living with, not by, the numbers

Lately, I've been pondering the whole Two Pound Variance idea proposed by the WW system. The basic idea is that you choose a goal weight, and as long as you're within 2 pounds of that, you're successfully on maintenance.

I've been thinking about how that 2 pound range is, in my opinion, a limited target. I've also been thinking about how we live by these somewhat arbitrary numbers-- we set these goal weights and limits and then expect our bodies to comply. We work terribly hard, and when we succeed we feel a certain sense of pleasure, even subdued euphoria. When we don't meet the numbers, it can feel like failure, powerlessness, an out-of-control-ness that's enough to make us despair and/or give up entirely.

I keep track of my weight online and in a spreadsheet. What I've seen in this is all the various numbers that auto-fill from memory. When I went to type in 172.4 this morning, it appeared in the drop-down menu for that box. I have experienced 172.4 before. In fact, I get a strange kick out of hitting a weight that I haven't been before (regardless of it being "over" my goal weight or not). When that happens, I think that my body has visited some new territory-- that I've expanded the depth of my experience, that I'm more fully exploring the subtleties of this weight range in which I exist.

We are not numbers. We are fluid, changing, as variant as the weather, the air, the water. I've fallen prey to living by numbers over and over again. This morning, at my weigh in, which was down from last week but still up from my "goal"-- I looked at the scale and thought:

I can live with this. This is reasonable.

I don't need to feel like I've failed because I'm not at or below that magical number I chose however many years ago. And I don't want to choose a new number and then have those three digits looming over me. So it's gotta be more relaxed than that, based on my whole life, not just that moment when I set my body onto a device that reads my weight and displays a value (that has nothing to do with my value).

I still need guidelines. I still have a "range" in mind that to me, connotes health and fitness and that ever-elusive (to me at least) sense of fashion-ease. But that doesn't come down to one number, or a two-pound range. It comes down to engagement, to self-compassion, to loving who I am day to day, even with my flaws and variations.

what we do with what we do. do do be doo bee do

Sunday I drank a bottle of beer and ate a whole lotta corn chips. I'm not telling you this as some form of confessional, but rather, to acknowledge that every now and then this kind of thing happens. WW and the like don't really leave room for this kind of behaviour, and while it may not be "normal," it has happened more than once in my life (or even this year), and I've actually come to see it as acceptable, every now and then. I'm telling you this because lately I've been thinking that the indulgence is not the problem. We do this, and yes, sometimes it feels like weakness or getting off track, or losing control, but I'd argue that all of those feelings are normal-- part of the process. The deal is, it's what we do with those feelings, and how much space we give them, and where we take them, that can get really messed up. The problem isn't indulgence, it's self-flagellation, it's jumping off the see-saw high in the air after an indulgence or a lack of exercise or whatever it was that pushed that other side down so damn hard. It's not fighting back.

When I had my beer and chips, I wanted them. I also knew I'd exercised a lot during the week and that the week ahead would carry another 6 days of hard work and riding in. Oh, and I had my period, and that justifies many indulgences normally viewed as beyond decadent.

So I'm not bruised and battered by this. It's part of me-- I got what I wanted (and I was moderate) and it's part of a picture that includes "playing hard" or some such description of how much exertion it takes to keep my balance, to get that see saw swinging the way I like it. And I like it. And I gotta go to work now.

(in)visible scars

Innocently enough, I got into a conversation yesterday with a coworker that led me to a memory of me as a kid, a bag of Donut Fair donuts in my possession, refusing to allow anyone to share in my bounty. Much heckling ensued. I would not give up my precious donuts. Not for any one. Instead I went home and sat in my special place on the outskirts of the backyard, a small clearing hidden by thick bushes, and I ate every last one.

