resolution vs. management

Once upon a time, back in the day, whatever, the term conflict resolution was bandied about and held as this ideal approach to dealing with workplace (and other) issues. In the management skills class I took in my last quarter of culinary school, our smart (sassy) instructor explained that conflict resolution has been replaced, in most progressive (and otherwise) environments with the idea of conflict management. The idea is that seeking to resolve conflict is often a pipe dream, and in its very impossibility, discouraging and counterproductive. This means that it sometimes makes even more trouble. Conflict management, on the other hand, acknowledges that significant differences and issues between parties exist, that they may never disappear (nor should they), and that we can find ways to work around them, with them, and even use them to our own betterment.

I'm not babbling on about this because I have a fever-- that ended a couple days ago. I'm thinking about the ideas of resolution and management as they pertain to our work (with our selves) around weight loss. When I consider that I've been overweight (on and off) for the majority of my life-- well over 30 years now-- I have to acknowledge that some of my patterns are so deeply ingrained that I'm not gonna get rid of them. It's okay. I can tell you right now that I am a deeply flawed human being, and I'll also tell you that those flaws that can work so hard against me are also part of what keeps me alive and, in this very moment, thinking about this and writing on this here blog. Open the gate to push out the demons and the angels fly away, too.

I want to talk about peanut butter. I don't keep peanut butter in the house. I have a not very good relationship to peanut butter (and I can remember my Dad macking on it late at night, so maybe it's genetic). I don't know that I will ever "resolve" my PB issue. The way I manage it is to not have it here, so that I don't go off the deep end with it. Occasionally, I will hit periods where it feels like I can be okay with it (or I am so damn active that it doesn't matter)-- those times are rare. I can't pretend that a) I'm okay, then b)get out of control, then c)hate myself for my behavior. I'm not so interested in setting myself up for failure (a+b=c), nor am I into testing myself against some ideal relationship to food that for me, doesn't exist. At least not with Peanut Butter.

I do believe that behaviors can be modified over time-- I think that's a big part of my success with WW-- but conflict management is just as a big an element, and part of the modification process. The management takes the form of inner dialogue, or reaching these compromises between the me I want and need to be, and that other, god knows how old self, who wants to revert to the old ways of feeling/eating (they're the same thing, right?), who refuses to sacrifice her own pleasure (this tastes/feels good!) for the sake of health and wellness, and who is generally stubborn and stuck and -- I'll say it-- afraid of being anything other than overweight and invisible.

For years and years I've wanted to believe in resolution. I've wanted to believe that when I hit that magic GOAL number, my issues will be resolved and voila! I'll be cured of, well, my whole life and I'll start anew and I won't be knock-kneed, pigeon-toed, the child of alcoholics and abuse, I won't have that little scar between my eyes from that giant pimple I popped in the 7th grade, and I will be "normal," carefree, thin and able to eat whatever the hell I want.

When I hit my first summer of maximum fatness (wherein I established all those fat cells that my body still longs to fill), I turned to dieting. As part of that dieting, I created this fantasy in my mind, of the perfection I would achieve when the weight was gone. There were three elements to that fantasy:

• I was riding a green metallic Schwinn Varsity 10-Speed
• I was wearing a pair of OshKosh (B'Gosh!) denim overalls
• I was feeling as sparkly and metallic as the paint job on that brand-new Schwinn-- or perhaps some glittery shoelaces on my rollerskates. In short, everything in my world was so unbelievably happy.

Yeah, my fantasies were pretty basic (and believe me, years later, we spent a lot of time on that in therapy), but that sense that everything will be great IF... was established way back then. Somehow, I wanted to obliterate who I'd become and replace her with this other person. I'm not so into that anymore. Now I wanna work with me, let me be, let me thrive, and yes, on occasion, get the hell out of my own way so that I can succeed. I'm not saying I need to disappear-- I think it's the opposite. I need to say hello to myself-- even the parts I'm ashamed of and loathe-- I don't have to engage her-- just give her a nod of the head and a smile.

