I tried on a pair of jeans this weekend that hadn't fit well in God knows how many depressing months. To put it another way, I could not get into these jeans before without several hops, yanks, and pulls, and lots of stomach-sucking in lying across the bed. Once I got into them, I would be out of breath and too tired to go wherever it was I wanted to look fierce at in the first place. Too tight, too uncomfortable, too much effort to get the zipper up and I'd woefully relegate my thighs into some comfy stretchy-fabric jeans that would give as much liberal freedom to my fat as possible.
Yesterday, they slid perfectly up my thighs and over my ass and the zipper...well, it was no strain to get it to the right place.
Now, speaking of my ass, which is one feature you will never see photo-spread across this blog (as comfortable as I am, or tell myself that I am about posting bare tummy-scarred pics), a few words are in order. I try not to look at my ass. Most of the time, I like to pretend it's not there. I avoid those triple mirrors in department stores that give you the 360 view, and I never turn around in my own full length mirror. I think a lot of women have this dysfunctional relationship with their ass. At least, I like to think that's why a lot of women go out with seriously bad panty lines, or butt-sagging fabric making their derriere look much worse than it is.
I do not look at my ass because of DNA. I didn't get much from my Mom's side physically speaking. Most of me comes from my father's portuguese half, the dark hair and eyes, my former ability to tan really, really well,etc... My ass however; as my sister so often liked to point out after adolescent puberty hit, came directly from Mom. Yeah, thanks Mom. It's not that I don't have one. Oh, believe me, it's there. But the only junk in the trunk are the flat tires. Flat, flat, flat. If you have a big ass, flat is not the word you want to be using. After all, I don't think 'Baby Got Back' was about a flat tundra land-surface the size of some of the smaller asian countries- grouped TOGETHER.
I actually had a boyfriend postulate once whether or not my ass would still be flat after losing some weight, because you 'never can tell.' Yes baby, once all the cellulite melts off in the gym, my ass will take the form of two perfect, bulbous mounds, just like you've dreamed. I laugh about it now, of course.
My ass will always be flat, though it may get smaller and smaller, short of medically assisted lifts, or fat deposited from my stomach to my gluts, or those new "lifting" panties they sell for $100 a pop in the boutiques that give you shelf-booty. F-dat.
The point of my long-winded rant is that when I tried on those jeans, the jeans that I couldn't fit into right for probably a year, that sat on their shelf collecting dust, my ass looked good! No, seriously. I turned around in the full-length mirror, cautiously, sighing, but actually smiled at what I saw.
I had some music on, and so I did what I shall henceforth call my 'booty dance of freedom'. Freedom from stretchy jean fabric, from fear and loathing of the 3-way mirror, and from booty shame. I put on a black cami, a grey sweater and my favorite Banana strappy heels (even in the 'short' length these babies are too long for me in flats) and I was ready for the beautiful September Sunday.
Oh, and yes, I felt fierce.
Monday, September 17, 2007
Wednesday, September 12, 2007
Despondency
Grief is a funny thing. It creeps up on you at the strangest times, and just when you think you're done...you're not. Some say you will never be done...others say it does happen, somewhere along the way. I once read a perfect analogy on this:
Imagine a really big pile of rice. I can't say how big it is, maybe even you can't...but it's big. Slowly, one by one, you will have to pick up every single grain and move it to somewhere else. There is no fast way to do this. You don't get a shovel. You don't even get to use handfuls. Just one grain at a time. Every memory, every thought, every shared experience, every dream about the future. One by one by one. Some days you'll turn away from the pile and ignore it for a while. That's ok. Some time...next month, next year,...who knows when, you'll realize that the pile is a little smaller. Some times the grains of rice will demand to be moved when you least expect them. Some memory in the grocery store or gas station. Some day in the future, you'll have moved it all and realize you are done.
I think back to the night my mom died, and how I felt like I would never be 'ok' again. I remember saying it to my friend in Wisconsin later on, before I crumpled to the floor and stayed there for a few days. That was more than two years ago. Am I ok? Some days.
