The Battle of The Bulge

Weight.  It’s that one thing I think every female has thought about at some point or another.

We see the “perfect” images of what we are supposed to look like every day, even as children.  We are told this is what we are supposed to be, sometimes even by our parents.

I can remember when I was about 11 or so, my mom took me to the pediatrician because she thought I was overweight.  In fact, per the doctor, I was underweight.  This is one of the clearest childhood memories I have.  That memory probably should have made me think “Well, there, leave me alone!” but, for some reason, instead, it was the beginning of my weight worries.

I was a competitive gymnast starting at about the age of 12.  Our coaches were always pointing out our body imperfections, and the size of my trunk (not the one with junk, the one between your shoulders and hips!) was often called into question.  At that time, the muscular body was just thought to be fat. And, well, I actually have a freakishly large rib cage.

When I was 15, I started running track.  I was obsessed with having the “runner’s body.”  I became both anorexic and bulimic.  I don’t think anyone even noticed that I was lying that I ate, or that if I did eat, I threw it up afterward (you learn to do it VERY quietly).  I lost a lot of weight, I was bony.  I thought I would die if I didn’t get in at least 7 miles of running a day, and I would feel guilty if I ate ONE saltine cracker for a snack.  My mom did notice I was getting too thin, and would try to force me to eat things like chocolate cake (another very vivid memory, it was a birthday cake, we were at my grandparent’s house), but she had no idea I just threw it up later.

When I went away to college, things got a little better with my eating disorders.  I think a lot of it was just that we had communal bathrooms and I was scared someone would know when I was puking.  However, I was still obsessed with my weight.  I did, manage, however, to gain that freshman year 10 pounds, and, though I was still probably underweight, the first time I went home for a weekend, the first thing I heard was “Wow, you’re hips are getting too big.  You need to watch what you eat.”

While in college, I participated in a psychology experiment for extra credit in one of my classes.  The study was about perception of how “fat” you were, as compared to your actual size.  I’m the one who threw the curve, as I perceived myself much larger than my tiny self.  The study was actually summarized in Cosmopolitan magazine several years later, after I graduated, and when I read it, that’s when it really hit me that I had an issue.

I started therapy for this, and for some other things, and learned to not be afraid of food.  I remained rather thin, though I ate like crazy, but that was because I was still distance running competitively, and not because I was starving myself.  I had more energy and ran better, and didn’t worry about what I was eating.

I broke my foot in 1998, when I was 30, major stress fracture training for a marathon, when I had really reached my prime in the sport.  Though I tried running again, that and all the arthritis I developed (toes, knees, hips!) from all my years of running kept me from ever getting back to that competitive level.  I started gaining weight.  Then a few years later, I got pregnant, and, that was it, I had a different body!

I struggled for a long time again with how I felt about my weight.  Early menopause did not help, as hormones made my entire body type change.  I was eating healthy, but I still gained weight.  I started feeling very bad about myself again, and fought to keep from getting to that place I was as a teenager.

I currently, at age 51, weigh 50 pounds more than I did at my 90 pound anorexic low point.  I am technically overweight, but not the “obese” that my (female) doctor told me I was, I looked it up myself, I’m not even that overweight.  I have developed high blood pressure and my cholesterol, which has always been on the high end, even at 90 pounds, went up some, so I have tried to drop a few pounds to see if it will help, though it is most likely hereditary, as my mom and grandma, both also shamed about their not-that-much-overweight weight, had been, and we all ate healthy! 

The big difference, though, is that about a year ago, I finally came to just accept my body for what it is.  It’s not about what I look like.  I don’t even look that big, and I look much better now that I accepted my weight and am not trying to squeeze into clothes that are too small because I want to think I need the small and not the medium, or even large.  I actually remember being a teenager, in those really rough years, and admiring women in their 40’s and 50’s, including those in my family, for being happy though they were not model-thin, and I could not wait to be that age so I could feel the same.  It took me this long to get to where they were, because I had to realize it’s not age, it’s mindset.

