FatGirl vs World

A: Of course. Yes, a falling tree makes a sound. Yes, if you are active you burn calories.



I'm a bit on edge about all of this.  I know that food logging and that knowing my calorie expenditure has helped me lose 50lbs.  But just because I'm not wearing the armband doesn't mean I don't have an idea of how many calories I'm burning.  I know when I'm being active and when I'm not.  My body feels and act differently when I'm doing what I'm supposed to be doing.  I know what running 5 miles feels like. I know how long it takes. I know it burns around 700 calories in my body.  But I'm at the point where I've realized taht the BodyMedia armband confirms what I know to be true.  It's not my crutch, it's my documentation.

So...my grandpa died on July 26.  He was 85 years old.
To a certain extent, this was expected as his health was in decline.
The last time we spoke a month prior (at my cousin's wedding), he told me to "take care of [my] father" -- which I viewed as him issuing his final directive for how he wanted us to love each other.  I've taken this directive to heart. 

As I stood by his open casket at the last of the three wakes (as it had taken that long to summoned forth what I wanted to say to him that would put a bow on a lifetime of memories) I said an emphatic "Thank you.  *sniff* Thank you.  *sniff* Thank you.  *sob*"  As the patriarch of my family, and as my last living grandparent, I just wanted to thank him for giving me my family, the greatest wealth I have in this world.  I also told him that as the champion of my love life (it was a frequent topic of our conversation) that I'd rely on him to send Mr. Right my way.

In the two weeks since my grandpa's death, the directive of "take care of your father" has caused me great anxiety and stress.  Having my mother die when I was young was traumatic in its own right, but one of the lasting results was the fear of my father dying prematurely because of his lifestyle (stressful job, bad diet, no exercise, etc.).

One thing you've all heard me say time and time again is that you can't force someone to care about themselves.  I know this first hand -- with myself and with others.  People have to come to the Epiphany in their own time and on their own terms.  You can be there to support and inform them, but the impetus has to begin within the person.

The weight of the stress/anxiety about my dad's health and well-being was taking its toll on me.  It dragged down my spirits, caused a bit of nausea, and people could see it.  All of this sadness was not a good prelude to my birthday.  My friends and coworkers could see that I was troubled.  Buddhists believe that suffering is caused by our desire to control (situations, outcomes, people).  Was I trying to control my father?   Ultimately no.  So then what?

On Tuesday, my father called me to wish me a happy birthday on the eve of my 31st birthday.  I took the call as a sign that it was time to share with him what it was that I truly wanted for my birthday:  I wanted my dad to live a long and healthy life, and I didn't want to have to worry about him. 

Turns out it had been on his mind too.

I try not to be expressly didactic in my blog, rather trying to model what I think is healthy outlook on life by relaying anecdotes about my own life. But in this case, I'm really going to spell it out:  tell the people you love that you love them and want them to love themselves.  Asking someone to change for our own benefit is shallow and wrong, but telling someone that you want them to look at themselves with the love you have for them is courageous and generous of heart. 

I want my dad to live a long life. I want him to do cartwheels down the aisle when I get married. I want him to see his grandkids grow up.   I said nothing about how many calories he should eat, or the kind of exercise he should be doing.  I tried not to harp about the negative behaviors.  My focus was on relaying the fact that I value our relationship and would hate to see that relationship come to a premature end because of how he treats his own body.

So with that one conversation, the gloomy clouds that had  been hovering above me dissipated.  While I was still very hush hush about my birthday because I'm still in a bit of aftershock/mourning, I know that my birthday wish is now out there in the universe.

My friend's blog entry, "Should Height Matter," got me thinking** about all the prejudices out there in the dating world.  I'm in the "de gustibus non est disputandum" school of thought -- "there's no disputing taste."  We like what we like.  There's no right or wrong.


This post is about the "D.U.F.F." -- the Designated Ugly Fat Friend a/k/a the "Big Fat Friend" a/k/a the "grenade."

Through no fault of my friends (i.e., they aren't/weren't friends with me just so they could look better by comparison, but we were actually people with common interests and mutual affection), I've been treated like a DUFF many times -- the plain friend that's the gatekeeper to the beautiful ladies.  It's not a group of 6 hot bitches, it's a group of 5 hot bitches and their body guard/personnel manager.  Instead of approaching their mark directly, a guy who thinks he's all crafty will cozy up to me and say "That hamburger looks tasty.  So....who's your friend? What's her story?"