As I type, my father (d/b/a sperm donor of choice) is dying in a hospital somewhere two states away of a horrible, painful, debilitating disease of his own creation following more than 30 years of hard drinking. He has been through 5 different hospitals and been getting his most recent care at an aptly named rehab facility, a place where no one is expected to rehabilitate, or at least, not him. I spent the first month of his rapidly declining illness on the phone with doctors, with family members, with anyone I could talk to about his treatment, prognosis, and spoke to him every day, catering to his demands for toothbrushes, newspapers, and 7am calls that the nurses' weren't answering his pages and he needed to go to the bathroom again. I made myself sick with stress and worry, and anxiety. I got on a train. I did everything a dutiful daughter is supposed to do in times such as these for a father who couldn't have given a shit less. I played the game.
When I had my surgery, I took a week off. And when I didn't hear anything from him for that week until he needed something yet again, I got angry. I stuck my head in the sand, pretended he didn't exist, and quietly managed the lexicon of administrative bullshit behind the scenes, getting news from my cousin now and again.
Today, that gurgling of stress that begins as a pit in my stomach, and has nothing to do with surgical bands is rising again as I make distressed phone calls to ER's, yelling at asinine nurses about the HIPA law and proxy codes, and POA's to banking directors and wail to myself at the idea of going through all of this ALL OVER AGAIN.
But when I pounded my fist into the pillows last night, and cried uncontrollably (for a record 15 minutes) and screamed at myself, and collapsed to the floor in exhaustion, sadness, and rage, I did not think about that man two states away. I thought about my Mom, how much I wanted to call her, that I had to strain to remember what she sounded like, and could only do it under certain contexts ("Valerie ____ (middle name), get down here!"- some things you don't forget), and then only a little.
I do not play the game anymore, and I have said I will be there when the time comes, but I will not feel sad, or despondent, or the least bit guilty (Look Mom, no guilt) if I happen to miss that moment.
Today I would like to be like my sister, and go on burying my head in the sand, and pretending that he really doesn't exist, and do nothing, no matter what the news. But I was not wired in such a way. However, the sicker he gets, the worse he is, the closer he gets to that final gasp of air, the more I think about my Mom, and how much I wish she was still around; not about him. Perhaps that makes me an equally bad person; I couldn't say.
Last night I looked at my hands, that were...that are so much like hers, that are getting thinner to the point where my rings are starting to fall off as hers did close to the end, and remembered holding her hand as she died. I struggled to recall the last thing she said. Struggled because so much of her memory ingrained is of a sick, completely different person with no verbal abilities left.
I don't want that memory anymore. Christ, I don't want it. Much as I hate and love that man two states away, I don't want any new ones from him either.
Imagine a really big pile of rice. I can't say how big it is, maybe even you can't...but it's big. Slowly, one by one, you will have to pick up every single grain and move it to somewhere else. There is no fast way to do this. You don't get a shovel. You don't even get to use handfuls. Just one grain at a time. Every memory, every thought, every shared experience, every dream about the future. One by one by one. Some days you'll turn away from the pile and ignore it for a while. That's ok. Some time...next month, next year,...who knows when, you'll realize that the pile is a little smaller. Some times the grains of rice will demand to be moved when you least expect them. Some memory in the grocery store or gas station. Some day in the future, you'll have moved it all and realize you are done.
I think back to the night my mom died, and how I felt like I would never be 'ok' again. I remember saying it to my friend in Wisconsin later on, before I crumpled to the floor and stayed there for a few days. That was more than two years ago. Am I ok? Some days.
As I type, my father (d/b/a sperm donor of choice) is dying in a hospital somewhere two states away of a horrible, painful, debilitating disease of his own creation following more than 30 years of hard drinking. He has been through 5 different hospitals and been getting his most recent care at an aptly named rehab facility, a place where no one is expected to rehabilitate, or at least, not him. I spent the first month of his rapidly declining illness on the phone with doctors, with family members, with anyone I could talk to about his treatment, prognosis, and spoke to him every day, catering to his demands for toothbrushes, newspapers, and 7am calls that the nurses' weren't answering his pages and he needed to go to the bathroom again. I made myself sick with stress and worry, and anxiety. I got on a train. I did everything a dutiful daughter is supposed to do in times such as these for a father who couldn't have given a shit less. I played the game.
When I had my surgery, I took a week off. And when I didn't hear anything from him for that week until he needed something yet again, I got angry. I stuck my head in the sand, pretended he didn't exist, and quietly managed the lexicon of administrative bullshit behind the scenes, getting news from my cousin now and again.