I am just fine the way I am.  I will continue to eat healthy to try to help my health, but if it doesn’t make me lose weight, I’m OK with that.  And it’s a good excuse to buy new clothes.

That’s why they have wine.

My Take On Bird Box (Warning: Spoilers)

So, the Bird Box.

I see lots of posts of how wonderful it is, and lots of posts wondering what the hype is.

I’m a horror movie and book aficionado, and I fall into the “what’s the hype” camp, so thought I’d give my thoughts on it.

To begin with, most horror movies are awful. They fall into the “slasher film” subcategory, and they have unbelievable plots and often are just excuses to show people having sex, because that is always who gets killed.  When a decent one comes along, that is about the fear and suspense and not the sex and blood and gore, I think everyone thinks it’s the greatest movie in comparison to the slasher films.  I believe that is where the “hype” comes from.

Not that I don’t think it was a good movie, I just don’t think it was THAT good.  It does actually have the foundation that comes from good literature, which is the story being multi-layered:  The main level being the story that is being told, and the underlying level, which has some kind of sociological or psychological meaning.  This is not surprising, as the movie was based on a book, but like most adaptations, I think it probably lost some of it’s underlying level in the translation to film (and the ending itself is supposedly different than the book).  The movie DID make me interested in reading the book.

Sociological or psychological meaning, you ask?  Yes, read Stephen King and really think about the stories, and you’ll see it.  Notice I said READ.  This is because, unless King himself produced it, his stories lose not only parts of the underlying level, but sometimes the whole thing when being adapted to film.  My favorite horror movie of all time is The Shining, but not the Stanley Kubrick version that was in theaters.  It had thrill, suspense, and the wonderful talents of a maniacal Jack Nicholson.  It did have it’s own underlying theme, however, it was not King’s theme.  I have read that he absolutely hated the film because of that.  He later adapted it himself, as a TV miniseries.  His underlying level really shines through on that one, there is no mistaking that the whole story is about the horrors of alcoholism.  This version is my favorite, with the Kubrick version being my second favorite horror movie of all time, and it’s because of the much more subliminal fear factor to it.  I actually didn’t have a glass of wine for weeks after that!

Back to the Bird Box.  I’ve been reading some other amateur interpretations online, and while not all quite the same, they all seem to agree with the same thing I got from it….it’s about facing our biggest fears, our demons, and for the character played by Sandra Bullock, that was the fear of being a mother.  The details get a little harder to decipher though, and I think that it some of the stuff that got lost in translation.  The only person in the movie we really saw overcome her fear was Sandra’s character, but she did it in a roundabout way, “blindly” having faith that she could be saved from the demons, she never stared it right in the face (get what I’m saying here? 😉)  Those that did face their fears directly, they killed themselves, so….I’m not sure what that is trying to say, but maybe it is about having faith, leaving your fate in the hands of an unseen being (the voice on the radio), and not trying to do it all on your own?  The mentally ill people that did not have to be blindfolded, like many others think, I agree that is because they’ve already come to terms with their demons, they’ve been living with them all along.  And the birds…well of course they can sense demons, all animals have a greater sense at “seeing” the unknown than humans do because we overthink everything. The movie does leave a lot to think about, and that is why I’m interested in the book!

As far as “scary,” I didn’t really find it to be scary.  It’s not appropriate for a young child, but it really didn’t invoke the fear feeling in me.  It is more of a psychological thriller than a horror movie, but then again, so are many of Stephen King’s stories.  The movie “A Quiet Place” released this year had the same sort of apocalyptic theme, where you had to sacrifice one sense to survive, but I found that one to be more in the scary realm.  I wouldn’t say it was a better movie, but if you are looking for the fear factor, you’ll find it more in that one.

And, so, bottom line, I think it was a good movie.  I don’t think it was a movie that is on par with the greats like The Shining, or the Star Wars movies, or Gone With the Wind, or even the original Die Hard.  I think it worth watching, maybe even worth watching again to try to understand more of the underlying theme, but I don’t think it was so good that there are endless social media posts and blogs about it, including this one that no one will read!  And, so, it will probably win some Oscar because that is just what happens when I don’t think something is Oscar-worthy.

