Does anyone remember a couple of years back when I made it abundantly clear that I have trouble finishing the things I start?
Um...yeah.
Well, on the plus size...I mean side, plus side ...at least I've never lied to you.
So, what the hell have I been doing in the 20 months it took me to blog again? Well, for those of you who haven't yet been initiated, I started a channel on YouTube while living in New York. Which you can find by clicking here www.youtube.com/JahairasMission . I began making videos in the hopes that one or two people might find me entertaining, and a surprising number of people caught on. I'm still blown away by the support that I've received on that channel, and for those of you who have come over here to read this blog, I thank you from the very bottom of my heart.
I also moved to Boston for a few months, which was yet one more gross error in judgement (in case I've been lacking in that department). I've since relocated to Kentucky, which is probably the first decision I've made that actually seems to be the right one for me. In an astonishing moment of clarity, I came to the realization that I'd never truly lived alone in my adult life. Whether there was a man or a child involved, I'd always been in the company of another. Which made focusing on their needs and not my own a whole lot easier. So, as is wont to happen with women the world over, my needs went on the shelf for a while.
Listen, I could give you 150 excuses as to why I let this mission/my mission/myself go, but the bare-bones truth is deceptively simple. When you are not a priority in your own life, you will find any number of reasons why something external is more important than you, and the pathology oftentimes runs so very deeply that those reasons seem perfectly logical. As for me, eventually, I just got tired of making excuses for my own damn behavior.
I don't know how many of you are like this, but for me, the feeling I get when I'm determined and the feeling I get when I'm pissed-off are remarkably similar. I'm 32 years old now, and I want to achieve SOMETHING. I'm not a homeowner, I don't know how to drive, hell, I can't even whistle. And this mission directly correlates whether or not I'll see 50 years old. Which, if only to prove to myself that I can, is something I'd really like to do. So I'm getting back on the wagon, people. And I'm not stopping until the fat lady can sing her way into a size 18. I'm not putting a time limit on myself, screw the 100 pounds in 1 year. I may have failed at that, but I will not fail at this.
Because this time...it's about me.
***Author's Note:. I wrote this blog shortly after midnight on September 11, only now recognizing the 10-year anniversary of a morning that forever changed America. Perhaps one thing has nothing to do with the other, but I would be remiss here if I didn't acknowledge the brevity of such a day, and stand in remembrance with the rest of the country. America, like myself, is learning to heal. - JC
Sunday, September 11, 2011
Tuesday, January 5, 2010
Cymbalta Moments, or Mission: In the (Thick) of It.
OK, I'm back.
Sorry about that.
I'm not even sure how to explain that little outburst, but I'm pretty sure that if the one reading this is obese as well, I don't have to. The thing is, this is scary. Not spooky-scary. Abject-terror scary would fit the bill nicely here, and even that seems like an understatement.
The common misperception, dear reader, is that being "of a certain size" is a purely physical issue. It's not. It's mental, emotional, even spiritual. And because it's a visual malady, it will find a way to affix itself to your very persona. Being fat can (and does) become a very real aspect of your identity because, let's face it, you can't exactly avoid it. Not acknowledging it doesn't keep it from existing, so the mentality of "I'll talk about it before anyone else does" quickly surfaces. And so, if I become unfat (at least by my standards), who...am I? Will I still be me? Will I be less funny, less jovial, less congenial, less...everything?
This is the fear, people, and I know I'm not the only one out there who deals with this.
On another note, the New Year brought in a slew of changes besides my eating habits. I broke up with the guy I'd been seeing since September on New Year's Day (believe me, you would've too). I'm now rocking a short and sassy new 'do (temporary, but hell, MSAPF is about the only thing I can commit to at this point), and my outlook is overall good. I've been drinking more water than a freakin' manatee, and the movement (because calling it 'exercise' will equal me not doing it) aspect of the Mission will commence as soon as it stops feeling like Nome, Alaska in Brooklyn. Once I have my own place (we're praying for February) I can buy fitness DVD's, and that should carry me through the winter, but until then, it's my sneakers and the pavement. I do have a gameplan I'm working on for that, which I'll let you know once I implement it.
So, that's about it for now. HUGE shoutout to S.T. for spreading the word about MSAPF, I appreciate it dearly. And if you're on this ride with me, feel free to Comment with your questions/comments/hate mail/death threats/healthy recipes!!
Not necessarily in that order.
Sorry about that.
