I got a tattoo during the blizzard. Actually, during a 6-hour break in the blizzard, on the afternoon of February 9th. As soon as our street was plowed I hauled ass to the Baltimore Tattoo Museum. I'd been thinking about getting some ink for years but couldn't decide what, couldn't decide where, couldn't decide if I really should. It is, after all, a permanent thing. And I hate most permanent things.
So I gave it some thought--because thinking is what I do most in life--and finally settled on something that I knew I'd appreciate forever, even after menopause.
There's a quote by Eleanor Roosevelt: "You gain strength, courage and confidence every time you stop to truly look fear in the face. You must do the thing you think you cannot do." It's a message upon which I have leaned and relied for over a dozen years. Every time I recite the last line in my head, it makes my heart stop racing and helps me bypass the endless parade of excuses I make whenever I want to avoid something that's hard or confrontational. That line actually gives me courage. So I had it inked onto my back, behind my heart, along with wings of flame for energy of the body and a pentacle that connects it all to my spirit.
And what does this have to do with my diabetes, or my weight loss struggle?
Simply this: since I got it, I haven't lived a single day by the tattoo's message.
I thought that if I got it inked onto me--into me--then the message would become a permanent part of me, too. But skin peels, sunlight fades ink, and nothing becomes a part of you without time and effort. It's easy to be courageous about things that don't frighten you. But real courage is when you do that thing you honestly, truly, to your core believe that you can't. And I don't yet believe that I can lose this weight.
I can write a thousand times that I won't let the excuses drag me down anymore, that I'll do the right thing from now on, that I will persevere and meet my goal of 50 Pounds Down in Five Months (just came up with that name), but none of it matters if I don't have the strength, the courage, to see it through.
Eleanor, I wish I'd known you. In the meantime, I can only listen and hope that the artist's needle reached my bones. At least I'm still writing about it. For better or worse, I will continue that.
* * *
Tuesday
Out of Bed: 104 (Probably due to the mac and cheese I ate the night before.)
Green Lemonade
2 slices of Ezekiel bread with unsalted organic butter
Raw salad (spring mix, green pepper, tomato) with light ranch dressing
Organic dark chocolate with almonds
Pistacios (unfortunately salted, but they were cheap at Sam's club)
Feb 17, 2010
Feb 5, 2010
It's All About the B.S.
I've been doing the raw thing pretty well. Having my Green Lemonade every morning and whatnot. But my period hit me on Tuesday and along with it came the usual truckload of raging emotions and the desire to eat everything that even resembles food. (Pictures of food will sometimes do in a pinch.)
So I cheated by going to McDonald's. Now let me tell you, the golden arches used to be the treat place when I was a kid, the best place to get a burger and great fries. I was really looking forward to those fries. Too bad they sucked righteous asshole. Never again. I'll stick to Chik Fil A.
But here's the kicker. I ate McDonald's for dinner and my blood sugar the next morning was 95.
Ninety-fucking-FIVE.
Not 170, not even 100...ninety-five. Which begged the question, what exactly is affecting my b.s.?
So I'm doing an experiment. I'm making sure to test my b.s. two hours after every meal and logging what the number is and what I ate. I'm curious, you see, what I can get away with. I'm just being honest. Because let's face it, if something I love can be on the list of acceptable food, you can damn well bet I'll be more likely to survive this whole ordeal.
For instance, I had a wonderful lunch of chicken breast and risotto at Circa at Dupont yesterday and two hours later my b.s. was 146. That's awesome. Chicken and risotto, here I come! And it was damn good risotto, too. However, my b.s. was sky-high after a breakfast of raw fruit. After a breakfast of only Green Lemonade this morning, it was perfect. Than after a bagel with cream cheese it was 161. (Safe to say, bagels with cream cheese are out.)
So that's my goal for the next week. To track the relationship between food and b.s. Maybe I don't have to do an all-raw diet, or a low-carb diet, or any freaking diet. Maybe I can just watch what I eat and be careful. It all sounds so much better that way, doesn't it?
* * *
Wednesday
Out of Bed: 101
2 small whole wheat burritos with Amy's organic chili and sour cream
Green Lemonade
Filet and rice from Moby Dicks: 157
10 chicken McNuggets, 1/2 large french fries
Thursday
Out of Bed: 95
3 bananas: 170
Chicken and risotto with carrots: 146
No dinner
Friday
Out of Bed: 97
Green Lemonade: 103
Bagel with cream cheese: 161
So I cheated by going to McDonald's. Now let me tell you, the golden arches used to be the treat place when I was a kid, the best place to get a burger and great fries. I was really looking forward to those fries. Too bad they sucked righteous asshole. Never again. I'll stick to Chik Fil A.
But here's the kicker. I ate McDonald's for dinner and my blood sugar the next morning was 95.
Ninety-fucking-FIVE.
Not 170, not even 100...ninety-five. Which begged the question, what exactly is affecting my b.s.?
So I'm doing an experiment. I'm making sure to test my b.s. two hours after every meal and logging what the number is and what I ate. I'm curious, you see, what I can get away with. I'm just being honest. Because let's face it, if something I love can be on the list of acceptable food, you can damn well bet I'll be more likely to survive this whole ordeal.
For instance, I had a wonderful lunch of chicken breast and risotto at Circa at Dupont yesterday and two hours later my b.s. was 146. That's awesome. Chicken and risotto, here I come! And it was damn good risotto, too. However, my b.s. was sky-high after a breakfast of raw fruit. After a breakfast of only Green Lemonade this morning, it was perfect. Than after a bagel with cream cheese it was 161. (Safe to say, bagels with cream cheese are out.)
