The Husband has been uncharacteristically quiet lately. Not in typical, every day conversation, mind you. He’s got plenty to say when Buttercup asks him to pretend he’s five of her princess dolls at the same time. And we’re managing to keep the texting each other from across the table to the times we are paying someone else to make our dinner, so, you know, the face-to-face thing is still good. And when he’s talking on the phone he has this crazy annoying habit of pacing the entire length of the house because, apparently, it’s physically impossible to sit still while unconsciously raising the volume of his voice loud enough that we never actually have to tell the neighbors we are going on vacation and need to collect our mail for us.

For those who are acquainted with The Husband, you’ll know exactly what I’m talking about when I say that it’s kind of unnerving. I said “I Do” with the full understanding that I was becoming Mrs. My God, You Can’t Help Being An Asshole, Can You? And by Asshole, I totally mean Honest to a Fault. And that fault is named San Andreas.

The time I spent sixty bucks and half the day at a salon getting my kinky curls straightened into gloriously shiny and straight tresses for a family wedding?

He said: Looks good. Don’t do it again. Translation? I love your frizzy curls even if you don’t.

My response as I stood on tiptoe to kiss him? You are such an asshole. Translation? You are such an asshole.

Or the time I was pregnant and was crying about the size of my ass  and my freakishly short legs and said something about how I wished the baby would inherit his genes?

He said: Yeah, I do too. Translation: Oh shit. That’s totally not what I meant. Except for the freakishly short legs thing. That? I meant.

My response as I tried not to fall down laughing: You are such an asshole. Translation? You are such an asshole.

And the time I was being sewn up by the hottest resident not cast in a television hospital drama because giving birth isn’t exactly a fucking picnic and my little baby was snuggled up on my chest?

He said: She really ripped you a new one, didn’t she? Translation: It would have been physically impossible for me not to say that out loud.

My response as I glared at him for the first time during the entire birthing process: You are such an…

Oh never mind. We all know where this is going.

The point is, he was born with a broken filter and prides himself on it. It’s one of the things I love about him that drives me absolutely insane at the same time. So I guess I was a little surprised when I realized that he has yet to comment on my recent (read: since Christmas) lack of OCD-like strict avoidance of processed foods and that brief love affair I had the with elliptical. At least until I was brainstorming writing ideas out loud and mentioned how I’ve realized the scale can call me a fatass one time and it blows my entire routine and reason for living out of the water and drives me straight into the nearest source of sugar-laden guilt covered in chocolate. So, I said, what if I avoided the scale? What if I told society (and my own) obsession with The Number to fuck the hell off and instead focused on how eating right and being active is just plain old Good For Me and Makes Me Feel Good? What if I just trusted how I feel instead of what the scale makes me feel?

And then, because I was just thinking out loud and had a billion ideas in my head that were spilling out at the same time, I skipped right on to the next Thing In My Head. He listened. I threw more out and then he listened some more. And when I was finally done Not Thinking Silently, The Husband stopped being quiet.

He told me how I base my entire self-worth on what the scale says and the rising of the very sun depends on it not pissing me off and making me cry. He said that I can go months and months with respectable losses that keep me motivated enough to keep going and then the One Time I weigh myself and the scale politely asks me why I want to know what the average weight of a newborn baby hippo is, I give up instantaneously and then go months and months before deciding to repeat the whole cycle again.

Then, he told me to take the batteries out of the scale.

Why? I asked.

He said: Because even if no one reads whatever it is you turn this into, you need to learn that you are not a number and stop this professional yo-yo bullshit.  Translation: I love you.

My response as I stood on tip toe to kiss him: You are such an asshole. Translation: I love you, too.

And we put the scale away.

It’s been about a month since I went all My Life Sucks and Let Me Prove That Crazy Creative People theory, so I figured it was time for an update. Because asterisks make me happy, this one’s going down List-Style, y’all.

* If black is the new brown, then anti-depressants are the new happy. And Siri has been a very good girl when it comes to reminding me to pop the happy every morning, especially when I get cocky and think my brain will manufacture visions of unicorns and rainbows without the pills.

*Of course I’m not seeing unicorns and rainbows because of the pills, you dumbass. It’s not that kind of drug. I was simply illustrating the point that seeing a unicorn would make me as happy as taking the medication does. Probably happier, if I really stop to think about it.

*Dammit. Now I just want a unicorn.

