Tuesday 11-22-11
Our daily bread...or at least the memories of it
Thanksgiving is bringing with it some mixed feelings and anxiety this year, for obvious reasons since I am doing the whole medically supervised weight loss. It is, for many people, and historically for my family, the biggest food holiday of the year. Compounding my nervousness is the fact that my brother is the only person in my family who knows that I am preparing for weight loss surgery, and he most likely won't be with us. So my holiday will be spent working my normal shift at my job and then rushing to the family gathering place for Thanksgiving supper.
Thank God for The Hubs! He will be with me to help me deal with any strangeness that could possibly ensue if anyone notices my altered eating and drinking habits. I am encouraged by the fact that I had lunch with a friend today and never touched the rolls that immediately landed on our table. (They materialized out of nowhere, as though Scotty from Star Trek just beamed them over!) Of course, the friend I was with today knows all about my weight loss process and completely supports me. But still, it was an accomplishment for me not even to touch the bread.
I am a Southern Diva to the core, and we Southern girls love us some bread. The scents, textures and rich flavors of the many kinds of breads we adore are the stuff fat girl dreams are made of. (Forgive me if the following descriptions and recollections border on the pornographic, I may not be able to help myself.) Some of my sweetest, albeit most carb-laden, memories are surrounded by the wafting aroma of bread...and some sad memories as well.
Mama mixed a few simple ingredients into a cast iron skillet and made a miracle every day at lunchtime for my Granny. Some corn meal, a splash of buttermilk, a little blob of bacon grease and some water, stirred with love and baked in a tiny little skillet turned into the best cornbread I have ever tasted in my life. No one else's "bread" (as Granny always called it) ever tasted as good, and I certainly never mastered this art form. I need to get the bread skillet from Dad's house before it gets gone.
Mamaw would make biscuits to eat with supper when Dad would take us to her and Papaw's house, usually on Sunday nights. There would always be a little dab of dough left over, too small to make another biscuit from but too big to waste. Mamaw, with her mischievous sense of humor, would fashion this remnant into a snake, sometimes with cinnamon sprinkled on top.
My Aunt Ruby made biscuits every day, from scratch, for over 4 decades, and when I was a kid/young adult, there were always leftover breakfast biscuits on her stove, slightly blackened on the bottom from the pan she baked them in and at least 2 inches tall at their golden-brown tops. Her husband, one of my 2 Uncle Johns, showed me how delicious those biscuits were with maple syrup on them along with the butter.
Holiday meals with my Mom and Pop-in-Law were usually crowded, hectic and filled with all kinds of delicious treats, including Mom-in-Law's homemade pies. They were legendary in our family. She could put together an incredible, nutritious and festive meal for a lot of people with efficiency and grace...and she was notorious for burning the rolls! Not crackly-crunch burned, just a little more toasty than she would have liked.
Mama died in the wee hours of the morning on December 8, 1997. We had spent what seemed like endless weeks there at the hospital with her as she declined, rallied and declined again. That last long day that I spent with her was grey and dreary, and the atmosphere inside the four walls of her room felt as chilly as the winter day outside. After she died and I left the hospital for the last time, I made the long walk once more from her room out to the parking garage, a walk I had made so many times I could almost count the ceiling tiles from one end of the trek to the other. Emerging into the cold night air, my awareness of everything around me seemed heightened, and my nostrils were filled with the warm, buttery aroma of bread being made at the bakery down the street.
So many of my memories involve food, and bread in particular. It isn't even the bread I miss so much (although I do miss it) as much as the hands who sifted and mixed, kneaded and rolled, and the hearts who baked love into every bite of warm, nourishing, sustaining bread I enjoyed growing up. I am thankful to God for all the bakers who fed me, not just my body, but my soul.
Tuesday, November 22, 2011
Sunday, November 20, 2011
This One's For The Girls (This AIN'T the Martina McBride song)
Sunday 11-20-11
Boobies busting out all over...
In my last post I talked a lot about The Girls, and how they have influenced my life since their arrival. My breasts developed early and, like a houseplant that has found a favorite window, they grew, and grew, and...I don't think they ever completely stopped. As my body size has increased, my breasts have increased as well. When I have dieted and exercised to shrink, however, I have successfully lost inches around my rib cage and back, but The Girls have always held their ground. My chest must be some prime real estate because The Girls ain't budging!
I have toyed for over 20 years with the idea of getting breast reduction surgery, but something always held me back from going ahead with it. I feel sure this is another part of God's plans and His timing, because now I am at a point where I am ready for weight loss surgery. I am so big now all over, it's time to just shrink everything. With the kind of weight the surgeon tells me I can expect to lose, some breast loss is all but inevitable. And I am fine with that.
Some education about breasts and their confinement: First of all, bra cup sizes don't stop at the letter D, or even at more than one or 2 D's. There is a whole alphabet of cup sizes beyond D, they just don't stock them in stores. Even the bras at so-called "plus-size" retailers never worked for me because the cups were just not big enough. My "cups runneth over." And believe me, I write this with nothing but humility (bordering on humiliation).
Secondly, for girls with Big Girls, we often need to find either an online source for bras that will accommodate us, or better yet, a custom fitter within a decent distance of where we live. I am blessed to live in a city where a custom fitter has operated a little shop out of her house for decades. Here busty ladies can find bras that will work for us, fitted with both expertise and compassion for our situation. I call her my Lingerie Lady, and I have referred countless other girls to her over the years for fittings. Nothing much is worse than trying to pour, stuff or force The Girls into a space too small to house them, in a style or fabric intended for much smaller breasts. Big Girls need substantial undergarments for daily wear, and comfort is not to be had in some filmy, flimsy, next-to-nothing bra, period. Back, neck and shoulder strain and pain are sure to follow. Some gals can wear lingerie; when you're built like I am, it's more like armor!
