This past Friday afternoon I was about two hours from the end of my shift when one of my coworkers called me over to the front counter and gestured to a couple of women standing there.
The younger woman spoke. "Hi, do you remember me? I'm Patrick's daughter." Patrick was one of my most beloved regular customers, and I remembered having met her once a while back when she came in with her dad. We both went to Buffalo State, and we'd talked about school stuff. I said, "Oh, yeah, hey! How's it going?" She took a deep breath and offered forth, "I just wanted to let you know that my dad passed away on Sunday."
My jaw dropped, I gasped loudly, and my hands flew up to cover my gaping mouth. My eyes welled up immediately thereafter, and I just stood there, my hands clamped on my face, for what felt like several minutes. My supervisor came up behind me and said, "Why don't you go sit down for a bit?" I nodded my head and walked over to hug Patrick's daughter and offer my sympathy. She told me the funeral was the next morning, gave me the information, and I told her I would be there.
The cause of death is unknown. He went to bed Saturday night and just never woke up. He was 61 years old. Same as my father. Two years younger than my mother. And one of the funniest, friendliest, most appreciated customers I've had in the more than six years I've worked there. Patrick was smart, compassionate, and so fucking funny I used to burst out laughing just looking at him. Sometimes I'd start laughing as soon as I saw his car pull in. He stopped in several times a day. He was retired, but he'd been a USAF medic in Vietnam, and spent most of his time working as a VA Pathfinder, a veterans' advocate.
We used to talk for long stretches when it was slow, and sometimes he'd be in there when I'd stop in on a day off and we'd stand around and talk. We talked about cars. We talked about being Irish and our respective trips to Ireland. We talked about his kids. He shared off-color jokes. Sometimes our conversations got serious and deep, and we talked about Vietnam, and my dad, and my relationship with my dad, and I think in a lot of ways I kind of looked at Patrick as the kind of dad I wish I'd grown up with. I remember thinking how lucky his daughter (who is in her early 20's) was to have such a great guy for a father. My heart broke into a million pieces for her now. How could she be blessed with such a wonderful dad only to lose him so early?
Patrick was more than just a customer. He was a terrific human being. One day I had left work and was running errands when my car ran out of gas. I called the store to see if anyone was there who might be able to come and get me. Nobody was leaving any time soon, but Patrick was there. He got on the phone and told me to sit tight. A few minutes later he arrived to pick me up. He took me back home to get my gas can, then took me back to my car, waited while I put what was in the can into my car, and then followed me to the nearest station to make sure I made it okay. And at his service yesterday, I heard account after account of things like this that Patrick did for people. He was just that kind of guy.
Life hardly seems fair sometimes. I can think of at least a dozen douchebags I'd like to see drop dead, people I wouldn't miss for a second if they went away forever. But Patrick? He was one of the good ones. I know it seems strange that a customer's death would have such a profound effect on me; after all, he's not the first customer who's died. There have been a few others in the last 6-1/2 years I've been at this job. But none were such stable and enjoyed presences there as Patrick was. The others were daily customers, nice people whose deaths definitely hit me in the gut and sent a wave of sadness over me. But never until now have I actually mourned a guy whose lattes I looked forward to making.
Rest in Peace, Patrick Galvin. You will be missed dearly by everyone who was lucky enough to know you.
Sunday, June 20, 2010
I Heart Brides in Flip-flops
When my sister got married nine years ago, her wedding was a 500-guest, $50,000 affair that took place in a convention center, and involved two outfits for just about everyone (of which the bride's second weighed an estimated 50 pounds from all the embellishments). It also involved a lavish Indian/American spread, two cakes, and gallons of free-flowing liquor. For four days prior, there'd been a function every day and a house party (mini-mansion party, actually) every night. The party might have continued after the wedding, for all I know. I left the morning after their wedding on a 7:00 a.m. flight, finally getting to experience what a still-drunk hangover at 30,000 feet actually felt like (highly NOT recommended). Everything about this wedding was high-class, yet beyond fun (I'm not kidding - the Punjabis can party).
This is not what my sister had envisioned her wedding to be like. At all. Not just the cultural aspect, but the expense of it. It was truly over the top, and coming from the modest means we did, it was a little intimidating at times. But they got married this way because my brother-in-law's parents paid for it. At one point, they were ready to elope to Antigua because my sister just couldn't take the planning stage anymore - mostly because she wasn't doing most of the planning and her mother-in-law was driving her insane.
While none were as over the top as my sister's was, most of the people whose weddings I've attended have thrown relatively lavish affairs - high-budget events with a couple hundred people in attendance, a country club or four-star ballroom reception, and massive flower arrangements. There were some lower-budget ones, too, but still semi-formal events with DJs and open bars. And in just about every case, the parents had thrown down for the wedding.
Then for a while, the weddings tapered off and stopped altogether. I managed to go four years, in fact, without having to go to one. Now it's starting up again. But this time around I'm noticing a trend - the casual reception has become the thing to do. It could very well be that my friends are now older and are footing the bill themselves and/or feel silly putting on a big fairytale show near mid-life. But I've seen this trend with younger couples as well. I did some research, and found that the wedding industry is taking a huge hit during this economic crunch.
The next wedding I am attending is my cousin's, and if his fiancee's shower was any indication (um, catered sit-down lunch?), this is not a casual affair. But a large number of people I know getting married this year are doing it small; they're keeping guest lists limited to closest friends and family and having receptions in unlikely places like park pavilions and backyards, with "open bars" consisting of coolers filled with canned beer and soft drinks, h'ors d'oeuvres of cheese and crackers, and dinner being sit-wherever-you-want buffets with games of kan-jam going on in the background. The bride wears a (not white) sundress and the groom is in a Hawaiian shirt. The flowers are already growing where the party is.
Now guess which one I like best. Guess which one I think brings out the best in people and eliminates the discomfort of figuring out which fork to use. Guess which one is more likely a true celebration and not just a show. Guess which one I'm going to do if I ever get married (not likely, but still...). I'm not knocking big weddings, not at all. I've enjoyed myself at every wedding I've ever been to, and hell, I like eating gourmet food from time to time. But I also like how it's becoming more socially acceptable to have picnic food, and to be creatively budget-conscious while still throwing a hell of a fun party to celebrate a marriage. Because, after all, isn't that what it's all about?
This is not what my sister had envisioned her wedding to be like. At all. Not just the cultural aspect, but the expense of it. It was truly over the top, and coming from the modest means we did, it was a little intimidating at times. But they got married this way because my brother-in-law's parents paid for it. At one point, they were ready to elope to Antigua because my sister just couldn't take the planning stage anymore - mostly because she wasn't doing most of the planning and her mother-in-law was driving her insane.
While none were as over the top as my sister's was, most of the people whose weddings I've attended have thrown relatively lavish affairs - high-budget events with a couple hundred people in attendance, a country club or four-star ballroom reception, and massive flower arrangements. There were some lower-budget ones, too, but still semi-formal events with DJs and open bars. And in just about every case, the parents had thrown down for the wedding.
Then for a while, the weddings tapered off and stopped altogether. I managed to go four years, in fact, without having to go to one. Now it's starting up again. But this time around I'm noticing a trend - the casual reception has become the thing to do. It could very well be that my friends are now older and are footing the bill themselves and/or feel silly putting on a big fairytale show near mid-life. But I've seen this trend with younger couples as well. I did some research, and found that the wedding industry is taking a huge hit during this economic crunch.
The next wedding I am attending is my cousin's, and if his fiancee's shower was any indication (um, catered sit-down lunch?), this is not a casual affair. But a large number of people I know getting married this year are doing it small; they're keeping guest lists limited to closest friends and family and having receptions in unlikely places like park pavilions and backyards, with "open bars" consisting of coolers filled with canned beer and soft drinks, h'ors d'oeuvres of cheese and crackers, and dinner being sit-wherever-you-want buffets with games of kan-jam going on in the background. The bride wears a (not white) sundress and the groom is in a Hawaiian shirt. The flowers are already growing where the party is.
Now guess which one I like best. Guess which one I think brings out the best in people and eliminates the discomfort of figuring out which fork to use. Guess which one is more likely a true celebration and not just a show. Guess which one I'm going to do if I ever get married (not likely, but still...). I'm not knocking big weddings, not at all. I've enjoyed myself at every wedding I've ever been to, and hell, I like eating gourmet food from time to time. But I also like how it's becoming more socially acceptable to have picnic food, and to be creatively budget-conscious while still throwing a hell of a fun party to celebrate a marriage. Because, after all, isn't that what it's all about?
Monday, June 14, 2010
Cool gig
In other news, I've been hired to do the logo for this year's Sigma Tau Delta (International English Honor Society) eastern chapter conference. The logo gets used on all print materials (fliers, brochures, posters), on t-shirts, and on the website. How fucking sweet is that?
Never underestimate the power of Facebook.
Never underestimate the power of Facebook.
Wednesday, June 09, 2010
Thin Privilege and Fat Discrimination
My friend Amanda posted this (click here to read it) on her Facebook wall a while back, and it's been resonating with me since then. I've been meaning to write about it for some time, but, you know...life happens.
While I can certainly understand the "feeling" of being fat, and I respect mostly every woman's opinion of her own body (because I get it, completely, and how you feel about your body is what matters, so if you're not happy with it, I fully encourage you to change it, whether you feel like you need to lose 5 pounds or 500 pounds, or tone your thighs, or Botox your forehead or whatever), Dolly really does hit the nail on the head with this.
Women who are thin and complain about "feeling fat" have NO idea what it is truly like to walk through life with the burden of extra weight. I remember being thin for about seven minutes in my 20's, and I can tell you from experience that LIFE IS DIFFERENT when you're thin. People's perceptions, reactions, and interactions with you are worlds apart when you're not packing muffin tops and an ass the size of Nebraska. And whether you choose to believe that or not, or want to bury your head in the sand and proclaim fat discrimination to be a figment of imagination or some made-up fear by those lacking self-esteem, it's the truth.
I'm actively losing weight (again - dieting seems to be somewhat of a lifelong sport for me), but I'm still a fat girl. I'm not going to list numbers and stats and all that, but suffice to say I'm "plus sized," even after losing 51 pounds. I would really rather NOT be plus-sized, and having been any number of sizes ranging from 6 to 22, I can tell you toward which end of the spectrum I'm happier on (hint: it ain't the double digits). And while I'll admit that a size 6 is dreamy, it isn't realistically maintainable; it requires me to dip down into the 120's, and honestly my body simply won't go that low and stay there for any length of time unless I decide I can subsist on iceberg lettuce and amphetamines. If history is any indication, 140 is about where I should be, where I've previously felt best about myself, and where I fit comfortably into a size 8 or 9. At that weight, I've "felt" fat (while standing next to a 120-pound, size-6 woman, usually), but I knew in all honesty that no one was looking at me in public and instantly branding me with the Fat Lady! label. And this is where Dolly speaks fucking gospel.
I'm not going to rehash all the points she already made. That's why I linked back to her blog. I can only tell you that when I was reading it, I kept thinking, "Oh, man...yes. Yep. Uh-huh. Yeah, that's how it really is." Spot. On.
You know, all things considered, I'm a relatively fabulous individual. I'm educated. I'm intelligent. I have a variety of interests that keep me busy. I have an enormous circle of excellent friends and an ever-expanding social and professional network. I'm employed, independent, and self-sufficient. I'm a decent conversationalist and I can hold a small crowd in social settings. I'm the "lively center of attention" type, the funny girl who isn't afraid to crack a joke at anyone's (including - and especially - her own) expense. I'm cute. I have nice eyes. My teeth are straight, white, and all there. I have great boobs. And I never, ever leave the house is pajama bottoms.
I'm also fat.
