old tricks*new tricks

lately I've felt this struggle to feel grounded. methinks this comes from

a) packing up and preparing to move
b) pondering how I will pay my part of our new and essentially doubled rent
c) getting to that point in the quarter when a whole lotta stuff is due

At least those are the factors that I can identify. No doubt, there are others, that if I had the time to stew awhile, I could find.

So this struggle to feel grounded has brought me face to face with the way in which sticking some food in my mouth soothes me. It's not a conscious decision, as in "I think I will eat this piece of cheese in order to soothe my frazzled nerves." If that were the case, it might be a bit like popping a pill. Take two ounces of cheese and call me in the morning. The dosing, it's not finite. It's more like this open-ended thing, as in bite and chew until you feel better. That's dangerous, because sometimes you don't feel better, and there you sit with an empty bag of whatever, staring down at salty/sugary (choose one) rubble with a sinking feeling that nothing will help.

So I work on trying to identify when this dosing is about to occur. So I try to stop myself, to drink water to give myself the sense of satiety that brings me back to my inherent right to be, to that sometimes elusive sense that everything will, indeed, be alright.

And this morning, after identifying that I have, of late, felt ungrounded, I'm pooling my resources and thinking of the things that work. I'm almost to the point of being able to ride again-- that will be a phenomenal help. Stretching helps. Sitting in silence-- even if it's only a few minutes worth-- that helps, too. So that's what I'm gonna do, and I'm gonna come to a different kind of fullness there.

a different kind of oops

Last night I had a kind of run in with some baked cheese puffs.

I think I mistook them for packing peanuts. That means that I may have mistaken myself for an empty wine box...

the pits they call arm

Rarely can one bitch and moan about a bi-product of weightloss, but you know that I'm just the gal to get that job done.

I am struggling with this armpit thing. yes, I choose to struggle, as I choose to shave, but with me, the not shaving-- not so good.

Anyway, what once went out (or at very least, stayed flat) now goes in. It makes me want an Epilady. It makes me long for the days of Nair, even if I would never smear that toxic crap on my pits du arm.

Did you know that axilas is Spanish for armpits?

Mis axilas me molestan.

I am learning new skills. These new skills involve tugging the skin under your arms until it's no longer under your arms, but rather, approaching your pects. It's not pleasant, it's not pretty, but sometimes it must be done.

shhhhhh...be vewy quiet

i know it's a day before my "official weigh in day," but i just made goal...

baby you can tie my knot

oh holy shit and shebang, I'm getting married.

If you, dear reader, knew me better, you would know that this particular life landmark was not predicted for me. more to the point, I never seemed the marrying kind. I've always been a bit hard to tie down, the consummate flirt, the one who was looking around the next corner while others were content to settle in place. My restlessness was like a fever, and I spent an inordinate amount of time soothing my own brow, seeking too-easy-to-come-by adoration, moving moving moving. It wasn't until I grew too weary and too sick to move anymore that I realized a large part of my restlessness was just another manifestation of my lifelong battle with depression.

Now, years after popping that first SSRI, I can look back and see, quite clearly, how it was inevitable that my long ride on a wicked pitch of emotional intensity conjoined with my inability to be still was going to kill me young. I never thought I'd say this, but thank god for pharmaceuticals.

Anyhow, the marriage thing. There's that little glitch, the fact that I'm not hetero, and thus myself and my p'ner of 8 1/2 years have to high tail it to Canada in order to legally marry. At least we'll be in North America, right? I'm not going to go into my diatribe about civil rights (and the lack thereof) for GLBT folks who wish to marry the loves of their lives...I'll just say that we didn't want a "commitment ceremony" because it seemed like it would just be going through the motions (not to dis anyone who choses that route, of course--after all, it's not like this country gives you a choice)--we wanted it to be LEGAL, even if it was in another country.