Some medical history about The Girls is in order as well, especially since I mentioned that they've been contentious ever since they were installed. I had my first scare with a breast lump at age 12. It was incredibly painful and, even with the miniscule likelihood of a malignancy at that age, I and my Mama were both pretty freaked-out about it. After seeing my lifelong (male) pediatrician, I was referred to a surgeon, a man with no bedside manner and cold hands. Fortunately he was also knowledgeable and preferred to take a wait-and-see approach to my lump, which he said was most likely a clogged milk duct, and while it was painful, it was harmless and would likely resolve on its own, which it did.
In the years that followed I was diagnosed with fibrocystic breasts, which makes sense because they've been lumpy for as long as I can remember. I had a lump come up about a year after the Hubs and I got married, and at age 23, I underwent my first mammogram. That lump (as well as the mammogram) also turned out to be harmless, thank God. The years that followed brought several other lumps, many mammograms and a few breast ultrasounds and/or spot compressions when something suspicious showed up. Most women have yearly mammograms starting at age 40, but because of my history of lumps and the sheer size of my breasts, I began having annual mammograms at age 35, which my insurance always covered. There has never been any cancer, for which I again thank God, and knock wood!
I will stress here the vital importance of monthly self-exams for all women of every breast size, because all of us women need to know how Our Girls feel normally. That way if something out of the norm pops up, we can be aware of it and get it checked. We have to be our own best advocate when it comes to our health. This public service announcement is proudly sponsored my My Girls, for the health and benefit of Your Girls.
Boobies busting out all over...
In my last post I talked a lot about The Girls, and how they have influenced my life since their arrival. My breasts developed early and, like a houseplant that has found a favorite window, they grew, and grew, and...I don't think they ever completely stopped. As my body size has increased, my breasts have increased as well. When I have dieted and exercised to shrink, however, I have successfully lost inches around my rib cage and back, but The Girls have always held their ground. My chest must be some prime real estate because The Girls ain't budging!
I have toyed for over 20 years with the idea of getting breast reduction surgery, but something always held me back from going ahead with it. I feel sure this is another part of God's plans and His timing, because now I am at a point where I am ready for weight loss surgery. I am so big now all over, it's time to just shrink everything. With the kind of weight the surgeon tells me I can expect to lose, some breast loss is all but inevitable. And I am fine with that.
Some education about breasts and their confinement: First of all, bra cup sizes don't stop at the letter D, or even at more than one or 2 D's. There is a whole alphabet of cup sizes beyond D, they just don't stock them in stores. Even the bras at so-called "plus-size" retailers never worked for me because the cups were just not big enough. My "cups runneth over." And believe me, I write this with nothing but humility (bordering on humiliation).
Secondly, for girls with Big Girls, we often need to find either an online source for bras that will accommodate us, or better yet, a custom fitter within a decent distance of where we live. I am blessed to live in a city where a custom fitter has operated a little shop out of her house for decades. Here busty ladies can find bras that will work for us, fitted with both expertise and compassion for our situation. I call her my Lingerie Lady, and I have referred countless other girls to her over the years for fittings. Nothing much is worse than trying to pour, stuff or force The Girls into a space too small to house them, in a style or fabric intended for much smaller breasts. Big Girls need substantial undergarments for daily wear, and comfort is not to be had in some filmy, flimsy, next-to-nothing bra, period. Back, neck and shoulder strain and pain are sure to follow. Some gals can wear lingerie; when you're built like I am, it's more like armor!
Some medical history about The Girls is in order as well, especially since I mentioned that they've been contentious ever since they were installed. I had my first scare with a breast lump at age 12. It was incredibly painful and, even with the miniscule likelihood of a malignancy at that age, I and my Mama were both pretty freaked-out about it. After seeing my lifelong (male) pediatrician, I was referred to a surgeon, a man with no bedside manner and cold hands. Fortunately he was also knowledgeable and preferred to take a wait-and-see approach to my lump, which he said was most likely a clogged milk duct, and while it was painful, it was harmless and would likely resolve on its own, which it did.
In the years that followed I was diagnosed with fibrocystic breasts, which makes sense because they've been lumpy for as long as I can remember. I had a lump come up about a year after the Hubs and I got married, and at age 23, I underwent my first mammogram. That lump (as well as the mammogram) also turned out to be harmless, thank God. The years that followed brought several other lumps, many mammograms and a few breast ultrasounds and/or spot compressions when something suspicious showed up. Most women have yearly mammograms starting at age 40, but because of my history of lumps and the sheer size of my breasts, I began having annual mammograms at age 35, which my insurance always covered. There has never been any cancer, for which I again thank God, and knock wood!
I will stress here the vital importance of monthly self-exams for all women of every breast size, because all of us women need to know how Our Girls feel normally. That way if something out of the norm pops up, we can be aware of it and get it checked. We have to be our own best advocate when it comes to our health. This public service announcement is proudly sponsored my My Girls, for the health and benefit of Your Girls.
Saturday, November 19, 2011
Fitting In
Saturday 11-19-11
Why the world is not designed for me
My whole life I've been battling with various things that don't fit me. For example, despite how big I have allowed my body to become, I have really small bones underneath it all. Really, petitely, ridiculously small. I have an old ring of my Mama's that I wear on my right thumb that is a size 7. On my THUMB. As big as I am, you'd think my hands and fingers would be sized on a scale to match. But no. And since most rings on display in jewelry store windows are usually a size 7, anytime I have bought a ring or had one purchased in a store for me, it has always had to be sized down. While my wedding dress definitely does not fit me anymore, my wedding band still does.
