from Malta has a special place in my heart, because my brother brought it for me as a gift when he returned home from his first deployment with the U.S. Marine Corps.
When I was younger, less secure in myself, what people gave to me in both a figurative and literal sense gave me a feeling about their thoughts on me - like Cooking for One. As years pass, however, what people put out into the world seems to have less to do with me and more to do with how they perceive life, whether they are concerned enough about others to carefully select what they offer up, or if any old pair of Santa slippers will do.
But I still can't explain those damn cheesecake pans.
Sunday, September 28, 2008
Mammas, Don't Let Your Babies Grow Up to Be Fat Girls.....
why am I fat? a novella (hey, I had a lot to say...)
I know there have to be people in my life who are dying to ask me how I got so dang big - especially people who knew me before, when I was normal sized. The answer is simple, and awfully complicated.
Mainly - obviously - I am fat because I love food. I love to eat, I love to cook. I love to invent recipes; I love to learn complicated cooking methods. I love to watch the Food Network (I call it food porn). I love to nurture people with food. I love to impress people with my ability to cook good food. In part, I define being a woman with the ability to nurture, please and impress with good food.
I'm a Southern girl, cooking is what we do. Or rather, one of the things we do, along with wear full pageant makeup to the mailbox, use the adjective 'sweet' as an insult, drop our 'g's, refrain from sweating in 100 degree heat by sheer force of will, and leave the womb with a working knowledge of etiquette and offensive pass interference.
But, there are other issues too, and like all really good deep seated issues, many of mine are rooted in childhood. Now, I basically define being an adult as getting over your childhood, whether it was good, bad, or otherwise. I also think childhood can have a huge impact on habits and behavior. So, into mine we shall delve. Get comfy.
The first time I recall being aware of weight was in 1st grade, when my teacher put a height/weight chart on the wall. I wasn't the largest kid in the class - there was a little boy who was very obese. I was nowhere near his size, but I was taller, and weighed more than he did. Kids are mean in general, and I guess there were more than the normal share of little assholes in my class that year. I know there were. We used to play this game when the teacher would leave the room, where one of the leader kids would ask 'Who likes Susie?' and those who did would raise their hand. The whole class always voted that they liked the popular kids, even though looking back, some of them were totally unlikeable. One little boy, I recall, did not fit in well at the homogeneous, don't-you-dare-be-different private school I went to, and whenever the question was posed 'Who likes Lee?' not a single hand went up. Kids are mean, but that game, looking back, seems particularly awful. So, you can imagine the comments I got when my weight went up on the wall as the highest in the class. Little bastards.
When I was eight or ten, my mother decided I should do the Weight Watchers program with her. Like many girls, my relationship with her had major power struggle elements, and for us they somehow unconsciously became centered around food. My childhood and adolescence was filled with hearing about what I didn't 'need' to eat. I can still remember the exact tone and inflection of her voice if I was caught picking at something before or after mealtime. So, I began sneaking food. Extra desserts, the Little Debbie cakes that were for my brother's school lunches, even slices of bread or meat - I distinctly remember hiding chicken fried steak in the waistband of my pajama pants, trying to get down the hall to my bedroom without getting caught.
Still, I wasn't a obese kid, just a little chubby. I had taken dance since age 6, and since my dad was a gym rat, I worked out too. Despite the heat, kids in the South were not allowed to lounge indoors all day back then, and I ran around our neighborhood, being chased by dogs and the occasional boy with beebee gun. I got plenty of exercise. But my fear of not being perfect kept me from enjoying sports. While I was quite an athlete in my own backyard, I could never show those same abilities when a crowd, even of just my peers, was watching. I equated that lack of athletic ability with being fat, even though I really wasn't. And this is the strongest argument I have for the power of visualization - I believed I was fat, and in enough time, I became so. But not for a long while.