Even today, I don't classify those times as binge eating. I suppose that's what they were, but back then, macking on a bag of donuts--or a box of pop tarts or two, three Hostess pies-- was just something I did. I wasn't cognizant enough or self aware enough to realize that I just might be setting myself up for future (major) challenges that would vex me over and over and over again. Obviously there was some serious mindless eating going on. I doubt I thought of much else in those moments other than whether or not I would get caught eating a barrel of sugar right before dinner or when it was safe to show my face to my friends, since I knew they would be waiting to taunt me again, asking what happened to your donuts? or you gonna go back to Spee-D-Foods and get you some more donuts? Hell, why not just stab me instead? Really, just a quick flick of the wrist with a little muscle behind it and we could watch the blood seep from my new wound. Then, when I wanted to remind myself of the consequences of my bingeing, I could look at the scar, run my finger over its raised edges. It would be my mark, my talisman, evidence of a good girl gone horribly bad. It would be something I could point to and say See, here, this is what happens when you are out of control. This is what happens when you use food as a means to soothe. You get hurt. And the remnants of that hurt will stay with you forever.

__________________________

Without going into huge detail about it, I wanted to mention here the new PBS special, Fat: What No One is Telling You. I found this show fascinating and informative, and I didn't care that it's major sponsor was GlaxoSmithKline. I'm not planning on popping a "fat meltaway" pill anytime soon, so if that was the intent of this program, it failed. What I found most intriguing was the new science on the workings of our gut. Scientists are now finding that the gut can override the brain and that there is a degree of collusion between the two that was not previously identified. We might even discover that the gut has a "brain" of its own. For those of us who have fought the fat fight our entire lives, this comes as no surprise. Hunger is hunger, and it's a physical feeling, and no amount of cognitive therapy can change that. Try as we might, we often can't distract our gut by, say, switching our focus to something non-food related. Our hunger can be relentless, like a nightmare we keep trying to shake but the same horrifying images return the moment we close our eyes again.

I'm not looking for an excuse. I have the proper tools at my disposal and I know the path to weight loss. I also know that for me, that path involves an inordinate amount of steep hills and seemingly impassable sections that take an awful lot of en(courage)ment to traverse. Losing weight for me is HARD. It's my lot in life, and I'm learning to accept that. But it helps me to know that it's not just lack of willpower or laziness or self-sabotage that creates huge roadblocks/detours. There is still a lot we don't know about obesity and all its attendant issues. I take comfort in knowing that. I'm not going to use new science as an excuse to give up; I'm using it as a means to reinforce that what I have believed all along, deep down--one must fight fat holistically, and avoid putting all the emphasis on "eat less, exercise more"--holds water. Trusting myself. Trusting knowledge. Power comes.

o brother what hath thou become?

I've lost weight. Six pounds. Ring the damn bells.

I'm feeling good about things right about [now]. I seem to be doing a good enough job of keeping my intake (food) balanced with my outtake (exercise) and I've managed to remain loosely on Program without getting whacked about it. I'm sure my time will come. Honestly, what has kept me from feeling the need to have such ultimate control over everyfuckingthing that goes into my mouth is the realization that I'm going to eat/exercise like this for the rest of my life. So I go slow. I allow myself to taste what's in the aisles of the Whole Foods. I still enjoy 1/2 and 1/2 in my coffee. I savored a strawberry shortcake on Easter Sunday made with low-fat bisquick and vanilla yogurt. And strawberries like my mom used to make 'em, mashed with a little sugar and then chilled...

One of the other reasons why I am adamantly opposed to analyzing the shit out of my weight loss process is my brother. I read recently that male anorexia is on the rise. I don't think my brother is anorexic--he's 46, after all, and cases of men developing an eating disorder that late in life are slim to none--but he is OBSESSED with his weight and will tell anyone who will listen what he's doing that day for exercise, how he's smaller than ever, blah blah. Now, I wouldn't begrudge him anything if I didn't know him so well and if we didn't come from the same massively dysfunctional-when-it-comes-to-food-and-weight family. But I know his game. It's about oneupmanship, and judgment. And I won't play.

Last week he called me while taking his daily(?) walk. The wind was whipping so hard that I could barely hear him, and he was panting as he powerwalked his suburban Detroit neighborhood. I kept saying "I can't hear you!" to which he would reply "well, I'm walking." Then he would launch into a new diatribe about plans for our mother's 70th birthday party and I was lucky if I heard every other sentence due to the wind tunnel he was in. The fact was that he didn't CARE if I could hear him or not. He calls me when he's exercising because it's the only time he deems "free" enough to talk. My brother enjoys more than a modicum of celebrity in Michigan and therefore is "in demand". So I have to take him when I can get him, which is usually while he's huffing his way up a hill.