Then there were the years when it was nearly impossible to find the shoes I wanted because of my size 5 feet. Really. I remember the Easter that I bought a navy blue silk dress with a white collar. I loved that dress and I wanted navy and white spectator pumps to wear with it. The Hubs and I searched for weeks all over the Florida panhandle to find the shoes I wanted because, while the stores that year had plenty of navy and white spectator pumps, there was a distinct shortage of them in the size 5 medium I needed. I think we finally found the "perfect shoes" in Panama City. I am fortunate to have a Hubs who will trek hither and yon on quests such as The Great Spectator Pump Hunt of 1989.
I am also left-handed, so lots of things people use every day are not designed for me. Kitchen knives often have blades with edges made for use by the right hand, as do scissors. My schools only had right-hander desks, so I sat in them. I didn't even know left-hander desks existed until high school and by then I had gotten used to the other ones. I grew up adapting to these little inconveniences without much trouble. To this day, I cannot use a pair of left-handed scissors because I had to use right-handed ones for so long I got used to them. Ditto for computer mouses (mice?) because they are always placed on the right. I am unable to "mouse" left-handed. I wear my watch on my left wrist like all the right-handers in my life did because I was surrounded by them and that is how they wore their watches. Putting it on my other arm feels weird to me.
The biggest issues I have had with things not designed to fit me, though, have been because of The Girls. You know...hooters, knockers, ta-ta's, melons, jugs, boobies, sweater cows, man pillows. The names for women's breasts are limited only by one's imagination and/or lack of good taste. Mine have been large and contentious ever since they were installed! And the warranty on my breasts has not been good, either.
In the sixth grade at age 11, I was 5 feet, 1 inch tall, weighing 109 pounds and wearing a 34-B bra. Looking at photographs of myself back then, I realize that I was just plain STACKED. At the time, though, all I felt was huge and fat. I was taller than most of my classmates, and the arrival of The Girls just made me stick out (pardon the pun) all the more, at a time when all I wanted was just to fit in. Girls my age who had been all through grade school with me started acting differently toward me, and boys I'd known since first grade became mouthy, lewd and sometimes even grabby. I was freakin' 11! Junior high was pretty much the same story, although I think that my having a steady boyfriend in the ninth grade encouraged other boys to keep their hands and comments to themselves.
My family didn't seem to know what to make of The Girls, either. Before the growth spurt of both height and boobs, I'd had a couple of pudgy years, and I think my father (the Fatophobe) had already decided that I was just going to be another fat member of my mother's family, because as I asserted before, obesity does not come from his side. When I got a little taller and The Girls came to live with me, Dad had nothing to say about my appearance. It's sad because his approval meant more to me than anyone else's...probably because I never felt like I had earned it. I have always wondered, if he had just told me that I was pretty and looked good at that size, might I have been able, or encouraged, to stay there? I'll never know because he never did.
The Girls came around the same time that my period, my migraines, and my own thoughts about things started to erupt. I have always joked that my scintillating best-selling memoirs would be called "Breasts and Opinions". (If I saw a book with that title on a shelf, I'd sure pick it up! Wouldn't you? Just don't steal my title and use it for your own. Thanks.) In truth, the arrival of Breasts and Opinions began what I have come to think of as The Great Divide with my Dad. I think he just had no clue what to do with me, or how to relate to me anymore. As I got older and my breasts, and the rest of me, got bigger, his distance and disapproval seemed to increase.
He's not a bad person, but he has definite ideas about how people are supposed to look and behave. Fat people are not presentable, and we are never just fat. We are generally fat and something else...fat and lazy, fat and sloppy, fat and undisciplined, fat and pathetic, fat and selfish. But I never heard him allude in any way to the fact that someone could be fat and wounded, which is how I believe many of us get fat to begin with. I feel pretty sure that my own wounds contributed to my own problem, the "need to feed".
As I try to sort out the tangle of emotional and physical issues that have gotten me here, I know that The Girls will get more blog time. And that is only fitting. After all, when addressing The Girls, the blog entry should naturally be a Two-Parter! (Yeah, I know. Groan.)
Why the world is not designed for me
My whole life I've been battling with various things that don't fit me. For example, despite how big I have allowed my body to become, I have really small bones underneath it all. Really, petitely, ridiculously small. I have an old ring of my Mama's that I wear on my right thumb that is a size 7. On my THUMB. As big as I am, you'd think my hands and fingers would be sized on a scale to match. But no. And since most rings on display in jewelry store windows are usually a size 7, anytime I have bought a ring or had one purchased in a store for me, it has always had to be sized down. While my wedding dress definitely does not fit me anymore, my wedding band still does.
Then there were the years when it was nearly impossible to find the shoes I wanted because of my size 5 feet. Really. I remember the Easter that I bought a navy blue silk dress with a white collar. I loved that dress and I wanted navy and white spectator pumps to wear with it. The Hubs and I searched for weeks all over the Florida panhandle to find the shoes I wanted because, while the stores that year had plenty of navy and white spectator pumps, there was a distinct shortage of them in the size 5 medium I needed. I think we finally found the "perfect shoes" in Panama City. I am fortunate to have a Hubs who will trek hither and yon on quests such as The Great Spectator Pump Hunt of 1989.
