Hi. May 31, 2010

It’s pretty sad when you’ve been away from your blog for so long that it doesn’t even show up in your browser history. That’s a long absence.

When I get into trouble – when things get hard – I disappear. And, well, I got into trouble and things got hard, and under my rock I climbed. It’s second-nature behavior for me. I’m good at recognizing it but haven’t yet succeeded in rethinking/reframing/rebehaving in a way that helps me through the challenges vs. just running away from them.

I’m reading a really great book by Geneen Roth called Women, Food and God. Because I’m a woman, obsessed with food, and utterly conflicted about God. So it’s a good fit, and a real eye opener.

When I read these “kinds” of books (and let’s face it, I’ve read a LOT of these kinds of books), I tend to underline passages that resonate with me. I’ve probably underlined 1/4th of it thus far and I’d *love* to post them but they’re so many I’m sure I’d get sued for copyright infringement.

What’s grabbing me the most, the thing that makes me tear up when I read it, is just how much I’ve used food as an escape. I have finally figured out that I’m not one of those people who says they “just love food.” I don’t love the food. Most of the time, I loathe the food (as I’m shoveling it down my gullet). What I love is what the food does for me. I love how the food makes me feel for the nanosecond I am eating it…before it’s gone.

There’s a line in the book where she writes (and I’m paraphrasing) that basically all the evils of the world would vanish when she’d eat a Hostess Sno-ball. In that moment, she became all that she didn’t believe she was at the moment. Until it was gone, of course.

When I eat, I am normal. And whole. And loved. When I eat, it’s a reward for putting in the extra hours (although, if I didn’t put in the extra hours, I wouldn’t be eating as poorly as I do). When I eat, it’s because I’m “treating” myself (even though 90% of time, the food is kinda crappy). When I eat, I am not the me I otherwise know myself to be (even if that “me” isn’t an accurate perception).

—-

So, yeah, there’s that.

I got into trouble not long after the “I think it’s gonna stick” post. Because, yeah, that was a smart idea – crowing to the universe about my newfound strength and resolve. Sigh. I found my eating habits getting a bit lax. I found my work life getting crazier. I found a seriously fantastic new way to distract myself from myself, and I fell off my wagon. HARD. And then I just abandoned everything I had been doing, and using every self-numbing tactic I knew. I found myself up 2 pounds on the home scale, and then skipped my Weight Watchers meeting. At the time I told myself it was okay. At the time I said that it was normal to have a gain after six great weeks. At the time I said no problem, I’ll shake it off and drop 4 pounds the next week.

And I haven’t been back since.
Nor have I gotten on any scale.
And I’m ashamed and embarrassed.

So here I am. Trying to grab hold and pull myself back from the brink. I’ve spent part of the day cleaning. Organizing my closet. Putting order to the chaos around me.

I’ve just thrown out my winter sweaters – my fall back clothes. They are so overworn (because nothing else fits and I hate shopping) that I couldn’t bear the sight of them anymore. Come next winter, I will have to buy new clothes, regardless of my size. I pray they will be smaller.

I’ve thrown out my folder of clippings. I’ve been clipping magazine articles about anything and everything for probably 10 years. Diet trends. Weight loss success stories. Exercise cards. “7 Ways to Feel Fearless!” kind of psychobabble. I’d look at my folder and always say to myself, “one day I’m going to work through that.” I would convince myself that my salvation would be found in the next story or sample menu. And, really, all I’ve ever done with it is schlep it from house to house, fiddle with it occasionally, and put it back wistfully because I wasn’t “ready” yet. Well, I’m never going to be ready. So it’s in the trash. I saved maybe 12 out of what is easily (no exaggeration) 200 pages. One page is a closet I covet (for my “next house”, of course). Another two pages are charts from when I was working with a trainer on free weights about, oh, 7 years ago? I’d like to get back to those numbers. I saved a group of pages from People’s “I Lost Half My Size” series because I look so much like their Before pictures – if they can do it, so can I. And I saved one article of a woman who started losing 150+ pounds after 40. Because 41 is ready to slap me upside the head in 2 weeks.

So, no, I don’t have any clue if *this* is going to stick. But I’d like it to be a tad sticky, at the very least. The fact that I’m posting today instead of deleting my entire blog (something I’ve done before), is a positive step in that direction – as is admitting how I’ve failed yet again.