I'm not even sure how to explain that little outburst, but I'm pretty sure that if the one reading this is obese as well, I don't have to. The thing is, this is scary. Not spooky-scary. Abject-terror scary would fit the bill nicely here, and even that seems like an understatement.
The common misperception, dear reader, is that being "of a certain size" is a purely physical issue. It's not. It's mental, emotional, even spiritual. And because it's a visual malady, it will find a way to affix itself to your very persona. Being fat can (and does) become a very real aspect of your identity because, let's face it, you can't exactly avoid it. Not acknowledging it doesn't keep it from existing, so the mentality of "I'll talk about it before anyone else does" quickly surfaces. And so, if I become unfat (at least by my standards), who...am I? Will I still be me? Will I be less funny, less jovial, less congenial, less...everything?
This is the fear, people, and I know I'm not the only one out there who deals with this.
On another note, the New Year brought in a slew of changes besides my eating habits. I broke up with the guy I'd been seeing since September on New Year's Day (believe me, you would've too). I'm now rocking a short and sassy new 'do (temporary, but hell, MSAPF is about the only thing I can commit to at this point), and my outlook is overall good. I've been drinking more water than a freakin' manatee, and the movement (because calling it 'exercise' will equal me not doing it) aspect of the Mission will commence as soon as it stops feeling like Nome, Alaska in Brooklyn. Once I have my own place (we're praying for February) I can buy fitness DVD's, and that should carry me through the winter, but until then, it's my sneakers and the pavement. I do have a gameplan I'm working on for that, which I'll let you know once I implement it.
So, that's about it for now. HUGE shoutout to S.T. for spreading the word about MSAPF, I appreciate it dearly. And if you're on this ride with me, feel free to Comment with your questions/comments/hate mail/death threats/healthy recipes!!
Not necessarily in that order.
Sunday, January 3, 2010
Day One, or Mission: What the Hell was I Thinking?
So here we are.
Day One of MSAPF.
This is it.
Yup.
ohmygodohmygodohmygodohmygodohmygodohmygodohmygodohmygodohmygodohmygod.
Ok, I'm gonna be back later with something a little more productive to say.
Day One of MSAPF.
This is it.
Yup.
ohmygodohmygodohmygodohmygodohmygodohmygodohmygodohmygodohmygodohmygod.
Ok, I'm gonna be back later with something a little more productive to say.
Wednesday, December 2, 2009
Gorge; It Ain't Just a Hole in the Earth, or Mission: Musings on My Mother
There is an ongoing debate amongst scholars and bystanders alike as to whom was actually the first person to coin the phrase, "the road to hell is paved with good intentions". I'm not gonna clear that issue up here and now, but I'm pretty sure that whoever said it may have had an affair with my mother. Don't get me wrong, my mother's heart has always been in the right place. Her head, however, has occasionally been in Altuna. Camryn Manheim (major big-girl inspiration) once said, "Parents know how to push your buttons because, hey, they sewed them on". She too, may have had an affair with my mother.
OK, I'm kidding. Frankly, my mother could've used a good affair or two. She was married for twenty-two years to a man with detachment issues and Oedipal tendencies, and believe me, that's the nicest possible way to describe him. More often than not, all my mother and I had was each other, and a relationship formed under those kind of conditions can result in one of two outcomes: you'll either wind up being best friends or you'll be ready to murder each other. My mom and I have succeeded in a little bit of both of those extremes. There is no one, and I mean no one, who has been in my corner like this lady. She has championed and supported, if not always understood, every major (and minor) endeavour I've taken on. Conversely, she has, at varying moments, made me want to find a fluffy, mewling kitten and punch it dead in the face. The evolution of our relationship from mother/child to true friend has been built on a healthy love of a good joke, red wine, and each other. But I don't always like her, and she doesn't always like me. And for as long as I can remember, one of our biggest (forgive the pun) points of contention has been my weight.
My mother, bless her svelte little heart, was about 116 pounds when she got married in 1970. As of this writing, she's 102 pounds. Five-foot four inches, in her sixties, and the body of a teenage Korean gymnast. Don't set the bar too high or anything, Mom. When I was younger, she would regale me with tales of her "chubby years", right before she hit thirteen. I was reassured ad nauseum that I simply had baby fat and I would grow out of it. Meanwhile, seventeen years later, my baby fat has attended college and been engaged twice. But I digress. The one thing you need to be made aware of, o ye wonderful reader, is that "worry" is my mother's baseline emotion. It's what she knows, it's who she is, it's all (and I do mean all) she does. At any given moment, catastrophe could befall the earth; we may all be thrust into nuclear winter, and my mother's mood will not change. In fact, it would be right up her alley. It's not her fault. It's just the way she is, and if I had to live the life she's had to, I couldn't sit here with a straight face and tell y'all that I wouldn't have ended up the same way. But my mother's worry is akin to a heat-seeking missile, and my health has all-too often been her designated target.
