I'm Still Here!

Yes, that's right. I didn't fall off the face of the earth or into a crevasse somewhere in Idaho. Whether there is still anyone out there reading is another question, but onward I will go.

It's mid-August now and unlikely there are any beach days left, but should there be, I am there. Not having gone all summer I feel a distinct lacking both in my pallor and number of times I put on the swimsuit purchased in May that no longer fits well. If you're wondering where I've been, it's in part laziness, part lack of notable things to say, and part real life distraction. I spent the better part of the summer, and a month or so leading up to it preparing for the legal equivalent to water boarding, the bar. That is all I'll say about it here and hereafter because a jinx is a terrible thing.

It's been a tumutulous summer; the kind that makes you re-examine your life and wonder if you're better off living in a hut in Tibet or selling crafts on some dodgy street in Peru; in other words, hiding away from the world. Not counting the fray and subsequent discord that very nearly undid a year and a half relationship, a few weeks before the bar (great timing) I was told by someone so inconsequential to my life it's ridiculous that I appeared to be around the "2" mark. How this conversation got started isn't particularly germane to this discussion, but he complimented me on my noticeable weight loss before proceeding to slap me with one of the worst insults I've ever received in my life. If I hadn't done an immediate about face proceeded by a shaking of the head in an effort to bleach the remark from my mind, in a single moment I would have allowed this meaningless person to undermine an entire year of work, sacrifice, and gain of an entirely different sort than pounds.

Acceptance is a refined skill. I was filled in May with an extra cc. Promptly complained to Dr. J a month later that I was too tight, but kept it going so I could make it to my one bandiversary. I consistently say that if I didn't lose another pound I would still be content. More than content, happy, with what I've accomplished and where I am in my health and dress size. While that is true, I still march on, wanting more. I suppose that's part of human nature. Having reached my year mark, and sliding on those size 10 (that really needed bolding!) petite pants, a number I haven't seen in as many years and having to look, and then look again to make sure someone hasn't switched the tags I feel I'm at a precipice. A good precipice. A leap forward and away from the person I have been for the last decade, feeling fat and unhappy.

I once read in a satirical book, a woman pronounce herself as having a Doctorate in self-loathing with a minor in using food for emotional control. Jesus was that ever me. Except that instead of writing a book on how to embrace your big fat ass, I opted to finally get rid of mine. I haven't wanted to binge in I don't know how long and I don't sweat my ass off walking to work unless it's 90 degrees out. That's where I am at this year mark. And I am so incredibly grateful to my surgeon, my shrink and the multitude of others who helped me get here.

Forever 21?

It's been a while since I could realistically shop at Express, recommended to me again by a friend for the "Editor" pants collection. Specifically, it was college, and I asked my Mom if she would take me shopping because I was gaining weight and none of my size 10 or 12 pants fit anymore. (Sadly, this was the beginning of a downward turn that would land me squarely in the land of Lane Bryant and Target Plus for years) I was 20 years old, Express was the "it" store at the time in our hometown mall, apart from the Limited, and I needed some jeans that didn't look like they would burst at the seams at any moment.

I loved everything in the store, the sequins, the ruffles, the cling-y cotton tops. The tweens who worked there (apart from my friend Becky) were all sort of bitchy, but bitchy in the way girls that age are supposed to be, and because I was close enough to it myself I barely noticed. In the end, we walked out with two pairs of size 14 jeans that fit like a glove, and though I was grateful, I bemoaned that I was headed back in the direction of fat girl.

Sidebar- I went to AC with a group of friends two weekends ago. One of the two other girls going is my age and has an ecletic sort of Carrie Bradshaw vibe going and has always sported fun and usually "young" looking clothes. The other one is only 25 and the Express sequin-y clingy dresses are a staple of hers. My style (which I have grown into quite comfortably) is much more subdued, but I think sexy and fun in its own right.

With all this in mind, I strolled into Express just a couple of blocks down at lunch. I eyed a couple of the sequin dresses and even picked up a couple of the tighter tops. I felt better surrounded by the 21-something salesgirls when I saw several women obviously my age and even older perusing the same racks as I was. I grabbed up a couple of the only size 12/14 short pants in the place and headed to the dressing room. The girl that found them for me followed with a "we don't usually carry that size in short, so you're lucky." Yep- still bitches.

