Biggest Loser

Ok, let m preface this by saying that I so know I have been slacking on this blog. This month has been brutal, and I realized today . . . bleeeeeehhhh it's only half over. With three trips, and unexpected work on my schedule, I just feel painted into corners. I have no choice but to be on the road at 6 am tomorrow. I have no choice but to have done 12 - 14 hour days last week. That means I had no choices other than to eat the food at the conference last week. I have no choice but to not get enough sleep tomorrow, and still work out after a long day.

If there is anything that I hate, it's not having control. (Ahem. Yes, I am probably too structured for my own good.) To be really honest, the reason I started this blog was because I felt out of control and in the dark about my weight. I wanted to shed some light on what was working and what was not working so that I could investigate it out of the closet, out of the dark. In my head I thought that if I could be more honest, and more accountable for my choices, more searching about my patterns and tendencies, I could see clearly how to take charge, be more in control, and head in a direction I felt better about.

To some degree that has been true. But in other areas of my life, I do feel that things are speeding out of control (ahem! Work!). It sounds tongue-in-cheek but man, if only I didn't have to take care of my life like an adult, I'd be all set to work out and eat right! If I didn't have to travel again tomorrow I wouldn't have to worry about what food choices or lack of choices I'll be facing. I wouldn't be worrying about running at 10pm. I wouldn't be worrying that something else would come up that felt more important than my needs. If I hadn't worked today, I could easily have NOT been where there were bagels. I could have not had to eat lunch in my car. If I didn't have to pack tonight I could have gotten in a second workout.

But then I also think about how HARD it is to not hear the voices in my head saying, just as loud as can be, "There is a whole store a mile away just full of popcorn, ice cream, and frozen pizza. Doesn't that sound like a nice place to visit?" Those voices lurk around every corner. I swear they come out of the heating vents in my car, "Chrrrrriiiiisssstie. Stop at the nearest Starbucks and get a pumpkin latte and cupcake. Mmmmm." They show up at the store, trailing around behind me as I shop, "Dude! Greek yogurt is good, but do you know what's better? The entire frozen dessert aisle." But they seem to LIVE in my couch, "You're just sitting here. Why exercise? Doesn't a bowl of popcorn sound better?" I swear when I bought this couch it came with a speaker system I didn't know about that selectively broadcasts that misleading, evil voice.

What I really want is to be like all other addicts and go to rehab. I want to take a time-out on my life, go away, and put my focus on my issue. I want to locate a place inside myself that understands, deep down that this problem is forever, but that also doesn't mean I have to be haunted for forever. I want to build strategies without having to at the same time, solve a crisis at work, book flights for my mom to come for Christmas, think about family drama, or have a hard conversation with my boyfriend. I often think, "Everyone else gets to get sober before they have to deal with life and people!" (But I also realize that that may not be true. that there are probably a lot of people moving in and out of AA meetings who have to go home and cook dinner, pay bills, or have a fight with their spouse.)

I know that the difference between my addiction, and say, an alcoholic or drug addict, is that I can't not eat. I have to do the thing that causes me to be out of control. I can't decide not to go to the bar. I can't sever ties with my dealer. My drug is something that everyone needs in moderation, whereas "cocaine in moderation" doesn't sound like a recipe for health. (Anyone who knows of my Margaret Cho obsession will understand that the phrase "in moderation" constantly makes me think of her talking about her mother working at the book store and unpacking gay porn. Tee hee!) This means that my drug will always be a part of my life and my dealer shows up at every meal, party, most social interactions, work meetings, and inhabits every street corner. Moreover, I have to accept that in order to function in life, I have to be ok with showing up at parties that are unlikely to have cocaine or meth, but will almost always have food. And not just food, but trigger foods - maybe not everyone will serve the now infamous Cheezits but odds are that there'll be popcorn, or candy, or pizza, or something yummy for dessert, or honey roasted peanuts, or . . . or . . . or.

So, maybe it's not realistic to think that going to be somewhere outside of my stressful life would give me some opportunity I don't have. But I also have to accept so many instances of not being able to measure and prepare my food, so many times where I have to eat what's served, so many times where my choices are to work out or sleep, so many times where there isn't enough time for me to fold my laundry, much less take on the giant project of searching myself for how to overcome this and change.

So, yeah, I'll just admit it - I watch The Biggest Loser. Yup, I do. I know this show is highly produced, and I know that it's not anyone's reality, least of all mine, much less something to strive for. Of course, the fact that there are people who lose 100 pounds in 10 weeks catches my eye but also makes me wonder if that can possibly be a good thing). But it's more than that. It's not the prizes and money. It's not the fancy gym or makeovers. It's not the celebrities. It's that every single contestant has to to shed weight, but along the way they also all - down to the last one of them - overcome an emotional roadblock. Over the years of watching whatever weight loss shows are out there, it has become clear to me that for almost everyone fighting this fight this is an emotional disease much more than a physical one. I don't think that is the message of this show, and in fact, I think they do a pretty bad job of portraying it, but that is what I am tuned to see - it's the fact that people don't get fat primarily because they're lazy, ignorant of their situation or what would help, or unable to do something about it. People get heavy for the same reasons I eat out of control sometimes . . . because it is easier to do that than solving their other issues. 

