Friday, September 9, 2011

new suitcase, same old baggage

About two months after I got hired for this job, I realized that when the company had said to me that I would need to travel for some trainings a couple of times, what they really meant was that I would be in a hotel and/or on a plane about once ever 4-6 weeks. After "graduating" training, the travel schedule changed. But honestly, it's still intense at times. Between personal travel to see the "family I choose" and work travel, I am usually on a plane about once every 6-8 weeks and sometimes twice, and I'm often in a hotel about once every 4-6 weeks. It's a good thing that practicality and need won out over the poor-graduate student sensibilities I had when I started this job. Yes, it's true, for my first two trips in 2006 I used a rapidly disintegrating gym bag. Worse than how it looked and how inefficient it was, it was uncomfortable to carry! So, one week, I'd had it. I got myself over to a store and bought a Wenger.

They're well made, and I estimate I got about 60-75 trips out of mine. But they don't last forever. Last week in Seattle I noticed that mine was really on it' last legs. I had only one zipper left on the whole bag that still had a zipper pull, and other portions of the bag were fraying, losing structure, and in general becoming less useful.

So, after landing in Denver on Tuesday night this week, I got my dying luggage, got my car, and drove directly to a store to buy a new one.

I bought another Wenger. It's a decent suitcase, and though it might not be the best, I didn't see anything better that suited my needs for portability and size. I bought the upgrade, actually - it has a hard case bottom and a soft top so it's expandable, but hopefully a bit more durable. It also had four wheels instead of two. I carried both suitcases in, emptied one, did laundry, and began filling the new one up right away knowing that in less than 36 hours I would be headed back to Denver airport for this trip.

I like the new suitcase. Good job so far. But of course, I bought the suitcase, not anything new to put in it. Same shoes. Same toothbrush. Same toiletries bag.

Different suitcase, same baggage. I wonder how much of the same shit I pack with me every day. Like, I leave notes for myself on the inside of my front door to make sure I don't forget things. I am often on the road by 8am and not home again until 12+ hours later so I need to have my office equipment, handouts or materials, snacks, water, etc. There's usually a note on my door saying something like, "Gym bag + headphones!" If I am really concerned about leaving valuable things behind I'll leave them sitting in front of the door, such that I cannot pass through it without stepping on them.

But, of course, there are things I don't put on the list. They come with me as a given. I don't have to write a note to remind me to bring my purse, or my keys. So what other things do I carry with me without realizing it? What other baggage? Do I walk out the door feeling doomed to repeat bad patterns with food? Do I bring pessimism that makes me negative, or optimism that may make my expectations unrealistic? Do I bring the seeds of making bad decisions out the front door, without ever putting them on "the list?" Do I bring the worry that I might be unworthy of better things?

I saw a poster once that said, "Relationships: you are the common link in all of your failed relationships."

And I am. With the run down I gave yesterday, it's pretty clear that while I believe I am an awesomely supportive, loving, and fun girlfriend (One of my best friends from grad school and I used to talk about relationships a lot and we both agreed, we were giving and nice and fun and just all around GREAT at treating someone right and therefore or girlfriend abilities were rockin'), I don't have the best track record in finding who to offer that to. So what does that really mean about my girlfriend abilities? And worse, about my future? When I enter into caring about someone and making room for them in my life, I wonder what I take with me that spells "certain doom. " The kind of doom that others see . . . and then tell me about AFTER it's over (as was the case repeatedly after my second engagement - the relationship I moved to CO for - failed. After hearing, "Oh, I never liked him," or "I didn't think he was good enough for you," for the 13th time I finally said, ""Yeah, next time, pick a messenger to get shot and TELL ME. Obviously I don't know what the FRAK I'm doing").

What could I pack differently? Could I find a wellspring of confidence and conviction? What about the serenity and patience to let my feelings catch up with me (perhaps the subject for another post but, I am really, really not good at processing my emotions on the spot. It sometimes takes days for me to realize something made me angry, for instance) so I had some feelings to go on. What about the wisdom and courage to say, "I see the good in you, but your brand of the-not-so-good isn't a great fit for me."What about the ability to know when to say no, the ability to walk away, the feeling that it is ok for me to say, "This _______ (job, relationship, task, food) isn't working for me."

I worry that because I don't see myself clearly (both literally and figuratively), and because I do carry things with me without questioning them (my purse, my inhaler, my need for structure, my rigid expectation that everyone is better looking than me, my unstoppable nerdiness, my ability to love someone like it's my job and to see the good in them, even when the bad may outweigh the good) that I carry the good with the bad, unexamined. If I can't separate the baggage out into what is clean clothes, what is dirty, and what needs to be retired and left behind, then I will keep carrying all of it. Doesn't that mean I will keep repeating the same patterns then? That the Empty Calories will never take up residence elsewhere? that it will be that much harder to eat the salad instead of the french fries (I had a salad today, and it was SO GOOD. Whew!), to find the balance of work and play, to be ready to be with someone who is prepared to be good to me, to be really happy and satisfied in a way that allows for the fact that I might not be happy about everything at one time.

I'd like to get there. But to a certain degree, it's become comfortable to carry around a LOT. My stories. My fears. My insecurities. My deep-seated need to be loyal to a fault and beyond. My tiny deoderant that I've only ever needed to use once in the last 4 months. Why do I assume that I need to take all of these things with me?

It's probably time to "trim the fat." It's time to drop the things I don't need (fries, extra weight, concerns I won't be good enough, belief that this is all I deserve, and . . . well, I might keep the deoderant. It's pretty cute.) and replace them with things I do. It's just hard, sometimes, to sift through the piles.

With that, I am off to unpack. For the second time this week.

Thursday, September 8, 2011

If nothing ever changes, then nothing ever changes

Are you all ready for some raw, painful, honesty? I am WICKED tired from vacationing, sprinting across the mountains, giving a long presentation, laundry, packing, and then sprinting back across the mountains for a business trip. Not to mention a long day at work out here today and some deep and difficult feelings. So, I don't know if I can be moderate tonight. You've been warned.

I have been engaged twice. (Though I estimate I have been proposed to over 500 times. But that is a funny story, and I'm not in a funny mood tonight. So, another time) And I have called both betrothals off. In the first case, I was young, but ready for the challenges of combining our young lives and moving forward. He was lovely, and funny, and smart, but perhaps not as ready to deal with reality and responsibility as I had estimated. Looking back, he was an interesting choice for me. I felt very connected to him, until I didn't. 20/20 hindsight - what I see is someone who was my friend, maybe my best friend for a long time, and who I felt fortunate to also have romantic feelings for . . . but kind of in that order. When it ended, and during the time leading up to it ending, I was desperate to seek ways to make things better. But once it ended, I felt . . . peaceful. We broke up, and about 20 minutes later went to Target and saw a movie. He went back to being my friend, and although our lives took different paths, we are still friendLY today. So, I am now, and was then, ok with letting go of that hope for something more that had existed when we made those promises because in it's place, I got to stop fighting with my friend and nurture that friendship again.