So that's my goal for the next week. To track the relationship between food and b.s. Maybe I don't have to do an all-raw diet, or a low-carb diet, or any freaking diet. Maybe I can just watch what I eat and be careful. It all sounds so much better that way, doesn't it?
* * *
Wednesday
Out of Bed: 101
2 small whole wheat burritos with Amy's organic chili and sour cream
Green Lemonade
Filet and rice from Moby Dicks: 157
10 chicken McNuggets, 1/2 large french fries
Thursday
Out of Bed: 95
3 bananas: 170
Chicken and risotto with carrots: 146
No dinner
Friday
Out of Bed: 97
Green Lemonade: 103
Bagel with cream cheese: 161
Feb 2, 2010
Is It About Weight, Or About Health?
Last night was HARD. Really hard. The kind of hard that makes me want to fill a whole line with nothing but curse words. THAT kind of hard. Jesus effing Christ.
My old nemesis, Stress, paid a visit. That silly bitch is always bugging me, mostly because she lives with me and has since childhood. Whenever I'm really on track with something, ducking and dodging the usual bullets of lack of time, lack of money, or lack of energy, along comes Stress who, with a single pluck of her twisted Tales from the Crypt bow, can send me reeling backwards in time to a place where the pursuit of health, wealth and success can be summed up in two words: "Fuck it."
But I didn't give in. Goddamn it, I didn't give in. Fuck you, Stress. Hateful bitch. No, no, I love you. You help me get things done. But sometimes you go too far. You need to learn boundaries.
I was so proud of myself. And then I woke up this morning and checked my blood sugar.
Time out.
A Note For Those Lucky Enough To Not Have To Track Their Blood Sugar
Here's how it goes. You're supposed to track it several times a day. Once before you eat anything or move around a lot (we call it "Out of Bed"), and then again two hours after meals. Your doctor or your health condition with determine if it has to be checked after every meal or just one. For me, I have to check it at least twice a day; out of bed and after one of my meals, preferably dinner because that's my hardest meal of the day to choose the right foods.
Out of Bed, my sugar should be between 80-90, no higher than 100. After meals, it should be below 140.
Time in.
I got up and checked my blood sugar. Before embarking on this more strict food regimen, my levels had consistently been between 85-95 every morning. That's very good. In fact, the only time it had popped above 100 was the morning after I'd eaten candy, actual candy, two pieces I think.
This morning's out of bed reading was 105. And all I could think was, What the ever-loving fuck?? I didn't even have chocolate last night!
Then I got on the scale. (Do you really want to read this? Stop now, I'm serious.) It hadn't budged. Not a pound. Not a half pound.
Al's right. This is hell.
On the way to the train station this morning, I asked Al, "Is it about weight, or about health?" to which she responded sanely, "You know the answer to that." She's right, I do. Or at least I thought I did. But is it so wrong to want both? I want to be rewarded, damn it. If I'm giving up my mashed potatoes (and Patrick says I can't even cheat once a week yet, so my Saturday mornings are looking grim) and mac and cheese, and substituting soft Wonder for crunchy Ezekiel, and dragging my comatose butt to Lynn Brick's Gym at 5:30 a.m., then I want to get something out of it that I can see and touch. Is that too much to ask? Where the hell is the carrot at the end of the stick? Did some other health nut eat it?
I couldn't help remembering that just the other day I'd said to Allison that if I had to choose between being 195 pounds and healthy or 120 pounds and a walking heart attack, I'd choose to be a curvier me. I guess the Universe heard me, but the message didn't apparently come through all the way because otherwise my blood sugar would be down, not up. If the scale must hold the numbers 1-9-5 in a death grip, so be it, but could my freaking glucometer please show me something that will make all of this worthwhile?
Machines will either save us or kill us. There will be no half-measures.
So. The saga continues. And mine isn't the only one. There's a link to the right somewhere that will take you to Allison's blog where you'll be able to read about her goal to stop smoking. Nicotine, sugar, heroin--it's all the same, trust me. And somewhere out there (specifically, 5 blocks from me at the moment), Patrick has agreed to write 1,000 words a day for the entire month of February. They're doing it to help themselves, but it started as a way to support me. For every day that I don't cheat, he writes and Al doesn't smoke. Can you believe that? I'm the luckiest girl ever to have you all love me so much.
Maybe this isn't hell after all.
Monday
Green Lemonade (kale instead of spinach makes it a little...chewy, so I'm sticking to spinach once the kale runs out)
Fruit for breakfast
Leftover whole wheat spaghetti and marinara
2 pieces of Ezekiel and unsalted organic butter
Chocolate
Handful of almonds and pistacios
Baked pasta parm (whole wheat pasta, marinara, browned ground beef, topped with fresh mozzerella)
30 minutes weights (biceps, triceps)
25 minutes cardio
Blood sugar:
Out of bed, before gym or food: 115
After lunch or dinner: you know I forgot again
Tuesday
Green Lemonade
Fruit (bananas fill me better than most anything, but watermelon really helps quench my constant thirst. And grapes are just fun.)
Herbal tea (Fruta Bomba and Apple Something Pomegranate from Teavana)
30 minutes weights (legs. ouch.)
30 minutes cardio (broke a real sweat; need to find a way to get in a full 30 minutes every day)
Blood sugar:
Out of bed: 105
After lunch: 109 (YES!)