But what really keeps me coming back for more is that they get to leave behind the lifestyle that enabled their unhealthy patterns - at least for a little while. If they're lucky, they get to do it for long enough to start to form new patterns and habits. (And it doesn't hurt that the trainers are hot)

I long for that. I mean, I don't actually want to be on the show, because seriously peeps, I do NOT look pretty when I sweat. And ohhhh-eeeem-geee it's hard enough to get on a scale with just myself in the room. It gives me goosebumps to think about doing it on TV week after week. And let's be clear, that scale has HUGE numbers making every bad result that much more horrifying. Shiver! But the privilege to put all my energy and resources into putting my feet firmly on a better path, oh, how it calls to me.

I think there may be a "grass is greener" thought process here. I know that rehab isn't a vacation, and Biggest Loser contestants walk away from their jobs, true, but being on the show becomes their job for however long it lasts. Anyone who goes away to rehab, boot camp, or whatever other program, has to give up control, and the comfort and support of friends and family. But maybe, just maybe, my life is unhealthy in ways beyond my addiction. Maybe, just maybe my job stress contributes to how slowly I progress down this path. Maybe, just maybe if I could walk away from all of that for a few weeks (and NOT go to the Biggest Loser ranch, but go somewhere else aimed at healthy weight loss and getting to the bottom of what caused the weight gain) I might be able to better cement in new ways to be me.

In the meantime, I am thinking long and hard about salads and late night runs in Utah. Send me your support, good thoughts, resolve, prayers, and anything else you got!

update

Ok, in the spirit of brutal honesty, I ate the pizza I was craving. I know it won't help me. I know that even if my the numbers on the scale aren't changing, other changes are taking place. I know that it was an emotional, not nutritional need. And I know that in the end, filling that emotional void with pizza makes things worse. I know it was a back-slide from how awesomely on top of chicken and vegetables I have been. I know, I know, I know all of these things and so much more.

But I wanted it. and I couldn't fight that after fighting fights at work, in my eprsonal life, with my condo association, with my conscience, and the losing battle with the scale. So I gave in.

And you know what? It wasn't even that good. It felt so . . . anti-climactic. It felt so . . . unfulfilling, in every way. I wasn't nutritionally satisfied, I was far from emotionally satisfied, and I did all of this heading into a three day conference where I will be surrounded by bad food every minute of the day. Tsk, Tsk.

So, now I get to try and dig myself out of this hole while working too many hours to exercise, surrounded by desserts, chips, and other unhelpful snacks.

See Christie run. See Christie run right into her worst nightmare. see Christie dig a hole for herself. Now see Christie try to dig her way out while trying to accept that not being perfect at this is part of the process.

Epiphany in 4th grade

I had a flashback the other day. I was remembering 4th grade. My teacher in 4th grade was Mrs. Travena. She was lovely, and in charge of the school newspaper so she was very into making reading and writing cool. What heaven for me. If only I hadn't been 10 years old, I could have appreciated it more. Because, you see, at 10 years old, I had already endured being at an "awkward" age for a year, and I was damn tired of it, and pretty cranky about it too (if only I had known it would last for another 9 years. Siiigh). I'd had my share of boys making fun of my bra by snapping it, my teeth were too big for my face, and let's face it, with my hours of reading and insufferable-know-it-all-ness I was not going to be one of the cool girls. I know this now, but at the time, it was hard that the girls I had grown up with were suddenly a seemingly different species than me.

I felt myself floundering a little, socially, and so I started trying out different friend groups. It turns out that finding my "group" in a school of less than 200 kids probably wasn't going to give me the sample size I needed (I never really did find my "group" until college, and then again in grad school, and then again, here. All three of those groups were well worth waiting for). I never really did find a group that I fit well with. For a lot of that year, I latched onto just one friend: Kelly. Kelly was cute, spunky, and had a life completely different from mine. She was funny, and had interesting stories, and her mom was soooooooo cool. I remember I was in the hallway, collating the school newspaper (by hand) the day that parents were coming in for conferences. Kelly's mom came in, said hi to me, and then went and found Kelly afterwords. She talked with Kelly for a minute, give her a big hug and high-five, and then left our the back door. Kelly saw me and came bounding down the hall, jumping up and down saying, "Oh my gosh! Guess what?! I got all C's! Alllll Ceeeeee's!"

I had a momentary pause and then jumped up and down with her and said, "Yeah!"

Internally, it took me until after she walked away to process this. As I continued to walk slowly around the table, collating by hand, I realized, for Kelly, C's were worth celebrating. That for her, this was good news. At my house, and in my family, my parents said, "As long as you do your best, we're proud," but nobody had ever had to test that beyond a B+.

I'm not knocking my former-friend Kelly. As I came to realize, she worked really hard for those C's. 4th grade wasn't easy for her, and her life at home seemed really cool to me (all that TV and independence!) but also meant she didn't have the support to do cool homework projects like I did. She probably worked a lot harder for her C's than I did for the steady stream of A-'s I got that year. You know, I knocked out some reports and science projects and diaramas, but 4th grade was really pretty easy for me. I didn't have to dig down deep for much - it's not that I didn't care, because I did, but looking back, I wasn't ever really mentally taxed at school until High School.