Have you ever noticed that your parents can say one thing to you, but because they're your parents, the way you interpret what's being said could be completely different than their intent?
Case in point:
My mother says, "Jahaira, I'm really nervous for you. If you don't change your eating habits, you could wind up with diabetes or coronary artery disease!!"
But I hear, "Goddammit Jahaira, would ya pick up a carrot stick already, you're starting to look like a small country!!"
My mom is not a malicious person. Never has been. I know she only brings the subject of my weight up because she cares about me. I know this because that's what she tells me every time we argue about it. (joke, joke, hehehe) But the fact remains, it hurts. It hurts every single time. It hurts because there's no way you can explain obesity to someone who's never been obese. It hurts because parents are supposed to love you unconditionally (in theory, anyway) and I don't feel loved when my mother goes off on her tangents in a pair of size-two Donna Karan jeans and an Escada sweater that would probably fit comfortably on my forearm. I feel enormous, and ashamed, and I want to hide in my apartment with a large pizza and shut out the world. Which is exactly how I handled my mother's little pep talks for more years than I can count. My mother's issue with me was about food, and I didn't feel good when she kvetched about food, so food was what I ran to, just as soon as I could get away from her. Which has to, has to change. Both my running and her...whatever you call it. This horse has been beaten for so long, it's glue. Hopefully MSAPF will give both of us a way out of this cycle we're in.
...It should be noted, though, that my mother almost cried with joy when I explained the Mission to her. See? I told you she supports me. =-)
P.S. Author's note: It's reprehensible to have gone this long without updating MSAPF. As some of you know, I'm in the process of securing my own apartment here in Brooklyn, and getting out of my sister's bouncy, Pantene-esque hair once and for all, which is beating the sweet hell out of any free time I have. But January 4th is looming, so I'll try to make myself more available to all of you. I hope everyone had a much healthier Thanksgiving than I did (ugh...so...much...food), and I'll post again soon!
OK, I'm kidding. Frankly, my mother could've used a good affair or two. She was married for twenty-two years to a man with detachment issues and Oedipal tendencies, and believe me, that's the nicest possible way to describe him. More often than not, all my mother and I had was each other, and a relationship formed under those kind of conditions can result in one of two outcomes: you'll either wind up being best friends or you'll be ready to murder each other. My mom and I have succeeded in a little bit of both of those extremes. There is no one, and I mean no one, who has been in my corner like this lady. She has championed and supported, if not always understood, every major (and minor) endeavour I've taken on. Conversely, she has, at varying moments, made me want to find a fluffy, mewling kitten and punch it dead in the face. The evolution of our relationship from mother/child to true friend has been built on a healthy love of a good joke, red wine, and each other. But I don't always like her, and she doesn't always like me. And for as long as I can remember, one of our biggest (forgive the pun) points of contention has been my weight.
My mother, bless her svelte little heart, was about 116 pounds when she got married in 1970. As of this writing, she's 102 pounds. Five-foot four inches, in her sixties, and the body of a teenage Korean gymnast. Don't set the bar too high or anything, Mom. When I was younger, she would regale me with tales of her "chubby years", right before she hit thirteen. I was reassured ad nauseum that I simply had baby fat and I would grow out of it. Meanwhile, seventeen years later, my baby fat has attended college and been engaged twice. But I digress. The one thing you need to be made aware of, o ye wonderful reader, is that "worry" is my mother's baseline emotion. It's what she knows, it's who she is, it's all (and I do mean all) she does. At any given moment, catastrophe could befall the earth; we may all be thrust into nuclear winter, and my mother's mood will not change. In fact, it would be right up her alley. It's not her fault. It's just the way she is, and if I had to live the life she's had to, I couldn't sit here with a straight face and tell y'all that I wouldn't have ended up the same way. But my mother's worry is akin to a heat-seeking missile, and my health has all-too often been her designated target.