After dinner: (I've set my phone alarm and will come back and fill this in later)
My old nemesis, Stress, paid a visit. That silly bitch is always bugging me, mostly because she lives with me and has since childhood. Whenever I'm really on track with something, ducking and dodging the usual bullets of lack of time, lack of money, or lack of energy, along comes Stress who, with a single pluck of her twisted Tales from the Crypt bow, can send me reeling backwards in time to a place where the pursuit of health, wealth and success can be summed up in two words: "Fuck it."
But I didn't give in. Goddamn it, I didn't give in. Fuck you, Stress. Hateful bitch. No, no, I love you. You help me get things done. But sometimes you go too far. You need to learn boundaries.
I was so proud of myself. And then I woke up this morning and checked my blood sugar.
Time out.
A Note For Those Lucky Enough To Not Have To Track Their Blood Sugar
Here's how it goes. You're supposed to track it several times a day. Once before you eat anything or move around a lot (we call it "Out of Bed"), and then again two hours after meals. Your doctor or your health condition with determine if it has to be checked after every meal or just one. For me, I have to check it at least twice a day; out of bed and after one of my meals, preferably dinner because that's my hardest meal of the day to choose the right foods.
Out of Bed, my sugar should be between 80-90, no higher than 100. After meals, it should be below 140.
Time in.
I got up and checked my blood sugar. Before embarking on this more strict food regimen, my levels had consistently been between 85-95 every morning. That's very good. In fact, the only time it had popped above 100 was the morning after I'd eaten candy, actual candy, two pieces I think.
This morning's out of bed reading was 105. And all I could think was, What the ever-loving fuck?? I didn't even have chocolate last night!
Then I got on the scale. (Do you really want to read this? Stop now, I'm serious.) It hadn't budged. Not a pound. Not a half pound.
Al's right. This is hell.
On the way to the train station this morning, I asked Al, "Is it about weight, or about health?" to which she responded sanely, "You know the answer to that." She's right, I do. Or at least I thought I did. But is it so wrong to want both? I want to be rewarded, damn it. If I'm giving up my mashed potatoes (and Patrick says I can't even cheat once a week yet, so my Saturday mornings are looking grim) and mac and cheese, and substituting soft Wonder for crunchy Ezekiel, and dragging my comatose butt to Lynn Brick's Gym at 5:30 a.m., then I want to get something out of it that I can see and touch. Is that too much to ask? Where the hell is the carrot at the end of the stick? Did some other health nut eat it?
I couldn't help remembering that just the other day I'd said to Allison that if I had to choose between being 195 pounds and healthy or 120 pounds and a walking heart attack, I'd choose to be a curvier me. I guess the Universe heard me, but the message didn't apparently come through all the way because otherwise my blood sugar would be down, not up. If the scale must hold the numbers 1-9-5 in a death grip, so be it, but could my freaking glucometer please show me something that will make all of this worthwhile?
Machines will either save us or kill us. There will be no half-measures.
So. The saga continues. And mine isn't the only one. There's a link to the right somewhere that will take you to Allison's blog where you'll be able to read about her goal to stop smoking. Nicotine, sugar, heroin--it's all the same, trust me. And somewhere out there (specifically, 5 blocks from me at the moment), Patrick has agreed to write 1,000 words a day for the entire month of February. They're doing it to help themselves, but it started as a way to support me. For every day that I don't cheat, he writes and Al doesn't smoke. Can you believe that? I'm the luckiest girl ever to have you all love me so much.
Maybe this isn't hell after all.
Monday
Green Lemonade (kale instead of spinach makes it a little...chewy, so I'm sticking to spinach once the kale runs out)
Fruit for breakfast
Leftover whole wheat spaghetti and marinara
2 pieces of Ezekiel and unsalted organic butter
Chocolate
Handful of almonds and pistacios
Baked pasta parm (whole wheat pasta, marinara, browned ground beef, topped with fresh mozzerella)
30 minutes weights (biceps, triceps)
25 minutes cardio
Blood sugar:
Out of bed, before gym or food: 115
After lunch or dinner: you know I forgot again
Tuesday
Green Lemonade
Fruit (bananas fill me better than most anything, but watermelon really helps quench my constant thirst. And grapes are just fun.)
Herbal tea (Fruta Bomba and Apple Something Pomegranate from Teavana)
30 minutes weights (legs. ouch.)
30 minutes cardio (broke a real sweat; need to find a way to get in a full 30 minutes every day)
Blood sugar:
Out of bed: 105
After lunch: 109 (YES!)
After dinner: (I've set my phone alarm and will come back and fill this in later)
Jan 31, 2010
Would This Hurt My Family?
Stress and aggravation are two of my triggers. Boy, are they ever. In fact, it's almost a foregone conclusion that if someone or something pisses me off badly enough, I'll head straight for the fridge or fast food line to soothe myself.
Friday was fine...in the beginning. I'd drunk my Green Lemonade before going to the gym. I felt well enough to do both weights and cardio, and that made me feel good. Nothing beats strapping on the loud music and walking to nowhere. I can walk through almost any emotion, provided I have the proper tunes as accompaniment. So I was feeling good. Got to work and ate my breakfast of fresh fruit, my snack of Ezekiel bread and my lunch of raw salad and whole grain pasta (no cheese, thank you). Just before I left the office I popped some pistachios--always a great food for keeping my hand-to-mouth syndrome quiet--and didn't feel at all hungry.
And then. Somewhere between the office and smelling those fucking McDonald's bags on the damn train and being aggravated at some little thing, that ugly bastard beast in my belly starting turning the screws and demanding macaroni and cheese for dinner. Of course I gave in.
But it didn't end there.