Today, that gurgling of stress that begins as a pit in my stomach, and has nothing to do with surgical bands is rising again as I make distressed phone calls to ER's, yelling at asinine nurses about the HIPA law and proxy codes, and POA's to banking directors and wail to myself at the idea of going through all of this ALL OVER AGAIN.
But when I pounded my fist into the pillows last night, and cried uncontrollably (for a record 15 minutes) and screamed at myself, and collapsed to the floor in exhaustion, sadness, and rage, I did not think about that man two states away. I thought about my Mom, how much I wanted to call her, that I had to strain to remember what she sounded like, and could only do it under certain contexts ("Valerie ____ (middle name), get down here!"- some things you don't forget), and then only a little.
I do not play the game anymore, and I have said I will be there when the time comes, but I will not feel sad, or despondent, or the least bit guilty (Look Mom, no guilt) if I happen to miss that moment.
Today I would like to be like my sister, and go on burying my head in the sand, and pretending that he really doesn't exist, and do nothing, no matter what the news. But I was not wired in such a way. However, the sicker he gets, the worse he is, the closer he gets to that final gasp of air, the more I think about my Mom, and how much I wish she was still around; not about him. Perhaps that makes me an equally bad person; I couldn't say.
Last night I looked at my hands, that were...that are so much like hers, that are getting thinner to the point where my rings are starting to fall off as hers did close to the end, and remembered holding her hand as she died. I struggled to recall the last thing she said. Struggled because so much of her memory ingrained is of a sick, completely different person with no verbal abilities left.
I don't want that memory anymore. Christ, I don't want it. Much as I hate and love that man two states away, I don't want any new ones from him either.
Sunday, September 9, 2007
Feel the Burn
Obviously this one is about getting back in the gym. My doc gave me the ok to start real exercising (as opposed to just walking) at 4 weeks, so I returned to NYHRC this weekend for the first time in over a month.
I have to say, on the whole it felt good to be back. I felt great to be more active, and I got that adrenaline rush you always get after the gym, thinking, "why the hell haven't I been here more often." Today was harder though, not because of the "day 2" but because I fell prey once again to my own inclination to be nice. Enter the pressure salesman of the local gym- THE PERSONAL TRAINER. Yikes. They are merciless as much as they are persistent.
"D" approached me when I was on the bike, 13 minutes in and feeling pretty good after having stretched all my muscles out in preparation. Then in he walked, first approaching a chick on the treadmill and then coming to me. I should have been smarter, I should have said I already had a trainer. I should have said anything but what I did say, which was sure, I'll take a free session. He came back with his calendar and signed me up for something next Sunday. Then came the clincher..., "I've got a few minutes before my next client. Let's get you started now."
"OK," I sheepishly mutter, climbing off the bike, my legs feeling like they've got steel boots strapped to each one now. That gooey feeling they get immediately after a bike session following a long break from the gym. I was in for it.
So he had me do stairs. Three stories x three reps. I got my albuteral after the second rep, and after the third I was dizzy, and wheezing, and thought I would either throw up or pass out. I was praying for the second one. Within minutes I was on the floor. Oops.
Don't overdo it they say....
Here's the thing..in between getting me more water, fanning me, and asking me repeatedly if I wanted an ambulance, "D" tells me he wants to get me back in for some training sessions. At least 3 or 4 a week, he says. He wants to help me tone up and lose weight. All this while I'm laying on back praying to the gods that my lungs start working again.
You've got to be kidding me.
I got away from "D" and finished my workout on the treadmill, walking it out for a couple of miles, and by the end I felt better. I felt like I'd make it home without dropping to my knees in the middle of the street, and I did.
No pain, no gain.
I have to say, on the whole it felt good to be back. I felt great to be more active, and I got that adrenaline rush you always get after the gym, thinking, "why the hell haven't I been here more often." Today was harder though, not because of the "day 2" but because I fell prey once again to my own inclination to be nice. Enter the pressure salesman of the local gym- THE PERSONAL TRAINER. Yikes. They are merciless as much as they are persistent.
"D" approached me when I was on the bike, 13 minutes in and feeling pretty good after having stretched all my muscles out in preparation. Then in he walked, first approaching a chick on the treadmill and then coming to me. I should have been smarter, I should have said I already had a trainer. I should have said anything but what I did say, which was sure, I'll take a free session. He came back with his calendar and signed me up for something next Sunday. Then came the clincher..., "I've got a few minutes before my next client. Let's get you started now."