I then dated a handful of people (one at a time, not all at once! I am most def a serial monogamist) who took up various space in my heart. Some of them were people I felt very close to, while there were others who impressed or intrigued me but who I didn't feel as attached to. All of them were interesting learning experiences.

Right around the time I was thinking that having these learning experiences was getting a bit draining and that I should probably focus energy on me instead of on people who might or might not be worth the trouble, I met someone. (In the movie version this is accompanied by a sigh and a swoon) He was a difficult personality, he probably still is. But, we connected very easily and quickly. It felt . . . well, it felt like it was supposed to be. And so, when we discovered we both wanted to go somewhere with this feeling despite the logistics of me being in NJ and him going abroad for a year, we just went for it. Looking back, there were a lot of warning signs. For instance, the fact that he proposed to two women who were bad for him, stole from him, took advantage of him, but couldn't commit to me fully and couldn't understand how asking me to do more, be more, and give more to the relationship was unfair in the face of his hesitation. Warning signs? Umm, more like neon signs.

But at the time, I just loved him and decided that, "love is patient, love is kind," blah, blah etc. Of course I realize that a real love, a true, mature, lasting love, is one that may not always be kind, but that when it is, it is about both people being patient and giving and kind. And he . . . well he did it on an as-needed basis. Talking about him usually takes me several minutes because the story of how our relationship died a terrible death is also the story of how we got engaged, how I ended up in CO, and how unfortunate it was to lose a parent and come home to losing a fiance. I have resentments about how I was taken advantage of, and how he attempts to continue to use me and pawn his life off on other people, but I am not longer bitter about the loss of the relationship. Mostly, I'm grateful that we didn't get married and have kids. Because . . . it got baaaaaaaaaaaaad. And looking back, he was someone who I had strong romantic feelings for and strong attraction to, but who I only sometimes felt was a good friend. When he was, he WAS but when he wasn't everything was awry. So, it's not a surprise that we were so out of synch that he would choose the worst possible moment in the recorded history-of-Christie to punk out.

In the wake of these failed engagements, and two other eye-opening non-engaged relationships  I became tough. It takes work to crack this pistachio, and it's unclear to me if the nut inside is what others consider worth it. (Not everyone likes the pistachio, after all.) I was wary, picky, and had some pretty high standards. I wanted someone who would be nice to my mother, even when I was frustrated with her. Someone who didn't scorn religion, but wasn't fanatical either. Someone who was equally comfortable with fun of different varieties like cooking dinner at home, a live baseball game, the symphony, game night with my friends, perusing a book store. Someone who would find my bad habit of kicking my shoes off in weird corners of the house endearing, someone who would happily let me swipe their tee-shirt to sleep in. Someone who would challenge me, but support me. Someone smart but also wise. Someone who would make me laugh. Someone who would forgive my faults and be honest about theirs. Someone who would be my friend AND romantic partner, in equal measure.

I found it in an unlikely candidate. And between having been burned so badly before leaving me scarred and wary, and being unsure that this person was the fit I had been looking for, well it took me quite awhile to admit that I felt as much as I did. I hung back for awhile. And right when I thought, "Well, maybe . . . " he freaked out. Not auspicious, huh? I know.

What followed was several months of two steps forward, three steps back. And because I understood the desire to not jump in too quickly, I hung in there. Also, it was unclear exactly what the issues and concerns were for a while. Despite being a pretty good scientist, there seemed to be so many pre-correlated variables that it took a long time to see the pattern of difficulty for what it was. By then, I had begun to respond badly to his destructive cycle, and, I was tired. We broke up and I was at peace with it because we were friends. I lost my lover, but not my friend and I was content with that.

He most definitely was NOT satisfied with that and waged a serious campaign to get back together. Gradually, he won my trust back. I had concerns, but I thought, "No one is perfect. Certainly not me. And in all of my friends' relationships, they faced serious shit at different points in their relationships and then got to where they are today. So I'm not going to close myself off from what this could be just because it was a wobbly start. "

Things were great for maybe 3 months. And then the old issues returned. I doubted myself at first when I started to feel tat things weren't right, but in the end I had to face that his issues were not under his control.

He is an addict. He is a destructive, throw-it-all-out-the-window-for-his-fix addict. He is someone for whom an hour of escape is worth almost any consequences. He is far more comfortable with apology and contrition than giving up his means to numbing out.

Now, I have dated someone who was diagnosed with mental illness while we were together, someone who I suspected of having a borderline personality, a recovering alcoholic with 9 years of sobriety, and someone who was hospitalized for manic-depressive disorder. I know from issues! And I also know that the chinks in someone's armor don't have to be downfalls and dealbreakers, they can be beautiful and part of what makes someone who they are.

And I know I have my own issues . . . Ahem! Popcorn! Cheezits! I can't really pretend to be on a high-horse, eh?

If I'm being really searching in how I dig up the truth here, I have a lot of people in my life who are addicts. I'm not going to name them, because their stories aren't mine to tell. I think it's enough for my story to say that I have seen addiction up close. It's not some mysterious species that I need help identifying; I've seen it often. I think I know the difference between flirting with dangerous or deviant behavior for the hell of it and the tail-spin addiction. I know what it looks like to medicate or escape and how that can lead to but isn't always the same as being out of control.  I have seen what it does to people to stop driving their habit, and to start being driven by it, and I've seen what it can do to the people who love them. It isn't addiction as-seen-on-TV where there is foreshadowing, and then a conflict, and then a denouement where everyone cries, realizes their flaws, makes up and gets healthy.

It's secrecy, and lies, and broken promises, and boundaries that aren't respected and are then abandoned as too hard to maintain and conversations that are avoided. It's things falling apart in darkly quiet non-communications that are insidiously violent and rip trust and happiness and options to shreds. It's bone-crushing denial. It's people getting sicker and sicker in how they cope and understand and make decisions, and not just the addict, but the people who love the addict also.

