charts be damned

Yesterday I walked the mile or so to my local bike shop, as I needed a derailleur cable for to get Jolene back to running. I hadn't done this walk in quite a while, as I've been a working machine, which makes me a biking machine. So as I made my way through the neighborhood, I was struck by this sensation of lightness, of my body feeling smaller, springier, different. It was muggy out, and I was wearing my Short Man's Pants, but I still felt like I was moving along easily. This was a new version of walking through the 'hood, and it left me thinking:

I feel skinny. I may not be skinny. But I feel skinny.

It comes back to the "numbers" misleading us. I'm at the top of, or off most of the recommended weight charts. At least for women. Yes, I still glance at them periodically, less to see if I've finally reached their splendiferous stats, than to see if they've changed to include My Kind. You know, big, active girls with big tits and hips and muscles who will never grace the pages of the Title Nine Catalog because they're just too damn big and gay, oh, and many of the clothes in there won't fit them any way, because there is no XL, and L stops at 12 or something ridiculous like that.

You know what, I am LARGE. I am even EXTRA LARGE. I know this because I see all the smalls and mediums of the world, and that ain't me. It ain't meant to be me. I'm tired of the stigma attached to L and XL. I'm taller than many men I know. I have bigger muscles than some of them, and I exercise more than most of them. I've earned my L/XL status. It isn't just size, it's energy.

fear of flying, family and food (in that order)

This time next week I'll be on a plane headed for Ohio. S. and I are going for my mother's 70th birthday celebration, which is on the 26th. We'll be there through the Memorial Day holiday and come back on Tuesday.

I am in the midst of my mental preparations for this trip, which involves several things.

1. I picked up my prescription for xanax so I don't have a massive panic attack on the plane. I do not like to fly. Actually, I like flying so long as no turbulence is involved. If the pilot comes on and says "we're going to ask you all to fasten your seatbelt for a bit here as we have some folks in front of us who've said there's some bumpy air up ahead..." my heart starts beating fast and my palms get sweaty and I feel like I'm going to throw up. We could be sailing smooth for another ten minutes but I'm in this mode wherein I'm waiting for the fucking plane to hit an air pocket and fall 10,000 feet in a millisecond. I'm not scared about what is happening at that moment -- I'm scared about what is going to happen. Anticipatory fear. It's debilitating and I want to get over it. But for now, I'm gonna take drugs and pray that we don't have to fly through any storms.
2. I told my mom that she hurt my feelings when she made her anti-SSRI comment the other day -- I said "if I don't talk about this with you now, nip it in the bud, then I know I'm going to keep turning it 'round and 'round in my head and end up resenting you big time." Mom was actually glad that I brought it up and was apologetic, saying that she was referring to herself and not me...to which I responded "so SSRI's are a-okay for me but not for you??" and then I threw the alcohol card--"funny how I have a father who is adamantly opposed to 'altering brain chemistry' but he drinks every day'" and Mom said "I'd never really thought about it that way before." I thought, but didn't say, bullshit. I know I've made similar analogies before. She doesn't want to think about it that way. She just wants to keep drinking her two, three glasses of wine a night and believe that the effect it has on her is purely coincidental.
3. My uncle and his second wife and her three kids are coming to the birthday bash. I haven't talked with my Uncle (my mother's half-brother, who is 20 years her junior) since he called me from my grandmother's apartment drunk last year. I do not like drunk dialers, as a rule, and I certainly didn't appreciate the fact that he was calling me at midnight EST while his 95 year old mother sat nearby, laughing nervously at her wasted son who'd managed to finish a half a bottle of scotch in about two hours. He was only in town for two days and hadn't been to see his mother in FOUR YEARS but he still thought the best use of his time was to booze it up and then call his neice in Denver. I am sure that he'll be boozing it up again at Mom's party...I don't mind the drinking per se, but I very much mind the drinking too much. S. and I have a code word so if it gets bad, we're leaving, plain and simple.
4. My cousin N. and her hubby C. will be at the party--they're driving in from Tennessee. I like N., but she's a hard core Christian (as is most of my entire family, extended and immediate) and I was not appreciative of what she wrote in the guest book at our wedding album last October: "We need not understand to love, but love we do." Fuckin' homophobe. I've got to steel myself for any sidelong glances made while I'm making out with S. :)
5. My brother has now managed to piss off two more members of our family because of his stupid tendency to call us when he's exercising. My sister recently hung up on him because he said something that pissed her off AND he was huffing and puffing the whole time. When he called back later, though, my sister blew it off, said she had to hang up fast because someone came into her office. "I didn't want to deal with it," she said. And therein is one of the biggest problems with my family: we lie to one another so as not to "make waves." It's ridiculous, and it breeds mistrust and misunderstandings.
6. Menu planning for this party began weeks ago. There will be enough food and drink to feed the neighborhood. We will be like gluttons, gorging ourselves in the name of celebration and togetherness. I will feel a need to walk miles every day just to stave off the feeling that I'm taking on the physical characteristics of a hippo. I will refrain from too much wine, too much gin, too much bread, too much cheese, too much too much too much. I will do my damndest to be present and watch what I (thoughtlessly) put in my mouth. I will not succumb to food as comfort, food as feeling-stuffer, food as longest dearest friend come to save me from innate, overwhelming dysfunction.
7. I haven't decided if I'm sending myself a little package o safety yet. I know I'll want it, but there's always the risk...and what if I tried to go without, just this once? I mean, hell, I've got xanax.
8. I've made a promise to myself that I will not appear gleeful when the subject of Jerry Falwell's passing comes up. (An inevitability.)
9. I don't HAVE to counsel my mother. There are therapists for that.