So we leave next Friday for 16 days of hot springs, Montana skies, canoeing in the Kootenays, wedded bliss, laughter with our closest friends, love love and love. I have nothing to wear. I think I've put it off because I don't want to go through the grueling process of trying on outfit after outfit only to be disappointed by my reflection AND the "finding nothing that fits". Granted, I'm 14 lbs lighter than I was five months ago. It doesn't seem like much, but it feels like a lot. I've been hovering at the same weight for quite some time now, but that's okay. Or at least I'm telling myself it's okay. I don't have it in me right now to navigate all the deadlines and all the wedding planning and all the nerves AND count points like a good Weight Watcher. I trust that I will return from our trip north and jump back into it 100%, but for now I'm just on the periphery, reading the daily thread, keeping track of the ROAR'ers progress and cheering them on in my head.

If any of you ever read this, don't let me disappear. You have permission to hold me accountable. Give me this one reprieve and let me get married and honeymoon and then I will return to your company. If I don't, come find me. I'm probably hiding under a giant tortilla chip, licking the underside with pure abandon. Yeah Stine, SALT. I hear ya. Scoot over so I can join you in some grounding...

things that ground me

life's gotten a little topsy-turvy. Too much school, too much work, and now this business of finding a new place to live. It's enough to make a girl want to chew. And chew, and chew and chew. maybe, instead of chewing, I will try to place my buttocks (nalgas en espanol) on the ground and get my connection on that way. Maybe that's what the salt cravings are about-- a desire to be closer to the earth, to be grounded. That also might explain the desire for potato chips. I mean what could be earthier than a potato covered with salt? Oh, yes, oil! Oil enhances gravity! that'll get me closer to the earth!

I'm not gonna eat potato chips. I'm gonna find an alternate means of grounding. Today I will be listening to mariachi music and sitting on the floor and drinking so much water that all my nasty cravings return to the earth (via water, which, afterall, covers like 85% of the planet). I have a plan.

on waiting

I did a strange thing this morning and stepped on the scale sans constitutional, after a day of salty food and SURPRISE! the scale had me up like three pounds, which of course, is cause for reflection*.

this has not been a stellar week. not a horrible one, but not the kind that gets you to your goal weight. It's a weird thing, the pressure to achieve the NUMBER. It's naggy, like not getting there is a great failure (and yet how many weeks of not getting there does it take to get there?), a reason to fall in a heaving heap on the floor.

So the week has had certain extravagances (snacking while catering,ouzo, baklava), which are part of life. And there's this thing with people like me, where we don't trust ourselves to ever recover from extravagance, and rather, we believe that it will steal our souls ala Invasion of the Body Snatchers and we will become extravagance itself, and extravagance is synonymous with losing all sense of control and self respect and it means gaining weight, yadda yadda yadda.

And here I sit. I've had my oatmeal and some coffee (with 1/2 1/2), and today is a normal day. Or, it will be a normal day if I treat it as such and don't go into some weird scarcity thing, trying to compensate for the extravagances of earlier this week. Life happens. I've had such a run of losses that I've gotten a bit cocky, and also I've developed this sense that it's supposed to happen like that. Nevermind that this has never been my experience in past attempts. Nevermind that I'm already at a weight that I find quite satisfactory. It's about the GOAL, dammit.

Here I will say that achieving my goal is important as an exercise in self-respect and sticktoitiveness, which as I've noted earlier, is not my strong suit. So I'm not gonna throw my hands up in the air and say

Awwwwww, fuck it!

because I'm trying not to throw my hands up in the air anymore, unless of course, I'm on a rollercoaster (say what?) or at a professional sporting event wherein I am called upon to do my duty and participate in doing the WAVE. Do note that we sometimes do the WAVE on the line at school, too. As for the "AFI" bit, I still reserve my right to use profanity, but in more of an up-beat, positive, up-with-people kind of way, as in Should I buy myself a new pair of pants? Oh, I might not have quite enough money...AFI! I deserve some new clothes! Something like that.

so now I'm heading out into my day. Here I go.

* methinks the real reflection might be best spent on why I felt the need to step on the scale a day early. Perhaps that's the blog that's going in the back of my mind right now...

red is the color of my fullness

Ah yes, spring. Tis a glorious time of year--it's not too hot yet, we get full rainy days instead of spits of showers that evaporate before they even hit the ground, and all those shades of green--jade, chartreuse, loden--framing shocks of red tulips, purple allium, white stars of sweet woodruff...