The epiphany fr me was realizing that I not everyone aims for the same thing, and that my standards are reeeeee-heeeaaally high. This isn't really surprising. Since I grew up as the only girl sibling in my family, and the oldest (all of that to shift and re-settle once I met my sister) I definitely have the standard - take-charge, high-achiever, structured personality of the first-born. I also had parents with high standards, and some means to support them. In my family, winning is important, competition was real, and good grades were expected. Also, despite all of us having a certain degree of special needs, we also had a lot of raw goods to bring to the task wen it came to success at school. It was fair for my parents to expect A's and B's.

It was eye-opening for me to realize that not everyone has the same expectations. This issue has returned to me again and again in my life. I've been told I have very high standards. I've been told I'm my own worst critic. I've been told I have to be kinder to myself. I've been told I'm pushy. I've been told I'm unforgiving. I've been given this message in as many disappointing and hurtful ways as nice ones in my life.

I think about this a lot when setting goals for myself, for my exercise, for my weight loss, for my to-do list at work, for whatever. I think about it when I don't hit the mark I was aiming for. Because everything I've been told about myself, whether or not it was said nicely, is true. I don't just get disappointed, I punish myself. If I eat a piece of pizza I'm a bad person, if I don't get things done on my to-do list I'm an absolute failure. If the scale goes up, I should just resign myself to being depressed for the day. If I don't get what my trainer is showing me on the first try I'm royally pissed at myself for hours. (I hate to admit it, but there was one day where I was supposed to clean-press and we had raised the weight, and I was just not getting it. I had to be more precise with my movements, and fearless, and I was not succeeding at either. By the fourth set of failures, I totally fell apart, throwing a mini-tantrum because I was so mad at myself I couldn't put it into words past "aaaauuuuuugggguuurrrrrrhhhh!")  

I put on a good front when I say to people (generally people who approach me with jobs that don't work for me), "I don't have to be good at everything. There are things I know I am truly exceptional at. I make amazing soup, and can do full splits!" But, the truth is, not being awesome at things is generally not ok with me. I can live with not being fab at the following: Scrabble, poker, rock climbing, drinking Bourbon, making pie crusts, and parallel parking. But everything else, come on, I need to rock at it. Dental exams are to be aced, shopping trips should not only be efficient, but hit the budget mark within a penny, and it's important to me to get good reviews at work. My brother and I have a running joke with my mom that we're her "favorite." It comes up over and over. She'll tell me thank you for something and I'll say, "Mm-hmm, that's because I'm your favorite."

I made a lot of fun of Charlie Sheen, and "winning!" continues to be my ring-tone, but come on, winning is cool. As much as I love winning, I hate losing. Unless winning is losing. And right now, all I'm doing is losing at being a loser.

That's right readers. I lost nothing this week.

Pardon me for a moment, . . . "aaaauuuuuugggguuurrrrrrhhhh!"


In the crazy two weeks that I've had at work, I've managed to fight to find the time and wherewithal to weigh and measure eehhh-hhhheeeeee-verriiii-thing, to bring healthy lunches and dinners with me, and on two occasions breakfast too, to tote around my gym bag and fit my cardio and lifting workouts in SOMEHOW . . . for THIS?! Seriously?!! I hit all of my goals for serving sizes and all of the right number of servings for each thing. I even skipped several carb servings, subbing in extra servings of RAW VEGETABLES. I had several days where I skipped my discretionary calories altogether, and I left alcohol out of the equation altogether.

I stood on that scale and looked at her and said, "I'm sorry, but I cannot put this much time into measuring everything I put into my mouth, and fighting to get my workouts in and still have things be this slow. Everyone else I know can go to the gym a couple times a week and stop eating chips and lose more weight in a week than I do in a month. I'm probably going to eat pizza today. For reals." and then I cried, but just a little

I want to win at this. I have to win at this, even if winning means having lower goals than EVERYONE else. And it's heartbreaking that I'm digging my heels in this hard to deal with my food issues, to be accountable, to peel back as many layers and be truly honest here, to fight myself kicking and screaming into the gym, to give the popcorn the finger when it's what i really want, and to generally know that my endocrine system is a little like that old adage that no matter how far you lower the bar, there are some who will insist on slithering beneath it. No matter how reasonable I think my goals are, or how much harder I am working than everyone else I know, my endocrine system can still frak it all up. And the truth is, my standards ARE high. I expect a lot of myself, and this makes me very much want to pull the covers up over my head. And eat pizza.

I came home, and stood at my counter, and fought off the urge to order pizza. I did not cry. I thought about Kelly, and her C report card and wondered if I could be happier finding my way into that mind-set. What if I was ok with winning less? What if getting a C was ok for me in this case? The problem is, Kelly worked really hard for those C's, and (here's the key) was happy with those grades. I'm working really hard, really, really crazy hard, and trying to talk my way into accepting that C's are the right thing to expect, and getting D's. Deeeeeeeeeeees.