I'm sure I'm missing something, but I still have a whole week to figure out what that is. Right now I'm going to focus on the upcoming weekend and finishing all of our planting and getting the pet sitter arrangements finalized. I'm going to spend some quality time in the home that I love because it belongs to me and to S. and we have created a haven for ourselves amidst all of the craziness going on in our respective families. I'm going to play with Daisy and pet Cosmo and ground myself in the HERE, in the NOW. Then I'm going to head to Ohio armed with the knowledge that nothing, no one, no words or deed, can take away the beautiful life I have with S. on Vine Street. Oh, and I'm going to mend my armor. I've got a few tears from the last visit that need attention.

nine hundred sit ups a day*

*from the Paul Simon song Outrageous:
"It's outrageous to line your pockets off the misery of the poor.
Outrageous, the crimes some human beings must endure.
It's a blessing to wash your face in the summer solstice rain.
It's outrageous a man like me stand here and complain.
But I'm tired. Nine hundred sit-ups a day.
I'm painting my hair the color of mud, mud okay?
I'm tired, tired. Anybody care what I say? (no)..."

My mother is into apple cider vinegar.

By into I mean she's decided that apple cider vinegar is a cure-all. Or a cure-much. Following several conversations that she and I had about serotonin reuptake, SSRI's and our family history (battle with) of depression, Mom started reading more about serotonin and stumbled in this "miracle" cure.

When I spoke with her on Mother's Day, she told me how she was now taking apple cider vinegar daily. I'm assuming, since she said that she went to a health food store, that she is drinking the unflitered "mother" variety, the kind that looks like a science experiment gone awry. She is very excited about this new regimen and said, in a very strident tone, "well, it's better than drugs."

My response was "well, I'm not so sure that it's better than drugs for everyone Mom, but I'll be curious to see how this works for you."

(Good daughter, good daughter, here, wear this foil star.)

The truth is, I've been knawing on her words ever since they entered my brain. And I've decided that I have to call her and have a little talk about the attitude she continually takes re: SSRI's. Drugs are bad, mmmmm kay. Let's suffer instead, shall we? Let's all sit in a circle with our little shot glasses of unfiltered vinegar and sing We Shall Overcome and then we can all do our shots and feel superior to those who have been duped into thinking that a pill can make them better.

Fuck. All those years I spent resisting, rejecting, denying that I was depressed. I'd been brainwashed by a family who saw the ingestion of psychopharmaceutical medication as one's inability to deal with your own shit. It was weakness, plain and simple, and you just had to pick yourself up and move on. Period. Nevermind that this line of thinking ran directly alongside the line of thinking that said drinking alcohol is void of any kind of drug-like associations. Drink all you want! Alter your brain chemistry with martinis and its A-okay! Really. Oh really. The hypocrisy kills me.