So when people see me in public (and you can deny this until you're blue in the face, but you'd be incorrect), I am willing to put hard cash on the bet that they aren't thinking, "Oh, that woman looks like a creative person" or "I bet that girl would be a lot of fun at a party." IF they're thinking anything at all (because, after all, there's no one quite as invisible as the largest person in the room), they're thinking, "Slob," or maybe "Jesus, I wonder how many eggs she eats for breakfast." (For the record: one. Over easy. With sprouted grain toast. Dry. And black coffee).
Okay, so maybe they're not even thinking that deeply. Let's forget for a second that we're talking about anyone with people-watching tendencies, and just go with first impressions. Or first descriptors. Do you think when people describe me they say, "the redhead with the glasses?" Of course not. They say, "The, uh, heavyset gal with the red hair and the glasses." They say, "That fat girl in my Animation class." Because I'm not the only redhead with glasses, but I AM the only fat one - or at the very least, the fattest.
I am sure that most of the people who are closest to me pay little attention to my weight. They know me, they like me, and while I have had some very close friends and family members express concern for my health, I like to think that none of them refer to me as "my fat friend/daughter/sister Deedee." But the rest of the world is not so forgiving. So rock on, Dolly. And those of you who feel fat in your single-digit sizes yet have never known the sensation of the floor shaking when you walk across it or endured the disparaging looks from random strangers, or been rejected by a potential date because of your size, suck it up. You're beautiful. And privileged.
While I can certainly understand the "feeling" of being fat, and I respect mostly every woman's opinion of her own body (because I get it, completely, and how you feel about your body is what matters, so if you're not happy with it, I fully encourage you to change it, whether you feel like you need to lose 5 pounds or 500 pounds, or tone your thighs, or Botox your forehead or whatever), Dolly really does hit the nail on the head with this.
Women who are thin and complain about "feeling fat" have NO idea what it is truly like to walk through life with the burden of extra weight. I remember being thin for about seven minutes in my 20's, and I can tell you from experience that LIFE IS DIFFERENT when you're thin. People's perceptions, reactions, and interactions with you are worlds apart when you're not packing muffin tops and an ass the size of Nebraska. And whether you choose to believe that or not, or want to bury your head in the sand and proclaim fat discrimination to be a figment of imagination or some made-up fear by those lacking self-esteem, it's the truth.
I'm actively losing weight (again - dieting seems to be somewhat of a lifelong sport for me), but I'm still a fat girl. I'm not going to list numbers and stats and all that, but suffice to say I'm "plus sized," even after losing 51 pounds. I would really rather NOT be plus-sized, and having been any number of sizes ranging from 6 to 22, I can tell you toward which end of the spectrum I'm happier on (hint: it ain't the double digits). And while I'll admit that a size 6 is dreamy, it isn't realistically maintainable; it requires me to dip down into the 120's, and honestly my body simply won't go that low and stay there for any length of time unless I decide I can subsist on iceberg lettuce and amphetamines. If history is any indication, 140 is about where I should be, where I've previously felt best about myself, and where I fit comfortably into a size 8 or 9. At that weight, I've "felt" fat (while standing next to a 120-pound, size-6 woman, usually), but I knew in all honesty that no one was looking at me in public and instantly branding me with the Fat Lady! label. And this is where Dolly speaks fucking gospel.
I'm not going to rehash all the points she already made. That's why I linked back to her blog. I can only tell you that when I was reading it, I kept thinking, "Oh, man...yes. Yep. Uh-huh. Yeah, that's how it really is." Spot. On.
You know, all things considered, I'm a relatively fabulous individual. I'm educated. I'm intelligent. I have a variety of interests that keep me busy. I have an enormous circle of excellent friends and an ever-expanding social and professional network. I'm employed, independent, and self-sufficient. I'm a decent conversationalist and I can hold a small crowd in social settings. I'm the "lively center of attention" type, the funny girl who isn't afraid to crack a joke at anyone's (including - and especially - her own) expense. I'm cute. I have nice eyes. My teeth are straight, white, and all there. I have great boobs. And I never, ever leave the house is pajama bottoms.
I'm also fat.
So when people see me in public (and you can deny this until you're blue in the face, but you'd be incorrect), I am willing to put hard cash on the bet that they aren't thinking, "Oh, that woman looks like a creative person" or "I bet that girl would be a lot of fun at a party." IF they're thinking anything at all (because, after all, there's no one quite as invisible as the largest person in the room), they're thinking, "Slob," or maybe "Jesus, I wonder how many eggs she eats for breakfast." (For the record: one. Over easy. With sprouted grain toast. Dry. And black coffee).
Okay, so maybe they're not even thinking that deeply. Let's forget for a second that we're talking about anyone with people-watching tendencies, and just go with first impressions. Or first descriptors. Do you think when people describe me they say, "the redhead with the glasses?" Of course not. They say, "The, uh, heavyset gal with the red hair and the glasses." They say, "That fat girl in my Animation class." Because I'm not the only redhead with glasses, but I AM the only fat one - or at the very least, the fattest.
I am sure that most of the people who are closest to me pay little attention to my weight. They know me, they like me, and while I have had some very close friends and family members express concern for my health, I like to think that none of them refer to me as "my fat friend/daughter/sister Deedee." But the rest of the world is not so forgiving. So rock on, Dolly. And those of you who feel fat in your single-digit sizes yet have never known the sensation of the floor shaking when you walk across it or endured the disparaging looks from random strangers, or been rejected by a potential date because of your size, suck it up. You're beautiful. And privileged.
Friday, May 14, 2010
Belated Golden Boot Ramble
I posted this on Quitnet on the actual date of my anniversary (April 6) but just decided that I wanted to post it here so that it has a more permanent home.
The Golden Boot is the virtual award given upon the two-year anniversary of smoking cessation on the Quitnet website. Quitnet (known as "The Q" to its members) is not a daily part of my life anymore, but it was instrumental in the early days of my quit. Those of you who've known me for a while know that I've struggled with tobacco addiction pretty much my entire life. You've been through several quits and quit attempts with me. But here's what I wrote about this one:
My Golden Boot Ramble
From DeedeeRedux on 4/6/2010 9:58:43 PM
I don't come here very often anymore. I don't need to most days. But I wanted to share this with you, because it really does mean a lot to me to be able to slip my Golden Boot on and tell you about it.
I'm looking down and thinking, "am I really wearing this?" It's just a figure of speech, of course; the "Golden Boot" is just like the other "prizes" in Quitnet - the bracelet, the big kid pants, the T-shirt, et cetera. But it nevertheless represents a milestone I never, ever, EVER thought I would reach: TWO YEARS of smoke-free living.
I started smoking when I was 12. Not kidding. Twelve years old. My first quit attempt was at 18, and I lasted one day. Maybe two, I don't remember now. But I remember thinking, "the hell with this. I can't do it." I was a PROUD smoker, a DEFIANT smoker. If I walked into a restaurant and there were no smoking tables available, I went someplace else. Seriously, I was a serious, loyal, proud, and dedicated smoker. I loved my cigarettes.
My next quit attempt wouldn't come for another 10 years. At 28 I decided to get a handle on it once more, and I quit for 37 days. Then I tried again at 33. Lasted about two months. Tried again at 34. Lasted 11 months. I was so close to my one year and I slipped. Just one cigarette, but that's all it really takes. Stayed quit after that for another five months. I spent the next two years being an on-again, off-again smoker. Sometimes I'd go for a week or two, then I'd have one or two or an entire pack in a weekend, and it just didn't seem to be going away. And, yes, I was here on the Q most of that time.
Two years ago today, I was driving home from an early morning shift. It was around 10:00 in the morning, it was a Sunday, and I'd been feeling kind of crappy. I had a cold, a cough, and had seen the doctor that previous Friday and he'd put me on antibiotics for bronchitis. I lit a cigarette, and managed to smoke about half of it before I decided it was ridiculous. It was actually painful to inhale. I threw the cigarette out the window, promised myself I'd quit the next chance I got, and continued home. I didn't know it then, but I'd just made good on my promise.
That night, I felt worse and worse, and I started feeling really, really tight in my chest (I have asthma). I grabbed my inhaler and took a hit. No go. Got up and went to the bedroom and hooked myself up to the nebulizer. Again, didn't help. I was getting worse, in fact. Finally after about an hour of trying to get through it, it became apparent that I was about to have a full-blown major attack. I needed medical attention. By the time I got myself to the hospital, I was in serious distress. I was moving so little air, my fingers and toes were turning blue. They took my O2 sats, and I was at 86% and falling. My peak flows were practically non-existent. If you know anything about asthma, you know this is pretty bad. I ended up staying in the hospital for four days. Four days out of work, off from school...four days trapped between the same four walls hooked up to IV steroids and antibiotics, an O2 cannula strapped on my face...
They asked me, "Do you smoke?" and I said, "Not anymore." They asked, "how long ago did you quit," and I answered, "um...a couple of weeks?" Obviously I lied, but I felt like an ass for smoking. Meanwhile, there was a fresh pack of Parliaments in the car.
Now? Now I don't feel like an ass. I've got a frickin' GOLDEN BOOT on my foot, folks. I've since had one other attack, and when they said, "Do you smoke," I held my head up, and said, "NOT ANYMORE!" and when they asked, "how long ago did you quit?" I could say, a couple of YEARS!"
That's right. Two years.
And if you think you can't do it, if you can't see the benefits, let me tell you what they are. I smell incredible. And by that I mean I smell like my shampoo, my body wash, and my chewing gum, and not like stale cigarettes. And I SMELL better, meaning my nose picks up scents I didn't know existed until recently. Sometimes it's not always the best thing, lol. But holy cow, it's really something. Tastes? Everything tastes better. I thought there was a marginal improvement at first, but now two years in, stuff is so much more flavorful. Amazing.
Did you know that smoking affects your eyes? Since I quit smoking my prescription has not gotten worse, it's actually improved. My old glasses are too strong!
I can go anywhere in the world and not have to worry about when I'm going to have my next cigarette. I flew to Japan last summer, and it was such a difference from when I'd flown to Ireland a few years before. The flight to Japan was TWICE as long, yet I remember my flight into Dublin being racked with cravings and anxiety. My flight into Osaka was relaxed, laid-back, and devoid of any anxiety. I didn't immediately seek a smoking area the second I landed. The customs process was so much less stressful!
But anyway, I'm rambling. I know. Isn't that what you're supposed to do when you hit a big milestone like this?
My advice to you newbies - don't stop quitting. Just keep going. Despite all the positives, I did some damage that can't be reversed. My lungs are scarred from the asthma, the bronchitis, etc. If I'd quit while I was ahead, I'd probably be okay. I struggle with my weight because of the steroids. So for anyone who thinks quitting will make them gain weight, it's nothing compared to the weight gain when you have to be pumped full of prednisone and Advair to keep your lungs from taking a crap. Gain the five or ten pounds. It'll come off eventually. A lifetime of steroids is a whole other ball of wax. Don't go there. Just quit.
And if anyone needs some ass-kicking, just give me a shout. 'Cause not only will I do it, I can now do it with a GOLDEN FRICKIN' BOOT on.
Rock on with your bad selves, and KTQ!!!!!
Deedee
2 years smoke-free
$4000 richer
and 2 months 23 days longer for this world.
The Golden Boot is the virtual award given upon the two-year anniversary of smoking cessation on the Quitnet website. Quitnet (known as "The Q" to its members) is not a daily part of my life anymore, but it was instrumental in the early days of my quit. Those of you who've known me for a while know that I've struggled with tobacco addiction pretty much my entire life. You've been through several quits and quit attempts with me. But here's what I wrote about this one:
My Golden Boot Ramble
From DeedeeRedux on 4/6/2010 9:58:43 PM
I don't come here very often anymore. I don't need to most days. But I wanted to share this with you, because it really does mean a lot to me to be able to slip my Golden Boot on and tell you about it.