I'm trying to find the words to articulate the notion of "levels of hunger". Lately I've been poking around this psychic space that involves What Hunger Really Means, and How to Know When To Stop. A plate of food is placed before me and I see a traffic light in my brain. The light is red. I am still. The light pushes down to green and I take a deep breath, assess my Level of Hunger (as in, am I beginning this meal on a too-empty stomach? Am I eating for survival or pleasure or boredom or a combo pack of all three? Is the food before me a picture of balance or a fat laden mass of deliciousness that will give me nightmares in mere hours?) and dig in.

Frankly Mr. Shankly, I don't want to uber-conscious of everything I put in my freakin' mouth. The object of this task is to know when to STOP. This is a looooooong ass light. Hundreds of eaters pass through the intersection as I savor bite #5. Long draw of water. Corner of bread dipped in extra virgin olive oil and cracked black pepper. Follow with bites 6, 7, 8. Out of the corner of my eye, a flashing hand. The light suddenly goes yellow. I've got Morrissey on the brain, "that joke isn't funny anymore/it's too close to home and it's too near the bone/more than you'll ever know..."

Red light. Fork down. I'm halfway done with plate of food. What is on the plate matters little, really--it wouldn't be anything too dangerous. I can't handle dangerous these days, especially fried danger--makes me feel like I'm this close to driving through McDonalds for a super size fry. (Even though, for the record, I haven't eaten McDonald's fries for 8+ years.) Still, there's this sense of teetering on the lip of a fry daddy that's the size of the Grand Fucking Canyon, and one false move and I'm headfirst into it, only I know I won't emerge all golden and crispy--I'll be the limp, pale fry, the one with the burnt end that solicits looks of pity and comments like "no, I don't like the flaccid ones".

My, nothing like comparing yourself to a french fry.

So anyway, these levels of hunger, this idea that I CAN and WILL stop when the light-in-head-turns-red. I know that part of it, especially if the food is really good, is that I start feeling like THIS WILL NEVER PASS YOUR WAY AGAIN. Like whatever I'm eating is my last meal before I'm put to death. (Fat Woman Walking!) Except it could be that I'm eating a Chipotle chicken burrito with guacamole-- you know, the kind of burrito that could easily feed 10 Sudanese children--and every bite is big and good and um, big, and I know I shouldn't be eating it, or at least I should have cut the damn thing in thirds before I even started eating it, but I didn't--and I never eat burritos anymore, so this is something of a SPECIAL occasion, even though it's a rainy Tuesday in May and here in Denver there's a Chipotle on virtually every corner, so it's not like a NOVELTY--but still, this could be the last burrito I eat EVER.

Half way through the burrito I want to undo my Levi's. I pause. Look around. I am alone with my shame and a burrito the size of a boat bumper. One voice says "eat it all...you already ingested enough calories for the next two days...what's 700 more?" while another, softer voice says "wrap it up. No, actually, throw it away. Get up and throw it away. Get up..." I shake my head. Damn the voices. I don't want this shit in my head at all, to tell the truth. I want my body to reign supreme. I want IT to dictate the next step. So I ask it.

"Body, what say you?"

Trouble is, Body hasn't been called on for so long that it can't respond, made mute by the virtue of complete neligence. "Body," I say again, "time to speak up. I won't let Mind push you back into the nether regions."

Body croaks "see traffic light"

I should've known there was some collusion here. It's up to me to speak the words "I'm full" and up to me to stand up, grab the remainder of the boat bumper, walk to the trash, and dump it in. The world will not end if I do this. There will be other burritos in my lifetime. But for now, practice makes perfect. Full is not an invitation to become stuffed. It's a signal, like a red light, to stop.

caught up in the dailies

it seems that I've slipped into the other Spring. This is the spring where food, while not an afterthought no longer feels like my central motivator. Wait, let me change that-- food is still my central motivator because I still dream of it, still use it as my medium of artistic expresssion. But hunger seems to have transformed from this nagging idea/thought (that lingers with me throughout the day) to an occasional inkling that rises up to keep me healthy and happy.

the voraciousness of my earlier EAT THE MALL entry has passed. Things feel more balanced, more appropriate, something resembling Normal, if such a word may be bandied about.