I don't like taking an SSRI every day. It's not my idea of a good time. I don't like fearing the day I'll go off of it, for good, afraid that I'll be reduced to a quivering mass, much like I was before I took anti-depressants. I don't like thinking that there haven't been enough longitudinal studies that disprove the line of thinking that SSRI's actually deplete your serotonin over the long haul and make it harder to stop the drugs. Am I just like those innocent people in the 50's who were led to believe that cigarettes were harmless and then ended up suing the tobacco companies? Am I setting myself up to fall even harder than I did pre-SSRI's?

There are trade offs, yes. My libido pays, but I'm still orgasmic. Moreso than ever, thank you. I sleep better. I have more energy to devote to getting in shape. And the biggest bonus of all? I don't live with an albatross of anxiety on my back. I don't obsess. For example: pre-SSRI, I couldn't deal with conflict. It would consume me. Let's say someone sent me an email and was angry or I got a phone call from a co-worker who was disgruntled over a decision I'd made. All semblance of stability was gone. I couldn't rest until there was resolution. It didn't matter if it was "my fault" or not. Blame was irrelevant--I couldn't see anything clearly, didn't have the ability to let it roll off my shoulders. I would worry. I would pace. I would compose long explanations on the computer then erase them and start again. Eventually I HAD to confront/talk through it with the person in question or I would NEVER let it go. I wouldn't be able to concentrate on anything else. And I'd cry. Long jags that lasted for hours. I'd walk around the house and weep, occasionally catching myself in a mirror and thinking "I hate you you ugly bitch."

Yeah, harsh but true.

So when I talk with my mom and she tells me about her own struggle with anxiety...when I talk to my sister who is so anxious she has a permanent refill of Ativan at her disposal and was once taking it every four hours just to be able to get through a day...when I watch my brother excessively exercise and work like a dog and never seem happy...when my mother tells me, for the first time (last week) that my great-grandfather committed suicide...I wonder: why am I the weak one? Why am I the one who "gave in" and not the one who Got Out?

Our over-prescribed culture is making it hell for those of us that truly need help conquering the debiliating effects of depression. I'm tired of defending my choice to take anti-depressants to people who think I've sold out or think I should have tried something more "natural." Bully for those for whom such things worked. They didn't for me. And I almost took my own life as a result. I almost stopped breathing just so I didn't have to deal anymore: deal with my family and their roiling dysfunction; deal with the naysayers who always think they know better and have an answer for everything (nothing worse then a dilettante in hippy clothing who will defend weed to his dying day but damn if anti-depressants aren't the work of the devil himself); deal with the people like a former roommate who told me that if I went on anti-depressants I'd be a zombie and she wouldn't want to live with me anymore...

So I guess I should ask my mom this: you want me chugging vinegar or you want me dead?

She'll love that one.

all i am saying is give peace a chance

...peace to your fellow gym visitors, that is.

Please do not take your cell phone when you work out, no matter what. If the President is calling and you are the decision-maker as to whether or not we will invade Iran, I will forgive you THAT ONE DAY. But no longer. Don't gab and exercise. And don't do it by me. I don't care that your boyfriend doesn't want to take the warehouse job because it's shitty pay. I certainly don't care about your bunions. And really, do you think it made a difference in your cardio development that you were on the recumbant bike at level one for seven minutes (on the phone the whole time) and then progressed to the treadmill where you walked at a slow pace for another 10 minutes (while still on the phone)?

Am I missing something? Maybe she just wanted to tell everyone who called her that she was at the gym. It's the cool response to "what are you doing?" "I'm working out," she replies perkily.

Pretty soon she's gonna have a cut (as in uber-muscular) tongue.