* But since I’m pretty certain I won’t be seeing a real live and in the flesh unicorn anytime soon I’m settling for the pharmaceutical definition of happy. Copay? $5.

*Insurance is a beautiful thing.

*Also? About that Calling You a Dumbass thing? You’re welcome. I ignore the people I don’t like. I save terms of endearment for the special people in my life.

*Of course that means you. And you…And…wait. No. I’m ignoring you. Everyone else here is cool.

* Humor is a wonderful coping mechanism, isn’t it?

* Yes, I’m still a certifiable mess. But these rose-colored glasses are kind of making everything look a bit pretty, so I’m taking things slow in the Getting Back on the Wagon department.

* Forget the counting of calories, the number on the scale, or labeling of Good versus Bad for the foods I am consuming. Instead I’m focusing on how I feel and taking note of an acknowledging the setbacks as well as the steps in the right direction.

* How I feel is also a factor in deciding to take the plunge and make an appointment with a local naturopath because traditional doctors either don’t want to listen to me when I tell them the tests stating I’m normal are all lying, or they want to help and just don’t know what to do with me. I don’t know how to describe it other than telling you that I am certain there are autoimmune issues and possibly serious allergy issues that need to be addressed. Like, yesterday.

* How do I know this? Because one day about six months ago I woke up to find out my Mexifro had decided to give up the cute curly look and instead opt for the Detroit Crack Whore look. I can say this because I’m from Detroit, so that makes me an expert. The soft kinky curls morphed into straight, flyaway pieces of straw and it was breaking off at my neck but the new growth was fine. Which made me realize that…

* That fluke thing that happened to me when Buttercup was a baby that lasted for six months and then suddenly went away and I woke up with normal hair and a smile wasn’t a fluke thing. Still, my doctors think I’m crazy. And I think most of them are assholes.

* It’s kind of a stalemate.

* Of course, me cutting off all my hair with the scissors in the junk drawer just because I suddenly thought it might be a great idea but mainly because I had so much break off it was either that or a wig might give some credence to the doctors’ argument, especially if you focus on the Suddenly Great Idea and Scissors part, but since I don’t have paparazzi hanging out in my garbage cans and my name isn’t Britney Spears, I’m totally fine with that.

8:33 a.m.: Dammit.

8:34 a.m.: “Mama, we need to get out of bed. The sun is awake.”

8:35 a.m.: Dammit.

We get out of bed and in between choosing an outfit for school and nuking the leftover pancake from yesterday’s breakfast, I can’t shake the nagging feeling that I should have just stayed in bed. I’m reminded why when I talk to my mother, mother-in-law, and husband  about Insert Random Family Drama Here puppies.

Again.

Somehow, the hours between 8:30 a.m. and 11:25 a.m., which, coincidentally, is the time I am supposed to have Buttercup physically present in her preschool class, fly by. It could have something to do with the fact that I’ve been on leaving messages for someone with a medical degree at my fertility clinic to call me back about the whole cycle-15-days-early-and-what-the-hell-do-i-do-now and alternately bitching cooing about over Insert Random Family Drama Here puppies. The school is a three-minute drive from my driveway.

There’s a mad dash for the door with much flourish and internal swearing. Backpack, lunch box, my purse, Buttercup, got everything, lock the door, close the door, realize I left my keys on the buffet table. Inside the house. The Husband is sleeping because he works midnights. I’m pretty sure the dogs are snickering at me through the window while I hit the doorbell and try calling The Husband on his cell phone while Buttercup asks why I didn’t bring the keys with me when I suddenly have a brain storm.

The Husband rigged up a button on the inside of the Yukon for me to press and the garage door opens. Inside the garage is The Only Unlocked Door In The House.

Today.

But the car keys are on the buffet table. Inside the house.

I try the car door anyway, mostly out of desperation. It opens. The Husband might choose to Not Believe and yell at me for leaving the fucking thing unlocked again. I, however, choose to Believe that I magically wished the door open.

We show up five minutes late. Buttercup suggests I do the Mountain Pose to calm down as I leave her with her teacher.

11:30 a.m.: I try calling the clinic again. I have an appointment in two weeks to get me some more Clomid to try and get my ovaries in baby mode and um, well, there’s this time sensitivity factor here, ya know? Yeah…about that…

Nothing.

12:30 p.m.: There’s a needle in my arm drawing blood at a lab 40 minutes from my home to get more baby-making levels checked. While the needle sucks me dry, I try to figure out how to best use the two hours I have left, which happens to include the 40 minutes I still need to get to the preschool on time so I don’t have to pay $3 for every minute late after pick-up time.