The guilt drum started hammering in my head immediately. Allison kept asking, "You're going to blog about this, right? You promised you'd be honest." And I said yes, again and again, thinking that I might as well hold off blogging until Sunday because I knew full well that I was going to cheat again the very next morning.
Saturday mornings are Eating Out Breakfast time in my household. We used to all go to the Towson Diner but they started to suck and couldn't get my french fries with mozzarella cheese and gravy order right so we switched to the Amish Market. Real comfort food made from scratch. My favorite: chicken tenders with mashed potatoes and gravy. At 9:00 a.m.
So right there, with barely any effort, I'd cheated twice and eaten my two biggest addictions, all within twenty-four hours. In this book I'm following (at the advice of my doctor), The Raw Food Detox Diet by Natalia Rose, the author emphasizes that this isn't a make-or-break food plan, that you're allowed to "cheat" on occasion and that the main idea is to give your body as much of a break as possible without making it feel deprived.
She's obviously never met me.
I can't do things halfway. At least not at first. Later, when I've broken free from the pull of potatoes, cheese and heavy foods in general, then I can fudge a little and treat myself. But not now. Not yet. I'm climbing a really steep hill and the bottoms of my shoes are still covered in the oil of all the french fries I've eaten over the years. I need a clean break.
On the way to the Amish Market, I started telling Allison a story about how people who engage in self-destructive behavior are full of shit when they say they're only hurting themselves. "They're hurting everyone who's close to them," I shouted. "Everyone who loves them is made to feel pain and helplessness because they're watching their loved one fuck themselves up and usually there isn't a damn thing they can do about it."
We had been talking about her brother, how she couldn't interfere in his life and the mistakes he's making, no matter how shitty and protective it made her feel. It sucks, that feeling, especially when you're a giant mother hen in human clothing. It got me thinking and remembering all the times I'd felt it. I tried to remember a time when I'd been the self-destructive one hurting my loved ones with my behavior.
What came up wasn't the past but the present. My loved ones know my health struggles and what it means if I don't do some heavy work on them. They try to be supportive, and are, but in the end there's nothing at all that they can do. It's all up to me. I realized that I was causing them pain every time I started melting cheese in a pan. Allison was even driving me to the Amish Market restaurant, knowing full well what I was going to order. She wasn't being an enabler; none of my family was. I am an adult. If I choose to do what I know is wrong, that's on me. She's not going to hide the car keys or render me unconscious until the cravings pass. If I want Amish Market, then Amish Market I shall have. And it would hurt her heart with every bite I took.
I still ate my comfort food, but the rest of the day was better and cheat-free, as is this morning so far. Everything is logged below, including our gym time and my (lack of) blood sugar tracking. Really need to get better at that. One thing at a time. For now, I'm going to ask myself when I'm tempted to cheat, "Would it hurt my family to see me eat this?" That may sound extreme, but let's face it, I care more about others than I do about myself. It's a harsh thing, but a true thing, and that's what I need right now, the boot in the ass not the warm and fuzzy. Not yet.
A note to all of my wonderful, beautiful family who are reading this (and you are family to me if I've personally asked you to read my struggles): if you have something you'd like to change about yourself or your life and need others to "watch" you in order to help keep you on track, maybe think about starting a blog of your own. I've already hinted strongly to a friend who's going through very similar food struggles that she might want to keep her own accounting, and Allison has mentioned that she might blog through her decision to quit smoking on February 1st. I don't want to call anyone out, but I know many of you are in the middle right now of life-changing thoughts or choices and I would love to read about them. Let's help each other. Why not? Isn't that why we're here? No pressure. (Joking aside, really, none.)
Love to you all for reading and helping. Please believe that you are helping, in big huge ways.
***
FRIDAY
Green Lemonade (juiced kale, spinach, cucumber, apples and a lemon; it's not as bad as it sounds)
2 pieces of Fruit (I forget what kind)
2 slices of Ezekiel bread with unsalted organic butter
1 cup whole wheat pasta with organic marinara and steamed broccoli
2 cups macaroni and cheese
Dark chocolate (allowed!)
30 minutes weights (abs, ass and hips)
30 minutes treadmill
Forgot to check my blood sugar
SATURDAY
Green Lemonade
Chicken tenders and mashed potatoes
Avocado sandwich
Dark chocolate
Veggie lasagna with whole wheat noodles and goat cheese
Dark chocolate
Day off from the gym
Forgot to check my blood sugar...again
SUNDAY
Green Lemonade
Strawberries, watermelon and kiwi
Herbal tea
Leftover lasagna
Steak and rice with veggies (no soy sauce)
More chocolate
Day off from the gym (we only go M-F, or do special things on the weekends; at least that's the plan)
I swear I'll check my blood sugar today.
Updated to admit that I didn't check my blood sugar today. Sigh.
Friday was fine...in the beginning. I'd drunk my Green Lemonade before going to the gym. I felt well enough to do both weights and cardio, and that made me feel good. Nothing beats strapping on the loud music and walking to nowhere. I can walk through almost any emotion, provided I have the proper tunes as accompaniment. So I was feeling good. Got to work and ate my breakfast of fresh fruit, my snack of Ezekiel bread and my lunch of raw salad and whole grain pasta (no cheese, thank you). Just before I left the office I popped some pistachios--always a great food for keeping my hand-to-mouth syndrome quiet--and didn't feel at all hungry.
And then. Somewhere between the office and smelling those fucking McDonald's bags on the damn train and being aggravated at some little thing, that ugly bastard beast in my belly starting turning the screws and demanding macaroni and cheese for dinner. Of course I gave in.
But it didn't end there.
