Broken Ideals

You know, losing weight didn't make me happy.

It sounds weird to say it, and god knows I get shit for it like you wouldn't believe, or maybe you would.

I lost 87 pounds, or thereabouts. And I wanted to think that I didn't have unrealistic expectations. I never thought I'd be hollywoodesque or suddenly beautiful. But I did think, MAYBE, it wasn't a terrible thing to hope I wouldn't hate myself so much.

But I did, and I begin to think, at 40, that's a trick this old dog isn't going to learn. I don't even know that it's possible for me to stop hating myself.

And on top of that, I ended up with problems; unwanted attention.

See, I used to have this neighbor. Bob.

And Bob was a drunken asshole. I don't think I ever saw the man sober. He lived in the apartment diagonal across the hall from us.

One day, I was outside, talking to one of the other neighborhood moms, while we were waiting for our daughters to get home from first grade - they were allowed to walk home from school, but for most of first grade, Darcy wanted me to be outside, waiting for her. Her dad would walk her over to the school sidewalk and let her go the rest of the way on her own. Small independences.

And Debbie was selling something - Pampered Chef stuff, maybe? I don't remember. I was leaning over the picnic table, looking at the brochure she had.

"Hey!" Bob tapped me. I'd like to say he tapped my shoulder, but he didn't. He stabbed me in the lower back/upper ass with his huge, blunt finger. "You look so hot, leanin' over like that, I took a picture." He shows me on his cell phone, this picture of my ass. He's seriously crowding my personal space and this guy is huge - well over six feet tall and probably a good 280 pounds. Like a linebacker who's been drinking too many beers.

"Um... yeah." I straighten up and move a little, trying to get out of his shadow. I don't like people looming over me. It's 2pm and I can already smell cheap beer and sweat.

The phone in his hand rings. "Oh, yeah, hey, yeah, I know, ain't it great... I just came over to tell her. So, you like that ass, huh?" He looks at me. "I texted the pic to my friend."

You did... what? I laugh uncomfortably and move further away; honestly at this point I'm trying to get Debbie between me and him. She's just as uncomfortable.

"Oh, look, she's laughin'," he says. "It's makin' her tits bounce around." He hands me the phone. "He wants to talk to you."

"Yeah, right. You know, I'm waiting for my seven-year-old daughter to get home from first grade." I give Bob a look, but if it impacts him at all, he completely ignores it. I look away from him and start talking to Debbie. Neither of us look at Bob, or the phone, or acknowledge anything else he says. He eventually wanders away.

A few weeks later, my husband goes off to New Jersey for business for a week. And Bob starts rattling the doorknob to my apartment every time he walks by. If the door's unlocked, he opens it.

I start to feel trapped in my own house. I don't like to go out at night to take out the trash and now I NEVER go all the way down to the mailbox after dark.

Thomas gets home, and I tell him what's been going on. A few days later, Debbie asks us if we can take care of her dog for the afternoon, because she's going to be gone all day. "Sure, no problem." It's not. I don't like dogs, but Debbie's isn't too bad.

We're out walking the dog when Bob rides up, drunkenly, on his bicycle.

"That ain't your dog. Did you steal that dog?"

"I don't see that it's any of your concern," Thomas says, handing the leash over to me. "I'd like you to leave my family alone."

"What, asshole?"

"You heard me." I don't know what Bob hears in Thomas's voice, but what I hear is the keys moving from Thomas's pocket to his hand. I look. He's done the Wolverine thing with his keychain; several keys poke out between his fisted knuckles. "You're harassing my wife. Don't talk to us. Don't talk to her."

Bob jumps off his bike and charges him. Thomas stands there, cool and collected. Bob tops him by a good five inches and at least a hundred pounds. I scramble to get my phone out of my pocket.

Bob ended up backing down, no punches thrown. But I thought I was going to be sick.

For this? I lost weight for this? To be treated like this? To garner this sort of attention?

It wasn't the whole reason; I got frustrated by the slow, creeping gains, the constant hunger and irritability.

But Bob scared the hell out of me.

We reported him to the apartment complex - I have serious trust issues with police, too, and I don't... technically being a douche canoe isn't against the law. And I have no faith that a police officer would take me seriously. The manager told him that he wasn't to speak to us, at all, or they'd evict him. One more complaint and he was out - we weren't the only people in the complex who'd complained about him.

I lost weight for this?

Attack of the Killer Tomatoes?

Attack of the killer tomatoes! Attack of the killer tomatoes!
They'll beat you, bash you, squish you, mash you
Chew you up for brunch and finish you off for dinner or lunch!
They're marching down the halls - They're crawling up the walls
They're gooey, gushy, squishy, mushy - Rotten to the core
They're standing outside your door!

Remember Herman Farbage while taking out his garbage
He turned around and he did see tomatoes hiding in his tree
Now he's just a memory!
I know I'm going to miss her - a tomato ate my sister
Sacramento fell today - They're marching in San Jose
Tomatoes are on their way!