So, it shocked me to discover that my friend, my partner, my boyfriend was an addict too, and worse, I had been drawn into it without thinking twice. I had never experienced being loved for just exactly who I was so I didn't want to see anything else but the grace and wonder of that. It was intoxicating. And to be fair to both of us, his addiction isn't what is depicted on TV and one that is often not recognized or talked about. It was easy to not see it, and hard to discern the pattern. When it became clear that this person was deeply, darkly, desperately out of control, I fought back and fought back HARD. Kind of like when you feel a light tickling on your leg, and think nothing of it, push it to the back of your mind, and then when you look down and see a spider, jump up, sweep it to the floor, and kill it viciously. I sprang into this kind of response, and, you know, in hindsight it probably wasn't very gentle or compassionate to him or to our relationship. But that's what I did.

I pointed it out, I intervened, I asked for help, I got help, I asked him to get help, I understood when that was difficult to go out and do right away, I offered counseling as an option for him/us, I had long talks, I went to my own meetings, I gave him space, I helped him find some resources for a meeting for him, I told him I didn't care what option he picked but that a commitment to getting help was a pre-req for spending time with me, I cooked dinners so that we could talk about how that was going for him. I, I, I. Y'all are smart and will say, "well, what did HE do? "

He agreed he was out of control. He agreed he needed help. He agreed to get it. He went to three meetings in ten weeks and skipped the rest. He agreed to go back or try other meetings. He agreed to look at other options. He agreed to do things to restore my trust in them and then promptly didn't do them.

I asked for us to not be together but to be friends, then to take a break from seeing each other. I believed him over and over.

And over.

And finally when he had shirked getting help for yet another week, when he had made a promise and then in three swift hours broken it, and when he had lied to me again all in the same week I said, "You are stubborn and have a strong will. If you wanted to address this you would."

He said many things but what it boiled down to was that he felt he should be able to do it without help (even though he hadn't been able to so far . . . ), he felt that the discomfort and dissatisfaction of the three meetings he attended entitled him to quit going, and in that decision he hadn't considered at all the promise he made to me to get help. He expressed ambivalence about changing his life saying on the one hand he sees he has become a less good person than he liked to think of himself as and wants to correct that course, and on the other hand he wants to not have to. He said he feels he has failed. I sympathized but said, "I don't know any addicts who decided to get better who found it easy or who did it alone. It's not that you have failed. It's that you haven't truly tried yet." I said it without yelling or crying.

What came next was a vague and resentful nod towards doing what I was asking as a way of making things better and "sucking it up" so that it would be possible for us to see each other. And I don't want to be anyone's crappy obligation. It became clear that he couldn't report any changes he had made or was willing to make, when it was clear that he wasn't prepared to make any kind of comittment or action plan to try anything on his own behalf, much less mine, I had to STOP.

I'll say it again because it's important. I don't want to be anyone's crappy obligation. I don't want to be a chore. I want to be someone's everything. And maybe even more relevant to this situation, I don't want my needs and the needs of the relationship to be confused with his need for recovery. I don't want my feelings to become his motivation. He has to want to get better. And if he wants to be with me, he has to want our relationship be a part of his life. Those are two separate things, but easy to confuse.

So, I took a deep breath and said, "If nothing ever changes, then nothing ever changes. This will keep being the same unless we make changes. " I said other things too, but you get the gist. "You are completely untrustworthy. So, I can't talk to you unless you are getting help of some kind. I can't be your friend or your girlfriend. I can't have you be a person in my life unless and until that happens. I love you, but I can't do it anymore. "

I am so, so, so scared that he's reading this. I'm scared he's not. I'm scared that cutting off contact will be his excuse to not get help. I lose my breath a little when I think he could feel I gave up on him and then give up on me. I'm sad when I think that this means I could just never hear from him again. What if he never gets help? What if he does but doesn't call me? What if I found someone who was both my friend and my partner but too broken to be either? What if I'm the one who is broken and some large part of this is my fault?

I don't know the answers to any of that. I know that I couldn't keep signing up to be sick with him. I know that it's hard that it happened over the phone after two weeks of not seeing him. I know that in my heart of hearts I am hoping, hoping, hoping (praying) that in just a few days he will call me and say, "I'm getting help and I want to talk to you now." I know that, above all, I had to change because I couldn't keep being a part of what he was spiraling into and I know that if I hadn't changed, it would have stayed the same. I know I deserve to be more than someone's crappy obligation and he deserves a chance to get better. And I hope he knows that too.

I miss my boyfriend, but I miss my friend too.

So. Yes. Heavy. don't be surprised if there are lots of musings on addiction in the weeks to come. I was having those thoughts anyways, but now they are percolating to the front of the line.

Wednesday, September 7, 2011

Why I hate running

Ok, I'll be honest. I hate almost all cardio, I shouldn't just pick on running. My trainer once tried to draw a correlation to which forms of cardio training I found most onerous and the strength of my hot white hatred.

Here is the list:

Stairmaster - not sure, haven't really done it
Arm bike - I wish I could set it on fire and would be happy to bring my own gasoline
Stationary bike - after 10 minutes I kind of want to stick something in my eye
Regular bike - they kinda scare me. Balancing, going fast, braking, who thinks this is a good idea?!
Elliptical - I'm really pretty sure this is a special form of torture for girls like me with thighs that need their own zip code. Proof of evil here on earth.
Rowing - being good at it is not enough to keep me from wanting to burn my eyebrows off. I'm that bored when I row
Running - at this point it's hard to say how I feel except that my body and my brain might disagree.

Here's the thing. My body despises running. Like, hatred akin to a thousand burning nuns. And it lets me know. I get all of the feelings other people do (except for the oft reported "rush you get after!" Ummm, no. Unless that so-called rush is synonymous with the simultaneous feeling of wanting to hurl and wanting to die, I have not experienced the rush my friends who run tell me about) such as: burning lungs, heavy legs, shin splints, etc. But in addition I feel other things like hobbling foot cramps, deep abdominal cramps, and nausea. You'd think the first things on my list would be my bad knees (both having now been reconstructed) and my asthma, and to be sure, those things kept me from running for a long time. (Hence the reason I never learned to run until now. ) But no, my feet! Agggghhhh!

My body hates running so much, but it must be a love/hate relationship because my body also responds to running. I can't even yet run a full mile without doing it in intervals. But when I'm really fighting to make sure I get my runs in, I lose weight. I so wish it were otherwise but thems the facts.

I am pretty analytical. I'm constantly walking around with data in my head, thoughts about correlation and causation, and looking always, always at patterns and benefits vs. drawbacks. I would be an excellent medical researcher. I was an excellent lab rat when I was running my abusive adviser's lab in her stead. It's just who I am. I can't deny that running gets the job done. I have evidence. I can't deny it. What I can do is to write a blog post by way of procrastinating tonight's run.

