milestones

As this is a milestone year, I have been thinking about what I want life to look like during this season. To that end, I have set a few goals. Feel free to harass me about meeting them.

1. (I can't believe I'm putting this in print) Complete first drafts of More and Fear Not.
2. Return to and maintain my normal weight by working out four times/week.
3. Take two spiritual retreats, one alone and one with the Hubby.
4. Attend a writer's retreat at The Convent.
5. Be intentional about deepening my intimacy with God, my family, and my friends.

I have rough outlines completed for both manuscripts. Don't ask me about my weight. Did you not hear me say I had a birthday? Retreat number one is scheduled for October. I am already saving money for the writer's retreat in the spring. As for the last one, not really sure what that will look like.

Wish me luck.

a matter of trust

Therein lies the problem. I do not believe this for a moment. I do not believe that my body is a benevolent force intent upon my health and emotional well-being. I have chronic pain. I have IBS. I have a life-long weight issue. What, exactly, am I supposed to find trustworthy about these things and my inability to rectify them?

(read more at more)

a perfect ten

My pants cling tightly to my thighs with the same maddening tenacity as the growing layer of fat that stubbornly clutches my already-large-ish frame. This morning, I hate them both.

It all began, to my best estimation, with the marathon. Training for a marathon, it turns out, makes you hungry. To be more specific, training for a marathon makes you insanely crave carbohydrates to the point at which you think you will die (or kill) if you don’t have bread. LOTS of bread. For someone with insulin resistance, this creates a problem. The craving grows. It gets out of control. You try to fight it, but it is not something outside of you. It is within you. And it is winning.

Then, just for fun, you throw in an injury. You need to give it time to heal. It is Christmas. Brilliant. A month off of exercise right as the biggest carbohydrate celebration of the year cranks into full swing. Beautiful. Then add vacation. Add winter. Add snow days. Add illness. Add depression.

Add ten pounds.

Six weeks of trying to get back in gear, and the scale is going UP, not down. This is the point at which I go crazy.

I know all the right things to do. The right things to think. To say to myself. To pray about. I know. I KNOW. But knowing, in my life, doesn’t translate to anything changing, no matter what application I am currently running. There is some problem with the file—some virus, some mutation—that prevents the “losing weight and keeping it off” program from running properly. I don’t deal well with that. Input in should equal input out. Decrease calories and increase exercise should equal weight loss. It should be that simple. It appears to be for everyone else.

But, alas, I am not everyone else. And some days, I really, REALLY hate that, too.

a poem on driving myself crazy

the diet

endlessly striving
always resisting
never attaining

gains and losses

I knew better, but I did it anyway. At some point this morning the voice of reason was drowned out by the voice of immediate gratification, and I went ahead and did it. For the third time this week. And the outcome hasn’t gotten any better.

The reassurance I sought as my feet met cold metal was replaced with despair. A beep, a whir, and a blinking number. 144.0 … 144.0 … 144.0 … 144.0 I slunk down off the scale, my thoughts racing, and began to prepare for the morning ahead.

Crap, I thought, digging through my fat clothes yet another time. What the heck? I’ve been on this diet almost two weeks now—the scale is supposed to be going DOWN, not up! I tried to quiet the tirade, to no avail. Why won’t my body do what it’s supposed to? I’m following the diet perfectly—how the heck did I GAIN two pounds over the last few days? The food itself couldn’t have even weighed that much! MAN I hate this…

I laid the clothes on the bed, remembering it was a work-out morning. Hearing the kids playing peacefully below, I decided to boot up the computer and email one of my “talk me down off the ledge” friends. “Tell me I can do this,” I pleaded with her. “Tell me this is going to work. And tell me to stop getting on this stupid scale!”

Of course, she’s told me all of this before, many a time. But listening is not my forté. Being impulsive and neurotic is. Fortunately, she is not put off by my neuroticism, though I would not blame her, after seven years of listening to the same ol’ same ol’, if she finally told me to just shut the heck up and get over it. But, of course, I wouldn’t listen to that, either.

These last ten pounds have been the bane of my existence for, oh, I dunno, about two or three years now. But the weight itself, well, that has been a lifelong preoccupation. Another of my “talk me down off the ledge” friends reminds me with great regularity that it’s all about perspective. I’ve lost a significant amount of weight and kept it off for several years now—who cares about the last ten pounds?

I care about the last ten pounds. Despite my best efforts, I care very much. Not because of the number on the scale, but because of how my clothes fit. Because of how my body feels when it gets there. Because of how my body looks when it gets there. And ultimately because of what that number represents.