In high school, I was a completely normal size, and very active. I kept dancing, moving into classical ballet as well as other genres. I sang in the school's choir group, which put on ambitious productions with lots of dance numbers. I walked with friends for exercise, and continued to go to gym with my dad. I was fit and strong. But I never understood that every item of clothing in the store was not meant for every person. When I tried on short skirts in the department store and my mom sniffed her disapproval and said 'That makes you look ten pounds heavier,' to me, that meant I was fat.
Never mind that I had a tiny waist and what was becoming a nicely curvy figure - I'd kill to have my teenage body back. I didn't appreciate it - I thought I was fat, the fattest, disgusting, unlovable. I recently read some old journals of mine from high school, and it's page after page of lamenting how fat I was, disgusted with myself, determined to 'do something' about my weight. I thought boys didn't like me because I was fat. I was a size 6 or 8 then. Boys didn't like me because I was smart and quiet and terrified of them, and they thought I was a snob. Or they just plain didn't know me, because I wouldn't let them.
So, cut to college - partying, drinking, eating whatever I wanted. As a freshman, I still exercised and continued to dance for a time. But before long, I started making bad choices, mainly using food as reward or comfort to deal with a growing problem with depression. Sometime during my sophomore year, I had stopped any semblance of exercise and topped 200 pounds for the first time. That summer was spent at home with my mom's disapproval hanging over me, losing weight and basically becoming anorexic. I ate almost nothing - saltine crackers and a Diet Coke for lunch, maybe a Lean Cuisine for dinner, taking cold medicine at night to make me sleep so I would not eat. Walking, always walking, exercising at every opportunity. I remember telling my mom that if I were thin and eating like that, she would think I had an eating disorder. She agreed.
I got close to thin that summer, losing 40 lbs in about 3 months. Then I went back to college, a huge state school this time, transferring away from the small women's college I'd gone to the first two years. I had been miserable there, but in retrospect, I would have been miserable anywhere. I sought approval in men's attention, quickly got into a bad relationship, and basically ate all the time. My depression deepened; weight packed on. I tried Jenny Craig, lost a little, gained it back. I felt worse, so I ate more. It felt like I was trying to prove something with all the eating, but I am still not sure what.
Then graduation came, along with the inevitable breakup with the college boyfriend, and the first job, a very stressful one in the news industry. With no real friends in a new city, food continued to be my comfort and recreation. It was my only friend. Nothing to do on a Saturday night? Find something good on television, go to the grocery store and make yourself a gourmet meal. I became a great cook. But by then I was totally out of control, more than 250 lbs, and after that who cares? Each new pound just seemed like a drop in the ocean.
I met my husband, B, when I weighed somewhere between 250 and 275. Between his goodness and the maturity that getting past age 25 brings, the depression, blessedly, evaporated. The fat, not so much. Four months into dating B, I began law school, moved away from him and gained more, breaking 300. Since we married, I've gained even more quickly, in part probably due to being so secure that he loves me no matter what. Since that time, I have done Weight Watchers four or five times, and pills from the doctor, but the scale mainly has gone up and up. Actually, that's a lie. My weight has gone up and up. I didn't HAVE a scale for the first four years or so we were married - hadn't had one since college. For years, I not only didn't know what I weighed, I truly didn't care.
So, that's the how. As for the why - well, I only really have guesses. For one thing, bad body image played a major part. I thought of my self as fat, even when I was thin. I became my vision of myself. Also, I have recently realized how much perfectionism had to do with it. I couldn't be perfect, and instead of being happy with what I could do well, I focused on what I couldn't do. Instead of just accepting my body's limitations, from how it looked to what it could do, I let them overwhelm me. And my rocky at times relationship with my mother didn't help - she tends to withhold love and approval when people don't conform to her vision of what they should be and do. In some ways, I think I got fat to prove to her that she would still love me, and that others would still love me, even if I wore on my body the most obvious imperfections I could.
But as I said earlier, I define being an adult as getting over childhood. All these situations and issues written about above have to cease to matter, or at least, they have to be used now to fuel something other than my appetite for food. If I'm going to change my body, I'm going to have to change my life, and that starts with changing the life inside my head. I have to put away the idea of looking perfect, and concentrate on looking my best, regardless of my size. I don't need to be an athlete, but I would like for my body to feel strong again. I can let people see my other imperfections, instead of hiding behind fat, hoping it's all they'll notice about me. And as for approval, the only one that need matter now is my own.