Have you ever noticed that your parents can say one thing to you, but because they're your parents, the way you interpret what's being said could be completely different than their intent?
Case in point:
My mother says, "Jahaira, I'm really nervous for you. If you don't change your eating habits, you could wind up with diabetes or coronary artery disease!!"
But I hear, "Goddammit Jahaira, would ya pick up a carrot stick already, you're starting to look like a small country!!"
My mom is not a malicious person. Never has been. I know she only brings the subject of my weight up because she cares about me. I know this because that's what she tells me every time we argue about it. (joke, joke, hehehe) But the fact remains, it hurts. It hurts every single time. It hurts because there's no way you can explain obesity to someone who's never been obese. It hurts because parents are supposed to love you unconditionally (in theory, anyway) and I don't feel loved when my mother goes off on her tangents in a pair of size-two Donna Karan jeans and an Escada sweater that would probably fit comfortably on my forearm. I feel enormous, and ashamed, and I want to hide in my apartment with a large pizza and shut out the world. Which is exactly how I handled my mother's little pep talks for more years than I can count. My mother's issue with me was about food, and I didn't feel good when she kvetched about food, so food was what I ran to, just as soon as I could get away from her. Which has to, has to change. Both my running and her...whatever you call it. This horse has been beaten for so long, it's glue. Hopefully MSAPF will give both of us a way out of this cycle we're in.
...It should be noted, though, that my mother almost cried with joy when I explained the Mission to her. See? I told you she supports me. =-)
P.S. Author's note: It's reprehensible to have gone this long without updating MSAPF. As some of you know, I'm in the process of securing my own apartment here in Brooklyn, and getting out of my sister's bouncy, Pantene-esque hair once and for all, which is beating the sweet hell out of any free time I have. But January 4th is looming, so I'll try to make myself more available to all of you. I hope everyone had a much healthier Thanksgiving than I did (ugh...so...much...food), and I'll post again soon!
Thursday, November 12, 2009
Lists are Good, or Mission: When You Wish Upon a Salad
So the effort to post more frequently continues. Food-wise, today was a pretty good day for me. I actually managed to eat lunch, which brings my grand total of meals eaten in one day up to 2. Believe me, it's an accomplishment. Normally I eat one meal at around 7 p.m., then eat the gastronomic equivalent of a small village around 3 a.m. Granted, when I'm in my own apartment (please, kind baby Jesus, may it happen soon), it'll be easier to do the three-meals-a-day thing. Until then, I make do with the Halal mom-and-pop place behind my building. Which isn't bad, seeing as there's no ham or salami in sight, and I did find something healthy there that doesn't taste like shit (shoutout to Boar's Head for making salsa-flavored turkey breast!). But woman cannot live on turkey alone, and I'm definitely looking for new inspiration without having to actually cook anything. Which is not to say that I can't cook (you think I got this size by looking at food?), but ya know, it's not my kitchen, I'm not trying to change anyone else's eating habits, blah, blah, blah.
The one idea I did end up gleaning from Ruby's Diary was to make a wish list. Conversely, this is one exercise I know I'm gonna hate doing, which is pretty much how I know that it needs to be done. This whole brutal-honesty, all-my-business, here's-my-deepest-secrets-for-all-the-world-to-see shit is for the birds. Sorry, but that sentiment falls right in line with the whole honesty thing. I know that this may be helping someone, I know that expunging my subconscious is necessary for those who'd like to get to know me, or for those who'd like to get to know me better. I can comprehend all of this on a cellular level. But that sure don't make this easier.
OK, deep breath...here goes.
I wish...
* I wish I didn't have to think about buying two bus tickets to travel one-way, just to spare a stranger the embarrassment of having to sit next to me.
* I wish I could buy shoes like regular people, and wear heels.
* I wish I didn't have to sit down so often because doing the most mundane stuff leaves me out of breath.
* I wish I could buy sneakers with shoelaces and not have to wish that someone else would tie them.
* I wish I could reach around my body without the accompanying pain in my side that knocks the wind out of me.
* I wish I were small enough to do a cartwheel again.
* I wish stairs weren't the enemy.
* I wish I could regain feeling in my hips again, my weight has pinched the nerves so deeply that I have localized paralysis.
* I wish I wasn't a bigger size (26-28) than some of the plus-size stores carry clothes in.
* I wish my friends wouldn't have to slow down when they walk, just so I can keep up with them.
* I wish someone could see the pain behind my smile, the pain I carry every single day that I'm trapped in this body.