So, I didn't order pizza, and I didn't cry (until shedding a few more tears now) but I did eat two slices of pumpkin chocolate chip bread, and I did skip my run today. then, I felt like a failure and decided to eat vegetables for the rest of the day. I can't phone it in every day, I know, but just for today, I needed to want less and to not try.

What the nutritionist said

So, I've owed readers his post for awhile. I'm not sure anyone is keeping track, or even reading me that closely, but I mentioned three weeks ago that I was referred to a dietician and said I would tell you all more about that and what I learned.

I'll be very honest - I went in with my guard up a little. I didn't want to be told I had to eat anything weird, or that I had to give up foods I liked forever. In my mind, it's not reality to never have pizza again. For instance, there is someone in my life who says, "I don't eat carbs. Ever. Even fruit." Except . . . he drinks, so he does imbibe carbs. I wanted advice on how to get the best results while still keeping in mind that my job requires I travel, a lot, and, I have to be able to go out and have fun sometimes too. I needed some help finding the land of moderation and figuring out how to put down roots there.

I'll also admit that my guard was up because people make assumptions about fat. People assume that when they see fat it means the person wearing it doesn't like vegetables, doesn't work out, has no concept of how to eat, etc. And frankly, my problems are not about knowledge or even about effort. My problems are biological and psychological. I have a lot of knowledge about the benefits of salad and protein and why it's important to eat breakfast and have a couple of well planned snacks. I'm not saying I know everything, I'm saying that my hypoglycemia and my years of dieting means I know more than the average person, regardless of my size.

I've had doctors in the past assume that I am unwilling to eat healthy, or a couch potato. I had one doc tell me if I was unwilling to work on my weight, he wouldn't take me as a patient in his asthma management practice. That's how he brought the topic up with me. He didn't ask what I had done in the past to address my weight - he assumed it was something he would have to convince me of. Ummm, hi. I look in the mirror every day. Do you think I dig sweating in the gym 4-8 hours a week to be this size? When I then told him how much I was working out and how healthy I was eating, he dismissed me and said, "Well, then you'd be smaller than this. You should think seriously about a 1200 calorie diet or getting your stomach stapled." I looked him straight in the eye and said, "I'm not unwilling to talk about my weight or even work on it. Do you have any constructive suggestions or are you just going to continue to assume I'm lazy and ignorant.?"

I lodged a serious complaint against him and found a new doctor, who, by the way did some tests to prove that in fact my lung capacity is not impacted by my weight. But it stuck with me that that doctor felt free to assume so much about me after having me in his office for 4 minutes, and felt free to recommend something medically dangerous for me. (If a doctor who is educated about the body and how it works could assume this, what does the person passing me on the street think?)

It was with this baggage I entered into the dieticians office. I know I'm overweight. I've known it since I was seven. I also know that I have medical conditions that make it impossible for me to ever be a size 2. I know those same medical issues make weight loss a very slow battle. And I know that my lifestyle and work don't do me any favors in that area either. And I know that when you add all of that together it makes it very, very hard for me to stay motivated. Perhaps most importantly, I also know that food is my drug of choice. I choose it over alcohol and caffeine every day and twice on Sundays. It's not just that I am someone who likes food or enjoys it and has somehow accidentally enjoyed too much of it recently. Food makes me feel better, but then it makes me feel worse. It's an abusive relationship. I mean, sometimes I can eat chicken and salad and not feel anything other than glad I ate lunch. But other times . . . mmmmm, all I can think of is unplugging myself with some snack of choice.

The dietician did some really awesome things for me. She confirmed that it's crazy to try and count calories all day long, and that people who do that are more likely to either struggle in the other direction, becoming obsessed with how few calories they can have, or to become someone who doesn't consider that not all calories are created equal (100 calories of brussel sprouts are always going to be better for you than 100 calories of soda). She gave me an opportunity to practice my working knowledge of serving sizes and good choices (1 cup = a tennis ball. 3 ounces of protein = a deck of cards, and so on). She took my RMR which told us how many calories I burn by breathing and doing nothing else. This gives us a baseline of how I should plan to exercise and eat to get the best results. We agreed on the following - 5 servings of bread, grains, or starchy vegetables, 2 servings of fruit (I can combine those for 7 overall servings of "carbs" but it's best for most of those to come from whole grains or vegetable sources rather than fruits), 3-5 servings of non starchy vegetables (tomatoes, broccoli, V8, asparagus, brussel sprouts, etc.), 3 servings of dairy and 7 of protein, 5 servings of fat (1 tsp of butter, 1 slice of bacon, 5 almonds, etc.). This left 180 discretionary calories a day (honey and granola in my Greek yogurt, 1 beer, a handful of chips, etc.) We calculated all of this based on aiming for an intake of 1850 calories a day and taking into account 2 hours of lifting and 3 of cardio a week.

The goal was to lose 1.25 pounds a week, and I'll be honest, that sounded like a lot to me in good and bad ways. Typically at my best if I eat perfectly and work out a LOT I might lose 3 pounds a month. But, she did the math and I wanted to believe in this. I paid for the appointment out of pocket, after all. 5 pounds a month sounded GREAT!

