A Letter

 24 Responses »
Oct 032011
 

Dear Scale:

It has come to my attention that you are feeling neglected and, quite possibly, suffering from depression related to a lack of purpose. Since I’m not speaking to you right now, I thought it best to address the situation with a letter. You know how to dish it out, so let’s see if you can take it, as well.

Okay, that was mean. It’s not your fault you are conditioned to be brutally honest and couldn’t win a game of poker if you life depended on it. So maybe this isn’t a case of you being heartless but rather a case of me jut well…needing some space.

It’s not you…it’s me…

See, for way too long I have been dependent on you to set the tone for my day. You told me in no uncertain terms how much of me there and depending on your verdict, I was either flying high on finding less of myself or diving head first into a pint of Ben & Jerry’s to drown my sorrows. The clothes in my closet seemed to be in cahoots with you, too. It didn’t matter if I woke up feeling like I had rainbows shooting out my bum if you called me a fat ass because that marked the exact moment that everything in my closet that fit me yesterday would magically shrink just to prove your point.

That’s just not playing fair.

I have an idea what you would tell me if I decided to pull you out and put you to work, and I’m sure I probably wouldn’t like it very much. Numbers aren’t needed when I feel the softening in my belly from too much of what isn’t good for me and not enough of what it. Numbers don’t need to tell me that 35 minutes on the elliptical weren’t this hard before I decided to kick my Lifestyle change wagon to the curb and hope it would be waiting for me when I finally got my shit together again. I’m not an idiot.  I know I stopped trying. And I certainly don’t need you to gloat.

Which explains the silent treatment.

I’ll come back to you. Not today. Probably not next week. But eventually. First, I need to get my head screwed on straighter than it’s ever been because I’m not the only one along for this ride. I’ve got a kid who looks up to me for cues on how to relate to life, the mirror, and, when she gets older, the size of her own ass in relation to the rest of the world. The eating disordered thinking that still trips me up after getting myself on track forever ago creeps up and allows for self-sabotage more often than it should, the Prozac I get to cocky to take regularly is obviously something I shouldn’t be getting cocky about so I can keep my shit together in the first place, and that whole focusing on health instead of the number thing is something I really need to get embedded in my brain for my kid’s sake and mine. I might talk a good talk but, frankly, she’s pretty damned smart and I’m quite sure she inherited her father’s bullshit detector.

That means it’s time to put up or shut up.

The wagon? I fell off. But then I wised up and starting popping my happy pills again and then I climbed back into myself and then I climbed onto the elliptical that’s still stuck on the highest setting. I’m trying again. And as long as I try, I can hold my head up high no matter what you say.

But I’m not ready for you yet. I need to focus on the inside of my head first and the feeling of accomplishment after a workout and the example I’m setting for my daughter and the fact that numbers aren’t as important as health or happiness. So just give me a little time.

Don’t worry. I’m not kicking you out. I’ll come back to you when I’m ready. Until then, let’s just consider this a trial separation. Oh, and the Prozac is on the top shelf of my medicine cabinet. Help yourself.

Sincerely,

Me

The Mysterious Case of the Typing Monkeys

 6 Responses »
Sep 282011
 

I can and will fuck up anything when I put my mind to it.

It’s like a gift.

A rare talent that not many admit to possessing.

I can’t exactly blame those hiding their mad I Can Burn Boiling Water skillz from the general public, but I would like to make an argument for not hiding behind a veil of secrecy anymore. The world is a depressing place and I, for one, honestly think a few more idiots like me running around asking anyone who will listen where their glasses are and then running away before it can be pointed out that I misplaced my glasses on the bridge of my fucking nose would really liven up the joint.

Take today, for instance. We got that new elliptical delivered today and not only did I not crack and ask The Husband to confirm that it is not, in fact, his 9th wedding anniversary present to the fat ass that split the seat of her pants while bending over to dust the entertainment center because, to be fair, I haven’t actually told anyone that this little incident actually happened and it would be entirely unfair to blame him for an imaginary game of connect the dots that he isn’t aware of happening inside of my wee little head, but I actually hopped on and used said elliptical, y’all. First workout in about six weeks. And yes, I am perfectly aware of the fact that my pants might still be with us today if I hadn’t waited until this baby showed up to get the ass that split them moving again, but that thinking is so incredibly circular that it’s making my head hurt and I’d really rather move on to my next point, thank you very much.

As I was saying…

The incredibly large men who entered our home and so valiantly hauled our monster piece of exercise equipment up to the second floor of our home and then proceeded to so deftly put that thing together also were kind enough to show us how to adjust the incline and such before taking the boxes and leaving. I swear on The Husband’s ego that I only nodded and smiled and said I understood at the time because I did, in fact, totally understand what they had showed us…

At. The. Time.

After they left and The Husband went to bed (he’s still on midnights) I purposely ignored the new elliptical. I didn’t want to seem to eager. I mean, I survived high school and college and it’s safe to say the most important lessons learned involved playing hard to get so the football player I had my eye on might consider for at least five minutes before deciding to take someone prettier and more popular else to the homecoming dance. There would be no immediate and enthusiastic usage of the elliptical because it’s a known fact that the faster one embraces a new piece of exercise equipment in their home is directly related to the amount of time that will pass before said exercise equipment outlives its Shiny Newness and becomes nothing more than a glorified coat hanger.

So I waited. I even changed into my yoga pants in another room so it wouldn’t get too cocky. And when it wasn’t looking, I jumped it.

That’s when I remembered that Hefty and Heftier had set the elliptical at its highest incline when they put it together. Not wanting to start out by killing myself, I jumped off to readjust it. Just like they had showed us.