"OK," I sheepishly mutter, climbing off the bike, my legs feeling like they've got steel boots strapped to each one now. That gooey feeling they get immediately after a bike session following a long break from the gym. I was in for it.
So he had me do stairs. Three stories x three reps. I got my albuteral after the second rep, and after the third I was dizzy, and wheezing, and thought I would either throw up or pass out. I was praying for the second one. Within minutes I was on the floor. Oops.
Don't overdo it they say....
Here's the thing..in between getting me more water, fanning me, and asking me repeatedly if I wanted an ambulance, "D" tells me he wants to get me back in for some training sessions. At least 3 or 4 a week, he says. He wants to help me tone up and lose weight. All this while I'm laying on back praying to the gods that my lungs start working again.
You've got to be kidding me.
I got away from "D" and finished my workout on the treadmill, walking it out for a couple of miles, and by the end I felt better. I felt like I'd make it home without dropping to my knees in the middle of the street, and I did.
No pain, no gain.
Tuesday, September 4, 2007
A Lot Could Change in 30 Minutes
I was reading a message board earlier today that was predicated on the notion of being able to change your life in 30 minute snippets. The idea being, that if you could change your life, not in the total grand scheme of things, or be able to go and start over at age 10 with the knowledge you have now, but to take 30 minute windows of time where you wanted to and change the course of your current existence, or perhaps just alter your actions without tremendous affect later, what would you change?
It made me think. Brilliant little ideas like these get the creative juices flowing, and so I thought back on my own life. Where would 30, or even 20, or 10 minutes make a big difference in where I am today? Would I want to change it? I'm not big on regret, because I tend to believe all that happens to you, or all you expereince is a component of who you are, and have become. Why change that? But there are certainly things I wish I could have a do-over on. Don't we all?
So...what I've come up with so far.
- I would have paid more attention getting out of the car that day..the day I lost my first Tiffany1837 necklace that I bought as a NYC memento my first solo trip back here- lost forever
- I wouldn't have gone swimming that Saturday afternoon with Christy...maybe a book, or the playground instead.
- I would have walked past the window and not bought those horrid patent leather red kitten heels...atrocious
- I wouldn't have wiped with poison ivy on that camping trip...those leaves over there look leafier
- The last shot (ok, shots) the night before I had to get on a train at 9am (and threw up on the train, repeatedly)
- Kissed Kevin in 3rd grade recess when I had the opportunity
- I would have waited for Megan* to get on the plane first, so she wouldn't have been so frightened instead of worrying about getting to that window seat (cringe)
- I would have said so, so much more to my Mom the 30 minutes before she passed...even though I knew she wouldn't really hear all of it
- I would have put the cell phone down before I got in that accident and totalled my car
- I would never have put that black cowel neck dress in the washer, thinking it would be fine...DAMN DAMN DAMN
- I would have been BOLD instead of standing in my doorway for what felt like ages just staring at him and not moving
- I would have picked the blue crayon first
Regret is a funny thing...
It made me think. Brilliant little ideas like these get the creative juices flowing, and so I thought back on my own life. Where would 30, or even 20, or 10 minutes make a big difference in where I am today? Would I want to change it? I'm not big on regret, because I tend to believe all that happens to you, or all you expereince is a component of who you are, and have become. Why change that? But there are certainly things I wish I could have a do-over on. Don't we all?
So...what I've come up with so far.
- I would have paid more attention getting out of the car that day..the day I lost my first Tiffany1837 necklace that I bought as a NYC memento my first solo trip back here- lost forever
- I wouldn't have gone swimming that Saturday afternoon with Christy...maybe a book, or the playground instead.
- I would have walked past the window and not bought those horrid patent leather red kitten heels...atrocious
- I wouldn't have wiped with poison ivy on that camping trip...those leaves over there look leafier
- The last shot (ok, shots) the night before I had to get on a train at 9am (and threw up on the train, repeatedly)
- Kissed Kevin in 3rd grade recess when I had the opportunity
- I would have waited for Megan* to get on the plane first, so she wouldn't have been so frightened instead of worrying about getting to that window seat (cringe)
- I would have said so, so much more to my Mom the 30 minutes before she passed...even though I knew she wouldn't really hear all of it
- I would have put the cell phone down before I got in that accident and totalled my car
- I would never have put that black cowel neck dress in the washer, thinking it would be fine...DAMN DAMN DAMN
- I would have been BOLD instead of standing in my doorway for what felt like ages just staring at him and not moving
- I would have picked the blue crayon first
Regret is a funny thing...