I'm looking down and thinking, "am I really wearing this?" It's just a figure of speech, of course; the "Golden Boot" is just like the other "prizes" in Quitnet - the bracelet, the big kid pants, the T-shirt, et cetera. But it nevertheless represents a milestone I never, ever, EVER thought I would reach: TWO YEARS of smoke-free living.
I started smoking when I was 12. Not kidding. Twelve years old. My first quit attempt was at 18, and I lasted one day. Maybe two, I don't remember now. But I remember thinking, "the hell with this. I can't do it." I was a PROUD smoker, a DEFIANT smoker. If I walked into a restaurant and there were no smoking tables available, I went someplace else. Seriously, I was a serious, loyal, proud, and dedicated smoker. I loved my cigarettes.
My next quit attempt wouldn't come for another 10 years. At 28 I decided to get a handle on it once more, and I quit for 37 days. Then I tried again at 33. Lasted about two months. Tried again at 34. Lasted 11 months. I was so close to my one year and I slipped. Just one cigarette, but that's all it really takes. Stayed quit after that for another five months. I spent the next two years being an on-again, off-again smoker. Sometimes I'd go for a week or two, then I'd have one or two or an entire pack in a weekend, and it just didn't seem to be going away. And, yes, I was here on the Q most of that time.
Two years ago today, I was driving home from an early morning shift. It was around 10:00 in the morning, it was a Sunday, and I'd been feeling kind of crappy. I had a cold, a cough, and had seen the doctor that previous Friday and he'd put me on antibiotics for bronchitis. I lit a cigarette, and managed to smoke about half of it before I decided it was ridiculous. It was actually painful to inhale. I threw the cigarette out the window, promised myself I'd quit the next chance I got, and continued home. I didn't know it then, but I'd just made good on my promise.
That night, I felt worse and worse, and I started feeling really, really tight in my chest (I have asthma). I grabbed my inhaler and took a hit. No go. Got up and went to the bedroom and hooked myself up to the nebulizer. Again, didn't help. I was getting worse, in fact. Finally after about an hour of trying to get through it, it became apparent that I was about to have a full-blown major attack. I needed medical attention. By the time I got myself to the hospital, I was in serious distress. I was moving so little air, my fingers and toes were turning blue. They took my O2 sats, and I was at 86% and falling. My peak flows were practically non-existent. If you know anything about asthma, you know this is pretty bad. I ended up staying in the hospital for four days. Four days out of work, off from school...four days trapped between the same four walls hooked up to IV steroids and antibiotics, an O2 cannula strapped on my face...
They asked me, "Do you smoke?" and I said, "Not anymore." They asked, "how long ago did you quit," and I answered, "um...a couple of weeks?" Obviously I lied, but I felt like an ass for smoking. Meanwhile, there was a fresh pack of Parliaments in the car.
Now? Now I don't feel like an ass. I've got a frickin' GOLDEN BOOT on my foot, folks. I've since had one other attack, and when they said, "Do you smoke," I held my head up, and said, "NOT ANYMORE!" and when they asked, "how long ago did you quit?" I could say, a couple of YEARS!"
That's right. Two years.
And if you think you can't do it, if you can't see the benefits, let me tell you what they are. I smell incredible. And by that I mean I smell like my shampoo, my body wash, and my chewing gum, and not like stale cigarettes. And I SMELL better, meaning my nose picks up scents I didn't know existed until recently. Sometimes it's not always the best thing, lol. But holy cow, it's really something. Tastes? Everything tastes better. I thought there was a marginal improvement at first, but now two years in, stuff is so much more flavorful. Amazing.
Did you know that smoking affects your eyes? Since I quit smoking my prescription has not gotten worse, it's actually improved. My old glasses are too strong!
I can go anywhere in the world and not have to worry about when I'm going to have my next cigarette. I flew to Japan last summer, and it was such a difference from when I'd flown to Ireland a few years before. The flight to Japan was TWICE as long, yet I remember my flight into Dublin being racked with cravings and anxiety. My flight into Osaka was relaxed, laid-back, and devoid of any anxiety. I didn't immediately seek a smoking area the second I landed. The customs process was so much less stressful!
But anyway, I'm rambling. I know. Isn't that what you're supposed to do when you hit a big milestone like this?
My advice to you newbies - don't stop quitting. Just keep going. Despite all the positives, I did some damage that can't be reversed. My lungs are scarred from the asthma, the bronchitis, etc. If I'd quit while I was ahead, I'd probably be okay. I struggle with my weight because of the steroids. So for anyone who thinks quitting will make them gain weight, it's nothing compared to the weight gain when you have to be pumped full of prednisone and Advair to keep your lungs from taking a crap. Gain the five or ten pounds. It'll come off eventually. A lifetime of steroids is a whole other ball of wax. Don't go there. Just quit.
And if anyone needs some ass-kicking, just give me a shout. 'Cause not only will I do it, I can now do it with a GOLDEN FRICKIN' BOOT on.
Rock on with your bad selves, and KTQ!!!!!
Deedee
2 years smoke-free
$4000 richer
and 2 months 23 days longer for this world.
Thursday, April 22, 2010
Dear Zen Tea Douchebag
(as posted on Buffalo's Craigslist 4/22/10):
Dear Zen Tea Douchebag (Starbucks Drive-Thru)
Date: 2010-04-22, 5:59PM EDT
To the guy who threw his SUV in gear and peeled out of the drive-thru because we were out of Zen tea (Oh, the irony):
Dude. What is the matter with you? Listen, I know what a pain in the ass it is to have to wait only to be let down. It happened to me just yesterday at Kinko's, in fact. Waited in line for 15 minutes and left without what I needed. It sucks. I know. Everyone's time is valuable. I get that. And you most certainly had some important goings-on, judging by the way you were clutching that Blackberry.
Let me tell you something. I've been doing this for a really, really long time. So long, in fact, that I usually don't let douchebaggery get to me. Like water on a duck's back, that shit usually just rolls off. However, it never gets easier having to tell someone that they just waited in line for something that I discovered we're out of. I'm sorry about that. And I hope at least you recognized that when I looked at you and said, "Sir, I am really sorry, but I didn't realize when you ordered that we're out of what you wanted. Can I get you something else?" (which, incidentally, you would have gotten for free, such is my dedication to making it right), I was saying so with actual, genuine courtesy and regret. It was a tough day all around, really. Part of the reason you had to wait as long as you did was because we got new ordering system software, and like any computer upgrade, this one was not without its glitches. Again, I'm sorry. Honestly.
But do you realize just how reckless and dangerous and utterly careless your actions were? Do you also realize how FUCKING LUCKY you are that no one was walking through the parking lot at that time? Considering how busy we were, how full the lot was, Sir, I shudder to think what could have happened. The guy behind you said, "what was up with that guy?" And when I told him that you were upset because we were out of the tea you wanted, he said, "So he could have killed someone because of a $2 cup of tea? Wow." It's true. Had anyone stepped off the curb into the crosswalk that crosses the drive-thru lane at that moment, they would be dead. If anyone had been walking through the lot from our front door to their car at that time, they'd be dead. If anyone had been driving past at that very second, they'd be maimed at best. So much potential carnage. For a cup of tea.
My friend was inside at the time, with his 6-year-old daughter. Less than 30 seconds after you pulled your little stunt, they were on their way back to their car. When it dawned on me just what could have happened, I fucking broke down. I actually had to take my headset and my apron off, and go sit in the back to try and compose myself. Ten years ago I saw a dog get hit by a car. I screamed so loud and so long that I lost my voice for three days afterward. I was so traumatized that it kept me up at night for a long, long time. And to this day, ten years after the fact, I still have flashbacks. I'm pretty sure if the worst had happened today, I'd need institutionalization. The implications of your actions, sir, are far reaching indeed.
Yes, I realize that the worst DIDN'T happen, and for the sake of everyone who could have been affected, I am on my knees and thanking the universe for the fortuitous alignment. But I want you to THINK about it - about how life could have changed in the blink of an eye if someone had been in your path at that moment. And hell, since you seem to like to indulge in your own selfish behavior, think about how YOUR life would have been affected. The legal issues...the money issues...the impact on your marriage....on your kids....the jail time.... And above all, could you really have lived with yourself knowing you mowed down a kid, or someone's husband, or someone's mom...for a fucking cup of tea?
I hope you find some Zen very soon, indeed.
Dear Zen Tea Douchebag (Starbucks Drive-Thru)
Date: 2010-04-22, 5:59PM EDT
To the guy who threw his SUV in gear and peeled out of the drive-thru because we were out of Zen tea (Oh, the irony):
Dude. What is the matter with you? Listen, I know what a pain in the ass it is to have to wait only to be let down. It happened to me just yesterday at Kinko's, in fact. Waited in line for 15 minutes and left without what I needed. It sucks. I know. Everyone's time is valuable. I get that. And you most certainly had some important goings-on, judging by the way you were clutching that Blackberry.
Let me tell you something. I've been doing this for a really, really long time. So long, in fact, that I usually don't let douchebaggery get to me. Like water on a duck's back, that shit usually just rolls off. However, it never gets easier having to tell someone that they just waited in line for something that I discovered we're out of. I'm sorry about that. And I hope at least you recognized that when I looked at you and said, "Sir, I am really sorry, but I didn't realize when you ordered that we're out of what you wanted. Can I get you something else?" (which, incidentally, you would have gotten for free, such is my dedication to making it right), I was saying so with actual, genuine courtesy and regret. It was a tough day all around, really. Part of the reason you had to wait as long as you did was because we got new ordering system software, and like any computer upgrade, this one was not without its glitches. Again, I'm sorry. Honestly.
But do you realize just how reckless and dangerous and utterly careless your actions were? Do you also realize how FUCKING LUCKY you are that no one was walking through the parking lot at that time? Considering how busy we were, how full the lot was, Sir, I shudder to think what could have happened. The guy behind you said, "what was up with that guy?" And when I told him that you were upset because we were out of the tea you wanted, he said, "So he could have killed someone because of a $2 cup of tea? Wow." It's true. Had anyone stepped off the curb into the crosswalk that crosses the drive-thru lane at that moment, they would be dead. If anyone had been walking through the lot from our front door to their car at that time, they'd be dead. If anyone had been driving past at that very second, they'd be maimed at best. So much potential carnage. For a cup of tea.
My friend was inside at the time, with his 6-year-old daughter. Less than 30 seconds after you pulled your little stunt, they were on their way back to their car. When it dawned on me just what could have happened, I fucking broke down. I actually had to take my headset and my apron off, and go sit in the back to try and compose myself. Ten years ago I saw a dog get hit by a car. I screamed so loud and so long that I lost my voice for three days afterward. I was so traumatized that it kept me up at night for a long, long time. And to this day, ten years after the fact, I still have flashbacks. I'm pretty sure if the worst had happened today, I'd need institutionalization. The implications of your actions, sir, are far reaching indeed.
Yes, I realize that the worst DIDN'T happen, and for the sake of everyone who could have been affected, I am on my knees and thanking the universe for the fortuitous alignment. But I want you to THINK about it - about how life could have changed in the blink of an eye if someone had been in your path at that moment. And hell, since you seem to like to indulge in your own selfish behavior, think about how YOUR life would have been affected. The legal issues...the money issues...the impact on your marriage....on your kids....the jail time.... And above all, could you really have lived with yourself knowing you mowed down a kid, or someone's husband, or someone's mom...for a fucking cup of tea?
I hope you find some Zen very soon, indeed.
Tuesday, April 20, 2010
I am writing...
...the most amazing love story.