I am also left-handed, so lots of things people use every day are not designed for me. Kitchen knives often have blades with edges made for use by the right hand, as do scissors. My schools only had right-hander desks, so I sat in them. I didn't even know left-hander desks existed until high school and by then I had gotten used to the other ones. I grew up adapting to these little inconveniences without much trouble. To this day, I cannot use a pair of left-handed scissors because I had to use right-handed ones for so long I got used to them. Ditto for computer mouses (mice?) because they are always placed on the right. I am unable to "mouse" left-handed. I wear my watch on my left wrist like all the right-handers in my life did because I was surrounded by them and that is how they wore their watches. Putting it on my other arm feels weird to me.
The biggest issues I have had with things not designed to fit me, though, have been because of The Girls. You know...hooters, knockers, ta-ta's, melons, jugs, boobies, sweater cows, man pillows. The names for women's breasts are limited only by one's imagination and/or lack of good taste. Mine have been large and contentious ever since they were installed! And the warranty on my breasts has not been good, either.
In the sixth grade at age 11, I was 5 feet, 1 inch tall, weighing 109 pounds and wearing a 34-B bra. Looking at photographs of myself back then, I realize that I was just plain STACKED. At the time, though, all I felt was huge and fat. I was taller than most of my classmates, and the arrival of The Girls just made me stick out (pardon the pun) all the more, at a time when all I wanted was just to fit in. Girls my age who had been all through grade school with me started acting differently toward me, and boys I'd known since first grade became mouthy, lewd and sometimes even grabby. I was freakin' 11! Junior high was pretty much the same story, although I think that my having a steady boyfriend in the ninth grade encouraged other boys to keep their hands and comments to themselves.
My family didn't seem to know what to make of The Girls, either. Before the growth spurt of both height and boobs, I'd had a couple of pudgy years, and I think my father (the Fatophobe) had already decided that I was just going to be another fat member of my mother's family, because as I asserted before, obesity does not come from his side. When I got a little taller and The Girls came to live with me, Dad had nothing to say about my appearance. It's sad because his approval meant more to me than anyone else's...probably because I never felt like I had earned it. I have always wondered, if he had just told me that I was pretty and looked good at that size, might I have been able, or encouraged, to stay there? I'll never know because he never did.
The Girls came around the same time that my period, my migraines, and my own thoughts about things started to erupt. I have always joked that my scintillating best-selling memoirs would be called "Breasts and Opinions". (If I saw a book with that title on a shelf, I'd sure pick it up! Wouldn't you? Just don't steal my title and use it for your own. Thanks.) In truth, the arrival of Breasts and Opinions began what I have come to think of as The Great Divide with my Dad. I think he just had no clue what to do with me, or how to relate to me anymore. As I got older and my breasts, and the rest of me, got bigger, his distance and disapproval seemed to increase.
He's not a bad person, but he has definite ideas about how people are supposed to look and behave. Fat people are not presentable, and we are never just fat. We are generally fat and something else...fat and lazy, fat and sloppy, fat and undisciplined, fat and pathetic, fat and selfish. But I never heard him allude in any way to the fact that someone could be fat and wounded, which is how I believe many of us get fat to begin with. I feel pretty sure that my own wounds contributed to my own problem, the "need to feed".
As I try to sort out the tangle of emotional and physical issues that have gotten me here, I know that The Girls will get more blog time. And that is only fitting. After all, when addressing The Girls, the blog entry should naturally be a Two-Parter! (Yeah, I know. Groan.)
Monday, November 14, 2011
Supplies and Demands
Monday 11-14-11
Why we need to replenish ourselves...
For a tired, fat girl, I have a lot going on in my life. Granted, I do have my crash-time when I am not working at my job, but I also have some "extracurricular activities" that I am involved in. Those things are a time and energy commitment, but they are worth it because they give me so much more than they take from me.
For example, Monday is my volunteer-at-the-hospice day, followed by my go-get-my-scream-on-at-music-practice day. Sometimes the day flies by, and sometimes it seems to crawl. But the interesting thing about my Marathon Mondays is that, while the activities take a lot of energy out of me, they never leave me feeling depleted. Tired, for sure, but not depleted. There is a big difference between the two.
For a long time, I let the musical part of me get pushed aside by schedules, a perceived lack of time and energy, the typical excuses one makes for letting things go. A couple of years ago I auditioned for my musical group again after an 11-year absence, with considerable trepidation. I was afraid that I had let my voice go for so long that it had left me, a "use it or lose it" scenario. The gracious gentleman who heard my audition apparently thought I had something left to offer and I was accepted, even welcomed, back into my chorus. It's strange, I didn't realize my soul was starving until I began to feed it again.
This afternoon at the hospice, things were pretty slow, we had a number of empty beds and I made my rounds and patient visits with time left over. So I spent my last half hour or so singing unaccompanied in the hospice chapel. It's not a huge room, but the acoustics in there are glorious and it's become a favorite space for me to sing in.
When I am working or singing at the hospice, I never feel like I am being judged because of my appearance. I feel appreciated and respected and loved, even though I usually deal with a different set of patients and families every week when I go there. As much as my time with both the hospice and my chorus on Mondays demands of me, it supplies even more. And I have found that THAT is a huge secret to feeling worthwhile, productive and balanced.
I need to adjust to putting the supplies-and-demands principle into practice regarding my food intake as well. I can no longer equate food with comfort. Food is the fuel that my body runs on in order to accomplish what I need to get accomplished every day. Good quality fuel will give me better results and more efficient operation, just like with my car. And I need to remember not to over-fill my fuel tank, to continue the metaphor. If I supply too much and demand too little...well, we see where that practice has gotten me. So to nutshell it: Food = Fuel.
Comfort = ?
So much of what we have to face daily just drains us dry. For some people, it's family problems, while for others it is work-related stress. Some of us deal with addictions, our own or a loved one's, or both. Financial straits, health crises, divorce, death and taxes...it's never-ending! We HAVE TO find things that can replenish the inner resources that daily life drains out of us. I read a quote somewhere: "Life is a cup to be filled, not drained."