I know there have to be people in my life who are dying to ask me how I got so dang big - especially people who knew me before, when I was normal sized. The answer is simple, and awfully complicated.
Mainly - obviously - I am fat because I love food. I love to eat, I love to cook. I love to invent recipes; I love to learn complicated cooking methods. I love to watch the Food Network (I call it food porn). I love to nurture people with food. I love to impress people with my ability to cook good food. In part, I define being a woman with the ability to nurture, please and impress with good food.
I'm a Southern girl, cooking is what we do. Or rather, one of the things we do, along with wear full pageant makeup to the mailbox, use the adjective 'sweet' as an insult, drop our 'g's, refrain from sweating in 100 degree heat by sheer force of will, and leave the womb with a working knowledge of etiquette and offensive pass interference.
But, there are other issues too, and like all really good deep seated issues, many of mine are rooted in childhood. Now, I basically define being an adult as getting over your childhood, whether it was good, bad, or otherwise. I also think childhood can have a huge impact on habits and behavior. So, into mine we shall delve. Get comfy.
The first time I recall being aware of weight was in 1st grade, when my teacher put a height/weight chart on the wall. I wasn't the largest kid in the class - there was a little boy who was very obese. I was nowhere near his size, but I was taller, and weighed more than he did. Kids are mean in general, and I guess there were more than the normal share of little assholes in my class that year. I know there were. We used to play this game when the teacher would leave the room, where one of the leader kids would ask 'Who likes Susie?' and those who did would raise their hand. The whole class always voted that they liked the popular kids, even though looking back, some of them were totally unlikeable. One little boy, I recall, did not fit in well at the homogeneous, don't-you-dare-be-different private school I went to, and whenever the question was posed 'Who likes Lee?' not a single hand went up. Kids are mean, but that game, looking back, seems particularly awful. So, you can imagine the comments I got when my weight went up on the wall as the highest in the class. Little bastards.
When I was eight or ten, my mother decided I should do the Weight Watchers program with her. Like many girls, my relationship with her had major power struggle elements, and for us they somehow unconsciously became centered around food. My childhood and adolescence was filled with hearing about what I didn't 'need' to eat. I can still remember the exact tone and inflection of her voice if I was caught picking at something before or after mealtime. So, I began sneaking food. Extra desserts, the Little Debbie cakes that were for my brother's school lunches, even slices of bread or meat - I distinctly remember hiding chicken fried steak in the waistband of my pajama pants, trying to get down the hall to my bedroom without getting caught.
Still, I wasn't a obese kid, just a little chubby. I had taken dance since age 6, and since my dad was a gym rat, I worked out too. Despite the heat, kids in the South were not allowed to lounge indoors all day back then, and I ran around our neighborhood, being chased by dogs and the occasional boy with beebee gun. I got plenty of exercise. But my fear of not being perfect kept me from enjoying sports. While I was quite an athlete in my own backyard, I could never show those same abilities when a crowd, even of just my peers, was watching. I equated that lack of athletic ability with being fat, even though I really wasn't. And this is the strongest argument I have for the power of visualization - I believed I was fat, and in enough time, I became so. But not for a long while.
In high school, I was a completely normal size, and very active. I kept dancing, moving into classical ballet as well as other genres. I sang in the school's choir group, which put on ambitious productions with lots of dance numbers. I walked with friends for exercise, and continued to go to gym with my dad. I was fit and strong. But I never understood that every item of clothing in the store was not meant for every person. When I tried on short skirts in the department store and my mom sniffed her disapproval and said 'That makes you look ten pounds heavier,' to me, that meant I was fat.