I started with some of the cotton/sequin dresses (in medium and large, not x-large thank you) thinking "hey, I can be fun and flirty too!" and dismissed them the minute they came over my head. I nearly cried when the 12 short pants fit up over my hips and zipped without a single strain, but they too weren't quite right. The shirt was long enough to be a mini-dress on me...if I wanted to look like one of the cocktail waitresses at AC, but would have looked ridiculous on me with jeans.

"What is this?" I thought. I'm not 45. I don't need to shop at Talbots just yet. My girlfriends (even the ones my age) that shop here look awesome in this stuff. WTF is my problem???

I guess, for me anyway, Forever 21, Express, and Charlotte Russe are behind me and I will stick to the lands of Banana Republic and Jones New York. It's ok. I had my time there, and it was good.

Haute Cuisine...or not

I recently finished a great read (made infinitely better if you are of the softer sex and were born between the years of 1976-1982...or so- it's a generational thing) by Sloane Crosley, called "I Was Told There Would Be Cake." I found her in an excerpted chapter on Salon where she covets the idea of a one night stand. Personally, I think they should have chosen the chapter where Sloane is propelled by guilt to the title of Maid of Honor (in pink plaid, no less) in a friend's wedding to whom she hasn't much spoken to since they were making forts out of couch cushions. Incidentally, this is exactly the type of book I can see myself writing- nostalgic and sarcastically dripping with humor- if my writing wasn't all over the place. Perhaps someday. Getting back to the point, in one of the last chapters/essays, Sloane laments her futile attempts to put together an elegant tart dessert in her Manhattan kitchen the size of a phone booth.

I used to bake. That is, I would occasionally blend a pre-mix of Betty Crocker Devil's Food Cake in the oven for 30 minutes and throw raspberries on top of it after mucking up the pre-made frosting 3 or 12 times and considered myself a lover of baking. This, when I had a kitchen in my converted apartment within a Victorian home in Massachusetts the size of my entire current NYC apartment.

I have taken criticism and and jaw-drops to my eating habits, or lack therof for years. I suppose, like all good children, I can blame my mother for this. Before I moved to New York, I had never tasted crab cake, or foie gras, and most of my foods were blissfully processed with things no one should be able to pronounce. Growing up, my mother had a philosophy that if her children didn't know what they were eating, all the better for them. Sadly for her, she had a wily tomboy on her hands who didn't want to eat if she didn't know what it was and would rather snack on the crabbing bait. Yes, in that manner, I shake my head at what a disgusting and quizzical child I truly was.

We weren't allowed cereals with sugar as one of the first three ingredients listed (seriously), enjoyed the state powdered milk and cheese for a long stretch, couldn't afford the more glamourous meal ingredients, and Mom worked a lot, so we dined on similar meals from week to week. There was no viewing of Julia Child, or Rachel Ray to come up with 20 minute healthy meals. So, it is that which I attribute my palate's adjustment, and ultimately, enjoyment of what others would consider painfully bland foods...and Lowry's Season Salt.

When I was 16, a six month stint working at McDonald's was all it took for me to swear off condiments for life. I still don't eat them, and won't eat anything that's remotely touched, or looks as if it's touched one. I fear change, obviously. The Subway folks hate me because I make them change gloves.

Today, with the growing list of foods I'm allergic to and the steadfast list of foods that make me recoil in fear and disgust, I have increasing fun trying to figure out what to eat. I once saw a Biggest Loser episode where a contestant was chided for his daily turkey sandwiches. "You're not going to eat those every day for the rest of your life, are you?" I took one look at the TV, and thought YES, by God, I can.

Moving to Manhattan, one of the foodie capitals of the world, has only highlighted this love/hate relationship I share with the stuff we need to keep on living. Amplifying this is that my kitchen really is the size of phone booth. There's a sink, but not a whole lot else going on there. No stove, no burners...my microwave sits on top of the small apt. size refrigerator and gloats that it's only really good for heating lean cuisines and campbell's soup.