That's why they have wine.  Have a glass and relax while watching the movie.

Santa Is Real

Santa.  The beloved name many of us grew up with, a man who generously brought everyone gifts in a mysterious, magical, impossible way every Christmas Eve.  A legend who consumed thousands of pounds of cookies and cocoa and milk to fuel him through it.  The representation of hope for millions.

Santa.  The now controversial idea.  The story that we will not perpetuate lest our children think we are liars.  The mythical man that steals our credit for getting Joey and Susie exactly what they wanted.  The discriminatory jerk who doesn’t appear at homes whose religions do not celebrate the holiday he appears on.  The oblivious fool who doesn’t realize that he is bigoted against those with less means.

Santa.

In this house, Santa is real.  In this house, Santa is the embodiment of the spirit of selfless giving without the need for credit.  He is hope, magic, generosity, and love.

I don’t have little children.  I have a 17 year old son and a husband.  Santa fills all our stockings somehow every year, and those of the pets, and no one says it’s anyone else.  Santa buys things for children in need, with my own child as his elf helper in picking out toys, and never gets to see their happy faces when they open it.  Santa donates to causes that benefit a myriad of our population, without needing a “thank you.”  Santa is a spirit that is alive and well here.

When my son was young, Santa brought all the toys.  All of them.  Mom and dad gave underwear and pajamas, and still do.  As the desire for toys stopped, the presents lessened, but there are always stocking treats and small gifts, as long as you believe and embrace the spirit.  I guess that’s why the adults and pets here get stuff too.

I’ve never had the “Oh no, my child found out there is not a Santa!” moment.  I’ve had the question if he is real, with the answer of “If you believe, he is real.”  There’s never been another doubt, and never a mention that Santa doesn’t exist.  There’s not been a crisis that I’ve lied to my child, because I haven’t.  I’ve just taught him the magic of giving.

The Santa at our house, he is open to anyone, of any religion or financial situation that wants to participate.  He doesn’t discriminate, he doesn’t try to show anyone up, and he doesn’t choose to not exist because someone else may not believe.

That’s why they have wine.  In some houses, Santa may prefer that over cocoa!

I Forgot My Toddler Was In The Car

Sadly, we read incidents of small children left in hot cars on too regular of a basis.  The usual response, not surprisingly, is not actually one of sadness, but one of outrage, one of placing the parent or caretaker in the realm of serial killers or perhaps of even Satan himself, one of “Well, I WOULD NEVER do that.”

But is that the correct response? 

A typical comment I see on news articles is “People don’t forget their cell phones, but they forget their child!”

Let me start by saying I leave my cell phone in the car all the time.  ALL THE TIME.  I’ll need to make a call for work and realize I have no clue where my phone is, after working for a couple of hours.  My 17 year old, he finds it hilarious that I have first, an alert on my work calendar to remind me to pick him up from school, and second, and alarm on my phone to tell me when it is his bedtime.  I can’t even describe the laughter when I don’t get the bedtime alarm because I left my phone in my car.  He finds it hilarious because he has ADHD, so completely understands being so involved in something else that your mind sort of one-tracks, and he likes to tell me I must have it too (and maybe he is right!).  What he doesn’t think is that I’m a bad parent for this, he knows how much I love him, how much I’ve fought for an appropriate education for him, how I am ALWAYS there, be it 2 am, if he has an issue and needs help.  He knows that he is a miracle baby, MY miracle baby that I thank God for everyday, born prematurely while upside down and backwards and with the cord around his neck and that my doctor didn’t think he was going to be alive…

But you know what I did one day when he was 3?  I forgot to drop him off at daycare.

A week earlier, we had switched him from a daycare a couple blocks from home to a daycare a couple blocks from my office, in rush hour time that is a 50 minute difference for a 12 mile drive when there are no accidents.  That morning, I had an argument with my husband and was stressed out over a high priority issue I was working on at my job, and I had not slept well with the stress.  The drive was worse than usual, and I was running late for work and worrying about that.  If it had been my set routine to drop off my child at daycare right before work, without a doubt I would have pulled in to that parking lot while running on autopilot.  But it wasn’t.