On the List of Things to Do is grocery shop at the Sunflower, (which is Smack in the Middle of Where I am Now and Where I will Be When I Pick Up Buttercup) because The Husband wants homemade, gluten-free fish sticks. Because I’m hypoglycemic and about to jump the old woman in the lobby for her dried prunes, I choose to drive to the nearest restaurant selling grape leaves.

2:00 p.m.: I am cursing Arizona’s crackpot policy which gives drivers a 30-year window before licenses have to be renewed. No, I’m not kidding. My own license is good until I’m 62. Which means? The 70-something man in front of me on the one-lane road which happens to be The Only Way to Get Where I Need To Be On Time doesn’t have to have his driving skills examined until his great-grandchildren are getting their learner’s permits. It also means I am driving 15-miles Under The Speed Limit.

2:22 p.m.: Phone in hand, I call information for the main office number and plead for mercy. It’s granted. I arrive 10 minutes late and have used up my one free pass.

2:35 p.m.: Buttercup and I are now driving back to the grocery store. She wants to know if I’ve done Mountain Pose yet.

3:10 p.m.: Buttercup decides to “birth” the stuffed kitten she has been “carrying in her belly” since I got her out of her car seat. She announces the new arrival to every shopper that will listen by loudly stating her baby “has finally Been Borned.” The momentous event occurred in the snack aisle.

3:58 p.m.: I contemplate the financial perks of getting a Sugar Daddy solely for the purposes of funding our Gluten-Free/Organic food habit as the clerk is ringing me up. Seriously, people, life was so much cheaper when I didn’t give a shit what we were eating.

3:59 p.m.: I look at the receipt as I wheel our cart out to the car. I’m pretty sure the Husband would totally be up on me cheating on him for the sake of our budget.

5:00 p.m.: Home. dogs fed. Buttercup fed. Groceries unloaded.

5:02 p.m.: Buttercup wants to know if I’ve done Mountain Pose yet.

5:03 p.m.: I am standing in my kitchen, Buttercup facing me, breathing in and out, in and out, as Buttercup leads me from Mountain intro Tree and from Tree into the Volcano pose she learned in her kiddie yoga DVD.

“When you are upset, you just do this, Mama, until you are calm again.” She looks up at me. “Is it working?”

“Yes.”

“Yeah,” she says doubtfully as she gauges my expression. “We need to do this for a few more minutes.”

My kid just called me a liar.

Fair enough.

So I climb back onto my mountain.

Even with the damned light-blocking curtains in our room, the bits of light peeking through the sides are enough to break into my happy little dreams. I curse myself for forgetting to put on my sleep mask the night before and decide to throw the quilt over my head for a little more time to rest. I’m allowed. My mom is visiting and I know that the minute she leaves, my chances for anything that resembles sleeping in will be out the closest window.

But first I think I’ll check my email. You know, in case an agent has decided overnight that my book is Super Crazy Awesome and has sent a message asking me to call them as soon as I wake up because they are considerate enough to realize Arizona is three hours behind New York? So I reach for the phone on my nightstand and with a precision only a social media addict can attempt, have my email loading before I even open my eyes to focus on what I am looking at.

Blah, blah, new twitter followers, blah, blah, blah, I am now rich because of a dead relative I have never heard of in Zimbabwe and can I please forward all of the necessary banking information to the kind lawyer handling the matter, blah, blah, my mother-in-law wants to be friends on Facebook, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, and WHAT IN THE HELL?

The fuzziness from sleep is instantly replaced by an overwhelming sense of HOLY FUCK WHAT AM I SUPPOSED TO DO NOW and I resist the urge to reach over to the other side of the bed and backhand the still sleeping Husband because my cover being blown is like, totally his fault. Or maybe it’s mine for actually saying yes when he asked if he could like my blog Facebook page. BFF Mel totally warned me that was a bad idea.

“They’re gonna find you,” she had said.

Who pays attention to that crap?

My mother-in-law, apparently.

Before anyone new here gets too confused, I have a strict Public Blog Policy. In short it goes like this: You are allowed to read if you don’t already know me. That might seem ass-backwards to normal people but when you stop to think about it or stop taking your medication it makes total sense. For starters? My in-laws say things like, “Dangnabbit” and “Dadgum” instead of, you know, real swear words. I usually behave when in their presence or on the phone with either one of them, but here?