Sometimes, the people who are the biggest pains in the ass, the ones you don't even want to talk to-- they're the ones you need to give the love. It can be an amazing practice, and a way to create joy.

That's what I'm gonna do.

as i am my witness

I said goodbye to my beloved this morning. She is on her way to New York City, where she's presenting at a humanities conference at Columbia University. So I'm flying solo for a few days, which is something I simultaneously look forward to and loathe.

Admittedly, I have a tendency to sequester myself when S. is gone...I go to Blockbuster, get six or eight DVD's and then proceed to sit on the couch with my blankie, kleenex (there's always a weeper in there somewhere), a vat'o'tea (which sometimes morphs into a smaller vat'o'single malt as the day wears on) and all the necessary gizmos to carry me well into the evening...and I guess I kinda wait. For her to get home. For my ballast to reappear.

I never fancied myself one of those who can't be without his/her significant other. Those couples that I know who can't seem to do anything without the other ("oh, I can't possibly go to that restaurant, _____ made me promise I would go with her" or "yeah I'd like to check out that show but ______ is waiting for me at home and s/he'd kill me if I went out without him/her...") -- such codependent drivel makes me all pukey. I may be married, but part of the deal was that I would never relinquish my status as an Independent Agent (not in a polyamorous way but in a I don't need you to accompany me way). I come and go as I please. I have no problem doing things alone. Of course I love doing things with my love, but I won't turn down an opportunity to play simply because she doesn't want to. My wife is more of a homebody than I am, and I accept this fact. I love it, to tell you the truth. No matter what, I always know that S. is waiting for me at the home we have created together, and that's priceless. She's not pining away--she's where she wants to be. As am I. And it does not reflect on how I feel about her. It's just the way things are, and it works.

Some of this is a hold over from my days as a fancy free baby dyke let loose in a mountain town well over a decade ago. I was, as the old adgae goes, like a kid in a candy store. I had no idea what I was doing, and relationship chaos reigned, but that in itself was a comfortable place for me so I took it all in stride. I met my wife one year into my "escapades." She was, ostensibly, straight, but "looked" like a lesbian. I wondered, when we first spied one another across a crowded room at a beginning-of-the-year academic party, if she thought I was hot. Yes, my fragile ego was a little too big for its britches (then). Soon enough (actually about a year later) this ego would be deflated by myriad attempts to get into S.'s pants. I'd never worked so hard at seduction in my life. Ah, but look at us now. A decade later and I never thought it could be this good.

This is all just a precursor to saying that one of the other things I do when S. is gone is eat poorly. It's ironic, really, because for the most part, S. couldn't care less what I ate, so long as I didn't turn into SuperBitch once I was finished, which is all too often the case. Kind of like those times when you mack on an entire box of Hurl Scout cookies and then look at your partner and say "Now what did you let me do THAT for?" One of the ugliest fights S. and I ever had (about 7 years ago) followed my ingestion of a massive pile of sausage gravy and biscuits. I wanted to take a walk. S. wanted to go home and nap. The rest is history that will never be repeated.

But on my way to work this morning, I stopped by Whole Paycheck with the intent of picking up something for lunch. $40 later I had the following: one mini french boule; 1/2 lb of smoked trout spread; 1/2 pound roasted beets with apricots; mini-caesar salad; phytocillin (a tincture I use when I'm feeling puny like I am today); and two Amy's frozen mac'n'soy cheezes, because they were on sale. And I wanted comfort food. Yeah, like trout and beets. And bread. *sigh* Oh wait! I also bought a grapefruit!