The moment I first became aware of my body a life-long tug-of-war began internally and hasn’t let up since. I have cursed my body. I have hated my body. I have tortured, tricked, treated, and tormented my body. But I have never once, in 37 years, come to trust my body. That is, perhaps, the greatest loss of all.

I have gained strength, I have lost weight. I have lost self-control, I have gained muscle. I have gained confidence, I have lost hope. I have lost flab, I have gained perspective. My husband has weighed a steady 118 lbs since the day we met. His attitude toward his weight remains likewise unchanged. I am not as fortunate. For me, life with my body is a constant roller coaster of gains and losses. Perhaps one day I will be at peace with this fact.

Perhaps one day.

gains and losses

Some days, it is all I can do to not throw up. My muscles scream, my lungs implode, my head pounds with the driving bass. Driving me to move. Driving me to sweat. Driving me to “feel the burn.” Today is one of those days. I quiver and pant, wondering what the heck I was thinking, as I concentrate very hard on not vomiting in the middle of kick-boxing. Punch-punch-kick-lunge. Punch-punch-kick-lunge. Throwing up would throw off my rhythm, just when I’d finally gotten the hang of it. Finally.

I bounce and kick and jog and squat and all the time I’m thinking, “I’ve been doing this over a year now—when does it get easier?” The questions won’t stop—when will my legs stop begging for mercy a third of the way through the leg workout? When, for that matter, will I be able to complete the entire leg workout? When, if ever, will I not collapse into a puddle of molecular goo on the floor during the leg workout? And an even more important question—is it poor aerobic-etiquette to lie down on the floor and cry in the middle of the leg workout? They are questions for which there are no answers.

There are days—rare, but existent—when I don’t feel like I will die in aerobics class. Nausea-free days when I leave feeling like I’ve worked hard but I can still make it to my car without needing my three-year-old to carry me. There are even moments, rarer still, of victory over weakness. Heart-pumping, pulse-quickening, adrenaline-flowing moments. I am powerful. I am strong. I am Wonder Woman. I am She-Ra, Princess of Power. I am not going to throw up. It is short lived. Before long, I am a quivering puddle of goo again.

The cycle repeats itself ad nauseum. I feel stronger, I feel weaker. I increase the weights, I decrease them. I increase the reps, I decrease them. I increase the intensity moves, I decrease them. My weight comes down, my weight goes up. Nothing is constant. My strength. My endurance. My fitness level. My will power. No gains are permanent. I don’t like not permanent.

I like things that are done when you are done. Grad school, for instance. I graduated in 1998 and I still have my Master’s degrees. Once I completed the requirements, I was done. Once I was licensed, I was done. Once I was done, I was done. Sure, I have to do CEU’s, but I don’t have to redo the flippin’ degrees every year. I’m done. Exercise is never done. I want to get in shape and be done.

I want to come back after the three-week break and still be able to make it through class without collapsing. I want to make it though a workout all four weeks of the month, not just one, two if I’m lucky. I want my weight to level out and stay put. I want to invest my time and energy up front and then have it pay out consistent returns for the long haul. I want to get to a point where it’s easy. Where I’m coasting. Where I’m done.

I look around me at the other women in the room. Women in their 20’s. Their 30’s. 40’s. 50’s. Perhaps even older. Women in for the long haul. Women who get that this health and fitness thing is never done. I must be honest in questioning if I want to be one of those women. I have never been one of them before—this is a newfound persona, birthed out of the desire and need to lose weight. But therein lies the issue—it is always about losing the weight, never about maintaining. Health and fitness is about maintaining, and that has never been my strength.

When I step back from the dumbbells I can see I have made some gains that have not been lost. The ends of the weights say 8lbs and 5lbs now, not 3lbs. The bar reads 15, not 12. And my Monday class, which once threatened to kill me, has been conquered, thanks, in part, to the class that is yet to be slain. It isn’t easy. But perhaps, on a good day, it is easier. And with time and perseverance, it will slowly but surely become even more so. And, perhaps, that is the point. Some things are never done. But they can get easier with time.

I can only hope to God this aerobics class is one of them.

aerobic hiaku, III

she tortures me to
"I'm not crazy, I'm just a
little unwell." Right.

hiaku for adding a second aerobics class

class one, session two
intermediate, my _ _ _
what was I thinking?

seventy pounds lost
a glutton for punishment
(please pass the cookies)

aerobics: week seven

hour of torture
you did not beat me today
vict’ry will be mine

average

I am not the fattest girl in the class.