If feeling craptastic during and after my run was the whole story, I think I would be able to analyze and logically balance out and say that the weight loss was worth the discomfort. My problems with running run deeper though. For one, there is one shining star in my line up of despised cardio: Swimming. I love swimming. I would be willing to put a sticker on my car stating that I heart swimming. Love it. It makes me feel good, alive, accomplished, graceful, and athletic. And it's fun! If it wasn't bad for my hair and if it didn't require the time for an extra shower, I would swim for an hour a day. So, I'm always comparing and running becomes the badly behaved red-headed step child next to swimming.

The other problem is that . . . I don't see the POINT of running. The only good argument I've gotten for being able to run is in case of out-running a hoard of zombies if one should happen to survive the apocalypse. My very smart and hilarious friend once said, "You don't have to be fast, just have to not be last." (I so want a tee-shirt stating that with a zombie on it)

Now, my knowledge of zombies is deep enough to be spooky for some. What I've learned about zombies, variations in their manifestation and their pathology, and survival tips definitely warrants its own post. For now I'll say, that in addition to the CDC's recommendations for emergency preparedness during a zombie attack I do think cardio could help keep me alive during the end of the world. When I'm feeling lazy, though, I do find myself saying, "I have asthma and hypoglycemia. I really doubt I would survive the first wave."

Ok, all, with that, enough procrastination. Must. Go. Run. In. Case. Of. Zombies.

Tuesday, September 6, 2011

Not in Kansas!

"Toto, I've a feeling we're not in Kansas anymore."

I've never been to Kansas, which is a riot since I lived and breathed this movie when I was little. (Sidenote: have you all heard that a remake of the Wizard of Oz is in the works? I'm not sure I'll be able to bring myself to watch it) But I think I know a bit of the feeling of being displaced - lions, tigers, bears, oh my, some witches, people you didn't expect, and different rules and expectations. Whenever I go somewhere new I like to notice what is different and what is the same. I also notice that when I am on vacation, to a familiar or new place, different rules apply.

I'm sure I'm not alone in this. We all do different things when we're on vacation than we do at home. We might eat different foods or try new ones for the first time, agree to go zip-lining or segue-ing, or even see a movie, band, symphony, opera or performance that hadn't previously been on our list. I've done a lot of things on vacations that are not my norm. In past vacations I've gone to baseball games (and loved it!), taken ferries, eaten poi, learned to snorkel, rented a vehicle for the sole purpose of driving wherever the mood took us, done a Turkey Trot, taken a Duck tour (don't sneer, it is awesomely hilarious), gambled $100, seen a performance that was part dinner theater and part cirque-de-solei type circus, gotten a massage, bought indulgent shoes and helped build a fire pit.

This vacation was no different. I did things I don't normally do such as wearing a baseball cap to the store to expedite getting out of the house, sitting on the porch in pajamas, ordering an avocado margarita, playing pool, eating at a decadent restaurant, hanging out with cats, and losing weight without thinking about it. What was that last one you say? No, you didn't misread it. I lost weight without trying. Moreover, I did it while yummily imbibing things like homemade ice cream sandwiches, homemade fried chicken fingers, burgers, raspberry chocolate mousse cake-lets, risotto (mmmmmmmm, risotto), chocolate covered cherries, beer and enchiladas.

I can't yet prove that I've lost weight since I am still en route to home, but I won't be surprised if once I get there the scale reports a loss of 2-5lbs. My guess is that it's right in between there because I can see that my face is thinner, my shoes are looser (I really am not sure why my body insists on losing weight in my face, feet, and fingers first but that's how it happens!), and shorts that were just a tiny bit tight before are now loose. I've had to bring my belt in one notch (two in the mornings before the metric crazy ton of water I guzzle between waking and 11am). And I've started to have an issue with . . . well, let's just say I've decided to make wearing nice underwear a priority for the next little while.

This is weird, right? Most people would expect to gain weight if they were "vacation-eating." Well, maybe not so. Certainly, if you go on a cruise (have you ever been? I know cruises are changing now, but wen I went it felt like it was our  job to eat) that might be the case. But the way I vacation, I guess I shouldn't be surprised. I love, love, LOVE vacation. I often am visiting people I know and not even doing or seeing anything new but my natural vacation-persona is to be ACTIVE. I don't go on vacation and run marathons (or even 5ks, though I walked one once) but I like to get out and make fun happen. I'm typically up for putting on some comfortable clothes and getting to wherever vacation peeps are going with as much walking as possible, and I'd much rather spend most of my vacation DOING rather than sitting. As a case in point, note that on Saturday I got up and cooked for three hours followed by a run before partying, on Sunday I dragged everyone out to Bumbershoot where we had about 4 hours of walking for every one of sitting, yesterday I awoke before my cousin and went out for an exercise walk seeking out as many big hills as I could in in Queen Ann, last night we walked to dinner, and this morning I used my last 90 minutes in Seattle-proper for an urban hike in search of the perfect latte.


Of course, once at the airport I had some indoor hiking to do as well. With all of this activity (both planned as exercise and just taken as the best mode of transportation and enjoying the city) it's no wonder I could get away with eating some things that are not normally on my personal menu.

I personally think, though, there are other factors contributing to this positive vacation loss. I've noticed that FRED has been far away. Last night I had delicious, amazing food in front of me (chips, fresh guac, enchiladas, and my cousin ordered a giant thing of cheese fries) and a miraculous thing happened . . . I was . . . what's this feeling? FULL. Done. Over and out. Enough. Having had so many other wonderfully delicious things over the four days that had preceded that dinner, and having water and an awesome margarita in front of me (I swear! The avocado margarita is not only real, but mind-blowingly good. They were from Laredos and people have corroborated my review of the avocado margarita) FRED seems not to tag along on vacations, though he sometimes comes along for business trips.So, on vacation I can just be done when I'm done. No drama.

The day before at Bumbershoot I had had a small cup of ice cream but was still feeling . . . something. I wasn't feeling painful pinpricks of the aura I get before a migraine or the deep discomfort of crashing blood sugar, so I waited it out. After 30 minutes it occurred to me I needed to drink something. Almost instantly I felt so much better after getting my hands around some clear liquid. Meanwhile, I typically leave my house on a work day with close to a gallon of water plus snacks and healthy options, but if you'd asked me a week ago to tell you when I was hungry vs. when I was thirsty, NO WAY.