I knelt down in front of the machine and scrunched my nose. That silver knob looked familiar. I was supposed to grab that. I was sure of it. Was I supposed to unscrew it? Yeah. That sounded right.

But it wasn’t. The silver knob in hand, I sat staring at the exposed screw. How the hell was I supposed to grab on to that to readjust the incline? Maybe if I put the silver knob back on and unscrewed it again I could…

Nope. Still clueless.

So I repeated the process a third time. I imagine monkeys learning to type had to go through the same trial and error I did with the notable difference being that they actually succeeded in achieving success. I, on the other hand, was still holding a silver knob and staring at an exposed screw with no means of grabbing hold of it to pull it out toward me in order to lower the incline.

Unless…

Could it be?

Yes! Yes it was! The answer had been in the palm of my hand the entire time! All I had to do was screw the silver knob back on and use that ingenious piece of technology to pull the lever out that the screw was attached to so I could lower the…

Clank!

Oh.

Shit.

That’s when the silver screw, which had nothing else but the knob in my hand to keep it from getting sucked back into the inner workings of the elliptical, finally gave me the mechanical finger. It had given me three slow pitches and plenty of time to figure out how to fix what I was breaking and I had struck out. All I could do was climb back on and huff my way through a thirty minute workout trying not to focus on the fact that I’m a bloody fucking idiot.

475 calories burned later, The Husband woke up and asked why the silver knob was on the floor and what the point of his paying to have the elliptical put together had been when he was now going to have to take it apart to fix it.

“Um, I love you?”

“You are such a dumbass,” he said. “If you could take the single-mindedness with which you attack stuff like this and apply it to, I don’t know, actual thought, the results would be staggering.”

“I know! I mean, those monkeys and their typing skills…”

What She Said

 17 Responses »
Sep 052011
 

I’ve fallen of the wagon. Or the yoga mat, depending on which way ya look at it. The kicker? It’s all under doctor’s orders.

Sort of.

I went in to see my doctor a few weeks ago convinced I needed testing for a bunch of crazy stuff and go all kinds of insane with the diet limitations like I did in November with no grains/gluten/dairy/sugar not because the scale is pissing me off right now but because, well, I felt better then. I wasn’t bloated, moody, tired, as easily depressed, and I sure as hell wasn’t craving sugar all the time. So whaddya think, Doc?

“Sweetie,” she said slowly, “do you really think you need tests your insurance company might not cover if you felt better when you were eating that way?”

Well….when you put it that way, I guess not.

Doctor Obvious did clear me for celiac disease testing, though. I may have gone mostly gluten-free before the new year rang in, but I haven’t always been strict about it because I don’t get sick like my husband and daughter do. But, says Doctor Obvious, just because I don’t have the same symptoms doesn’t mean I don’t have the same diagnosis.

Fair enough.

The twist is that in order to get an accurate test result, you need to eat the crap that might be the reason you’re feeling like crap to begin with. Enter the breads and flours and baked goods I have avoided like the plague. Add in a few extra Since I’m Already Eating the Rest of that Craps, and you’ve got me sitting here counting down till Thursday so I can get tested and wake up on Friday the dieting equivalent of a born again Christian.

Was that all supposed to be capitalized?

The funniest part of this whole thing is The Husband’s response when I relayed Doctor Obvious’ unscientific findings.

“That’s what I said, isn’t it?”

Semantics, buddy. Semantics.

Mamavation Monday: Mountain Climbing

 6 Responses »
Aug 152011
 

8:32 a.m.: “Mama, it’s daytime.”

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.

Mamavation Monday: The Other Side of Yesterday

 4 Responses »
Jul 312011
 

One step forward.

Two steps back.

Three steps forward. And I’ve already won.

I should have seen it coming. I know me. How my head works. I’m an all or nothing kind of girl and maybe it has to do with the leftover eating disordered baggage and maybe it doesn’t, but it doesn’t really matter. This is where I am right now.

Two weeks ago I was months into a clean eating, loving to and making the time to work out, feeling good inside and out kind of routine. Then I decided to sprain my ankle while making a sandwich for The Husband, because obviously I was supposed to hire a personal trainer first and Get In Shape For That Shit. Or maybe I didn’t do enough pre-sandwich-making stretching. Either way, the result was me in an emergency room, my foot in a brace, and orders from the nurse to keep my ass parked on the couch for a few weeks.

It didn’t happen instantaneously. I didn’t wake up the very next day and decide that raiding the pantry for salty carbs and chocolate because I was still holding strong. I was still focusing on how healthy I felt. Forget taking weight “off your shoulders.” Taking it off my middle by reducing the bloat with limited sugars and processed foods made all the difference for me.

Until I woke up on the other side of yesterday and realized where I had landed. On my face. Hiding from the scale. Doing the Mommy version of the Toddler Potty Dance, only my dance is way less cute because it involves trying to shove my fat ass into the jeans that fit me perfectly two weeks ago. They still button, mind you. But unless I’m going for that Purposeful Muffin Top Look (and what the hell is that about, anyway?) it’s a total nu-uh, Mama. Try again. There, that pair. Shut up about how they look. They fit. Right?

I did an hour long yoga session the night before last.

I polished off a package of dairy free gluten-free chocolate chip cookies last night.

I passed up on serving a heaping side of bullshit and instead wrote about the reality inside my head. It’s not always funny. But it is me. And this is what I need to write about for now. I’ll continue to go through the motions for a few days or so, maybe a week. I’ll pay lip service to giving a damn, eat a few more things that I shouldn’t, work out less than I should, and eventually wake up on the other side of tomorrow reveling in the success of having weathered another storm.

One step forward.

Two steps back.

Three steps forward. And I’ve already won.

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