One of my goals, and reasons for wanting to leave pristine Tudor City is in hopes of gaining a kitchen. A real actual kitchen that a 30 year old should have. Maybe once I get it I can work on expanding my palate. Nothing crazy here, there'll be no condiments- I'm not ready for that yet, but maybe I'll make a tart.

Confidence is Key

Not long ago, a new girl (I say girl, and not woman for specific reasons- see below) joined our firm and began sitting on my floor. She is a quintessential shlumpadinka (thanks to the source of that word- you know who you are) who consistently wears extremely unflattering clothes, man shoes, doesn't bother to do more than run a brush through her hair, doesn't wear makeup, and is considerably overweight. I can think of many TLC driven shows that would be keenly interested.

Why is this relevant, do you ask? Why does this girl- whose name I don't even know- bother me? How can I think such profoundly nasty things about someone I don't even know? I cringe every time I have to pass her. There was one occasion not too long ago, where she was wearing one of her blah white button-up shirts oh so cruelly tucked into her tummy flab and high waist pants that her entire right breast was hanging out of because she needed serious help from some double-sided sticky tape- and I was prepared to march her down to Saks to get it...alone with a few other essentials.

I realized recently that I hate to look at her (it pains me to look at her) because I was her. I'm not talking about me a year or two years ago when I was at my highest weight ever (but still dressed very well, thank you), but more like 10. This "girl" of perhaps 27 or 28 was me in high school. I say this because I don't get the sense that she's rebelling or turning down the "man" by dressing or lacking accessories the way she does, but that she 1. doesn't have a clue how she is presenting herself to the world and/or 2. lacks self-confidence and gave up trying (perhaps).

I recently watched an old French class VHS of me circa 1994. The hideous glasses, the tucked in t-shirt that had nothing to do with what the styles of the times were, the flat hair that I barely made effort to blow dry and brush, the lack of any makeup, the fact that I spent so much time looking towards the ground it's a wonder I didn't realize how ugly my shoes were....cringeworthy. Oh, and I did cringe. Jesus...I was Ugly Betty, without the confidence she carries or the trendy cable ratings.

When I had lunch with the friend who I made the tape with not long ago, we talked about how we had changed since high school. For her part, she's lost about 40 lbs and 6 sizes; and as for me, I gained a style (I like to think), and a confident sense of myself that I couldn't have begun to conceptualize back then. Life was just too shitty.

I don't know if this new girl on my floor is depressed or doesn't care, or just plain too tired at the end of the day to do more. I also couldn't ever attempt to intervene because it would be inappropriate and rude. But I'd like to. I like to think that makes up for some of the cruel thoughts I have about her appearance. I don't want to make her like me, but I could see me swooping in like the "what not to wear" guru's and turning her into a stunning reflection.

Perhaps I'm wrong. Perhaps she's totally comfortable and confident with herself and how she looks. Perhaps I'm a nasty bitch for this entire rant. Then again, if I'm right she could probably use some guidance and a lunch friend. Maybe I'll even have time to try that before I leave this place for good.

Tragedy Strikes!

Oh Holy God, I have grey hair. There is no way to sugar coat this frightening yet inevitable turn of events. So far, there has only been one rogue sprouting, wiry white fleck, but to be sure, more are coming. I completely ignored every old wives tale and superstition about 7 replacing 1 and plucked that sucker out seconds after I saw it.

I have vivid recollections of dying my mom's hair in the bathroom when she didn't want to be bothered with the salon, or felt it wasn't worth the expense that month. I have to add the caveat here, that as a granola woman who felt it misogynistic to shave her legs, she barely felt it necessary to do to begin with and mainly did so (I think) to appease me (though she always liked it afterwards).

If genetics have anything to say about things (and they will- we looked a lot alike) I have lots of white, unruly hair coming to me, particularly in the top and front. I'm sure wherever she is, she's laughing heartily at my current misfortune.

I've done the calculation, and I think I have a safe countdown of at least a couple of years before I can no longer pluck out random hairs and the non-stop coloring begins. Unfortunately for my hair follicles, which are healthy now after I stopped coloring over a year ago, I don't think I will wait that long. And so begins the death sentence...