Never mind that I had a tiny waist and what was becoming a nicely curvy figure - I'd kill to have my teenage body back. I didn't appreciate it - I thought I was fat, the fattest, disgusting, unlovable. I recently read some old journals of mine from high school, and it's page after page of lamenting how fat I was, disgusted with myself, determined to 'do something' about my weight. I thought boys didn't like me because I was fat. I was a size 6 or 8 then. Boys didn't like me because I was smart and quiet and terrified of them, and they thought I was a snob. Or they just plain didn't know me, because I wouldn't let them.
So, cut to college - partying, drinking, eating whatever I wanted. As a freshman, I still exercised and continued to dance for a time. But before long, I started making bad choices, mainly using food as reward or comfort to deal with a growing problem with depression. Sometime during my sophomore year, I had stopped any semblance of exercise and topped 200 pounds for the first time. That summer was spent at home with my mom's disapproval hanging over me, losing weight and basically becoming anorexic. I ate almost nothing - saltine crackers and a Diet Coke for lunch, maybe a Lean Cuisine for dinner, taking cold medicine at night to make me sleep so I would not eat. Walking, always walking, exercising at every opportunity. I remember telling my mom that if I were thin and eating like that, she would think I had an eating disorder. She agreed.
I got close to thin that summer, losing 40 lbs in about 3 months. Then I went back to college, a huge state school this time, transferring away from the small women's college I'd gone to the first two years. I had been miserable there, but in retrospect, I would have been miserable anywhere. I sought approval in men's attention, quickly got into a bad relationship, and basically ate all the time. My depression deepened; weight packed on. I tried Jenny Craig, lost a little, gained it back. I felt worse, so I ate more. It felt like I was trying to prove something with all the eating, but I am still not sure what.
Then graduation came, along with the inevitable breakup with the college boyfriend, and the first job, a very stressful one in the news industry. With no real friends in a new city, food continued to be my comfort and recreation. It was my only friend. Nothing to do on a Saturday night? Find something good on television, go to the grocery store and make yourself a gourmet meal. I became a great cook. But by then I was totally out of control, more than 250 lbs, and after that who cares? Each new pound just seemed like a drop in the ocean.
I met my husband, B, when I weighed somewhere between 250 and 275. Between his goodness and the maturity that getting past age 25 brings, the depression, blessedly, evaporated. The fat, not so much. Four months into dating B, I began law school, moved away from him and gained more, breaking 300. Since we married, I've gained even more quickly, in part probably due to being so secure that he loves me no matter what. Since that time, I have done Weight Watchers four or five times, and pills from the doctor, but the scale mainly has gone up and up. Actually, that's a lie. My weight has gone up and up. I didn't HAVE a scale for the first four years or so we were married - hadn't had one since college. For years, I not only didn't know what I weighed, I truly didn't care.
So, that's the how. As for the why - well, I only really have guesses. For one thing, bad body image played a major part. I thought of my self as fat, even when I was thin. I became my vision of myself. Also, I have recently realized how much perfectionism had to do with it. I couldn't be perfect, and instead of being happy with what I could do well, I focused on what I couldn't do. Instead of just accepting my body's limitations, from how it looked to what it could do, I let them overwhelm me. And my rocky at times relationship with my mother didn't help - she tends to withhold love and approval when people don't conform to her vision of what they should be and do. In some ways, I think I got fat to prove to her that she would still love me, and that others would still love me, even if I wore on my body the most obvious imperfections I could.
But as I said earlier, I define being an adult as getting over childhood. All these situations and issues written about above have to cease to matter, or at least, they have to be used now to fuel something other than my appetite for food. If I'm going to change my body, I'm going to have to change my life, and that starts with changing the life inside my head. I have to put away the idea of looking perfect, and concentrate on looking my best, regardless of my size. I don't need to be an athlete, but I would like for my body to feel strong again. I can let people see my other imperfections, instead of hiding behind fat, hoping it's all they'll notice about me. And as for approval, the only one that need matter now is my own.
Saturday, September 27, 2008
Hello Out There.....
Okay, here's the thing - I know "Oneder Woman" sounds a little in love with myself, but it's not what you think. Notably, it's not 'wonder,' like wonderful, wondrous, or even wondering. I didn't choose the name because of the obvious link to the seminal female superhero.