She didn't ask me to take any weird supplements or anything, and the only things she suggested I try were a particular kind of low-calorie organic bread and spaghetti squash as carbs. She suggested these because those two options allow me to have larger servings so she hoped it would mean my feeling more full and satisfied.

We discussed how someone with my medical issues has inherited a genetic predisposition to insulin resistance, and this means I have to have the right kind of carbs to "unlock the gates" and let food get let in to be converted to energy instead of being stored as fat. I'm lucky that with all of this going on that I never, never test as being pre-diabetic or as having even borderline issues with my thyroid. Still, that insulin resistance will make it tricky to find the right food combination for me for the rest of my life. It will often mean I eat but my body forgets it has energy and reacts to low blood-sugar. (Low-blood sugar crashes, are without a doubt, the worst feeling I've ever had. I prefer bone breaks and serious asthma attacks to that feeling)

As it turns out, it also means my dietician has some more work to do. After three weeks, I lost less than one pound. ARG! I know that her practice probably does see a lot of people who are making their first attempt to get healthy. But she's one of my last stops. After this I . . . well, I won't give up. But I may put more effort into dealing with myself rather than continuing to spend a lot of time and money on trying to be something I'm not or can't be. If I can't lose weight, maybe putting more effort into maintaining and being ok with that is wise. I know, I know, maybe I can lose weight just very, very slowly. Or maybe plugging all of my numbers into a formula doesn't capture the whole picture of how my body works. Maybe we just haven't found the answer yet.

I feel very, very tired when I think about how much work it is for me to do this, even with help, and still see minimal results. I do the workouts, I eat the salad, I take the meds . . . it seems like it's time for the pay off. She looked at my food logs and was stumped, because I have been eating a lot of yummy vegetables and doing a lot of exercise. In my heart of hearts I knew that 5 pounds a month was a lot to hope for - not for "normal" people maybe, but for me. I feel I've eared a break and it would be nice to have something work the way it's supposed to. It turns out doing the math right isn't enough.

In a way it was good to know I'm not the only one that my weight is mysterious to. It's good to know I'm not the only person who has to look at me and wonder why the things that work for everyone else don't work for me. It's good to know that someone else has to do extra work to make my diet and exercise give me the results I should have. It's also really discouraging that the things that work for everyone else don't work for me. It's disappointing that hard work isn't enough because I don't know what else to do. I hope the dietician does.

I will say, just as a chance for me to stick my tongue out to that awful doctor - the dietician also told me that less than 1600 calories and/or no-carbs would make my hormones worse. So there. Phhhhhttttttt!!!!

Three years ago today

Ah, Halloween. This is my mother's favorite holiday, and although I've been through different phases and thoughts about it, I do love this holiday. I love how excited children are about their costumes. I love how schools and pre-schools make this a fun day. I love that this is a holiday for everyone. I love that there are as many ways to celebrate this holiday as there are families. I love that this is a holiday where you can do as little as buying some stuff to give out and turning on your porch light, or as much as making a bug cake and putting a lot of thought into one's costume . . .

I love my memories of my mom sewing our costumes. And I love trick-or-treaters knocking on the doors of places I've lived. I went through a phase in high school where I pretended to dislike this holiday, but still not-so-secretly enjoyed staying home and giving out the treats to the kids knocking on our door. I went through a phase in college where this holiday genuinely struck fear into my heart. Hampshire Halloween is legend - wait for it - dary. It actually has gotten quite tame but when I was there there were some old-school staff who remembered the days of "Trip or Treat" where the open campus attracted a lot of outsiders, drugs, and parties fueled by acid and kegs. As Hampshire's answer to RA's (more responsibility and less power than RA's in regular dorms) I was typically working from noon until 3 or 4 the next morning on different shifts: setting up drug-free activities, running drug-free activities, patrolling the dorm, patrolling outside the dorm, and seeing a LOT of naked, drunk people. I mean a lot. We weren't allowed to be in costumes, so I sort of fell out of the habit of costumes somewhere between high school and college. It took a major push to put me in a costume for Halloween in grad school and it only happened once (And it was an incredibly offensive inside joke. Ahem.) .

So, when I started working, I had hoped to retire costuming and just be the cool lady who handed out  treats and stayed HOME watching scary movies. I have struggled, of course, on what to give out. I don't want candy in my house, and I don't really want to infect neighbor kids with corn syrup if I can help it, yet, you can't give out apples because most parents don't trust that, and with good reason. I gave out toys one year. I gave out water bottles another year, but of course I worried about being the "uncool" neighbor. Life has been easier in this condo because I don't get trick-or-treaters. Most people living in this development are young professionals. There are a few young families but I've learned they take their children to one of the local Halloween parties rather than trick or treating. So, for the past two years, I've made Halloween bags for the children in my building. This year they each got a toy (bug, mummy, etc.) or glow stick, a spider ring, a package of cheese crackers, a bag of organic animal crackers, and a water bottle. I know, so very Boulder-hippie-progressive of me.

