Tag Archives: choices

Why Some of Me is Never Coming Back

Why Some of Me is Never Coming Back

I love having this little space to write in.  Even if no one ever read a word of it, I would still write.  It’s my place to ponder, rant, purge, verbally regurgitate, and pontificate.  It gives me a window into my own history, a walk down memory lane, a recall button for emotions and events.

So why have I been missing?  It’s not because I haven’t had anything in my head.  My head is its usual cauldron of mental pot luck, chock full of everything from heart squeezing poignant moments, to exquisite frames of amusement, to guilt inducing rage-fueled fantasies of throat punches.  You know those people who are emotionally flat?  Yeah, I’m the opposite of that.

But I couldn’t write.  Not coherently, anyway.  And while I’m usually ok with just rambling down whatever path my keyboard takes, this was a different kind of jumbled.  I’ve really only been able to focus on one thing:  me.

I had to burn some vacation days between Christmas and New Years, and since my husband was in Canada (THAT’S a whole ‘nother blog topic), I got bored.  I was cruising YouTube, and I watched a video documentary called FatHead.  I’m not sure how I learned about it, but knowing that it was done by a comedian (Tom Naughton), and that it was a response to Morgan Spurlock’s shamelessly inaccurate Supersize Me gave me two reasons to sit back and click PLAY.  So I did.  I wasn’t disappointed:  it was funny, and it made Spurlock look like a fool.  But there was more to it.  It made sense. I watched it again.  And a 3rd time, because I figured that I’m kind of dense at times and really wanted to make sure I wasn’t missing something.

You can click the link below if you want to watch it.

FatHead The Documentary

Then I cried.  For something like 3 days, give or take.  Because, you see, weight is an issue for me.  I could go with the common “I struggle with my weight” cliché, but that is entirely inaccurate.  I surrender to my addiction to food. The referee already counted to 10.  TKO, weight wins.

I eat to manage stress, and to celebrate, and to soothe.  I justify that as acceptable because, you know, abusing food isn’t a big deal.  I don’t drown my troubles in alcohol, I don’t use drugs, I don’t shop til I drop.  I eat.  Nothing comforts me more than a chocolate bar….or queso and chips…..or cheesecake…..or onion rings…..or hot bread out of the oven, slathered in butter.  I love to share my addiction, too.  For those I love, there are always big feasts full of fried chicken, mashed potatoes, French silk pie,  or Mexican extravaganzas. “I love you… I made you a lasagna.”  I’ve actually spoken those words to my middle child.

Just to clarify:  if you allow food to be your security blanket and your demonstration of affection, you get fat.  A little at a time.  My clothing sizes eek up ever so slowly.  Then I “diet” by eating salads with low fat dressing and low fat yogurt and boneless, skinless, flavorless chicken breasts with a baked potato with fat free sour cream.  And I lose 2 lbs. in a week, but I’m starving.  Then something triggers me, and I find myself eating an entire bag of Doritos or a hamburger and fries and I panic.  My loved ones tell me that it’s ok, because they don’t want to see me upset.  My husband brings me a candy bar because I’ve done really well and it’s ok to take a break for a minute.  One Heath bar isn’t going to ruin my life.

The 2 lbs. not only comes back, but it made a 1/2 lb. baby while it was gone and brings it back, too… and my next pair of jeans is one size larger.  Probably only because they’re “cut differently”, or because I want them a “little looser” in case they shrink when I wash them..  Whatever makes me feel better.  I stop buying clothes I like, and start buying clothes that hide.  I see photos from a recent birthday party and can’t believe that’s me in that picture.  Eating cake.  I go back to that salad and low fat dressing, and the cycle continues.

So, anyway, after practically memorizing FatHead, I started doing some additional research. I read, and read, and read some more.  I verified.  Then I pulled up the recently taken Christmas pictures, and looked at myself.  Really looked.  Cried some more.  Dusted my bruised little self esteem off and said “ENOUGH”.  So, I’ve been on a bit of a mission to concentrate on myself and my dysfunctional food relationship. (I actually just sang that in my head, to the tune of “Me and My Shadow”, and it doesn’t work at all.)

It’s  so intense, that I can’t really concentrate on anything else besides the necessities:  family and work.  So, that’s why I’ve been missing.