Why is it, you think, that people don't binge on tomatoes?

This might be the answer!

We're afraid our vegetables will come back to haunt us, whereas a brownie... nice, safe, chocolate-y, gooey thing... would never appear in a bad movie to suck our brains out.

Or maybe it's just that the tomatoes are more obvious about their evil intent. I mean, don't you see them there, nestled in their little clear plastic box from the grocers, sniggering with sinister maliciousness? Ever notice how you slice them up for a salad and they lay there, wedges with smug, bloody grins?

And they have this nasty tendency to revolt in the crisper drawer, turn obviously evil and black with murderous intent...

Whereas the brownies, even when they get a little old, are just that much better? A little chewier around the outside edges, but still gooey and lovely in the middle. And if they're too stale, you can toss them in the microwave, wrapped in a moistened paper towel and POOF! They're back to their young and carefree selves. (I keep being tempted to wrap myself in a wet paper towel and microzot myself back into my twenties... don't you?)

But maybe that's part of their evil plot to take over the world. The brownies, I mean. They just... look good. And deep down, where it counts, they are even more dangerous than tomatoes, even slightly anthropomorphic ones.

If you're thinking I fell sway to the siren's call of brownies yesterday...

Well, you just might be right.

Watch out. Maybe I'll get YOU when you're taking out your garbage!

Because, you know, we can't all aspire to be Brownies. Some of us have to be tomatoes.

Now, pass me the salad dressing... I have some making up to do...

The Plan

The Plan:

Go to Best friend's parent's house for Thanksgiving dinner. Eat as much as I want. Get overly stuffed. Do not feel guilty. Walk tonight, and extra this weekend. Gain weight this week. Accept this as being a normal part of life.

The Ideal:

Go to Best friend's parent's house for Thanksgiving dinner. Eat as much as I need, but no more. Feel pleased with self-control, but not deprived. Walk tonight and extra this weekend. Lose or maintain weight. Feel proud of self and accomplishments.

The Probable:

Go to best friend's parent's house for Thanksgiving dinner. Eat not enough to be happy, but more than I need. Feel deprived and guilty. Gain weight anyway. Hate self.

The Possible:

Go to best friend's parent's house for Thanksgiving dinner. Eat some, get thrown up on by sick infant. Catch stomach virus. Spend all weekend throwing up. Gain weight ANYWAY and be truly and thoroughly convinced that the universe is a vile, evil place.

I'll let ya know how it goes...

Emotional Eating

Last night's Weight Watcher's meeting was about Emotional Eating.

It'd be really nice, don't you think, if we (by "we", of course, I mean me) could treat food with the same emotional detachment as the AA batteries we load up into the television remote. (I'd say "a tank of gas" except there's a lot of emotional baggage attached to petrol these days, with the constantly rising costs - although gas prices have been dropping recently, I find myself being slightly disgusted when I see gas at $2.59 and think that's reasonable. Yeah, yeah... "prices will rise, politicians will philander, and you too, will get old. And when you do, you'll fantasize when you were young, prices were reasonable, politicians were noble, and children respected their elders...")

Unfortunately, that's just not the case. Food, whether we want it to or not, has emotional meaning, more than just fuel for our bodies. If it wasn't the case, would we have a whole category of food we consider "comfort foods." Comfort foods can be anything, from something high in fat and calories (chocolate) to something we liked as a kid (Mac & Cheese) or something our mom made us on special occasions. I think most of us have those foods that we crave when we're feeling a bit down, to help perk us back up.

Unfortunately, it doesn't always work. We eat the Mac & Cheese because we're unhappy, and then we gain weight and now we're MORE unhappy. It's a strange sort of destructive behavior that we don't do with anything else. Unhappy -> Eat more -> Gain weight -> Become unhappy -> Eat More...

Think how that might apply to other situations. Break a dish -> Get upset -> Smash more dishes... I mean, no. We don't do that. And yet, food...

I don't know about you, but I have some serious problems with emotional eating. I cannot tell, a lot of the time, if I'm emotionally hungry, or actually hungry. I spend a lot of time, being hungry, wondering if it's okay if I eat. My general rule, thus far, has been: If I am uncertain whether or not I'm actually hungry, I go do something else. If, in 15 minutes, I am still hungry, it's probably an actual, physical hunger.

What do YOU do to help you decide if you're emotionally hungry or not? Any tips?

Aside... is this fair? I lost 2.6 pounds this week and got this from Weight Watcher's eTools:

Please note: You're probably excited to be losing weight, but you're losing faster than is recommended. Although it's normal to lose over 2 lbs in 1 week, if you lose more than an average of 2 lbs per week over a 4-week period, this could pose health risks, such as heart irregularities, anemia or loss of muscle mass. Please slow your weight loss; your doctor can help you do this if you're not sure how, or ask your Leader for ideas.

Thomas, on the other hand, had a 4.4 pound loss, and got:

As of 10/20, your BMI was 24.65.

Bastard!

Ah well, at least I hit 30% of my body mass GONE!