Oh and I got to look at Michelle Kwan's back and ass today while I was finishing up my time on the recumbant bike (started on the elliptical but my right side got all tweaky so I opted for the bike)...now, I am not trying to be nasty or perverted here, but I liked looking at Kwan's backside today. She's got a kickin' body. Plus, I swear I have never seen her without a slight smile on her face. I think she's probably pretty cool. Light years cooler than little Ms. Chatterbox.

my everchanging mood butt

there's this thing going on with my butt. it's like the ol' buttcrack (yes, that's one word) is getting shallower. it's never been like this before. I'm stunned and startled and I have to touch it every now and then (at home, privately, maybe right when I wake up). it's similar to the armpit thing that happened, where the pits actually formed and I was all blown away by that.

it's just that you get certain ideas about your body. about how it's been, and how it will always be, and then one day you're like, whoa.

Dude, where's my buttcrack?

It's not that it's gone-- it's changed. Like when there's a new stop sign or red light, or when they take one away and you're so used to slowing down at that spot and you don't have to anymore, but you feel the phantom stop.

Oh, TMI, TMI, I know. This is my version of navel-gazing. And that's next.

be here, now.

last night, after dining on a reasonable portion of portobello, ricotta, and artichoke pizza and sipping a glass of particularly delicious Cotes du Rhone, I realized that I am content with my body, as it is. I said aloud to wiffy:

I think my body is happy here.

And it felt a little strange to do that-- not throwing in the towel and giving up strange, but rather, realization of what I have, what I need, what I want strange.

I've had a fairly demanding week (or three) on the job, with a whole lot more on the way. The rides to and from work have been full of headwinds and crosswinds (which are really only headwinds on downers), and it's been physically tough. My body's gotten me through, thus far, with a few complaints from the lower back, but no major tantrums. I'm realizing the extent to which my build keeps me going, that my stamina may, in fact, come from my sturdiness.

Perhaps I'm not articulating this very well.

I feel like there's a balance to being. I've felt this before. In the quest to hit a certain "number," I can end up depleted. I don't eat enough to keep myself going, or I'm working against a place that my body needs to be, merely for the sake of my mind, and what number (be it a size or a weight) I think I want to "be."

So right now, I'm trying to pay attention to physical and physiological needs and cues-- what it means to maintain my level of exertion, to fuel that, and to take joy and pleasure in eating reasonably with occasional indulgences here and there.

I don't feel that I've said this as well as I could. But I'm starting to get a sense of body-contentment, like this may be a place where my mind and body can agree to stay...

garden news

Spring is here. Late, but here. It probably won't last for long, as winter was intermidable, but I'll take what I can get. Last weekend we checked Craig's List and found someone giving away fill dirt right near where we live--when we got there, we found some of the finest fill we'd ever seen. Appartently, the "owner" of the dirt had hauled in a ton of amendments when he first moved into his house and then discovered that he's OVERamended the soil. He'd used compost, sheep manure, shredded pine tree stump...eventually he decided that he just wanted to lay sod so he took all the good topsoil out of the yard. His loss, our gain. The soil was dark, loamy, chock full of worms and didn't seem to have much clay left in it at all. Jackpot!

These are some pictures of plants from our various garden beds. I love the way the pink lamium contrasts with the tiny star flowers of sweet woodruff. The broom I planted (big yellow flowers with single tulip in foreground) is so beautiful I want to freeze it in its current state. Last night I noticed that my salvia was getting choked by the ever-expanding bed of chocolate mint, so I pulled out huge ropes of mint in hopes that the salvia can breathe easier. The allium are almost all up and blooming, and I love their full pink heads. At their base, the black eyed susans are preparing for another hot summer, and the french lavender that I hacked the shit out of a month or so ago is booming. I'm dismantling The Wall and putting it back together again in different parts of the garden: the unruly hyssop will now be reined in a bit by stacks of old fireclay brick, and the iris that Giles planted when we first moved in is now a huge thriving bed that I bordered with chunks of old, rock-laden concrete. I love found objects. I love giving them new life and purpose. No surprises there.

Most of the fill dirt will become the base of the raised beds we're building this weekend. We have a plan--we just have to go buy the cedar. This year we'll have a bumper crop of beets and carrotts, butter lettuce, snap peas, green onions, tomatoes...the list goes on and on. It's amazing how much you can plant in a 4 x 10 bed. Just amazing.

And good for the body AND the soul.