Comfort = Surrounding myself with people, activities and things that fill me and feed my soul, and to jettison (as much as possible) the people, activities and things that drain me and make me feel empty. When I manage to do that, I feel better and I am better able to give my best self to the world. Getting thinner and healthier will just make that whole process easier.
Why we need to replenish ourselves...
For a tired, fat girl, I have a lot going on in my life. Granted, I do have my crash-time when I am not working at my job, but I also have some "extracurricular activities" that I am involved in. Those things are a time and energy commitment, but they are worth it because they give me so much more than they take from me.
For example, Monday is my volunteer-at-the-hospice day, followed by my go-get-my-scream-on-at-music-practice day. Sometimes the day flies by, and sometimes it seems to crawl. But the interesting thing about my Marathon Mondays is that, while the activities take a lot of energy out of me, they never leave me feeling depleted. Tired, for sure, but not depleted. There is a big difference between the two.
For a long time, I let the musical part of me get pushed aside by schedules, a perceived lack of time and energy, the typical excuses one makes for letting things go. A couple of years ago I auditioned for my musical group again after an 11-year absence, with considerable trepidation. I was afraid that I had let my voice go for so long that it had left me, a "use it or lose it" scenario. The gracious gentleman who heard my audition apparently thought I had something left to offer and I was accepted, even welcomed, back into my chorus. It's strange, I didn't realize my soul was starving until I began to feed it again.
This afternoon at the hospice, things were pretty slow, we had a number of empty beds and I made my rounds and patient visits with time left over. So I spent my last half hour or so singing unaccompanied in the hospice chapel. It's not a huge room, but the acoustics in there are glorious and it's become a favorite space for me to sing in.
When I am working or singing at the hospice, I never feel like I am being judged because of my appearance. I feel appreciated and respected and loved, even though I usually deal with a different set of patients and families every week when I go there. As much as my time with both the hospice and my chorus on Mondays demands of me, it supplies even more. And I have found that THAT is a huge secret to feeling worthwhile, productive and balanced.
I need to adjust to putting the supplies-and-demands principle into practice regarding my food intake as well. I can no longer equate food with comfort. Food is the fuel that my body runs on in order to accomplish what I need to get accomplished every day. Good quality fuel will give me better results and more efficient operation, just like with my car. And I need to remember not to over-fill my fuel tank, to continue the metaphor. If I supply too much and demand too little...well, we see where that practice has gotten me. So to nutshell it: Food = Fuel.
Comfort = ?
So much of what we have to face daily just drains us dry. For some people, it's family problems, while for others it is work-related stress. Some of us deal with addictions, our own or a loved one's, or both. Financial straits, health crises, divorce, death and taxes...it's never-ending! We HAVE TO find things that can replenish the inner resources that daily life drains out of us. I read a quote somewhere: "Life is a cup to be filled, not drained."
Comfort = Surrounding myself with people, activities and things that fill me and feed my soul, and to jettison (as much as possible) the people, activities and things that drain me and make me feel empty. When I manage to do that, I feel better and I am better able to give my best self to the world. Getting thinner and healthier will just make that whole process easier.
Friday, November 11, 2011
Living By The Numbers
Friday, 11-11-11
So THIS is that "new math..."
When I was a kid in grade school, I kept hearing grown-ups talking about "that new math" they were teaching us in school. I still don't know what the difference was supposed to be between old math and new; I was never much good at any kind of math so it was kind of a moot point for me anyway. I can manage enough basic mathematical calculation to get me through life in relative safety and without bouncing checks.
Now that I have begun the weight loss journey in earnest, it seems as though everything is about numbers! Quel horreur! Body mass index, blood pressure, fasting blood glucose, metabolic rate, serum cholesterol, and, of course, the number on the scale, all seem to take on added significance now. Then, of course, I am also treading into the new territory of carbs, protein grams, how many pretzels exactly are IN one ounce...If I allowed it to, the irony of all these numbers could throw me into a dimension of pissed-off heretofore unexperienced by humankind! Because as I previously asserted, I have never been good with numbers.
For some reason, though, I've been blessed with more good numbers than bad ones, thank God. My cholesterol, blood pressure and metabolic rate are all good, and my blood glucose is decent, surprisingly so for a person my age and size. The bad numbers are my weight and BMI, and we are working on those. At least I don't have so many other factors going against me in this process, and I am really grateful for that.
One thing I am confident of is this: I am not a number, not one on a scale, or a BMI measurement or a jean size. Those things are only a description of who I am, and not even a description of the best parts of me. I am by no means a wonderful person. I am flawed, cantankerous, blunt, cranky and usually in some kind of hot water for something I said before I could stop it. I am also compassionate, empathetic, big-hearted, loyal, a good listener, an excellent keeper of confidences and secrets, and I hope, the kind of friend that my friends appreciate having. I am "more than just the sum of my parts". The numbers are only a tool to help me find my better self...the healthier one who has more energy to fuel my compassionate, big-hearted, loyal, secret-keeping self the rest of the way through my life and the lives of those around me.
By the way, 2 1/2 weeks in, I am 8 1/2 pounds down. That's a pretty decent number, as numbers go! I may just be getting the hang of this new math.
So THIS is that "new math..."
When I was a kid in grade school, I kept hearing grown-ups talking about "that new math" they were teaching us in school. I still don't know what the difference was supposed to be between old math and new; I was never much good at any kind of math so it was kind of a moot point for me anyway. I can manage enough basic mathematical calculation to get me through life in relative safety and without bouncing checks.