Some might see this and say "well, it ain't McDonald's, so what are you whining about?" Well, smart ass, I might reply, I don't eat McDonald's. I don't eat fast food. Never really have. Makes me feel like shit. No, this excess poundage, it's all beer, tortilla chips, avocado, and occasional smears of trout spread. And rice noodles. And shrimp with snow peas (deemed "on the lighter side" of the menu). Oh and peanut butter. And wine flights. Last month's run in with some damn fine onion rings. I don't eat a ton of sweets, perhaps a couple of cookies here and there and I can't resist a pie (okay, or brownies), but really, I'm the savory toothed one in the family. I get that from my mom, who will choose spinach and cheese ANYTHING over cinnamon sugar blahty blah every time. (Damn this boule is good.)

I'm meandering here, and I suppose that's alright for a Friday. I just wanted to remind myself--by saying it--that S. being gone is not a license to eat like no one is watching. It's not freedom from all those moments of hiding in the kitchen. I am accountable only to myself at times like these, and for a long time I wasn't enough. I always lost the battle because I set myself up to fail...and maybe I've done it again, albeit in lesser form, by purchasing the aforementioned items. But I'm gonna really really try to resist bringing things into the house that will lead to my beating the holy hell out of myself for the duration of S.'s time away. I will allow myself one weekend (food) indulgence, and whenever I think of baking a pan of brownies and eating them all myself because No One Will Know, I will tell myself You Will Know. And that road you start down when You Know is very very rocky and very very dangerous. So give yourself a break already. Savor that grapefruit and go walk the dog. Again.

back to goal, the weird way

I weighed myself this morning because that's what I do on Friday (or Saturday) morning, regardless of how I feel (although it's often pushed back a day if I know that I'm rather fullish first thing in the morning).

So, as of this morning, I'm back to my goal weight, which is a kind of mirage based in the fact that I've been sick the last couple of days and struggled to eat, oh the minimum 1440 (- 1790) recommended calories (thank you, Sparkpeople). So I know the number is off. But I haven't been puking my guts out (or puking at all, thanks), I have been pounding the water (100+ ounces yesterday), and I did eat. So I have to balance the feeling of "no credit due" with the other half of my week, which involved riding my bike to and from work (90 minutes the first day, 60 the second-- I needed help getting home because I was sicky) at a vigorous pace, journaling, making good food choices, increasing my F/V to food pyramid proportions.

Anyway, I guess I'm thinking that the truth lies somewhere between this morning's 170 and last week's "why oh why can't I take a good dump before weigh-in" 177.2.

And there I go obsessing on the messages from Milton. I know that other than this evil, hit me over the head with a polo mallet now influenza that's relegated me to the fabulous pink sofa, I had a good week. I felt solid, healthy, on track, and clear. I felt respectful of my body and its abilities and I pushed myself, which is, after all, what I must do. Even in illness, I paid myself the respect of finding foods that I could eat, that would nourish me despite my apparent (I found it very strange indeed) lack of appetite. Thank god for congee, corn thins, apples, tomato soup, rice and beans. Oh, and peach sorbet-- don't forget the peach sorbet.

So I'm not celebrating Goal this week. It's like we're still waiting for the DNA testing, and that could take up to a month. So when you see me on the Maury Pauvich Show with the caption "Goal Cheaters-- Did She Really Do It?" in a few weeks, don't turn the channel. I mean, the truth could be right there-- but I'm not gonna lift my shirt up, and nobody's gonna get a piece of me.

like riding a bicycle-- or a see-saw

Yesterday I got out on the bike (aka Jolene) for the first time in ages. I learned two valuable lessons in that outing:

• Riding a bike (at least the way I ride a bike) requires more exertion more quickly than walking. I really didn't realize this before, and 2 blocks into the short ride to my massage appointment, I could feel my heart beating. It takes a whole lot longer to get to the point of feeling my heart beat whilst walking, and I can truck on foot. Maybe it has something to do with holding the body upright and balancing on a bike. I mean, walking requires balance, but cycling must require more (even if it feels as natural as walking to me).