OK...I think I've done all the wishing I can do for one day.
P.S. In regards to my laptop, or DietPepsiGate, as this issue will henceforth and evermore be known as, no news to report. I've gotta work tonight, and my weekend is shot, as I prepare for an event that I've been threatened with bodily harm about, should I choose not to attend. So Monday morning, I'm off to Best Buy. As an aside, in the city that never sleeps, why is the only Best Buy in a mile around so damn far away from me? I tell ya, there's just no justice...
The one idea I did end up gleaning from Ruby's Diary was to make a wish list. Conversely, this is one exercise I know I'm gonna hate doing, which is pretty much how I know that it needs to be done. This whole brutal-honesty, all-my-business, here's-my-deepest-secrets-for-all-the-world-to-see shit is for the birds. Sorry, but that sentiment falls right in line with the whole honesty thing. I know that this may be helping someone, I know that expunging my subconscious is necessary for those who'd like to get to know me, or for those who'd like to get to know me better. I can comprehend all of this on a cellular level. But that sure don't make this easier.
OK, deep breath...here goes.
I wish...
* I wish I didn't have to think about buying two bus tickets to travel one-way, just to spare a stranger the embarrassment of having to sit next to me.
* I wish I could buy shoes like regular people, and wear heels.
* I wish I didn't have to sit down so often because doing the most mundane stuff leaves me out of breath.
* I wish I could buy sneakers with shoelaces and not have to wish that someone else would tie them.
* I wish I could reach around my body without the accompanying pain in my side that knocks the wind out of me.
* I wish I were small enough to do a cartwheel again.
* I wish stairs weren't the enemy.
* I wish I could regain feeling in my hips again, my weight has pinched the nerves so deeply that I have localized paralysis.
* I wish I wasn't a bigger size (26-28) than some of the plus-size stores carry clothes in.
* I wish my friends wouldn't have to slow down when they walk, just so I can keep up with them.
* I wish someone could see the pain behind my smile, the pain I carry every single day that I'm trapped in this body.
OK...I think I've done all the wishing I can do for one day.
P.S. In regards to my laptop, or DietPepsiGate, as this issue will henceforth and evermore be known as, no news to report. I've gotta work tonight, and my weekend is shot, as I prepare for an event that I've been threatened with bodily harm about, should I choose not to attend. So Monday morning, I'm off to Best Buy. As an aside, in the city that never sleeps, why is the only Best Buy in a mile around so damn far away from me? I tell ya, there's just no justice...
Monday, November 9, 2009
Snafus, Studies, and Swearing or Mission: If It Ain't One Thing...
It's an unavoidable truth that when one attempts something that drastically deviates from their day-to-day routine, some odd circumstance will rise up in an attempt to discourage them from their intended goal. Truth be told, I shouldn't have been surprised by this latest fly in the road-to-wellness soup I've got simmering here. I am not exempt from Murphy, or his law. And yes, in my mind Murphy is a man. A man who should be chained and dragged naked through the streets whilst being publicly spurned for his micropenis. But I digress.
It's also an unavoidable truth (unless you renounce earthly pleasures, in which case, what the hell are you looking at a computer for?) that denial of any particular thing can oftentimes lead to nonstop thinking about the very thing you've been denied of. Exhibit A: my laptop ran into an unfortunate incident involving an overturned can of Diet Pepsi and my less-than-catlike reflexes. Now, I realize what all of you must be thinking...and I completely agree with you. Water is a much healthier choice than diet soda. I understand that. But this is my laptop, people. My lifeline. My connection to everything, including you. And Joni Mitchell needs to get smacked right in her sassy little mouth for being such an insufferable know-it-all. You really don't know what you've got 'til it's gone. All the days I didn't blog when I should have turned from mere procrastination into wasted opportunities. Cue the self-flagellation orchestra. Opus Dei, here I come!
Fortunately, my sister (who I'm now thoroughly convinced is actually St. Agnes of God, cleverly disguised as a size-2 fashionista) has been kind enough to let me use her Mac for the purpose of MSAPF. And if you ever needed to know how technologically-deficient/image-obsessed I truly can be, no example will ever be greater than my internal response to the moment that my sister said, "You know, the Mac is just sitting there, you can always use it". I thought she was talking about makeup. Classic me. Of course, the fact that I haven't sat down to a desktop computer since my pre-collegiate years will not deter me from getting all of this stuff out of my head (and heart, because believe me, there's some serious heart-stuff coming), and onto the screen. I'm going to make a conscious effort to post on a daily basis, even if it is on my normal 3 a.m. schedule. January 4th is getting closer, and I'd like to start the new year off having purged myself of the fat-girl crap I've been holding onto in silence for so long.