I also think that walking is like the opposite of addictive eating. Eating things that are bad for me becomes a negative cycle where, despite the fact that I actually like healthy foods, by eating something "bad" I then crave more bad things. Cheezits lead to popcorn leads to frozen pizza and so on until it becomes a fast and furious negative cycle. I notice that when I'm walking it leads to a desire to do more walking. I start thinking how great it would be to get into a routine of getting up early on three work days a week and walk for 20 minutes. I start planning outfits around good walking shoes so I can walk more. I mean, come on, I went looking for the steepest, tallest most slope-ful hills! It becomes a positive cycle.

Also, I think that walking becomes its own stress relief. I really should seriously think about altering my schedule so I can walk three days a week . . . it's a hard trade off when I think about how little sleep I already get, but it might be worth it if I could feel this good about myself even once a week. And stress definitely plays a role not just in emotional eating (and then indirectly, weight gain) but also in the actual hormones involved with clinging to pounds.


The other thing is this . . . my mind comes off ice when I'm on vacation. I'm generally hanging out with the people I find most stimulating, many of whom are the smartest people I know in real life, when on vacation. So that helps. But I think there is something else. As it turns out, most people who soothe with food either do it because they had role models who did, because they didn't learn to self-soothe in other ways, or because they are addictively eating not to soothe feelings so much as to numb them. I'm the winner of the trifecta because I have all three issues. The big one I've noticed is that at this point, I spend a significant portion of my daily time on autopilot. I just do what needs to be done. I have enough experience at my job to get by on that alone, and I'm just enough unfulfilled by my job or frustrated that I don't want to think about it too hard. (This topic really deserves it's own post and may get it at some point). I did this same thing via a large quantity of vodka each week while writing my second Master's thesis (my adviser was . . .  abusive is the kindest, must publishable word I can come up with. And I had determined I had to leave with my Master's so, I had to tough it out and that's how I did it. It was so not good.) and now I'm all growed up and out of school so I do it without alcohol. So, ironically, while there are scores of people who go on vacation in order to turn off their brain, I go on vacation to turn mine on. I have noticed a significant upward trend of the number of cool words I have in circulation in my vernacular when I take a plane and leave for vacation. (And as a linguist I can measure that scientifically . . . no not really. This is anecdotal evidence from me analyzing me which linguists do like to do, but which my other masters in Cognitive Psychology frowns upon. )

Armed with my whole mind, I can be as compassionate and attentive to me as I would be to a friend. (and again, no data here, but I think I'm a pretty good friend who offers support, compassion, and attention readily. But I tank at being those things to myself. In fact, I tend to be really mean to myself). Mindfulness works ever so much better when accompanied with, you know . . . MY MIND!

Does this mean I should find some way to be on vacation 24/7? Gosh, I don't know what the logistics of that would be but it might be worth it if I could drink beer, eat seriously delish dishes, and still feel this good about myself and motivated to keep going on this journey. And, hey, I'd be GOOD at it, but if I've learned anything from the many different jobs I've held in my life it's that being good at something isn't the same as liking it. More likely, it would be better for me to incorporate some of the things I did right on vacation in my every day life.

Here are the things I think I did right:
  • Eating when hungry, not due to a schedule
  • Stopping eating when full
  • Drinking lots of water (I did that before vacay but need to keep doing it)
  • Eating lots of vegetables and protein, and making sure to eat a variety. (Proteins included: shrimp, legumes, chicken, burger, fish, and pork. Vegetables: oh so many! So many colors and yummy salads!)
  • Limiting carbs but not to the point of keeping myself from enjoying normal things. I generally had one piece of fruit per day, only a little bread if it was on the table, minimal rice, etc. But I enjoyed the fries with my burger, and the beer, Oh yes I did.
  • Eating/drinking a high protein breakfast ASAP after waking up
  • Not feeling like I have to finish everything in front of me. I allowed some risotto, half of my enchiladas, and a really unappetizing slice of pizza go uneaten. And it was fine. I mean, I wish the starving children could have had it, but having given to the food drive, I felt like I had done what I could do for them and that it was fine to do this for me
  • Asking myself if I'm really hungry, or rather, thirsty or bored instead
  • Enjoying my exercise. Not just doing it to do it
  • Cooking healthy stuff
  • Eating socially but not in a zombie-like way
  • Spent more time cooking than eating
  • Filled plate ONCE
  • I often heard the inside voice saying, "You don't need to eat ____ now, you'll be eating awesome food at _____ soon."
  • Not judging myself as being an epic failure when I ate dessert, fries, etc. But rather as a normal person eating normal things, enjoying my vacation
  • Not letting the stresses and tensions that I did experience on this trip lead to feeling like food was the answer
  • Being able to listen to the inner voice
  • Walking

It's probably worth mentioning that I spent 6 solid days with people who are fun, interesting, sassy, and who think well of me. (At least I think they do . . . ). I'm sure it didn't hurt to be told that I was cool, funny, a good person, possessed of a "good head on my shoulders, "  and, most memorably, " a class act."

Now stay tuned to see how  I do on working these things into real life.

Referrences:

http://stress.about.com/od/stresshealth/a/cortisol.htm

http://www.medicinenet.com/script/main/art.asp?articlekey=53304

Monday, September 5, 2011

sisters

I grew up feeling surrounded by men. I wanted to play soccer, and there weren't enough girls for an all girls team so I played with the boys. Most of my friends, the really good ones, were boys throughout my life. Not to mention that in my house it was me and two brothers and a dad who really geared things towards male-ness. It was a land of Legos, Star Wars, and football. The best way to keep up with the pack was to find out what was interesting about football, be up for a hike, and genuinely want to watch Harrison Ford movies. It was important to my father that I be involved in a sport (though once my brothers started playing football, no other sporting event compared), be analytical, and bond with him by watching sci fi and action movies.

Now, to be clear, there are some women who genuinely like those things. I am not sexist (and I now have genuine affection for those activities for other reasons). I do think that while men and women should have equal opportunities, equal does not mean same. Let me offer a simple example to help illustrate what I am saying. We all have probably noticed that when there are lines for the bathroom, the line for the men's room is shorter. Men and women pee differently for obvious reasons, allowing more men to efficiently get in and out of the bathroom. Most facilities offer the same number of receptacles (in the men's room this is the number of urinals plus toilets, in the women's room just the number of toilets/stalls) in the two different gendered bathrooms. This is a case where equality was measured as absolute value, as in giving men and women the same number of something. another way to measure it would be to give women MORE toilets since it takes us more time to get in and out.