The guilt drum started hammering in my head immediately. Allison kept asking, "You're going to blog about this, right? You promised you'd be honest." And I said yes, again and again, thinking that I might as well hold off blogging until Sunday because I knew full well that I was going to cheat again the very next morning.
Saturday mornings are Eating Out Breakfast time in my household. We used to all go to the Towson Diner but they started to suck and couldn't get my french fries with mozzarella cheese and gravy order right so we switched to the Amish Market. Real comfort food made from scratch. My favorite: chicken tenders with mashed potatoes and gravy. At 9:00 a.m.
So right there, with barely any effort, I'd cheated twice and eaten my two biggest addictions, all within twenty-four hours. In this book I'm following (at the advice of my doctor), The Raw Food Detox Diet by Natalia Rose, the author emphasizes that this isn't a make-or-break food plan, that you're allowed to "cheat" on occasion and that the main idea is to give your body as much of a break as possible without making it feel deprived.
She's obviously never met me.
I can't do things halfway. At least not at first. Later, when I've broken free from the pull of potatoes, cheese and heavy foods in general, then I can fudge a little and treat myself. But not now. Not yet. I'm climbing a really steep hill and the bottoms of my shoes are still covered in the oil of all the french fries I've eaten over the years. I need a clean break.
On the way to the Amish Market, I started telling Allison a story about how people who engage in self-destructive behavior are full of shit when they say they're only hurting themselves. "They're hurting everyone who's close to them," I shouted. "Everyone who loves them is made to feel pain and helplessness because they're watching their loved one fuck themselves up and usually there isn't a damn thing they can do about it."
We had been talking about her brother, how she couldn't interfere in his life and the mistakes he's making, no matter how shitty and protective it made her feel. It sucks, that feeling, especially when you're a giant mother hen in human clothing. It got me thinking and remembering all the times I'd felt it. I tried to remember a time when I'd been the self-destructive one hurting my loved ones with my behavior.
What came up wasn't the past but the present. My loved ones know my health struggles and what it means if I don't do some heavy work on them. They try to be supportive, and are, but in the end there's nothing at all that they can do. It's all up to me. I realized that I was causing them pain every time I started melting cheese in a pan. Allison was even driving me to the Amish Market restaurant, knowing full well what I was going to order. She wasn't being an enabler; none of my family was. I am an adult. If I choose to do what I know is wrong, that's on me. She's not going to hide the car keys or render me unconscious until the cravings pass. If I want Amish Market, then Amish Market I shall have. And it would hurt her heart with every bite I took.
I still ate my comfort food, but the rest of the day was better and cheat-free, as is this morning so far. Everything is logged below, including our gym time and my (lack of) blood sugar tracking. Really need to get better at that. One thing at a time. For now, I'm going to ask myself when I'm tempted to cheat, "Would it hurt my family to see me eat this?" That may sound extreme, but let's face it, I care more about others than I do about myself. It's a harsh thing, but a true thing, and that's what I need right now, the boot in the ass not the warm and fuzzy. Not yet.
A note to all of my wonderful, beautiful family who are reading this (and you are family to me if I've personally asked you to read my struggles): if you have something you'd like to change about yourself or your life and need others to "watch" you in order to help keep you on track, maybe think about starting a blog of your own. I've already hinted strongly to a friend who's going through very similar food struggles that she might want to keep her own accounting, and Allison has mentioned that she might blog through her decision to quit smoking on February 1st. I don't want to call anyone out, but I know many of you are in the middle right now of life-changing thoughts or choices and I would love to read about them. Let's help each other. Why not? Isn't that why we're here? No pressure. (Joking aside, really, none.)
Love to you all for reading and helping. Please believe that you are helping, in big huge ways.
***
FRIDAY
Green Lemonade (juiced kale, spinach, cucumber, apples and a lemon; it's not as bad as it sounds)
2 pieces of Fruit (I forget what kind)
2 slices of Ezekiel bread with unsalted organic butter
1 cup whole wheat pasta with organic marinara and steamed broccoli
2 cups macaroni and cheese
Dark chocolate (allowed!)
30 minutes weights (abs, ass and hips)
30 minutes treadmill
Forgot to check my blood sugar
SATURDAY
Green Lemonade
Chicken tenders and mashed potatoes
Avocado sandwich
Dark chocolate
Veggie lasagna with whole wheat noodles and goat cheese
Dark chocolate
Day off from the gym
Forgot to check my blood sugar...again
SUNDAY
Green Lemonade
Strawberries, watermelon and kiwi
Herbal tea
Leftover lasagna
Steak and rice with veggies (no soy sauce)
More chocolate
Day off from the gym (we only go M-F, or do special things on the weekends; at least that's the plan)
I swear I'll check my blood sugar today.
Updated to admit that I didn't check my blood sugar today. Sigh.
Jan 29, 2010
The Raw Food Life
When your doctor makes it known that you have a choice--change or die early--one tends to take a long, hard look at one's life. I've done this so many times it's become a point of amusement bordering on ridicule. I've changed, I've suffered, I've bitched, and here I am, better than before but looking at a whole new mountain to climb.
This time, though, there's a game-changer in play. Diebetes. My grandmother had Type I, and being the kind of steel-spined woman she was, she controlled it purely through diet and without the aid of a single insulin needle. She also raised thirteen children through the Depression, which makes the Diabetes thing seem almost wimpy by comparison, but that's a story for another blog.
Fact is, I'm not my grandmother. I try to be, but we don't get to choose what gets passed down to us. Genetics is a bitch. I got the Diabetes, but not the willpower to saddle and ride it like my grandmother did. It rides me at the moment and my back is starting to hurt. So is my liver, which brings me to my current situation.