I am becoming Oneder Woman, and the name represents goals for myself that are both internal and external. As I am sure I will be posting about frequently, my weight is an issue. Not a 'oh, I'm so fat, I'm a size 14' kind of issue - more like, if I gain an ounce, no store will have clothes that fit me; it's hard to tie my shoes; amusement parks are a nonstarter because I don't fit in the rides kind of issue.
You don't find professional football linemen that weigh what I weigh. Heavyweight boxers don't weigh what I weigh. Hell, small vehicles don't weigh what I weigh.
Okay, maybe that last one was an exaggeration, but only slightly. I weigh 325 pounds, and that's not my highest weight. I topped out at 365 pounds, and I swear, one of the only reasons I didn't end it all right there was the idea of the sheer size of my casket, not to mention the number of strong men it would take to haul me down the aisle. Plus, my husband would have to find something for me to wear, which would mean he would find out my size. So, for that (and actually valid, obvious reasons) I decided that kind of permanent action was not the answer.
I am hopeful, I hope you can tell, but it took a drastic step to get me here. After years of struggling, trying Jenny Craig, and Weight Watchers (both good programs), prescribed pills, exercise, and fantasizing about just cutting the fat off my body, I had LAP-band surgery. Lots of people have strong feelings about this kind of medical intervention, some even think it's morally wrong, but so far it's been the right choice for me. Since April I've lost about 40 pounds, and though I haven't been perfect, I feel good about my decision.
So, calling myself Oneder Woman isn't about who I think I am, but rather it's about who I am becoming - the real me, the confident person who doesn't mind if people really see her, who doesn't hide behind layers of fat. The 'One' in Oneder Woman refers to weighing less than 200 pounds for the first time since college. The 'One' refers to being the size of one person, not two or three large people. The 'One' refers to being one person, not trying to be everything to everyone, not trying to be perfect, and to knowing that I am not 'less than' either.
Becoming Oneder Woman means becoming the one woman God created me to be, no more, no less.
I am becoming Oneder Woman, and the name represents goals for myself that are both internal and external. As I am sure I will be posting about frequently, my weight is an issue. Not a 'oh, I'm so fat, I'm a size 14' kind of issue - more like, if I gain an ounce, no store will have clothes that fit me; it's hard to tie my shoes; amusement parks are a nonstarter because I don't fit in the rides kind of issue.
You don't find professional football linemen that weigh what I weigh. Heavyweight boxers don't weigh what I weigh. Hell, small vehicles don't weigh what I weigh.
Okay, maybe that last one was an exaggeration, but only slightly. I weigh 325 pounds, and that's not my highest weight. I topped out at 365 pounds, and I swear, one of the only reasons I didn't end it all right there was the idea of the sheer size of my casket, not to mention the number of strong men it would take to haul me down the aisle. Plus, my husband would have to find something for me to wear, which would mean he would find out my size. So, for that (and actually valid, obvious reasons) I decided that kind of permanent action was not the answer.
I am hopeful, I hope you can tell, but it took a drastic step to get me here. After years of struggling, trying Jenny Craig, and Weight Watchers (both good programs), prescribed pills, exercise, and fantasizing about just cutting the fat off my body, I had LAP-band surgery. Lots of people have strong feelings about this kind of medical intervention, some even think it's morally wrong, but so far it's been the right choice for me. Since April I've lost about 40 pounds, and though I haven't been perfect, I feel good about my decision.
So, calling myself Oneder Woman isn't about who I think I am, but rather it's about who I am becoming - the real me, the confident person who doesn't mind if people really see her, who doesn't hide behind layers of fat. The 'One' in Oneder Woman refers to weighing less than 200 pounds for the first time since college. The 'One' refers to being the size of one person, not two or three large people. The 'One' refers to being one person, not trying to be everything to everyone, not trying to be perfect, and to knowing that I am not 'less than' either.
Becoming Oneder Woman means becoming the one woman God created me to be, no more, no less.
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