Beyond "equipment" and logistics (it was so much easier for my brothers to pee when we hiked!), I think it's safe to say that while men and women need to be valued equally, and not pigeon-holed, we are not the same. Statistically speaking we don't live the same number of years, we benefit from activities unequally (e.g. statistically speaking, men benefit more from heterosexual marriage than women do - and I have more sources than I have space for links. So, Rick Santorum notwithstanding, marriage which is TRADITIONALLY considered to be the place where men and women come together for common purposes doesn't result in common good, necessarily) and in the end, what convinces me most is that our psyches are measurably different. Our development is different, and even in cases of abnormal psychology, two people may have the same diagnosis but if one is male and the other female, the processes of their disease or disturbance are statistically likely to be different from one another.So, I grew up feeling a bit of being an outsider, and with good reason. Boys and girls, men and women, aren't the same.

Yes, I had a mother, but in terms of my closest friends and enemies (otherwise known as siblings) I was the only girl. It seemed simple enough, but as my family history is complicated, that was only the surface. As it happens, I had a half-sister out in the world, 7 years older than me. She had her sister that she grew up with (and they had no idea of the daddy-drama behind the scenes so in their minds they were and are just sisters). As families got shuffled and remarried there was also a half brother, and two step sisters and a step brother as well - the family bonding being of much greater importance than the labels. And through all of this, they may have even more cousins than I do (and as my mom was one of six I have a LOT of cousins). So, by extension through my sister (after we both helped our parent to die, and helped each other through that, halfness became very uninteresting to us; I simply refer to her as my sister now) I have a sister-once-removed (my half-sister's half sister) whom I adore, and have recently met their other sisters (step sisters).

My sister is enamored with planning sister weekends, once a year if she can. The first was when she brought her sister to Colorado to meet me. Then last year, and I couldn't go because it was shortly after my knee surgery. Now this year was planned with sisters of all varieties and cousins and friends too in Seattle. It has been a weekend filled with sisterly love. And here is what I have learned:

  • Purse, shoe, and hat envy are real
  • There can never be enough conversations about who is wearing what for the day's fun activity and why they chose it
  • Talk about sex, men, dates, and husbands can happen at any time
  • Pedicures are common 
  • Once the talk about breasts and bras starts, who knows where it ends
  • Woe betide those who don't travel with hairspray, curling irons, and/or a blowdryer (I get out of the shower and shake my curls out and that's it so the combined hair-effort was STUNNING)
  • Sisters really do walk around in towels, robes, and underwear! Not just in the movies!
  • Personal space is expressed by letting you take a shower with the door closed and without someone else coming in (and even this was a respect accorded to me more than others since I was still a "newbie"). Sharing is for things as personal as plates of food and hairbrushes. Affection is expressed by piling 5 women on one bed.

I'm sure this comes off as me picking only the stereotypical elements of female bonding. But for me, these were some of the standouts. I grew up where I had to fight for personal grooming time in a bathroom that I shared with gross boys (I kept my towel in my room for many years because the prospect of them mistaking my towel for theirs was so disgusting). I shared gel with my brothers. Roughhousing and wrestling were more common than hugs and compliments on clothes. Still today, one of my brothers greets me by slinging my arm across his shoulders and picking me up - fully, bodily, lifting all of me off of the ground and then lightly tossing me up and down a couple of times. Nobody cared what kind of purse I had, and even today I don't own a curling or straightening iron! And because I was a "young lady" as my southern father put it, modestly was important. There wasn't a lot of wandering around in undies.

To say that I felt like I had entered a strange new land is an understatement.

But there are other things to say too. Like, it is nice to be cooking in the kitchen and have your sisters actively come to you and say, "What can I do to help?" or even better to have one be open and self-aware enough to say, "I need some time to relax for a few minutes but then I AM coming to help." Also, the freedom of being able to share openly and discuss things like our families' tangled pasts, or the differences in our upbringings was a welcome and astounding contrast for me, compared to discussions of working out and jobs with my brothers. I like both conversations for different reasons but talking about who we are and why feels . . . more personal. Finally, my brothers love me, and I them. Deeply and unquestionably. (Don't mess with my brothers!) But the relationship is one of good-natured teasing and competition. The relationships of these women was one where they could say, "I'm so proud of you," or "I think your kids are amazing. " The way love and support and encouragement were given freely and authentically was eye-opening for me. There were lots of hugs and kisses, and yes, some teasing, but lots of understanding and acceptance as well.

Luckily, I've had some prototpyical sisters along the way. Early in my life, my Aunt and cousin lived with us for a short while. I was pretty sure my own personal role model had moved in. I just had to grow up and be exactly like my extremely smart, funny, interesting, and quircky cousin. Even after they moved out, she was the cousin I saw the most and looked up to. Then fast forward through high-school and college (where again the vast majority of my friends were men) until I met my friend, and for two years, roomate in grad school. She was an oldest sister and had a sister. Living with her was my first opportunity to to practice being a little sister. I was a couple of years behind her in the grad program and she knew her way around the department, the town, and life better than I. It was nice to not have to know what to do at all times. Her music was cooler than mine and she cooked (and still does) like a goddess. I believe you've already heard about the wonders of waking up to fresh coffee each day while I lived with her. I think back to this now as being the practice run of learning how to be a little sister. Once my own sister was in the picture, we had to not only learn about each other, but negotiate our position in the family, since we both had grown up as the oldest child.

For the past 4 days being in a house with all of the other sisters has taught me, really, what I missed as a child. I didn't just miss knowing my sister as I grew up, but knowing her family too. I missed having a gaggle of young women who became young adults and now thirty-somethings to learn from. When I was called upon to help with curling the back of the hair of my sister-once-removed I punted and had to hand off the curling iron to my sister because I don't know how to use it! I wonder what else I don't know?


I also missed some essential understandings between women, because I was surrounded by athletic men and was the oddball who wanted to swim, but wanted to sing, read, and direct plays more. My sister, and her sister, and all of their sisters are fit, trim, healthy looking women. They are wonderful people on the inside, and beautiful people on the outside. They all tell each other how pretty they are, how nice they look, and compliment each others' best features. Of course my parents did this for me, of course they did. (Though, how that happened in my house may be the subject of another post some time) But most of us, I think, have some difference of hearing when it comes from our parents. Even as an adult, there's an internal editor that seems to re-arrange the words coming out of my mother's mouth. Growing up, surrounded by brothers and friends-who-were-boys well . . . the competition for positive feedback was fierce. I couldn't run very fast, lift more weights, make a tackle or a touchdown that won the game. I think most of us listen to our peers more purely because we believe that they meet us where we are at and know what matters to us since they are closer to our own situation in life. Who is a closer peer than your siblings - not only closer in age but possessed of special knowledge of your family and household? And the feedback from my brothers had nothing to do with how I looked (unless I was going through a phase where I tried particularly hard to look weird - and there were a few). I heard praise and support when I . . . did something they wanted me to do or won a swim meet.