I am happy for my brother in that he has taken charge of his health. He was diagnosed with high blood pressure a couple of years ago and it scared the shit out of him. So now he's an exercise fiend. Of course, he has to do something to counterbalance the magnum of wine he consumes weekly. Add to that the fact that he has never been happy. Nothing is ever enough--unless it's the "best" of its kind. I come from a long line of consummate snobs. I have my own membership card, it's true. But his is another kind of snobbery all together. If you are overweight, drinking cheap Gallo wine, eating anything that resembles a carb and not hitting the gym at least three times a week...well, pity raineth down.

Undoubtedly I sound like a bitch here. I don't dislike my brother, but I have grown weary of his self-absorption and classist/fatist attitude. There are moments when I glimpse the brother I once knew--when he laughs and his beautiful hazel eyes light up--but most of the time I feel like one of his fans jostling for a moment of time with their journalistic saviour. And I don't appreciate that feeling. Fame has changed my brother, but it has not brought him any closer to contentment. And neither has the number on his scale.

ain't no expletive rank enough

I don't wanna be a broken record here, but my scale (a very "accurate" scale at that) knows nothing of the truth. I was gonna call it a lying sack of shit, but that seemed harsh. And it may not be true. But maybe there's more than one truth. I mean, there's the truth of weight (in that exact moment of stepping upon said scale) and there's the truth of everything else-- fluctuations in body weight, muscle mass, water retention, a week spent well within recommended guidelines and exercising my ass off. Go figure.

The thing that gets me is the way in which I let this whole number thing irk me. Over and over again. Even though I know better.

What's with that?

feeling the burn, and stuff-- a day in the life

I like it, and I don't like it. My inner power-frau is into being mighty. My not as inner slacker doesn't want to exert herself. Who will win Battle Physio-Burn? I'll put my money on the stern mädchen with the big quads.

So this is how it needs to be. Pushing hard. Always building cardio or muscle. Or so I think. And maybe some of it's my always striving nature. I mean, maybe the hills are getting easier, but I'm also pushing harder, so I don't really notice the easy bit. Or something.

When I ride in to work at 6am or so, it's easy to get going really fast. Very few riders on the BG Trail, very few cars, and my energy is up. My heart rate gets up pretty quickly once I hit the flats and pedal briskly. 10 minutes (or so) in, I notice my breathing: it's not labored, but it's moving. 15 minutes in, I can feel my legs-- the cold mornings leave them feeling heavy, like cutting through the cold is labor in and of itself. It's just after this that I feel the first sense of a climb on the trail, and then after a few ups and downs, I blip off onto the route that climbs up to work. I work hard at spinning my way up, and I huff and puff and churn a bit, and arrive at the door invigorated and recovering.

Then I work. On my feet. Moving around a kitchen. It's not aerobic, but it has it's flustery brisk little moments and there be some haulage. And the resistance of snackage. Lots of that.

When I take the "tougher" route home, I'm basically on a slow climb for the first mile or so. I feel it in my legs and lungs about the time it peaks, as I muscle my way up the first significant hill. There's a very interesting sensation of it being an abrupt return to exercise. Some of it may be the time of day, the fact that I've just finished 8 hours of (manual) labor, but it just feels like an early climb. That's followed by a gradual descent down to Green Lake-- riddled with brisk pedaling and stopping and starting. And then the slow climb to Aurora, the out-of-the-saddle spin up 83rd and over Linden, and then the series of ascents and descents all the way out to 32nd Avenue. Call it Interval Training. All I know is that somedays I have it, and somedays it feels like a lot of work. At a very pretty job.

I guess I'm coming to terms with what exercise in my life looks like. Sure, there are other forms, but in terms of keeping weight off, this seems to be the level of intensity I need to meet. And I like meeting it. It's just, well, kind of weird that this is me.

just say NO to...

• chinese doughnuts
• crispy pancetta
• tikka kebabs

and that was just the first couple hours of work...