I still dream of food, but I think this has everything to do with cooking school and very little to do with me and weighwatchers and the elusive quest for the chalice with the B on it. And maybe it's not a chalice-- maybe it's a dixie cup.

The other night-- it was friday. I came home from a very long week indeed, and I opened the fridge and saw three cremini shrooms, some cabbage and carrots, some leftover roasted chicken that my Lady (i think that's what I'm unna call her now) had bought for her parents the night I worked. I will tell you right now that I am the queen of asian staples in the pantry, so of course I had these spring roll skins (tapioca starch) lying around. I thought about what I could throw together in a hurry (but not too much of a hurry).
Our dinner friday consisted of Vietnamese-style salad rolls and a little wine. It was light and tasty and I was entirely satisfied by what might have, just a couple weeks ago, seemed like a pile of snacks.

All hail the ever-changing (body) moods. And all hail Spring, glorious spring. Stay with me, Spring.

the other more

Listening to Beth Orton's new one, The Comfort of Strangers. Aptly named, since this cd was sent to me (a glorious surprise) by fellow WW wonderwoman, Maddy (http://bodytales.blogspot.com). This is listen #5, officially. Dear amama, how did you know?

I've listened to Beth Orton since her first release "Trailer Park," (a fucking brilliant album) and reach for her more often than most...it's funny how that happens, me being the music junkie that I am (esp. women artists with folk roots), how I find myself pulled back to some artists time and time again when others--ones I was have nuts about two,three years ago--they just gather dust on the rack.

But this woman. Her voice soothes me, her melodies can transform an ordinary day into something otherworldly. Sometimes she misses, as I think she did with most of Central Reservation, but when she hits, it's hard, and it sticks.

Comfort of strangers. Weight Watchers puts you right there, right in the midst of a throng you don't know. You're hanging out your dirtiest laundry, confessing to the binge and the turkey meatball extravaganza and the occasional (gasp!) jolly rancher...and you do it voluntarily. And all alone.

Sitting in rooms, offices, on couches and deck chairs, in a computer lab between classes--all these hopeful, struggling people log on and encounter legions that are just like them. People who yearn for the Other More. The Something Better. Those who seek comfort in an online community of hunger, a growling village. Drink eighty oz. and ye shall be cleansed.

O for the chance to live without encumbrances

I am one of those people. I lean into the hard wind of choice and keep walking. I look to my right, and my left, and I see the faces of beautiful women, all sizes and colors and ages, walking right along with me. We call our little virtual world The Savannah, but I think of it more like a Walk Across the World For a Cure. I accepted the fact that there is no magic pill or exercise DVD that is the answer to my weight loss woes, so I signed up, paid my entrance fee, and donned my number. I gave myself a new name.

Some days I'm a spectator, sometimes I'm in the game. But always, always, I carry my fellow walkers with me. I think of Mia blowing glass and Ellie dancing and Claire in her studio, painting. I imagine Stiney in her whites, her dexterity with a knife, a mandolin, all those wheels in her mind turning, turning. I envision little bags of carrotts and sandwiches of tofu salad and Maddy's picture of her x point brekkie that she savored in the moments before logging on to sell wine. There is such trust here. This doesn't happen in the real world. Perhaps virtual anonymity breeds an intimacy that is unique to the 21st century, and perhaps some degree of intimacy is required for us to stay on this road together. I mean, I really care about these people. They give me hope everyday.

And Beth Orton croons "an illusion is hope born from fear..."

Cosmic.

the widening gyre

ever since the in-laws have been here (and the lady days hit), I've felt a bit off track. Sure, I've written everything down, and I really haven't been horrid, but I've just felt off kilter, a little wobbly, not as on-target with how I'd like to eat.

Some of that stems from cooking these meals that have felt celebratory, and yet they haven't been over-indulgent. I think it also has to do with feeling like I'm out of my routine-- as though the dinners I might normally cook would somehow be unsatisfactory. But mainly I think I've been a bit checked out. So I've been a little less conscious about what I'm eating, when, how, why.

So now, as I get ready to head to work, I've gotta recommit to being on top of things, to really thinking before I put stuff in the mouth, and to making sure I maintain-- you guessed it-- B A L A N C E.