This comes as somewhat of a surprise to me. By some miracle of natural selection, I find that I am not the weakest, nor the slowest, nor the most out of shape. Should we suddenly be faced with an eat-or-be-eaten situation, I would survive. This comes as a sort of morbid relief, as does the fact that I do not have the biggest legs, the biggest butt, or the biggest waistline. It’s amazing what I will cling to when I’m desperate…

Twenty-some women pour into the mirrored room each week. Twenty-some women grab step boxes and floor mats, dumbbells and body bars, water bottles and stretch bands, arranging themselves where they can either see, be seen, or hide completely, depending on their own love/hate relationship with the mirror. Twenty-some women pant and sweat and groan for an hour—perky, skinny ones with pony-tails and coordinated workout clothes that show off their perfectly tanned and toned abs and overweight ones with well-worn, oversize 1980’s concert t-shirts that whimper “for the love of God, please don’t look at me…”

Skinny ones, fat ones, tall ones, short ones, pretty ones, not-so-pretty ones, even a few unsightly ones. As my two-year-old says, “De good, de bad, an’ de ug-wee.” I find myself somewhere in the middle. And for once in my life, I’m happy with that.

I have no delusions of being buff. Or ripped. Or any other bizarre colloquialism referring to an unobtainable level of physical “perfection.” I will never be skinny—genetics, hormones, metabolic make-ups, bone structures, and the after-effects of carrying two nearly-nine-pound babies have sealed my fate. Add to that the fact I hate to workout with a passion almost as great as my passion for food, and there you have it. Thin will never be in my future. But average… well, average might be another story…

That word would have once made my inner perfectionist shudder, but I am slowly becoming more comfortable with it. Or, perhaps, it is merely becoming slightly less offensive to me, though I’m not entirely certain what was so offensive about it in the first place. For whatever reason, in our “Be All That You Can Be” culture, I am beginning to look realistically at where I am and making the decision that where I am IS all I can be at the moment.

5’2”, 135 lbs, size 10. Average height, average weight, average size. No delusions, no excuses, no comparisons. I will be the best average I can be.

I am not the fattest girl in the class. I can live with that.

don't know squat

I’m convinced women should pee standing up.

That is, I am convinced women should never sit down on a toilet.

I’m not a germ Nazi. This is bigger than germs. I’ve actually even been known, in moments of desperation when my burning thighs scream for relief, to actually sit on a public toilet. Thanks to my aerobics class, I can now extend that time an extra ten seconds, but not without hearing my instructor in my head yelling Feel that burn? Good! It’s supposed to burn! Nope—not about the germs. Hygiene completely aside, sitting on a toilet is just something a woman should never do. It is entirely too dangerous, only for the bravest and strongest of souls. I, for one, am too fainthearted for the challenge.

Brace yourself—you may be, too.

When a woman sits on a toilet, as women have need to do, a shocking, heart-stopping phenomenon takes place within which every ounce of fat in a woman’s body becomes glaringly visible—hanging over the front, hanging over the sides, hanging over itself. It is an unavoidable oddity. A five-foot, 85-pound anorexic model could sit on the toilet and have her stomach wrinkle over and her thighs overlap the seat, sending her back to the gym for another three hours. There is NO hope, then, for women like me.

Seventy pounds lost and I sit down on the throne and I swear it’s all still right there. Stand up, it’s gone. Sit down, it’s there. Stand up, it’s gone. Sit down, it’s there. How is that possible? You can explain the physics of it to me, but as I never took to physics in the first place, it wouldn’t make much difference. All I know is that I sit down on the toilet and I’m FAT. I stand up, and I’m not-so-fat. I’m feeling a little schizophrenic in the body image department. The solution seems to be clear: don’t sit on the toilet. Or pee with your clothes on.

But as peeing with one’s clothes on presents its own obvious issues, or at least I hope they would be obvious, it would seem that short, mildly chubby, post-childbearing women like me are doomed to feel the burn. Or endure the overlap.

I highly recommend my aerobics class. Extended my squat by ten seconds after just three weeks…

that which does not kill you...

…leaves you half-dead.

I began a new aerobics class today. Now, I’ve already mentioned that I’ve lost 65 pounds in the last one and a half years, so you have to assume that I’ve been exercising at least a little during that time, and to lose that large of an amount, probably more than just a little. And that is true. I walk an insane amount of miles at what I’ve been told is a “kick ass” pace, and I do a workout with hand weights at home. I figured I was up to this “intermediate” level class.

I was wrong. Alas, five to seven kick-ass walks a week and three nights of go-at-your-own-pace hand weights does not an aerobics-class-champion make.

I thought I was going to die.

Really. But I’m getting ahead of myself.