As I was putting those together and delivering them yesterday, I was remembering how different things were three years ago. Three years ago I came home on Halloween afternoon devastated. I called my mom and best friend and left them messages updating them to tell them I was fine but not ok, and that I needed to be alone. I turned my lights off and prepared to drink a lot of vodka, and pass out ASAP and be left alone all weekend. In the end, drinking alone didn't appeal to me. I watched scary movies on my computer and pulled all the shades. It didn't occur to me until the next week that no one had come knocking so I must not have had trick-or-treaters. I was that emotionally absorbed.

See, I had arrived here only four months before. I came for my fiance, and my company created this position for me (though it has worked out very much to their advantage as well, so at least I don't have to feel guilty about THAT). About 2 months after my arrival, my dad, who had been sick, got much more ill very suddenly. My father didn't quite tell me what was going on, but between my mom having seen him in the hospital and being so, so quiet, and my aunt sharing news from the doctor, and my dad saying, "Well, I guess you should do something soon," in response to me asking if I needed to come home (sidenote: why everyone refers to Connecticut as my "home" is a mystery since I have not had residence there for as long as I DID have residence there . . . ) I decided to hop a plane with some black clothes. Sadly, I was right and I needed those clothes. I also needed the 10 days before he passed, and a couple of weeks after in order to clean out his house. All told, I was gone for more than 3 weeks. It was a long, hot, grueling, emotional, complicated 3.5 weeks where a lot of things happened that were just as difficult as my father's death.

It took a lot of fast foot work to make this trip happen, and a lot of financial maneuvering, but when I left I had a temporary apartment with my fiance, a security deposit on the condo we were jonesing for, bills paid, the move into the condo planned and paid for (even though I couldn't be there), and a relationship to come back to.

When I came back, well, things were subtly different. The condo was (and IS!) great, but the person I left in it . . . well, a lot of things happened to be sure, but let's just say that somehow he felt that my dad dying was about his feelings, not mine. I was shocked by his decision to not be part of anything that I needed, and frankly, I was exhausted from all of the family drama I had just flown back from. I had only enough fight in me to yell once, and throw one watermelon (yes that happened). It didn't quite sink in for me that the moment I needed something from the relationship he left. I had enough presence to say some really biting things and to insist that he take his things right away. I had scant threads of self-respect but just enough knitted together to insist that he pay me back for the money I had spent supporting him while on unpaid family medical leave. And then, nothing. Everything is a blur of unhappiness and trying to explain how this happened to various people. I put one foot in front of the other, I got up and worked, but my heart wasn't in anything. I was double-grieving and it sucked up all my heart and soul.

So, a few weeks later when he asked to meet me for pizza and then said he was getting counseling and wanted to start couples counseling with me, it seemed like a good thing. I took it as him taking steps to sort himself out, to try and make things better, to not give up on us. We had our first session which was really good and helpful, and I loved the therapist. We had a complicated time making our second appointment, and decided the only day that worked for all three of us was Halloween.

Do you see where this is going? I didn't.

In between the first and second session we had some things we were supposed to work on separately and together. And we had agreed on a couple of phone calls and a chance to get together in person. When he called, he immediately was stand-off-ish and had excuses why he needed to change that schedule. When I expressed my concern about that he hung up on me unceremoniously. After that, he wouldn't answer any texts, calls, or emails. I did let him know that barring hearing anything from him, I would plan to see him in therapy.

I had talked with my best, best friend about not wanting to show up after all of this. He said," It may not turn out well. But you have to go. Not only did you say you would be there, but if you don't go, you'll always not only wonder if things could've been different . . . I know you. You also need to know you did what you could. All you could. You need to be able to like yourself for that. "

So, Halloween arrived, and I took two hours off from work to get over there, and have time for the session and to drive back. I showed up 10 minutes early, and proceeded to sit in the waiting room for 25 minutes. It was the most humiliating 25 minutes of my life. I kept breathing, shaking, and checking my phone for the time . . . or any messages. It slowly dawned on me that he wasn't coming. It took me about 15 of the 25 minutes to really convince myself that not only was he not coming, but apparently didn't consider spending the 13 seconds it would've taken to text or email me so that I didn't leave work for this. Then it took me another 5 minutes to understand that the therapist didn't seem to be looking for me or him. And 5 minutes after that it occurred to me that nobody at the front desk was calling either of our names. This is how strongly I see and believe in the best in people. It took me 25 minutes of sitting in an empty waiting room before the horrible truth rolled over me.

Like I said, humiliating. Devastating. I felt so . . . used. Discarded. And so dumb. And honestly like the biggest asshole in the western hemisphere for making such a giant deal out of this thing that he so clearly thought nothing of.

I finally talked to the front desk, and the therapist, and found that my beloved (heh) had canceled the appointment four days before. Wow. So, I was stick-a-fork-in-me-DONE. I just couldn't fathom that this was the person who supposedly loved me so much just a couple of months before. I couldn't believe that I had done all I was asked to do and more, only to get this in return. I was absolutely floored that I had worked so hard to make it emotionally ok for me to show up to this session after being shunned, only to find that . . . he didn't care at all. Later is was clear that it was to his advantage to suggest free counseling and then run away from it because it delayed him having to write a check to me. But at the time, nothing occurred to me other than that he respected and cared for me so little after years of having my support (in a lot of different forms) and understanding and love that he would let me show up knowing he wouldn't bet there.