My endocrinologist is a wonderful man, very kind without being the least condescending. He laid it all out for me in simple terms I could understand and remember: major change would only come with major change. If I wanted the Diabetes to stop screwing with my internal organs, I would have to stop giving it the weapons it needed to do so. That meant, in short:
No more white potatoes ("They're death," he told me.)
No white flour
No refined sugar
No cow's milk cheese
No fried foods
To those who are already healthy, this might not sound like a big deal. But my two all-time, hands-down, childhood comfort foods are mashed potatoes and macaroni and cheese. To me, this list translated seamlessly into, "Die Die Die, Your Life Sucks So Much Worse Now, Resign Yourself to Never Feeling Pleasure Again".
And then I cried like a little girl. I think, at that moment, I was. Or maybe I was crying for the little girl, the one who remembers when mac and cheese was the decadent treat dinner my mom made for me when I'd had a really shitty day, and that mashed potatoes with gravy was, and is still, the only food my mom can eat at a restaurant that doesn't draw attention to the fact that she doesn't have any teeth. These foods were my friends, a part of my family as much as my cousins were, and I was being asked to say goodbye to them after all they'd done for me.
They say life is about the future. If that's true, and if I'm lucky enough to live to seventy, I'm already middle-aged. That means there's just as much future as past to think about, and I have to choose between them. So I choose to look ahead, if for no other reason than it's where my son will be, and where I hope to be once I get my act together. Mac and cheese and mashed potatoes may be in my past, but Mas's college graduation is in my future, and that's worth working for.
Now that that's decided, here's my challenge: to eat more raw foods--fruits and green things with leaves, weird shit called Green Lemonade, pasta that's brown and not white, and potatoes that are sweet and not eaten with gravy. I will eat nuts instead of Snickers bars and take care of my digestive system. And all of this will clean my brain, clean my liver, and clean my blood and give me more energy and more time and more pretty clothes, because mama's gonna be shopping if the dress size keeps dropping. Bank on that. And here is where I'll come to bitch and crow and cry through words.
But it won't be all bad. I still get to eat chocolate.
This time, though, there's a game-changer in play. Diebetes. My grandmother had Type I, and being the kind of steel-spined woman she was, she controlled it purely through diet and without the aid of a single insulin needle. She also raised thirteen children through the Depression, which makes the Diabetes thing seem almost wimpy by comparison, but that's a story for another blog.
Fact is, I'm not my grandmother. I try to be, but we don't get to choose what gets passed down to us. Genetics is a bitch. I got the Diabetes, but not the willpower to saddle and ride it like my grandmother did. It rides me at the moment and my back is starting to hurt. So is my liver, which brings me to my current situation.
My endocrinologist is a wonderful man, very kind without being the least condescending. He laid it all out for me in simple terms I could understand and remember: major change would only come with major change. If I wanted the Diabetes to stop screwing with my internal organs, I would have to stop giving it the weapons it needed to do so. That meant, in short:
No more white potatoes ("They're death," he told me.)
No white flour
No refined sugar
No cow's milk cheese
No fried foods
To those who are already healthy, this might not sound like a big deal. But my two all-time, hands-down, childhood comfort foods are mashed potatoes and macaroni and cheese. To me, this list translated seamlessly into, "Die Die Die, Your Life Sucks So Much Worse Now, Resign Yourself to Never Feeling Pleasure Again".
And then I cried like a little girl. I think, at that moment, I was. Or maybe I was crying for the little girl, the one who remembers when mac and cheese was the decadent treat dinner my mom made for me when I'd had a really shitty day, and that mashed potatoes with gravy was, and is still, the only food my mom can eat at a restaurant that doesn't draw attention to the fact that she doesn't have any teeth. These foods were my friends, a part of my family as much as my cousins were, and I was being asked to say goodbye to them after all they'd done for me.
They say life is about the future. If that's true, and if I'm lucky enough to live to seventy, I'm already middle-aged. That means there's just as much future as past to think about, and I have to choose between them. So I choose to look ahead, if for no other reason than it's where my son will be, and where I hope to be once I get my act together. Mac and cheese and mashed potatoes may be in my past, but Mas's college graduation is in my future, and that's worth working for.
Now that that's decided, here's my challenge: to eat more raw foods--fruits and green things with leaves, weird shit called Green Lemonade, pasta that's brown and not white, and potatoes that are sweet and not eaten with gravy. I will eat nuts instead of Snickers bars and take care of my digestive system. And all of this will clean my brain, clean my liver, and clean my blood and give me more energy and more time and more pretty clothes, because mama's gonna be shopping if the dress size keeps dropping. Bank on that. And here is where I'll come to bitch and crow and cry through words.
But it won't be all bad. I still get to eat chocolate.
Apr 1, 2009
Goals are terrible things.
They set us up for failure, yet we need them to motivate us. I need them to motivate me. They excite me for that brief moment of newness, when I think—yet again—that this time will be different. This plan will work.
It never does; they never do. Not for me.
Yet, I keep writing them down, these plans, these goals, in my little red day calendar that I carry with me everywhere. I carefully plot out calories to burn and pages to write, and feel that rush that comes from looking ahead and seeing the ghost of the results of those intended goals. What a pile of pages I’ll have! What a slim, trim waistline I’ll have! But of course what I end up having is a boatload of disappointment sitting squarely on my shoulders. Over time, that disappointment turns to shame.
That’s where I am now. But here’s the sick part: shame motivates me better than goals do. Silly, isn’t it? And just a little sad. But true nonetheless.