I should have known, from the moment I dropped my son off in childcare amidst all the muscle-showing racer-bra-wearing blond-ponytail-waving mothers that I was out of my element. But I did not heed my inner alarm and proceeded to class anyway, where I was instructed by similar women to drag out all the equipment I would need from the closet at the other end of the room. I’ve never been in a medieval dungeon, but I’m sure the torture devices had to be similar in nature. Hand weights, resistance bands, weighted body bars, step risers, and floor mats. All for a one-hour class. I guessed at what I needed, based on the amount of weight I was using at home, and created my own little space in a spot I hoped would be inconspicuous, should I need to pass out or fall to the floor in a heap.

Our instructor bounced in, and I hated her instantly. She was perfect. Blonde. Tan. The perfect body—probably about five-foot-ten and buff. Not an ounce of fat anywhere. Did I mention I hated her? So, in she bounced, clapping her hands and hopping about with a more enthusiasm than any one person should be allowed to generate, let alone subject others to. The woman did everything with a bounce or a hop. Every step, every movement, everything. I believe I mentioned I hated her.

And that was before she began to torture us.

There was no warm up. Not for me, at any rate. For the 15-20 women who looked as if they could teach the class, I’m sure it was an actual warm up. For the 5-10 of us who actually looked like we needed the class, we hit the ground running and our poor little hearts just never had the chance to catch up.

I have never known such pain in my life, outside of child-bearing, which did not, for the most part, require the use of the muscles in my legs that are now crying for mercy at every turn, bend, and lift. About a fifth of the way through, my legs began to burn. A fourth of the way through, they were quivering. A third of the way through, I abandoned all pride and walked past the entire class and declared my not-in-shapeness by trading my weights for a lighter set, so as to not collapse before we even got to the half-way point. When faced with the choice between shaming myself and dying, I decided shame was an option I was much more comfortable with, and, quite frankly, much more used to.

My only consolation was that I was not the only one who couldn’t keep up. The 40-year-old and the 50-year-old and the one that was 50 pounds overweight couldn’t either. It was a small comfort, but a comfort nonetheless. At least I was not alone.

I struggled through the best I could, trying to keep up whenever possible while also trying to not pass out or throw up. Finally, we got to the cool down, which really was a cool down, and I laid there on the floor, sweaty and panting and weak, and nearly cried. I hate working out. I hate it with a passion. I love sitting. Sitting and reading, sitting and writing, sitting. Walking and hiking are okay, but only if they include or culminate in sitting. Physical exertion is just not my thing.

At home, when I work out with the weights, I have to confess that I often do conclude my workout with tears—partially because the point at which I reach cool down coincides with a couple of songs on my Rita Springer CD that just really move me, but, to be honest, I really am crying because I hate what I’m doing and I know I have no choice and I hate that I have no choice. And I feel weak and spent and tired. Tired of the fight, tired of the pushing through, tired of the work out that is the life-long battle with my body. And so I cry. Usually. But not today.

Today, I pull my sweaty, quivering body up off the floor and go to pick up my son from childcare, who literally wants picked up. I try to explain to him that if Momma picks him up she will die, but he doesn’t understand. He throws himself on the floor, his mere 25 pounds mocking me, but considering I’ve just tortured myself, I refuse to take the bait. I coax his whiney body out to the car where my yogurt smoothie is waiting and I chug it down so that I can muster the wherewithal to drive home and remain conscious. And I wonder all the way back what the heck I’ve gotten myself into.

I went to the class willingly. I did this to myself. I’d say I don’t know what on earth I was thinking, but I really do. I was thinking about ten more pounds, about maintaining the monumental amount lost, about burning fat and building strength and all sorts of that horrible, torturous stuff they tell me is good for my body yet feels like crap. I know, in my intellect, that it is good to be strong, to be healthy, to be fit. I just wish it felt as good as sitting.

So, I suppose, in this case, that it is true—that which doesn’t kill me will make me stronger.

The problem is, I’m not entirely certain that it won’t kill me…

walking

The pond is almost pretty in the morning light, steam sliding across its silvery surface. Somewhere near the middle, ripples reflect early morning rays—sunlight in its liquid form. The shocking-blue expanse of sky is wide and clear and bright—it is officially going to be a beautiful day.

Along the gray-gravel path, purple something-or-others line up next to white something-or-others next to yellow something-or-others, all against a backdrop comprised of at least six hues of rich, deep green. A blue swallowtail falteringly flutters by, a broken corner of its wing revealing the reason for its plight. We ooh and aah at the striking-ness of iridescent blue on black, and I coax it for but a moment onto my finger, before it falters away again.

The morning is, indeed, beautiful. Normally, such mornings bring great joy to me, especially now that they are growing more temperate again. But all I can think of, as my feet crunch-crunch-crunch in their steady pace along the path, is how much I still hate to do what I’m there to do.