I got to my office and parked, turned around to grab my purse, and “OH CRAP!”  Yes, my toddler was fast asleep in his carseat.

I pulled back out and drove the few blocks to his daycare.  But it all could have been different.  It could have been tragic.  His life, my life, his dad’s life, the life of everyone that loved him or me could be a completely different story.

Not because I am a horrible mother that doesn’t deserve her child, but because I am a human being.  An imperfect human being, as we all are, even if we don’t want to admit it.

If you’ve really never made a mistake in your life, or even just not with your children, my hat is off to you, but I will be sending pillows to break that fall from your pedestal when it happens because it is painful.

That’s why they have wine.  A toast to those that understand the phrase “But for the grace of God go I,” because you’ve realized one of the big truths in life and are able to accept it.

Shame Doesn't Cause Change

I was recently banned from a community group on Facebook because I question the value of kicking people when they are down and of trying to improve our city by running to the media and putting it in a bad light whenever they find something offensive.

After banning, the admin felt they needed to state that I was and talk about my personal page, not the usual MO, so I’m going to say “Thank you” that you found my opinions valid enough to shake you out of your ordinary, maybe you will read this whole post while you are looking for “mistakes” on the rest of my page.

When my son was little, I was the authoritarian parent, what I learned from my own.  I’m not sure why, because it didn’t teach me anything.  It made me afraid, it made me temporarily comply, but it certainly didn’t make me agree with them.  In fact, it did the opposite. 

At some point, around when he was about 10, I had my wake up call.  It wasn’t working.  My life could be very miserable, and I was stressed all the time, as was he.  I didn’t rub my dog’s nose in his accidents when he had them, rather I learned to recognize the signs and took him our when he needed to go.  If there was an issue in the software I supported, I didn’t try to band aid it, I looked for the root cause so it could be truly fixed. When I got a divorce, I had a discussion about what was important to each and wrote a fair agreement (I don’t do lawyers, lol). Why couldn’t I be as sensitive to my own child?

I changed my approach.  If my child threw all his toys around the room, instead of grounding him or implying he wasn’t good enough, I talked to him.  I found out what was going on in his thoughts, and went from there, addressing the issues from that starting point.  I didn’t punish, I taught.  That doesn’t mean bad behaviors weren’t addressed, or that there were no consequences, it meant that I didn’t beat him down but instead helped him to be a better person.  The toys being thrown?  Day at school where he was in the back of the class and couldn’t hear because others were being distractive and he zoned out as a defense mechanism from the overstimulation and would get in trouble for not paying attention.  He’s a good kid, he’s a rule follower, he held it in at school but he would get home and it would all come out.  I didn’t punish him, I hugged him. We talked about finding more appropriate outlets for frustration (going outside and practice swinging the baseball bat, punching a pillow, talking it out). He had to clean his room. And I followed through on my suspicions that all was not right and got diagnoses and meetings at school and a 504 plan.  I can’t remember the last time he threw anything.  We fixed the problem permanently, not just for that day.

In the past few years, I can only even remember one time I had to discipline him, and this is because we worked through whatever it was that was causing the issues.  I attacked the root, I taught alternative behaviors, I didn’t shame.

This is how we need to treat everyone if we want to change anything.  There is nothing, absolutely nothing, productive in digging up mistakes that someone already corrected just to shame them.  There is nothing productive in calling people names if you feel they have somehow wronged you or don’t agree with you.  There is nothing productive in putting people down.  There is nothing productive in trying to punish instead of trying to teach.  It is, all, in fact, counterproductive if your goal is to try to get anyone to reconsider their opinions.  I am sorry if I didn’t express that message well enough that you could understand what I was saying.  You need to start from the point where you are where right now and move forward to really make a difference.

That’s why they have wine.  Here is a toast to hoping that people can understand this, because I want where I live to be the best it can be.