In high school, I twice (that I know of) had guys use me to get to my girlfriends.  One of them was especially painful because I was also good friends with him and I would be the one who he'd talk to on the phone, pouring his heart out because she treated him like crap.  And yet, he could never be interested in me, despite being smart, caring, and a great friend.  Completely out of the question.

It didn't stop in college, and it hasn't stopped in my adult dating life.  I'll go to a bar and some guy will chat me up just to ask "When are you going to introduce me to your cute friend over there?" "First, never, because I know she doesn't like guys without balls.  Secondly, stop eating my fries."

The thing is this -- you can have 5 perfect 10 foxes go out together, and invariably one will feel like the DUFF/BFF without having anyone else confirm it.  Heck, maybe all 5 feel like their the DUFF/BFF.  Maybe she's insecure about her intelligence, maybe she thinks she's not as good as a conversationalist as the other.  But trust me, women are comparing themselves to all the other women in the room.  We don't need some douchebag exacerbating the situation. ((Disclaimer -- I know not ALL guys are like this, but the douchebag is ruining it for you too.))

In regards to stereotypes -- I wonder if society regards overweight/obese people as the consummate wingman/wingwoman, the yentas of our social groups.   We're smart, we're funny, we like to have a good time, and society either thinks we're asexual or happy with the leftovers.   We're the sidekicks, the punchlines, the ones left behind. 

Ack this is getting ranty!  Instead of editing, I'm just going to cut it short:  dudes, don't be afraid to look at the DUFF as an actual person that you might consider dating or hanging out with, not just as a means to an end.  You never know, you might find someone you like that will share her fries with you.  And I promise you, I'll try to start looking at short guys as more than just comic relief.



** It also made me think about how we project personality traits onto certain physical types, and how those stereotypes make us have expectations.  Are short people expected to be funny/charming to make up for their lack of height, for example? Do people associate fat people with laziness? How much of body type bias is learned, and how much is intrinsic/evolutionary?

This looks like a pretty awesome day, right? Burned a lot of calories, got some exercise, didn't sleep well, but I've lost some of the weight I re-gained while my neck was rehabilitating.....


But the proof is in the details, right?  You would have never guessed that inside my "Calories Consumed" lurked this monster:


I bought them as I was coming home from work.  I know I shouldn't have.  But I wanted a cookie.  I wanted the crunch and the sweetness.  Of all the cookie options at CVS, this was one of the better ones.  4 Lorna Doones has 150 calories.  2 Double Stuf Oreos (my favorite) have 140 calories. I thought I was getting more bang for my buck.  I had the box open before I even got home.  The first four cookies consumed in the time it took to check my mail, go up in the elevator, and go to my door.

But then I continued.

And continued.

And continued.

Until I had eaten the whole box (thankfully I hadn't gone to the grocery store where they have bigger boxes). 

I sat at my computer feeling ashamed and weak.
I felt like a hypocrite. I felt like I had learned nothing over the past few years.  
I had just eaten the same amount of calories in cookies as I burn while running for an hour. 

Then I had the insane thought of "oh man, I wish I were a bulimic, that way the calories wouldn't count."
I fully admit that statement is one of the most backwards and fucked-up things anyone could say. 
Bulimia is a serious eating disorder, not a way to deal with bad choices.

And so I sat at my computer, and logged the 20 cookies that I had just devoured (not even savored).
I sat there saying to myself "it's okay" softly. Repeatedly.
I wasn't giving myself permission to have a binge, I was giving myself permission to learn from it and move on.

I remembered that I had been there before and lived to blog about it.  So I looked up the entry and re-read what I had wrote.  I realized that while I've learned so much in the past two years, that some issues will never go away, and that I need to be mindful/vigilant of them always.

So I titled this blog post "Sitting with It:  Mindful Binging" because most of us who have had experience with food addiction and binges know that the first response to a binge is usually some sort of panic/anxiety/shame/regret; we disconnect from the emotions that caused the binge in the first place.  I think the lucky people see it happening and feel powerless to stop it.  The unlucky people don't even notice it is happening. 

I believe that if we can be mindful of the binge -- that is, to know it is happening and why -- the greater the chances of stopping/curtailing it.  The slower we experience the physical action of the binge the more opportunities we have to allow the emotions to make an appearance.  Make sense?