Now that I have begun the weight loss journey in earnest, it seems as though everything is about numbers! Quel horreur! Body mass index, blood pressure, fasting blood glucose, metabolic rate, serum cholesterol, and, of course, the number on the scale, all seem to take on added significance now. Then, of course, I am also treading into the new territory of carbs, protein grams, how many pretzels exactly are IN one ounce...If I allowed it to, the irony of all these numbers could throw me into a dimension of pissed-off heretofore unexperienced by humankind! Because as I previously asserted, I have never been good with numbers.
For some reason, though, I've been blessed with more good numbers than bad ones, thank God. My cholesterol, blood pressure and metabolic rate are all good, and my blood glucose is decent, surprisingly so for a person my age and size. The bad numbers are my weight and BMI, and we are working on those. At least I don't have so many other factors going against me in this process, and I am really grateful for that.
One thing I am confident of is this: I am not a number, not one on a scale, or a BMI measurement or a jean size. Those things are only a description of who I am, and not even a description of the best parts of me. I am by no means a wonderful person. I am flawed, cantankerous, blunt, cranky and usually in some kind of hot water for something I said before I could stop it. I am also compassionate, empathetic, big-hearted, loyal, a good listener, an excellent keeper of confidences and secrets, and I hope, the kind of friend that my friends appreciate having. I am "more than just the sum of my parts". The numbers are only a tool to help me find my better self...the healthier one who has more energy to fuel my compassionate, big-hearted, loyal, secret-keeping self the rest of the way through my life and the lives of those around me.
By the way, 2 1/2 weeks in, I am 8 1/2 pounds down. That's a pretty decent number, as numbers go! I may just be getting the hang of this new math.
Sunday, November 6, 2011
It Ain't Over Till the Fat Lady Shrinks
Sunday 11-6-11
Why clothes aren't the only things that need to fit properly
I was invited to sing at my friend's church this morning, so I went there and participated in their All Saints' Sunday, singing 4 songs as part of their worship service and remembrance of their departed saints from the past year. As I have gotten older (and larger) I've noticed things happening to my voice, particularly in the last few years when I've been singing more often in public. Some of the changes have been positive, a slightly richer, more mature sound and timbre in my voice that was not always there. Some of the changes, not so much.
As singers we have to recognize that our bodies are our instruments, and my instrument is showing some signs of mistreatment, both outwardly as I have ballooned to my current size, and more subtly as my breathing has become more compromised. My lungs and my diaphragm are being crowded into inefficiency by the fat in my abdomen.
A few facts about the human voice: Changes in both male and female voices occur several times after the primary one that happens at the onset of puberty. The changes happen in the areas of range (number of notes that can be sung, either growing or shrinking with maturity), tone color or timbre, (brightness or darkness in the tone), loudness or softness that can be achieved, and even the place where the voice "breaks" from full voice into head voice. (I am a voice geek so please forgive the tutorial, it serves a purpose here!) So as a singer ages, different pieces and types of music become appropriate...or become uncomfortable. The things that "fit" the voice change as the voice itself changes. My college voice professor always said that a piece of music should fit me like a custom-made wedding gown. Today I was asked to sing a piece of music that I dearly love, and have sung very successfully and joyfully in the past. It doesn't fit me as well now as it used to, and while I can attribute that partly to my age, I also have to be honest with myself and admit that it is also largely due to my weight and size that I cannot phrase properly or with the kind of energy or stamina that I once enjoyed. My fatness, belly fat in particular, is impairing my ability to sing.
In 2004, Wagnerian opera diva Deborah Voigt, after years of battling with her weight, finally chose to undergo weight-loss surgery. She had been dismissed from a London production of Strauss's opera, Ariadne auf Naxos, a signature role for her, because instead of the usual period costumes, this production required her to wear a "little black dress", which did not fit her. Instead of altering the dress, the producers hired a different soprano to fill the title role...and the dress. The incident became a controversy, and Voigt admitted being angry about the dismissal. (Do a Google search on it, it's really interesting.) She did not have surgery to get "skinny"; she did it to help her to sing better and enjoy a better quality of life. At her largest, she was beautiful and glamourous; now she is just radiantly, drop-dead gorgeous, and singing with less effort and more joy. She inspires me in countless ways, especially now that I have also chosen to pursue surgery in an effort to get healthier.
I am no opera singer. That is not the path that my life led me down. God had other plans for me and for my voice. For years I made a living using my voice in the radio world, a profession I loved and will always miss (unless, of course, God takes me back there!) Even though it has not turned out to be my profession, singing has been the one thing in my life that has been there since the beginning. Mama always said that when I was born I "came out singing!" But the voice, and indeed the body, that God gave me are resources that I frankly have not treated with the respect they deserve. I have let myself go. I am thankful that God is in the business of second chances, for both my soul and my body.
Like Ms. Voigt, I am looking forward to being a fat lady who shrinks!
Why clothes aren't the only things that need to fit properly
I was invited to sing at my friend's church this morning, so I went there and participated in their All Saints' Sunday, singing 4 songs as part of their worship service and remembrance of their departed saints from the past year. As I have gotten older (and larger) I've noticed things happening to my voice, particularly in the last few years when I've been singing more often in public. Some of the changes have been positive, a slightly richer, more mature sound and timbre in my voice that was not always there. Some of the changes, not so much.
As singers we have to recognize that our bodies are our instruments, and my instrument is showing some signs of mistreatment, both outwardly as I have ballooned to my current size, and more subtly as my breathing has become more compromised. My lungs and my diaphragm are being crowded into inefficiency by the fat in my abdomen.