So, I drove home, sans candy but full of shock and profound numbness. I called a couple of people to say, "I'm not ok but I'm fine. He didn't show up." and I went to bed. At 3 in the afternoon.

All of a sudden today I remembered that this was my three-year anniversary of getting out of that relationship. What he did was shocking and hurtful, but in the end, I am so grateful I didn't marry him, or worse, have kids with him. I am grateful that I got OUT. I'm thankful, so thankful that I moved on. I never would have known how bad things were, and how needy and demanding he was if I stayed inside that environment, but from the outside, it is clear there was no room for me to take a deep breath, much less have a life or need things. So, even when I am struggling now, even when finding the time to work out is hard, when figuring out what to eat is effort, when my brain is consumed by new ways to walk, even then, I am grateful. I was sad, and lonely, and challenged by that break-up, but my life is truly better for it. I get to be MYSELF and figure out who that is now. there is room for me. sometimes I wonder if all this room will make it hard to have a lasting relationship with someone else, but I'm not sorry I get to be me. So, corn syrup or not, this is a day to celebrate and remember.

Stating the obvious

So, allow me to state the obvious: funerals, wakes, and memorial services are not fun. They aren't meant to be fun. They're meant to give us a chance to reflect, ponder, say goodbye, and comfort each other. I really believe that when someone dies, they are in a better place; though as a non-Christian I don't have a lot of images or news to share about what that place might be. It doesn't stop me from being sad. But it helps me understand why people I knew are missing from my sight.

Why I am up early today going to a service is complicated and has to do with my job. My job is so complicated to explain and when thinking about this post (you know, five minutes ago) I realized I haven't explained it other than to say that my schedule is a moving target each week, and I'm on the road a lot. I work for a world-wide after school education program. Our business model is that our instructors are our franchisees, and my job is to run this region as the field consultant/franchise development manager. I was hired by the company, so I work for the franchisor, but it is part of my job to have relationships with the franchisees who are also instructors. It is also my job, at times to be all business with them. And it is my job to travel to them to work side by side with them. It is my job to provide ongoing training and professional development. It is my job to set goals with them, and help make action plans with time bounded steps to achieve them. It is my job to be a consultant for operations, business, and the side of this that I am most drawn to, education, student observation, and lesson planning. It is my job to train new candidates and help them get their centers open. It is my job to work with existing instructors on making changes. It is my job to deliver good and bad news, and it is my job to plan lunches, meetings, and the Christmas party. I've eaten a lot of pizza and sushi with these people.

But they're not exactly my colleagues. Some franchisees would say I work for them, since their royalties keep the company's doors open. Some franchisees would say they feel they work for us when they're feeling especially put upon by the company's requirements. I hope that most would say I am their liaison and partner in helping them have more satisfying success in their business in terms of being educators, but also in terms of being profitable.

From the outside, if you saw us eating sushi, it would look like we are friends, colleagues, and equals. But there's an invisible line. I can't be their friends. I can't drink with them, or go to their houses, because that makes business messy and tense. Likewise, I gather from franchisees (from our company as well as other franchise systems) that while they may like their field consultant very much, they too feel the separation in that there are some things they might hesitate to bring up in a conversation with that person . . . just in case the field consultant's "Big Brother" ears are on.

Lines get crossed, and envelopes get pushed, sometimes to the benefit of the working relationship and sometimes to the detriment of it. If I've learned nothing else in my 5.5 years in this position, it's that you can't do this job well without a strong personal relationship with the franchisees built on respect, trust, and integrity. But on the other hand, since it's business, you also can't always fall back on that relationship.

This week the lines have been very blurry because one of my franchisees died. He was a beloved instructor to his students and their parents, and I have eaten a lot of sushi with him. In fact, there have been times where I've eaten with him, his wife, and his son - see above for where the lines get crossed. So, at once, I have been a shoulder to cry on, a business adviser, a counselor, and the action-taker who took charge of making a plan for the center, the communicator who called parents and families, and the only person here in Colorado to represent anything the company needed done.

Looking at that paragraph above, those are the shoes I fill every day at work, including a few others - office manager shopping for supplies and making sure necessary tasks like heating and cleaning are tended to, administrative assistant, party planner, presentation giver. This is because there is no one else here for me to share responsibility with. The difference this week is that it involves the loss of someone important in the colleaguial community I facilitate, even if I'm not exactly a part of that group.

Most weeks I see the benefits and the drawbacks of being on my own out here. I don't participate in office drama, but I also don't get the help and support of colleagues very often. I don't get fed for office meetings, but I get to work in my PJs sometimes. Our jobs have a lot of work hour flexibility, but mine even more so. I have to do my own admin, I get to do a load of laundry on my lunch break (when said lunch break isn't in a car on the way to a center).

Never have a I wished for a team of people to share the load with more than this week. For my readers, please anticipate and forgive what will likely be some pretty profound fogginess and inconsistency in the coming month. Going to the service will be hard, holding a business meeting with a grieving spouse next week will be even harder.

With that, I'm off to the service in as much of a black outfit as I could pull together.