Forgiveness is Not a Dirty Word

Forgiveness.

Some people see that as a bad word, a word that is about someone who harmed us, something that should be avoided.

That’s not what forgiveness is.

Recently, I was talking to my husband about a TV series that I watch, one in which one of the characters unexpectedly has his father back in his life, the father that was an abusive alcoholic when the character was growing up.  This is a situation I am very familiar with, having lived it myself.  I was telling my husband how impressed I was that the storyline wasn’t “He’s toxic, continue to hate him and push him away!” but rather one of forgiveness.  His daughters, his AA peers, they were pushing him to forgive, to see the person who was trying to be repentant and salvage a relationship, to see him as human.  I was impressed because this is not the popular social sentiment anymore.  We seem to think that forgiveness is about the one we are forgiving, but it is not, it is about ourselves.  The dictionary definition of “forgive” is to let go of anger, and letting go of anger, it is exactly what it is about.  We forgive for ourselves, not for the other person.  We stop ourselves from being consumed by a negative emotion that will turn to hate, an emotion with no positive end. 

The other night, on the show, I cried my eyes out at that moment that you could see the forgiveness occurring, because I love the character and want him to be a happy one!  Forgiveness releases the chains that bind you, allows you to see things more clearly, frees you from pain and being under control of the person who wronged you.

This is not to say that everyone in your life is good for you, I’m just saying that forgiveness actually gives you back control of your relationships and emotions.  Forgiving a parent for abusing you, forgiving a spouse who cheated on you, forgiving a friend from stealing from you, it doesn’t mean that what they did was OK.  It means that their action is not in control of your life and your emotions.  By all means, there are people we need to avoid for our own safety or sanity, but if you won’t let go of the anger and hate, you really haven’t released them from your lives, you’re letting them stay in control.

I forgave my own father long ago.  I still remember the bad things, but I also remember the good.  I remember the shared love of horror, crime, and mystery novels and movies.  I remember him showing me how to draw and giving me art supplies (even sending them to me as an adult!), I remember him coming to get me when I had an accident on my bicycle and my friends rode to my house for help.  I do also remember the dad who tore my entire bedroom apart looking for the keys my mom hid so he wouldn’t make good on his threat to run over a kid who rode his bike out in front of the car, who embarrassed the heck out of me by going to a father-daughter dance in 10^th grade drunk out of his mind, or my brother jumping him from behind to keep me from being hit, but I also saw his humanness, and how hurt his soul was when my mom divorced him and took us to another state, and I saw the transformation in him that the wake up call brought.  I attended his funeral about 10 years ago.  I never saw so many people at a funeral.  People came up to me to tell me how much he had meant in their lives in AA, how much he had helped them.  For all the hell he may have put me through, I’m still proud of him, still can see the man he was meant to be.  I am actually a lot like him.  Smart, hard working, introverted, strange sense of humor, artistic, and caring and forgiving.  

His ashes are in an urn on my bedroom shelf.  My son talks to them sometimes.  He’s never met his grandpa (not because I didn’t offer to bring him here, but because he was too proud to take money from me, another trait we share), but he knows the good things I’ve said about him and finds it comforting.

Forgiveness.  It’s not a bad word.  It doesn't change what happened, but it does change our outlook and affects our own happiness.

That's why they have wine.

The Elusive Question of Color

This may be really long, and maybe a little scattered, but I’m feeling very hopeful after a couple of recent conversations – one in “real life” and one online – in the last week that have shown that there are really people out there who can have open, non-political, discussions about race and culture.  Some will still read this with their political talking point glasses on, but some, I now know, can actually see past all of that stuff.

Skin color.  What does it really matter?  That question, well, it seemed to be the thing said for a long time in this country by those pushing for change.  Now, it seems to be being asked by those who are confused because they are judged for not thinking it matters.  It’s gotten to be a confusing muddle of information.