• Riding a bike utilizes different muscles (or different portions of the muscles) than walking. The good news: my lungs and heart are up to the challenge. It was, however, odd to feel all these muscles saying "what in the hell are we doing?", but that's what happens when they've had, oh, FOUR months off from a very specific activity. They'll get used to it, I'm sure.

Sometimes I think I'm a little old to be having these revelations, but then again, life's all about learning. Perhaps I'd gotten a bit delusional about how much activity my body requires to maintain a healthy weight. It requires a lot, and it's been that way for a long time, and I can remember going to see my doctor back in Berkeley for a check-up and having this conversation about how, for many of us, once you hit 30, you have to up the exercise significantly to maintain your weight. Add to that wanting to shave off a few pounds, and you're looking at even more exercise.

The alternative? Don't eat. But my body won't be fooled (or perhaps it will) by the Don't Eat approach. My body slips into the classic scarcity model pretty quickly, and just slows my (already slow) metabolism even further. And did I mention the bit where I like to eat. I do. I love to eat, I love food, I love to cook. Right now I can hear Freddie Mercury singing "I Want It All," and you know what? There's nothing wrong there. So long as the activity matches.

I am notoriously tight with money-- and thanks to that (when-will-my-name-be-cleared-of-my-medical-tragedy) Bankruptcy, I don't live beyond my means. I wish to apply this thrift and balance to my caloric transactions. I mean, it's about spending and earning, and depending on how you spin those concepts, it might teach me a thing or two about not being so tight.

Shall spending be caloric intake, or exercise? Shall earning be exercise or intake? Is the glass half full, or half empty? Either way, it's not like I can stockpile too much of anything and be truly, healthfully, successful. It's balance in the most primary sense, two feet on either side of the see-saw, and the further I go in one direction, it will require a move in an equal, yet opposite direction.

wrestling with Milton

I'm getting some weird Paradise Lost image here, but that's not it at all.

So I weighed in this morning and I'm up .6 and whilst it certainly isn't the end of the world, I'd really hoped for a loss, and as I write this I feel like I'm one of those bizarre scale-obsessed women, which really is not my goal in life. At all.

So I don't want the number*, and I know the week was actually far better than the number, and I know in my heart of hearts that I am not the number and while I'd like to blame the Slow Train Comin' that has been the contents of my large intestine, I can't.

The funny thing is, I know what's holding me back from getting back to goal. Yes, I know it, and I'm gonna admit it right here:

it's my estrangement from Jolene.

I mean, I haven't ridden that girl in months, and let's face it, I've gotta get my huff & puff on if I'm gonna see results and/or live the way I like, which involves a goodly quantity of fine food & drink and the exercise to justify its ingestion.

So there. There's the truth. Mr. Milton ain't a problem when I'm one with Jolene on a regular basis. That's the truth from which I must act, and now that the weather's lookin' good, that action is inevitable.


*"number" or "numb-er." You make the call.

NOTE TO SELF: early birds have turds

I stepped on Milton way too early this morning and the number, it was not so good.

My guess is that one of us is full of shit.

VD

I had a lovely valentine's day, thanks. For the record, I abhor Valentine's Day...it's just an excuse to spend money and do all those things that we should be doing for those we love every day anyway. But yesterday was different...yesterday, I needed an excuse to reach out and touch someone(s). I was aching for a little extra lovin'. I attended a memorial service in the afternoon that kicked my ass, and all I wanted to do was go inhale a garlic, onion, pineapple and jalepeno pizza, but instead I came home to the most touching scene in my very own house...candles lit, table set, wine, sea scallops, steamed broccoli...a card that reads "my wife...Next to you Beside You, Near You...that's where I always want to be." Yeah, it's got a little cheese mixed in with a whole lot of romantic, and I'll take it. What a blessing to return to this place of safety and comfort after a crazy ass day of work and just BE with my love and my animalia...to talk of the day's trials and laugh at how the more things stay the same, the more we are forced to change...to feel such pure love, after a decade together, how I still kiss those lips and get a charge all the way to the tips of my toes. THIS is what working through looks like, THIS is what hard-earned commitment tastes like. I eat and I eat and I eat, and I do not gain an ounce.