Now I just need to raise $2000 to find out if it's fiction or autobiography.
Monday, April 19, 2010
Online Dating Lie #256
"I'm not really looking for anything serious right now (even though I'm a paid member and have that little gold 'serious member' icon next to my profile)."
Guys, what the fuck? I mean, come on. Did you not notice that I'm 39 years old? This, in case you hadn't realized, means I was born earlier than yesterday.
But hey, thanks for the gentle let-down. I feel so much better knowing you think I'm an idiot than thinking I might not actually fall within whatever standards you've set for this stupid shit.
Guys, what the fuck? I mean, come on. Did you not notice that I'm 39 years old? This, in case you hadn't realized, means I was born earlier than yesterday.
But hey, thanks for the gentle let-down. I feel so much better knowing you think I'm an idiot than thinking I might not actually fall within whatever standards you've set for this stupid shit.
Saturday, April 17, 2010
The glass is half full. And I'm still fat.
Forty pounds is the weight of an average 5-year-old, or a Brittany Spaniel. Or an industrial-sized bag of...whatever. Impressive, right? Maybe not.
I'm trying to be optimistic, but trying keep this all in perspective, because, see, I went out last night, and photos were taken. Despite the fact that two people whom I'd not seen in months rushed me and told me how good I look, the proof is in the photos: I'm still a fucking cow.
Forty pounds is a big accomplishment. I get that. But in the grand scheme of things, really, it's nothing. It's a drop in the bucket. There was once a time in my life when a 40-pound loss meant big changes (and even complaints from the boyfriend about being "too thin" if you can believe that). But now...ugh. Okay, I know. I look better than I did 40 pounds ago, but it's going to be another 40 pounds before I really start feeling like I look good. And even 40 pounds from now I'll still be fat. In fact I'll still have 50 pounds to lose beyond the next 40. So...what the fuck. It all seems so futile sometimes.
Don't mind me. I know that every destination is reached not by giant strides but by baby steps, and that every pound matters, but I just hate it when I feel like I'm making progress and then I see a photo that screams "FATSO!" staring back at me. It's not exactly the most encouraging thing. I'm trying to love myself every step of the way, but it's not easy.
I'm trying to be optimistic, but trying keep this all in perspective, because, see, I went out last night, and photos were taken. Despite the fact that two people whom I'd not seen in months rushed me and told me how good I look, the proof is in the photos: I'm still a fucking cow.
Forty pounds is a big accomplishment. I get that. But in the grand scheme of things, really, it's nothing. It's a drop in the bucket. There was once a time in my life when a 40-pound loss meant big changes (and even complaints from the boyfriend about being "too thin" if you can believe that). But now...ugh. Okay, I know. I look better than I did 40 pounds ago, but it's going to be another 40 pounds before I really start feeling like I look good. And even 40 pounds from now I'll still be fat. In fact I'll still have 50 pounds to lose beyond the next 40. So...what the fuck. It all seems so futile sometimes.
Don't mind me. I know that every destination is reached not by giant strides but by baby steps, and that every pound matters, but I just hate it when I feel like I'm making progress and then I see a photo that screams "FATSO!" staring back at me. It's not exactly the most encouraging thing. I'm trying to love myself every step of the way, but it's not easy.
Thursday, April 15, 2010
Fresh on the ADDled Brain: My frustration with mental health care...and why Julie rules
All right, Blogwatchers, this is raw. This is real. This is from the heart. I am frustrated and angry and annoyed and irritated and anxious and all kinds of other stuff right now. If you don't want to read a personal rant about mental health and my absolute hatred of the system at this time, I suggest you leave. Close the door quietly behind you, though. I'm feeling a bit punchy at the moment.
There is NO DOUBT - in my mind or by others who know me - that I have some attention deficit issues going on. As a kid I had trouble sitting still, paying attention, and following through. Always a procrastinator, never on time for anything (see old post on polychronism), and always in some other world half the time. I've pitched tantrums when I can't find something because it's not where I thought I left it. Crying fits because I can't get my shit together long enough to figure out what to eat for dinner...and scorched small appliances when I figure it out but forget I've left it cooking. As I've gotten older, it's only gotten worse (ask me how many tea kettles I've destroyed by dry-boiling them for HOURS. Go ahead - ask. THREE). I make jokes about it, I hide it behind this "scatterbrained creative" curtain, and sometimes I come right out and make direct reference to it. But the fact remains, my attention span is deficient and it is a daily, no - HOURLY - struggle to keep my shit together most of the time.
I don't make a big secret of the fact that I've been in and out of therapy and on and off meds for years. You'd be, too, if you grew up with my parents. But the attention thing was never addressed, except once after it cost me a job several years ago, but even then I never followed through and got the necessary assessments done. Therapists can't assess or prescribe, shrinks can't (or are paid too much to need to) counsel. At one point I was into a psychiatrist for close to $400, and all I ever did was walk into his office a few times, sit across a desk, answer 10 questions about my medication and my opinion on whether I thought it was the correct dosage, and walk out. No more than ten minutes each time. Three times at $97 a pop. For what? THEN I found out that my primary could prescribe my meds. ADHD meds, however, are a different story. As controlled substances, they're not as indiscriminately prescribed. And for good reason.
Now. After realizing that much of my frustration this semester could have been alleviated by counseling and/or medication for my attention issues, I talked to my doctor. "I told you several months ago to go see Dr. Levy," he said to me today. "You clearly have symptoms of attention deficit, and I strongly feel you need to be assessed."
Fine. So I called Dr. Levy. No answer. Closed for the day. Whatever. I pulled up the list on my insurance company's website, and set my fingers dialing. Elmwood Health Services. No answer. Grider Street Counseling Center. Answering service. Buffalo Psychiatric Associates. Answering machine. Lather, rinse, repeat about 16 times. The same greeting over and over again: "Thank you for calling XYZ Psychology Place. Our office is currently closed. Please call back during normal business hours, blah blah blah blah...."
Yeah, see...here's the thing. One of the reasons I never called Dr. Levy back in October was because I forgot. If I didn't get hold of someone TODAY, I was not going to address it again for a while. I HAD to get this done. (This is another symptom of ADHD - the inability to delay gratification in just about any capacity, then a total lack of follow-up).
So anyway, I finally - FINALLY - got someone to answer the phone, and I'm pretty sure Julie was sent from heaven. So unbelievably patient, so unfazed and unruffled by my outbursts and rantings, particularly when we got to the part about how I was going to have to pay $200 for my ADHD assessment, and insurance wasn't going to cover it. Jesus. Like I have an extra $200 lying around. Good thing I'm selling a bunch of my crap off this summer. Maybe that should be the theme of my yard sale:
"Come and buy my stuff so I can afford to pay attention!"
Hee!
She even stayed calm when I yelled, "For Crissakes, I could buy a LOT of Adderall on the street with $200!" I'm not entirely sure if this is true, of course, since I've never actually tried and am not interested in amphetamine treatments anyway (they have alternatives which I am going to look into). But damn, this woman was so fucking compassionate, I just wanted to cry. No one - NO ONE has ever treated me so nicely like that on the phone when I first call. All the ones I've ever dealt with have been rude, patronizing, disinterested bitches. They all hate their jobs and take it out on you, especially when you first call, which is the worst. I mean, you're SO fucking vulnerable, you're finally reaching out for help, and you get treated like a nuisance. I had one receptionist ask me one time "So...What's wrong with you?" I shot back, "If I knew the answer to that question, I wouldn't need therapy, would I?"
But Julie was a friggin' STAR. So I made the appointment, and, well, we'll see. I've quit no fewer than EIGHT therapists (maybe more) in the last 15 years, for various reasons but mostly because I've traditionally felt like a cog in the wheel of a big shrink-mill and always started feeling after the second or third session like I was spinning my wheels. I have been assured, however, that they are a small, independent, caring, and compassionate outfit, and that the doctor I'd be seeing was highly qualified and acclaimed for his patient relationships. Their office is in a little house in the Elmwood Village and not in a strip-mall clinic, a hospital, or a suburban brick box - a good sign.
So, we'll see.
I kind of feel better already. But I still think Blue Cross can suck it.
There is NO DOUBT - in my mind or by others who know me - that I have some attention deficit issues going on. As a kid I had trouble sitting still, paying attention, and following through. Always a procrastinator, never on time for anything (see old post on polychronism), and always in some other world half the time. I've pitched tantrums when I can't find something because it's not where I thought I left it. Crying fits because I can't get my shit together long enough to figure out what to eat for dinner...and scorched small appliances when I figure it out but forget I've left it cooking. As I've gotten older, it's only gotten worse (ask me how many tea kettles I've destroyed by dry-boiling them for HOURS. Go ahead - ask. THREE). I make jokes about it, I hide it behind this "scatterbrained creative" curtain, and sometimes I come right out and make direct reference to it. But the fact remains, my attention span is deficient and it is a daily, no - HOURLY - struggle to keep my shit together most of the time.
I don't make a big secret of the fact that I've been in and out of therapy and on and off meds for years. You'd be, too, if you grew up with my parents. But the attention thing was never addressed, except once after it cost me a job several years ago, but even then I never followed through and got the necessary assessments done. Therapists can't assess or prescribe, shrinks can't (or are paid too much to need to) counsel. At one point I was into a psychiatrist for close to $400, and all I ever did was walk into his office a few times, sit across a desk, answer 10 questions about my medication and my opinion on whether I thought it was the correct dosage, and walk out. No more than ten minutes each time. Three times at $97 a pop. For what? THEN I found out that my primary could prescribe my meds. ADHD meds, however, are a different story. As controlled substances, they're not as indiscriminately prescribed. And for good reason.
Now. After realizing that much of my frustration this semester could have been alleviated by counseling and/or medication for my attention issues, I talked to my doctor. "I told you several months ago to go see Dr. Levy," he said to me today. "You clearly have symptoms of attention deficit, and I strongly feel you need to be assessed."
Fine. So I called Dr. Levy. No answer. Closed for the day. Whatever. I pulled up the list on my insurance company's website, and set my fingers dialing. Elmwood Health Services. No answer. Grider Street Counseling Center. Answering service. Buffalo Psychiatric Associates. Answering machine. Lather, rinse, repeat about 16 times. The same greeting over and over again: "Thank you for calling XYZ Psychology Place. Our office is currently closed. Please call back during normal business hours, blah blah blah blah...."
Yeah, see...here's the thing. One of the reasons I never called Dr. Levy back in October was because I forgot. If I didn't get hold of someone TODAY, I was not going to address it again for a while. I HAD to get this done. (This is another symptom of ADHD - the inability to delay gratification in just about any capacity, then a total lack of follow-up).
So anyway, I finally - FINALLY - got someone to answer the phone, and I'm pretty sure Julie was sent from heaven. So unbelievably patient, so unfazed and unruffled by my outbursts and rantings, particularly when we got to the part about how I was going to have to pay $200 for my ADHD assessment, and insurance wasn't going to cover it. Jesus. Like I have an extra $200 lying around. Good thing I'm selling a bunch of my crap off this summer. Maybe that should be the theme of my yard sale:
"Come and buy my stuff so I can afford to pay attention!"
Hee!
She even stayed calm when I yelled, "For Crissakes, I could buy a LOT of Adderall on the street with $200!" I'm not entirely sure if this is true, of course, since I've never actually tried and am not interested in amphetamine treatments anyway (they have alternatives which I am going to look into). But damn, this woman was so fucking compassionate, I just wanted to cry. No one - NO ONE has ever treated me so nicely like that on the phone when I first call. All the ones I've ever dealt with have been rude, patronizing, disinterested bitches. They all hate their jobs and take it out on you, especially when you first call, which is the worst. I mean, you're SO fucking vulnerable, you're finally reaching out for help, and you get treated like a nuisance. I had one receptionist ask me one time "So...What's wrong with you?" I shot back, "If I knew the answer to that question, I wouldn't need therapy, would I?"