I haven’t decided if I’ll be at my WW meeting on Saturday. As I think about it, I hear a friend’s voice in my ear asking me, “Why not just go?”

Perhaps.

My Life in Boxes April 11, 2010

I spent a good part of yesterday “Spring cleaning” our master bedroom and study. I’d intended to do more but I got derailed by a lengthy visit down memory lane in the form of five (yes, five) boxes of “for when I’m skinny” clothes.

I figured it would be a quick eyeball of things and I’d be on my way but that was not the case. I opened each box and carefully inspected each item. There had to be close to 100 different items of clothing by the time I was done.

Some of them I’d worn in the past and I ache to wear again.
Some were keepsake items of my previous “before” weights.
Some didn’t fit even back in the day and had tags on them…still waiting to see the light of day.

I often say that I don’t think or care much about clothes. I say that because I find no joy in the shopping experience. My goal is pretty simple – find something that covers me (not “fits”) and in a style/color I don’t hate. But truth be told, I do care. Of course I care. I have pride and vanity and I want to look good. I desperately want to enjoy clothes and clothes shopping.

I want to look soft and pretty when I’m out on a date with my husband, and hot and sexy when we’re behind closed doors. I want to look crisp and professional when at work. I want to look all cute and jaunty when out with the girls. I want to throw open my closet doors and be overwhelmed with options, not relegated to Option 2 of 5. I know I care, I just have locked those feelings away in order to deal with my current situation.

And opening those boxes yesterday opened up those feelings. I was surprised to discover how much I *cared* about the clothes in the boxes.

There was the knit black dress, circa 1990. 🙂 And it still looks great. And when I wore it I was around 200-210, and I thought I looked hot in it. No idea what size it is…because I suck and I cut all the sizes out of my clothes so no one else could see them. Sigh. It’s probably an XL, but clingy. I would wear this out to all the clubs along with a leather blazer. I smile more at the memories vs. the actual dress. And I sigh in regret, too. I was so close to goal back then. If only…

Also from that timeframe was the garnet skirt. Closest thing to a pencil skirt I’ve ever owned and I loved it then, and I loved it again yesterday. It’s probably a size 16. It looks so small.

There was the red sweater with black zipper, circa 2003. A friend who’d lost weight was cleaning out her closet and gifted me with this gem. It was a little snug into it but I was confident that I’d wear it soon. Still want to…still waiting.

Then came the Race Box. The Race Box is filled with t-shirts from various fitness events that I actually participated in. Had to be at least ten of them and the irony is that they’re all in pristine condition – because while I was “fit” enough to partake in the activity, I could not FIT into the commemorative shirt.

Then more recent history. There was the burgundy shirt I wore on my first-ever date with my now-husband. There’s the baby blue and white shirt I wore to a birthday brunch with my girlfriends – incidentaly, one of the best pictures ever taken of all of us. There’s the paint-stained t-shirt I wore when decorating my first-ever home. There were a TON of sleeveless shirts I wore throughout one of the best summers of my life. A silk robe I wished closed a bit tighter. Looking at them all, it’s hard to believe they ever covered my body – they look like they shrunk in the wash, but I know they haven’t.

There were four pairs of jeans. I have never really worn jeans because my shape makes it hard to find good-fitting jeans.

There was a pair of size 22 jeans, another weight-loss friend’s castoff, that I tried for the LONGEST time to get into, and the angels SANG when I finally did. Me! In Jeans! I finally felt normal. No more. There was a pair of size 20 black jeans that *were* to be my next goal. I’m not sure if they’ve ever been unfolded. There are two more recent pairs of jeans, size unknown (yep, tag cut off) that I know I wore the year of my wedding. Don’t fit.

Last, but not least, I found The Magic Dress. The Magic Dress is a size 18/20 black polyester shirtdress with a johnny collar and front zipper. It hits at the knee, is flared, and damn cute. It got the “magic” designation because nearly ANYBODY with ANY BODY TYPE could wear this dress. My girlfriends are all built differently, but it didn’t matter which one of us put the dress on, it worked. It camouflaged flabby tummies and ample hips. It’s been worn to death and still looks Day One fresh. I didn’t have the heart to even try on The Magic Dress yesterday, for fear of tarnishing its reputation. It’s back in the box.

They’re all packed back in their boxes, along with those memories and feelings. Just waiting for me.

I’ll be there soon.