May it forever be so.

bent backs bent arms and nowadays

I am down .2 pounds. It's bizarre to reduce the week to a loss or a gain. That action of stepping on the scale is so loaded. I can remember, back in elementary school (Go Fairview Eagles!), getting weighed once a year in the library. I'm not sure why they did this, but they'd call us each in separately, and the room was kind of dark, with no-one but the school nurse (or a helper) and that scale. So they'd weigh us, and they'd check us for scoliosis, and I was happy I didn't have to get a back brace, but that didn't do much to kill the shame of being fat. And while no one really said "Hey, Kid-- You're fat!" I could tell (early projection?) that they thought weighing as much as I did was wrong.

And these weigh-ins, they continued through junior high, and each semester they'd call us up in a line, and the gym teacher would kind of shout it out, and I just knew the kid in line before or after me could hear, and I guess I was kind of lucky, because sometimes those kids-- they'd be chubby or fat, like me, and so I knew that number wouldn't shock them-- or maybe I knew they were engrossed in their own little terror, too.

But now, this weighing in, I do it for myself. I do it to keep on track, to hold myself accountable, to pay respect to my health and this body that once upon a time, year after year, didn't do so well in the presidential fitness testing. Sure I was slow in the 50 yard dash and I was so quick out of the "bent arm hang" that the standard stop watch couldn't catch me, but at least I didn't fart during sit-ups like John Subject did.

So what if he got the gold trunks-- he was a gasser. I bet he still is.

safety

Been a little scarce on here this week, mostly because I couldn't bring myself to actually write about what I know I HAVE to write about...because writing is all I know to do in times of great distress and discomfort. Writing is my way out from deep within. Of course, it also requires time, which has alluded me (still, and I don't even have a kid yet) and some degree of emotional investment, and frankly, I've been too busy investing in sanity to turn my attentions to something as luxurious as creative pursuits. Well, fuck it. Time to turn the tide.

I said--here? maybe not here--that my word of the year was embodiment. I thought I was referring almost exclusively to my weight loss/gain/loss/gain road, and how I believed that I could, once and for all, conquer those ruts and emerge a stronger, healthier human being. I had the knowledge, I knew the drill, I just had to inject some consistency and motivation into my veins. I did not know-how could I have known?-that I would soon be faced with some of the most intense and difficult (past) issues I've ever felt (oh and feel them I did), and they would come about as a result of our ongoing exploration into having a child. I did not know that I would be reduced to uncontrolled weeping for hours, reduced to holding my head in my hands and pulling my hair in a vain attempt at stopping the torrent of memory (and its pain-laden minions) from taking me so far out of myself that I could no longer find my way back to earth.

To go from a place where one experiences near-daily dissassociative tendencies (physically, sexually) to a place where being in one's body is not only necessary but required (pregnancy) is a leap I cannot make without first identifying some middle steps. And convincing myself that I will not die if I start allowing my body to SPEAK. There is much trauma (sexual & emotional abuse-related) hidden amid the folds and curves of this body o mine and I am an expert at making sure that it stays right where it is. I've got every tool I could possibly need at my disposal. I got my weed, I got my drink, I got my friends who will shoot the shit for hours, allowing me to talk/think about something (anything!) else but the fact that I am damaged goods, the epitome of innocence lost, Queen of the Ultimate WHY ME Pity Party. I've got a dog who will accompany me on hours-long sojourns 'round the hood wherein I'm counting my steps in a vain attempt of calling forth the Zen Buddhist in me. I've got work (productivity), which can sometimes be the salve I use to make myself feel worthy and capable of being a contributing member of my "team," but lately work has been like entering the fires of Hell, so I'm not finding much solace there.