But Julie was a friggin' STAR. So I made the appointment, and, well, we'll see. I've quit no fewer than EIGHT therapists (maybe more) in the last 15 years, for various reasons but mostly because I've traditionally felt like a cog in the wheel of a big shrink-mill and always started feeling after the second or third session like I was spinning my wheels. I have been assured, however, that they are a small, independent, caring, and compassionate outfit, and that the doctor I'd be seeing was highly qualified and acclaimed for his patient relationships. Their office is in a little house in the Elmwood Village and not in a strip-mall clinic, a hospital, or a suburban brick box - a good sign.
So, we'll see.
I kind of feel better already. But I still think Blue Cross can suck it.
Wednesday, April 14, 2010
Blogger Envy
I have someone new in my life. Don't get too excited, because it's not like that. Sure, he's fabulous and smart and funny and adorable and all that fun stuff, and no doubt the boy invokes some serious squishiness within, but he's on the other side of the world in Asia and will likely remain there for a very long time. He has, in fact, no plans to ever return to the United States. So, sure, he's awesome, but he's, you know, not here. Whatever. My point is that I've been inspired a great deal by this person.
He is a master blogger. Serious, serious blog action going on with this guy. He has dozens of blogs; public blogs, private blogs, blogs that tell stories, blogs that spill his deepest thoughts, blogs for commentary, blogs for opinion, blogs that chronicle his journey, blogs that highlight his work, et cetera. I'm just blown away.
I look at my little blogs (I have this one and then a couple of school-related things out there, too) and then I read his, and I'm like, "oh. I kind of suck a little." And it's not only Asia Boy, either. I put myself up against the other bloggers I follow - Jen over at All Things Jennifer, Sally at Unbrave Girl, Shaun at Me On a Diet, etc (see my roll), and I realize how woefully inadequate I am when it comes to this practice. It is, in part, because I simply do not have TIME to deal with the blogging thing every day. It's also in part because brevity is not my strong suit (really? Tell me you hadn't noticed) and so I find it hard to just pop in and tap out an entry on the fly. I take some time to think about what I'm going to write, and honestly, I think my "drafts" list is just as long as my "posts" list. I tend to get going on something, not know how to finish it, and then abandon the effort. So while it may appear that I don't update for a really long time, I really am sitting here basking in the glow of my 24" iMac and typing out my thoughts. Just some of them never make the cut.
I should work on that, really.
Oh, and check it out: I've lost 40 pounds as of yesterday. Go me!
He is a master blogger. Serious, serious blog action going on with this guy. He has dozens of blogs; public blogs, private blogs, blogs that tell stories, blogs that spill his deepest thoughts, blogs for commentary, blogs for opinion, blogs that chronicle his journey, blogs that highlight his work, et cetera. I'm just blown away.
I look at my little blogs (I have this one and then a couple of school-related things out there, too) and then I read his, and I'm like, "oh. I kind of suck a little." And it's not only Asia Boy, either. I put myself up against the other bloggers I follow - Jen over at All Things Jennifer, Sally at Unbrave Girl, Shaun at Me On a Diet, etc (see my roll), and I realize how woefully inadequate I am when it comes to this practice. It is, in part, because I simply do not have TIME to deal with the blogging thing every day. It's also in part because brevity is not my strong suit (really? Tell me you hadn't noticed) and so I find it hard to just pop in and tap out an entry on the fly. I take some time to think about what I'm going to write, and honestly, I think my "drafts" list is just as long as my "posts" list. I tend to get going on something, not know how to finish it, and then abandon the effort. So while it may appear that I don't update for a really long time, I really am sitting here basking in the glow of my 24" iMac and typing out my thoughts. Just some of them never make the cut.
I should work on that, really.
Oh, and check it out: I've lost 40 pounds as of yesterday. Go me!
Wednesday, April 07, 2010
Why I eat out a lot
That, my friends, was my toaster oven. The little black things inside? Leftover crab rangoons from my weekly Tuesday post-weigh-in Chinese dinner. It's become a bit of a tradition (the Chinese food, not the appliance-scorching), but last night I ordered a little too much food, so I had a lot of leftovers.
This morning I decided to skip class (I just needed a break) and thought, what better way to spend a drizzly, gray day than catching up on homework and snacking on Chinese leftovers? It was just a couple of crab rangoons - nothing to go firing up the big oven for. So I popped them in the toaster oven, turned it on, and walked away. I sat down at the computer, chatted with a friend for a few minutes, got up and went to the bathroom, and then went into my bedroom to change. One of my cats was laying on the bed looking really cute, so of course I had to lay down next to her and cuddle for a minute until she got annoyed and ran off. I changed my clothes and went back out to the dining room to get back to work on my paper that I was writing. Suddenly the smell of burnt something came wafting my way and when I looked up I saw a haze of smoke hanging out by the kitchen door. Oh, shit. I forgot all about the toaster oven. When I ran in to the kitchen, there were flames licking up at the top of the oven, and when I opened the door they roared out at me. I really thought, "oh my god, I'm about to burn down my entire house." I'd bought a box of baking soda a few weeks ago in a fit of "I need to learn to cook" grocery shopping, so I grabbed it, opened it, and threw it on the fire. Flames were quickly put out (thanks Arm & Hammer!) and I just kind of stood there for a second, not really knowing what to do now.
I'm so inept in the kitchen I can't even heat up leftovers. But hey, at least I got to use the baking soda.
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
On Spinsterhood - and Embracing the "Stigma"
Oh, boy. http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/36007620/ns/health-behavior/
I'm turning 40 in 14 months. While it may seem far away, 14 months really isn't a long time. Fourteen months ago I was preparing to start the last semester of my undergrad at Buff State, and getting ready for my senior thesis exhibition. Fourteen months prior to that I was meeting Henry Rollins and saying goodbye to my dog. Fourteen months before that, I was enjoying my first summer vacation after starting back to school. And 14 months before that, I was gearing up to quit my job to go back to school. It flies by, people. And considering it was 10 years ago that I was flipping out a little about turning 30...yeah. Here I am.
When I was in my 20's I thought I had plenty of time to figure things out. I remember being worried when my long-term relationship ended at 25 that I would end up a "spinster." But my attempts at dating right after that were not really successful. I needed more time. It took close to a year and a half before I even gave it any kind of real effort, and I suddenly discovered what a fucking production it was. Dating, for those of you who might not know or remember, is a hassle of insane proportions. Everyone kept saying, "you have to get through a couple of bad apples before you find the good one" or some such ridiculous cliche. So date a few bad ones I did, and in between I would swear off men for a while, get my act back together, and then put myself out there again.
So, I remember thinking that turning 30 and not being married was a small issue, but not the end of the world, since I hadn't really ever planned on having kids before my 30's anyhow. Then it started occurring to me that maybe I didn't really want kids anyway. I wasn't adamantly "anti-kid," I was really just kind of on the fence about it. I figured if I met someone with whom I'd like to raise a family, then I'd give it a try, but it's not like my biological clock was ticking. It was more an "if it's meant to happen, it'll happen" kind of thing. I liked the romantic aspect of creating a new life with someone you love, but I wasn't all that sure I'd be a good parent (considering my role models and genetics, I had every right to be concerned). Not to mention the idea of childbirth made me a little squeamish.
I never imagined, however, that I'd be still single at 40. Child-free, sure. I'd sort of figured on that. But still single? Could it be I'm destined for...spinsterhood?
It's not the same as my other single friends who are single because they've gotten divorced (or in one tragic case, widowed). My divorced friends can't get it, no matter how much they might try and relate. My coupled friends can't understand, no matter how much they might relate their lack of a ring to my lack of a partner. It's really not the same.
Am I complaining? Maybe, a little. There are some days that I would like to have at a steady partner. There are times I think about taking a trip and wishing I could have a ready-made travel companion. There are some times that I look at my married friends and envy some of what they have.
But then I realize that I've been single for, well, 40 years. I've not been in a committed relationship for over five years. Eight, if you don't count James. And I'm quite set in my ways. I like things a certain way, I cherish my freedom, and I covet my privacy. I rather enjoy being able to do what I want, when I want to do it, and with whomever I choose to do it. And maybe, just maybe, I'm meant to be one of those women who really is meant to just go it alone.
It doesn't bother me, other than...well, stuff like the really morbid conversation with my mother about how I've been shopping for a mausoleum niche for my ashes. See, when I die, there's no one to take care of business. No husband, no kids, no next of kin other than my mother and my sister. If they're no longer around, then it falls on my nieces. And it's not exactly the kind of thing you can say to your friends, "Hey...who wants to be in charge of my dead body when I croak?" Not that I'm anticipating dying any time soon, but you never know. This is the kind of stuff I think about when I "worry" about being a spinster. Not that I'll never know the joy of putting on a fluffy white gown and walking down an aisle, not that I'll never know the bliss of birthing and raising a child, but that I might end up an Eleanor Rigby, or one of those unfortunate crazy old ladies who dies in her sleep and is found after the neighbors complain of the smell.
Okay, okay. I'll stop. My point is that I'm going to embrace Spinsterhood and enjoy it for all its wonderful properties - the freedom, the independence, the drama-free living, the privacy, the bathroom that's open whenever I need it, and all that room in my queen-sized bed. I can eat dinner at 11:00 at night and I can eat ice cream for breakfast. I can stay out until 3:00 a.m. and sleep until noon. I answer to no one, and do my own thing. My life is all mine, and it's all fabulous. And it'd take one hell of a really special dude to get me to give it all up.
I'm turning 40 in 14 months. While it may seem far away, 14 months really isn't a long time. Fourteen months ago I was preparing to start the last semester of my undergrad at Buff State, and getting ready for my senior thesis exhibition. Fourteen months prior to that I was meeting Henry Rollins and saying goodbye to my dog. Fourteen months before that, I was enjoying my first summer vacation after starting back to school. And 14 months before that, I was gearing up to quit my job to go back to school. It flies by, people. And considering it was 10 years ago that I was flipping out a little about turning 30...yeah. Here I am.
When I was in my 20's I thought I had plenty of time to figure things out. I remember being worried when my long-term relationship ended at 25 that I would end up a "spinster." But my attempts at dating right after that were not really successful. I needed more time. It took close to a year and a half before I even gave it any kind of real effort, and I suddenly discovered what a fucking production it was. Dating, for those of you who might not know or remember, is a hassle of insane proportions. Everyone kept saying, "you have to get through a couple of bad apples before you find the good one" or some such ridiculous cliche. So date a few bad ones I did, and in between I would swear off men for a while, get my act back together, and then put myself out there again.
So, I remember thinking that turning 30 and not being married was a small issue, but not the end of the world, since I hadn't really ever planned on having kids before my 30's anyhow. Then it started occurring to me that maybe I didn't really want kids anyway. I wasn't adamantly "anti-kid," I was really just kind of on the fence about it. I figured if I met someone with whom I'd like to raise a family, then I'd give it a try, but it's not like my biological clock was ticking. It was more an "if it's meant to happen, it'll happen" kind of thing. I liked the romantic aspect of creating a new life with someone you love, but I wasn't all that sure I'd be a good parent (considering my role models and genetics, I had every right to be concerned). Not to mention the idea of childbirth made me a little squeamish.
I never imagined, however, that I'd be still single at 40. Child-free, sure. I'd sort of figured on that. But still single? Could it be I'm destined for...spinsterhood?
It's not the same as my other single friends who are single because they've gotten divorced (or in one tragic case, widowed). My divorced friends can't get it, no matter how much they might try and relate. My coupled friends can't understand, no matter how much they might relate their lack of a ring to my lack of a partner. It's really not the same.