But for those of you who think I've just been idling the days away while my beloved Vaio lays comatose, fear not! Let us not forget the time-tested, age-old adage: "Those who can, do. Those who can't, research the hell out of what it is they're trying to do". Or something like that. My two dearest friends and I (one being Barnes, the other being Noble) have been enjoying a number of threesomes as of late, and we're all quite satisfied, thanks for asking. I bought Ruby's Diary, by Ruby Gettinger, and finished it in one night. Ruby, for those of you who may be unawares, has an eponymous reality show on the Style Network, chronicling her weight loss from a high of 715 pounds in 1997, to her current weight of 334 pounds (as of the publication of her book). I believe she was somewhere in the 500's when the show began, and apparently her goal weight is 150 pounds. I came to a lot of conclusions at the end of her warm, funny, touching, and spirited book.
First of all, changing your life is hard work, whether you're 300 pounds or 700 pounds. There truly are no shortcuts, not if you want to remain in a healthful state for the rest of your life. And seeing as how 98% of all diets fail, you better be aiming for a drastic change of life, not some quick fix, because the odds are already stacked against you. Ruby's story forced me to come to grips with some things that I've never consciously allowed myself to even think about, things I know I'm gonna have to 'fess up to on this Mission. Things that knocked the wind out of me and started the projectile tears when I read them, because in that moment, Ruby's truth was my truth, too.
Of course, one other conclusion became painfully evident after reading Ruby's Diary...this chick and me could never, in a million years, be friends. It's not her, of course. It's me. Definitely, unquestionably me. You see, Ruby is a true Southern belle, the apple of her (late) daddy's eye, raised up a good Baptist girl (ok, I'm only guessing that she's Baptist, but having been around a good number of Baptists in my day, it's an educated guess), and all that jazz (or country, as the case may be). This beautiful woman says 'dang' instead of 'damn', 'helicopter' instead of 'hell', and refers to her backside as 'Bertha'.
And then you have me.
I was raised in a Catholic home, took a left at Catholicism, and have never looked back. I rediscovered that spirituality doesn't have to equal religion in my mid-twenties, and that's basically where I am today.
The first curse word I can remember saying was 'jackass'. I was in kindergarten.
My father and his family disowned me when I was 16. I speak to him, on average, twice a year. When he dies, I hope someone will read his obituary in the paper and call me to let me know that he's passed on. As was the case with my paternal grandmother.
And quite frankly, the stories I've got in conjunction with my every-Crayola-in-the-box colorful language would probably result in sweet Georgia peach Ruby running at full speed in the opposite direction. I have the utmost respect and admiration for people like Miz Ruby, I'm just too damn ghetto for her and her kind.
Ah, well. Another 4 a.m. bedtime, but this was so worth it. I missed this. And I missed y'all. Real talk.
(I bet Ruby don't even know what "real talk" means. So there.)
It's also an unavoidable truth (unless you renounce earthly pleasures, in which case, what the hell are you looking at a computer for?) that denial of any particular thing can oftentimes lead to nonstop thinking about the very thing you've been denied of. Exhibit A: my laptop ran into an unfortunate incident involving an overturned can of Diet Pepsi and my less-than-catlike reflexes. Now, I realize what all of you must be thinking...and I completely agree with you. Water is a much healthier choice than diet soda. I understand that. But this is my laptop, people. My lifeline. My connection to everything, including you. And Joni Mitchell needs to get smacked right in her sassy little mouth for being such an insufferable know-it-all. You really don't know what you've got 'til it's gone. All the days I didn't blog when I should have turned from mere procrastination into wasted opportunities. Cue the self-flagellation orchestra. Opus Dei, here I come!
Fortunately, my sister (who I'm now thoroughly convinced is actually St. Agnes of God, cleverly disguised as a size-2 fashionista) has been kind enough to let me use her Mac for the purpose of MSAPF. And if you ever needed to know how technologically-deficient/image-obsessed I truly can be, no example will ever be greater than my internal response to the moment that my sister said, "You know, the Mac is just sitting there, you can always use it". I thought she was talking about makeup. Classic me. Of course, the fact that I haven't sat down to a desktop computer since my pre-collegiate years will not deter me from getting all of this stuff out of my head (and heart, because believe me, there's some serious heart-stuff coming), and onto the screen. I'm going to make a conscious effort to post on a daily basis, even if it is on my normal 3 a.m. schedule. January 4th is getting closer, and I'd like to start the new year off having purged myself of the fat-girl crap I've been holding onto in silence for so long.