I wonder how I would feel about myself and understand myself differently if the sibling teasing me and irritating me and borrowing my things without asking had also been telling me I was pretty? I wonder if my insides would know better how to receive that compliment now? I'm not sorry I had brothers, and love mine with serious fierceness but women are different.

I will tell you that despite the fact that my sisters are gorgeous, as are their sisters, they all are prone to saying what they don't like about themselves. Their skin, hair, how their butt looks in a specific pair of shorts, the size of their chest, etc. Maybe what I would have learned is that these feelings of insecurity about who I am are normal. Maybe I would have learned different ways to process and move through those feelings. Maybe I would have learned the feeling of being healed by being loved by someone who is like me even in the hardest moments of not loving myself.

Whatever the case, I am glad to have had a long weekend to spend with them, as well as some time to spend with my prototypical big-sister-cousin now. Another day in Seattle - impossible to know how much coffee and walking await!

p.s. no sisters, men, or marriages were harmed in the making of this post. Furthermore, while marriage has traditionally been defined as being between a man and woman, even the most cursory view of my Facebook page will tell you that one of the only topics that will get me frothing at the mouth politically is the questions of whether or not my friends can get married. I want to be at all of their weddings - all of 'em!

    Sunday, September 4, 2011

    The morning after

    No, I’m not talking about “the walk of shame.” (Though the many, many sisters discussed this very things last night! Ha!) I’m not even talking about a hangover (I drank lots of water last night and went to bed with a light snack of Aleve in order to wake up ready to go). I’m talking about the day after a day of unplanned eating – parties being especially hard since it’s when everyone wants to make their most delicious treats such as famous brownies, family recipes of drinks, and snacks that are hard for even the most disciplined to walk away from.

    We had a great party yesterday. It’s nice to both be a real grown up and be able to kick back at the same time. There were no kegs or shouting (well maybe a little shouting), nobody got sick and as far as I know nobody did anything they feel remorse for now. I mean, I did get handed a pool cue and told to play, and I did then watch as the only one of my balls to get sunk went into the pocket by the power of my opponent but . . . I can live with that. I’ve found in life that it’s good to know your own strengths and weaknesses. Cooking, yes. Telling the occasional funny story, yes. Photography, ok. I can do most of what I want to do with a camera. Singing, working on it. Playing pool, not so much. (It’s a little ironic, actually. I perfectly understand the geography and physics having “minored” in math but I can’t ever seem to execute the geometry I am seeing for my potential shots.)


    When we got to this lovely rental house and began discussing this party, I had some suggestions of things to make. I had even brought some recipes and spices. The response I got was that whatever I wanted to cook was fine by everyone. So, I made an insanely organized list, grocery shopped, and then cooked for several hours. Now, I don’t mean to brag, but I can make a decent menu from scratch and feed a group pretty darn well. I am not a gourmet cook, but I am a solid cook who can follow a recipe like a champ as well as improvising with most ingredients. I wouldn’t even make it through an hour of cooking in Kitchen Stadium, or anything, but I can usually pull off feeding a large group with interesting and delicious dishes.

    It brings me a lot of pleasure to cook for people. It also gives me an opportunity to insert some dishes that are satisfying and palatable, but not nutritionally empty or dangerous. Let me say that there were no 
    Cheezits, real or metaphorical on the table. (We had chips on the table, but I had seen to it that the ones we purchased did not have a voice that loudly called to me.) There were a lot of healthy salad side dishes, three different proteins, some cooked vegetables, and our desserts were either made from scratch or involved fruit, or both. (Note: I’m not saying that made the desserts guilt free, but at least they were without preservatives, corn syrup and other unknown ingredients). I managed to make three side dishes and some kabobs that would allow me to have a meal that was gluten free, filled with fresh and raw produce, and had a great protein without having to worry what the rest of the group or the guests thought about gluten, high protein, raw vegetables, or low carb eating. This is my secret challenge to myself whenever I am cooking for a group – can I cook around my and everyone else’s food restrictions and just make food that is delicious and interesting without having to apologize by saying. “I’m sorry it’s gluten free,” or, “I know that isn’t quite right but so and so is allergic to onions and nuts.” (I didn’t make that up. I once threw a party and had a guest who was allergic to nuts, wheat, dairy, onions, and garlic.)

    As someone who has both medical and psychological issues with food, I know how hard it can be to be that person in the group that has to turn so many things down that they finally have to explain, “I can’t eat that.” Food is ubiquitous in our lives. Most of us have not attended many parties, gatherings, meetings, or conferences where food wasn’t a centerpiece of how people were made comfortable. It’s difficult to be social without it, and for me, it’s difficult to be social with it. I want to be able to eat without worrying that the next day I will feel physically bad from something that doesn’t agree with me (too much gluten or preservatives being the big culprit). I also don’t want to be feeling emotionally bad from what I ate. I would rather listen to my friends stories and conversations, not the loud clanging in my head of food yelling at me, “Heyyyyyy, heeey-aaay! I’m over here! Don’t you want cheese? Don’t you want chips? What about this tray of brownies? Yooo-hoo, over here.

    If I look very carefully over my food choices yesterday, I feel I can honestly say that the dominant elements were, in descending order:
    vegetables, protein, and beer. Yes, there were a few tastes of dessert, and therefore some white flour and white sugar in my life, but my blood sugar, deep sleep, and ability to get out of bed and feel alright 8 hours later are a testament to the fact that I didn’t overdo anything. I wasn’t anywhere near “on plan” but the ideas of plan (to eat smaller amounts more frequently, and to compose my eating mostly of proteins and vegetables) lingered. Of course, there was one thing missing from my eating yesterday – my food log. I’ve decided to set it aside this weekend and see what some mindfulness and trying to really hear the signals of my body can do for me. But since I won’t be walking miles every day when I return home, I should probably bring that back.

    For me, it’s very interesting to be a member of the first species in history to have to deal with the negative effects of having too much food. I’ve been sitting on this porch a lot watching birds, and squirrels and listening to seals a few feet down the hill and thinking that they probably only notice food when there’s not enough of it.
    The problems of too much are unique to humans. It’s fascinating to watch how much profit comes of this. Not just the food companies who sell amazing amounts of products that are amazingly un -needed and bad for us, but then the corollary companies selling 100 calorie packs, Weight Watchers food, diet plan memberships and the list goes on and on. While there is clear evidence that we are evolutionarily programmed to eat what is in front of us and as much of it as we can, and to enjoy carbohydrates and fats more, I can only blame so much on ancient humans. My evolutionary programming may be responsible for my brain confusing cravings for need, but I am responsible for how I respond to that.
     