Am I complaining? Maybe, a little. There are some days that I would like to have at a steady partner. There are times I think about taking a trip and wishing I could have a ready-made travel companion. There are some times that I look at my married friends and envy some of what they have.
But then I realize that I've been single for, well, 40 years. I've not been in a committed relationship for over five years. Eight, if you don't count James. And I'm quite set in my ways. I like things a certain way, I cherish my freedom, and I covet my privacy. I rather enjoy being able to do what I want, when I want to do it, and with whomever I choose to do it. And maybe, just maybe, I'm meant to be one of those women who really is meant to just go it alone.
It doesn't bother me, other than...well, stuff like the really morbid conversation with my mother about how I've been shopping for a mausoleum niche for my ashes. See, when I die, there's no one to take care of business. No husband, no kids, no next of kin other than my mother and my sister. If they're no longer around, then it falls on my nieces. And it's not exactly the kind of thing you can say to your friends, "Hey...who wants to be in charge of my dead body when I croak?" Not that I'm anticipating dying any time soon, but you never know. This is the kind of stuff I think about when I "worry" about being a spinster. Not that I'll never know the joy of putting on a fluffy white gown and walking down an aisle, not that I'll never know the bliss of birthing and raising a child, but that I might end up an Eleanor Rigby, or one of those unfortunate crazy old ladies who dies in her sleep and is found after the neighbors complain of the smell.
Okay, okay. I'll stop. My point is that I'm going to embrace Spinsterhood and enjoy it for all its wonderful properties - the freedom, the independence, the drama-free living, the privacy, the bathroom that's open whenever I need it, and all that room in my queen-sized bed. I can eat dinner at 11:00 at night and I can eat ice cream for breakfast. I can stay out until 3:00 a.m. and sleep until noon. I answer to no one, and do my own thing. My life is all mine, and it's all fabulous. And it'd take one hell of a really special dude to get me to give it all up.
Sunday, February 21, 2010
Dating on teh interwebs
This is the first entry in a number I want to do about things I wish were simpler and/or wishing I'd lived in a previous era.
Back in the days before the internet and before one would be considered "desperate" enough to need to place an ad in the local singles section of the classifieds, there was a thing called "every day life." You'd go about your business, go to school, go to work, partake in the activities that brought you enjoyment, and somewhere within this life stuff, you'd cross paths with someone who tickled your fancy. Maybe it was that cute boy who came through your checkout line at the supermarket where you worked. Or maybe it was that attractive classmate who liked the short story you wrote in Advanced Writing Seminar. It might have even been that guy with the prematurely receding hairline who started showing up at the bar you frequented every Friday.
Whoever it was, you felt a certain "something" when they'd come around. Maybe it was the way they smiled at you when you looked at them, or maybe it was the way their eyes lit up when they saw you. Whatever it was, it made you both a little weak in the knees and wish you'd put on a nicer shirt that day.
From there you'd go out on a date, then another, and then another. A period of time would pass and you'd suddenly realize you'd spent quite a lot of that time together, and then you'd think, "hey, I really like this person!"
During this time you'd have learned about their hobbies, their habits, their quirks, and their warts. And for some reason, you stuck around. And the next thing you know, you're in a relationship. What level the relationship ascended to and how long the relationship would run its course would, naturally, depend on your level of tolerance for this person's snoring, or their secret stash of porn, or their dreadful taste in magazines, and equally on how tolerant this person was of your personality makeup...and of course it all balanced on each other's accommodation of the other's tolerance.
Eventually the relationship would blow up, die a slow, painful death, fizzle and fade, crash and burn, whatever; it would simply cease to be for one reason or another. Aaaaand then you'd bury your sorrows in a pint of ice cream and some bad movies, get back out and live your life, and sooner or later the guy who came in to fix your computer at work would strike up a conversation, and you'd discover that you both really like flea markets and B-movies, and away you'd go...
Now? It's like "designer dates." Like designer babies, where parents pick and choose their baby's traits like one might custom order a car's trim level, people can now plug in their desired traits and find someone who "fits" perfectly. Only trouble is, you can only learn so much from a profile. You can look at a photo and think, "ew, s/he's fat," or, "ugh, he likes Bruce Springsteen. FAIL!" But what you don't see is the way his eyes dance when he laughs, or the endearing way her nose crinkles in disgust at the mention of tomatoes. You can't study the grace of her hands as they flutter around a conversation, or watch as he becomes a caricature of himself while recounting his favorite funny story. You can't get a sense of nuance, of idiosyncrasies, of animation, of the lilt in her laugh, the resonance of his voice.
In other words, I'm NOT a fan of the instant partner, and fully believe in developing a friendship first, regardless of where it may end up. Some people are meant to be in your life, others are not. But you never know until you try, and what online dating does is it makes people expect others to be everything they want or it's no dice. The level of expectation has gone so high that people just brush off those who are less than perfect, who don't complete the laundry list of height, weight, eye color, and interests. And that sucks.
Whatever happened to "Boy Meets Girl" and courtship? Is it truly dead?
Back in the days before the internet and before one would be considered "desperate" enough to need to place an ad in the local singles section of the classifieds, there was a thing called "every day life." You'd go about your business, go to school, go to work, partake in the activities that brought you enjoyment, and somewhere within this life stuff, you'd cross paths with someone who tickled your fancy. Maybe it was that cute boy who came through your checkout line at the supermarket where you worked. Or maybe it was that attractive classmate who liked the short story you wrote in Advanced Writing Seminar. It might have even been that guy with the prematurely receding hairline who started showing up at the bar you frequented every Friday.
Whoever it was, you felt a certain "something" when they'd come around. Maybe it was the way they smiled at you when you looked at them, or maybe it was the way their eyes lit up when they saw you. Whatever it was, it made you both a little weak in the knees and wish you'd put on a nicer shirt that day.
From there you'd go out on a date, then another, and then another. A period of time would pass and you'd suddenly realize you'd spent quite a lot of that time together, and then you'd think, "hey, I really like this person!"
During this time you'd have learned about their hobbies, their habits, their quirks, and their warts. And for some reason, you stuck around. And the next thing you know, you're in a relationship. What level the relationship ascended to and how long the relationship would run its course would, naturally, depend on your level of tolerance for this person's snoring, or their secret stash of porn, or their dreadful taste in magazines, and equally on how tolerant this person was of your personality makeup...and of course it all balanced on each other's accommodation of the other's tolerance.
Eventually the relationship would blow up, die a slow, painful death, fizzle and fade, crash and burn, whatever; it would simply cease to be for one reason or another. Aaaaand then you'd bury your sorrows in a pint of ice cream and some bad movies, get back out and live your life, and sooner or later the guy who came in to fix your computer at work would strike up a conversation, and you'd discover that you both really like flea markets and B-movies, and away you'd go...
Now? It's like "designer dates." Like designer babies, where parents pick and choose their baby's traits like one might custom order a car's trim level, people can now plug in their desired traits and find someone who "fits" perfectly. Only trouble is, you can only learn so much from a profile. You can look at a photo and think, "ew, s/he's fat," or, "ugh, he likes Bruce Springsteen. FAIL!" But what you don't see is the way his eyes dance when he laughs, or the endearing way her nose crinkles in disgust at the mention of tomatoes. You can't study the grace of her hands as they flutter around a conversation, or watch as he becomes a caricature of himself while recounting his favorite funny story. You can't get a sense of nuance, of idiosyncrasies, of animation, of the lilt in her laugh, the resonance of his voice.
In other words, I'm NOT a fan of the instant partner, and fully believe in developing a friendship first, regardless of where it may end up. Some people are meant to be in your life, others are not. But you never know until you try, and what online dating does is it makes people expect others to be everything they want or it's no dice. The level of expectation has gone so high that people just brush off those who are less than perfect, who don't complete the laundry list of height, weight, eye color, and interests. And that sucks.
Whatever happened to "Boy Meets Girl" and courtship? Is it truly dead?
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
One week in...
11.6 pounds out. Woo-hoo!
I suddenly feel like nothing can stop me now. I know you always lose more in the beginning, and I understand that this will slow down significantly, but what a great kick-start!
More later. The week of insanity rolls on...
I suddenly feel like nothing can stop me now. I know you always lose more in the beginning, and I understand that this will slow down significantly, but what a great kick-start!
More later. The week of insanity rolls on...
Monday, February 08, 2010
Why I'm doing this
Okay, so I know I said I wasn't going to turn this into a diet blog, and I promise I'm really not. It's just, well, it's fresh and it's on the front of my mind, and I have thoughts running through my brain that need to come out somewhere. And when that happens I have a couple of choices. I can talk to someone about it either directly or through some type of electronic text communication, or I can broadcast it in my blog. Seeing as it's 2:30 in the morning and even Christopher has probably hit the sack, I'm going to go with door number two on this one.
Why am I doing this? I outlined it a couple entries ago, about not wanting to die of a heart attack or some other obesity-related malady, but it's way more than that. Singer Alison Moyet recently lost over 100 pounds, and when she was interviewed and asked about it, she said that it had come down to her greatest fear: loss of independence. I thought, "man, you know, that's MY biggest fear, too!"
I live alone. I've lived alone now for just over 14 years. February 1, 1996 was the day I moved into my first solo apartment, and I've never once regretted it. It took some getting used to initially, but that had more to do with the reason behind the move (the dissolution of a 4-year live-in relationship) than it did the actual living solo part. If you recall, I really dig my privacy. For me, privacy and independence go hand-in-hand. And what does all this have to do with my weight?
Everything.
I live in my own little world, a messy little microcosm full of clutter and pets and dirty clothes on the floor and soap scum on the tub faucet, with only my thoughts, my music, pet noise, and my self-engaging conversations to fill the air. To some this may sound lonely. To me, it is paradise. The thought of succumbing to some disease or illness or injury that renders me incapable of living like this sends me into a panic. The idea that someone would have to come in here, occupy my space, and touch my stuff practically gives me an anxiety attack. And the thought that I might not be able to feed, bathe, or dress myself? Call Kevorkian. There's no way.
But even before it comes to that, there's the other stuff that has crept up on me along with the number on the scale. I can't kneel for very long. My joints hurt and my knee aches constantly. My back, which sucked even when I was thin, is buckling under the weight of the abdominal mass tugging on it. My feet hurt all the time, and something that used to give me great pleasure - feeding my shoe habit - is a chore because even my feet are fat. It's a struggle to tie my own shoes, let alone try any on in a store. My chest hurts a lot, and my asthma is poorly controlled. That's a big one, and it's kind of a catch-22 and a cruel irony; the medicine I take for my asthma promotes weight gain. I get out of bed in the morning and I feel like I'm 80 years old. All of this stuff is pointing toward the direction of eventual dependence.
And this, my friends, is what is going to keep me focused on the prize this time. Sure, the cute clothes will be a bonus, but I'm more concerned with keeping myself out of a hospital gown. Or at least not have to wear two of them to completely cover up.
Why am I doing this? I outlined it a couple entries ago, about not wanting to die of a heart attack or some other obesity-related malady, but it's way more than that. Singer Alison Moyet recently lost over 100 pounds, and when she was interviewed and asked about it, she said that it had come down to her greatest fear: loss of independence. I thought, "man, you know, that's MY biggest fear, too!"
I live alone. I've lived alone now for just over 14 years. February 1, 1996 was the day I moved into my first solo apartment, and I've never once regretted it. It took some getting used to initially, but that had more to do with the reason behind the move (the dissolution of a 4-year live-in relationship) than it did the actual living solo part. If you recall, I really dig my privacy. For me, privacy and independence go hand-in-hand. And what does all this have to do with my weight?
Everything.