But for those of you who think I've just been idling the days away while my beloved Vaio lays comatose, fear not! Let us not forget the time-tested, age-old adage: "Those who can, do. Those who can't, research the hell out of what it is they're trying to do". Or something like that. My two dearest friends and I (one being Barnes, the other being Noble) have been enjoying a number of threesomes as of late, and we're all quite satisfied, thanks for asking. I bought Ruby's Diary, by Ruby Gettinger, and finished it in one night. Ruby, for those of you who may be unawares, has an eponymous reality show on the Style Network, chronicling her weight loss from a high of 715 pounds in 1997, to her current weight of 334 pounds (as of the publication of her book). I believe she was somewhere in the 500's when the show began, and apparently her goal weight is 150 pounds. I came to a lot of conclusions at the end of her warm, funny, touching, and spirited book.
First of all, changing your life is hard work, whether you're 300 pounds or 700 pounds. There truly are no shortcuts, not if you want to remain in a healthful state for the rest of your life. And seeing as how 98% of all diets fail, you better be aiming for a drastic change of life, not some quick fix, because the odds are already stacked against you. Ruby's story forced me to come to grips with some things that I've never consciously allowed myself to even think about, things I know I'm gonna have to 'fess up to on this Mission. Things that knocked the wind out of me and started the projectile tears when I read them, because in that moment, Ruby's truth was my truth, too.
Of course, one other conclusion became painfully evident after reading Ruby's Diary...this chick and me could never, in a million years, be friends. It's not her, of course. It's me. Definitely, unquestionably me. You see, Ruby is a true Southern belle, the apple of her (late) daddy's eye, raised up a good Baptist girl (ok, I'm only guessing that she's Baptist, but having been around a good number of Baptists in my day, it's an educated guess), and all that jazz (or country, as the case may be). This beautiful woman says 'dang' instead of 'damn', 'helicopter' instead of 'hell', and refers to her backside as 'Bertha'.
And then you have me.
I was raised in a Catholic home, took a left at Catholicism, and have never looked back. I rediscovered that spirituality doesn't have to equal religion in my mid-twenties, and that's basically where I am today.
The first curse word I can remember saying was 'jackass'. I was in kindergarten.
My father and his family disowned me when I was 16. I speak to him, on average, twice a year. When he dies, I hope someone will read his obituary in the paper and call me to let me know that he's passed on. As was the case with my paternal grandmother.
And quite frankly, the stories I've got in conjunction with my every-Crayola-in-the-box colorful language would probably result in sweet Georgia peach Ruby running at full speed in the opposite direction. I have the utmost respect and admiration for people like Miz Ruby, I'm just too damn ghetto for her and her kind.
Ah, well. Another 4 a.m. bedtime, but this was so worth it. I missed this. And I missed y'all. Real talk.
(I bet Ruby don't even know what "real talk" means. So there.)
Thursday, November 5, 2009
On Neglect, or Mission: One Out of Three IS Bad
I'm seriously gonna have to start blogging with greater consistency than this. Unfortunately, my inspiration only seems to hit me at 3 in the morning, so by the time I'm done editing and all, I'm spent. Definitely gonna have to pick up the pace when the Mission really takes off, though.
Argh, the Mission. I think the devil on my shoulder is rebelling against the whole idea of this thing. Case in point: my eating habits suck, y'all might as well find out now. I have this godawful habit of forgetting to eat. Not deliberately skipping meals, not knowingly putting off the eating process, just forgetting. My days are pretty full, especially now as I move full-speed ahead towards finding my own place in Brooklyn, plus the work that I do, plus social obligations, so eating, especially during the day...well, like I said, I forget. And today was no different. I woke up around 11 a.m., sit in my room for most of the day making phone calls and doing all my online crap, no breakfast. Three o'clock rolls around, I'm still on the phone, Tweeting (damn you Twitter for your heroin-esque side effects), basically doing my day. No lunch. Forgot. I mean completely slipped my mind.