Have y’all read my shit?

And once the in-laws get on my little social media bandwagon, all hell (sorry, I mean heck…oh shit, it’s happening already) will break loose because then my side of the very Mexican and You Can’t Say Things Like Fuck family will find out and I’ll start censoring what I write and then things will get all boring for me and for you and I’ll replace posts like this with posts not like this. Obviously, this is a major problem.

Besides, if I approve the request, there’ll be questions about my book and people will assume I like to Share My Feelings with them on a regular basis and I’ll most likely piss everyone off, alienate myself from The Family, and The Husband will just sit there looking confused when I try to explain to him Just One More Time the logistics behind not letting anyone know about my writing until I get an agent, a book deal, and make the best seller lists (maybe even all in the same week, right?) because then I will be established and I would totally be okay with that.

But until then this was all supposed to be my secret word garden. Password: Strangers Only.

Before I start to unnecessarily hyper-ventilate, I blink a few times and focus on the phone screen again. Her name is still there. Shitshitshitshitshit!

“What are you doing?” The Husband is now awake and staring at his crazy wife checking her email on her phone before she has even gotten out of bed to brush her teeth and pee. “You realize that if technology as we know it were to disappear tomorrow, you would probably go clinically insane from the withdrawals within a matter of moments, right?”

I don’t answer. I don’t trust myself to speak. Instead, I hand him the phone and climb out of bed to take care of the morning bathroom routine. As I reach for my toothbrush, I hear him start to laugh. It’s probably a good thing he is still in bed because I am pretty sure he wouldn’t be able to stand at this point.

I am proven wrong just a moment later.

“Quick, turn around and give me your best Deer Caught in Headlights” look.” The Husband is standing behind me with the phone, ready to snap a picture.

I turn around, my expression unchanged from the moment I first saw the email.

“Perfect.”

Behavior Centered Health.

According to Ragen Chastain on Dances with Fat, behavior centered health is a concept in which healthy choices and behaviors are the goal, not a particular size, weight, or shape. I have officially been riding the diet yo-yo since the first time I begged my parents into letting me sign up for Weight Watchers as a sophomore in high school. At 5′ 6”, I weighed 150 pounds and wore a size 10. My ass was admittedly not the issue. My head? Big fucking problem.

I’ve dealt with an eating disorder and a negative body image. I’ve binged and exercised. I’ve lost and gained the same 50 pounds only to gain and lose them again. So why did Ragen’s blog strike a chord with me?

Because every diet I have ever been on, every workout I have ever done, and every goal I have ever set for myself (until recently) has been focused only on the scale and the size on the clothing tag. Maybe that’s why every time I hit a snag on the Path to a Smaller Ass (like pregnancy and the resulting body aftermath) I just plain gave up.

My bottom line kind of read like this:  Why bother trying if I wasn’t going to get where I wanted to be? Why put in the effort for something I could never see happening?

Yeah…I know. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

Because every time I ended up giving up on myself. And if I wasn’t trying, I was hell-bent on making it worse. If I can’t lose the weight I might as well have that Twinkie, right? Hello Ben & Jerry. Secret late night binges followed by even more secret late night cry-fests followed by The Hiding of the Evidence at the bottom of the trash can lest The Husband have actual proof of what I had been up to when I was supposed to have been sleeping peacefully next to him.

It would take months (and sometime years) to drag myself back out of the pity party and back to the Land of the Living. Eventually I would wake up ready and willing to Give it My All and Try Again. And everything would be hunky-dory until another snag would knock me back on my ass and into the nearest pint of Cookie Dough ice-cream.

Not very productive, if you ask me.

Then, one day? My head fixed itself. I’m not sure what happened. Maybe it was the year I spent trying to lose more weight so I could have material for a book only to realize the journey was the destination and not the other way around. Maybe it was my daughter looking at me with the truth that can only be found in the eyes of a child and telling me that I am beautiful. Or maybe it was realization that the scale didn’t fucking matter; how I feel when I eat right and take care of myself does.

So even though I am still in it for health and still strive to reach a lower number on the scale for that single reason, the number on said scale is no longer my only reason for living. Instead, I focus on how I feel. I’m going to keep working out because my body needs it. I’m going to eat clean because my body needs it. I’m going to smile in spite of the scale.

And telling myself that I’m pretty. Because that’s always a plus.

***

What about you? What do you think? Is Behavior Centered Health the way to go?