I spent a long time and a tremendous amount of effort cleaning up my life these past ten years. I tried hard to do the right thing, even when it wasn’t the easy thing. And what motivated me to make those changes was this voice—this sneering, sarcastic, burning voice—inside my head that kept snapping at me, “You don’t want to be like that, do you? Like them? Those losers who are still making excuses for their childish behavior? Who still think it’s funny to stick out a foot and trip someone just to watch them flail their arms and fall? Who work a minimum wage job because they’re too lazy and short-sighted to see better for themselves? Who are too sissy-pants to say no to their friends’ constant invitation to party and Relax, dude?” That voice comes with a sharp-tailed whip, and I feel it making holes in my back every day.
It’s the way of things for me. Some people do better with an internal (or external) cheerleader. You should be proud of yourself for taking that walk after dinner! Go, girl, go! Some are more zen about things. I just do my best and know that good things will follow. But not me. Oh, no. I need a firmly planted boot up my ass in order to make things happen in my life.
My latest shoe-leather motivator is based on my past successes: I know I can make serious, lasting changes in my life because I’ve done it before. It was hard then, too, but so what? My motto, since I made those aforementioned life changes, has been “I do what I say I’m going to do.” And when I don’t…well, then along comes the bitch with the whip.
Even now, as I write this, I try to remember what got me through ten years ago. Quitting lying and drama was a lot like quitting any other drug, and when I did it, after I picked myself out of the rubble (ending addictions is always messy, it’s one of the reasons we addicts put it off so long) it took me a while to realize that I felt like a real person for the first time in my life. I had substance, a solidity of spirit. When I walked, I left a mark on the floor, the carpet, the Earth. Before, I was nothing but a ghost, trying not to be seen, drifting from one resting place to another, too afraid to stay long and plant roots because it’s hard to attach to people or places when you’re completely disconnected within your own body. My bones finally felt like they fit inside my skin instead of being too small and floating around loose. When I shook someone’s hand, I could look them in the eye. I was finally on a level with the rest of the human race.
When my health problems were first diagnosed, I wasn’t surprised. I felt a metallic shiver from my stomach to my throat, but no shock. I vowed that in honor of my ten-year life-change anniversary I would make another massive, permanent life change: I would discard my old food habits and replace them with shiny new determination wrapped in brown rice. I would become a health nut.
I can never do anything in half measures.
I failed, of course, but not completely. I made some changes, but not all of them. I lost some weight, but not all of it. I got healthier, but not completely. When I think back to the beginning of this particular struggle, I notice very clearly that had I started slow and kept things at a reasonable pace, I’d be far ahead of where I am now. Like with my running program. I followed its gradual pacing until I reached my goals, weeks ahead of schedule. But doing that with food was impossible. I tried to treat it—am still trying to treat it—like smoking, or heroin. Stop cold turkey. Suffer in the beginning for an easier ride later. Except that’s not how it works at all. I know this, but I keep doing it.
As my partner says, quitting bad food is harder than drugs or cigarettes because a person has to eat. They can’t hole themselves up in a room and avoid the sight or smell of food the way they could with nicotine or smack. Food is legal, cheap, accessible and everywhere. The smell of microwaved hot dogs drives me nuts on the train ride home thanks to the café car. When someone at work heats up a Stouffers meal, I can almost always name it by smell alone. And any human being who orders a Papa John’s pizza within a hundred yards of me is in danger of having their eyes gouged out just so I can steal that steaming cardboard box and run away keening mineminemineminemine.
So here I am. Again. Making another set of goals, feeling that old excitement. In a week I’ll have a pile of pages! In a week I’ll have a trimmer waistline! But when that alarm clock chimes tomorrow morning, I have no idea if I’ll roll out of bed or just hit the snooze.
They set us up for failure, yet we need them to motivate us. I need them to motivate me. They excite me for that brief moment of newness, when I think—yet again—that this time will be different. This plan will work.
It never does; they never do. Not for me.
Yet, I keep writing them down, these plans, these goals, in my little red day calendar that I carry with me everywhere. I carefully plot out calories to burn and pages to write, and feel that rush that comes from looking ahead and seeing the ghost of the results of those intended goals. What a pile of pages I’ll have! What a slim, trim waistline I’ll have! But of course what I end up having is a boatload of disappointment sitting squarely on my shoulders. Over time, that disappointment turns to shame.
That’s where I am now. But here’s the sick part: shame motivates me better than goals do. Silly, isn’t it? And just a little sad. But true nonetheless.
I spent a long time and a tremendous amount of effort cleaning up my life these past ten years. I tried hard to do the right thing, even when it wasn’t the easy thing. And what motivated me to make those changes was this voice—this sneering, sarcastic, burning voice—inside my head that kept snapping at me, “You don’t want to be like that, do you? Like them? Those losers who are still making excuses for their childish behavior? Who still think it’s funny to stick out a foot and trip someone just to watch them flail their arms and fall? Who work a minimum wage job because they’re too lazy and short-sighted to see better for themselves? Who are too sissy-pants to say no to their friends’ constant invitation to party and Relax, dude?” That voice comes with a sharp-tailed whip, and I feel it making holes in my back every day.
It’s the way of things for me. Some people do better with an internal (or external) cheerleader. You should be proud of yourself for taking that walk after dinner! Go, girl, go! Some are more zen about things. I just do my best and know that good things will follow. But not me. Oh, no. I need a firmly planted boot up my ass in order to make things happen in my life.