So now we're at 7 o'clock. And it strikes me, "hey, you haven't eaten yet". So I throw some sneakers on and make my way to the Chinese restaurant, where I proceed to buy an obscene amount of food. Like if food was porn, this would be the equivalent of a gangbang. My rationalization behind buying this much food (nature of food addiction exhibit A coming at you in 3...2..1) was that I'd have leftovers for the next day. Of course, what I neglected to admit to myself was that I was ravenous. Which resulted in me going home and consuming enough food for all of you, your mothers, your dogs, your dogs' mothers, and well, you get the drift.
Even as I sat gnawing on a rib with the voracity of Hannibal Lecter at Thanksgiving, I was saying to myself that I must get in the habit of eating three times a day. Which incidentally, is part of my gameplan. Even if I have to stick a Post-It on my footboard just to remind myself, I have to eat 3 times a day, there's just no getting around that. And maybe it's a good thing that I'm at least thinking along those lines (because trust me, this line of contemplation never entered my cerebral cortex prior to the planning stages of MSAPF), but thinking about it isn't taking any pounds off. I've got to put this thing into action, and I feel like I've at least gotta start taking the steps now, because it's not like January 4th is about to trigger some cosmic shift in the way I think.
I know this post is shorter than usual, but it'd be real nice to get to sleep before 5 a.m. And if I wake up early enough, I promise, I'll eat a healthy breakfast.
P.S. Susan Powter (of "Stop the Insanity" fame) said hi to me on Twitter! And wished me luck on MSAPF! How cool is that?
P.P.S. In the middle of writing this post, I spilled an entire can of Diet Pepsi on my bed, forcing me to flip my mattress, change my sheets, frantically try to salvage my laptop, and all that madness. Which I am officially declaring as my first attempt at exercise. I've got the asthma attack to back up this claim. And it sucked. Just thought you should know.
Argh, the Mission. I think the devil on my shoulder is rebelling against the whole idea of this thing. Case in point: my eating habits suck, y'all might as well find out now. I have this godawful habit of forgetting to eat. Not deliberately skipping meals, not knowingly putting off the eating process, just forgetting. My days are pretty full, especially now as I move full-speed ahead towards finding my own place in Brooklyn, plus the work that I do, plus social obligations, so eating, especially during the day...well, like I said, I forget. And today was no different. I woke up around 11 a.m., sit in my room for most of the day making phone calls and doing all my online crap, no breakfast. Three o'clock rolls around, I'm still on the phone, Tweeting (damn you Twitter for your heroin-esque side effects), basically doing my day. No lunch. Forgot. I mean completely slipped my mind.
So now we're at 7 o'clock. And it strikes me, "hey, you haven't eaten yet". So I throw some sneakers on and make my way to the Chinese restaurant, where I proceed to buy an obscene amount of food. Like if food was porn, this would be the equivalent of a gangbang. My rationalization behind buying this much food (nature of food addiction exhibit A coming at you in 3...2..1) was that I'd have leftovers for the next day. Of course, what I neglected to admit to myself was that I was ravenous. Which resulted in me going home and consuming enough food for all of you, your mothers, your dogs, your dogs' mothers, and well, you get the drift.
Even as I sat gnawing on a rib with the voracity of Hannibal Lecter at Thanksgiving, I was saying to myself that I must get in the habit of eating three times a day. Which incidentally, is part of my gameplan. Even if I have to stick a Post-It on my footboard just to remind myself, I have to eat 3 times a day, there's just no getting around that. And maybe it's a good thing that I'm at least thinking along those lines (because trust me, this line of contemplation never entered my cerebral cortex prior to the planning stages of MSAPF), but thinking about it isn't taking any pounds off. I've got to put this thing into action, and I feel like I've at least gotta start taking the steps now, because it's not like January 4th is about to trigger some cosmic shift in the way I think.
I know this post is shorter than usual, but it'd be real nice to get to sleep before 5 a.m. And if I wake up early enough, I promise, I'll eat a healthy breakfast.
P.S. Susan Powter (of "Stop the Insanity" fame) said hi to me on Twitter! And wished me luck on MSAPF! How cool is that?
P.P.S. In the middle of writing this post, I spilled an entire can of Diet Pepsi on my bed, forcing me to flip my mattress, change my sheets, frantically try to salvage my laptop, and all that madness. Which I am officially declaring as my first attempt at exercise. I've got the asthma attack to back up this claim. And it sucked. Just thought you should know.
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