A few facts about the human voice: Changes in both male and female voices occur several times after the primary one that happens at the onset of puberty. The changes happen in the areas of range (number of notes that can be sung, either growing or shrinking with maturity), tone color or timbre, (brightness or darkness in the tone), loudness or softness that can be achieved, and even the place where the voice "breaks" from full voice into head voice. (I am a voice geek so please forgive the tutorial, it serves a purpose here!) So as a singer ages, different pieces and types of music become appropriate...or become uncomfortable. The things that "fit" the voice change as the voice itself changes. My college voice professor always said that a piece of music should fit me like a custom-made wedding gown. Today I was asked to sing a piece of music that I dearly love, and have sung very successfully and joyfully in the past. It doesn't fit me as well now as it used to, and while I can attribute that partly to my age, I also have to be honest with myself and admit that it is also largely due to my weight and size that I cannot phrase properly or with the kind of energy or stamina that I once enjoyed. My fatness, belly fat in particular, is impairing my ability to sing.
In 2004, Wagnerian opera diva Deborah Voigt, after years of battling with her weight, finally chose to undergo weight-loss surgery. She had been dismissed from a London production of Strauss's opera, Ariadne auf Naxos, a signature role for her, because instead of the usual period costumes, this production required her to wear a "little black dress", which did not fit her. Instead of altering the dress, the producers hired a different soprano to fill the title role...and the dress. The incident became a controversy, and Voigt admitted being angry about the dismissal. (Do a Google search on it, it's really interesting.) She did not have surgery to get "skinny"; she did it to help her to sing better and enjoy a better quality of life. At her largest, she was beautiful and glamourous; now she is just radiantly, drop-dead gorgeous, and singing with less effort and more joy. She inspires me in countless ways, especially now that I have also chosen to pursue surgery in an effort to get healthier.
I am no opera singer. That is not the path that my life led me down. God had other plans for me and for my voice. For years I made a living using my voice in the radio world, a profession I loved and will always miss (unless, of course, God takes me back there!) Even though it has not turned out to be my profession, singing has been the one thing in my life that has been there since the beginning. Mama always said that when I was born I "came out singing!" But the voice, and indeed the body, that God gave me are resources that I frankly have not treated with the respect they deserve. I have let myself go. I am thankful that God is in the business of second chances, for both my soul and my body.
Like Ms. Voigt, I am looking forward to being a fat lady who shrinks!
Friday, November 4, 2011
Get Thee Behind Me, Ghrelin!
Friday 11-4-11
Why it's not all in my head...some of it is in my stomach.
Until late August, I had never heard the word "Ghrelin". Sounded a little like Gremlin and reminded me of that little station wagon from the 1970's. My first exposure to ghrelin was at in informational seminar given by my weight loss surgeon. I learned that there is a part of the stomach that releases a "hunger hormone" and that hormone is called ghrelin.
Since the seminar, and especially since we decided to go ahead and get the weight-loss surgery process in motion, I've been doing research on my own on a number of the topics of recent interest to me, and reading about ghrelin has proven to be especially enlightening. In one article I read that in studies, laboratory mice exposed to chronic, prolonged stress experienced increased levels of ghrelin and consistently chose higher calorie, higher fat foods.
So, if I can put this together...stress in my head can trigger a hunger hormone released by my stomach? This explains a lot. It is not an excuse, I realize. But it does seem to make sense if my history is any indication.
I am not an uninformed woman, yet my surprise at some of the things I am learning, well, surprises me. I've always known that we human beings are "fearfully and wonderfully made", God's intricate and complex design of interconnected physical, psychological and emotional systems. It is impossible to impair one part without the others being affected.
My journey toward healthier living needs to prepare me for surgery as well as for life after surgery. Even if the part of my stomach that releases the hunger hormone is removed surgically, eventually my appetite will return in some form or other. By the time I start to really feel hungry again, my goal is to crave different kinds of foods and, more importantly, to have the tools I need to deal with the stressors in my life that have contributed to my getting to this point.
Right now I'm still in the phase of having to allow myself to feel some hunger pangs and discomfort, either ignoring or disagreeing with both head and stomach when they want to eat something that is not healthy. That's OK. I know this phase, while difficult,won't last forever.
Why it's not all in my head...some of it is in my stomach.
Until late August, I had never heard the word "Ghrelin". Sounded a little like Gremlin and reminded me of that little station wagon from the 1970's. My first exposure to ghrelin was at in informational seminar given by my weight loss surgeon. I learned that there is a part of the stomach that releases a "hunger hormone" and that hormone is called ghrelin.
Since the seminar, and especially since we decided to go ahead and get the weight-loss surgery process in motion, I've been doing research on my own on a number of the topics of recent interest to me, and reading about ghrelin has proven to be especially enlightening. In one article I read that in studies, laboratory mice exposed to chronic, prolonged stress experienced increased levels of ghrelin and consistently chose higher calorie, higher fat foods.
So, if I can put this together...stress in my head can trigger a hunger hormone released by my stomach? This explains a lot. It is not an excuse, I realize. But it does seem to make sense if my history is any indication.
I am not an uninformed woman, yet my surprise at some of the things I am learning, well, surprises me. I've always known that we human beings are "fearfully and wonderfully made", God's intricate and complex design of interconnected physical, psychological and emotional systems. It is impossible to impair one part without the others being affected.
My journey toward healthier living needs to prepare me for surgery as well as for life after surgery. Even if the part of my stomach that releases the hunger hormone is removed surgically, eventually my appetite will return in some form or other. By the time I start to really feel hungry again, my goal is to crave different kinds of foods and, more importantly, to have the tools I need to deal with the stressors in my life that have contributed to my getting to this point.