Sunday, September 2, 2007
Coping with Hunger
The band is a tool, not an easy button. It will not make you a size 2 overnight. It will not fix why you overeat in the first place, if that is an emotional hunger. The band is a tool, not an easy button. This is repeated like a cold mantra everywhere you look in the surgical cultural centers online and in the support groups. Everyone knows this. Tonight is my first real feel for the meaning.
I want to binge. I want to go down to Gristede's and buy pizza, and chicken, and cheese, and tater tots, and ice cream, and bring them all back to my apartment, hiding the bags behind my back as I walk into the elevator, like I'm carrying crack or heroin, and then eat and eat until I feel like bursting. I want the comfort of filling my face with hot pockets, and pudding, and anything else I can find until I have to unbutton my pants and everything is gone.
I feel like a drug addict going through withdrawal. I keep staring at my refrigerator, getting up and opening the door and sitting back down again. I page through magazines, thinking about the can of soup in my cabinet, another spoonful of sugar-free jello, or better yet, walking to the corner store for a pint of ice cream. Oh wait, I already did that today. I'm such a shameful piece of shit that this afternoon I walked myself down to the corner store and bought two gatorades (what I planned on getting) to help with the dehydration, and walked back with a pint of cherry garcia. I managed about 5 or 6 bites until I was disgusted with myself (and full- I'm not sure which dominated) and marched it down to the garbage shoot. What a freaking waste.
I recognize that I'm having a bad weekend, that I'm depressed. I see it in me. I know this is about relationships; about my father dying in the hospital two states over and my lack of desire to do anything for him, about my friends (or the people I thought were my friends) and the thoughtless comments they've made, about many people, and frustration, and anger, and sadness. But the way I want to deal with this is not to read a book, or take a bath, or a walk (it's too late anyway). I want to EAT, and I confess, I don't know how to deal with this. I don't feel like I have a lifeline. No one to say- put the spoon down bitch!
Even my new fish Moo Goo (short for Gai Pan- yes, I name my fish after chinese food objects.....issues anyone?) is starting to look good. Poor thing.
Today is a bad day. I feel desperate. I feel empty. Maybe tomorrow will be better.
I want to binge. I want to go down to Gristede's and buy pizza, and chicken, and cheese, and tater tots, and ice cream, and bring them all back to my apartment, hiding the bags behind my back as I walk into the elevator, like I'm carrying crack or heroin, and then eat and eat until I feel like bursting. I want the comfort of filling my face with hot pockets, and pudding, and anything else I can find until I have to unbutton my pants and everything is gone.
I feel like a drug addict going through withdrawal. I keep staring at my refrigerator, getting up and opening the door and sitting back down again. I page through magazines, thinking about the can of soup in my cabinet, another spoonful of sugar-free jello, or better yet, walking to the corner store for a pint of ice cream. Oh wait, I already did that today. I'm such a shameful piece of shit that this afternoon I walked myself down to the corner store and bought two gatorades (what I planned on getting) to help with the dehydration, and walked back with a pint of cherry garcia. I managed about 5 or 6 bites until I was disgusted with myself (and full- I'm not sure which dominated) and marched it down to the garbage shoot. What a freaking waste.
I recognize that I'm having a bad weekend, that I'm depressed. I see it in me. I know this is about relationships; about my father dying in the hospital two states over and my lack of desire to do anything for him, about my friends (or the people I thought were my friends) and the thoughtless comments they've made, about many people, and frustration, and anger, and sadness. But the way I want to deal with this is not to read a book, or take a bath, or a walk (it's too late anyway). I want to EAT, and I confess, I don't know how to deal with this. I don't feel like I have a lifeline. No one to say- put the spoon down bitch!
Even my new fish Moo Goo (short for Gai Pan- yes, I name my fish after chinese food objects.....issues anyone?) is starting to look good. Poor thing.
Today is a bad day. I feel desperate. I feel empty. Maybe tomorrow will be better.
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