I find no joy in exercise, particularly when done alone, and I must further confess that I think all of those who do are weird, sadistic freaks at the very least. I don’t get it. My husband is one of those freaks. He’s running a 5K on Labor Day. He runs for fun. I run if I’m being chased, say, by a bear or an attacker. Needless to say, fortunately, I don’t do much running.

I try not to think about walking, pressing my pace, pushing my son, prodding myself to go another lap around the pond. I catch a whiff of an almost-fall smell and I am momentarily distracted, caught up in warm autumn-glow thoughts of the upcoming change of seasons. I try not to think about the discomfort, the resistance, the sheer boredom of it all. I try to think, instead, of nearly 70 pounds lost and five more to go. It is enough to make me keep walking, but never enough to make me enjoy it.

I round a corner, entering the two-thirds of the trail that are blessedly embraced by cool, tender shade. The breeze caresses my sweat-streaked face, kindly and gently reviving me if but for a moment. I assure my son that we will NOT go around the pond again, all the while feeling a twinge of guilt for not wanting to.

We conclude our morning by feeding the inhabitants of the pond—whole wheat bread because Josie told us that white bread is bad for ducks, and we are fresh out of cracked corn. It is my son’s reward for doing absolutely nothing but enjoy the ride that my manpower provided, and for doing it quietly. He quickly develops a rhythm—charging me for the morsels I dole out sparingly as the ducks follow at his heels, hungry for the entire loaf. Then he turns, charging the water, and the ducks momentarily scatter, then quickly swarm the two-foot radius around his body where his throwing reach extends. The pattern continues until our hands are empty.

This back and forth—it is where I have lived with my weight, with food, with exercise. I vacillate between wanting to sit in the grass with them all gathered around me, eating out of my hand, saying “Can’t we all just coexist without fear and stampeding?” and longing to cast it all out into the middle of the pond where they can never snap at my toes again. I don’t want to exercise. I have to. For the rest of my life. My husband says, in his “well, DUH” kind of way, that we all do. I think he’s mocking me. I don’t want to accept his statement. I try to anyway. I long to like exercise, to not merely tolerate it or, worse, view it as torture.

Bread gone, the ducks retreat, muttering under their breath about the lack of cracked corn. I watch them go, my anxious thoughts leaving with them. Another day down, an undetermined number yet to go. I will take them one beautiful, bright-blue morning at a time, praying for the day I finally wake up and think, “I can’t wait to work out today.”

an offering

So here’s what I want you to do, God helping you: Take your everyday, ordinary life—your sleeping, eating, going-to-work, and walking-around life—and place it before God as an offering. Embracing what God does for you is the best thing you can do for him. Romans 12:1-2, The Message

…the diet… the weight loss… the inability to exercise for six weeks… the panic about gaining the weight back… the screaming, whining, fighting kids… the frustration of not having a bigger impact in my parenting… the urge to do things to my children that would have Children’s Services at my door if I put them in print… the lack of sleep… the splitting headaches… the fear of intimacy in my relationships… the fear of intimacy in my marriage… the tension between the desire to be fully known yet the fear of the same… the desire to write … the time to write… the actual writing, if and when it happens… the singing… the lack of singing… the lack of music… the worship… the quiet time… the not-so-quiet time… the desire to control it all…

It’s all yours.

Every morning
I lay out the pieces of my life
on your altar
and watch for fire to descend.
Psalm 5:3, The Message

the tyranny of what i want

Some days, there is just nothing profound to say. Saw eleven hours worth of clients with only one break. Don't want to go back in on Saturday. Wanted to eat everything in the house when I came home. Skipped my weight work-out because it was already 9:45 and hadn't eaten dinner yet. Freaking out internally about my weight and the upcoming surgery and what will happen when I can't exercise for six weeks. Trying not to obsess about food, weight, exercise, appearance, etc. Saw my kids for two hours this morning- both were in bed when I got home. Guilt, guilt, guilt. Tom works online across the room while I sit here with my laptop feeling the cool breeze float in through the front door. Mere yards between us, yet miles apart. I am tired. I am overwhelmed. And I want chocolate. Lots of it. Or cinnamon granola. Or ice cream. Or anything else that will quickly yet momentarily fill the void that is screaming within me.

When will this battle end?

Since Jesus went through everything you're going through and more, learn to think like him. Think of your sufferings as a weaning from that old sinful habit of always expecting to get your own way. Then you'll be able to live out your days free to pursue what God wants instead of being tyrannized by what you want. 1 Peter 4:1-2, The Message