I know why I was eating the cookies. 
It's more than just loving the crunchy texture and the buttery shortbread deliciousness.
I needed to sit with the feelings -- not the cookies.

The feeling? I turn 31 in a few weeks and I've yet to experience being in love.
And I don't think my grandpa will live to see me in love.
And that makes me sad.

I remember my first time running on the elliptical.
It was back in 2006 and I hadn't learned to trust my body yet.

"I need water!"

16 minutes later, I had run just one mile.

My brain was trying to control the process. 
My brain was saying "But you've never done this before, so it can't be done." 
In my panic, I let the lactic acid buildup discourage me. 
I used more of my breath to say "I can't" than to say "I can."

But my body was wiser.
With each mile, my body said "this isn't too bad."
My body went from merely being able to do it, but wanting to run.
My body wanted to go further.
My body wanted to faster.

And so I released the emergency brake in my brain.
I let go.
And I ran further.  I ran faster.
I've completed a few half-marathons on that elliptical pictured above (I nicknamed her "My cruel Mistress").

Two weeks ago I thought I had done the unthinkable -- I ran SIX sub-10 minute miles in a row.  I set a new personal record for myself.  I was fast.

But what followed was frustration.  My body needed to recover after that.  It went from fast to unbearably slow.  Discouragingly slow.  Back to 11-minute miles.  One day was even closer to 12-minute miles.



"A slow run is better than a fast sit. I am displeased by this considering my awesome run on tuesday. #gothedist"

I started talking smack to the same body that had just done something amazing.  And I was wrong to do so.  I mean it's wrong to ever talk smack about your own body, but it's doubly wrong to be so short-sighted.  My body isn't a machine. And heck, even machines cannot always run at their fastest speed all the time.

I needed to change the dialogue -- I needed to remind myself that exercise should be joyful and that I am truly thankful for every day I get to run. 

And once again, when my brain got out of the way, my body responded.


That's right, I shaved a 1 minute and 20 seconds off my PR.
More than that -- I was 37 seconds away from 9-minute miles.

Growing up, I think it'd be fair to say that I was a sugar addict.  My brother and I could kill all sorts of sweets -- cherry Pepsi, Entenmann's baked goods (the raspberry danish was often considered "breakfast"), you name it.  I remember when we'd make iced tea from a powder mix -- it'd resemble SLUDGE.  We'd have contests to see who could eat/drink the most sludge before it became intolerably sweet or sour. 

The school lunch choices weren't that great (mmmm breadtangle of pizza), but I all too often chose the snack line instead of the line where they'd serve things resembling actual food.  I'm pretty sure that my body is still paying for those choices, such as the Little Debbie Zebra Cakes that I'd eat 4 at a time, or the Little Debbie Pecan Spinwheels.  Without anyone there to regulate my choices, I was the master of my own disaster.

Candy was another one of those things I had issues with.  Unlike food that pretended to be healthy (such as the word "raspberry" causing ooohs and aaahs before the word danish), candy had no health value.  They were empty calories.  The weird thing is that if someone had said "you can either eat 4 twizzlers or have a cup of fresh raspberries," I probably would have eaten the raspberries.  But public school didn't offer that.  But you could get all the Twix you wanted, an Icee, soft-serve ice cream, and just about every snack cake possible.

I was so incredibly pleased to see Jack Sht's blog post this morning -- in which he made not only a great decision for himself, but also for his readership.  He encouraged me to finally reply to this email that had been sitting in my inbox:

Screw your "Confidentiality Information" -- My readership deserves to know the delusional message you're sending around. Besides, I never agreed to maintain your confidentiality.

UM.... WHAT?!?!?  
"a nice treat in a healthy diet"  -- how about a HEALTHY TREAT in a HEALTHY DIET?

My response?


I'm pretty sure the younger version of myself would be proud of me for (1) standing up to the big guy and (2) doing it for the right reasons.

People always ask me "I'm overweight and I don't know where to begin."  I always tell people to start where there's joy. In other words, I tell them to think about their childhood and the types of games they liked to play.  If I didn't have someone to play with (tag, basketball, catch), I would grab my hula hoop, Skip It, or jump rope. 

This is how you start working on undoing the mentality that exercise is a punishment or chore.  It's fun!

My dear cousin Efrat made me this adult-sized hoop two years ago (check out this video on how to make a DIY hoop -- think about having a hoop-making party with friends!).  I love hula hooping (check out this video of me hooping!).  It's something I can do while watching a movie, or listening to music.  It helps me loosen up some of the muscles in my back that get stiff from overcompensating for my spinal injuries.  And it's FUN!