Right now I'm still in the phase of having to allow myself to feel some hunger pangs and discomfort, either ignoring or disagreeing with both head and stomach when they want to eat something that is not healthy. That's OK. I know this phase, while difficult,won't last forever.
Wednesday, November 2, 2011
"D" Is For "Deficient"
Wednesday 11-2-11
What am I really lacking?
It looks like I will be receiving a lot of phone calls and paperwork to fill out in the weeks to come, courtesy of the team of specialists being called upon to consult on my various health concerns. This afternoon the surgeon's office called with my lab results from the blood they drew last week. It was a shock to learn that I have a vitamin D deficiency, and a fairly substantial one. They are recommending that I come in for an injection, which I have scheduled for next week. As much cereal as I consume (always with skim milk, thank you very much) a vitamin D deficiency comes as a surprise. I am doing some research on my own to see if my medication for acid reflux has anything to do with this. So, I lack some vitamin D.
When I came home from work, I found that a large manila envelope came in the mail from the sleep center where I will soon be spending a night to determine if I have sleep apnea. I'm betting that I have it just from the answers to the questions on the first page of the NINE pages of forms I need to fill out for them. As I have mentioned in a previous post, I snore like a lumberjack, or so I have been told. And my energy is not what it should be. So, apparently, I am also lacking some sleep. Well, Duh.
It makes me think about what I've been lacking in my life that has brought me to this place of pursuing surgical intervention for my lifelong weight problem. I have always been an emotional, or stress, eater. Seeing it in print like this, it looks like I eat emotions and stress...which, kind of, is what I've been doing all along. Of course, I've been eating my stress and my emotions with large side orders of ice cream and pizza. The yummy foods make the emotions go down easier. And the emotions I've eaten have always been prompted by some shortcoming or inadequacy of mine, some failure...some deficiency.
"Those 5 A's on your report card are really good, but what's the B for?"
"You won the contest, that's nice. Did they give you any money for it?"
"You have such a pretty face..."
"You're lazy and trifling."
"Can't you be more like (fill in the blank)?"
For most of my life I have felt like I didn't quite measure up to the standards of the people who mattered most to me. This blog is not meant to be an airing of all my dirty laundry, but I have to reconcile myself to the fact that I have lived the stereotype of the fat girl stuffing her sorrows down with food. It's why I'm here.
It's sad to be overfed and starving at the same time, but this is what emotional eating really does. Ice cream and pizza can never feed the parts of me that are truly hungry. My value as a person does not come from how I look or what I do or any of the other exterior packaging. It has taken me 47 years to realize that my value comes from being a beloved, forgiven, understood child of God. There is nothing I can do to make Him stop loving me.
Would I like to have unconditional love from other people in my life? Of course. Has eating my emotions gotten me anywhere closer to gaining their approval and love? No. Will getting healthy and shrinking maybe get them to finally love me and embrace me for who I am? It doesn't really matter anymore, because I'm not doing it for them. And the truth is, if someone can't appreciate me fat, then they probably won't appreciate me any other way, either.
What am I really lacking?
It looks like I will be receiving a lot of phone calls and paperwork to fill out in the weeks to come, courtesy of the team of specialists being called upon to consult on my various health concerns. This afternoon the surgeon's office called with my lab results from the blood they drew last week. It was a shock to learn that I have a vitamin D deficiency, and a fairly substantial one. They are recommending that I come in for an injection, which I have scheduled for next week. As much cereal as I consume (always with skim milk, thank you very much) a vitamin D deficiency comes as a surprise. I am doing some research on my own to see if my medication for acid reflux has anything to do with this. So, I lack some vitamin D.
When I came home from work, I found that a large manila envelope came in the mail from the sleep center where I will soon be spending a night to determine if I have sleep apnea. I'm betting that I have it just from the answers to the questions on the first page of the NINE pages of forms I need to fill out for them. As I have mentioned in a previous post, I snore like a lumberjack, or so I have been told. And my energy is not what it should be. So, apparently, I am also lacking some sleep. Well, Duh.
It makes me think about what I've been lacking in my life that has brought me to this place of pursuing surgical intervention for my lifelong weight problem. I have always been an emotional, or stress, eater. Seeing it in print like this, it looks like I eat emotions and stress...which, kind of, is what I've been doing all along. Of course, I've been eating my stress and my emotions with large side orders of ice cream and pizza. The yummy foods make the emotions go down easier. And the emotions I've eaten have always been prompted by some shortcoming or inadequacy of mine, some failure...some deficiency.
"Those 5 A's on your report card are really good, but what's the B for?"
"You won the contest, that's nice. Did they give you any money for it?"
"You have such a pretty face..."
"You're lazy and trifling."
"Can't you be more like (fill in the blank)?"
For most of my life I have felt like I didn't quite measure up to the standards of the people who mattered most to me. This blog is not meant to be an airing of all my dirty laundry, but I have to reconcile myself to the fact that I have lived the stereotype of the fat girl stuffing her sorrows down with food. It's why I'm here.
It's sad to be overfed and starving at the same time, but this is what emotional eating really does. Ice cream and pizza can never feed the parts of me that are truly hungry. My value as a person does not come from how I look or what I do or any of the other exterior packaging. It has taken me 47 years to realize that my value comes from being a beloved, forgiven, understood child of God. There is nothing I can do to make Him stop loving me.
Would I like to have unconditional love from other people in my life? Of course. Has eating my emotions gotten me anywhere closer to gaining their approval and love? No. Will getting healthy and shrinking maybe get them to finally love me and embrace me for who I am? It doesn't really matter anymore, because I'm not doing it for them. And the truth is, if someone can't appreciate me fat, then they probably won't appreciate me any other way, either.
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