I would like to ask it though.  Skin color, what does it really matter?  Is it any different than eye color or hair color or the size of your ears or whether or not your belly button is an innie or outie?  Does the shared tone of your skin with someone actually mean you shared the same culture and experiences?  If I get a tan and am as dark as my husband, do I suddenly have more in common with him that matters?  If you are African American, do you share the same background, struggles, and goals as your neighbor who is of Haitian heritage?  Do I, as a “white” person with Polish and German heritages, have the same traditions as my friend with an Irish background?

To me, skin color is just a physical characteristic.  It means nothing more than if your pinky toe is longer or shorter than the one next to it.  So why do we invest so much energy into the tone of our skin?

There are, most definitely, people who judge on skin color, I’m not questioning that.  I am questioning why on earth we think this matters, and I’m talking to people of ALL skin tones.

I have been told I can’t understand because I’m white, because no one judges on that, that maybe I’m even envied.  If I was going to go the politically correct route, I’d say “Yes, I can’t understand, everyone thinks it’s wonderful that I have “white” skin, and I obviously have never, ever been judged on that.”  If I was going to go the politically correct route.  If I am intellectually honest, however, I can’t say that. 

In my 20’s, I lived with a man with whom I discussed marriage plans.  We even told my mom we were at some point planning to marry.  His mom, however, we didn’t tell her that, she didn’t like me.  Well, she liked talking to me, she liked how her younger kids got along with me and would be excited to tell me about their baseball games or their new toys when I came over, but she didn’t like that I was in a relationship with her son.  She didn’t like it because I was not Hispanic.  She never told me this outright, but she spoke it in front of me in Spanish constantly to her son.  She didn’t care if he found someone Argentinian, like they were, but she wanted him to find someone Hispanic.  A couple of weeks before we broke up, I told him I was not going to live my life with someone whose mother didn’t want me there, and a son that wasn't going to defend me.  Yes, I revealed that this little blonde Polish girl actually understood every darn conversation that went on about me.  Surprise! 

That is just one example in my 50 years of life.  I get it.  I get that sometimes there are people who look differently at those outside of their own culture.  I understand how it feels.  I don’t understand why we judge on that, or, more recently why we are judged for not judging on that.

The term “colorblind,” this was the goal some years ago, meaning to be able to look past someone’s skin color.  That term now carries negative connotations.  Why?  I was told recently that it is because people are ignoring other’s skin color and aren’t “embracing” their skin color, celebrating it.  And here I am very confused.  It’s skin color.  I don’t embrace and celebrate eye colors, I’m not sure exactly what it means to embrace and celebrate someone’s skin color, even my own.  It’s skin.  It’s an organ we all have.  It varies in shade, even among the “colors” we have defined.  I have no clue how to embrace it.  And wasn’t ignoring it kind of the goal at one point?  Why have we gone from realizing it doesn’t matter, to now realizing that it does?

Is part of our issue being comfortable in our own skin?  We are terribly oversensitive to if someone thinks we are too tall or too short, too skinny or too fat.  We hate our hair texture, the size of our nose, the size of our butts, the hair on our bodies… Is this part of the same thing?  Something else that was brought up in a discussion was that people of a certain race, within their own race, tend to judge each other on their lightness or darkness.  Is this issue maybe part of what is assumed those of other races are judging on too? At this point in time, is what we really need to do is learn to appreciate ourselves and all of our own physical characteristics? Can we help to combat some racism by having true love for ourselves and who we are, and realizing that those that don’t love us for ourselves are the ones losing out?

We all come from different backgrounds, different cultures and different mixes of cultures, we all have different personalities, different looks, different thoughts and feelings.  Every single one of us is different from the other, and all of us have some common characteristics with a wide range of other people.  However, we have this love of grouping and labeling ourselves into small definitions for some reason.  Maybe we need to stop that?

Many of our differing opinions on things, while they can be rooted in our background and culture, are influenced often by other things, such as age, education, work experience, life experience.  While we come from different cultures, we can have similar values as those not of our own, and we can have vastly different ones from our own children.

Just take a little time to ponder why we base so much on some arbitrary physical characteristic.  If you have insight into some of my questions, please offer it.

That’s why they have wine.