The building where I live has a rooftop with a great view and a pool.  I am a child of the summer, of the beach, of swimming and of the pool.  I'm also Irish and burn easily.  Mea culpa on that one, I shouldn't have been as cavalier about being outside (Instead of 20-30 minutes in the sun without sunblock, I had an hour in the sun before putting SPF40 on).

But what was I doing in that hour?  I was hula hooping in a bikini while listening to music. For the first 20 minutes I was alone, but then I had company.  My first instinct was to cover up.  Who wants to see the fat girl hula hooping by the pool? (And compared to all the other girls that normally frequent the pool, I am the fat girl.) (But yes, lil sis, I'm still working on my body and mind to stop seeing myself as fat... it's a struggle).   

But I sat with that feeling for a second.  Instead of imagining people looking at me and judging me, I tried to change the mental dialogue into them looking at me and being jealous that they didn't have a hoop, or impressed that I have such awesome moves, or even just happy for me that I was doing something I loved.  The anxiety always passes.  The grace always returns.  The sunburn lasts.

My mental process has been up, down, and all over the place.
I have my sights set on undoing the weight I gained from taking my foot off the pedal last year + the four months of inactivity due to injury.  It was so much easier when I had a goal I needed to achieve. 
The biggest part of the my journey has been in trying to find a "new normal." Finding balance. 

I have been hemming and hawing in regards to this -- letting other things take precedence.  "But I don't want to re-aggravate my injury" is a valid concern, but "I want to drink 7 beers and drink fried food" is not.  I need to remind myself of why I undertook this journey.  I want heath. I want weight loss. I want to look at myself in the mirror and know I've done everything in my power to honor the commitment I made to myself at the beginning of the journey.

Definition of FORTITUDE
for·ti·tude noun \ˈfȯr-tə-ˌtüd, -ˌtyüd\

1: strength of mind that enables a person to encounter danger or bear pain or adversity with courage

---

See that pretty lady on the right?  Yep, that's tennis superstar Venus Williams.  I got to meet her today at the official opening of the new Jamba Juice in Washington, DC (though, technically, I was their first customer on Saturday morning)!  In my 20 seconds of time with her, I told her about my blog and how it's such an inspiration to meet someone who showed fortitude in the face of adversity.  And then she asked me about my experience with adversity.

So, what kind of adversity has she faced?  Sjögren's syndrome -- an auto-immune disease that has forced her to not only change the way she plays, but also the way she lives.  If you've ever had a chronic illness or injury, you know exactly what it takes to summon up the fortitude to press on.  I sure know I do. 

It hasn't been easy for her.  If you follow tennis, you know that she struggled this year at Wimbledon in the singles tournament, but that she fought back along side her sister, Serena, to capture the doubles win in straight sets.

Venus asked me who I wanted the photo made out to and I said, "I'm going to share this on my blog."  And more than just sharing, I'm going to raffle it off.

How to win the signed glossy of Venus:  leave a comment below about your experience with either adversity or fortitude OR leave a comment about how Venus' story has motivated or inspired you.  I will use a random number generator to pick the winner by August 1st.  Please leave a way for me to contact you -- such as a twitter handle or your email address.  If you don't feel comfortable posting your email addres, email me a copy of your comment.

The other day, Austin Andrews (@RetroFitAustin -- one of the finalists from Season 11 of the Biggest Loser) tweeted the following:

 

PERFECTION per·fec·tion noun \pər-ˈfek-shən\

1: the quality or state of being perfect: as (a) freedom from fault or defect : flawlessness (b) maturity (c) the quality or state of being saintly

2 (a) an exemplification of supreme excellence (b) an unsurpassable degree of accuracy or excellence

3: the act or process of perfecting

In that moment, all that mattered was that I was breathing.  There were no expectations, no judgments, just relief and joy because I was alive.  Having 10 fingers, 10 toes, and being in perfect health was a gift.  Even if I had arrived early, had 9 toes, and/or screamed incessantly for hours, it didn't matter.  There was a time in my life when my parents called me perfection. 

There has been a lot of time in between now and those first moments (almost 31 years), and lots of things have either succeeded in convincing me that I am not perfect or tried their hardest.  Self-doubt.  Letting society tell me how I should feel about myself.  Striving and failing.