I live in my own little world, a messy little microcosm full of clutter and pets and dirty clothes on the floor and soap scum on the tub faucet, with only my thoughts, my music, pet noise, and my self-engaging conversations to fill the air. To some this may sound lonely. To me, it is paradise. The thought of succumbing to some disease or illness or injury that renders me incapable of living like this sends me into a panic. The idea that someone would have to come in here, occupy my space, and touch my stuff practically gives me an anxiety attack. And the thought that I might not be able to feed, bathe, or dress myself? Call Kevorkian. There's no way.
But even before it comes to that, there's the other stuff that has crept up on me along with the number on the scale. I can't kneel for very long. My joints hurt and my knee aches constantly. My back, which sucked even when I was thin, is buckling under the weight of the abdominal mass tugging on it. My feet hurt all the time, and something that used to give me great pleasure - feeding my shoe habit - is a chore because even my feet are fat. It's a struggle to tie my own shoes, let alone try any on in a store. My chest hurts a lot, and my asthma is poorly controlled. That's a big one, and it's kind of a catch-22 and a cruel irony; the medicine I take for my asthma promotes weight gain. I get out of bed in the morning and I feel like I'm 80 years old. All of this stuff is pointing toward the direction of eventual dependence.
And this, my friends, is what is going to keep me focused on the prize this time. Sure, the cute clothes will be a bonus, but I'm more concerned with keeping myself out of a hospital gown. Or at least not have to wear two of them to completely cover up.
Friday, February 05, 2010
Wristwatch
I have freakishly fat wrists.
Actually, I don't think it's technically the wrists, but rather the ends of my forearms. But regardless, they're bizarre. When I went to visit Chris this past summer, he was intrigued by them. It was like he couldn't help himself, and I'd catch him out of the corner of my eye reaching over to touch them. He continually and compulsively poked, prodded, and pinched my wrist fat, and when I protested he answered, "but...they're just so puffy and...I mean, well...do they hurt?"
They don't hurt, but they are kind of painful to look at. I mean, they're very puffy and swollen-looking. My whole life has been a battle with my weight, and I always have little markers to indicate that I'm gaining. The button on the jeans starts to strain, or my thighs start to look like overstuffed sausages in the casings of my pant legs, or my bra starts digging into my back. Then there's the whole tight underwear problem (and ain't nothin' right when your underwear is tight). But then years ago I figured out that I could tell I was really crossing a line on the scale when my wrists would get fat.
The first time I noticed it I'd thought it was a side effect of medication, or simple water retention, but then I noticed it wasn't going away. A friend of mine remarked shortly before I moved back to Buffalo that I looked "swollen," to which she added, "oh my god, look at your wrists!" She meant it in the nicest way, of course, concerned that perhaps there was something wrong with me. She, too, thought it was a fluid retention issue. But seven years later, they're still fat. Only fatter. I have wrist rolls. Who the fuck gets rolls of fat on their forearms? Seriously? What a freak!
Forget pounds. I'm gonna keep track of my wrist measurements instead.
Actually, I don't think it's technically the wrists, but rather the ends of my forearms. But regardless, they're bizarre. When I went to visit Chris this past summer, he was intrigued by them. It was like he couldn't help himself, and I'd catch him out of the corner of my eye reaching over to touch them. He continually and compulsively poked, prodded, and pinched my wrist fat, and when I protested he answered, "but...they're just so puffy and...I mean, well...do they hurt?"
They don't hurt, but they are kind of painful to look at. I mean, they're very puffy and swollen-looking. My whole life has been a battle with my weight, and I always have little markers to indicate that I'm gaining. The button on the jeans starts to strain, or my thighs start to look like overstuffed sausages in the casings of my pant legs, or my bra starts digging into my back. Then there's the whole tight underwear problem (and ain't nothin' right when your underwear is tight). But then years ago I figured out that I could tell I was really crossing a line on the scale when my wrists would get fat.
The first time I noticed it I'd thought it was a side effect of medication, or simple water retention, but then I noticed it wasn't going away. A friend of mine remarked shortly before I moved back to Buffalo that I looked "swollen," to which she added, "oh my god, look at your wrists!" She meant it in the nicest way, of course, concerned that perhaps there was something wrong with me. She, too, thought it was a fluid retention issue. But seven years later, they're still fat. Only fatter. I have wrist rolls. Who the fuck gets rolls of fat on their forearms? Seriously? What a freak!
Forget pounds. I'm gonna keep track of my wrist measurements instead.
Point(s) of No Return
I did it. I took the plunge. Realizing that my life was never going to improve until I got a handle on my weight, and fearing my anxiety about turning 40 would be moot if I ended up dropping dead of a heart attack before I even get there, I joined Weight Watchers.
Some of you know that I had been going through the preparatory process for Lap-Band surgery and that I was initially pretty excited about it. However after the first few steps it became evident that the money was going to be an issue. Between that and the fact that it stopped being an exciting prospect and turned instead into a terrifying one (the whole internally-placed foreign object thing was really starting to weird me out), I ultimately decided to not go through with it. This did not, of course, change the fact that I still needed to lose weight, regardless of by what method. I assuaged my doubt by reminding myself that band or no band, I was going to have to follow a strict diet and exercise regimen to achieve my goals. The only difference between what I'm doing now and what I would have done is that I won't have a piece of plastic clamped around my stomach, and I won't be going every 6 weeks to have a needle stuck in my gut. Oh, and I'll be saving myself about $5000, too.
So, yeah. I'm a Weight Watcher. Points. Meetings. Weigh-ins. Portion control. And all the fun, emotional-rollercoaster-y stuff that goes with that.
But here it is, folks. Some of you might remember my old diet blog (that I have since dissolved into the internet ether) where I talked all the dramatic crap about not wanting to die, wanting to be healthier, and wanting to fit into normal sized clothes. You might remember that I made great progress for a while, losing close to 60 pounds on the Pure Weight Loss program. Then my dog died, the holidays rolled around, Pure closed and ran off with my $700, and then I got sick. All that weight came back in no time. And then some.
In the last couple of years, it's really become apparent that, more than ever, I need to get a handle on this. This is not a matter of no longer fitting into my jeans, but rather a matter of fitting into life like a normal human being. I'm at a size now where I've become that person I always wondered about....that woman that has to squeeze through turnstiles, who waddles when she walks, who pants and wheezes going up one flight of stairs, whose ass takes up the whole seat and then some, that woman whose neck is so fat her necklaces look tight. I'm her now.
But not for long if I have anything to say about it. I'm not going to turn this into a diet blog, but I'll warn you - this whole Weight Watchers thing is kind of amusing, and I fully plan on making fun of it every chance I get. All in good humor, of course.
With that, I must go research the activity point value of blogging.
Some of you know that I had been going through the preparatory process for Lap-Band surgery and that I was initially pretty excited about it. However after the first few steps it became evident that the money was going to be an issue. Between that and the fact that it stopped being an exciting prospect and turned instead into a terrifying one (the whole internally-placed foreign object thing was really starting to weird me out), I ultimately decided to not go through with it. This did not, of course, change the fact that I still needed to lose weight, regardless of by what method. I assuaged my doubt by reminding myself that band or no band, I was going to have to follow a strict diet and exercise regimen to achieve my goals. The only difference between what I'm doing now and what I would have done is that I won't have a piece of plastic clamped around my stomach, and I won't be going every 6 weeks to have a needle stuck in my gut. Oh, and I'll be saving myself about $5000, too.
So, yeah. I'm a Weight Watcher. Points. Meetings. Weigh-ins. Portion control. And all the fun, emotional-rollercoaster-y stuff that goes with that.
But here it is, folks. Some of you might remember my old diet blog (that I have since dissolved into the internet ether) where I talked all the dramatic crap about not wanting to die, wanting to be healthier, and wanting to fit into normal sized clothes. You might remember that I made great progress for a while, losing close to 60 pounds on the Pure Weight Loss program. Then my dog died, the holidays rolled around, Pure closed and ran off with my $700, and then I got sick. All that weight came back in no time. And then some.
In the last couple of years, it's really become apparent that, more than ever, I need to get a handle on this. This is not a matter of no longer fitting into my jeans, but rather a matter of fitting into life like a normal human being. I'm at a size now where I've become that person I always wondered about....that woman that has to squeeze through turnstiles, who waddles when she walks, who pants and wheezes going up one flight of stairs, whose ass takes up the whole seat and then some, that woman whose neck is so fat her necklaces look tight. I'm her now.
But not for long if I have anything to say about it. I'm not going to turn this into a diet blog, but I'll warn you - this whole Weight Watchers thing is kind of amusing, and I fully plan on making fun of it every chance I get. All in good humor, of course.
With that, I must go research the activity point value of blogging.
Thursday, January 07, 2010
The silver lining at the end of my 30's
Earlier this evening, feeling a little restless and low on deodorant, I decided a little retail therapy was in order, so I headed over to my trusty neighborhood Target. While I was wandering around avoiding the practical purpose for my trip - shampoo and windshield washer fluid and the like - I found a dress that I liked. It was a relatively simple black dress that promised a "built-in slimming effect," but the best part was that it was my size AND it was on clearance! Bonus! So my happy li'l self waddled into the dressing room with my cute not-so-little black dress and tried it on. It fit and it looked as nice as a size 2X dress can look on this tub-o-lard, even with said built-in slimming effect which, incidentally, is created by sewing the fabric equivalent of a sausage casing inside. So while the dress appears to drape gracefully over one's, ahem, curves, it's really compressing the fat and crushing her internal organs in an armpit-to-thigh tube of spandex.
Standing in front of the mirror I thought, "hmm...this could be my new go-to dress. Or maybe I could just wear it to Nicole's wedding next month." I mean, it was only eight dollars, so even if I wore it once and threw it away afterward I'd have gotten my money's worth. Or if I died from the collapsed lungs caused by the slimming effect, I could be laid out in it. As I stood there mulling the possibilities of this versatile and tremendously discounted (and slimming!) garment, I caught a glimpse of my hair. Roots needed attention, to be sure, and in fact my last trip to Target had netted a box of Clairol Root Touch-Up which is still sitting in the bag on the dining room floor. I made a mental note to take care of that tomorrow morning. Taking one last look at myself, I checked to see if this dress's slimming effect camouflaged my back fat well enough (it didn't), and then...a glimmer. I stepped closer to the mirror to make sure I was just seeing things, and then again the light caught it, gleaming like a beacon on top of my head...a silver hair.
Silver. As in GRAY.
I promptly proceeded to isolate it, grab it, and yank it out by its root. Then just to be sure, I started weeding through the top of my head looking for more offenders when I found what I was looking for (but hoped I wouldn't find) - another one. This one took me a little longer to grab, though, and I started worrying that the fitting room attendant was going to wonder what was taking me so long to try on one dress. I pulled it out and my eye started to water (why does it always hurt the most when it's just ONE hair, anyway?) so I decided to stop looking for any more.
I've found what appeared to be gray hairs a couple times in the past, but I was never quite sure if they were gray or just lighter than the rest of my hair. In retrospect, I'm sure the latter was the case, because the ones I found this time were distinctly gray. There was a definite line between the gray and the red, almost as if the top inch and a half of the hair had been dipped in silver paint. There was no doubt about it this time around.
So how do I feel about this? Well...not great. I'm not handling this aging thing all that well, and "gracefully" is probably the last word one would use to describe my process. I have a tendency to forget that I'm hurtling mercilessly toward 40, and with this comes the natural progression of things like gray hair, wrinkles, and the urge to tell the generation behind mine that they're clueless. In my mind I'm still 19, but my body has chosen to tell me otherwise. I still go out, but my tolerance for booze - and large crowds of those who've overindulged in it - has waned considerably. There are times I stay out until 2:00 in the morning, but it takes me an entire day to fully recover - even if I've not had anything to drink. I spend most of my days on a college campus where I'm surrounded by kids half my age. Nothing like a 20-year-old size-2 hottie to remind you of what you're not - nor have ever been.