But these tools. I've used them so long that they've lost their sheen. They still WORK but they seem so tired. I know that at some point I have to just let what comes up COME UP and not use every ounce of my power to smack it back in place again. I lasted three days this week - including the day when I was a complete wreck, that would be Monday - without succumbing to my usual modes of coping. Granted, some are better than others. For the most part, though, I'm finding that I cannot take much of the world - or, more to the point, my place in it - for very long without feeling like my skin is on fire and I'm about to rip it off. I hit a reality-of-the-situation saturation point and the next thing I know I'm reaching for the bowl or the wine glass or the mound of tortilla chips bathed in cheese.

Early on in college, my friends and I coined the term "safety meeting." Fashioned after those times when you're in a pool and the lifeguard yells out Buddy Check! and you have to find your buddy, grab hands and raise them so you can be counted, safety meetings were when we all, as a group, were required to meet at a pre-determined place, be counted, add a little something to the tray/plate that was somewhere in the vicinity, and then hang out for a little smoking session. (Yes, I went to college in the middle of nowhere and yes, we partied ALOT.) We found our terminology to be quite brilliant (of course, we were young and invincible) and I never even thought twice about it until recently. Safety.

safe·ty
–noun, plural -ties.
1. the state of being safe; freedom from the occurrence or risk of injury, danger, or loss.
2. the quality of averting or not causing injury, danger, or loss.
3. a contrivance or device to prevent injury or avert danger.
(source: Dictionary.com)

"Freedom from the occurrence or risk of injury, danger, or loss." Yep, that was about right. We were safe in our toking confab and we were made even safer by what that smoking invited--another perspective, a door out of our heads and into the stratosphere, the necessary elixir of distances. I unknowingly planted the seed of my future dependence by referring to this exercise as safety. It has been my freedom, and it has been my prison, because without it I lose my ability to escape. And if I can't escape, I have to feel. And if I have to feel, I have to deal. And I'm not yet convinced that I can. But I have to get there. How can I even think about having a kid until I do? And this is not about the smoking itself, because I have no issues with stopping that when (and if) I get pregnant and I'm not saying that I'll never smoke again after that. I'm not one who responds well to black and white anything. No, this is about being willing to stop thinking about my body as an annoying appendage to my head and start thinking about it as the glorious vessel that it is. It's the body that has carried me this far, and the body that "contains multitudes," and the body that yearns for me to help it release what it has held -- gently, carefully, deeply -- for so so long.

So. This embodiment thing. NEWSFLASH! It's not just about weight loss. It's about much much more, and though I'm scared as shit to uncover all the implications, I'm open. And willing.

wherein Stine references her own blog...

I wrote a little post about Embracing the Dreaded Task.

Working the Program- the view from here (paper angle)

I work in an unconventional environment. I guess it's not so much unconventional as somewhat inconvenient to weight loss. I'm surrounded by food. It's what I do. I don't have a desk or a "spot" where I keep my stuff. I'm kind of gypsy that way. (No, not that Gypsy-- this one!) Anyway, it's a challenge to keep track of food and exercise, so I usually scribble it on my notepad and stash it in my pocket, and then when I get home, I pull it (along with my old bus transfer) out and try to immediately input the information. It grounds me. It gives me a sense-- or rather, a reminder of how I might want to approach my evening. Tracking-- the simplest and the hardest thing to do. It's right up there with stepping on the scale once a week.

it's the little things

Tomorrow morning, rather than walking 7 minutes downhill to catch the 44, I'll walk 15 (or so) minutes uphill, and get the 48. I'll take this as a sign of Spring and an indicator that I'm feeling better. Sure, my knee hasn't been great these past few days, but I'm gonna stretch and see. It's all this little stuff that seems to add up, that starts to feel like momentum, like embodiment. I haven't felt that in a while, and I'm ready for it. Bring on the new route, bring on some sunshine, bring on the budding leaves.