Lacrosse balls, food logs, and breathing, oh my!

I'm someone who needs a lot of professional help. I try to do things myself as much as possible, but sometimes, I just can't do things on my own. I hire people to wash my car. I sometimes hire people to do my toenails, not because I can't do it but because I love, love, love pedicures. I used to cut my own hair, but the truth is, it's worth it to pay someone else to do it. I pay to have my clothes altered because I never learned to sew. I hire people to change my oil and my condo association hires people to do our lawn care and landscaping (thank god!). I have friends who do these things on their own. I have a couple of friends who do their own oil change, and one of my oldest and dearest friends spent the summer re-siding his HOUSE for God's sake. Not me. I mean, I don't pay to have my laundry sent out or anything, I can do things for myself (I cook! I do my laundry, I hate folding, but I do it!) there are just things that it would take me so much time to do or to learn to do that it's worth it to pay to get it taken care of.

There are a couple of things about this that fascinate me. For one, it is one of the most conspicuous signs that I am in the middle class. While I grew up in a family that was comfortable most of the time, I also grew up during the last great recession, in a family with three kids. So there was very rarely extra to go around. And with one parent who was working incredibly hard to transcend not attending college and another who left a white collar job for a blue collar one, I think it's fair to say I grew up not quite in the comfortable middle class - perched nearby but not quite soundly there. I grew up in a town full of incredibly privileged families, so while we weren't ever worried about putting food on the table, I was aware of the differences. We didn't have someone clean the house, we didn't go to Disney World. New cars, nuh-uh.

I am often uncomfortable with the fact that I have launched myself into this class in society. For instance, I can't fathom buying a new car. And, I don't know that I will ever be able to hire someone to clean my house (not that I need to, my house is fully cleanable by me) because cleaning houses was one of the four jobs I worked to pay college tuition. I feel very weirdly self-conscious when I pay someone to hem my pants. I am aware that I have choices like buying plane tickets and iPhones.  And there are times (like when I bought my iPhone, or when I moved into this place with in house laundry. Not in-building . . . in my HOUSE! Life-changer, woot!) that I celebrate it.

The other thing is that . . it becomes more and more natural to ask for help. In the long run, this is a good thing. I used to be pathologically, stubbornly independent. My mother loves to tell the story that when I was two I would cry out if either parent started to help me, "I'm inn-deeeee-peeenn-DENT!" It used to be painful for me to ask for or accept help. When I was on crutches for a year, my boyfriend-at-the-time offered to go down to the basement and get me a ginger-ale. I was mortified. Now, it seems like it's nothing to me to ask for help. But underneath, I am always a little concerned that I should just suck it up and do it myself.

But yeah, I get professional help. Just in the last week, I got my hair done, saw my trainer, saw a therapist, and followed a plan made by the dietician. I am logging my food, and following a plan of how many carbs, how many vegetables, how much fat and fruit, and what counts as a serving size.  This means I have to measure all my food, plan carefully to get enough of everything, and do a lot of cooking (thank goodness I can do THAT by myself). I am writing everything down and thinking, "Oh, I should eat more olives tomorrow," or "Oh, I should remember that that only counts as a half serving." It's a lot to think about when I just want to grab lunch.

Meanwhile, my trainer has me not only working the kinks out in my muscles, but re-learning how to stand and walk. Today it's snowing so I'm camped on the couch because my brain is full of thoughts on how to walk. "Three point walking - heel, ball, toe." Standing is work because I'm constantly having to remind myself to change my posture, shift my weight off my toes, and unlock my knees . . . it's how the rest of the world stands, but it feels like my knees are bent when I do this. This is what is in my head while I'm cooking, while I'm showering, putting on make-up, reading the label on some granola in the aisle of Whole Foods. While I'm standing in the grocery line, or talking to someone on my feet, it looks like I'm doing normal things, you know how you do, but really I'm trying to revamp my whole way of staying upright and moving through the world. My brain is full, and it's work to keep track of this.

I am foam rolling my muscles, and using a lacrosse ball to roll my feet out. That's not only work, but it's painful and time consuming.

Add to this following a technique from the therapist about how to be assertive without expectation, and breathe through anxiety and I'm constantly questioning myself. What would expectation look like? Is my weight on my toes? Is that cheese one serving of dairy or two? Am I walking correctly? Did I roll out my leg muscles and IT band today? Breathe, breathe, assert your wants, but don't cling to any expectation about them. Is this assertive or aggressive? What do I want. Unlock your knees! Oh no, didn't eat enough fat servings today!

Oh, it's work. And it sometimes seems backwards that I pay to add this work to my day. But, I know in the end, I asked for this help. And I need it. I need not to bring more mess to sort through into the middle of my relationship. I need to have a an eating plan that allows me to eat on the road, but also be healthy and chip away at my goals. And I need (oh, I can't believe I'm going to say this) to be able to go running. I need to work out and feel good about it. 


So I seek help. I work hard to work those things into my schedule. I work hard to follow the things I learn, the things I need to change, into my day-to-day. So, I bought me two lacrosse balls, I carry around my food log, and I'm working on breathing my way through the messy feelings I have right now. Oh my!