Trials and Tribulations

So, my friendly readers...it has been more than a month since I've managed more than a thought or two towards this blog (usually just a passing "damn, it's been a while since I posted", and then I go back to Perez Hilton). Unfortunately, I'm afraid now that I've returned, though I do have some things to say, not many of them are cheery.

On the upside of things, I've been working steady with John, my personal trainer, for over a month now and I feel stronger and healthier for it. Getting to the gym on the days I don't meet with John are still a challenge, but it's getting easier.

I took Richard to Las Vegas for the weekend + two days for his birthday celebration. Expecting to gain several pounds in liquor and bad poolside eating, I actually dropped about 7 subsisting on a diet of cosmo's and not much else, including sleep. I'm thinking of selling the "Vegas" diet on the internet somewhere. I'm sure there's a market for it.

The big news waited until I got back, and had settled into the office Thursday morning. The news we had at least partially expected, but expected to take much longer had arrived. They're closing down my group, which means one of two things. I can either accept the extremely gracious offer of switching to something else within the firm, or look elsewhere if I wish to stay in bankruptcy.

It's Friday now and I'd be lying if I said I wasn't still a little shell-shocked. My mind is racing with contacts and possibilities. I'm going to Connecticut this weekend for a fundraising walk. I guess I'm hoping inspriation will strike me on the highway, where my metaphorical highway of choices will meet the real one and a decision will snap into view. Wish me luck.

I am WOMAN, hear me rant

Kindly forgive the tirade- there is not much sense in the stream of consciousness to follow:

When I was 11 my mother told me the day I got my period she would bake me a cake. We'd have a little party with streamers and candles and celebrate all that is womanhood. Even at such a tender age, my sarcastic streak intact, I balked at the idea of raising joyous glee over something that would bring me monthly excrutiating cramps, emotional swings that would make any and all intelligent people avoid me for 2-3 days, tender breasts, inability to zip my pants because of bloating...and we're not even going to touch on the demon itself. Other women out there, I think, will understand why.

My mother didn't find out I had gotten my period (months before) until a doctor's appointment quite a bit later. To this day, I don't think she forgave me for robbing her of her earth-mother celebratory dance. Hoo-rah, we don't have penile appendages weighing us down and we are the bearers of all mankind...Hoo-rah! OK- perhaps that's a bit extreme, but she was irked. Her return to the feminine mystique at the time makes morse sense when I remember that it's the same time frame she came out as a lesbian. She was always a little granola, that one.

I was talking to a male friend of mine today, and somewhere the topic of his wife's stretchmarks came up. "She only has them on her stomach," he belabored about her post-babies figure, "but they're noticeable...you can see them from like 40 feet away." My instant reaction, given my penchant of late for cosmetic procedures was to tell him she should see a dermatologist, or a plastics guy if there was excess skin they could just snip off. It didn't occur to me until later to wonder WTF?!? since they didn't seem to bother her all that much.

Oh the sufferings we women endure (as I fondly think back to my summer readings of Nora Ephron and her guilt over neck rings). Even if we somehow manage to find acceptance in ourselves, to proudly take our clothes off in the gym locker room without feeling inadequate, too fat, or too thin; to wear that little black dress without a shawl; to manage to conquer our own demons of the non-flo variety, we shall always feel the need for more it seems.

I'm not saying I mind the upkeep, for there is male upkeep to, albeit of a far lower expense and production. I'm not looking to trade my breasts or my uterus (although, in fairness I don't plan to use it; so whose brilliant idea it was to give me one and deny thousands of women their own fair use is beyond me) on ebay for a penis and some testosterone. I like my heels for the power they instill in me when I wear them...the instantly sexy feeling. I would still get my waxings monthly even if I had no man expecting it, just because I like it. I would continue to have my weekly pedi/mani if for no other reason than the stress release of a spa footrub. I would even wear makeup.

But god damn it, if my man; after providing him his children from my ripped open nether regions following 9 months of hell and intense discomfort moaned and groaned at me about a few stretch marks; particularly if he was a little soggy in the middle section, particularly if he were lax in a grooming area...I swear I would raise some holy hell.

Somehow, I think we got the short end of the stick.