“How much weight have you lost?”  I get this question regularly.  Here is my answer.

This much fat

I’ve lost this much fat.

15 kg catI’ve lost the equivalent of the world’s largest domestic cat.

35 lbs grapefruit

I’ve lost this crate of grapefruit.



I’ve lost this pile of leaves.

35 lb wheaton terrier

I’ve lost an average Wheaton Terrier.

15 kg fish

I’ve lost this big fish.

15 kg dog foodI’ve lost this great big bag of dog food.

35 lbs allison

I’ve lost an entire 4 year old granddaughter.  (That’s Allison…my real 4 year old granddaughter.)

And that’s not all.

I’ve lost the stigma of identifying myself as “fat”.  I am not fat; I *have* fat, and I’m losing it.  I’ve lost my confusion over how food works in my body.  I’ve lost my shame in my shape.  I’ve lost my urge to camouflage my size with oversize blouses and accessories.  I’ve lost my fear of failing at this epic battle of Woman vs. Food.

I’ve lost the woman on the left, and I hope I never see her again.  I’m still creating the woman on the right.


Change the Channel

Change the Channel
Change the Channel

If you’ve never pulled your sectional sofa out from the wall on a Sunday afternoon because you’ve lost the remote control for the television, I don’t recommend doing it.  It pretty much ruined my day.

I found myself staring at 47 crayon pieces, 3 magazines, 8 dog bones, 11 pens, 1 pencil, 3 Hot Wheels, and enough dog hair to make a new dog.  An ugly dog, for sure, but definitely a full size dog.

As I stood there wondering which vacuum cleaner I wanted to clog up with this mess (and fighting the urge to just push the couches back into place and pretend I didn’t see any of it), I realized that I was staring at a perfect analogy of why I need to make some changes in my life.  A hairy, Crayola filled analogy.

I was trying to think back to the last time I’d pulled out that couch to clean behind it.  I couldn’t remember, and honestly didn’t think too hard after realizing that “Move-In Day, 2007″ would be the odds-on favorite.

So I switched to being annoyed, which is one of my strengths.  Who is in charge of cleaning behind that couch?  It’s got to be someone, right?   I suspect it’s the same person who has been slacking in some other areas as well…… ironing, folding laundry, cleaning ceiling fans, power washing the decks, and getting the dozens of bags of cans to the Recycling Center.  It’s the slacker with 14 unfinished household projects, including a crocheted afghan project that’s closing in on 5 years, but is still only 60″ by 4”. I suppose it could also be the mystery person who hasn’t made my eye doctor appointment for 4 years, devised our monthly menus for the past 3 years, or managed the household budget.

Don’t think I sit around all day watching soap operas and eating bon bons.  I take on a lot of responsibility in this family.  I have a day job that I love and put lots of myself into.  I have totally raised the bar on the Grandma gig.  I cook shameful amounts of bacon.  I am an accomplished insomniac.  I completely over think and therefore complicate all holiday/birthday events.  I spoil the pets.  I make sure there are plenty of photos of happy family moments posted to Facebook.  I get in the middle of my grown children’s personal affairs.  I am the Matriarch, dammit!

Secretly, I’d like my husband to say “Honey, don’t worry about (insert any various act of drudgery here), I’ll do it.”  However, he doesn’t read minds and doesn’t respond to passive aggressive behavior.  I’m kind of screwed.

I’m not sure what happened to the woman who had a routine, a schedule, a groove.  The one who actually had a monthly calendar with every meal planned out.  The one who ironed clothes, and actually cleaned the top of the refrigerator on a regular basis.

I honestly don’t know where she went.  I get tired just thinking about that woman.

Is this an age thing?  Did I just wear myself out prematurely?  At times, when I’m digging through the 10 lb. box of Milk Bone biscuits which I recycled into the Box O’ Socks, trying to find a matching pair, words like “lazy”, “irresponsible”, “dysfunctional”, and “disorganized” run through my head.  Fortunately, I have a short attention span, so I don’t dwell on negative words for long.

I need staff!  Or elves, which are like staff but you don’t have to pay them.  Or maybe just a cheering section.  Or I need to reorganize my life.  Ugh.

Right now, I’d settle for finding the remote control.