    Some of the best accountability I have found is to log my food. That joined with some techniques to breathe through and question cravings, to pause before eating more, and holding close the ideas that most of the time, on most days, I really should exercise, and eat mostly proteins and vegetables is likely to help me forge my own solution. In the meantime, being part of hosting the party and bringing the food to the table, knowing what was in it and preparing it makes it a lot less likely that I will eat like a zombie (I could write multiple posts on my intense love for and interest in zombies), not knowing or caring what is being steered in my mouth, and more likely that I’ll be invested in the food being not only good, but an offering of good options. So, I cooked for three hours, and while some might not think that is a good use of vacation time, it was some of the best medication for me, and for FRED who wasn’t invited to the party and who didn’t crash the gates this time.

    With that, I’m off to add some more whipped cream to my coffee, because I am on vacation and should live a little, after all, and then another day of walking, walking, walking, and sisterly love.

    Vacation

    Being away from routine and the known can be a difficult prospect for someone like me who has dietary restrictions that are both medical and by choice. Routine and predictability are often the watchword of anyone dieting or trying to combat food allergies. Beyond that, I learned in grad school that the best way for me to eat cheaply, but also with health in mind was to cook on the weekends and then choose from pre-metered out leftovers for the weekdays. Later, as I began making choices such as limiting carbs, doing “cleanses”, increasing my protein intake, and even going on a campaign to reduce gluten in my diet significantly it became very necessary to use the personal strength I have in planning to get the job done.

    Yes, I’m a planner by nature, but I really did come by my tendency to be a detail-oriented, ingredient-reading fiend, control freak about food honestly and with good intentions.

    It is both liberating and mildly terrifying to let it go. 

    And then, of course I had to hand over my eating plan  in favor of seeing a nutritionist. This means that right now I have no plan other than to try and “eat right” (which has as many permutations as there are people who use that phrase) and exercise. Honestly, I don’t how to extend that to find the right fit for my mini-vacay.


    To make matters worse, of course, my insurance doesn’t cover a visit to the nutritionist. So, I need to save up some before I go. So, I’m adrift on my own for a few weeks before that happens. Off in a sea of food choices, no lifeboat. I have to be my own lifeguard. Luckily, I’m a strong swimmer.


    This vacation was ill timed in some ways, but perfectly timed in others. This is not an ideal time for me to take time off from work, but then on the other hand, I am beginning to think that with the month of non-stop, balls-to-wall, life in my car work I have ahead of me, some pre-emptive rest is in order. It’s not great for me to stare down the prospect of eating on vacation right after two months of eating-on-plan were suddenly brought to an abrupt stop, but on the other hand, being able to function around food is a pretty big deal. My dad felt it was important for me to be strong in math and able to use chopsticks. My mom made sure we could all swim by the time we were in Kindergarten. So, perhaps it is time I learn the skill live my life around food without fearing what will happen.


    Well, here is what has happened so far. A lunch upon my arrival in Seattle where I selected a plate of two small slices of pizza (about half the size of normal slices), and a salad. An emergency run to get food when my blood sugar was crashing and a smoothie. Some Indian food where I ate a quarter cup of rice. A cup of cereal (Special K). A few chocolate covered cherries. A seriously decadent dinner in Ballard (I want you all to know, I love, love, love my sibs. But this restaurant is so good I would recommend you go to Bastille even if my bro wasn’t an important fixture on the staff and management) where I enjoyed the free cocktail he sent over, as well as a taste of pate, some pork belly and some tomato salad appetizer, and then ordered of all things . . . a burger. It. Was. So. Good. Simple but good.

    Then today, I cooked for three hours for a BBQ (So I damn sure was going to eat it). I made bean salad, kale salad and corn salad, fried chicken, shrimp kabobs for the grill, and asked my sisters to help me with a recipe for homemade ice cream sandwiches. Then I went for a run to clear my head and get out of kitchen mode. When I came back, the party was on so I had some of each of the three salads, chicken, shrimp, grilled veggies, half a brownie, a small ice cream treat, some angel food cake, a bite of watermelon, a small taste of chips, and two margaritas and three beers.

    I don’t regret the burger. I don’t regret the rice. I certainly don’t regret (and will never regret) the Indian food. I’m pleased that I got a run in. (I thought I was so smooth. “Oh, this run will be easier than normal because I’m at sea-level here!” Um, hills, dear Christie. Hills.)

    Of all the things I’ve eaten here in Seattle I second-guess only two things – the pizza and the emergency smoothie. I am fairly certain my blood sugar would have been low on Thursday no matter what I ate. I had not slept enough on Wednesday and done quite a bit of rushing, running, and dealing with anxiety when trying to catch my flight on Thursday (it was a Murphy’s law situation where anything that could go wrong DID). Fatigue, changed schedules, travel, and anxiety can all drastically change how “even” my endocrinology is. So, I might have been fighting with myself anyways. But, I’m sure the pizza didn’t help. And, predictably, by 7pm, my body was sending me siren wails of, “WTF! It’s been 6 hours! What did we do wrong? Are you made at us?” It got bad. So, being stuck in the cell phone lot at the airport I just looked at my peeps and said, “I need to eat something NOW.”


    I’m all about the up-side since I’m on vacation, so I do think the positive is that I actually heard and identified true hunger signals and blood sugar crash auras. On the less positive, one bad food choice lead to another less than stellar one: the smoothie. I’m all for smoothies when I make them (real fruit, no sugar, Greek yogurt – because it has more protein and no fat – and almond milk because it is higher in protein as well) but I need to let y’all know, when you get a smoothie out in the world it is probably made with a metric shitload (scientific term) of sugar/corn syrup as well as prepackaged junk-fruit that probably has as many liabilities, chemicals and preservatives as it does nutrition.Mostly empty calories.

    But want to hear something? Although I haven’t stepped on a scale I believe I’ve lost a couple of pounds. My shorts are looser. Ahh, the powers of de-stressing, Seattle walking, and sisters. Speaking of that . . . there is a lot of giggling going on right now, and a new sister coming in to tell me I’m a good person, hug me, thank me for cooking. And even better – she’s read my blog!

    More to come. For now I'll say this. I don't think what I'm eating now is the version of "eating right" I will take home with me. But, for vacation, it is right to eat indulgently at my bro's place. It is right to eat fried chicken that I made. And it is right for me to enjoy my food without counting calories because I'm also walking more miles than I can count, and learning more from my sisters than I can possibly present here! For now, suffice it to say I will never look at a coke can the same way again, and if I should ever record and album I might seriously consider naming it, "The one-eyed bartender."