My latest shoe-leather motivator is based on my past successes: I know I can make serious, lasting changes in my life because I’ve done it before. It was hard then, too, but so what? My motto, since I made those aforementioned life changes, has been “I do what I say I’m going to do.” And when I don’t…well, then along comes the bitch with the whip.
Even now, as I write this, I try to remember what got me through ten years ago. Quitting lying and drama was a lot like quitting any other drug, and when I did it, after I picked myself out of the rubble (ending addictions is always messy, it’s one of the reasons we addicts put it off so long) it took me a while to realize that I felt like a real person for the first time in my life. I had substance, a solidity of spirit. When I walked, I left a mark on the floor, the carpet, the Earth. Before, I was nothing but a ghost, trying not to be seen, drifting from one resting place to another, too afraid to stay long and plant roots because it’s hard to attach to people or places when you’re completely disconnected within your own body. My bones finally felt like they fit inside my skin instead of being too small and floating around loose. When I shook someone’s hand, I could look them in the eye. I was finally on a level with the rest of the human race.
When my health problems were first diagnosed, I wasn’t surprised. I felt a metallic shiver from my stomach to my throat, but no shock. I vowed that in honor of my ten-year life-change anniversary I would make another massive, permanent life change: I would discard my old food habits and replace them with shiny new determination wrapped in brown rice. I would become a health nut.
I can never do anything in half measures.
I failed, of course, but not completely. I made some changes, but not all of them. I lost some weight, but not all of it. I got healthier, but not completely. When I think back to the beginning of this particular struggle, I notice very clearly that had I started slow and kept things at a reasonable pace, I’d be far ahead of where I am now. Like with my running program. I followed its gradual pacing until I reached my goals, weeks ahead of schedule. But doing that with food was impossible. I tried to treat it—am still trying to treat it—like smoking, or heroin. Stop cold turkey. Suffer in the beginning for an easier ride later. Except that’s not how it works at all. I know this, but I keep doing it.
As my partner says, quitting bad food is harder than drugs or cigarettes because a person has to eat. They can’t hole themselves up in a room and avoid the sight or smell of food the way they could with nicotine or smack. Food is legal, cheap, accessible and everywhere. The smell of microwaved hot dogs drives me nuts on the train ride home thanks to the café car. When someone at work heats up a Stouffers meal, I can almost always name it by smell alone. And any human being who orders a Papa John’s pizza within a hundred yards of me is in danger of having their eyes gouged out just so I can steal that steaming cardboard box and run away keening mineminemineminemine.
So here I am. Again. Making another set of goals, feeling that old excitement. In a week I’ll have a pile of pages! In a week I’ll have a trimmer waistline! But when that alarm clock chimes tomorrow morning, I have no idea if I’ll roll out of bed or just hit the snooze.
Dec 12, 2008
Badass No More
I was born and raised in New Jersey, a place where everyone—girls included—are raised to be tough. We still have our girly-girls and queer queens, but even the most girly female or effeminate male from Jersey is tougher than their social counterpart from any other part of the country. This isn’t bragging, it’s simple fact. The sweetest, shyest, blonde, tiny, delicate, elfin-looking girl in Jersey is still fully prepared to engage in a bar fight with broken bottles if the necessity arises. And it doesn’t even have to be a severe necessity. That’s just the way it is.
The more delicate women of my home state find it easy to pass for normal. Outsiders looking in suspect nothing unusual about them unless something sparks their temper. For girls like me—who feel fully feminine on the inside but who were born with enough musculature to push a broken-down mid-sized pickup truck to the corner auto shop singlehandedly—that ingrained badass quality is hard to hide, and even harder to control. Within the borders of Jersey (specifically, the rough neighborhoods in which I grew up) my ability to lift my own body weight over my head was a necessary talent. It kept me safe and unimpregnated, among other things. But, like most indigenous skills, when I moved out of Jersey, my toughness wasn’t really needed. And, for a time, I struggled to find a place, both for me within my new environment, and for my temper within me. I couldn’t simply throw it away, or save it for weekend visits to my mom, but it could no longer sit in the driver’s seat. And anyway, this thing, whatever it is, this piece of acid-covered steel lining my spine, is a part of who I am and I wouldn’t trade it for anything. Not just because it helps to keep me and my family safe, but because it comes with a tremendous gift: an ability to process fear differently.
For ordinary, everyday fears—like wondering if my son will get hit by a car walking home from school—I’m perfectly normal. I tap my foot and try to convince myself I’m being irrational. But for extreme situations where there’s real, immediate danger, I become calmer and meaner instead of jittery and scattered. I still experience the fear, and rest assured that if someone put a gun to my head, my adrenaline would spike; if they pushed me off a cliff, I’d scream. But, thanks to this gift, my adrenaline wouldn’t spike as high as the average guy’s, and I’d only scream once before the part of me that’s always prepared for a bar fight took over and my inner bulldozer started rumbling forward. It’s been a great gift, one for which I will always be grateful, but somewhere along the line it made me arrogant.
I never thought food would be the one thing I couldn’t fight. But it’s true. I’ve battled it for most of my life and the shit wins every single time. I don’t know how something as small as a cheese doodle could have more power over me than a fully grown human male. I’ve fought human males and won. But cheese doodles kick my ass every time.
This is funny in my head but not my heart. Or my liver, which I’m slowly destroying every time I lose one of these many fights with comfort food. How can I possibly still consider myself to be a true badass Jersey girl? I’m being outgunned and overpowered by spaghetti noodles and pizza slices. Stuff that can’t even move, much less lift as much weight as I can, is nevertheless showing me up for the weakling that I have become.
What’s a badass to do?
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