I guess what bothers me the most about it is that I feel like I'm still waiting for my life to start. I know...they say "you're only as young as you feel," and I can feel 19 as much as I want - until I find gray hairs while trying on a dress with a built-in girdle and have to face the college kid manning the fitting room on my way out. "They" also say that life begins at 40, but I don't want to wait that long. And so I've decided it begins tomorrow. With a root touch-up.
Standing in front of the mirror I thought, "hmm...this could be my new go-to dress. Or maybe I could just wear it to Nicole's wedding next month." I mean, it was only eight dollars, so even if I wore it once and threw it away afterward I'd have gotten my money's worth. Or if I died from the collapsed lungs caused by the slimming effect, I could be laid out in it. As I stood there mulling the possibilities of this versatile and tremendously discounted (and slimming!) garment, I caught a glimpse of my hair. Roots needed attention, to be sure, and in fact my last trip to Target had netted a box of Clairol Root Touch-Up which is still sitting in the bag on the dining room floor. I made a mental note to take care of that tomorrow morning. Taking one last look at myself, I checked to see if this dress's slimming effect camouflaged my back fat well enough (it didn't), and then...a glimmer. I stepped closer to the mirror to make sure I was just seeing things, and then again the light caught it, gleaming like a beacon on top of my head...a silver hair.
Silver. As in GRAY.
I promptly proceeded to isolate it, grab it, and yank it out by its root. Then just to be sure, I started weeding through the top of my head looking for more offenders when I found what I was looking for (but hoped I wouldn't find) - another one. This one took me a little longer to grab, though, and I started worrying that the fitting room attendant was going to wonder what was taking me so long to try on one dress. I pulled it out and my eye started to water (why does it always hurt the most when it's just ONE hair, anyway?) so I decided to stop looking for any more.
I've found what appeared to be gray hairs a couple times in the past, but I was never quite sure if they were gray or just lighter than the rest of my hair. In retrospect, I'm sure the latter was the case, because the ones I found this time were distinctly gray. There was a definite line between the gray and the red, almost as if the top inch and a half of the hair had been dipped in silver paint. There was no doubt about it this time around.
So how do I feel about this? Well...not great. I'm not handling this aging thing all that well, and "gracefully" is probably the last word one would use to describe my process. I have a tendency to forget that I'm hurtling mercilessly toward 40, and with this comes the natural progression of things like gray hair, wrinkles, and the urge to tell the generation behind mine that they're clueless. In my mind I'm still 19, but my body has chosen to tell me otherwise. I still go out, but my tolerance for booze - and large crowds of those who've overindulged in it - has waned considerably. There are times I stay out until 2:00 in the morning, but it takes me an entire day to fully recover - even if I've not had anything to drink. I spend most of my days on a college campus where I'm surrounded by kids half my age. Nothing like a 20-year-old size-2 hottie to remind you of what you're not - nor have ever been.
I guess what bothers me the most about it is that I feel like I'm still waiting for my life to start. I know...they say "you're only as young as you feel," and I can feel 19 as much as I want - until I find gray hairs while trying on a dress with a built-in girdle and have to face the college kid manning the fitting room on my way out. "They" also say that life begins at 40, but I don't want to wait that long. And so I've decided it begins tomorrow. With a root touch-up.
Sunday, November 15, 2009
Living at home and why I don't understand it
A young woman I know recently grappled with a decision over her choice of colleges. She'd attended one here in Buffalo for her freshman year, but had decided that she wanted more than what was being offered. So she applied to a few other places, and, being the intelligent and accomplished student that she is, was accepted to just about all of them. Among these were three schools in Chicago.
She mulled her decision for months. Columbia? Loyola? UIC? I don't remember what her major was; I just remember feeling a sense of envy at how brightly this kid's future was shining. Chicago! Everyone who knows me knows how much I love that city and how I really do consider it my adopted hometown. The thought of being 19 and going to college there...man, how exciting! I thought it was a no-brainer, myself. She, however, had different thoughts on the matter. And her source of hesitation? Moving away from her mom.
What?
Okay, now...I love my mother as much as the next girl, but one thing I have never been able to understand is people who (a) continue to live with theirs beyond the standard 18-21 year-old stage and (b) people who freak out about having to move out of their parents' homes.
I think I was about 12 when I started fantasizing about the day I could finally pack my bags and get the hell out of that house and away from my parents. Like a prisoner doing time, I kept a mental tally on an imaginary wall, daydreaming about my eventual sweet freedom. Every time a rule was enforced, or I was grounded for some ridiculous thing, I'd curse them under my breath and flip through the Brand Names catalog picking out furniture for my future apartment. I'd think about moving to California, or Hawaii, or someplace as far as I could get. I went to my guidance counselor and asked for information on UCLA. What was her name? Mrs. Kardani I think. Anyway, I remember her telling me, "well, Sweetie, this is only junior high. Your high school will have that information." Now, of course, there was no internet, and finding information was not as easy as Googling it. And so I waited, and as soon as I got to high school I started plotting my escape for real.
My high school years were a nightmare. Now, okay, I know there are a lot of kids who had it WAY worse than I ever did. I had a roof over my head, I had three squares a day, and a guaranteed college education. What I had very little of, however, was privacy. And that's all I ever wanted. Just some privacy, and a little freedom to be myself. I wasn't asking to be allowed to stay out all hours of the night. I wasn't asking to be allowed to have boys in my bedroom. But my mother would routinely go through my things, throw away clothing she didn't like, snoop through my drawers, read my diary and my letters, and I was forbidden to lock my bedroom door. And there was no knocking. So it didn't matter what I was doing. I could be stark naked, and she could just walk right in.
"You have nothing to hide," she told me. But what she failed to understand was that it wasn't that I wanted to hide anything, I just wanted to be left the fuck alone sometimes. In my mother's defense, she was trying to ensure that I wasn't in there smoking my lungs out, but most of the time I wasn't looking for privacy to smoke; I wanted to be able to read, do homework, listen to music, draw, paint, talk on the phone, nap, or just stare off into space - alone and uninterrupted.
My dad was a tyrant, a lunatic, and generally insane. But at least he never barged in on me. He would always knock and say, "Are you decent?" At least he did one thing right.
As it turned out I didn't go to UCLA. My college choices ended up being a little closer to home, but I ultimately chose the one that was the farthest - about 500 miles away, nearly an 8-hour drive. And the sad part is, I didn't choose Franklin Pierce for its programs, or its academic reputation, or its campus life, or anything other than it was the furthest, of all my options, from my parents that I could get.
I think one of the main reasons I have to live alone and never got married or had children is because I am SO protective of my personal space, the very thought of having to share it with someone actually sends me into a panic. So to hear someone say, "Oh, I can't bear the thought of moving out of my folks' house" is so unbelievably foreign to me. I'm not knocking people who want to live at home forever; I just, from my experience and perspective, can't understand it. You mean there are people out there who like their parents so much that they actually VOLUNTARILY live with them? There are people whose parents are so non-invasive and easygoing that living with them isn't a constant source of stress and mental trauma? Damn. Even when I would come home for vacations, my mother and I would fight. It wasn't until my parents got divorced when I was 20 and my mother started living in a different place that we started getting along - for it was no longer a matter of me coming "home," but rather a visit to her apartment, where I was not an occupant, but a guest. The paradigm - and the rules - shifted at that point.
To this day she will tell me, "you are welcome in my home any time. You may stay with me as long as you like. But do not EVER think about moving in with me. It will not happen."
So if you tell me that you don't want to move out of your parents' house, or are moving back in with your parents, now you know why I'm making that face.
She mulled her decision for months. Columbia? Loyola? UIC? I don't remember what her major was; I just remember feeling a sense of envy at how brightly this kid's future was shining. Chicago! Everyone who knows me knows how much I love that city and how I really do consider it my adopted hometown. The thought of being 19 and going to college there...man, how exciting! I thought it was a no-brainer, myself. She, however, had different thoughts on the matter. And her source of hesitation? Moving away from her mom.
What?
Okay, now...I love my mother as much as the next girl, but one thing I have never been able to understand is people who (a) continue to live with theirs beyond the standard 18-21 year-old stage and (b) people who freak out about having to move out of their parents' homes.
I think I was about 12 when I started fantasizing about the day I could finally pack my bags and get the hell out of that house and away from my parents. Like a prisoner doing time, I kept a mental tally on an imaginary wall, daydreaming about my eventual sweet freedom. Every time a rule was enforced, or I was grounded for some ridiculous thing, I'd curse them under my breath and flip through the Brand Names catalog picking out furniture for my future apartment. I'd think about moving to California, or Hawaii, or someplace as far as I could get. I went to my guidance counselor and asked for information on UCLA. What was her name? Mrs. Kardani I think. Anyway, I remember her telling me, "well, Sweetie, this is only junior high. Your high school will have that information." Now, of course, there was no internet, and finding information was not as easy as Googling it. And so I waited, and as soon as I got to high school I started plotting my escape for real.
My high school years were a nightmare. Now, okay, I know there are a lot of kids who had it WAY worse than I ever did. I had a roof over my head, I had three squares a day, and a guaranteed college education. What I had very little of, however, was privacy. And that's all I ever wanted. Just some privacy, and a little freedom to be myself. I wasn't asking to be allowed to stay out all hours of the night. I wasn't asking to be allowed to have boys in my bedroom. But my mother would routinely go through my things, throw away clothing she didn't like, snoop through my drawers, read my diary and my letters, and I was forbidden to lock my bedroom door. And there was no knocking. So it didn't matter what I was doing. I could be stark naked, and she could just walk right in.
"You have nothing to hide," she told me. But what she failed to understand was that it wasn't that I wanted to hide anything, I just wanted to be left the fuck alone sometimes. In my mother's defense, she was trying to ensure that I wasn't in there smoking my lungs out, but most of the time I wasn't looking for privacy to smoke; I wanted to be able to read, do homework, listen to music, draw, paint, talk on the phone, nap, or just stare off into space - alone and uninterrupted.
My dad was a tyrant, a lunatic, and generally insane. But at least he never barged in on me. He would always knock and say, "Are you decent?" At least he did one thing right.
As it turned out I didn't go to UCLA. My college choices ended up being a little closer to home, but I ultimately chose the one that was the farthest - about 500 miles away, nearly an 8-hour drive. And the sad part is, I didn't choose Franklin Pierce for its programs, or its academic reputation, or its campus life, or anything other than it was the furthest, of all my options, from my parents that I could get.
I think one of the main reasons I have to live alone and never got married or had children is because I am SO protective of my personal space, the very thought of having to share it with someone actually sends me into a panic. So to hear someone say, "Oh, I can't bear the thought of moving out of my folks' house" is so unbelievably foreign to me. I'm not knocking people who want to live at home forever; I just, from my experience and perspective, can't understand it. You mean there are people out there who like their parents so much that they actually VOLUNTARILY live with them? There are people whose parents are so non-invasive and easygoing that living with them isn't a constant source of stress and mental trauma? Damn. Even when I would come home for vacations, my mother and I would fight. It wasn't until my parents got divorced when I was 20 and my mother started living in a different place that we started getting along - for it was no longer a matter of me coming "home," but rather a visit to her apartment, where I was not an occupant, but a guest. The paradigm - and the rules - shifted at that point.
To this day she will tell me, "you are welcome in my home any time. You may stay with me as long as you like. But do not EVER think about moving in with me. It will not happen."
So if you tell me that you don't want to move out of your parents' house, or are moving back in with your parents, now you know why I'm making that face.
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